#mark mardon

“Thawne?” You whisper with quivering lips, eyes finally cracking open, taking in the ominous red orbs that stare back at you forebodingly. “Thawne, is that you?”

He shushes you. Unashamedly. Defiantly even, never mind the fact that he'd snuck in here, under cover of night, helping himself to you, using your body without even so much as a hello, how’s it going?

But oh, does it feel good. The speed and pressure. The way he fucks into your weeping pussy without mercy or respite. It’s constant, it’s endless. He could have been having his way with your body for seconds or hours, and your hazy mind wouldn’t have known the difference, but through the fog, you manage to utter his name once more.

In response, his blurred figure comes into focus. Perhaps he slows, but he’s already moving at such a pace it would be impossible to tell the difference.

“Shhuusshhh. I just need you for a while. I need to use your body.” He’s whispering, attempting to placate you, but his typical undertone of condescension fails to give way for something more soothing. His hand crawl up to meet the curve of your throat, squeezing until your breath falls short, and your eyelids start to flutter closed. “Just lie there and let me take what I need.”

Leonard | Denial Warnings: Rejection, anger, hypothetical mentions non-con and pregnancy  

His skin is molten hot. A stark contrast to his typically frigid exterior. Not that you can get a full grasp on him. The moment your fingers make contact with his exposed shoulder, he pulls away from you, red-faced and panting as he hisses. “Get away from me.”

The guys had warned you something was up, that he’d been hit by something nasty and he was even snappier than usual, but his rejection still stung, especially when you could see what he likely the route of his problem pressing painfully tight against his boxers.

“Please, Leonard.” Your pleas are futile. He won’t even look at you. “I only want to help. Let me.”

“I don’t want your help. What if I infect you?” His rebuttals are so Leonard. He’s selfish to a fault, but not when it comes to the people he cares about.

It’s a big part of why you practically worship him so much. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Well, I’m not!” With his back to you, he literally puts his foot down in a sloppy, uncalculated stomp. Whatever chemicals are pumping through his bloodstream are starting to affect more than just his dick.

“So, what, you’re going to suffer in silence? Alone? Tha-”

“Yes... Trust me, I don’t want to.” His tone is scathing as he interrupts you. Nothing like the cool-headed Captain you’ve come to know. Glacial eyes, hemmed by irritated frown lines, stare right into your soul as he finally turns to face you. “You’re making it worse.”

“D’you think I haven’t thought about it? Since I got hit, I’ve thought about nothing but you. All I wanna do is rip your clothes off, bend you over that damn bed and fuck you until my dick falls off. I don’t care if you want it or not, I don’t care if you scream and cry and beg, I’d freeze your limbs solid if I have to. I don’t care if I knock you up, if you’re leaking cum for the rest of your life, if you never walk again. I would give anything to touch you right now.”

A ragged sigh violently rakes through his body, and for a split second, you see a hint of relief in his face, before all his pent-up frustration and fury come flooding back. Coarse fingers, you want to reach out and take in your own, sluggishly reach up to brush through his greying hair. He pulls tight at his scalp before turning his back to you yet again.

“But I can’t do that. I couldn’t live with myself if something bad happened. So, do us both a favour and leave.”

Mick | Suffer Warnings: N/A

“I can’t believe you let it get this bad.” You don’t mean to scold, despite the nature of your words, your tone is as mellow as you can muster whilst you trace your fingers along his body. Mick is pretty, in his own way. An abundance of burn scars already adorns a large expanse of his burly figure.

But there’s a disturbance. A slew of dark, protruding veins weave beneath his handsomely dappled skin. It had been hours since he'd taken the brunt of an alien flower bomb, and instead of complaining, instead of asking for help, he'd hauled up, feverish and alone. Ignoring anybody that came by to check on him until you'd picked the lock out of worry for your lover.

“Don’t make me ask for it.” He groans, harshly locking his hand around your wandering fingers before you get too mislaid in your exploration.

He’s never normally so impatient. He’d been cagey in the early days of your relationship, never so urgent. With time, he’d come to appreciate your lingering gazes and roving hands, but for the most part, he’s let you have your way. He'd never begrudged the chance to return the favour, his hefty fingers taking from you as much as you draw from him.

But tonight, he’s not himself; he’s holding onto you for dear life, rutting his hips upward, his cock throbbing against your bare sex, equally as desperate as its bearer to get inside of you. “Just hurry up and sit on my cock baby, or I’ll find another way to deal with the problem.”

“Charming as always, my love.” You roll your eyes, but you mean no ill intent. You’re more than happy to arch your back and sink down onto him. Admiring the scores of expressions on his face that he doesn’t normally bless you with. The grumble that evacuates his bitten lips is low and guttural, coming from deep inside his chest. His eyes roll back as the hint of respite your heated core offers him before he needs more.

Mark | Beg Warnings: Overstim

Marks got quite the silver tongue. He likes to have the first and last word. But for once in his life he's completely inarticulate.

Words bubble to his lips, and burst upon impact, dripping from his lips in pathetic, nonsensical murmurs.

“Wh- hh- one- one mu-more?” The tips of his dark, dusky brown hair tickle your neck as much as his breath, and he pants into you. His skin, dewy, and red-hot sticks to yours as he sloppily rocks his hips, pumping into your already brimming, and sore entrance. “P-p-please?”

The begging is new too. Mark's never been shy about taking what he wants; it's a given in his line of work, but tonight he needs you, and that desperation has him weak. Has his hands shaking as he holds your body into the bed. Has his heart hammering at the thought of filling your pretty little hole with his cum again. And again. And again. It just won't stop. There's no buildup, and no relief, just constant, depraved, excruciating, pressure.

“As many as you need, Marco.” You might not be able to cash that cheque, already overwhelmed. Tender and twitching under his touch, but beneath all the salacious pleasure he evokes with every drag of his cock, you can see he's suffering. See the hunger is consuming him with every second he isn't releasing his painfully hard cock between your legs, so you'll try your best.

“Mmmm-more.” It’s non-committal, ominous, makes your stomach flutter and your walls clench at the thought of exactly how much more he's going to take, greedily fucking you, filling you. Bruising you with every slap of his skin, every clench of his fingers.

And under it all, the admiring little twinkle in his eye, the gratitude that's hidden beneath layers of animalistic frenzy make all worth it.

Evan | Borrow Warnings: B&E, voyeurism

Heartbeat in your chest, you gingerly slot your key into your bedroom door. Some might call your security precautions excessive, but you’ve gotten up close and personal with some of Central City’s seediest criminals. You know you can never be too safe.

Case in point: you’re the only person with a key to the room, but somebody is in there. You can hear them, their uneven breathing, the creak of old wood calling to you like an SOS. Seriously, if they’re trying to be sneaky, they should learn how to move on lighter feet, and quit smoking or see or doctor or something, cause that sound is not natural.

Door unlocked, baseball bat at the ready, you swing the door open, storming in, ready for a fight, but the sight that greets you stops you in your tracks.

There, lazily spread across your bed is your boyfriend, Evan. His distinctive orange and green suit crumpled on the floor, his mirror gun beside his presumable point of entry; your mirror.

He’s stark naked, every fiery hair, every freckle, every muscle, every worryingly dark, and swollen vein on full display to you as he lies amid a pile of your dirty washing. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, you’d have expected him to notice you by now, but clearly he’s busy. Very busy, with his mouth tightly wrapped around the crotch of yesterday's underwear. Another pair caught in his fist as he drags it along his shaft, over and over again, every muscle in his body switching with each stroke.

“Fuck me.” You mutter under your breath. He’s a sight and a half, that’s for sure. “Evan?”

Even the sound of your voice doesn’t stir him from his trance. It takes your hand tapping at his rippling stomach to finally snap him out of it. But even with his eyes wide open, looking directly at you, there's still a glassiness to them.

Your cotton-muffled name falls from his lips in a pained whisper. It’s like he sees you; he wants you, but there’s a distance between you. Until you trace the red tufts of hair that draw the line from his belly button to his painfully red cock.

“Want a hand there?” The moment your fingertips trace his leaking crown, something snaps him back into the real world. With newfound clarity and zeal, he snaps upright, spitting your underwear to the side as he grabs at your shirt, drawing you on top of him.

Axel | Steal Warnings: Attempted non-con, voyeurism, non-sexual electric shocks

Given Axel’s history with Ivy, you’d hoped he might have developed some kind of natural immunity to her toxins. That was too much to wish for, apparently.

As much became evident as you checked him over in the back of the getaway van.

One moment you’re monitoring his alarmingly high pulse, the next he’s gripping your wrists, staring up at you with wide eyes and blown-out pupils. He’s sweaty and sallow. You’re expecting him to complain, to ask you for drugs or water, but as always, Axel never ceases to surprise.

“You’re… so… hot.” The words sound painful and exhaustive. He concludes by letting his head loll back, clanging against the metal interior behind him.

Painful, exhaustive, and nonsensical. “Me? Axel, you’re burning up. How-”

“No. You’re… hot.” He reiterates, punctuating each word with a raspy breath. “I wanna put… my dick… in you… right now… sooooo... bad.”

Suddenly, you’re feeling hot under the collar yourself. The badly disguised laughter of Sam and Mark does nothing but aggravate the situation. “Is- Is it the toxin? Are you f-”

“It’s your body.” Axel is always animated, even when he’s not speaking. Even though his head hangs practically limp between his shoulders, his hands are still clumsily gesturing in the space between you, pointing at your ass and down to his crotch, then back again. “C’mon, I need this, I feel like my cocks gonna explode. Like I'm gonna die. You don't want me to die do you?”

For a moment, you wonder if he’s messing with you. It wouldn’t be the first trick you’d fallen for, and it undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last, but as you scour his body again, noting his raised hairs, dried lips, and tenting pants, you conclude that he’s totally and completely serious.

“Man, she did a number on you this time.” You whisper to yourself before resting your hand on his leather-clad shoulder, leaning in until you’re certain his looking back at your eyes and not your chest. “Can you hold on until we get back to base?”

You’re not expecting him to tackle you to the ground, thankfully, your head is saved from smashing against the metal sheet floor by Mark’s boot.  

“Axel, stop! Axel, we’re not alone!”

“Yeah, and? Let give 'em a show.”

At a loss for words, you look up at your audience, and you don’t like what you see. As Axel peels your legs apart, lodging his clothed cock between them and rutting against your core like a man possessed, like a man who's never known the definition of inhibitions; frankly, that might not be far from the truth, Sam and Mark continue to titter between themselves at your expense.

“Don’t mind us.” Mark grins, lifting a brow suggestively.

“Yeah, have at it.” Sam finishes. It's hard to tell if they're betting that Axel won't go the distance, or if they're really happy to sit there and watch it through. The uncertainty makes you even more nervous. If Sam's involved, there's probably a bet on.

The burning pleasure of Axel's bulge grinding against your sweet spot, or his fingers carelessly squeezing and tracing your hips, your chest, your neck, the spots he knows you crave to be touched, is not enough to tempt. The thought of his cock inside of you, stretching you out while he shit talks in front of your teammates makes your mouth water, makes you ache with want. But the fantasy doesn't outweigh the reality, doesn't stifle your concerns about your social standings or, more importantly, Axel's health.

Axel begins to fumble with your zipper, his cybernetic hand delivering a shock to your body when you attempt to fight him on. Without knocking him out with the steel toes of your boot, there’s only one other option you can think of: “LENNN!!!!”

“For fucks sake.” In a bitter tone reserved solely for fed-up fathers, your captain starts to mutter from the passenger seat. “Don't you dare have sex in this van. I swear, if I have to come back there…”