Disclaimer: Do not own Marvel or The 100
Warnings for stalking, drug and alcohol abuse, implied kidnapping, sexual assault, gangrape, and controlling behavior.
Can you spot Fireclaw111 and SoaringHurricane's influence in this fic, by any chance?
The foreboding words on your arm: Side-stories
Others call it "wrong," we call it "worship"
All twenty-seven of them understood, the moment they came to the decision of what they were going to do, that their plans were malign. Vile. Unforgivable. But it was a necessity. Their mate, their soulmate, and darling, Clarke Griffin? Who didn't even know their names like they knew her name, was putting herself in mortal danger after mortal danger.
At first, it most certainly was a trial discovering who their mate was; who had the mark of their words on her arm.
And they would admit, the words on their arms, which signified who their mate was, were rather troubling.
The many words on their arms all indicated that their soulmate feared them. And did not wish to meet them.
They hoped their suspicions were incorrect. But the words were addressed to them, clearly. And it hurt to know.
Then they had discovered who their mate was. It was difficult. But it started making sense when they started looking over the marks on their arms and realized that their mate worked at a club nearby. And then they got close and used their binoculars to look over the arms of the people around the club.
And they saw the many, many sentences all over the arm of one young woman workers at the club. A dancer that was far too willing to be suggestive when she danced, but never allowed anyone to touch her. A young, pretty blonde woman. There were multiple sentences all over her left arm.
All of those sentences? Foreboding.
It seemed to be fate. All of them connected to the same woman. All of them having met beforehand and forming a business together?
This seemed to be fate pushing them in the right direction. Fate telling them that they now, being as ruthless and murderous as they were, having as much power as they had, they had a way of protecting their mate.
It seemed right. They were ruthless enough to commit multiple murders and powerful enough to pull it off and get away with it.
What better way was there of protecting their mate?
And besides, they knew that this Clarke Griffin was their mate. They could feel it. They could feel the connection when they were near her. And they could see whenever she cautiously looked around when they were close. Indicating that she felt them too.
And as they came to the decision to stalk her to know more about her, believing she would flee from them, given the context of the words on her arm and the context of the words on their arms, they learned what they could about her and realized that she did indeed need their protection.
She barely ate sometimes. And when she did? It was barely anything healthy.
She barely slept.
And when she did it was for short periods of time.
And then there were the…other things.
The drugs. The cocaine. All the booze.
They were troubled to find that they were relieved that she hadn't yet delved into anything worse than cocaine.
What sex she had with the bed partners she took to her apartment? Was pitiful at best.
Yes, they knew they were crossing some severe lines, but they would through the walls, climbing up the fire escape and listening.
And often her bed partners were so pitiful that they barely got her off more than twice.
It was then they made their decision
They followed her. For two years. And during all that time, they planned. They knew what they had to do.
It was vile what they were going to do, and they knew it.
But Clarke's physical health and her spirit were declining.
They could give her the pleasure she wanted. They could give her the comfort and health she needed and the safety she needed.
But they knew that Clarke would never willingly take that pleasure. Or that safety, happiness, comfort and health.
Which meant that it would all be in the hands of Clarke's soulmates.
They knew what they were planning on doing to her as soon as they had her in their grasp, was horrendous and evil.
Sexual assault was inexcusable. It was always inexcusable, no matter the context.
They all knew this.
But they hungered for her pleasure. They were greedy for her sexual pleasure. And they wished to give it to her.
And she would not willingly take it.
Others would call what they intended to do "violation." But they called it "worship."
Oh, it was still a violation. But it was worship as well.
Every action they took was an act of devotion.
Devotion to their soulmate, to their queen. Clarke was to be goddess they worshipped at the altar at.
She could struggle and beg them to stop, but the pleasure would overtake her again and again, and her mind would only know what she'd been deprived of for so long.
And you know, the thing they wanted most wasn't even to get themselves off on her. That was missing the point, were that their main goal.
What they wanted to achieve, was not their pleasure. They hungered for Clarke's pleasure. And that would bring them pleasure.
They would drag the pleasure out of her, if they must.
Tie her to the bed they were going to get for her, the softest bed imaginable, tie her to it, and they would manipulate her body to the point she would be overstimulated, repeatedly, and black out in her bliss.
And for all of them? As far as they could see? What they wanted more than anything, when it came to pleasing Clarke, was not for the men to thrust their rock-hard cocks into her and have her cum with them. That was not what Bruce, Tony, Steve, Sam, Frank and the other men wanted. Or for the women to grind their soaking pussies against Clarke's till they came together. That was not what Wanda, Laura, Jessica, Brunnhilde, Natasha and the other women wanted.
No, what they wanted, was to drink from her cunt. To drain her nectar from her wet hole, suckling at her nub, making that precious pearl harden against their tongues and feel that decadent nectar spill out over their faces.
They hungered to tie her to the bed they would procure for her, and each take turns, each going between her legs and putting their mouths on her, sucking on her pearl, thrusting their fingers and tongues into her cunt, working her till her nectar flowed out.
To put their mouths on her, until there was no more cum for her cunt to give them. Until she was limp and her mind had left her body.
Until the only thing she was able to comprehend was the soul shattering pleasure which they would make sure she would experience.
They wished to be her pets; giving her everything she could ever want, nuzzling all along her thighs and purring into her pussy's warmth.
They wished to destroy her, but not in any way that she was able to comprehend. Not through bruises or scarring or financial means.
But through pleasure. For everything she knew to be burnt out by the pleasure which they would unleash upon her, and for her to only know that she deserved so much better than what the world clearly had convinced her to believe she deserved.
They wished to devour her until the lies which she'd been told about herself, that all she deserved was unfulfilled pleasure and happiness and subpar love, were destroyed and all she was familiar with was the love and pleasure which they wished to give her.
They wished to know her taste again and again. To drink her dry, then each kiss her, so she would taste her own pleasure on her lips.
They knew that what they were intending to do, regardless of whether they used their mouths or not, would be a violation. But it didn't change that for them, it was worship, as well.
To be clamped between Clarke's gorgeous, thick thighs as those creamy thighs gleamed with sweat, as Clarke bucked her hips, trying to break the bonds on her wrists, crying out hoarsely, as climax and orgasm after climax and orgasm tore through her, to watch her beautiful body arch off of the bed, to drink the nectar from Clarke's cunt-worship took many forms, and this was of one of the more passionate forms of worship.
They knew without question, that they would deserve any punishment which Clarke might choose for them, after they rehabilitated her and got her to stop taking so much cocaine.
And they would happily fall on any blade which she ordered them to fall upon.
Should she demand that they take a knife and slit their own throats? They all, save for one of the Barton parents; because Clint and Laura Barton had children, would do so. And when all of the Barton children were old enough to take care of themselves, the last of Clarke's mates who violated and worshipped her, would slit their own throat, as well, no matter whether it was Laura or Clint Barton that was still alive by that point.
Should Clarke demand that they leave her and never come near her again? They would honor or demands.
Should she change her mind and reach out for them to be with her? They would honor her demands then too.
And should she tell them to hand themselves over to the police? They would honor her demands then, as well.
Worship took many forms. And they could allow their worship of Clarke to take that form, as well, if it pleased her.
They knew also, that while what they were intending to do, to put their mouths on Clarke against her will, amongst many other things against her will, was a form of worship, they knew that such an act of worship, required punishment.
They knew it was unforgivable.
And so, they would give Clarke more worship by doing every single thing she said, including giving her their lives, if she demanded that of them.
They knew, even without speaking to her, and saying those terrible words that were on her arm, that made her so afraid of them, that they loved her. They loved her deeply.
They loved her spirt, her joy in small things, her love of animals, her protectiveness over her friends, her love for her work-not judging her work the way many would, claiming that women who sold their bodies or were exotic dancers were somehow less than "respectable housewives," her compassion, her intelligence, her humor, her anger, her strong will, everything.
They loved everything about her and wanted everything of her.
For that alone, they knew, was a violation. To demand so much of the woman who they were to worship, even before speaking to her, they knew was unforgivable.
But they wanted her. Wanted to love her. Wanted to please her.
In every way there was to please her.
After they had finished their worship of her, using their mouths to commit their first violation, and their first communion, and they had made certain she would never try to poison herself with those drugs again, would never deny herself the pleasure and love she deserved, and she had all the money and comfort she deserved, they would ask to know what punishment she wished to be unleashed upon them.
And they would put in precautions to make sure that Clarke couldn't get rid of the money. That she had all the money in the world at her fingertips.
But before that? They would place Clarke onto that bed, which would be the altar where they would use their mouths to please their goddess, and their mouths would draw out pleas for mercy, the sweetest cum and the climaxes and orgasms that would destroy every empty lie which had tainted their love's mind.
These criminals, murderers, violators and beasts would be Clarke's keepers, protectors, worshippers and pets, giving her all the love she could ever imagine.
Violation or not-and it was a violation, their worship would burn away the vile and shrewd lies which the world told to Clarke, that she was unworthy of love, that she should settle for less.
Goddesses and queens were not meant to settle for less.
And Clarke's devoted worshippers, would never allow her to settle for less and the prayers and words of devotion which they would slick into Clarke's cunt as they licked and sucked at her, would make her see that.
Author's note
Well, that was fucked up.
Everyone, please keep in mind, things like stalking, sexual assault, controlling behavior, rape, kidnapping, abuse and so on, should all remain confined only to fiction. Needless to say, anyone that encounters someone like the way I've written the Avengers and the Defenders in these stories, run for the hills.