#alone with rubble around him

[fineapplequeen]

Doesn't it suck being alone and forgotten

[imperiuswrecked]

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian babies that were left to starve to death then rot in their beds by the IOF.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian doctors surrounded by bodies of dead children begging the world to stop the slaughter.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian children who held a press conference in English to beg the world to stop murdering them because they want to live.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian Priest who said "We will not accept your apology after the genocide" to the world.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian Imam who used the speakers of the Mosque, not to call people to prayer but to call out to God while the world around them was burning from American supplied Israeli bombs.

I'm never forgetting the grandfather who held his dead grandchild in his arms. Or the father carrying the remains of his two children in plastic shopping bags. Or the mother holding her dead child in a shroud. Or the father sitting among the rubble after he lost his whole family. Or the girl trapped under a broken building begging for people to save her family first. Or the boy who cried when he saw his brother alive. Or the girl who asked if she was still alive after being pulled from the rubble. Or the boy who carried the remains of his brother in his backpack. Or the old man the IOF used for a photoshoot before they shot him dead after getting pictures. Or the little boy wearing plastic gloves to pick up the remains of his family. Or the graves desecrated. Or the body of that small baby girl left alone in a tent because no one knew who she was or if her family was alive, small and alone and not one person who knew her name to bury her. Or the young boy who was shot in the street while his sister watched from the window. Or the men and boys who were stripped naked in winter. Or those tortured. Or those made to stand in open graves. Or the people who were raped by IOF soldiers. Or Palestinian workers kidnapped by the IOF and then labeled with wristbands, each one reduced to a number, then made to walk back to Gaza to be killed in the world's largest open air concentration camp. Or the people of Gaza starving because Israeli Zionists are blocking aid trucks. Or the Israelis dancing and celebrating the death of Palestinians. Or the lies spread by Zionists and their supporters. Or the people profiting off the oppression and deaths of Palestinians. Or the people of the West Bank being killed or kidnapped by the IOF. Or old woman who was older than the creation of the terror state of "Israel" who was shot by snipers for saying that. Or the Israelis dressed up as Palestinians to enter a hospital and kill three Palestinians in their beds. Or every single Palestinian currently kept in an Israeli prison. Or the journalists, doctors, poets, men, women, children, and the unborn all massacred. Or the fact that WCNSF exists now. Or the woman who refused to wash the blood from her hands. Or the dead, unburied and unmourned.

I'm never forgetting those who chose silence in the face of a genocide.

I may not know all their names but I will not forget the over 30,000 Palestinians dead. Or the over 60, 000 people hurt. Or the unknown number of people missing, still lost under the rubble. Or the 12,000 children slaughtered. An entire generation crippled or murdered.

I will never forget these things when Palestine is free.

[tobeholyistobeempty]

joel miller • be quiet, or i’ll make you

“Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

WARNINGS - smut smut smut mdni, porn with some plot, forced proximity, feral!joel, risky/secret sex, brutal sex, size!kink, dubcon if you squint but mostly a mutual want situation, reader and joel have an unspoken relationship, copious amounts of dirty talk, piv, creampie, daddy dom joel.

The world ended in disaster.

You’ve lived with that knowledge for years now, and you think you’ve finally come to terms with the kind of things you’ll get from it. Pain. Loss. Destruction. The same chaos, day in day out, just in different forms.

You know that at this point you’ll be lucky if you survive until tomorrow; so you take it in stride.

And it’s with that thought that you find yourself following Joel into the city, your steps just as reluctant as he was to agree to this. You don’t particularly want to be out here — and neither does he — but you’ve been wanting to look for more medical supplies for a while now and Joel wasn’t about to let you go alone. Despite how much bitchin’ he did beforehand.

You can’t tell which is more depressing; the streets covered in broken glass and littered with remnants of a life long gone, or the buildings that are nearly crumbling to the ground. Neither are very pleasant to look at, but not many things are these days, so you keep moving. You have a job to do, and you don’t have too much time to do it — the sun won’t be up much longer, and you want to get the fuck out of here before the real dangerous kinds of people come out lookin’ for their next meal.

Or, whatever Joel had said earlier. Mostly just in attempt to scare you.

Minutes feel like hours as you keep your gaze pointed forward, and when you pass a shattered window belonging to some old broken down building, you don’t dare look inside.

You’d rather not know what lingers inside death eaten walls.

But it’s while you’re doing that, keeping your gaze ahead, that you miss the fact that Joel has stopped walking. When it finally registers that the world around you has gotten quieter - and when you finally do turn around - you’re surprised for two reasons.

The first being that he even stopped at all, and the second being the fucking look on his face.

“You alright?” You ask as you edge closer, glancing at the abandoned building that’s in front of him. It doesn’t look like anything remarkable, but there’s definitely something in the way he stares at it. “Joel, you still with me?”

He isn’t saying anything, his expression is rather blank — but you know him well enough to know that he’s not just seeing what’s right in front of him. He’s seeing something else entirely. He snaps back to attention faster than you would have expected at the sound of your voice, and when his eyes land down on yours - there’s something inside them that makes your heart sink.

“Somethin’s wrong.” Is all he says before he’s grabbing your wrist, and yanking you inside.

Your heart starts pounding faster, but you try your best to stay calm. He isn’t the kind of man who would panic without cause, so you know he must have seen something - or heard something - and you’re doing your best not to let that scare you.

“Joel—shit—what the hell—“ you stumble over rubble and pieces of broken furniture. “What’re you—“

He’s pulling you deeper into the building, not giving you a chance to stand still long enough to say more. When you get to a staircase he yanks you down a few steps, waiting for the sound of the door shutting behind you before shoving your shoulders back against the wall.

“You listen to me—“ he’s panting, words spat through grit teeth. “You’re gonna’ shut up, and you’re gonna’ stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

The tone of his voice alone forces you to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from talking. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve seen him this serious. You’d almost forgotten that he was capable of producing this kind of tension - the kind that’s so palpable it could be cut with a knife.

So, you just nod, lips pressed into a thin line, and you hope that it’s enough.

“Alright.” He doesn’t seem certain of your answer, but he nods anyway, reaching for your wrist again and dragging you down the remaining stairs.

When you get to the bottom, he opens the door slowly, eyes darting around until they land on a nearby closet - and it’s only after the first step you take towards it that you hear noises on the floor above you.

Footsteps.

And way too fucking many for you to be comfortable.

The kind of heavy, laden-boot marching you’d dread to hear on good days - nevermind while you’re out in dangerous territory, trying your damnest to flee unseen. It’s only seconds before the steps grow louder, and you can feel your heart rate speeding up again - while Joel is staring at the ceiling with such intensity you think that he might just be able to will it to break if he so much as blinked at it.

Then, in a flash, he snaps out of it - dragging you toward the closet and shoving you inside before you can even think about protesting.

And god, is it fucking cramped.

The closet is small. Small enough that you have to force yourself closer to the wall so that he has space to squeeze inside behind you. And it’s within the first second that he shuts the door, and the darkness swallows you both whole - in which you realize you have a new problem altogether.

“Joel—“ you choke out as a heavy palm snakes around your waist, pressing tight against your belly. He’s a solid wall behind you, his front flush against your back, and all you can fucking feel is his hot breath against your ear - his stubble tickling your cheek. “What’s—“

“No talking.” And then he brings his free hand up to cover your mouth, and you have to stifle a noise that threatens to explode in your chest. “Not a fuckin’ word.”

You take solace in the fact that he can’t see how flushed your face becomes, but your stupid brain is working overtime - overanalyzing the feeling of his calloused palm against your lips, the heat of his mouth way too fucking close to your ear, his free hand that seems to be sliding lower down your abdomen—

“Stop squirming.” He whispers, all heat as his fingers press a little harder against your lower stomach.

You long to bark at him. I can’t control it.

But you can’t. So instead you try to focus on the sounds of the people upstairs. You try to pay more attention to the way your heart is threatening to break free through your sternum. Anything to try and take your mind off of the way he’s touching you - but he makes it so, so hard.

You’re certain you would have a better fighting chance if you were to try and move mountains.

Without even thinking, your hand comes up to wrap around his wrist, and it’s then that his lips curve into a smile against your ear. And when the realization comes crashing down - the realization that he’s fully aware of what’s happening to you - you think you may just collapse.

Oh, god, this is torture.

If it were anyone else, you’d think this was a joke. You’d think that perhaps the way he’s touching you was some kind of attempt at making the terrifying just a little more tolerable, a little more exhilarating for different reasons - but this isn’t just anyone. This is Joel. And you know his mind never works like what. Instead, he simply acts on instinct - in ways that usually leave you reeling and your thoughts in a whirlwind.

You’ve been through this a million times with him.

Unsurprisingly, this time is no different.

And as you try to focus on the footsteps above you - desperately searching for a thought, a train of any kind to follow - his hand moves again, fingertips tracing the waistband of your dirt covered cargos - barely dipping between fabric and skin.

It’s slow, teasing, but it’s enough. And you don’t currently have enough control over yourself to stop your back from arching, pressing directly against the bulge in his jeans that’s growing impatiently despite himself.

And it’s the way he exhales in your ear, the way you hear him inhale right after before his nose brushes the shell of your ear — before his hand dips lower to trace the zipper of your fly — that you find yourself fighting for your life to swallow the moan that threatens to spill because the people on the second floor are now shouting and hollering, and the whole floor seems to quake under the force of their heavy boots.

A second passes. Then two, and then ten — there’s silence. You’re pretty sure the steps are now heading away from where you’re hiding, and you think Joel must agree because he slips his hand from your mouth, sliding it down your jaw.

“Joel—“ you choke out, the last syllables of his name sounding desperate. “I-we—“

And yet again, you aren’t able to finish, because he has a habit of taking the words you think you want to say straight from your chest. You aren’t able to process it until a moment later - when his mouth finds your neck, fingers slipping into your now unzipped cargo pants.

This isn’t what you meant.

You don’t have the chance to tell him that. You don’t have the cognitive ability to push the idea that this isn’t the time. You don’t even have enough room in your head to acknowledge how this could go so badly, so quickly. You’re too drunk on the high of his touch to think straight.

And when his fingers drag the lace of your underwear to the side - all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and pray to a God you’re sure you’ve never actually believed in that you’ll survive this without the shame over how fucking soaked you are eating you alive first.

His fingers find your clit, making slow, small circles. Just enough to make you keen. Just enough to make you forget who you are, and what you’re doing. You think if he keeps it up for any longer, the sounds trapped behind your teeth are going to jailbreak before you can get a handle on them. He knows it too - because it’s only a split second after that thought enters your mind, that he whispers gravel in your ear again.

“If y’can’t stay quiet, I’ll make you.” And it’s said with enough sternness to let you know that it isn’t a threat, it’s a promise. “Be good f’me.”

You don’t know if you can. You don’t know if you can possibly keep yourself silent. Not when his lips are teasing your burning flesh, not when his fingers are rolling your clit, not when he’s whispering promises of heaven in your ear.

But it’s then, that you hear the floorboards creak, and you know then, that you have no choice.

Either find a way to stay silent, or throw yourself headfirst into danger.

“Mm.” He hums as his fingers slip lower, sliding along your slit until they find your embarrassingly wet heat - to which you find yourself widening your feet despite yourself.

And this time, the noise that slips isn’t audible. Not to him anyway. But you can feel the sound vibrate the back of your throat. You can feel the way it glides over your tongue - and when you have the wherewithal, you bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough that it’s almost painful. He doesn’t seem to notice, and you’re glad because you know he’d only find it funny.

He pushes a finger into you, and holy fuck—

“Oh—“ the sound gets out of your mouth before you can stop it, involuntarily defying his direct order to shut the fuck up.

You hope, foolishly, it was quiet enough for him to not hear.

It isn’t, and as a result the hand that had been sitting lazily around your jaw slips firm over your mouth again, yanking your head back against his shoulder. You feel his fingers tighten as if to let you know that it’ll only get harder as his finger pushes deeper, and then retreats, pumping into you slow and steady.

“F-fuck—“ your whine is smothered against his palm, and you somehow have half the mind to realize the footsteps have stopped. Vanished. “J-joel.”

You’re expecting some type of response, some biting be quiet — but instead, all you get is a deep grunt in your ear and a roll of his hips against your ass as he slides another finger into your cunt, thumb brushing your clit.

And there’s almost no fight in you left to resist this - to resist the pleasure he’s pouring into your veins. You’d curse him if you could, if you could put more than four coherent words together to do it - but all there seems to be left in your mind is his name, which he’s using against you like he always does.

“Good girl.” He praises between slow, steady thrusts and you have to wonder what kind of game he’s playing to get you like this - to get you so undone you don’t even remember your own goddamn name.

Then again, you know better than to think there’s a game, at all. There are no games with Joel. He does what he wants and you’re either the benefit of it, or you’re the object of his ire.

But when a third finger slips into you, stretching and stuffing your cunt wider than you were mentally prepared for - you forget about any of that as you bite down on his hand as hard as you dare because it’s just too fucking much.

“J-joel—“ you try again, shaking your head. The footsteps haven’t returned. You have to believe they’re gone. You know Joel knows it too. “P-please—“

And like someone struck a match in a room full of gasoline, he seems to have decided that you’ve waited long enough. In the blink of an eye, you feel his palm leave your mouth, and move to the limited space between you. He’s unbuckling his belt.

“What’s the matter, huh?” He all but growls in your ear, still pumping his fingers deep. “Three too much for you? How d’ya think you’re gonna’ take my cock if you can’t even take my fuckin’ fingers.”

God. His voice is deep, dripping like sin. It goes straight to the center of your chest and you feel like the walls of your rib cage are cracking open. You have no idea how you’re going to be able to take him like this - especially when he’s so far gone it’s like he’s forgotten himself.

“I-I don’t know—“ and it’s the truth. You have no concept of how you’ll take a single drop of him in this state. But he’s already shifted himself free, pulling his fingers out to yank your pants down and slide his throbbing shaft into the slick space between your thighs. “F-fuck. You’re crazy.”

“Worse.” And you already know what he’s going to tell you just by the way the word drips into your ear. “M’insane.”

Truer words.

You never imagined that you’d ever find the thought of Joel Miller going insane so enticing. You imagine all kinds of ways you would have pictured it if someone had told you back when you first met - but somehow, this was never one of the things that came to mind.

“What does that make me?” You hiss as his fingers find your clit again, as he kicks your legs a little wider to slide his leaking tip against your slit.

“A goddamned fool.” He answers as he sinks into you, and there’s never been a more divine connection in the world. He groans into your ear, and you have to bite your lip again until you’re sure you might draw blood. “But you already knew that.”

And somehow, even still - you do.

Yeah. You do. He isn’t the type of man someone can ever know fully. He’s got walls and barriers built high - a fortress, impenetrable and vast - but somehow, you still manage to squeeze your way through it. It isn’t lost on you that you’re the only one who has.

“J-joel—go fuckin’ easy, please—“ you’re grabbing at the wall infront of you as he splits you open without so much as giving you a chance for breath. “It’s—been a while—“

And that stops him for a beat - but not for long, and not long enough. He still doesn’t go easy, still thrusts right to the hilt with the kind of power you’d associate with a man half his age - a man who (if the world hadn’t gone to hell) would be so close to retiring that he could taste the future on the back of his tongue - but you wouldn’t want him to anyway.

“I know, babygirl. I know. Just take it nice n’ deep, f’me. Just take it.”

And then he grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you back so he can get even deeper, your spine arching just enough.

Fucking hell.

The sound that’s almost impossible not to make threatens to rip from the pit of your chest, but you bite down in time and it turns into something between a strangled cry and an elongated whimper. You know you’re going to be walking funny tomorrow - but right now, there’s no such thing as being able to imagine tomorrow.

“You—fuck.” It’s a whisper so pained someone might think you’re actually being impaled. In some ways you are. “Oh, god, Joel. Ohmygod you’re deep—“

“There she is.” He all but growls into your ear. “There’s the tough woman I know.” If he wasn’t holding you so tightly you might’d fall at the way he suddenly slams into you. “Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

You almost bite your tongue in half at the very thought of him doing that. Your mind is a wasteland of icoherent thought - and it’s then that you know with all the certainty in the world that you’d been done for the moment he came into your life. He always had a rough edge to him - but back then, when you first met, you thought it was just the product of a shitty life. But now, you know better - now, you know he’s just a good-natured person with an innate drive to protect - and you’d go to your grave knowing that you’d go there loving him for it.

Even though, right now, it feels a lot more like he’s trying to kill you rather than protect you.

“Ohhh, fuck—“ you hiss through grit teeth as he pulls out, dragging slow at tight, wet walls. “M’close to cryin’ now.”

“Mmm.” He all but purrs. “That’ll mean I’m doin’ my job right.” There’s heat in the way he speaks that you swear would burn even the toughest person. But then again, that’s always been something you’d only ever been able to say about Joel. “M’not gonna’ be gentle. You know you ain’t deserving of it right now.”

Another time, you’d tell him he was wrong. Another time, you would have argued that you hadn’t done a single thing wrong - but right now, your thoughts are just as lost as your voice.

Still, you try your best. “W-why? Because I—mmf—dragged you outta’ bed?”

“Wrong.” You can’t see it, but you’re sure there’s a smirk on his face. “You really wanna get into it? Wanna’ make a list?”

You don’t, but you have the horrible feeling that this is going to happen either way.

“Do I have a choice?” You ask with what little breath you can find.

“No.” The word sounds so simple - but in that moment, it might as well have been a dagger. “You don’t.”

He pulls out just so he can drive back into you harder, hand sliding from your hair and back over your mouth.

“First, you dragged me outta’ bed. That right there? Shoulda been spanked for it. Next, you got yourself pinned in a goddamn closet with me after raiders chased us down. Almost got us killed.” Another painfully slow draw out, followed by a hard drive back in - smacking your cervix. “An’ for what? Cause’ you don’t wanna’ listen when I say it’s too dangerous to be out here.”

There are a million retorts you could have - most of them have something to do with you being able to take care of yourself - but none of them even find the beginning of your tongue.

He’ll take that win. Just like he takes everything else.

“Not t’mention you’ve kept this perfect ass from me for far too long.” He’s fucking you hard now, head kissing your cervix with each long thrust and you’re crying out under his palm but the sound doesn’t escape. He makes sure of it. “Mmm, yeah. Far. Too. Long.”

You want to tell him to shut up - that he’s being an ass - but you’re two broken breaths from wailing at the sting on your cervix and the pressure he’s now swirling on your clit. The only thing that’s left for you to do is the only thing you can do.

Take it.

You roll your hips, shoving back against him with every thrust just to have him hit that much deeper - and if he has something to say about it, he doesn’t say it. But he seems satisfied with just that, and suddenly, you think he’s just as close as you are.

“That’s it.” His voice is tight. “Good girl. Just like that.”

His hips snap against your ass so hard you think you might end up bruised tomorrow, but the thought only adds to the haze in your mind.

“Ffffffuck—Joel—“ you mewl, pathetic desperate and needy as a whore, against his palm. His fingers speed up against your clit. “Oh!”

“Take it, baby. Make me fuckin’ proud.” He hisses in your ear, a groan slipping out between it. “So good. Pussy feels so good.”

“Gonna’ make me cum.” You try to speak - maybe another time you’d be embarrassed by how desperate you sound, but this isn’t that time and it’s not the time to be anything other than truthful. “Mmm—gonna cum J-joel—“

“Yeah you are.” He grunts, the rhythm of his thrusts stuttering just a little. “Squeezing my cock so goddamn tight. Fuckin’ cum on it, babygirl. Wanna’ feel you.”

The sound that pushes past his palm at just the last moment doesn’t sound like you - but you know it is. It's the sound of the kind of pleasure that you’ve never experienced before that makes your entire body feel like a rubber band that’s too tight, and you have the vaguest sense of your walls squeezing the life out of him but there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening at all - becuase your climax hits you like a goddamn freight train and its run you over hard.

You think he’s saying something - you know he is - but you can’t hear anything aside from the blood racing in your ears. Even still, you know exactly what happens next, because you’ve experienced it so many times. The way he loses himself, like he forgets every bit of control he prides himself for having and the need to empty himself inside you takes over.

He spills into you hard - and you love every second of it for the simplicity of the comedown.

It’s the kind of feeling that washes you in warmth. It’s the kind of feeling that tells you that the world is going to be okay, so long as you’ve got him and he’s got you. He groans and his hands come out to brace against the wall infront of you to hold himself up as he shoots hot jets of cum deep inside your cunt - and you can’t remember the last time you’d heard him breathe this hard. Though, truth be told, you can’t remember the last time you heard yourself breathe this hard, either.

Your mouth feels dry, your mind feels hazy, and your legs feel weak - and as he leans over you, he can surely tell all three - but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he drags his mouth over your ear with an inhale.

“Mmhmm.” He grumbles as he presses a kiss to your jaw. “Look what you made me to do ya.” Your cheek gets the same treatment, and a breath later as he turns your head slightly, your lips do too. “Gonna’ have my cum leakin’ out of ya all the way back to camp.”

The sound you make doesn’t even seem human, but it’s muffled before it even comes - because he’s kissing you. And it isn’t a hard kiss like you’d expect - it’s slow and steady, and you know he’s doing it in a way to say sorry, as if he realizes he might’ve gone a little too far.

You smile into it, and he does too.

“You really are insane.” You whisper as he pulls back slightly. “My cervix gonna’ need a week vacation after that.”

“M’not a good man, darlin'. If I was, I’d say sorry for that.” He whispers with a small kiss against your lips. “But I ain’t. So, I’ll just tell you I’ll take care of you later as much as you like. That good enough for now?”

There’s only one answer for you. Only one that’s ever been the answer with him.

“Always.” There is a beat of silence, and you smile in the dark. “I love you.”

He pulls out of you, finally, leaving the part of himself behind that tells you how much he loves you too without verbalizing it. Soon as he fixes his jeans, he helps you fix yours.

“And I love you.” He whispers, calloused palm finding your own. “Let’s get outta’ here. The sooner we’re back, the better.”

And that, you can’t agree more with.

[simplyholl]

Filthy

Summary: After a long mission, Bucky needs you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger F. Reader

Warnings: Smut. Minors DNI. 18+ ONLY.

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"Would it be too crazy if we slept together?" Your sweet voice replayed over and over in his mind. He hadn't flat out refused your offer, but he hadn't said yes either. Now as he laid under the rubble of the bomb Hydra had detonated, it was all he could think of.

You were friends, one of the only people besides Steve to make him feel welcome on the Avengers. The others were wary of him, and he didn’t blame them. He had done unforgivable things as The Winter Soldier. Now he was fighting for the right cause. He couldn't help the reoccurring nightmares of the horrors he encountered in his past. He didn't want to get too comfortable in his new life, the one Steve helped him obtain because he was scared The Winter Soldier was still lurking around in his brain somewhere.

That's why he never dated. Sam would tease him, telling him he could have anybody he wanted, but he settled for his hand every night. Bucky couldn't afford to get too close to anyone. Especially someone who was weaker than him like the opposite sex. He was scared he would lose control while being intimate and hurt or even kill his partners. So he never let anyone get too close, until you.

You came bouncing into his life unexpectedly. You were brought on the team shortly after him. He would never forget your first day. Steve introduced you to everyone at the morning meeting. You were all smiles, your bubbly personality instantly drawing him in. The others were making comparisons between the two of you immediately. You were so happy, so upbeat all the time and Steve was the only one who could get Bucky to crack his cold exterior and actually smile.

Despite your differences, you got along great. Which was a bonus since Tony liked to pair you together for missions. You worked well together, complimenting each other in ways you had never thought of. Who knew almost dying together every week can cause you to form close bonds? You were spending all your free time together. You introduced him to your favorite films, some of them were awful, but he would never tell you that. You would stay up late together watching old reruns of 90's sitcoms for comfort after long missions. Bucky would go shopping with you, holding every bag you had and never complaining.

The team thought something was going on between you. Why else would the cold super soldier follow you around like a lost puppy? They put Steve up to asking about it, but Bucky denied anything but friendship. There had never been anything happen in the whole year you knew each other. You never sat too close or crossed any boundaries, never thought about it until a month ago.

One of the longest, most dangerous missions you had ever been on finally came to a close. There had been too many casualties and you were upset. Even the comfort of your warm pajamas and favorite movie didn't ease your mind. Bucky thought you needed to be alone, so he told you goodnight and headed for his room. You called after him pleading him to stay with you. You couldn't be alone, not after that.

He hesitated, he never stayed the night with anyone because of his nightmares. Tony even gave him a pass when a mission required room sharing. He was the only one who didn't have to pair up. He was afraid he might hurt you or scare you during his sleep. He tried to tell you, but you couldn't be swayed. He found himself under your fluffy pink comforter on heart shaped pillows, surrounded by a mountain of stuffed animals but he felt oddly at home.

You tried to cuddle up to him, but he scooted away. He didn't want you too close to him while he was asleep just in case he had a nightmare. But you didn't care. You told him if he attacked you in his sleep, you would blast his dick off. That made him a little less worried. "How do Tony and Clint do it?" You asked as you wrapped your arms around him, trying to snuggle the grumpy super soldier. "Do what?" He relaxed a little under your touch. "The whole normal family thing. They have a wife, kids, the works, and they are the only ones. The rest of us can't keep a relationship for more than a month, and some only do one night stands. It's hard being a hero when you have to give up stuff like that."

Bucky considers your words carefully. "Is that something you want?" You throw your leg over him, trying to get comfortable. "Eventually, I want to settle down. I'm thinking at least ten years from now, not any time soon. It's just hard to tell who is asking you out for the right reasons or because you're famous. I can't tell you how many phones I've destroyed after dates because they were trying to live stream the whole thing. Is that why you don't date?"

Bucky tenses, explaining how his past as The Winter Soldier scared him away from anything like that. "So you haven't been having sex because you're scared you will hurt someone?" He nods and you giggle. Bucky looks at you like you've grown a second head. "I'm sorry Bucky, that's ridiculous. Your arm must be so tired! Oh my God! Do you use the metal one?" His silence makes you laugh harder. "Bucky there are super powered women you could have been sleeping with this whole time. People who could at least put up a fair fight if something like that happened, but you're okay now right? I thought the code words didn't work anymore." You rub his back soothingly.

You gasp as an idea hits you. "Would it be too crazy if we slept together?" It was like word vomit. You didn't mean to say it out loud, but you couldn't take it back now. Bucky is so still that you think he's fallen asleep. Thankful he didn't hear your unhinged suggestion, you lay your head down to go to sleep.

"You mean that?" Bucky asks after a few minutes of silence pass. "If it wouldn't hurt our friendship then, why not? I trust you. And I could hold my own if things went sideways. Plus, I'm a lot hotter than your hand, you have to admit that." The quip earned a chuckle from him. "Can I think about it?" He asks, his seriousness taking over. "Of course." You snuggle back into him, sleep finding you more quickly than you would've liked. That was a little over a month ago, neither of you brought it up afterward. You figured he didn't want to hurt your feelings, so you let it go.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand helping him to his feet. "I thought we lost you back there." He says leading him to the quinjet. On the ride home, Bucky thought about his life, how unhappy he had been lately. He thought of you and how he kept you at arm's length to protect you from himself. You were always so open to him, always letting him know what was on your mind. When you suggested the two of you sleep together, he was shocked. Of course, he wanted to but he couldn't. You were too sweet, he was jaded. He would end up hurting you somehow, he was sure of it. But you weren't scared of him, you trusted him.

Bucky thought of all the times he laid alone at night, masterbating when he could have went home with someone instead. He always turned them down, he couldn't risk it. He lived too dangerously. He could lose his life any moment saving the planet from the next alien attack. Wasn't it time he started living for himself? He had his mind made up when the quinjet landed. Steve told him to go get the cuts on his face and arm examined but he ignored him.

He almost ran to the elevator, not bothering to wait for Steve to get on before pressing the button to shut the doors. When it finally stopped on his floor, he walked by his room, stopping three doors down right outside of yours. He should have cared that it was three in the morning, that he would be waking you up, but he didn't. He tapped on the door loud enough to wake you.

He regretted coming straight here as he waited for you, he should have went to his room to shower first. His leather jacket was dirty and torn. There was a small gash on his arm that had finally stopped bleeding. His face was filthy and according to Steve, he had a cut there too. He probably looked terrifying. He thought about leaving to clean up, but then he heard the pitter patter of your feet as you approached the door.

You pull it open slightly at first, to see who is outside, opening it wider when you see him. He steps inside as you shut it back, locking it behind him. Bucky looks around the dark room noticing the glow from your tv. Your hair is messy, you must have been sleeping fitfully. His gaze drops to your body, you're wearing a black t-shirt that stops at your hips and black lace panties.

"Are you okay?" You ask taking in his disheveled appearance. You turn to get something to clean his wounds, his vibranium hand catches your wrist. "Bucky? What hap-" He picks you up with one arm, holding you close to his body as his lips crash into yours. He walks you to the edge of your bed, tumbling on top of you as your back hits your fluffy pink comforter.

"Do you still want this?" He asks, his voice rougher than he intended. You can't think clearly, not with him on top of you, caging you in like this. His blue eyes search your face as he waits for an answer. Your panties grow wetter with each second that passes. Your nipples are peaked under your shirt, desperate to be touched as you press your chest to his dirty leather jacket. "Yes" You somehow manage to whisper your confirmation.

His mouth is on yours again, rough and demanding, almost desperate. You cup his face with your hands, "Slow down, I'm not going anywhere." You assure him, breaking the kiss. He groans, hating the loss of contact. "Can't" He rasps, his face nuzzling against your neck. He nips and kisses the sensitive skin there, his tongue licking from your shoulder to your jaw.

His flesh hand travels to your chest, rubbing his thumb over your clothed nipple. He keeps kissing his way back down your throat until he reaches the collar of your shirt. His metal arm grabs the top, slipping underneath to get a good grip on it. He rips it down the center with little effort.

You gasp as the cold air hits your now exposed chest. But you're not cold for long, Bucky's lips capture a nipple between his lips tugging and sucking like his life depends on it while his flesh hand toys with the other one. You're not sure what has gotten into him, you never expected it to be like this, like he needs you.

He kisses a trail down your stomach to your panties. They aren't exactly see through, but they don't hide anything either. His vibranium fingers dig into your hip as he lowers his face, his pink tongue licking up the center of your soaked panties. You whimper underneath him, your fingers sliding in his hair, pulling at the short strands.

He grunts as he licks you through the lacy material. You try to close your legs around his head, hoping to bring yourself more relief. Bucky's steel grip on your hip tightens as he brings his flesh hand to your thigh, pulling it off him. He opens you wide, continuing his desperate assault on you. "I need more, please." You whine, needing to actually feel him against you.

He thankfully takes mercy on you, removing his hands to grab both sides of your panties. "Lift your hips for me." You do as your told, and he slides the unwanted garment off of you. He drags you to the edge of the bed, lowering himself on his knees in front of you. He parts your thighs, metal hand returning to its rightful place on your hip. You place your leg over his shoulder, taking a deep breath as the anticipation makes your skin prickle.

His hot breath on your soaked core makes you tremble. You feel him smirk against you. "I havent even touched you yet and you're shakin' like a leaf." A dark chuckle escapes him and he dives in. His tongue flat against you as he gathers your slick, bringing it to your clit and swirling it around. He moans, loving the way you taste. He wraps his lips around your most sensitve part, drawing you in, causing your hips to buck upward.

His grip on your hip tightens, a bruise beginning to form under his thumb. "Be a good girl for me. Stay still." His voice is soft, gentle, a complete contrast to his actions. He alternates between sucking you roughly and licking you slowly. You squirm underneath him, you're so close. He suddenly stops, removing his face from you.

His flesh hand rubbing your stomach, before laying his arm on you forcefully to keep you from moving. "I said stay still." He growls, his tongue swiping your clit before he sucks it between his lips once more. It takes every ounce of concentration you have to not writhe against him. You've never seen him like this so needy, almost feral. He's like a wild animal slurping you down like you're the first thing he's eaten in weeks. You don't dare to disturb him. So you lie as still as you can, letting him have you.

He needs this. He needs you. He flicks his tongue expertly over your clit, sendng you spiralling. He holds you down as he takes all he wants from you. He's not satisfied until you come three times. Your legs are wobbly, you couldn't get up if you had to. Tears stream down your face from how intense it was. He finally stands, unbuttoning his pants, sliding them down just enough to free himself.

He adjusts himself between your legs, filling you up. You gasp, grabbing onto his grimy leather jacket for support. You wonder why he didn't bother with getting undressed, but you don't mind. You love how dirty he is. How the filth on his jacket rubbing against your bare chest is the sexiest thing in the world right now. How you can see the cut on his arm, dried blood on his sleeve. You don't know if it's his or some Hydra asshole's, and you don't know which is hotter.

His hair is disheveled. His face is scraped, dirt from the mission caked on him, remnants of your arousal still on his mouth. He fills you completely over and over, holding you as close as he can. His pants rub the back of your thighs as he pounds into you. You caress his face, "Can I be on top?" You ask quietly, afraid you'll offend him some way in his feral state. He flips you so his back is on your mattress. Normally you would be upset that your sheets were getting dirty, but you didn't mind at all. You place your legs on either side of him, sliding down his length. Your ass hits the fabric of his jeans as you take all of him.

You look behind you noticing how big he looks on your bed. His leather boots covered in mud, hanging off the edge. A gush of arousal floods his lap, his hands hold your thighs, pulling you closer. You begin to lift yourself up and down on him, your legs still shaky from your earlier orgasms. Bucky notices you won't be able to keep it up for long, so he clutches your hips, taking over. He thrusts underneath you, your hands land on his shoulders needing to steady yourself. You love that it's giving the illusion that you're in control, your body on top of his, but he's calling all the shots, moving your body like he owns it.

You've never felt so full. It's as if Bucky can read your mind, his flesh hand pressing on the bulge he's making in your stomach. He works you harder now, his vibranium thumb coming between you to swirl your clit. Your vision goes blurry, stars bursting behind your eyelids. You come with a loud cry of his name. He follows shortly after, spilling inside you. He holds you close, as you listen to his breathing slow down as he drifts off to sleep while still inside you.

Tags in the comments! ❤️

[invoncible]

Hi I’m a big fan of your fics ! Love how you wrote the characters! Would it be ok if I request Mark (and the mark various if possible please if not no worries ^^) meeting OG female Tamaranean Reader please 🙏

MARK GRAYSON meeting STARFIRE ! fem! reader ✧˚.

— thank u for ur request !! i'm just gonna do mark for now if that's okay. i loooooove starfire she's so iconic ugh throwback to 2003 teen titans !!

"something's approaching our atmosphere. fast." cecil informed mark over his earpiece. "intercept it for me, will you?"

mark rolled his eyes at the director's casual tone for something potentially world-threatening (he hoped it wasn't another viltrumite) and shot up into the sky.

a ball of fire funneled around the alien crashing down. he floated right below your line of impact, shaking his arms and preparing for a big catch.

within seconds, you crashed into him. your forearms were bound in thick metal cuffs, leaving little room to maneuver or fight back. your flight path was thrown off, clumsily tumbling through the clouds.

"stop!" mark yelled over the rush of wind. "shit—hot, hot, hot!" he hissed to himself. who would have thought a meteoric projective burning up on entry would be hot?

you responded in some foreign language; it sounded like gibberish to mark.

"what the fuck did she say?" cecil droned in his ear and mark assumed he turned to his team, barking, "someone get a translation on that!"

you stared at him expectantly, grunting in annoyance when he didn't respond. your legs connected with his stomach, kicking him down to the earth. he fell like a rock in water and you zoomed off into the distance in a flash of green light.

"wait!" mark gasped, throwing off the rubble atop his chest and soaring after you. it was fairly easy to catch up to you, hindered by the cuffs on your hands. he grabbed your ankle the minute he got close enough, pulling you back to him. "we come in peace!"

"...this is our planet, mark." cecil deadpanned in his ear.

you whirled on him, pummeling him with the binds. he groaned, shaking his head of the ache. he spotted you descending to a random beach and followed you.

when you noticed him, you backed up defensively, watching him with a careful eye.

he tilted his head in confusion, holding his hands up in surrender. "woah. i'm not trying to hurt you; i wanna help."

your eyes searched his and he assumed you didn't understand him either. he approached you slowly, taking your arms in his hands. he stretched them towards him and raised his own, slicing through the metal in one swift motion.

the restraints fell into the sand below with a soft chfff. you rubbed your wrists, pleased but not completely relaxed.

mark grinned. "better, right?"

your eyes flickered to his, a frown on your lips as you hurriedly spoke to him in that foreign language.

he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "i'm sorry, i... don't understand."

you rolled your eyes and pulled him in, your thumb on his lips. you waited for him to pull away, tilting your head questioningly. he threw all rational thought in the garbage and leaned in. you kissed him roughly, like you had an agenda.

you pulled back and shoved him back. his ass hit the sand, spluttering as he looked up at you. "what the—"

you towered over him. "if you wish not to be destroyed, you will leave me alone."

mark remained there in the sand, head reeling. "um... so what was the kiss for?"

"kiss?"

"what we just did?" he followed up, rising to his feet and dusting the sand off his thighs and lap.

"my people learn languages through lip to lip contact." you explained hurriedly, already positioning yourself to take off once more.

"okay, hold on a second," he caught you before you managed to escape. "are you serious?"

you ripped your hand away from him, disgust etched on your features. "no, i am y/n."

mark laughed a little to himself. "still a bit rusty with the language, huh? um... how many tries would it take to get it right?"

you stared at him, unimpressed. "what are you meaning?"

all you could see was the cheeky, nervous smile on his lips despite the confident step he put forward. you grew amused by his antics, crossing your arms over your chest as you heard him out.

he scratched the back of his neck, his other arm resting on his hip. "i'm just saying, i'm here to help you adjust to earth. and i also took spanish in high school."

you raised an eyebrow, smiling.

"just saying." mark gave you a lopsided grin.

© invoncible

[kamalgaza]

Help a young man from Gaza💔

Help Kamal, he is in special needs.

In the heart of war-torn Gaza, lives Kamal, a 20-year-old young man with Down syndrome. Despite his condition and the endless conflict around him, Kamal has always faced life with a smilea quiet strength that shines even through rubble and ruin.

But today, Kamal is no longer able to endure alone😭💔.

He suffers from serious heart issues and depends on lifesaving medication every month, along with regular physical therapy sessions😭. Since the latest wave of destruction, his local clinic has been reduced to dust, and his medications have become either unavailable or unaffordable.

His mother, who lost everything but her son, says:

“People fear bombs, but my greatest fear is not being able to buy Kamal’s medicine💔😭”

[kenmaspuddinghair]

Honorably discharged partially disabled Simon part 3

part one part two

this one has a happier ending than the last, but Simon is diagnosed with peripheral neuropathy ( pronunciation) which is a kind of nerve damage. sorry this one took a little long I had to research for this one

exactly 1.0k words :)

Here you are all alone sitting outside a hospital room at almost 3 AM with Simon's “Ghost” mask in your hands while he's in surgery right behind you, Price left a while ago to pick up some food and the other guys in the 141. According to the doctors Simon had peripheral neuropathy from the attack about a month ago, it spiked when he got into the fight with the man back at the butcher shop, for you, he got into a fight that caused this for you. You were trying your hardest not to cry when the doctor walked out “Okay, the surgery was a success, he isn't necessarily cured right now but as long as you take the right precautions and steps, it can get better and may go away over time, it could take months or even years though. He’ll need full-time care and if you're not up for that he’ll need a different nurse. I'll get you a sheet with all the information and potential symptoms” he said, already walking away. As you were going into the room another nurse came out from the room, “Are you his girlfriend, he just woke up and he keeps calling for you, he refuses to let us see his face, but we got what we need done” and before you got a chance to correct her she went off.

“Hey Simon, how are you?” First he removed his hands from over his face then his eyes went over your entire body slowly before he answered “Can’t really feel anythin, can ya put my mask on?” you smiled at him getting closer to pull the mask over his head. “Price will be here with Soap and Gaz, he's bringing some food too” he never answered you, he just kept staring at you with this look in his eyes, you just sat by his side looking over him. You sighed, “Simon listen, I don't know if they told you, but you have peripheral neuropathy, your nerves were damaged during the attack and, when you grabbed that guy it only made things worse” You paused but before you could continue he replied in a voice so soft you didn't know he could make that sound “it’s not your fault y’know, shouldn't attacked him” you smiled but before you could continue Price came in. “I'm assuming she told you about what happened and what's gonna be happening” It was as if something clicked in Simon's mind, he pushed himself up “She can stay right? She'll still be ‘ere to help me? Right? You'll stay to help me won’t ya?” he directed the last part to you, voice breaking and dripping with a mix of worry and horror. You looked him directly in his eyes and replied simply but firmly “Simon, I will stay and take care of you for as long as you let me”

Simon was discharged around 10 AM, the last few hours he spent joking with Soap and Gaz just eating food you knew was not good for them at all, but they had to leave a bit ago so now with the help of Price you got Simon in the car and back home. So far Simon only had a few symptoms, muscle weakness, muscle twitching/shaking, and occasional numbness and/or pain, so far it's stayed confide to Simon’s right under his collarbone, the exact part of his body that was stuck under rubble for hours, according to the doctors this is the best case scenario much worse could have happened to him. The plan was for you to make sure he ate well-rounded meals and didn't over-exert himself and give him a check-up weekly for any worsening symptoms or injuries.

Currently, you were in the kitchen cooking lunch while Simon and Price talked in the living room. “You like her a lot, don't you? And don't try to tell me you don't like her, even the nurse thought she was your girlfriend, you even let her see your face. I didn't even get to see your face for years” Simon just sighed, he couldn't exactly lie it was way too obvious, so he chose the next best thing to do “So what do I do? I don't even know if she's allowed to date me” “Well she's with the military so as long as I, the captain, says it's okay then it's okay, but you know she's not gonna ask you right?” Simon started to panic, was Price confirming his worst fear right now, that you didn't like him at all and wouldn't even give him a chance. “What do ya mean she won't ask me out, like she doesn't like me? Like-” “No no Simon, like she's not going to risk losing her job by asking her patient out, meaning you have to do it. Of course she likes you, are you dense?” 

Not only was Price saying that it was okay for you two to date but also encouraging it, but now he had to work up the nerve to actually do it, it would be simply right? He would just ask you out, that's it. “Lunch is ready.” just then Price stood up, grabbing his hat “I'm gonna head out now, make sure he eats” he directed the last part to you before heading to the door “Will do” you called “Oh also Simon, I forgot to mention but I'll need to stay in your room tonight, peripheral neuropathy can be really bad for some people at night so I should be there for you just in case” Price just chucked and smirked and Simon before closing the door behind him. God, who was Simon kidding, this is the hardest thing he's ever had to do, and that's saying a lot, Simon’s done countless terrifying things that would have the average civilian crying and yet Simon was panicking over asking a girl out, gosh, what were you doing to him. 

part four

tags- @piconico17 @just-lilita @madsdawson @silversfavfics @enfppuff @solazoro @sirbonesly

[vinnyvamppp]

To Be Desired PT 2

⭐:ViltrumMark, OmniMark, Hooded Invincible, Masked Mark, HeadCap Invincible (Requested!), Mentions of Invincible. (PART 1 HERE)

Commenter: Can u write some viltrumark n Omni mark. Pleasee. (Special at the end!)

Synopsis: Variants of your childhood best friend spawn across the globe, and you find yourself in the crossfire of their previous lovers. What happens when you experience the parallel pleasure they can offer?

Warnings: Power Struggles, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Morally Grey, Nipple Play, Fingering, Pussy Eating, Overstimulation, Public Sex, Ejaculating Inside, Rough Sex, 69, Car Sex, Switch!Reader, Switch!Invincible Variants, Plot changes for convenience, Matching Freaks, Position Changes, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Invincible Variants x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 6,079

Previously on 'To Be Desired' ... Helping where you could, you began assisting in fighting off the weaklings who figured now was the best time to attack Earth. Micro tears riddled your uniform as you tore through them mercilessly, all through a look of pity. There were days you'd resent this “job” you'd granted yourself, the little recognition and appreciation you'd receive from the public. How selfish of them and you. You wanted an excuse to have this world fair alone, without a need to rebel when no one would notice. As luck would have it, a voice suddenly dawned behind you, his body floating midair and adorned with the appearance of your dearest friend.

ViltruMark

Gazing upon the malignant figure, his jaw ticked ever so slightly at the sight of you. A mangy mutt of a man was within his grasp, its maw bludgeoned with the imprint of his knuckles. The sound of a body hitting the ground beside you was like a heavy, wet slap, followed by a faint whoosh of air being forced from its lungs. It was a sickening thud, like a ripe melon dropped from a great height, and you froze with a sense of unease.

The impact was startling and violent, and for a moment, you forgot about the raging havoc being reaped around you. The suddenness of it all made your heart race—you were almost certain he could hear it—as every instinct shrieked within. Your body language became defensive, his gaze hardening in response.

"I've killed you once, and I'll kill you again," he proclaimed, yet it held little intent. His uniform was a staple of the Viltrumite Empire, its clad symbol emboldened in the sky’s smoke like a false beacon of hope. "Then get it over with. You won't be the first variant who dies tonight." The snarky remark was met with a confident scoff. His padded feet landed in front of you, his eyes absorbing your features as if to reminisce. "I won’t. That was my first mistake," he replied, his fingers finding themselves tangled in your hair.

It was sudden; you couldn't help but grimace at his words. A Viltrumite admitting their mistakes? Unbelievable. That was until his grip suddenly tightened, cocking your head to the side as he whispered in your ear. "I've come to right my wrongs and take you with me." The man's grip was a hold of domination, a vice-like clamp that strangled the last vestiges of hope. It was merciless, like that of a warlord who wielded power with an iron fist. Yet the soothing hand around your waist and the calloused fingertips that scratched against your costume told the story of a starved man.

It wasn’t a debate, nor did you intend to argue, as your annoyance with your reality simmered. "Right your wrongs…?" you questioned, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his face as you two suddenly took flight. Tears bubbled at your waterline from the speed, your fingers clinging to him as you could’ve sworn he nearly melted. You always did talk too much, so he figured he'd show you. The underground vibrations beat against your eardrums as he cradled you. Your gaze was fixed upon a newly formed crater within the valley, only destroyed rubble offering privacy. "We’ll do it here. You’ll be my new beloved and will give me children."

His fingers traced down your abdomen as they tore through the fabric, gooseflesh rising from the exposure. It was a depressing past, really—having to murder you in cold blood so soon due to his agenda—but not this time. You would stay ignorant of his past, and he would provide it, given your indulgence.

His hands grasped the spandex material of your suit, prying it open as his lips began their pleasurable assault on your neck. The wet warmth of his tongue tickled your skin as he harshly nipped the welcoming flesh. Your faint pulse beneath it enticed him to experience what he had yet to. So alive and welcoming.

Head resting against the soft soil, his hardened cock imprinted beneath the loincloth. His body did little to hide his excitement, though his expression remained cold. Once the clothing was peeled from your body, his lips continued their journey south, pausing to lavish attention on your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue erratically around the hardened peak while his hand kneaded and caressed the other.

You moaned at the sensations, your hands instinctively tangling in his hair as his hips ground against your clothed cunt. He didn’t stop. He worshiped your breasts until you were writhing beneath him, the skin tender and reddened from his teeth. As he traveled lower, you could feel his warm breath on your most intimate area, his pre-cum now staining the cloth of both his and your costume. Just before his lips could reach your sex, he pulled away in satisfaction. All mild waves of pleasure were ripped from you, and a feeling of annoyance bubbled within.

Pressing back against him, your eyes pleaded seductively, a hand resting against his chest. "It’s not fun when it's just me; let me please you," you muttered, watching as the faintest smirk graced his lips. He sat on his knees as you shuffled yourself forward, hands eagerly tugging at his clothing. His costume splintered as it fell from his form, your mouth practically watering at the sight of his swollen cock eagerly awaiting your touch. You leaned in, inhaling deeply and savoring his musky scent. You ran your tongue along the underside of his veins, from the base to the tip, feeling it twitch against your lips. He shivered.

You circled the head with your tongue, dipping into the slit to taste his essence before taking him into your mouth. Instantly, he sucked in a deep breath through gritted teeth. The man was more sensitive than expected. As your throat relaxed and another inch slid inside, the soft lining of your esophagus welcomed him so fruitfully that his eyelids began to twitch. His pride had failed to forewarn him, and his temperament began to crumble.

As his hips bucked forward, you gagged, only to see a placid grin etched onto his face as his nose crinkled with restraint. He groaned loudly with every bob of your throat, his dick twitching with each contact. Suddenly, his hand gripped your hair, pulling you back. "Enough," he muttered, his voice carrying enough command to make you pause.

Before you could process it, you were flipped onto your hands and knees, panties being lowered as his eyes devoured the sight of your pussy. "You’re soaked… I would’ve fucked you sooner if I knew you’d be so willing." The mumble seemed more to himself than to you. His tip glided down the skin of your folds, the squelching sound causing his grip to tighten as he pushed your head into the ground. Just as he pressed himself inside, the quietest whimper slipped.

Your eyes met his with a smug expression; he returned it as a warning before your velvety walls swallowed him whole. He sighed, like a man being gifted after a long day of work. He didn’t give you time to adjust, immediately pulling out and setting a brutal pace, pounding into you with a force that rocked your entire body. Each thrust pushed you forward, your hands scrabbling for purchase in the burrow of grass. His balls slapped against your clit with every stroke, sending sparks of pleasure through you.

One of his hands left your hip, wrapping around your hair and pulling your head back, forcing you to arch your spine. He fucked almost with a hatred. With every stroke, your body bounced forward, and you could swear you heard your vertebrae popping. Does he not know what gentle is?! No! He’s a Viltrumite, born and raised!

Unbeknownst to you, the dual stimulation of his balls slapping against your skin and the soft twitching of your pussy had him hunched over. He began to chase his own release, loud growls echoing in your ears as you could barely formulate sound. His free hand rested against your ass, enjoying its recoil as a pathetic whine scratched his throat. He was hellbent on burying himself within you, each thrust deepening with the swivel of his hips. His muscles tightened as his jaw clenched, heavy pants echoing between groans. It was beginning to sound needy, a rough greed that consumed him.

Your moans were muffled, his hearing sharp enough to catch every one, his tactics shifting subtly to bring you the utmost pleasure. God, why did he kill you? He could barely remember as his brain began to fizzle out from the pleasure. “Mphm… Mark… can’t breathe,” you muttered, his eyes finally snapping into focus. In a last-ditch effort, he tugged you back, ripping a hiss from you as your spine curved. Your back rested against his chest, and although the sex was rough, this was a moment of gentleness. “Aah—ugh, mm, fuck, I’m going to fill you,” he whispered, sheathing himself one final time as he came.

You two remained still as his stamina recovered; he pressed a chaste kiss against your lips, both of your suits ruined. No matter, he couldn't care less about flying into space naked. It was short-lived as he abruptly readied himself from a voice buzzing within his ear; you remained seated in absolute awe. “How long can you hold your breath?” he asked, a plan to return home brewing.

OmniMark

His gaze remained fixed on you, expression unimpressed as he observed. You had just defeated another swarm of enemies, their blood coating the streets. As you stumbled toward him, your breath came out in labored gasps, and your vision blurred, making it hard to focus on his figure. Mark—or rather, this mysterious figure in similar fashion—seemed to be studying you intently, his eyes piercing through your facade.

The sound of his cape billowing finally caught your attention. Roving over his figure, you observed his costume. A dried patch of blood littered his hand, pink lint from the fabric clinging to it. It resembled Omni-Man's and only struck you with confusion as your mind rang from your probable concussion. "Hey, are these giving you any trouble?" he asked, his body idly bobbing midair as he awaited an answer.

"Who are you, really? If you're Mark, why are you dressed like... well, like him?" You gestured to his costume, a near-perfect replica of Omni-Man's, complete with the red and white color scheme, only missing the distinctive 'O' emblem. He sighed, almost regretfully, as a realization seemed to dawn upon you. Omni-Man in his world was dead; just why did I have to run into this one?! He glided toward you with a strangely disturbing grace.

"I've come to defend you. There are many of us gathering over Chicago." Your question was swatted away like a fly as he continued. His response made you drop your guard, albeit naively, since there was no reason to trust him. He landed in front of you, dark goggles showing your reflection as he contemplated. "Why? What happened to me in your dimension?" you inquired.

He replied with the slightest look of pity and weariness. "She… was like a pet. Served her purpose and got in the way after I killed my father." His words made your heart drop. "I've been looking for you… for a new pet. So, understand me this time, and we can conquer together." The tone of his words was low, almost careful, like it somehow softened the demeaning blow. Every word was woven in silk, but underneath lay a quiet demand. His fingers gently wrapped around yours, his gloved thumbs ghosting over your knuckles.

Truthfully, he hated his dimension's version of you. Such a nuisance, but you were already proving to be more favorable. A glimpse into what you could've been.

"But you have more to offer than she did. She had no powers, no abilities… but she was cute while it lasted." A sense of sadness lingered in his voice as his eyes focused behind you, on the destruction your battle had caused.

"Fine, I'll let you protect me," you said, releasing his fingers.

"It’d be best if we stayed together at all times," he replied.

"I don’t think I could stomach being around you." It was a petty jab, spit with unintentional venom.

"I could change that," he quipped with the cockiness of his father, his palm outstretched to you.

Just how did you allow yourself to be swept away like this? Yes, the Mark you knew was the son of Omni-Man with morals; this one went against every principle you had when becoming a hero. Like father, like son. His words were sensitive, meticulously put together to string you along—not that you cared now, not with his fingers buried deep inside your cunt.

Somewhere along the way, he had flown you to Paris like some fancy vacation. The leveled city burned brightly, the embers painting your skin in a dewy orange that made you look so divine. The Eiffel Tower stood tall, almost as a harbinger of justice, and here you were, on the structure, being fingered by him. You let out a sharp cry as he started to stroke, his digits gliding through your wetness with ease. The very sight of your cunt had him in a hedonistic trance, his thumb slotting over your clit. He teased and circled, applying just the right amount of pressure to have your hips bucking beneath him. His pace quickened ever so slightly, reveling in the ridges of your pussy that he anticipated to hug him so snugly.

"You like that, don't you? You like it when I touch you like this?" he purred, watching as your face scrunched in pleasure. It wasn't like he needed a response; seeing your reaction was enough. Your abs began to tighten as your orgasm built, and just as your body lurched forward, his hands pulled away, leaving you clenching around air.

"You said that would be it," you whispered, watching as he smiled faintly, almost pleading. "I know, but it would be better this way… I can't monitor with just my fingers." He excused himself, and your eyes rolled sarcastically. "Last thing." It was a harsh spat that crawled from your throat and into his ear. "Last thing," he agreed—when you both knew he was the type to say that while fucking you senseless for the tenth time.

Against the cold metal, he spread your legs wide, his free hand freeing his weeping cock from its confinement. It's been punished enough for now. Clothes were shed quickly, eagerly, until you were both naked and pressed together, skin against skin. He hovered over you, his eyes roaming your exposed body hungrily. Circling his tip around your entrance, he finally pushed in, jaw clenching with a shaky exhale.

His hips began to build into a relentless pace, your bouncing legs wrapping firmly around him to pull him in deeper. He was becoming lost within you—quite literally—as your pussy swallowed him balls deep. No wonder his father remained active with Debbie; this was fucking godsent to him. Perhaps his words from earlier were no longer manipulation but the truth. He would vow to know you on a personal level later.

Moans of pleasure from you both echoed. He was shameless about his noise, enjoying the sound of skin slapping in the air. You could have sworn his particularly deep thrusts sent the tower shaking. Sweat formed on his brow as he concentrated, ab muscles flexing as he withheld his orgasm. Mark loved it here. He would do anything not to pull out. His body began to tremble with restraint, nearly convulsing with the overarching effort. Your bodies shifted with each powerful thrust. Lost in your own pleasure, you barely noticed your head now dangling from the structure.

His attempt at being romantic after destroying a city was dreadful. "Mark…!! Ah! I'm gonna fall, fuck—!" you wearily shouted, and he grimaced slightly, his fingers shoving themselves into your mouth to simulate sucking his cock as he watched you gag on them. "You know better… swearing doesn’t make you cool." He stated it so casually, as if he weren’t balls-deep inside you.

Flying you both into the air, his hands gripped your ass, fucking himself into you. His thrusts grew erratic, his whimpers barely contained. It was obvious—his toes curled in his shoes, his feet flexed, his eyes rolled back into his skull, the veins in his neck prominent. Clasping his chin, you focused his attention on you as your insides nearly squeezed him dry. It was your minute revenge. "T-Take what you… what you want." His lips were caught between his teeth. "I wo… won't stop you."

The words were weak, both of you heaving, breath fanning against each other's faces. Wrapping your legs tighter around him, and with bated breaths, he buried himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he came with a shout. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he hissed, unable to stop himself. After realizing what he had done, he ironically cursed under his breath.

"S… shit, I should’ve come in your mouth; it would’ve been better," he muttered, disappointed in himself. Wrapping your bare body within his cape, he gingerly kissed you with praise. His lips parted, as if to utter something sentimental, his gaze hardening. Suddenly, he observed heroes gathering within France to save the people. A grimace enveloped his face. He had enough decency to place you securely at your apartment before taking off. HeadCap Mark

“Oh…? And who do we have here?” he asked rhetorically, one hand resting at his side. His overzealous grin gleamed beneath the obscurity of his features. Not to mention… was he bald? His appearance was a far cry from his better counterpart. You kept raking over every detail, unsure what unsettled you more.

“I… I don’t want to fight you. You look like my friend… I couldn’t,” you replied timidly, tension stunning your body. He landed without a sound, the silence eerie—like a grinning cat toying with its prey.

There was dried blood riddled through his costume, his demeanor confident as he strutted toward you with his head held high. You were awfully perturbed, not noticing him already in front of you. “Well, this is gonna be fun,” he chirped as he gazed expectantly at you, his amusement only growing. “You know how hard it was to find you? Your friend's bug brother straightened me out on my way here.” A series of sharp, satisfying cracks from his spine echoed through your ears, each pop releasing tension like bubble wrap as they twisted. His octave dropped a notch as he leaned in.

“Now it's time to straighten you out.” The words were of insincere politeness, their meaning striking you upside the head. His fingers curled around your neck as he guided you backward. The cold metal of a now disheveled and crumpled car met your back. “Ah ah ah, don’t even think about it,” he whispered, your ear tingling from its warmth, your fingers relaxed at your side.

The smile on his face was almost sweet as you complied, only begrudgingly allowing his touch. “Then move before I change my mind.” You snorted in response. It was scandalous; you’d never admit that the hand around your neck nearly made you weak. Just how could you reject a man so desperate to have you? He wasn’t going to deny you either; in fact, he felt almost obligated to show you he deserved this.

He shoved you roughly against the hood of the car, his fingers tracing the length of your curves. The loud creak of the vehicle settling, the sputtering electricity of nearby landline wires, and the open air of dust filling your lungs made you feel truly exposed. Even without the removal of clothing. His tongue flicked over his lips, a brief, deliberate motion—like a cat after cream. The elastic fabric of his costume fell down his muscled legs, his hands eager as they jutted forward. It was rushed—he stripped the latex from your body with the urgency of a man digging for gold.

Only then, when he saw the pretty lace covering such delicate areas, did an audible groan of delight scratch his throat. “Pretty,” he teased, his hands reaching into his boxers as they clung to his thighs. His dick was flushed a pale pink, longer than it was girthy, as bulging veins pathed their way to his tip. “Pretty,” you mimicked, legs spreading as he closed in like a moth to a flame. He left your bra and panties on, enjoying the sight too much to tear them off. Instead, he pulled the fabric aside to watch your tits bounce, your pussy lips already weeping.

His tip parted you like a river, his head hanging back as he bottomed out. Your walls fluttered to accommodate his length; if he wanted to, he could kiss your cervix. Your legs crossed over his shoulder, and his hips reared back before driving into you. Each thrust pushed you further up the car's hood, your breasts bouncing with the force of his movements.

Your hands reached to clasp at anything behind you, only to find a shattered windshield to dig your fingertips into. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he watched you bounce on his cock; it was something deserving of a painting. His head turned, tongue slithering across the soles of your feet in a gesture of worship. As much as he didn't care about this world, in this moment, he was determined to make you feel like a goddess. His pace quickened, each stroke pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

The movements were entirely guided by lust; broken chuckles bubbled from his throat as moan after moan was ripped from him. Your eyes nearly lost focus, and every stroke caused a slight bulge to imprint in your lower abdomen. Your moans encouraged him—urged him to go deeper, to claim you completely. “So… so much is d-different about this world, but this… t-this was made for me.” His lips grimaced as his hips purged through the trembles riddling his body. The car creaked as it rocked violently, his fluid motion throwing you against him in time with his thrusts.

The street fills with the unfiltered sounds of your moans and the slap of skin against skin. You could feel your throat becoming raw; he was practically silenced, communicating with the tightening of your cunt and its impending orgasm.

Propping yourself onto your hands, you leaned back slightly, one leg gingerly switching to his other shoulder, giving him a full view of how you drank him in. His thumb rolled tight circles around your clit, watching as your hole puckered so vigorously around him.

A ring of your juices—mixed with what he couldn’t tell was pre-cum or cum—sputtered against his pelvis. The sight was enough to tip him over the edge. “Come… all over my cock—mmm—like the good l-little ssslut you are!” he groaned, eyes darting between your folds and your eyes as he inhaled your intoxicating scent.

As he thrust into you with increasing fervor, you felt your body begin to tense, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm approached. He seemed to sense it, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his own release.

You cried out, fingernails scraping against the car's metal; his jaw clenched wearily as his knees grew weak. A grin etched across his face once more, eyebrows knitting upward as he sighed shakily. With frantic pacing, he waited until his eyes nearly crossed before pulling out and ejaculating on your stomach.

You were winded, arms giving out as you rested against the car; he stared at you, unnaturally tired himself. But as he watched your juices bubble around your entrance, a new energy suddenly surged to his cock. “W-What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, stroking himself with a strangled whimper. “Mmm, I plan on using every inch of this car while I’m here.” Hooded Invincible

The momentary silence was deafening; the veiled mask drifted ever so slightly to show the grin lurking beneath. His costume had blood leaking down the front; the amount would suggest he’d been bested, yet he stood defiant and cocky before you. Just how powerful was he to remain standing? As you readied yourself for another battle, a sigh leaving your lips, his hands suddenly bound together over his head before slamming his full weight onto the concrete road. The rubble cracked beneath your feet, and a strong gust of wind slid you back. It wasn’t nearly as strong as anticipated. He was holding back.

“You won't be enough. You’re not even a fraction of my power!” He enunciated every other word, making the insult feel a little more scathing. “No wonder you get jumped so often, you fucking asshole,” you chided with annoyance. The dull ache in his head was the last thing he registered; the blow landed with a sickening thud, its crack making him stumble back slightly. “Oh, fuck off.” His return strike was swift, a flash of movement followed by a grunt of pain.

You nearly crumpled, the floor rushing to meet you before you regained stability. He was quick to compliment, almost too eager. “Okay… I’ll admit, you’re stronger than I thought.” The feeling of his hands cupping around your wrist, dried blood flaking from his palm. “That’s not why I’m here though,” he finished, his yellow-tinted goggles reflecting off the sunlight, a faint glimpse of his eyes meeting yours.

Just why did they have to have the warmth of your friend's? This was making it difficult to hate him. “Not interested,” you deadpanned, arms tugging within his grasp. He sucked his teeth with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t remember you being this fucking mouthy.” His head cocked slightly to view your expression change like his personal performance. “Wrong dimension; I’m not her.” Your words made him pause as that grin made its Broadway appearance. “Nah, you’re better; I love it when my girls are a bitch.” He taunted, your eyes searching for an escape route as you mentally dismissed him. “C’mon, give me a chance.” The words dripped from his lips, less of a plea and more of a certainty.

You couldn’t deny he had certainly piqued your interest in more ways than one. Suddenly, a pair of calloused fingertips ran a strip down the center of your costume, the fabric outlining a faint camel toe. His fingers pressed against the indent of your pussy lips, a desired dampness nearly causing him to groan. “Oh, you’re fucked,” he said with mocking restraint. In almost an instant, you were dragged into an alleyway and, with the weight of a feather, flipped upside down. “Put me down! What are you doing?!” you grit out, but the words lacked conviction, lost in the echo of his ragged breath.

He ignored your plea, fingers now deftly parting your swollen lips, teasing the clit that throbbed insistently through your costume. Your question was more of a criticism of his crassness. “Relax, you’ll like this.” He brushed off every critique, his focus narrowing to the only thing that mattered—his next dessert.

A firm finger dug into the fabric above your cunt before the screeching sound of fabric tearing. It was better than he imagined; his tongue already sought a taste as he admired the view. “That's it. I know you want this.” His tongue flicked out, tracing a wet path from your clit to your swollen opening. A jolt of electricity shot through you, silencing you momentarily as your hands dug into his hip. He chuckled again, pleased with your reaction. “See? Already loving it.” His response made your pleasure-filled veins run cold.

Returning the favor through shaky moans of your own, your fingers tore through the fabric of his clothing, leaving little time for him to react as your teeth sorted through the pocket of his boxers before his cock sprang out. Its tip was greeted with fervent kisses as a guttural growl rumbled from behind his veil. His tongue, hot and demanding, flicked out, tracing the sensitive flesh. A gasp escaped your lips, a mix of grit and nascent pleasure. He lapped at you with deliberate strokes, teasing and testing your limits. The fluttering of his tongue grew desperate to draw more sounds from you as you writhed.

That was until his toes curled upon a pair of nails dragging down the length of his swollen, veiny cock. He grumbled a string of curses, his tongue pursuing to ravage you in the wake of this being a competition. With practiced ease, your lips parted, bubbles of spit gathering around his tip as you toyed with him. “Fuuuuck me,” he sighed.

You took him in, the softness of your mouth enveloping him as you began to move, your head bobbing rhythmically. The swirl of your tongue was like pleasant lashings against his cock. Your throat relaxed as your nose met the tightening sack of his balls; he was losing his ability to resist. Every so often, you would flatten your tongue, ruining what might’ve been the build-up of his orgasm.

Your combined groans echoed mindlessly in the alleyway. With a clenched jaw, he flipped you right-side up, your hands dragging across the pavement momentarily. The sight of him frazzled you, his hair disheveled from the clenching of your thighs, and the front of his veiled mask drenched in your taste.

“How do you even have the energy to still hold me?” you asked, bewildered as he chuckled. “You underestimate my power.” His response made your eyes roll, and you both were winded nonetheless. He shifted again, his hands now gripping your thighs, spreading them wider. He positioned himself between your legs, his hard cock pressing against your clit, a tantalizing promise of what was to come. As he penetrated the twitching valley of your warmth, you both responded to one another with a moan—a sound of pure, unadulterated need.

Holy fuck, was he glad you couldn’t see his face. He was holding on by a thread, eyebrows furrowed with a quivering lip. “You probably… would’ve made me cum a-already if you didn’t keep playing,” he rasped, somewhat annoyed. “Shut the fuck up and keep going.” He couldn’t argue; his grip tightened against your upper thigh. With every drawback, you tightened around him, threatening to suck him in. Through labored breaths, his jaw went slack as his body nearly locked up on him. “Haa… ha… haa! You r-ready?” he drawled, dick pumping into you with his last shrivels of energy before his dick milked him dry inside you.

You both remained in somewhat of a daze. That’s when the familiar clang of Cecil's reAnimen echoed in the distance. Setting you down with a strange gentleness, he promised his return… leaving you with a hole in your pants. “Fuck.”

Masked Invincible

“Finally…” he whispered; you could’ve sworn his eyebrows creased beneath his mask—the full obscurity of his features made him difficult to identify. “Mark…?” you questioned, his shoulders drooping slightly as a relieved sigh left him. His costume was barely recognizable if it weren't for the signature black and blue; his frosted lenses left little to be discovered.

The instinct for danger—and to fight—was suddenly drained from you as he spoke. “We didn’t all make the same deal.” He approached, desperation weighing down his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter, Mark. You all murdered thousands… I don’t know you. I don’t care to hear you plead your case.”

Your response stunted his movements as the sound of padded feet quickened their pace.

“I—I know, but it was for a good reason, I swear,” he continued with a slight stutter, his hands gesturing to his chest. This somehow felt manipulative. “I liked it here… I came back to bring you and my mom back with me. We can start over.” His hands clung to your shoulders as he spoke, fingernails digging into the flesh. “And why would I do that?” you inquired, your gaze hardening as you anticipated a response. “Because… because I need you.” The delivery was purely pathetic, a voice cracked, edging his words as he nearly pleaded.

Considering the whole ordeal, it didn’t sound like an awful offer. However, it would be unsafe to assume the woman you once loved in the past was the same in every dimension. His submission might’ve unlocked a new kink you were unaware of, the sentiment tugging at your heartstrings. He was similar to the Mark you knew—emotional—but this one felt far more dangerous, a dog off its leash. You began to lie through your teeth. If it meant having a variant as an ally rather than an enemy, then so be it.

“Okay. I’ll come with you if—” Your words were abruptly sawed off as his hands hastily lifted half his mask and his lips found yours with fever. He brushed his lips against yours, featherlight, as if testing the moment—savoring it. He sighed into the kiss, his hands cradling your face, drawing you closer, deepening the space between breath and bliss. His fingertips dug into your skull as he was encased in your warmth.

Just how could he have ever let this go? Not this time. No, he would do better. He’d imagined this countless times.

Hands quickly shifting to your hips, he decided your apartment was best. Being on his best behavior would convince you more, right? Landing on the balcony, he slid open the door as you shuffled backward into the kitchen. You both pulled away, erratic breaths dampening one another's faces. Interestingly, as his costume loosened and pooled around his ankles, the mask remained. He seemed truly hellbent on keeping it on—not that you paid any mind.

Slowly tugging each article of clothing from your body, he watched as if hypnotized. It was nearly comical watching him progressively become aroused as seconds ticked by. His mind and body were one. His ragged gasps produced a small cloud of condensation through his mask. His dick a red, irritated mess with smeared pre-cum. Messy. Desperate. Guiding him into a chair, he manspread to allow you plenty of room once you straddled him, feet hooking against his inner thigh.

His tip pierced through you, giving you little time to adjust as gravity pulled you downwards. Your puffy lips cushioned him between hungry blows, combined arousal leaving a stringy mess in his lap.

Gripping your hips, his jaw clenched as he assisted you in riding him, the pace solely reliant on his stamina. "Wait, wait, slow down," you gasp, trying to regain control. But he's too far gone, his lust clouding his judgment. He grips your hips tighter, slamming you down on his cock with bruising force.

The pleasure is intense—bordering on pain—but you can't deny how much you're enjoying it. He leans forward, his masked face inches from yours. "I—I can't slow down," he pants, his breath hot against your skin. "I've wa… wanted this for so long. Needed this."

You can feel him throbbing inside you, his desire for you evident. But you need to take back control, to show him who's in charge here. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as your ass meets the meat of his thighs from your efforts to ride him.

He groans, his head falling back as you take what you want from him. "F-fuck, yeesss," he hisses, his hands moving to your ass, squeezing and spreading it. "Take it all; take everything I have to give."

It was his most coherent sentence—just barely—as his voice cracked with a whimper.

Your moans began to mingle until it was a harmony unable to be differentiated. The sound bouncing off the walls sounded ten times louder than it was. His nose scrunched from beneath his mask, jaw flexing with an effort to remain sane.

"I am. And I'm going to use you until I'm satisfied." He shudders beneath you, his cock twitching inside you at your words. You can tell he likes this—likes being used and controlled by you. After all he’s done, he’d gladly let you go for today.

Your hips slammed against his with every downward thrust. The sounds of skin meeting rang in your ears, a whine of pleasure filling your lungs as unrestrained sounds began to filter. His pubic hair caused delicious friction against your clit as he began to grow sloppy.

He reaches up, his hands cupping the back of your shoulders to hold you in place as he rams into you. The added stimulation sends you closer to the edge, your body tensing as your orgasm approaches.

"C-...Cum for me," he growls, his eyes watching you intently with the goal of watching your face contort in lust. "Fuck… fuck… fuck, yes! G-Give it to me! Please…!"

His voice nearly gave out as he came with a shout, finally being able to make you his.

You soon followed after, collapsing on his chest as remnants of a moan leave your lips. It takes a while for you two to finally gather your bearings. He pulls his mask down, a smile etched into the fabric, before that damned voice calls out within his ear. “I’m sorry… I—I have to go. I'll come back for you,” he stutters, reluctantly leaving and flying into the murky horizon.

This was actually fun to type up. (If interested in Mark's subplot (same scenario), it's linked: here.)

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[momosane]

Palestinian Waseem Abu Sal and Sweden's Nebil Ibrahim at the end of round of 32 men’s boxing preliminaries.

Abu sal entered, with chants of "Free Palestine” breaking out loudly.

"I promise you I will continue training in the coming four years till 2028, which I hope is the year I get a medal. I came here to grab a medal but that is sport and God willing, I will fight again. In four year’s time, I will raise the Palestinian flag over the podium,” Abu Sal said.

Ibrahim said “I tried to turn it around. It’s an honour for me to be the one to fight the first Palestinian boxer to enter at the Olympics. He’s not only representing his people and his country. He’s representing every oppressed nation in the world. Right now, Palestine is in the face of oppression so he has a big burden on his shoulders.”

Abu Sal was one of two flag-bearers for the Palestinian delegation.

His white shirt had embroidered images of warplanes dropping missiles over children playing sport.

"This shirt represents the current picture in Palestine," Abu Sal told AFP on Saturday. "The children who are martyred and die under the rubble, children whose parents are martyred and are left alone without food or water."

Abu Sal lives in the West Bank and was unable to train with his Cairo-based coach. A Gazan who cannot travel to him due to Israeli restrictions.

Against all odds.

[pellucid-constellations]

Fable - Acquiesce

You were falling, falling, without wings or fate to catch you. And Azriel—all Azriel could do was watch.

Warnings: Angst, injury, mentions of death (this will have more parts dw)

Masterlist

If the world ended, in that moment, in several moments, you weren’t sure you would notice. 

It could all go up in flames, decimating everything the light touched, and there wouldn’t be a flicker in your eye. 

Your gaze was locked with Azriel’s, trapped there with nothing that could sever that tie. If there were a bond, you were sure it would be screaming—for you to do something, to move. But there was no bond and you had abandoned any hope that one would form a while ago. 

Not with Elain. Not with the devotion he held for Mor for so many years. 

No bond, nothing screaming. 

Only, something was screaming. The sound met your ears as a muted hum, but you could pick out the pieces that framed its essence so easily. Because Azriel never screamed like that; he hardly ever raised his voice. 

The cliff continued to crumble, leaving you falling between bits of rubble and dust. If you’d had your wings—if they hadn’t been torn from your body so recently—you would have been fine. And maybe that was why you didn’t take action, your body too accustomed to the feeling of the ground giving beneath you, your wings always there to catch you as you fell. 

Azriel would have been the one to catch you, but he couldn’t. He thrashed and growled against the six Illyrian men it took to hold him down, the iron shackles at his arms rendering his shadows useless, and could only watch as you fell down and down and down. 

He had been the one to find you all those months ago, the amass of blood and the carnage of your wings still so fresh in his mind. 

He had pleaded with Rhys not to send you here so soon after the incident, but in the end, it was you who insisted on coming—on being the one to put an end to the brutal nature of this side of Illyria.

There had been an opening, and you would not take no for an answer. 

So Azriel watched as you fell. He watched as you corrected your balance and tried to find your footing on uneven ground, something he was still helping you with now that your wings were gone. He watched your shirt collar hang wrong as your wide eyes met his, the new wardrobe you had had to adopt still unnatural. He watched the pain on your face as you went. 

“Enough!” Azriel roared. “Stop! Release me and you will be spared.”

The Illyrians at his back only cackled and forced him back as the last inch of your body was lost beneath the edge of the cliff. 

Unrelenting terror found Azriel, twisting something so deep in his gut that he was sure it would never be repaired. And let it break him; there was nothing beyond you. 

He whispered your name as the sounds of rocks and trees and dirt toppled from the breakage. You didn’t scream. He tried to scream again, but he had already screamed himself hoarse and his throat was raw. 

He couldn’t reach Rhysand. 

Something stung along his arms and Azriel knew it was faebane—the same faebane that stopped you from fighting back. 

“She got what was coming to her,” one of the men sneered at Azriel’s ear. “She should have stayed away after we took her wings. Bitch couldn’t leave well enough alone, as with all women.” 

Azriel felt the rage building. Each breath felt like a burst, a stone on top of the pool of panic that sweltered in his stomach. He kept his gaze on the cliff as if you would somehow reappear there, just as you had done when they were children.

But you had had wings then, and you only ever messed around like that when Azriel was struggling. 

Always trying to make him smile, always trying to make things better. 

“Where’s your high lord now, huh, Shadowsinger? Where are his policies? The ones that’re supposed to keep women like that safe? Seems like without them, maybe she would have lived. One of his own. Dead. Because of him.” 

Dead. 

Azriel didn’t think you were dead. 

You weren’t dead, right? 

He couldn’t imagine that world. 

When your wings were taken, he feared that outcome for you several times. You had been so closed off and fearful, so empty without that piece of you. It had taken weeks to get you to speak and even longer to get you out of bed. 

All of that work, all of that healing—you couldn’t be dead. You were part of his life. You were part of him. 

“Take your hands off of me.” Azriel spoke with such an icy hatred the shadows beneath him quivered. 

The men laughed. 

Weak men always laughed. 

Azriel did not have access to the power that rolled beneath the azure glow of his siphons, but he didn’t need it. You were hurt, again, and he couldn’t reach you like this. Somewhere, somehow, Azriel realized that there was nothing more important than you. You with wings, you without them—that meant nothing. To you, it meant everything, and that was the entire reason you had come here. For revenge, for peace—Azriel would get that for you. 

And he would save you again. 

He had to. 

He had to. 

Azriel shot his head back, his crown meeting the nose of one of the attackers. Rhysand had said to save one for questioning, but Azriel wasn’t thinking about questions. Azriel wasn’t thinking about anything, his mind buzzing with hazy rage that watched you fall over and over and over again.

He brought his hands up when surprise rendered the Illryrians weak, smashing into the side of one of their heads. Azriel couldn’t remember the rest, but when the shackles fell from his arms, his chest heaving and blood staining his fingers, his shadows moved first. They collected and hurled themselves over the side of the cliff only seconds before Azriel followed. 

That had to mean something, Azriel thought. 

It had to mean something.

[spurbleu]

scapegoat / tucked tail - john price

nsfw. ao3. ~4k

s. the old bruise in his eyes is gone. in its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. “doesn’t feel good, f'your space to be invaded,” his cigar breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

or, you and your boss get stuck in an elevator.

cw. fem reader. pnv. fingering. power imbalance/inappropriate work dynamics.

for @tobeholyistobeempty <3 thanks for letting me rant about him, love being abhorrent with you.

The world feels odd today.

Tectonic shift. An onslaught of rubble plateaus at your feet as you stand in the elevator. You taste the disquiet in your coffee and try to find its source in the tile grout. This anxiety is an old knife, sweating against a whetstone and the back of your neck.

Your mind searches for a scapegoat- forgotten papers, an unlocked door, perhaps the stove top was left on. But you come up empty-handed and are left to swim in these troubling waters alone and wondering.

The elevator bell brings you back to the morning. Opening doors reveal grey carpet and China blue walls. Clouds with silver linings that shade over the windows. Ceiling lamps. The familiarity should bring you comfort, but the knife is still at your throat as you walk to the main office.

Rounding the corner, it cuts.

The blue in Mr. Price’s eyes is bruised and the pupils have shrunk into capsizing ships. Purple grows beneath his lashes like swollen grapes, where his crows’ feet pick at sunspots. Exhaustion has seized the bridge you spent a year building between the two of you- made from iron, coffee runs and polite banter.

It’s seemingly been burned sometime between the elevator and his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Price.” You say. He stares.

Time takes a drag of its cigar and puts it out on your back while you wait for his reply.

“Morning.”

The answer to your unknown anxiety stamps itself to the slam of his door.

8 AM

He’s not in the office for your first delivery.

His absence is disturbing- abnormal. Even when he isn’t there he lingers- a man who frequently shadows the space and people around him. A wall of force.

You find that his room is similar. Swallows you, despite its minimalism. Mahogany flays the skin under your nose as you survey the small space.

Barren walls aside from a few framed accolades. Tobacco torn carpet. And a desk in the center of the room, framed by a small bookshelf and a single leather chair. Whiskey, neat.

“Excuse me.”

You flinch and spin around. Mr. Price has his hand on the door handle, paused as he glowers at you from the threshold. You smile, but it only seems to wrinkle what little patience he had left.

“Paperwork,” you clear your throat, nerves sparking down your spine “I…have some paperwork. ‘Was leaving it on your desk. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He takes a long stride to the corner of his desk, hands folded behind his back. Sits in his leather chair with a huff and then holds his hand out expectantly. It takes you a second to understand, before you slowly lower the papers into his palm.

Usually, this is where he thanks you. Says he likes your hair “done like that”. Compliments the color of your shirt. It’s an arguably meaningless moment.

But not to you.

The way his voice purrs over your name, a small sentiment that brightens the dirtier, drawling parts of your day. John Price hand feeds you your own importance, and you hardly understand what you did to earn it.

But you don’t have to- the moment beckons content sleep anyway. Because someone- he- believes you did something good.

He says nothing to you today.

10:30 AM

Your knock on his door is timid at best.

“Come in.”

You poke your head through the crack. “I made some coffee…” He waits for you to make this worth his time, and both of you are skeptical that you’ll be able to, “I have an extra cup- black, how you like it. You seem tired today so I-“

“Just…leave it by the door.”

Your eyebrows draw. “…On the floor?”

He looks up at you from over his glasses. “Is there anything else to set it on?”

You look around to give your throat the opportunity to unclose. “No, sir.”

He looks back down. “Then yes. On the floor.”

You stand under the top of the door and watch tantrums manifest themselves around his torso. Small cracks in a meticulously built machine, where enflamed sores spit steam. Alloy lighthouse that searches for labor even when there is none.

Rusts when stagnant.

He does not look at you when he speaks again. “Today would be preferable.”

You’re already walking before your mind can stop you. Foot in front of the other to reach the corner of his desk, and the journey feels twice as long when you register the way he watches you. A fridged gloss over his iris- numbs an anger that squints when you place the cup next to his pen holder.

 He lets out a long, dry, sigh.

“I told you that you could-“

“One less trip for you…” You remember yourself when his eyebrows raise, “sir.”

Your words echo. The walls corner your shoulders. The air he exhales chokes you, and everything slows until it’s just the Atlantic of his eyes and the unshakeable sense that you are drowning in them.

He opens his mouth, but you leave before the words come.

1:00 PM

The seat in the breakout room next to yours is empty. He ate lunch in his office.

When you return to your desk, his mug is on its corner.

It’s empty.

5:25 PM

He calls you into his office this time.

You close the door with your back, hands folded in front of you.

He rubs the bridge of his nose when you walk in, evidently already annoyed. Takes his glasses off with a sigh, interlacing his fingers and rests his elbows on the desk. Greek statue still, with all the imitation of their Gods to match.

“I went through the reports.”

“About the covert?”

“What else,” he grits, “would I be talking about?”

You nod dumbly and stay with your back to the door.

“Do you w-“

“It’s missing pages.”

You swallow a rock. “What?”

“I said,” he stands, straightening his spine, “if you could listen the first time,” a frequent tactic you’ve seen him use on his subordinates- “It has,” but never you, “missing. Pages.”

He’s in front of you and he brings with him a particular quiet that triggers your fight or flight. The pause before an explosion, after a gun fire, or the sound of a casket closing. All of these buries you six feet under- still alive and restlessly terrified of living at the same time as his temper.

He pushes the paper into your chest, and when he removes his hands, he takes your breath with it.

“Fix it.”

5:28 PM

You fight tears at the printer.

When you’ve triple checked that all the pages are there, you return to his office.

You slide the report under the door.

It’s dark when you let your aching bones stand to leave.

Collecting papers, fixing your desk, shouldering your bag…a routine that feels uncharged without Mr. Price to talk with you. Funny, how much you miss his presence.

It’s hardly appropriate, but you pretend that it is.

The lights are off in his office, shades drawn. You didn’t see him leaving, but after your last interaction you hadn’t really been watching. You stare at the room, desperate for it to burst into flames, rot to the floor, melt into wax and metal and dread. Do something that isn’t absurdly empty.

None of those things happen.

So, you wave your white flag. Tomorrow, it’ll be better. You’ll be better.

Your day ends where it began- at the steel doors of the elevator. It looks frosted in the evening; the fluorescent lights above you casting a sick yellow hue over the China blue walls and grey carpet. It looks as stale as you feel.

It opens, and you let out a long sigh as you step in. And for a blissful moment, the day is over.

And then a hand slams between the closing doors.

They jut open, and reveal John Price standing at full height. He does not soften like he usually does when he sees you- in fact he goes ridged. It haunts you, how guiltless he looks.

“Good evening, sir.”

Your nicety falls on deaf ears. He hums and fishes out a lighter from his pocket, sticking a cigar between canines as he steps through the doors. Lights it as they close, and the room fogs.

Within seconds, you’re swelling in the familiarity of cigar corpse. Buried under the nickel smoke that clips to the heels of his boots and stagnates above the slope of his shoulders. Vaguely expensive, like it’s a luxury to be near him and his vices.

Your nose burns, a cruel itch that nudges your sinuses and overwhelms the place behind your eyes. Suffocating as Mr. Price and his cigar smolder beside you, watching the floor numbers decline with your tolerance.

Your peripheral renders embers- fizzles at his facial hair that rests over its barrel, and the fixed position of his jaw when he takes a drag. Calm blankets his silhouette, and you can see his attitude begin to repair itself.

It halts when you cough.

You don’t dare look at him when you feel a shift beside you. “Somethin’ the matter?”

You hold your breath, and when you exhale it’s shaky. “N-no si-“

“Speak up.”

“No sir.”

You cough again.

“Not used to these yet? For how long you’ve been workin’ f’me that’s pretty damn insulting.”

You’re blinking back tears, shifting in your heels. “I- it’s just because we’re in a-“

His hand is on your jaw, yanking it to look up at him.

The old bruise in his eyes is gone. In its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. Stikes quickly enough to paralyze you in his grip, stone as he squeezes the soft out of the base of your cheeks.

“Small space? Doesn’t feel good, f’your space to be invaded,” the cigar still sits between his teeth and breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

“No sir.” You can’t tell where he ends, or the cigar begins- all you know is that you’re burning in the subsequent ash that follows them both. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes as you become horrifically aware of how much he overwhelms you. How it’s always been this way- the kindle to his fire. A match to paper.

Just took him force feeding you secondhand smoke to see it. Or, rather, taste it.

“Been doin’ this t’me all fuckin’ day. Hoverin’ like a damn heli.”

“I’m sorry-“

He squeezes until your teeth mark the inside of your cheeks. “Can’tcha tell when a man needs his g’damn peace? When he’s fed up? What about today made’ya think I needed-“

The car convulses with the intensity of thunder. Mechanical earthquake sends you forward and into his chest, and you tense at the abrupt loss of gravity. You feel his back hit the wall, and the way he grunts as you follow close behind. Instinct moves his hand to cover the curve of your head, and you inhale into his shirt.

It’s quiet for ten long seconds. In that time, you realize the elevator isn’t moving.

Mr. Price speaks first. “You alright?”

“Yes.” You breathe.

You slowly part, and the light flickers over your head. Mr. Price curses.

“Not claustrophobic, are you?” You shake your head, and he runs a hand through his hair.

“Good.” He makes his way to the operating panel and clicks the emergency open. Theres a whine from somewhere in the front of the car, but nothing budges. He shakes his head and tries to pull the doors apart.

He grunts, but the effort is futile. He doesn’t quit, though.

“Mr. Price.” No response.

“Sir-“ He tries again.

“John Price.”

He turns to you, and for the first time today you see all of it. How his hand-built dam broke, and the surrounding bridges collapsed, and somehow and for some reason, the blame is on him. The blood in the water and the festered rage clogs up his senses until all clarity dies.

How when he softens, it’s the first time he’s seeing you.

You dig your water bottle out of your bag and hold it out to him. He takes it silently, and you press the fire department button.

You slip off your heels and set them next to your bag.

The closed door turns you into a gauche- softly painted in the flickering, orange lights. Theres a halo of static around your figure- as if the curves of you had been smudged. Your face is made up of vague features- shapes that follow its structure but feel slanted. A disorienting, surreal reflection of yourself.

You want to laugh at how fitting it is.

Next to it, is an equally detached painting of Mr. Price. The color of your shirt and the cream of his collect in the middle. It’s fuzzy, and you must squint to see it, but the tether is still there. If only, in the dull steal of an elevator door.  

Price is already looking at you when you glace in his direction. You lean against the side of the elevator wall. “What happened today?”

He lets out a sigh- like he knew you were going to ask. Props himself against the other wall and crosses his arms. In your peripheral, you see how the reflections are no longer on the door.

“A mission did not go as plan.”

You look at him as if to say that cannot possibly be all, and he drops his cigar and puts it out on the tile. “We lost two of our men.”

Your heart twists. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods solemnly, and you pinch your skirt.

“…was it the one I gave you today?”

He shakes his head, and you’re relieved. “No. I found out last night.”

You pause and begin to walk towards him. “Did you sleep?”

The question crosses a boundary, like your body is now. The invisible wall all employees and their bosses have. The absence of real empathy, loyalty without attachment, and the hard rule of never involving yourself in their outside.

The places beyond the office- his home, his habits, his thoughts. The places you so desperately want to be inside.

He watches you approach him, and his shoulders slouch. You’re in front of him now, the smoke still burning at your nose, but it fizzles from below your calf and travels up and between your legs. An awareness follows it- of just how large he is too you without the aid of your heels.

When you look at him, you’re cognitive of why you asked, why you stepped forward, and why you haven’t back away.

And how dangerous that is.

“What do you think?” The question is rhetorical, but your thumb comes to trace the dark space beneath his eyes anyway.

“Not a wink.” You whisper. His breath draws and comes out ragged. His eyes watch you carefully, and despite how hunted they make you feel, your other hand holds his shoulder. When you speak again, your question is genuine.

“Can I do anything to help you, sir?”

His kiss comes to you like an epiphany.

Evens out the grass in your yard that grows awkwardly. Dissolves the spots in your vision after you look at bright lights. The puzzle piece that fell under your desk. All the trifling anomalies that coexist with your ignorance. Orphaned calamities that, until now, it felt futile to repair.

But his mouth pulls it out of you. Biting your lower lip tipping your chin so your lips mold together and you can feel his breath- the thing that keeps him alive- burrowing itself into yours.

Put simply- he was the thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.

His hands push your hips to the wall, and you inhale, lifting onto your toes and steading yourself by gripping his shoulders. He mutters something incoherent before running his tongue along your gums and you freeze.

He dips to your neck, and you stifle a moan, feeling his hands grab the back part of your thighs and pulling them forward to lift you up-

“Sir- wait-”

He looks at you- almost as angry as he had been about the missing report pages.

“For once,” his right hand comes back up to hold your chin, “let me do what I need to do.”

He doesn’t let an argument form before he slams his lips on yours again- this time it’s violent. Holding your face still so he can shove his tongue down your throat. Your mouth is his ashtray, swallowing his depravity, his rot, the injuries that kept him festering in a locked office. You widen your mouth to fit all of it, so when he groans your name, you swallow that, too.

His left hand relinquishes his grip on your thigh and slips it under your skirt. When you try to pull away, his other hand is there, holding your face still until he runs his index and middle over the wet patch on your underwear.

He smiles against your mouth. “Been wantin’ this, huh darl’?”

You gasp when his thumb presses against your clit through the cloth- “P-Pri-“

His hand falls away and you whine. Tuts, looking you in the eye. “Sir, sweet’eart. Say it.”

“Sir.” You breathe, rolling your hips forward to find fleeting relief against his limp fingers.

“Tha’s a girl.” Kisses behind your ears, before slipping his fingers past the lace to wander between your folds. You sigh, gipping his shoulders for balance, rocking your hips. His thumb returns to its small ministrations against your clit, and a curious finger slips into the sleeve of your cunt.

You groan. “S…sir the f-fire depart-“

He hushes you with a second finger. You yelp, and he takes your surprise as an opportunity to knock your planted foot out to let him stand between them. Shoves his fingers deeper, and you bend forward, moaning as you try your best to see straight.

“Tight lil thing, isn’t she,” his pumps become purposely cruel, and you’re resting your head against his shoulder, mouth agape with drool pooling on the white of his shirt, “have’ta warm her up, hm?”

You don’t know why you find yourself nodding. You’re long past an appropriate work relationship. Employee contracts don’t include riding your superior’s fingers in a stranded elevator.

But it’s been in the fine print, hasn’t it? In the lingering hands, careful eyes, the way you watched his mouth when he talked, and he let you. Even today, you weren’t upset with what he’d said and done on principle, but because it was done to you. It tore down the selfish, callow notion that you were removed from his cruelty- that you had and always would be an exception.

You think in some twisted way; this is him proving you right. The apology you’ll never hear said aloud.

He’s always been a man of action, anyway.

He adds a third, and you’re choking back a sob, shivering like you aren’t burning. Searing where he touches you, while the rest of him crowds everywhere else. Entirely aware that he’s stretching the sensitive tendons of your body and the bones that hold you together so he can watch himself put you back together. Molding you, for him.

Like you haven’t done so already.

“C’mon now, ‘can feel you getting close, sweet’eart,” he purrs in your ear, “give it to me.”

And he’s right. It’s building, the slow and pulsing anticipation your body cannot save itself from- pinpricks of lightning before the thunder. Shuddering breaths as you become desperate- echoed in the curls of your fingers and toes and the mantra you repeat against his neck,

“Please, please, please, ple,”

Your orgasm (you think for the moments that everything whites out) makes you a witch. Burns you at the stake, flays you alive, the mob of your own consciousness jeering from somewhere and nowhere. The limbo where the thunder finally rolls in, but too quickly disappears when he removes his soiled fingers.

“Stay with me,” the tap on your cheek pulls you back to the crammed elevator and the arms that hold you still, “open.”

You do, unlatching chattering teeth and flattening your tongue until his fingers are bed there. He doesn’t move his eyes from you.

“Ain’t that a sight…”

You close your lips and taste the beginning of the end. The torn tapestry yarn of your professionalism, your impulses, your desires. Congregated on the digits that have signed your reports, touched the small of your back, and have now been deep inside your cunt.

He grunts and pulls his hand away with a quiet pop, and steps back to put his hands on his belt.

Your mind is only now beginning to catch up with reality. “Pr-Sir I don’t…“

He draws his cock from the waistband of his pants, and you’re quiet. It holds all the same weight he does, and the hair. Thick swirls that brush over heavy flesh, where it blossoms in an angry red at the tip. You swallow thickly, back pressed to the wall and cunt aching for something your mind isn’t ready for.

“I’m not-“

“You’re prepped enough, darl’,” he steps forwards, running his tip between your folds you wince, “Be a good girl for me, hm? ‘S gonna feel,” he groans when he pushes in further, knocking your lungs up to your throat, “Christ…good.”

He wraps his palms on the underbelly of your thighs and lifts, pressing you against the wall of the elevator. You breathe in the infant relief, before he bottoms out.

You sob, gripping onto his dress shirt as your walls stretch. It’s all lost to the current of his own curses and ragged breaths into your neck. “Fuck, still tight huh?”

You try to reply but it’s lost to the waves that cascade under your ribs with every thrust you’re forced to take. Only able to focus on how full you are, the rest of your body hollowed out in comparison. Light, feverish shivers unfurl up the base of your spine, and you wrap your legs around his hips. He doesn’t mind your silence.

He starts with slow thrusts, letting you bounce on his cock in a rhythm that makes you squirm. When you put up a fight, he grabs your hips and pulls them against his, and you lean your head against the wall at the new depth that should be impossible.

His hand finds your clit and you’re quick to fold back into his shoulder, letting out another ugly moan.

“Tha’s it, knew you needed this,” his hips snap against your ass and your grip beneath his shoulder blades, “I see how you look at me,” grabs your face and tips his head to look down at you, “like you are right now.”

You sigh when he plunges deeper. “Y-you wha…wanted it too..?”

He adjusts your hips and answers with a hard jerk of his own. “’Course I did. Knew you’d be…hah..” leans his head into your neck, where he bites and you gasp, “made f’me.”

You’re flooded with a strange sense of ease.

Nothing about this is normal, but it’s warranted. Signing yourself to him with leather sticking to the underside of your thighs, shaking his hand and feeling a life richer than your own hold you with gentleness. How he’d look at you in the first week mornings and smile, so you adjusted comfortably. How he still did months into the job.

You recall an evening when he walked you to your car. You asked him when he’d be going home. He responded, “late,” and you had said “not too much later, yeah?” He had looked at you like you’d be the one waiting at home for him.

Then said, “For you, I won’t.”

You’ve been wanting it since then.

The collision shatters glass and other fragile things you’re made of. Lifted by his arms so you cannot collect yourself as he spears into you, until you are unsure where you begin, and he ends.

Didn’t hear yourself begin to speak, but you catch the butt-end of your incoherency when he steps forward and puts your back flat against the wall. “-ir so good…uh..hah good please, gonna- gonna cum’ah.”

He doesn’t relent, chasing your orgasm like he’s starving. “I know, I know sweet’eart, doin’ so well…” cages you between his elbows, “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You cling to his back like a lifeline. Drowning in him again, but now it’s beyond his eyes. Its his chest, his arms, his cock and every other part of him that makes you desperate enough to fuck him in an elevator.

Equally terrified and thrilled by his reciprocation. A follower returning to their alter, where their food has been eaten and wine swallowed and you simultaneously realize your god is real, and he knows you.

That he’ll eat you too, given the chance.

Your second orgasm is a cigar. Burns fast once lit and lingers until the smoke finds your lungs and the clenches your walls. Where the tobacco is you, your boss, this elevator, and the sprout that grew until its nicotine leaves bridged them together.  

Where Price can fit his mouth back over yours and groan, spilling himself into you and bucking until his spend kisses your cervix, and you see stars.

The come down is slow. He doesn’t move for awhile and you are grateful- entirely sure that the moment he steps away you’ll collapse to the floor. Feeling his chest inhale against your own, and kisses you like he didn’t just fuck you raw against granite that you will never look at the same again.

He peels himself from you at a snail’s pace, and when he pulls out, takes a finger and pushes his spend back into your swollen cunt. When you shift, his places a burly hand above your pelvis and holds you against the wall. Rises, and swipes the hair out of you face.

“Still with me?”

You can only nod against the hills of his palm. He smiles for the first time that day.

“Let’s get cleaned up before the firemen get us out.”

Tomorrow, Price will smile the whole day. He will get you a coffee from the break room, and you will ask how he knows the amount of cream and sugar you like. He will remind you he’s an observer. He’ll notice you did your hair differently. He will say he likes it.

At 5, he will call you into his office again. But this time, it’s not about missing pages of a report, but the missing undergarment from under your skirt.

He’ll then ask you to lift it, so he can properly see how soaking wet your cunt is.

[aegonstradwife]

conception | aegon targaryen x reader

summary: anonymous requested; you and aegon have 4 daughters. while aegon is in a meeting they discuss the fact that the king doesn’t yet have a male heir. otto suggests aegon taking a second wife to have a chance at producing an heir. it pisses aegon off that otto would even suggest that.

warnings: talk of general misogyny, established relationship, smut. (riding, creampie.)

a. note: link to the original request.

It's a warm day, perfect for taking the girls out to play in the courtyard. They are glad to be free of their daily lessons, and you of your queenly duties.

One day away from such responsibilities couldn't hurt, and the sun shining down on your grouping had you in higher spirits than you had been for months.

Until you spied your husband stalking his way through the corridor toward you.

Initially, you lit up as you saw Aegon, as did your daughters upon seeing their father; he is so often away from them in council meetings or tending to other kingly duties.

For Aegon, seeing his wife and daughters makes him happier than he's been all day. It's a rare sight, seeing him smile so warmly, especially these days. But sadly, it doesn't last long.

The girls may not notice, as Aegon scoops the youngest into his arms, but you sure as hells do.

That menacing look, the red rimming his eyes. Telltale signs that Aegon isn't feeling his best, which unfortunately have been more prevalent of late.

"Aegon?" You lay a hand on your husband's arm, squeezing. "What's the matter, love?"

His violet eyes lay upon your hand squeezing his arm, and he tries to keep his terrible mood in check, so as not to take it out on you or the children. "There's nothing wrong, my dear."

But he refuses to meet your gaze as he presses a kiss to your daughter's forehead.

"Nothing?" You raise your brows, studying him. Something is wrong. Perhaps something you'd better not discuss around the girls....

"Ladies, why don't we break for lunch?" You announce, herding your daughters to one of the maids nearby.

With one last kiss to her chubby cheek, Aegon sets the youngest down and allows her to waddle off with the rest to the kitchens.

"Talk to me, my love." Once alone, you run your hands up Aegon's arms to his shoulders, kneading. "What happened? I thought you were meant to be at council all day...."

The king grumbles, frustrated to be questioned by you, but at the same time relishing the feeling of your talented hands kneading the tension out of his shoulders. Of which there is a lot.

His gaze meets yours, and there's a hint of annoyance in it, though whether at you or other matters, you can't initially tell.

".... Otto has brought a most pressing matter to the council today."

The breath he takes next is measured, trying to keep his composure, though he finds doing so much easier in your presence.

"What?" You frown, any number of terrible things flashing through your mind. All of them ending with the palace in rubble, your family ruined as Rhaenyra takes the throne. "Is it her? What awful thing has she done now?"

You dig your fingers ferociously into Aegon's shoulders.

A small pained noise escapes him, though he tries not to wince as he places his hands over yours to loosen your grip.

"It's not Rhaenyra." He continues to stare at you, his eyes full of an exhaustion you wish you could wipe away. "It's Otto."

You smooth your fingers apologetically over his shoulders, soothing the hurt. "So you said. What did he say?"

Aegon closes his eyes, that furrow between his brows relaxing for just a moment, as your fingers stroke him, before returning. He pauses, unsure how you're going to take the words that must next fall from his lips. Knowing they might hurt you. "He said we need a son, that we desperately need a son and soon...."

Your stomach falls. You knew this was coming - for years now you've only been able to produce girls. With every birth, Aegon's joy only grew, and your worry along with it.

What if you couldn't produce an heir at all? What if -

"We'll keep trying," you say resolutely. "I know I can give you a son. Just let's keep trying, please...."

"That's not all that was mentioned." It looks like it physically pains Aegon to tell you this. "The matter of a second wife was also raised, to try and help produce a male heir...."

You know husbands - especially kings - often take second wives when the first is unable to birth a son. Gods, it will about kill you if Aegon turns to that ...

At a loss for what to say, and feeling tears threatening to spill if you utter so much as a word, you cling speechlessly to Aegon, hoping for him to make it all better.

His hand is under your chin, cupping gently, forcing you to look at him. "But.... what if.... what if I don't care for a son?"

Shaken by this declaration, all thoughts of crying banished in worry, you clap a hand over your husband's mouth and glance around for any passing servants. "Do not say that, Aegon! What if someone were to hear...?"

A determined hand encircling your wrist, he pulls your fingers gently from his mouth, a grave look on his face. "And if they did? Why is it so important they think we care about a son? Why.... why couldn't one of our daughters be queen? Rhaenyra seems to think she has some claim to the throne. Why not our eldest?"

That intense stare does not waiver as he continues to peer at you.

"Aegon, please, not here..."

The cogs in your head are turning, as you grab him by the hand and pull him along into a spare room, Aegon following silently along.

It seems he, too, is thinking about what he's just said as he closes the door behind you. His expression is still earnest when he turns to face you.

You turn to face him at the same time, arms crossed. "You're saying you would name Syryn as your successor, as queen?"

"Yes," comes his simple yet fervent reply. "If Rhaenyra believes Viserys named her heir, then surely I can do the same?"

You chew thoughtfully at your cheek. "Otto will never accept it. I doubt the smallfolk would either. Isn't that why we're in this situation in the first place?"

"You think they won't accept it?" Aegon asks, cornering you and placing his hands on your shoulders. "I'll make them accept it. I'm the king, damnit. I don't want a son, I don't need a son. I have everything I need already."

The conviction with which he says it almost makes you believe it. "And.... you don't want to at least keep trying? For a son? Or even another daughter?"

Seeing your husband all worked up like this is making you feel.... things.

Aegon notices the immediate change in your expression, the way you look at him, your need for him.

"We will keep trying.... but not because I want a son."

His hands relinquish their hold on your shoulders to instead grab for your hips, gripping them firmly and pulling you flush against him. That earnest look in his eyes is now dark with desire, gaze roaming hungrily over your body.

Your hands come to sweetly cradle his jaw, humming contentedly as your body is pulled to his. "I love hearing you talk about our family this way. I love knowing you love us and will do anything to protect us, as king."

Twining a lock of his hair around your finger, you look up at him through your lashes. "I would love to give you another child, Aegon. Son or daughter."

He purrs as your fingers weave further into his hair, his hands tightening their grasp on your hips, pulling you ever - impossibly - closer.

Aegon leans down, breath hot against your ear, and breathes, "Then you'd better be prepared to keep trying.... over, and over and over again."

You can't help but grin, ecstatic at Aegon's joy over your family. You wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders and kiss him; a biting kiss, teeth clashing, tongues sliding over each other.

"We should try now," you gasp, tugging at the back of Aegon's jacket. "While the girls are at lunch and you have some time away from the council."

Aegon groans agonizingly into your mouth before he pulls away, gaze now even darker.

"Such a desperate little thing, aren't you? Wanting to take advantage of your husband while he can spare the time," he teases, pulling off his jacket and tossing it aside.

Even just those words - Aegon calling you desperate, seeing you for what you truly are - are enough to make your legs tremble.

"Oh please, Aegon. Right here, I need it here."

The room you've found yourselves in is bare, with naught more than a fireplace and a few suits of armor dotting the perimeter.

As such, you pull him back toward the wall and lean yourself against it, fingers dipping under the collar of his exposed tunic. "I need to feel you, my king."

Aegon presses you back against the wall, your back aligning with the cool stones, his body now pressed firmly against yours. His lips find your neck with a huff of hot air, kissing and nibbling, hands grabbing for every bit of you they can reach.

"You're always so needy, so desperate," he mutters. "I'll give you what you need, my wife. I'll give you everything you desire."

As his hands work their way over you, yours do the same over him. His body has the perfect amount of cushion to it - being held against him is the most comfortable feeling in the world.

"Aegon...." You whisper, lifting a leg to wrap it high around his waist. "Give me another child. Please."

A deep growl escapes him at the wrap of your leg around him and he presses forward, wanting to make sure you can feel every searing inch of him against you.

"You want another child, do you?" His lips blaze a scorching path to the collar of your dress, which he tugs out of the way with his teeth. "You want me to fill you up and give you what you need?"

In a hurry to have him inside of you, you gather your skirts and pull them up with a quick nod. "Let's not waste too much time. Someone will be looking for one of us sooner or later."

He whines as your gown is hiked up, revealing the smooth, creamy skin of your legs and the heat between them. He runs his hands over those legs, leaving burning trails in their wake.

"So impatient," he murmurs, "but I have to agree with you."

He hunches down, positioning himself properly between your legs, and curls his hands around the backs of your thighs. "Wrap your legs around my waist, love, and hold on tight."

With your back still anchored against the wall, you wrap your legs tightly around your husband's hips and allow him to lift you from the ground. Your hands are still moving all over him, eventually skimming down to his trousers, which you start to undo the buckle of.

Aegon grunts his approval, allowing you to unbuckle his breeches. His gaze never leaves yours, though, as his breaths grow shallow.

"Gods, you're going to be the death of me one day," he sighs, hands squeezing at your thighs. "You always know how to drive me absolutely wild."

At this angle, it's hard to get your hand all the way inside the opening of Aegon's pants. But you do manage to circle your fingers haphazardly around your husband's half-hard cock and give him a few solid pumps to bring him to full hardness.

"And the way to drive you wild is to ask you to fill me full of your babies, isn't it, Aegon?"

His breath hitches at the feeling of your hand around him, a frustrated groan falling from his lips. His entire body quivers with desire as he leans in. "You know me too well. The thought of filling you with my seed, of giving you more children.... it's enough to drive any man wild."

"Any man?" You 'tsk.' "Doesn't the thought of just 'any' man getting me pregnant make you jealous, my king?"

With your legs already around his hips, it's hard to get the waist of his trousers low enough to allow his erection to pop out and Aegon has to help you, shoving the constricting material down so that the head of his cock can nudge at your folds. "I'm wet for you.... can you feel it?"

Though he doesn't say it aloud, he feels a sharp pang of jealousy at your words, a possessive need surging through him. He growls, hands gripping your thighs even tighter, eyes practically blazing with desire.

"Don't play with me. I know you're teasing, but it's enough to make me lose control." He leans in even closer, breath blistering against your skin. "Put me inside, my love. Let me feel you."

Arching your back away from the wall, you position yourself so that Aegon's cockhead is pressing insistently at your opening. "…. should I make you beg to fill me up?"

That simple question sets his body quivering with yearning for you. His fingers dig into your skin as he tries to hold on to his composure, but failing all the while.

"Please…." He groans, his voice low and hoarse. "Please, my love, let me fill you up. I need it, I need you."

"Good boy," you sigh, and after a quick peck of a kiss to his nose, you begin to relax the muscles in your back, allowing your wet cunt to slide down on Aegon's cock, welcoming him inside of you.

Aegon's eyes roll back in overwhelming pleasure at the feeling of your warm, wet heat around him. With a sharp inhale, he redoubles his hold on your thighs, pulling you down onto him as he begins to move with you, matching your rhythm perfectly. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room, mingling with your moan and Aegon's desperate grunts. Aegon's face finds your neck again as he continues to drag you down onto him with abandon, deeper and harder with each thrust.

"You feel so good, my love." His voice is tremulous, hands beginning to shake where they hold you up. "I'm not going to stop until I get you pregnant again."

And it all feels so dirty, the hem of your gown trapped around your waist as your husband pulls you down by your hips, driving himself into you. Your hands try to grapple for purchase at the wall beside your head, but then settle for resting your wrists at Aegon's shoulders, tips of your fingers clawing and scratching at the back of his neck.

"Please, Aegon…we don't have long. Someone might come looking soon…" At this point, you don't even care if you climax, as long as Aegon's seed finds its home deep inside of you.

In response, Aegon nods, hips now moving even faster as he feels your nails digging into his neck. He can feel his own release building, evidenced by the way his chest heaves and his face has gone pink all over. The need to give you what you want is overwhelming for him.

"D-Don't worry, my love," he gasps. "I won't last long like this."

And with that, he gives one final, powerful thrust, burying himself deep as he empties himself inside of you, shouting your name like a war cry.

There are few things in this world you enjoy more than the feeling of Aegon's warm seed splashing inside of you. You hum, eyes rolling back, as the king spends himself inside you.

He pulls you close, holding you tight against his chest. "I love you," he gasps, with a kiss to your temple. "And I love our daughters. Fuck a male heir. Syryn will be queen."

Capturing his lips in another kiss, you run your hands gladly up and down his chest. "Syryn will make a great queen. She already bosses the other girls around like it's her job."

Aegon chuckles, pulling back to look down at you with a gleam in his eye. "I think she takes after her mother in that regard."

[yandereforme]

Yandere Batfam x Reborn! Neglected! Reader

Day 0: Life 1

TW: grooming, death (not in great detail but characters die), angst

Your first life had become a shitshow that was kicked off by a car crash. The car crash killed your mother and injured you. However, it also lead to a mess when your father was asked to donate blood.

You see, your parents had a drunk threesome with Bruce Wayne, and turned out you were bruises biological child. This led to being shipped off to live with him.

You try not to think about how your father, the man who raised you, didn’t fight for custody. You try not to think about how he didn’t even speak to you after the funeral and how no matter how many times you called, he never picked up.

Bruce didn’t raise you. You were 13 when your mother died and you knew from the beginning that he did not want you around. He mostly had his butler Alfred look after you, even picking you up from the airport when you first arrived. Your impression of him was that he was closed off with everyone.(that was only partially true. He was closed off, but he was a lot more open with the people he considered his kids.)

None of your siblings tried or even thought about having a relationship with you. You tried reaching out, desperate in your grief for some sort of connection, but they weren’t there. They were like ghosts watching you, drown in a sea of loneliness and grief.

You didn’t chase after them. Your mother had taught you better than to beg for love.

You search for validation in school, but you would never be the popular type. Besides, moving to Gotham, had put you at a disadvantage as you were surrounded by children who had grown up together, most of which were rich kids raised rich. You felt utterly alone, and it was very hard, not to sink into the depression that you could feel at the back of your mind. The only kindness came from your math, teacher, Mr. Jamison, who would let you sit in his classroom during lunch and was always willing to listen to you.

It wasn’t until years later that you’d understand he was grooming you. He never got far, since he died in a scarecrow attack two years after you arrived, but as you got older, you recognized how odd it was for a teacher to be that touchy or How weird it was for a teacher to offer for student to stay at their house

You left home at 17 with the suitcase that you had had at 13 when you arrived and a positive pregnancy test that you took after a one night stand. Alfred was the only one who said goodbye to you.

Out of all of the people in that house, Alfred was one of the only people you could forgive. He tried at least. You recognized that.

After you moved, you got into magic, which eventually led to your patron, a goddess whose name was lost to time who had been trapped for centuries in a statue, you found at an old Wayne property that hadn’t been visited in decades. Your patron taught you to harvest the magic that was already in you, giving you a feeling of being alive that you’ve never truly experienced before.

You had two beautiful months with your twins and your patron. Two months of bliss and happiness and feeling truly loved for the first time in a long time.

Two months of true joy until the day your son was killed during a battle between the justice league and a sorcerer

Your patron had taught you about magic and how your type of magic could call on other pees and tell your emotions amplified your magic. You would only realize too late that the magic user had its own patron, a being of insanity and chaos that saw your grief and tried to funnel magic into you to cause problems. They didn’t realize the madness that they had given to the sorcerer would funnel into you (then again, you had never been the most stable)

You became like a supernova, destroying the world with your grief. You took over the world and coded it in blood with only your rage as a guide. Most of the world was rubble by the time you started to calm down, but the madness in your mind and in your heart never ended.

You spent almost 18 years ruling over the world in your hatred and madness. The survivors who you did not take as yours formed or rebellion that you often sent your servants to fight. You preferred to look for ways to bring back your son or to spend time making sure your daughter was safe. You wanted to shield her from all of the monsters outside. (Shield her from the monster you became)

She did know, though. She knew about the madness that consumed you and the atrocities that you had done. She saw the flickers behind your eyes, the constant fear in your gaze. She saw your pain. She never saw you as a monster, always seen you as her mother, but she knew you were not Good for the rest of the world. You were a good mother, but you were not a good person

You never realized her friendship with the rebellion. You never heard about how she would sneak down to the dungeons where your servants kept rebels. You didn’t know about her friendship with Bart Allen. Didn’t know about how she confided in him about your tragedy, even if her version of events was distorted. Your daughter never truly knew everything that happened to you. She didn’t know anything about her father. (a one night stand that had been more of an act to reclaim your power and independence than it had been about any real desire or love.) she didn’t know how her brother had died, only that it had been sudden and that the justice league had been involved (She knew your grudge against them for her brothers death. She just didn’t know that her brother had been collateral damage.)

Your daughter died during one of the only fights against the rebellion that you ever joined in. She died from a ricocheted bullet bleeding out in your arms as you tried desperately to help her. Your magic ran wild, energy swirling in the air. (Unknowingly fueling the Time Machine the rebels built to send Bart back)

You didn’t feel the tug on your magic as the machine activated, but you did feel when your madness was ripped from you, and you could finally see everything you had done with clear eyes. You screamed and grief and pain, unaware of the red haired boy with tears in his eyes watching you before he turned and ran through the portal the machine made. You were unaware of the machine, getting ready to explode, but your patron, who had become so weak after spending so long tugging at your madness, gathered the last of her magic and attached your soul to the machine.

You felt a light kiss on your forehead and a whisper of “Stay safe my priestess. Find peace and happiness in this new life.” Before the world shattered and everything went white.

You wake up abruptly, your skin against cold linoleum and itchy fabric that you remembered oh so well pressed tightly against your skin. Your eyelids fluttered open, and you see a dead man’s face looking down at you with concern.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Mr. Jamison asked, his unshaven face looking the same as when you were fourteen.

[nerdygirlramblings]

Ren wants her story told, y'all 😂 She keeps feeding me ideas.

previous

The pounding on your door wakes you. "Need to get scran 'fore the mess closes!" Johnny bellows.

You disentangle yourself from the covers and roll out of bed, shaking off the remains of sleep. Captain Price had you training on the rubble last night at 2300 hours. He wanted to be sure things were dark enough. He sent you in alone or with one of the others practicing with the night vision goggles, a first for you, and following directions blind. He also had you with him, being Soap's or Ghost's or Gaz's eyes. "Never know who's gunna be where when shit goes sideways. Need to know you can follow the path even if ya can't see it. An' tha' ya can get the others ta safety."

Well not as physically demanding as the training had been, the night had been grueling nonetheless. The green glare of the night vision goggles through you off more than you expected, and despite listening well, you still ended up covered in bruises from when you accidentally walked into a wall or other debris. By the end of the night though, you were proud to say that you'd gotten a sense of distance without a visual and how it differed man to man so when Ghost told you, "Take 10 steps then turn right," you knew to account for his stride and took 15 to avoid collisions.

Giving directions was the hardest for that same reason. Your stride and your frame so much smaller than that of the men on the team that you were constantly correcting your own calculations. You knew it would take a little bit of time, but you hated the thought that you were holding them up.

"Nae worry," Johnny said when he overshot the opening you were trying to get him through. Thankfully, he knew the terrain well enough not to go galavanting off and was able to backtrack to where he needed to be.

It was on one of the stretches where you were practicing your instructions to better fit the task force that you realized how cold you were despite the jumper you wore. Sometime after half two, Gaz tapped your shoulder and held out a plain grey ASDA fleece blanket.

You'd somehow missed the small stack of them on the back seat of the golf buggy, but you recognized the ASDA tag on the blanket at the bottom and took what was in Gaz's hand gratefully. Though thin, the blanket somehow held all the warmth of home. You wrapped it around your shoulders anytime you we're in the buggy with Price, making a note to yourself about triple checking the weather before your next training and to speak to Adam about top layers in your size.

Now the blanket, along with the borrowed jersey and overly large top layers, lay piled on the top of your bed. Since he'd pulled the jersey from what you assumed was a communal footlocker, you felt you had to bring it back to the barracks once clean. From how Price talked about them, you don't think the top layers need to be returned. The blanket you planned to keep because it was so warm and so easily replaceable.

You crack open the door and see Johnny's smiling face in the hallway. He leans against the jam as you turn to get ready. He looks avidly around your room, but you don't invite him in, and he respects the sanctity of your space. "C'mon, lass, brekkie ends soon. Ye doan wan' tae miss a meal when we'll be trainin' 'gain later."

You refrain from groaning but had hoped Price was only kidding when he said you'd be back out at the training facilities again in the afternoon. Instead you ask, "Do I have time to get cleaned up?"

He makes a big show of looking at the time on his phone. "Aye, Ah guess." You grab clean clothes and hoist your shower tote as he says, "Meet us in the mess in 10, yeah?" He heads off towards the mess as you dart into the bathroom.

As you quickly clean up, Soap heads to the mess to grab a tray of food for you in case the mess lines close before you get there. He quickly piles two plates full. He's watched you at meals and knows how much you gravitate to fruits and vegetables, so he dumps a double portion on your plate. He adds a bowl of yogurt and granola so you have protein for the day. His plate is covered with rashers and eggs.

He finds the team and puts both plates down. At Price's raised eyebrow, Johnny comments, "Ren was still sleepin' when Ah went tae find 'er. Told 'er to be here in ten. Ah think trainin' is wearin' 'er down."

Price hums. "Maybe we can find a way for a break soon."

Ghost hasn't taken his eyes off Soap since the Scot sat down. "What else, mutt?" He leveles a glare at the man. "Ya look like yer schemin'."

Soap smiles wide at his pack, leaning over the table to draw the others close. What he has to share isn't for others to hear. "All yoor things are on 'er bed." He pauses, long and pointed, before delivering the news he is giddiest to share. "Almost looks like she's makin' a nest."

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝙀𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙔𝙤𝙪 - Pt. 4

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

【Ａ/Ｎ】⦂ I’m warning y’all now… you’re gonna need a box of tissues 😭

【ＰＡＩＲＩＮＧ】⦂ (Unspecified) Variant!Mark Grayson x Reader

【ＷＡＲＮＩＮＧＳ】⦂ Stalking (kind of)

【ＩＮＳＰＩＲＡＴＩＯＮ】⦂ None

→【Ｐａｒｔ　Ｔｈｒｅｅ】←

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The weight of the past few days had not lifted, not even when the workers – who were really slaves – began the daunting task of rebuilding the town. The ruins of what was once your home stood as a constant jagged reminder of everything that had been lost. The streets were still cracked and lifeless, but now there was a subtle sound of movement—men and women, unwilling but resigned, hauling stones and debris, trying to piece together what was left of the once-vibrant town.

Mark had been persistent, trying to convince you to return with him to the mansion. "It’s safe there," he had said, his voice soft but firm. "You’ll be comfortable. You won’t have to worry about anything." But you couldn’t bring yourself to step foot in that place again. As gut-wrenching as it was to see your hometown in its current state, the dystopian and unsettling feeling you got from his mansion was more than you could bare.

“I can’t go back there,” you said, shaking your head as you stood in the barely standing doorway of your home. “Those women?” You stared at him incredulously, and the weight of your eyes caused Mark to look away. “Everything about that place is just wrong.”

His expression faltered for a moment, frustration flickering in his eyes. “I’m trying to make this right. You don’t have to be alone here. You don’t have to struggle.”

“I’m not going back to that place,” you repeated, your voice strong with defiance and conviction. “I’d rather be here—” you gestured to the decaying remnants of your home, the broken walls and scattered furniture a silent testament to the life that was once yours. “Than live in that twisted, delusional version of reality you call home.”

Mark tried to argue, but you became more adamant and angry in your refusal.  Seeing you this way was like having a vice clamped around his heart, and finally he relented. He didn’t like it—he made that very clear—but he didn’t push further. You weren’t sure if it was out of respect or because he didn’t know how to force you without risking something else he wasn’t ready to lose.

Now, night had fallen, and you sat on what remained of your old couch, your head in your hands. The workers were gone for the day, and the silence that had once comforted you now felt suffocating. You knew Mark was still watching you. You could feel it. His presence was always nearby, lurking just beyond your vision, even though he pretended to give you space.

You didn’t want his protection. You didn’t want to need him.

The sounds of footsteps outside the ruined walls caught your attention. You stiffened, your eyes snapping to the window. For a moment, you thought Mark had come to check on you again. But no one appeared. You frowned, swallowing the anxiety building in your throat. The feeling of being watched—it was almost unbearable.

As the night deepened, the cold began to settle in. The house was abandoned, forgotten, and the air carried a chill that had once been absent. You stood, pulling on the jacket Mark had given you days ago—one that smelled faintly of him—and walked to what remained of your bedroom. The bed was gone, replaced by a pile of rubble, but the space still felt familiar. The walls were cracked, and the floor was uneven, but it was your place. It felt like the only thing left of the life you’d known.

You sat down on the floor, your back against the wall, and pulled your knees to your chest, the dim light from the broken windows casting long shadows across the room.

The silence stretched on.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe, but the weight of everything kept pushing down. You should’ve been able to sleep—should’ve been able to find some kind of peace, even just for a moment—but your mind wouldn’t stop racing. The memory of your world before, the destruction Mark’s universe had wrought, the guilt in his eyes when he promised to fix it—it all blended together into a swirling storm of confusion and sorrow.

Suddenly, a faint noise from outside reached your ears. You looked up sharply, your pulse quickening. Your eyes narrowed as you scanned the broken window for any sign of movement. There—just beyond the shattered glass—Mark stood, leaning against a tree in the distance, his silhouette barely visible in the fading light.

You knew he was there. You’d always known. But it didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself and closed your eyes again, trying to focus on the emptiness around you. You had to do this alone. You had to try to hold onto the fragments of who you were. You couldn’t let him keep hovering, couldn’t let him keep forcing you into his reality.

But the longer you sat there, the more you could feel his presence like a shadow, looming just beyond your reach.

Mark’s POV:

Mark stood in the distance, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched you, just as he had every night since you’d arrived in his universe. It had been difficult to let you stay here, in this decaying shell of a home, surrounded by memories of what had once been. He couldn’t understand why you insisted on staying. It was dangerous here—this universe was volatile, unstable—and you didn’t seem to grasp the danger that was around every corner.

But still, he respected your decision. You had lost everything. Your town, your life, your very world… and yet, you refused to come home with him. You had been clear about it. You needed space. You needed time.

He couldn’t give you everything you wanted, but he could give you that.

Mark’s mind was a constant churn of contradictions. On the one hand, he wanted desperately to be with you, to pull you into the warmth of his arms, away from the cold of this broken town. But on the other hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing you every time he allowed you to pull away.

You thought you were free, but the truth was, you were trapped there, just like he was. In this world, there was no going back. And the more he watched you, the more he realized that was the way he needed it to be. It wasn’t just the portal that was closed. It was everything that had happened since you’d arrived. He couldn’t let you go.

As he stood there, his thoughts swirling like a storm, he knew one thing for certain: No matter how much you fought him, no matter how much you pushed him away, he couldn’t let you out of his sight. Not in this world. Not when he had already lost you before.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

The night was cold, but Mark didn’t move. He stood there, watching, waiting, knowing that you wouldn’t admit it, but deep down, you were afraid. You might not admit it now, but you’d come to rely on him. You’d come to understand that he was all that was left of your world.

And despite everything that had happened—despite the dystopian nightmare that his universe had become—Mark would never stop trying to give you something worth holding onto.

Half a Year Later - Readers POV:

The sun shone brightly through the large front windows of the café, casting a warm, golden hue over the polished wooden tables and counters. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, a comforting, familiar scent that had always signified the beginning of a day of routine—of normalcy.

You stood behind the counter, expertly pulling espresso shots and arranging pastries on display, as if nothing had changed. And, in a way, nothing had. Sure, the world outside the windows still held remnants of destruction—ruined buildings and cracked streets—but the café was your sanctuary, a small corner of the world that felt like home, even in this twisted alternate universe.

Your hands worked mechanically, preparing drinks for the workers who had poured in every day since Mark had gathered them to rebuild. They were mostly familiar faces—people you had known before, people who had somehow survived the end of the world. They had adapted, just as you had, finding ways to keep moving forward. Despite the strange air of tension that still lingered, there were moments of peace, small pockets of connection you’d found through these interactions.

You passed a cup of coffee to one of the workers who had once frequented the café back in your original universe. He gave you a warm, grateful smile, one that felt strangely reassuring. You exchanged a few words about how the rebuilding was going, and then he moved on to join the others, carrying his coffee like a small victory in the midst of the chaos.

You couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope as you observed the bustling atmosphere. There was a sense of life here, a sense of community that you hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity. People were making an effort to restore what had been lost. And that, you thought, was something worth holding onto.

Still, deep down, you couldn’t shake the persistent gnawing feeling of heartache. The world Mark had brought you to, the reality you now found yourself trapped in—it was wrong. You knew that. You would never stop knowing that.

But it didn’t consume you anymore.

For the first time in months, you felt like you could breathe again, even if it was just for a moment. Your world had been shattered, but in this café, you could pretend, for a few hours each day, that things hadn’t changed so drastically. You could laugh with the people who had become your friends, share in small, simple joys, and almost forget about the twisted version of Mark that lingered in the background of your thoughts.

Meanwhile, at the Mansion:

Mark sat alone in a dimly lit study at the mansion, his fingers absently tracing the edge of a glass on the table. The room was eerily quiet, the weight of solitude pressing in on him. His mind wandered, as it so often did, to the past—back to a time when things had been simpler. When he was... himself.

He closed his eyes, and the memory hit him like a flood.

It was a warm, golden afternoon. The two of you had been laughing so hard you could barely breathe. You were at a park, sitting on a patch of grass that felt like it was straight out of a dream. You were playfully teasing him about his latest mission, and he’d been trying—unsuccessfully—not to crack under the weight of your teasing.

“You really think I’d forget how to fly?” he’d said, pretending to be offended, but the grin on his face gave him away. He hadn’t been able to hold back his laughter.

“No,” you had replied, your eyes sparkling with mischief, “but you’d probably get distracted by a really cute puppy along the way.”

He laughed harder at that, wiping tears from his eyes.

You reached over, brushing his hair back from his forehead with a tenderness that he hadn’t known he needed, but now would give anything to feel again. Then, as if without thinking, you leaned in to kiss him—a soft, gentle press of your lips against his, lingering just long enough to make his heart skip a beat. When you pulled away, your faces were still inches apart, and there was that familiar warmth in your gaze—the kind that made him feel like nothing else mattered but the two of you in that moment.

“I love you,” he had whispered, his voice filled with sincerity.

You smiled, your eyes softening, and whispered it back. “I love you, too.”

The memory burned so fiercely now that it took his breath away.

Mark’s chest tightened as the flood of memories washed over him. He could still feel your touch on his skin, the gentle, playful way you’d run your fingers through his hair. He could still hear your laugh—the way it echoed in his ears, filling him with a joy he had never known before, and feared he would never feel again. The moments had been so fleeting, so innocent, yet they were so deeply etched in his mind now.

He clenched his jaw, trying to hold the tears back, but the ache in his chest was unbearable. His heart wrenched with grief, the weight of all the loss crashing down on him. You were gone. And he’d failed to protect you. Failed to protect that love.

Mark ran a hand over his face, feeling the sting of tears threaten to escape. His vision blurred, and for a moment, it felt like the walls of the mansion closed in around him, suffocating him with the weight of his regrets. The luxury, the control, the power—none of it mattered. None of it could bring that moment back.

He had wanted to be the hero. He had wanted to save you, to make things right. But now, in the depths of the silence, all he could hear was the echo of your laugh, the whisper of your voice in his ear, and the painful realization that nothing—nothing—could undo the damage he had done.

Mark’s breath hitched, the tears finally slipping down his cheeks. He wiped them away quickly, angry at himself for breaking, for feeling weak, but the ache was too strong. In that moment, all he wanted was to go back. Back to the world where you were still there. Where things hadn’t fallen apart. Where the love between you hadn’t been tainted by the darkness he had embraced.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the empty room, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, [Name].”

But the only answer was the soft, haunting memory of the life he had lost.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

→【Ｐａｒｔ　Ｆｉｖｅ】←

☆rivalriotrenegade☆

I know this one was shorter than the last two, just like the first one was pretty short - sorry for the inconsistency in length! I'm just trying to keep each part centered around a specific theme. I wonder if the next part will be a turning point for old Marky Mark and Reader... :')

[ameliathornromance]

Your Orc’s vision is blurry as he comes to below the rubble. He’s paralysed, can’t rotate his head to look around and see what’s going on.

But he can smell it. Iron and smoke mix to mark the scent of death and calamity. His eyes adjust as his eyes dart around frantically.

Black clouds plume above him, a fire crackling in the corner of his eye, its heat warming the left side of his face. 

Screams echo around him, their owners out of sight. The whinny of horses follows them, your Orc’s stomach dropping as he realises what’s going on.

Monster Hunters.

Your Boyfriend tries to push himself up, search for some kind of weapon to defend his home with. Only for his body to refuse to comply, keeping him rooted to the ground.

He needs to defend his home. He needs to stand up; he needs to protect you-

His blood freezes in his veins. Where are you?

Your Orc remembers that the pair of you got into bed together. He remembers hearing you laugh as he scuttled his fingers up your waist, tickling you. 

He remembers the feeling of your soft lips pressing against his, wishing him goodnight. 

You can’t have gone far. While you were a human, you had grown close to the Orcs and their camp. You wouldn’t just abandon them when they needed you the most. Let alone just up and leave him.

An ear-piercing shriek rips through the air. Your boyfriend’s eyes dart to the source, where he sees you.

Soot and red cover your ripped nightgown. He’d never seen you run so fast in your life. Never seen you look so scared before.

He tried to shout at you, to tell you he’s over here, he’s coming to help you. But his voice remained shut away in his throat, his mouth refusing to form the words. 

Your Orc watches as you trip and fall over a tent nail and scramble into the rubble of it. A man on horseback advances on you, his cloak fluttering in the wind as he cracks a whip in the air. 

The Orc tries to shout as the whip’s end wraps tightly around your ankle. The horseman cackles as he drags you from the rubble, you shouting, screaming and kicking at the leather whip. 

Tears are streaking down your cheeks as the horse rider dismounts and walks over to you. His face twists and contorts as he yanks you to your feet and throws you over his shoulder. 

You beat your fists on his back, shrieking at him to let you go. But you stop as your lock eyes with your boyfriend. 

Rage rips through your Orc’s body, but it’s not enough to force himself up. The roar in his throat never breaches his lips.

Your tears roll down your cheeks at a faster pace now. You bury your head in your hands as the Monster Hunter throws you onto the back of the horse and clambers up onto it. 

The Monster Hunter digs his feet into the sides of the horse and charges away from the camp, you still sobbing on the back of the horse. 

And finally, your Orc speaks.

“No!”

The Orc bolts upright in his bed, chest heaving up and down. He looks around frantically at the dark interior of his tent, the smell of smoke and iron gone from the air. 

His eyes flicker to the tent’s entrance, then to his weapon propped against the bed frame.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

Your Orc whips around to face you. Worry fills your eyes as your eyebrows furrow. Your soft hands cradle the muscle of his upper arm. 

The adrenaline dies as your Orc Boyfriend looks you over. 

There’s no blood on your nightgown, no soot or dirt smudged on your cheeks. 

The Orc freezes for a moment, watching you. “How… I don’t…” A sob chokes his words. 

“You’re shaking,” your voice was so soft, so quiet compared to the screaming he’d just heard.

The Orc looks down at his hands, watching as his fingers tremble. He swallows hard as he looks back at you. 

“You’re alright.” He manages. 

You give him a sympathetic smile. “Of course I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be?” 

Without warning, the Orc pulls you into a hug. He buries his head in your neck, inhaling your scent.

You flinch at his sudden affection, but lean into him once you hear a shuddering breath escape him. Wrapping your arms around him, the Orc lets out another breath.

You’re alive and well. The camp isn’t being attacked. 

It was all a nightmare. A bad dream. 

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