Hey anyone remember Heelys? When all your troubles could be skated away at the turn of your heel. We need to bring them back. Like right now. I feel like the world needs whimsy and vibes.
This is inspired by @13tinysocks and @itsabee incredible take on the Mark Variants from Invincible in their fic "My Dead Girlfriend". I hope I did them justice. And while the two of them haven’t released the Ka-thala chapter yet, which I’m super excited for, I couldn’t help but start imagining what kind of chaos that planet might bring.
In my mind, Ka-thala is a wild, exotic hotspot full of fun, indulgence, and all kinds of activities, even the illegal kind. Naturally, seedy but high end clubs absolutely exist there, and yes, I would 100 percent be visiting them. That’s why where this little moment comes from. I’ve taking some creative liberty to imagine a club scene featuring Ollie pole dancing, since he’s my favorite. There will be more to this, as this is just an imagine. So before the full scene drops, here’s a taste and a little insight into why I like my men pretty, completely unhinged, and dangerous enough to make you laugh first and question your safety second.
Ollie checks every box.
So if I ever saw Ollie on a pole, make up done flawlessly, hairy legs out on display in fishnets, glitter dusting every inch of him, I would foam at the mouth. No hesitation, no shame. Just his hips rolling to the beat like its second nature, would be a religious experience to see. I would ascend. CPR would be administered as I’m dragged out of the club on a stretcher, like a Victorian Widow.
There is no way any other Mark could pull that off. Not even Mohawk, the second most liberal and accepting in my option. He’d reject the idea from the start. Him? Dancing on a pole? Wearing a skirt? In front of people? The daddy issues and internalized "men are strong and can’t be pretty" beliefs limit them. Hearing the request he would scowl like you just told him you’re a spy. But if he somehow got up there, if you tricked him, dared him, offered enough sugar for a reward, or even caught him on a weird night, it wouldn’t be sexy. It would be feral. Hair flying, eyes wild stomping the stage to "Closer by Nine Inch Nails".
Ollie however is the complete opposite of that.
He would know what exactly what he’s doing, and accept happily. His song choice wouldn’t be grunge. It would be pop or rap. I’m thinking "Vroom Vroom by Charli XCX" or literally anything by Doja Cat. Something fast and bratty with too much bass. The little freak would hear one of those songs on the radio and say it reminds him of you, like it’s a compliment. While dancing, he would grin but not sweetly. It would be the smile of a man who knows you don’t know what you’re getting into.
He knows he’s batshit insane and says stupid shit, but lazy is not in his vocabulary. He wants to look the part for you, a professional pole dancer extraordinaire, and nothing is going to be half assed. Because if his cheeks are going to be out, you better believe he’s going to look his best while doing it. He’s trying to be pretty for you and you’re the prettiest thing he knows, so he raids your personal items, clothes and makeup. Whatever he can find. Mark (Mohawk) built that closet for you, stuffing it so full it’s a goddamn fashionista’s wet dream, a personal mall to impress. Ollie knows there’s gotta be some cute, unfussy crap in there that will fit his tight ass. And if he has to tear the whole thing apart to find it, he will. Mark though is losing his shit, over Ollie wrecking the place. If nothing fits he’s out the door before anyone can stop him, in a hunt for something sluttier, louder and flashier.
At the club, on your birthday, the lights him just right. His lashes heavy with glitter, over the one eye he has. The other closed, lined in kohl over an empty socket. Lips lined and painted bright red. Be aware you wouldn’t be watching a man try something new on a whim. You would be watching someone become something out of this world and own it 😜💖.
📝 Inspired by the amazing @itsabee (AO3). Check out My Dead Girlfriend by them.
&&. " my friend's weird new roommate. " (au! sinister mark x gn!reader part two) || part one here !
warnings: 18+, mentions of death/killing, this is just regular life (death/taxes/going to college while being minimum wage), reader is a college student with the world’s worst friends, public sex, denial, drugs/alcohol mention, sex under the influence, piss mention at the end because a friend wanted it, reader is gender neutral but they have afab genitalia, etc.
summary: It’s been two months since your new roommate, a desperate request you made on facebook, moved in. Ever since then, the town you live in has become steadily engulfed into the black void that is Mark Grayson. People are going missing, bodies aren’t being found, and your “friends” still can’t help but come over to your house— but Mark wants to make certain that they never come back.
Two weeks after your friend asks you about his girlfriend, they find her bloated, waterlogged corpse on the lip of a lake three miles from your home. Naked as the day she was born, blue as the sky. You know this because her killer is the first to show this fact to you. Wearing the necklace that was missing from her body, leaned up against your doorframe, Mark Grayson waits for you to open the door just for the sake of showing you. Rejoicing in your reaction as you blinked away both sleep and the image of her drowned body now flash seared into the back of your eyeballs.
Everyday now, knowing you know and knowing there's nothing you will do to stop him, Mark relishes in that fact.
It seems like there is no day where you can escape from the fact that you have accepted a killer into your home. That you have not only accepted him but welcomed him into your arms and into the core of your being. You find missing person's posters everywhere around your home now. Scrunched up in the bin next to the toilet. Slapped onto the refrigerator. Snuck into your bag that you know you keep in your room, under your bed, where only you should be able to access it.
You don't ask how Mark does it. You know he won't give you an answer and you know that even if he did, it would be layered on top of seventeen other lies that have their own syrupy Mark honesty slathered overtop.
The one thing you can't forgive, however, is that even with all of Mark's brutality, even with all his destruction and poison, your friends still won't stop coming over to see him. Not you, not the person who was supposed to be their friend, but Mark. The one who is killing their brothers and their mothers and their lovers, not you, but him.
What you can't forgive is the fact that it's Mark you want, not them.
The wet slick of his cum over the expanse of your naked stomach. The unsatisfied knot of pleasure sitting between your thighs, one long drawn-out orgasm that Mark refuses to let you peak over. Watching with his void eyes as you dip your hand down and lap up every last drop of his release from your quivering, shaking fingers. "Good puppy." He calls you, saccharine sweet, against your temple. "You still have a little more left." Dragging his teeth across the rim of your ear. Refusing to release his death grip upon your hips. "Think you can clean me off too while you're at it?"
The phone calls are the worst part of it. All the sobbing and preening and fake sweetness in an attempt to win you over on letting them through your doors. You know it's not all a lie but something about being around Mark, absorbing his cruelty, hearing through his ears, you start picking up all the little pieces that are. "It'd be nice to get the chance to talk to you." (Talk to you. Lie.) "It's really hard, with everything going on." (Everything. Mark standing over you while you sleep. Doing nothing but staring. Doing everything but taking.) "Is it alright if I come over? Maybe we can share a drink? Help get our minds off of what's going on?" (We. You and Mark. Mark and you, you sitting at the kitchen counter. Mark sitting in the center. You in his horrible, terrible orbit.)
At world's end, your "friends" call together a party. Modelos and Bacardi and too much pizza for so much grief.
What they don't tell you is that they plan it on the day you work. That after a centuries long shift, you have to find street parking because they've filled your lot with three different cars and more e-bikes than you've ever seen around town. That when you finally crawl your way to your door, you have to physically shove the door open because they've packed the whole place so full even Mark has lost the urge to care about keeping people from leaving.
Yet, you still find him. In the swell of sweaty high bodies, you still find Mark.
Nestled there on your couch, surrounded by the welcoming envoy of blabbering drunk flies, legs splayed open, filling up as much space as he possibly can with his frame. As if he is waiting for you, waiting for you to walk through the crowd and take your rightful place upon his lap. Of course Mark knew you were working today. Of course he knew that you would have to wade through the dirt to get your way back to him. You know he knows because you can see it in his black eyes when he finally locks upon you and every pretense of his bullshit veneer drops from his cheeks.
You feel disgusting.
It's not just the sweat that has clung to you like a second skin from the work shift you just finished. Not just the sweat of all your "friends" friends that you've absorbed shoving your way through them. It's the filth of knowing you've made your whole way there to your living room, to your couch, just for him. Just to get to Mark.
"You think this is fucking funny?" Of course he does. Mark has some sinister comedy laced so deep into his nerves that everything he does, every person he kills, every drink he forces your friends to chug down, is poisoned with it. All their mess around you, discarded beer cans, strewn pieces of clothing from the heat of the four walls, it's all a result of Mark. The fact that you feel electricity running down your exhausted legs is all his fault. The fact that you feel it burn in your core as he laughs is all his fault.
"You didn't tell me you worked today." Mark smiles out and he doesn't even try to coat it in any kind of falseness. Of course he knew. He knew and he didn't mention it to any of them because he knew how little your "friends" cared to know. Wanted to test the waters, see just how far they would go. (It's what he always does. Asking questions. Knowing the answer. In another universe, it had to be his modus operandi. His villain catchphrase. "You actually thought--" "What chance do you---" "You really think---" Always a question. Always prying. That is Mark down to his very core. One big question.) "Were you hoping I'd invite you?"
"Get them out of here." You don't even particularly care that much about the mess. Not even that much about the fact that your friends are here mourning his victims. You care about the fact that they are touching him. Being infected by him. Charmed by him. You hate the fact that Mark is staring up at you and it feels like you are the only thing in this entire room beside him that he sees. That Mark is reaching over to you and you let him slowly drag you down onto his lap to straddle him.
Everything about him you hate.
Hate how cold his hands are. Hate how you shiver when he sets them down on your hips and you can feel them gently snaking under your work shirt. Hate how he's still fucking talking. Not to you, but to the others around you who are so drunk they can hardly see under their own half-shut eyes. Hate how you can feel how hard he is under you. The only warm part of him. Slowly rocking up against you, just barely, but just enough to let you know.
"What is this? This--- thing you want from me?" You'd been uncertain for days after that night. The way everything slotted back into nothingness. When you woke up that next day, not in each other's bed or with maybe a kiss or an acknowledgment, it was as if Mark was simply only there. Not as someone who wanted you, not as someone who loved you, Mark Grayson simply continued as he was. No titles, no claims. (Maybe you wanted to be claimed by him. Eaten by him. Devoured into his everything. Maybe you wanted Mark to kill you and forever be taken by his hands alone.) "We aren't friends, Mark. Whatever this is-- I don't know you." Yet here you were. Standing at the end of his bed. Waiting for him to invite you in, even as he continues to scroll on his phone, laid on his back, arm folded behind his head.
"Does it really matter?" Even against the blue light of his screen, his dark eyes never reflect anything back. Just a vacant lot of everything you'd never be able to decipher and the heavy weight of wanting to be the only thing that could ever matter to him. "If I know everything about you, about what you want, does it really matter what you call me?" You can feel his mattress strain beneath him as he settles onto his elbows. Mark's heavy frame filling up the space in the room. Lunging forward just enough to yank you all the way down into his arms.
He smells like bleach today. Bleach and your best friend's favorite laundry detergent. When you recoil back, all Mark does is wind his arms even tighter around you. Absorbs you into his flesh. Intertwines his legs in yours to keep you from escaping.
"The only one who needs to know that you are mine is you." There's no romance in his words. No heartwarming declaration of cosmic love or destined soulmateship. Mark has claimed you. The same way that the sun claims every planet around into its orbit. The same way oil pollutes the sea and submits all its life to its death. Mark Grayson, with his cold lips that lay his kisses across your shivering neck, with his hands that drive their weight down into the flesh of your back, has claimed you as his. Till death do you part, or till he does it himself. "Just seems right, doesn't it?" When you go limp in his arms, it feels like victory. “Aww… no more fight?”
“It’s a great party, ain’t it?” So loud. So busy. It’s everything you hated most in your home, but it’s the perfect distraction. Bodies on bodies, surrounded by more bodies to distract the other bodies. Mark barely misses a beat in rutting against you to pluck a joint off a nearby victim; inhaling deep for the simple sake of blowing it back into your face. When you cough, waving the acrid air away, Mark chuckles and you hate how it makes your heart skip a beat for just a moment too long. “Come on. Enjoy it a little.” He offers but even you can tell there’s not much in the way of choice in the matter. A second too long of not answering and Mark presses the joint against your lips and you can see it in his eyes. Command, down to his marrow. “Take a hit.”
So of course you do.
It’s the smallest little roach you have ever seen. Rolled up with as much love and care as a high schooler’s first and it hurts like hellfire coming out. Laced with something more than just flower. Oil, maybe, rosin hopefully. Everything from that moment on feels like bliss.
You learn just how little Mark cares about the world, all its boundaries and norms, once the weed in your lungs begins buzzing down to your limbs. The crowd is still there, intertwined in their conversations and debaucheries, but Mark doesn’t care. You think he must just be fucking around at first when he starts tugging at the belt of your work pants. Itchy fingers and maybe just a little bit of playfulness.
“Why don’t you grab another drink? You look like you need it.” Mark in his fifth conversation while he deftly slides your belt off and behind the living room couch. “The girl over there is checking you out. You should grab her number. Don’t be chickenshit.” Mark’s zipper completely undone. The strain of his cock against the slightest peek of his exposed boxers. “Go talk to someone else and mind your fucking business.” Mark’s biting response when one of your friend’s comes over with a drink while he’s face deep in your neck, making sure it carries through to his teeth and into your flesh.
It feels like paradise. Like being eaten alive. You and Mark on your living room couch, dry humping in a home full of victims and strangers. You try to be quiet at first. Caught up in shame and pathetic remorse but Mark refuses to let you bite your lips. He lets you bite his fingers instead, two thick ones shoved into your mouth and against your drooling tongue. “Don’t act shy now.” Mark hums out, his right hand busying itself with your work pants. The cool breeze against the sweat of your thighs as he yanks it off and somewhere in the room for someone else to trip over.
“Are you fucking crazy?” You try to say but the only word that comes out between his fingers and the moan he draws out of you by dragging his hand over your dripping clothed cunt is a harsh “fuck”. All it serves to do is entertain him further. Push your bounds just a little bit more. Pop his fingers out your lips and use both hands to turn you around in his lap until your back is pressed against his chest. The slow beat of his heart slamming against the curve of your spine. The slick of your arousal against his clothed cock, straining against his boxers.
“No one here gives a fuck about you.” Maybe it’d hurt if everything Mark was doing didn’t feel so good. The agonizingly slow rut of his leaking cock against your entrance. His hands diving under your shirt to pinch and pull at your hard nipples. “Not a single person here—fuck.” It feels better than anything to hear the sounds he makes when you move against him. The rough choke of a moan in his throat that comes out in laughter and airy chuckles. The way his hips jerk up when you dig your nails into his wrists to stop him from venturing down towards your underwear. (But you want it. More than anything. For him to fuck you raw in-front of everyone. To let them know that he’s yours and you are his. That they can’t have him the way you do.) But it doesn’t matter how hard you try to resist him. Mark’s hand dives into your underwear and you can feel through your lungs and through the little watching eyes in your haze the sound he makes. A deep, unforgiving groan when all three of his fingers plunge into your soaked cunt without even the slightest resistance.
“Just fuck me already, Mark.” All he wants to do is eat you whole. “Please.” It’s all he needs to hear. Not the confirmation, just the desperation. The pitiful, shameful, begging desperation. “Please, please—“ Mark laps up the wet sounds of your pleasure through the smoke and blasting speakers. The way you rise your hips to meet up against his knuckles, buried so deep in you that he can feel your clit pulsating against his palm. “I need you.” So close. So fucking close. “Just fucking ruin me.” He’s smiling in a way you’ve never seen him smiling before. This horrible, toothy thing that reaches up to his eyes. The first time— true and utter glee.
“Okay, puppy.” You yelp when he slides his boxers to the side and all you can feel is the heavy slap of his cock against your underwear. Arms locked around your waist. His cold, heavy head set into your shoulder. His heartbeat picking up, slapping wet against your vertebrae as he maneuvers himself around the soaked fabric. “Anything you want.” All it takes is one quick, slick motion, and you can feel Mark bury himself in you up to the hilt. Head hammered against your cervix. And more than anything, besides the whispers and the vacant laughter of “Shit, are they really fucking right now?” and “Holy fuck. Look at Mark go!” all you can feel is how desperately Mark is clinging to you. How deep he has fingers buried into your sides. How much teeth he has in your jugular. How fucking hard he is. How hard he still is when he begins slamming you down onto his lap, relishing in every little whimper and curse that falls out from your lips.
And still, it’s not enough for him. Mark wants louder. He wants you crying out his name. He wants every person in your home to know his name. To hear just how wet you are. Even as a few people begin shuffling out, hands to mouths, quiet gasps and giggles, Mark doesn’t relent. Even as you can see from the corner of your eye someone take their phone out and begin recording, Mark keeps going. Pinching at your begging clit to startle a cry from your lips. “Sorry puppy— little too hard?” Rubbing the ache away under his rough palm. Chuckling when someone remarks how fucking wet you are, how obscene the sound is. And when you try to cover your face, save yourself just that little bit of decorum, Mark wrenches your hands and cages them behind your back. Using them as the perfect anchor to keep slamming into your hole.
“Mark— Mark please, I-“ You don’t have any words for the pleasure or the shame or even the sight through your barely open eyes as those left in the room continue watching. Palming at their own groins. Some looking through their parted fingers. It’s the disgust that Mark is looking for, in those people who you call “friends”, the way they reel away when he looks up and smiles at them. Buried so fucking deep in you that he can feel your arousal slathered against his balls and thighs. “More, please I—I need more!” And yet, they still don’t run away when Mark barks at them to pass him another joint.
Mark fills his mouth up with smoke and the "more" is engulfing your lips to force it in your lungs. All you can see is stars and iPhone flashlights and the look in Mark’s eyes when he pulls away, lips wet with your saliva. A look that says, “You’re mine.” A kiss that says, “Let them watch. Let them know.” A void that says, “There isn’t a single other person in this room beside you that will live a month after I’m done fucking you.” It’s enough to make anyone fall in love.
You love him, you think.
Or maybe you just love the full feeling of him buried inside of him. Love the way he lets out a proud hoot when he can see his cock through your stomach. Straining against your flesh. “Fucking beautiful.” He groans out and you can feel it down to your shaking legs when he stuffs your face down into the couch and continues ramming into you. Barking at another of the few people left in your home “to get their shit together and get the fuck out—“ before you can reach your climax. Laughing when they run out with their tail between their legs. Laughing harder when you don’t so much as hear it over the grotesque sounds of Mark slamming his cock into you. All you can hear is him, all you can feel is him, all you can taste as you orgasm around his cock and he pulls it out just to shove it into your drooling, open mouth, is your own slick and his hot release as he buries it down your throat. Pinching your nose to keep every drop of it inside, releasing it only when you begin to turn blue. Watching over the bridge of his nose and the twitch of his half-stiff length as you cough and whimper, one hand clinging to his thigh, the other filling the emptiness he left behind with your fingers. Chasing that high as desperately as you possibly can.
Through your tearful eyes and the quiet of your home, empty, shared only by you and Mark, all you can see is how much more he wants from you. How starving he is. How much of you he is ready to continue chewing away at. And you let him. You sink down before him and swallow his length into your begging lips and something like a growl emanates from Mark’s lips. His claws burying themselves into your hair and against your scalp, pushing your head down to the hilt, nose buried in his pubes. Wrenching you back by your hair when all the alcohol has finally caught up to him and the only convenient spot to release it all is the open willing part of your lips. The vibrations of his deep laughter as the bitter liquid bobbed at your throat and dribbled down the side of your mouth, staining your ruined work shirt. Smiling even bigger when you lap up the last drops of piss from Mark’s head and go back to sucking him off. Hand clutching at his thigh, hand fingering yourself raw.
“Oh, your poor thing.” Mark coos and it feels like being kissed. “You really are something special, huh?”
writer's comments: wow! you made it to the end! did you enjoy it? did you feel truly "loved" by mark? thanks so much for reading if you made it all the way here! i unfortunately am full with sinister mark parasites and he drives me utterly insane-- so i hope you felt a percentage of that insanity with me! i have plans for a mohawk mark fic after this but please send requests if you have them! i love doing little hc posts or mini-stuff as well so be my guest. remember to smoke safely friends!
walking in on mark grayson jerking off to you is a sight you don't want to look away from. his half naked body, hem of his shirt tucked between straight white teeth, and painfully hard cock is your siren's call.
he's trying to keep his whimpers to a low volume, but the way his thumb keeps playing with the weeping slit of his cock is making it rather difficult. the crease in his brows grows more evident when his back arches off the mattress of your shared bed. his heels are dug into the bedding, while in the crudest fashion possible, mark fucks his fist like he would fuck you if he knew you were here.
the few sparse pubic hairs surrounding his thick shaft tickles the curve of his fist with every hurried pump downward. his abdomen clenches and relaxes in waves due to the pleasure racketing down his curved spinal column. he's chasing a orgasm that's frustratingly stubborn at getting away from him.
" please . . .please " he begs through drool soaked cloth. " please let me cum, baby."
your hands turn sweaty at the lewd show. tongue heavy and dangerously dry in your mouth. every fluid you are made up of has rushed south. your greedy pussy demands to soak the crotch of your panties because your boyfriend is jerking off to the thought of you.
his whines turn higher, voice cracking when his free hand goes to cup his swollen ballsack. fingers massaging and rolling sensitive package in a crappy rendition of how you touch him there. it seems you know his body better than he does, which is utterly pathetic. but pathetic looks good on Mark Grayson. it makes him look like a kicked puppy, all watery eyed and runny nose. crying for his pretty thing to come fuck him and suck him, or suck him and fuck him either way. he wants to cum, and it seems like you're the only one to make him orgasm now.
[ID: two photos of a porcelain triceratops from different angles. The triceratops is very small and has blue floral designs on its crown and body. Its three horns are painted with gold luster.]
This is what Ollie looked like at the end of the desert arc btw. I think there was so much going on people didn’t notice bro was naked covered in blood and sunburnt to shit.
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