Marvel One-Shots and Prompts

Dance of Desire

Created: 14 December, 2021

Rating: Mature
For themes of sexual assault, forced prostitution, alcoholism, mental deterioration, mentions of drug use, nudity, graphic depictions of mature acts, degradation, mentions of character death, mentions of hermaphroditism, and vulgar language.

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He vaguely remembered being dead. Remembered the feeling of his enemy's hand wrapped around his throat. He remembered the cool metal touching his skin.

When he had woken up upon the ship, in the same cell he was still in, there had been visible and painful bruising around his neck.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since then, but his hair had grown far past his shoulders, ragged and unkempt, much like the rest of his body.

The people who passed the cell were all sorts of strange. Some were green and scaly. Others were made entirely of tentacles. Every type of creature imaginable was aboard that ship, but they all had one thing in common. There were flames on their leather coats. Not real fire, you understand, but a sigil, as he knew it.

They were Ravagers.

He had cried through the first few days of his stay, ignoring everything but the trashy bed which he sat upon.

He had cried for himself, of course, and the horrors that awaited him, wherever they were headed.

He had cried for his people, though he felt he was unworthy to call them that, who he had essentially killed by taking the Space Stone from their dying realm.

He had intended to take it to Earth for the heroes to watch. He had created them for a reason -to guard the Mind Stone- and he would see them guard another as well. If only he had left it to float in space.

No!

The Titan would have only gotten it sooner if he had, but his- no, the people would have lived. And now there was a massacre in space, every one of their bodies floating in ruin.

It was all his fault. But primarily, he had cried for his brother, the one who was supposed to live. Was his attempt a successful one?

He was unsure, but he knew Thor was nowhere to be found on the ship he was in. He would have been able to sense the presence. But all he sensed was fear.

A thick manacle was around his left wrist, and every time he tried to use his famed seiðr, it burned his skin.

The manacle's runes were branded upon his skin impermanently, and every time, his body had to use some of its waning strength and power to heal.

He had learned his lesson after the fifth time. His seiðr was gone, at least, for the present time.

After crying for days, he had begun to speak to the other prisoners in the brig. Most were females, not unattractive, who had been ripped away in the night by their current captors.

What were they, slaves?

To the cell on his right, partially visible through the forcefield, was a young woman by the name of Qxara, a refugee from the fallen planet of Morag. Her skin was a light pink, as she had explained her half-Kree heritage, with violet eyes and blonde hair. She wore a ragged dress. Like the rest of them, she was not allowed to shower or change.