#sinestro x reader

“Do you think that your Green Lanterns would be proud to see you like this,” Sinestro asks from where he paces the length of your glorified cage, drawing nearer in angled pursuit, “Under my control like this?” 

You struggle, but it’s useless. You’ll bleed your wrists ragged, rend the flesh from your ankles the more you try to fight against these cold, yellowed manacles that hold you steadfastly upright. Keeping you level, but at a subservient angle, to his liking. All you can do is watch, as he stalks the confines of your shadowy prison, let him jab these petty barbs at you, as he has done the countless days he’s held you here. Held you here as his captive. 

“I think they’re going to have a lot of things to say when they finally get their hands on you.” You grit through your teeth, clenching your fists open and closed around the immaterial. The space where your ring used to settle on your middle finger lies dead phantomweight, vanished to parts unknown. And once again, for all the countless times you’ve cursed your overblown confidence, you damn yourself hundredfold. 

Thinking you could ford out stalwartly alone into the darkness of uncharted territories, with nary but a blithe smile to those who watched your departure. Ignoring the face at the forefront, his jaw rigidly set, swallowing his concerns to you. Not that you would have paid it mind. And how you’ve found yourself rewarded for your bravery. With chains. With him. 

“When.” He lets the syllable roll off his tongue, velvet in his enunciation. “A peculiar choice of words. As if they shall receive the chance.” 

He looms closer and you stare up into those yellow eyes that shine bright in the shadows, finding visual purchase on you. Something trembles up you, a terrible, sinful feeling.  

“What do you want with me, Sin? Why don’t you kill me now?” You ask hollowly. It feels foreign, to use a name revered a lifetime ago, now running foul obscenity on your lips. “Put my head on a pike, so they see it when they rock up to your doorstep?”  

“Would you prefer I draw the screams from your throat?” There’s something markedly silken as he draws within a close pace of you. The heat seems to roll off of him white-hot as he appraises you, that angular face ruthless in its impassivity. “Twist the marrow from your bones to make you beg for release?”  

There’s a lad, you think grimly. That’s what I’m looking for. 

You make a bemused, dubious smile up at him as he continues to regard you. “I’m surprised you haven’t already. Wouldn’t you like to see me pinned under your boot, begging for death?”  

The word begging seems to inspire an arch of that imperious brow, the rest of his face unmoving. “What a visual you illustrate—underneath me, pleas for mercy on your lips.” 

“What?” You feel near-dazed at this statement, at the way that the image slinks down your spine, at something you refuse to acknowledge. Not here, with the enemy so close and escape so far. 

He turns, letting you see the authoritative spread of his shoulders, as he ruminates on something beyond you. 

“Do you wonder what Jordan thinks of this?” He proffers into the silence, his voice stark. His head angles back enough that you can all-but-feel the press of that assertive eye on you. 

“Knowing that you’re mine—”—He continues, and you swallow at the way he says mine—“—And he has no idea how to find you.”  

It’s vanity, you reassure yourself. Anything that Hal belongs to, is an extension of the man. You are his comrade-in-arms; thus your spiriting away to locations unknown is a mark against him, a gauntlet thrown. That’s what this statement entails—nothing more. 

“What—what does Hal have to do with it?” You find yourself stumbling over the words, unable to articulate the way that something sticky and suffocating is settling over your heart. “He’s just a—colleague. Same as everyone else is.”  

“Is that what you think of him?” Now there’s amusement, though it’s not specifically at you. He turns back to narrow the space between you and him once more. “How very droll.” 

“I don’t—I don’t understand.” You say, because you don’t want to. Not here, not with the man who stalks sidelong, his eyes still fixated on you.  

“Well, then it shall be interesting to see if he makes the dogged attempt to come find you.” Sinestro says, clasping his hands behind him in officious manner. What limited light there is winks off the ring proudly borne on his finger. “Imagine him, with his Terran ways, baring his teeth and puffed-up bravado.”  

How odd he has yet to refer to you, a fellow Terran, in such condescending manner. You grin. “Takes one to know one, doesn’t it, Sin?”  

“Yes, I suppose it does.” There’s finally a smile on that face, as shadows cast it into sharp relief—his eyes gleam—and you start to lose a battle you’ve been fighting. 

He darts forward, suddenly, towards you—you recoil, but small mercies grant that you make no noise of surprise. His hands seize possessively over yours, and they are as tight as the manacles that bind you down. His fingers are burning and insistent, proprietary in their clutch as he stares you down, his face mere inches from you. You have to fight to keep your expression level, when such intensity bears itself open. 

“What do you think he would do,” And his voice is a low snarl, some malicious intent effected upon it, “If he knew that I had laid claim—”—His fingers lance tighter and you grind your teeth to keep from voicing pain—“—To what he’s been dying to mark as his?” 

You scowl at him, at his wicked proposals, at his twisted rumors. “You’re insane.” 

“And you’re blind.” He returns—and that ferocity smooths over as quickly as it comes, composure returning to that commanding expression. His hands are slow to slide off you, leaving scouring tactile afterimage in his wake. 

When he returns to full height, it’s as if the moment never occurred, though you’ll never forget. 

“What did you say?” His voice is monotonous in its sarcasm—a rare gift on your behalf, it appears. “‘Takes one to know one?’ A Terran turn of phrase?"

“I have a few shorter ones if you’d like to hear them.” You send back his way, letting him know what you think of him, of this farce.  

“Hmmm.” He says, and the noise rolls through you, rugged and obscene. “In what context, my dear?” 

You draw back, your eyes reproachful, your only means of defense. “Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” His smile is predacious and brief, gone with the taunt he levies your way. 

“Mess with me like that—like all the lies with Hal.” You affix him with a terrible glower—if all you have is this, then you’ll pour every ounce of nerve into it. Better this than to consider the effect his words have, than what they terribly imply. Than what they terribly inspire. 

“If you’re going to hurt me, make me scream—”—You continue, and it’s only because he permits you to do so—“—Just do it already. End it.”  

Sinestro smiles, in a manner that lets you know that it has only begun. When he speaks, it is a smooth note in the abyss. “All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”

He turns towards the door, to leave you to wallow alone. As means of farewell, he sets one final implicative look upon you.

“I look forward to conversing with you tomorrow.” He says, leaving you to be haunted by your thoughts in solitude, until his return. 

WARNINGS. sinestro is an asshole. 18+, slight authority kink && power imblance. vaginal sex, face fucking. oral f!receiving, oral m!receiving, cream pie. degradation. green lantern!reader, trainee!reader. ©sector1416.

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"Focus."

The word is hissed out between Sinestro's teeth as more and more of his cock sinks into your throat. Your ring makes a pathetic attempt, flashing a dim green sporadically, but the glassy look in your eyes and the drool pooling around the edges of your mouth give away how little concentration you're affording your ring.

Sinestro's disappointed scoff still manages to do things to you. Halfway between causing your pussy to clench and your heart to drop, you're not sure if you should suck down harder or pull your head back and apologise for disappointing him.

He makes the choice for you, slamming his dick fully down your throat and letting you choke on it. Your spluttered little whines seem to please him more than your attempts at being a Green Lantern ever have, and you hate how wet that makes you.

"Oh, c'mon, Sin, go easy on her", Hal's voice groans. "It's not her fault she's such a desperate slut."

Whatever noise of protest you had bubbling in the back of your throat fades away as his finger flicks at your clit.

You're not sure how you ended up in this position, but you're positive that this isn't what the Guardians meant when they said the two senior Lanterns would be showing you the ropes 𝄖 not that you're complaining. You're too busy getting tag-teamed by the greatest Green Lanterns the universe has ever seen to bother with that.

Little black spots cloud your vision as Sinestro keeps himself buried balls deep in your throat, and you can't bring yourself to care, not with the way Hal laps at your cunt, desperately devouring your pussy. The lack of oxygen only enhances the pleasure you're feeling, making you strain against the green bonds holding you in place, doing all you can to grind against the face between your thighs.

Sinestro's hand in your hair brings you crashing back to reality. He tugs at the locks harshly, pulling your mouth from his cock and resting the tip against your lips. You stare at him, pupils dilated, a soft whimper spilling against his tip as Hal's tongue flicks at your clit.

The sneer on his face is unmistakable. It's something you know so well, so intimately, from the dozens of brutal training sessions he's subjected you to.

Another moan escapes your parted lips, followed by a whine as Hal pulls away from your aching cunt. Despite yourself, you try desperately to grind down against him.

"Please", you whimper. Your tongue licks at Sinestro's offered cock.

"Pathetic."

"I was gonna say it's hot", Hal says, planting gentle kisses along your spine as he snakes his way up your body.

"You've always been easily impressed, Jordan."

Hal huffs out a laugh, his left hand coming round to palm your breast. "Yeah. And you're clearly hating the show."

You grind your ass against Hal's crotch, desperate for the slightest bit of friction, the slightest bit of anything to lessen the smouldering heat between your thighs. Your efforts are rewarded with a groan and a roll of his hips against, almost enough, but never quite giving you what you need.

And Guardians know, you should be ashamed of yourself right now, but the only thing you can focus on is the two men toying with your body.

"I'd hate to waste you on your knees", Sinestro says, slowly pushing his cock back into your mouth.

Your tongue swirls over his tip, looking up at him for approval. Even just a sliver of it...

It's there in his slight hum, there in the way his hands come down to grip at your hair as you take him in your mouth.

"You're doing so good, baby", Hal murmurs in your ear, sending sparks straight down to your core. "So, so good for us..."

Sinestro grunts, head tilted back ever so slightly. You sink your head lower, encouraged by Hal's praise and the hardness of him pressed against you, and begin to bob your head.

He groans, fingers scratching against your scalp, hand guiding your movements, never allowing you an ounce of control. One of your hands drops down to your pulsing clit before you can help yourself, and you almost cry against Sinestro's cock when Hal grabs your wrist and yanks it back.

"I don't remember either of us giving you permission to touch yourself", he tuts, voice dropping an octave. "What happened to my good girl, huh?"

You splutter around Sinestro's cock, almost desperate to tell Hal that you can be good for them, you can be anything for them, but the words come out garbled as Sinestro pushes his cock in deeper, until it's halfway down your throat, and your nose is pressed against his pelvis. Your attempts to focus on breathing feel secondary to the overwhelming sensation of being pressed between Hal and Sinestro.

Tears well in her eyes, the tip of his twitching against your throat.

"I think we're gonna have to teach her a lesson, Sin", Hal says breathlessly.

You could almost mistake Sinestro's smirk for a smile before he speaks. "I think the slut would enjoy that too much."

He pulls at your hair, forcing your head back. Before you can even get the chance to beg for more, for one of them to please just touch you, he's shoving himself back down. It's rough 𝄖 it's always rough with him 𝄖 and you're practically dripping.

You feel his breath begin to quicken, feel his cock twitch, the only warning you get of his impending release. You expect him to hold you against his cock until he's filling your throat with cum and your cunt clenches at the idea of it, eager as always for whatever he's willing to give you.

It's why you almost sob when Hal yanks your head back.

"You wanna be a good girl, baby?" He asks, biting down on your neck. "Be a good little slut for us?"

"Y-yeah", you whimper. "Please, I just wanna... I wanna..."

Sinestro grasps your chin between two fingers and tilts your head up to him. "If you want something, you're going to have to beg for it."

You take the time to find Sinestro in his quarters, where he stands in thought for matters far more important than what you come to bother him with. But you know that you have more privilege than others—you know you can intrude.

This is all but confirmed as he looks away from his introspection, up to you, and says your name with a degree of fondness you know you aren't imagining. 

"What do you need?" He inquires, and you approach, already raising your hand for him to explain. 

"Sinestro, sir, I don't think I understand the attack you taught us yesterday." You explain delicately, holding out your hand that wields your ring to show him.

Perhaps he takes too long to admire the curve of your hand, the shape of your fingers, the ridges of your knuckles. Perhaps it's not necessary for him to hold it in his own—after all, he felt no need to do so during the training with you and the other recruits yesterday. Even if you felt his presence most often behind you, setting a…watchful eye upon you. 

But neither of you mention that now. Perhaps you enjoy the way his eyes skirt up to you, the way his hand feels under yours. 

"You demonstrated it perfectly well during training yesterday." He replies, a casual drawl to his voice. 

"That was because you were there, sir." You return carefully, keeping your eyes trained upon him. "I do better when you're watching me."

He doesn't smile, but the good humor in his voice is present. "Usually students would say I have the opposite effect." 

You smile, as much as you feel comfortable to do so—Sinestro is your favorite teacher, but there is still something about his imperious presence that unmoors you. That makes you…unsettled, in a good way. As though he's evaluating you for details you weren't even aware that you were revealing. 

"Not for me, sir." You reply, keeping your voice strong and even. "I think you're a good motivator."

"Oh? Why is that?" He asks, and there's something rather handsome in the way he arches his brow, keeps his tone droll.

You let the corner of your lip turn up as you regard him. "I just…feel much more safe when you're there."

Finally, a smile does make itself present on his face, amused at the assertiveness you take with this bold statement. "I won't be around for every mission you go on."

"Maybe if I was your patrol partner." You offer boldly—although this is truly an overt statement. While Green Lanterns of varying levels are paired together, to put a master like Sinestro with the most junior of recruits like yourself would be audacious to a fault. 

But you dare, because something intrinsic tells you that in this intimate conversation, you'll be able to get away with it. As you often do with Sinestro. You angle your head at him, letting something coy slant your smile. 

"Don't you think I'm good enough for that?" You ask him.

His hand has not released your own—you're reminded of this when his firm, strong fingers tighten around yours. His eyes narrow as he speaks, a drawl in his voice. 

"First you suggest you aren't capable unless I watch—"—His fingers fold over yours—"—Then you think to be my partner? I think I know where your issue lies."

"Yes?" You ask with light delivery, voice pert. "What it is, sir?"

His eyes are usually so bright, but now there's a shadow that falls over them, drapes into his voice as he pulls you with the tether he has over your hand, your wrist. You let yourself be guided to him, your heart in your throat as he encourages you closer. 

"I think you're in need of a guiding hand." He informs you. "You require someone with an…authoritative touch."

His eyes pierce through you, looking at you with a level of precision that tells you he knows you enjoy hearing this. 

"Who knows how to put you in line." He asserts. 

But you're not going to take it so easily. Not when he's levied a challenge to you, to see how you'll respond to this game. 

"What if I don't want to be put in line?" You ask, and you find yourself taking a heady swallow as you feel the press of his fingers against your jawline, the slink of his thumb down your chin. 

"I think you'll realize how much you'll enjoy it." He returns silkily, and this is when you realize it's not a suggestion. It's quickly becoming a command. 

"I don't think I will." You lie, because you're already pressing your legs together, shifting weight from one foot to another—and he senses your excited unease. Can practically taste it. 

"I don't think you have a choice." He states, because you don't. Your choice went out the window long ago, long before you both had this conversation. But far be it from you to take it lying down. 

"I thought as green lanterns we always have a choice, sir." You reply proudly. 

"Not with me." He retorts, because it's true—between the two of you, only one will have complete control. And only one of you will follow in blind obedience. "Not if you want to be my partner so badly."

"Very well." You say, because something is stirring to life in the pit of your abdomen, slick and heated and intrigued. "What do you want me to do?"

He turns, to the direction of the bed, his bed. Perfect in its uniformity—but something tells you it won't remain that way for long. Especially when you see the glimpse of hunger in his eyes as they settle back upon you, though this is returned to composure before you can realize what you've seen. What you're certain you'll see more of as the night continues. 

"Go on the bed on your hands and knees." He tells you. "Now." 

You try one final attempt at disobedience. "And if I don't?"

He leans in close, and you let him, trying to ignore the way your heart beats in between your legs. 

"Then I'll make you." He commands. "And I think I'll enjoy seeing you bent to my will." 

You think, as you make your way to the bed, enjoying the feeling of his hand on the small of your back, that you will too. 

"Do you remember when I first trained you?" He asks, and you have to fight against the futility that you already have struggled against countless times. You don't deign him with a look, knowing that his eyes are searching for the incendiary heat of yours, the incandescence of your scowl that you instead levy to the floor.

Your teeth are bared as you fight against a losing battle you've lost already, a war that you refuse to admit victor to. 

"What does," you grit through teeth that have gnashed countless barbs and slinged curse, "That have to do with now?" 

"When we've nothing but our conversation," and you see the tread of his foot near the circumference of your small orbit, "Don't you think they should be devoted to happy memories?"

This statement makes you draw pause, leaches the effervescent fight from your veins. You hesitate in your writhing to finally draw your glare up at those eyes that seem to narrow as they intersect with yours, grow brighter yet as they are rewarded with the visual of your tongue snaking over your cracked lips. You swallow, smothering words that you wish to say with what you actually do. 

"I didn't know you felt that way about training me." You return hoarsely, honesty the only refuge you have in this prison. He seems indifferent to the intent of your statement, at the words you mean to throw in his face as the only offense you have means to. 

"Of course I did." He returns, and he's closer now, close enough to take what he wishes—though he stays his hand. It is your only respite. 

"You were the only one in that group that had potential." His voice is stark as he cuts to the heart of the matter, to memories you have tucked away with shame and hatred you've shelved for later dissection. Not so openly and vulnerable like this, now. 

"Funny—"—you reply when you mean anything but—"—I never would have known from the way you trained us."

"Don't you know," his voice is a purr as he closes the distance to between the forced spread of your legs, "A good teacher never lets on that they have favorites?"

His hand is dangerously close to yours which is bound, unable to resist the advance of whatever he chooses. You let it linger a long, implicative while, before you tear your eyes back up his way. It seems you have never fallen from the sight of his unyielding stare. 

"So what do you think of your favorite now, then?" You spit back at him. 

His voice is, to say the least, mildly derisive, in the way one speaks of an errant pet. "I never could seem to tame that wild streak in you." 

A finger grazes over yours and you don't even have the privilege to cringe away from it, from the heat that trails up the skin exposed like a wound. "I suppose I've been able to rein it in, given the circumstances." 

"Why don't you free me?" You find the ability to smile. "I'll let you see how reined in it is." 

"All in degrees, my dear." He's dismissive, though you don't miss the way his lip curls at your open defiance. "I think you misunderstand why I've kept you here for so long." 

You're instantaneous in the response you supply, already prepared with retort. "To humiliate Hal—I know that."

He makes a noise that informs you of the folly of your ways. You can't help but openly shiver at the hand that traces from the crook of your wrist, up the open skin of your forearm, and remains. 

"While it might be entertaining to watch Jordan writhe knowing what he's lost—he was never the focus." He says, and it's only now you realize he's taken focus from you, instead, to the touch he resides over you. On you. 

You're unmoored while anchored to shore. "What?"

Those eyes are slow to slink to you, his tone morosely informative. "One of your greatest—and worst qualities—was that self-sacrificial tendency." 

You can't recoil as that hand curves under your chin; the heat implacable, near-burning as it finds purchase. 

"I saw it in training—I see it now." He asserts, and you wonder if he sees the you of years past, or the you now. You wonder if he sees any difference at all, trapped in this cell with him. 

"You're—What are you—" you splutter, trying to wrest control from him and finding his grip unbreakable. 

"Ever the willing martyr—"—He tuts, the teacher offering critique in this imbalanced moment—"—Unwilling to realize that sometimes, you weren't meant to be hurt—you were meant to be spared." 

His hand seizes tightly, the nails of his fingers digging into the hollow of your cheeks, your jaw—you moan in pain, and something else you refuse to acknowledge. Only his smile remains marked acknowledgement that it occurred at all, a brand of shame emblazoned in the coil of your memory. 

He's slow to release you, unwilling to part visual sight from you. 

"Goodnight, my dear." He asserts, and it's only when he turns away that you can breathe, find solace in what meager relief this offers. "I'm certain I've left you much to think about." 

It's unbreakable—you've tried everything you can since he's fitted you with your new set of jewelry. The collar that has linked around the base of your back is connected by a long chain to manacles around your wrists—you've bashed them against the bars, pulled them tight in opposite direction, lashed them against the ground in abject despair.

But they remain intact, that same radiant yellow that shines even in the darkness, even as you lie, shoulders heaving against the wall as you huff for desperate breath. 

Even as you glare at him as he approaches from the door to your cell which swings silently shut behind him. Even as he nears a few steps of you, watching the snarl on your face as you dare him to try something. Even though you know you're trapped here, no matter what you do. 

"Hmm." He muses as he watches you, slumped against the wall, your glare you bear the only thing you can wield against him. "Very fitting for you." 

"You get sick and tired," you gasp for air, "Of having me tied to that chair?" 

You jerk your head in the direction of the chair that you've been bound to, before letting your eyes fall helplessly to your new prison. He appears unmoved by the sight of your burgeoning despair. 

"No—I merely assumed you'd want more freedom." He says, a mockery of the very word as he speaks it. "Unless you prefer to be strapped to it again."

He takes a step—you don't move, drawing totally still. When you look up to him, his voice draws soft, almost comforting—a trick. 

"I can always amend it to your desires." He says, as if this is a reassurance, his word a vow you can trust. 

"You could amend it to my desires by letting me go." You suggest, though you both know the pointlessness of this desire. He's determined to house you here, at his whims. 

"No—"—he already confirms that which you knew, tilting his head to afford better view—"—I think I enjoy having you here far too much." 

You don't imagine the amusement in his voice. This makes something angry, stifled, grow hot in the pit of your stomach. You don't resist the bile in your retort you aim up at him. 

"Enjoy having me here as your pet?" You demand, but your ire is as ineffective as your piteousness. He kneels, and this act is almost as insulting as him standing before you—all of it is an assertion of authority. Even on equal standing, he still remains the superior. 

"I view it," he maintains coolly, "As more of a conversion."

You squint in disbelief, at this turn of phrase that reveals his intentions. "To what? To join your cult?" 

"Let's start by degrees—"—He remains neutral—"—And consider having you join my side first." 

"What do you mean—"—You begin, but he moves too fast for your slowed, stunted reflexes to take heed—when his hand knuckles around the chain connecting neck and wrists and pulls, you're helpless but to be taken close. To look him in the eye, to feel the breath of his own against your mouth, to stare into those eyes that search you. Something pools low and sinister in your stomach, sensations hot and electric between your legs, foul and traitorous. 

"Consider that I didn't bring you here because of Hal Jordan." Sinestro states. "Perhaps I brought you here for me."

When he kisses you, claiming your mouth as his, you don't admit, even to yourself, that you close your eyes. 

He returns, a wraith in the darkness, the next day. But you can't be certain. You're not certain of anything, anymore. 

"Come back here to touch me again?" You demand, and you're not sure when he closed the distance from door to you. It's all that you can do to remain standing on your own two feet. You're unsure if you totter. It feels as though you're losing what little resolve you had every waking moment you remain, sharing space with him. 

Then he's there, pushing up against you—your back hits the wall and you make a shaky expulsion of air. He dominates your sight, overwhelms your senses, his arms reaching around you, caging you to the wall. You can't remember how to breathe, aware of the pulse between your legs growing stronger yet. 

"Tell me you didn't want it." He growls low. "Tell me—"—His hands clench around that chain once more, tugging you close, pulling you flush against him—"—You don't ache for me now."

You're wordless, without faculty to summon even a single syllable. He's everywhere, the press of his body against yours. He knows the truth, but he wants you to say it. You summon your final shore of willpower, a reed against the storm. 

"I don't." But your voice is halting, unsteady—you look to the ground, the only respite you have. Your breath catches in your throat as he tugs at your restraints, making you bid look up at him. And he's relentless. 

"Convincingly, my dear." He drawls. "Look me in the eye like you mean it when you say it." 

"I—I don't want you." You lie, but this is more piteously obvious than the last. Your voice trembles. "I never have." 

He's smirking now, openly, his leg drawing between yours that open without resistance. His hands slink up the length of chain. 

"All those times, pawing after me for my attention—"—His other hand drapes to your waist, clutches around the ample flesh—"—Asking for extra help training. Asking for my counsel. Begging for me."

He's a breath away from you, unshirking as he goes for the kill. "I saw your eyes—I knew your desires."

"Then why—"—You can barely utter the traitorous words—"—Didn't you do anything about it?"

He's unrepentant, even in this hotbed of sin, of abject temptation. "I knew we would come back to each other on more equal footing." 

"You call this more equal footing?" You find your faculties, in this cruel irony, as his hand fingers your restraint. 

He scoffs, another chink in your armor that is already fast vanishing. 

"No one will know what you do." He asserts drolly. "No one will know what happened. Whatever happens here—"—He leans in, to ghost his mouth over the line of your jaw—"—Is your choice." 

His voice is a crooning siren song in your ear, daring you to taste the forbidden fruit. "So what do you want, my dear?"

It's a secret shared between the two of you. So while he'll know the truth, and you will—no one else will. No one else will know that you were the one who pushed forward first, that closed the distance. No one will know that you moved to kiss him, to seek out the heat of his mouth. 

No one will know the needful moan that you made as your hands, still bound, sought out the muscle of his chest, sought to grasp at what you had denied yourself. Sought out only what the darkness and the shadows will keep confidence of. 

He makes a low noise of satisfaction, his hands already rising to tear what little clothes you wear, given the endured length of your stay. Something rises low in the pit of your abdomen as you feel the way that his hands seek out the warmth of your skin. 

Air hits your body and you shiver from the exposure and the tread of his hand down your midriff. A gasp pitches in your throat as his other hand grips the chain and pulls so that you're temporarily unmoored, your sense of balance uprooted. 

You realize too late that this is by design and there's air that's knocked from your lungs as you're pushed against the unyielding floor. You barely have time to gather your senses before you feel the wet heat of his tongue against your mouth, seeking access that you're happy to give. 

It's overwhelming, under him, under the roiling scald of his body, feeling those insistent, demanding fingers that search up your leg, grabbing proprietary handfuls.

The other hand tugs domineeringly at your chain that pulls both your hands against the firm muscle of his chest, your head up to him. Control is wrested from you even in this moment of intimacy: but you realize in the moment that you're happy to surrender it to him. 

He pulls away as his hand finds the junction of your legs, presses at the entrance. His eyes pierce through the dark to find yours, and you feel a bolt of desire through you at the unbridled want that stares you down, buck your hips instinctively into the touch that demands you give in to him. 

"This is always how you were meant to be, my dear," he states, and there's something wicked but sensual about it that makes you suck in a tight breath, "Underneath me." 

"Yes, yes," you breathe, desperate for his touch, desperate to give in to his demands, desperate for him. But this isn't enough obedience, submission for him—his hand clenches and you find yourself drawn up by the collar around your neck, closer to him. The pull on your throat is asphyxiating and amazing at once, terrible and pleasurable—you want more. 

"Tell me you want me," he growls, his eyes seeking out the truth of your words, your absolute commitment, "Tell me this is all you desire." 

"It is, Sinestro," you say with what limited air you have, "it's—it's all I ever have." 

It does little to cool the fire in his stare—if anything, it inflames it. You see a glint of teeth, but have scarcely any time to appreciate the brief, animalistic angle to his face before you feel the sink of his fingers into your entrance—you tilt your head back and let out a keening moan. 

The only thing that keeps you from falling back is the tight hold that the chain asserts over your gravity, keeping you suspended by the sheer force of his will. 

"Yes," he praises you, and you feel the scrape of teeth into the column of your neck, insistent to draw more of those noises from you. His fingers work a cruel pace into you, the noises slick and obscene—everything is electric and hot, suffocating and excruciating. 

"More," he commands, and his fingers curl—you clench around him, your face twisting up in agonized pleasure. 

"Please—"—you beg, feeling your toes curl, your thighs twitch around the sensations that wrack through you. 

"This is where you deserve to be," he says, and you're too lost to the maelstrom of need, the confusing, contrasting emotions that course through you, the pump of his fingers, to truly grasp the nuance in his voice, "This is where you will remain." 

"Yes—"—you say, unaware of what you truly agree to, willing captive to the pleasures his fingers encourage out of you—you feel as though something is rising from you, terrible and wonderful as you near it. "Yes, yes—"

"They will never find you," he asserts, and there's something determined, raw in his voice. You're seized forward by the pull of the chain, to let him admire the breathless look on your face as he hits the back of your walls and your face twists in a grievous joy. 

"Not while you're mine," he says as you feel that heat build to that nascent peak and break. It's shameful, honestly, how quickly you reach orgasm, a frenzy of nerves and sensations, but you pitch your head back, so lost to it that you aren't even aware of the agreement that you babble out to him. 

"I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours," you repeat, without thinking of the significance behind your words, lost to the wave that he helps you ride through with the curve of his fingers inside you, the ever-present stranglehold the chain exerts over you, that you willingly submit to. That you happily submit to. 

You're left a sweaty, heavy mess of limbs, gasping for breath on the comedown—you can't even lift your arms, they're still trapped beneath his command. You don't care. All that matters is the man that pushes your legs back, takes care to wrap them around the span of his hips—you're not quite sure when he joined you in undress, but anything is possible. You're quite certain you've gone mad, but if this is insanity, then so be it. As long as you can savor it with him, and all that he can bring you. 

You feel the press of his cock at your entrance, and it's all you can do to shudder at the intimidating length as it taunts at your slick heat. It's all you can do to remain fixated under the presence of his gaze, which demands all that you can give—which you realize that you will do. 

"I will never let them have you again," he commands, and you know that he means it. "You are mine." 

He pulls at your chain and you let yourself be dragged to him. He hisses his command through bared teeth. 

"Tell me that you are mine." He growls, and you nod, your wherewithal diminishing as you roll your hips against his length. 

"I'm yours," you swear fealty, "Forever." 

He smiles, and it's cruel. "Good." 

"You will never leave here again," he says, and when he slides into you, slow as he takes you, you can't help but realize that you're happy with that prospect.

WARNINGS. vaginal fingering, vaginal sex. 18+, handjob, cream pie. degradation. green lantern!reader. ©sector1416.

❥──── The life of a Green Lantern is a lonely one.

This is something you understand deeply. You left your planet, you left your family, you left everything that you've ever known, all in the name of a purpose greater than yourself. Even surrounded by people in the exact same situation as you, the loneliness of that burden sometimes feels crushing.

A part of you knows you could always tumble into Warriors, sit yourself down on a bar stool, and drink up the friendly atmosphere of your fellow Corpsmen, but something keeps you hanging around your own quarters.

Maybe it's the chronic loneliness, or maybe it's the buzzing you always get under your skin after somebody sends in a report of Sinestro being in the sectors surrounding Oa. A wiser Lantern than you might try to avoid the renegade, but you . . .

Well, you're standing on your balcony like you know someone's coming to cure that debilitating loneliness you've inflicted upon yourself.

You've never been quite sure how he manages to bypass all the security of Oa. A part of you knows that this is something critically important, a threat to every Lantern you surround yourself with, but that part is drowned out by the flush of your cheeks as you see a glowing yellow ember get closer and closer to you.

He hovers close outside your window, his arms crossed over the Sinestro Corps insignia on his chest.

" I did expect a warmer welcome", he says, words practically dripping with controlled sarcasm. "Perhaps a hero's parade, confetti—something befitting a man of my stature. Instead, I'm met with silence and that unconvincing glare of yours."

"Be grateful I didn't meet you with my fists, Sinestro", you snarl back at him. "You showing up uninvited tends to end in chaos."

He grins, the sharpness of his teeth illuminated by his eyes glowing yellow in the darkness. "Should I feel flattered that you seem so on edge around me?"

You glare at him, rising to the bait, even as you step out onto the balcony and closer to him. "I'm not on edge, I just know better than to take your 'personal visits' at face value. What do you want this time?"

He floats a little closer, smug demeanor in place even as his voice softens. It's just a little, the type of change that nobody else would notice, but you latch onto it with your usual brutality.

"Must I always want something?" Sinestro asks, moving ever closer until he's fully invaded your personal space. His hand falls upon your cheek, and you try not to let him see the way your breath hitches at the sensation of his calloused fingertips against your bare skin. "Perhaps I simply wished to see you."

"It's never that simple with you."

His thumb brushes against your lower lip. "You needn't complicate things, my dear."

And isn't that the sweetest little lie he could tell? It's all already complicated, a tangled mess that you don't dare to unravel, too afraid of facing the consequences of your own actions. This little life could come tumbling down with the slightest shove, and he's had you up on that cliff for so long now.

"Just get inside", you grumble, "before somebody sees you."

"So concerned", he tuts. "As if the pathetic batch of recruits the Guardians have scavenged could ever be a threat to me."

"They're not the ones I'm worried about", you mutter, turning away from and moving back inside your quarters and away from any potentially prying eyes. The last thing you need is any of this to get back to the other Green Lanterns.

You don't bother turning around to see if he's followed you. Whatever this thing between you may be, it always resulted in him tracking you down with only one thing on his mind — on your mind, usually, too.

Tonight's no exception. You can feel it humming in the air around, biting into your flesh, liquid heat already pooling between your legs.

Sitting on the kitchen counter, you don't bother to hide your scowl. "Did you really come all this way just to be a nuisance, Sinestro?"

"No, my dear", he replies, far too playful for your liking. "I'm simply ensuring that you don't miss me."

You roll your eyes, not fully capable of hiding the small smile that crept up on you while he distracted you. "You're giving yourself far too much credit."

He moves closer, his hands falling around either side of your waist and trapping you against the counter. Sinestro towers above you with a practiced ease, shutting out the rest of the universe until it's just the two of you.

"And you're giving me far too much of your attention", he says, leaning into you. "You see? We're both predictable."

Maybe someone with more willpower would shove him away, but instead you delight in how his palms settle on her hips. His fingers splay across the divet of your hip, and you barely manage to stop yourself from immediately willing your uniform away. As good as his featherlight touch feels against the fabric, you know it's better against your bare skin.

His lips, hotter than the coals of hell, fall upon your neck, every breath an agonising tease. Everything about him, every last damned detail, it's all so —

So incredibly dangerous, and the others are so close by, and no matter how much you think that the other Green Lanterns have slowly started to accept you, finding you in this compromising of a position would surely lead to an instant termination and dismissal from the Corps, so easily the worst decision you could ever make, so impossible to make any other choice.

Razor-sharp teeth nip at the nape of your neck, and all thoughts of logic and reason and consequence go flying out the window, suddenly lacking their previous urgency, replaced by a different kind of desperation.

"You're such an asshole", you hiss out, your fingers already making their way to his hair. Digits tangle through the locks, intentionally messing up their strict perfection, determined to leave a mark of your own. All you want is some kind of sign that this ruination is mutual.

His laugh is breathless against your throat, a slight reprieve from the teeth sinking in enough to draw blood before he renews his assault.

You lift his chin, ignoring the way he scowls at you for the action, and lean in. The kiss is rough, brutal, with no room for forgiveness — the only way either of you could ever be comfortable with it.

He matches it with equal intensity, his hand raising from your hip to rest on your throat. Not quite squeezing you, not choking you with ease, just letting you know that he could.

You can't help the whimper it pulls from the back of your throat, nor the moan that follows the grinding of his hips against yours.

He nips at your bottom lip. "Careful, dear. You wouldn't want the others to hear you."

As if you could ever forget the precarious nature of your situation. You roll your hips forward, pulling slightly at his hair. "Shut up."

He lets out a huff of fake irritation, even as his hand slips between your legs with a practiced ease. There's none of the fumbling from the first he'd taken you, none of the awkwardness from the second or third tryst — by now, you're both confident in your actions.

Sinestro leans in even closer, close enough that his lips rest just before yours, and before you can even entertain the idea of meeting them, he lurches forward, his teeth sinking into your lower lip faster than you can even form a thought. It takes less than a second for his teeth to tear your lip open, the taste of blood spilling into your mouth.

Your uniform slips away with a single thought, leaving you naked on her countertop. His breath hitches as he takes in the sight, those yellow eyes darkening in the dim light. You rock yourself against him again, no clothes left to disguise how wet you are, and the grip on your throat tightens minutely.

Touch has always been your preferred form of communication, and ever since you began this series of mistakes, Sinestro has become adept at translating everything you can't — or won't — put into words.

You don't need to tell him what to do, you never have. He gets the message immediately with one finger slipping inside your waiting cunt, making a wanton moan spill from your lips, so close to being followed by a second, louder one when the hand on your throat changes its position to clamp down on your mouth.

"Must I do everything for you?" He hisses with no real venom — or if it is there, you're blind to it, too enchanted by his long, thick finger stretching out her aching pussy to care. Your moans are stifled behind his hand as he sinks another finger into you.

A part of you is grateful for the palm over your mouth. It must be the only thing blocking the truly pathetic way you whimpers for him. It would be an embarrassment if the universe could hear the noise you let out when his thumb brushes against your clit.

"So desperate", he breathes out. It'd be an admonishment if it weren't for the slightest tremble in his voice.

He likes putting you in this position as much as you like being put in it. 

Five fingers over your mouth, the others playing with her dripping cunt... he has no right to let out a surprised moan when your hand slips beneath the waistband of his uniform. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, refusing to make any more pretty sounds for you, and it just spurs you further.

It's become a game, this ongoing catastrophe that they share, and you've never been above cheating* to win.

Your palm wraps around his cock as you ride his fingers, pushing his digits further inside you as you make eye contact with him. His gaze — sharp, wild, the only sign he's not as in control as he'd like to be — meets yours, those yellow pupils boring into your. There's no mistaking the perfect storm of hatred and lust that you're surely reflecting back at him.

You move your wrist with a type of patience she usually reserves for galaxy-destroying events. Everything is calculated, poised, designed to push him as far as he's pushing you. 

It earns you a third finger. You moan against his palm, tongue tasting the sweat on his skin, every sound repressed by him. It's utterly humiliating how he reduces you to this with such ease, like it's a second nature to him. His thumb flicks at your clit, and you can feel the sound you make vibrate through his hand.

"Quiet", he snarls at the volume of the moan he wretches from you. "You wouldn't want the Corps to know how needy you are, hm?"

You rut yourself further against his fingers, eyes going glassy. The center of his attention is such a dangerous place to be, but it's where you have learned to thrive, those yellow eyes locked onto her like you're the only thing worth paying attention to in the entire galaxy. Dazzling stars, sprawling planets, ancient wonders — he looks like he'd let it all pass him by, just to keep his eyes on you.

His hand drops from your mouth and back to your throat, squeezing it while soft gasps escape your parted lips.

"You need to learn to listen", he says, voice low and as ruined as you feel. "Clearly, nobody is teaching you obedience."

"Need you", you rasp as his fingers curl inside you perfectly.

"You haven't earned me", he replies smugly.

Your hand picks up the pace on his cock as you whine in his ear, "Don't be an asshole..."

And you tilt your head backwards, away from his ear and towards his mouth. To your surprise, he not only lets you, but he kisses you back, hand rising from your throat to thread itself in your hair and pull you tight against him.

Were it not for the counter supporting you, you're sure your knees would've given out by now, all strength and willpower depleted. There's only the electric touch of his fingers inside you and his lips against your own. The universe expands for a moment and contracts to just you, just this moment.

His hand leaves your hair with a sharp tug and settles to its favored spot around your throat. The pressure he applies is gentle, a warning sign.

"You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?"

You nod before you can help yourself. There's no room for logic between the two of you — with the intensity that he kisses you, there's barely any room for air.

"Good girl", he murmurs against your lips, and your cunt clenches down on his fingers. Your spare hand grips his shoulder for support as rivets of pleasure rush through you, your peak edging closer and closer.

"Please", you whisper against his ear, your head lolling against his shoulders as his fingers push you towards a devastating climax. "Want you. Need you."

"You're going to have to be more specific, my dear", he says, just to be an asshole, just to annoy you.

The best response you can muster is quickening your handjob and letting your nails sink into the skin of his shoulderblade. It grants a grunt, a hissed curse in Korugian that your ring doesn't bother to translate, and him pushing your body back against the counter.

The action fully removes his hands from your body, and you can't help the pathetic whine the loss brings about.

He drinks in the sight of you, and you can only imagine how you look; uniform half dissolved, cunt leaking, skin flushed, and eyes fixated on him, always, always on him.

He moves towards you, a coiled snake striking out for the kill, and you let him. There's no hesitation, no moment where you second-guess your terrible life choices — the instant he's on you, you're kissing him back and lacing your fingers in his hair.

"Please", you gasp.

He steps back, his uniform dissolving around the waist. "Turn around," he commands, his voice firm. "Hands on the table." You hesitate for a moment, but ultimately comply, turning and placing your hands on the table as instructed. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes wide with anticipation.

He's going to drive you insane. He grinds against you, his clothed erection rubbing against your dripping slit, and you mewl into his arm. All you're able to do is beg, "Please, Sinestro... Please..."

Sinestro smirks at your desperate plea, his hands moving to grip your ass tightly, pulling you flush against him. He grinds against you, his voice a low growl in your ear. "Please, what, my dear?" he taunts, his breath hot on your neck. "Tell me what you want."

A low, throaty moan spills from your parted lips as he grinds against you. Your fingers dig into his forearm, desperately clinging to him for purchase. His voice runs down your spine like a shiver, making you whimper. "Please..." It's the only word you can get out, too desperate for anything else.

"Use your words", he says, demanding the impossible from you.

Your throat seems closed up, incapable of a single word, leaving you utterly incapable of communicating her want — well, mostly incapable. You've always been inventive.

You grab his hand and bring it to your cunt, placing his fingers against your dripping slit, letting him know how much you want him.

"Just fuck me", you plead.

Hair disheveled at your hands, pupils wide with lust, he groans at the feeling of your wet cunt, at the desperation in your voice.

"So well behaved", he murmurs against your ear, hand dropping between the two of you to position his cunt at your eager entrance. "Such a perfect whore."

The tip of his cock brushes against your clit, and you collapse against the counter, stabilizing yourself with your palms. "C'mon then. Fuck me like a whore."

Sharp nails dig into your hips as he bites down on your neck hard enough to draw blood. Slowly, he begins to sink his cock into you, the delicious stretch of your cunt sending your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

"Oh, god, yes", you moan against him. "Fuck, Sinestro..."

Another inch sinks into you, your breath hitching as his hands grip your ass.

"Good girl", he praises, fingers pulling you up by your hair and arching your back against him. "This is what you deserve. What you need."

"Y-yes", you agree with a broken moan, pushing your ass against him with every thrust.

"What a perfect whore", he murmurs, teeth sinking into your shoulder blade. "Taking it so well."

When his hand goes from your ass and towards your clit, it begins to feel like all you were made to do was take his cock, to let him bend you in any position he likes, and fuck your brains out. You doubt you'd have a single complaint if that's what he chose to do.

"I should take you from here", he grunts. "Keep you on Ranx for me to fuck."

You let out a desperate whine, mind full of the image of being his kept little pet, eager to be in his bed at all times.

"That's what I like to hear", he groans between mind-numbingly hard thrusts into your aching pussy. "A broken slut that loves her master's cock."

You whimper, brows knitting together. His thumb rubs devastating circles against your clit as your cunt clenches on his cock, high-pitched little whines slipping out of your parted lips.

There's a churning in your core, the heat that's been rising since you felt him enter Oa's atmosphere reaching a fever pitch, intensifying every time his hips hit against your ass. He's quiet, laser-focused on ruining you, the only sound the squelching of your soaked cunt and the pathetic moans he's ripping from your throat.

Any concern you'd had about other Lanterns hearing you is thrown out the window. Who cares if they hear you — so long as Sinestro never stops fucking you, you don't care about anything.

You arch back into him, hips quivering as his thrusts begin to pick up in speed. You squeal, a pathetic and whiny noise that's swallowed up by his hand clamping down again on your mouth. There's another bite down on the back of your neck, right at the crux between your shoulder and your throat, and you can hear how ragged his breath is becoming as he chases his own orgasm.

He slams into your cunt, using your body to fuck his way into bliss, and a perfectly timed flick of your clit sets off along the way, your pussy squeezing down on his cock as your climax rips its way through your body.

All you can let out is high, meaning whine as he continues to slam into your pussy.

"We're not done yet", he murmurs against your bare skin, hand slowly dropping from your mouth to settle on your throat.

"P-please . . ."

He nips at your skin, drawing more blood. "You can keep going. My good girl, you'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?"

Tears sting in your eyes as he fucks your overstimulated cunt with a violent passion, but there's no denying his words. So long as he makes you feel this good, there really isn't anything you wouldn't do for him.

Damn the consequences, and damn the Guardians too — all that matters to you is the feeling of his cock twitching inside your pussy, the only real warning you get before he slams into the hilt, keeping his cock buried deep in your cunt.

"Mine", he hisses, finger abusing your clit as you feel him cumming deep inside me. "All mine."

"Yes", you all but sob, legs twitching as your body wracks with pleasure. "Y-yours, only ever yours."

He holds you against him, your back against his chest, able to feel his quickened breath as he comes down from his high. With one last flick, his fingers drop away from your swollen clit, and settle on the side of your hip.