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marsiltrum · 17 days ago

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&&. "my friend's weird new roommate." (au! sinister mark x gn!reader)

warnings: 18+, mentions of death/killing, dryhumping, this is just regular life (death/taxes/going to college while being minimum wage), shitty friends, thighfucking, denial, debbie is deceased in this verse, reader is gender neutral but there will be mention of afab genitalia, etc. summary: everyone told you that it would get better before it got worse. two years in, the only thing college has seemed to do is remind you how little you mean to the world. after your roommate finds a partner, they leave you with half a portion of rent you can't afford to pay and another silent night in what should be home. everything changes when your new roommate moves in and digs his claws into every hole you've let "your friends" riddle you with.

You know it shouldn't irk you now. The way your friend's parties always seem to brush past you rather than involve you. The way rides back home seem to grow silent when you slide into the back seat. The times where drinking on your own couch, in your own home, feels like being shunted off to a dusty corner in the play palace. All the big kids get to laugh and smoke and kick their feet up onto your clean furniture. But you, little old you? You count the dust bunnies. You clean the dirty dishes and shot glasses. That is your lot in life, they've decided.

A part of you knows that you've decided that as well.

Your mom had told you things would be better than high school. Speaking in that gentle, teasing way as she patted your shoulder that made you feel as ridiculousness as you did comforted. Your father told you it couldn't get any worse and you'd been hopeful that day, so you agreed, and they let you go with that. Dropped you right back in with the wolves, left you with your moving boxes and your brand new shiny key. This was going to be different, you told yourself. This was going to be a good thing, you repeated. You were going to live with someone else. You were going to get an education you hardly prepared yourself for. You were going to make new friends. All these new things were going to be good things; all good, new things that were going to erase all the horrible years before.

When your roommate dropped his key onto the kitchen counter, you hadn't even had the chance to bite into your dinner yet. It was just some shitty meal you'd cobbled together with the spare change you had after paying the internet bill (which he didn't split with you, which he'd never paid for) but all you could pay attention to was the fact that he hadn't even the courtesy to hand it over. "I'm moving in with my partner." He said, as if the words weren't world-crushing. Rent was due in a week. You'd had a good shift the night before but not good enough for rent for two. Every month for the last two years had always been like this and he knew it; you knew that he knew that.

"They're coming back to help me move everything into their car on Wednesday so you can help us out." You hated it when people spoke to you like that. This expecting tone, this one that said "you'll do it, right" with nothing but voice alone.

"I work Wednesdays. You know that." You'd worked Wednesdays everyday for the last year. You only missed one, once, and he was the very reason why. (Some drunk night out. Liquor and vomit and a mess you had to spend the whole day cleaning, cloth to your mouth, tears in your eyes, frustration and disgust and shame.) He knew that. You knew he knew that.

"Hm. Okay." That was it. No goodbye, no "thank you for being around". You don't even get the luxury of waving him off when Wednesday finally comes around. He's still in his room when you leave for work in the morning and when you return at night, there's silence and an open bedroom door. Peace and quiet. Peace, quiet, and five days left before you have to pay for rent for two.

It's pure desperation that drives you to post nearly anywhere you can possibly imagine that you are in need a roommate and fast. Printed and stapled onto your college's community board, plastered on the telephone poles in your city, slapped onto craigslist, thrown at reddit's merciless dogs; everything, anything. After the first day, you're desperately texting your friends. After the second day, when none of them respond or deny knowing anyone looking, you start emailing your classmates. Everything is going to better, you remind yourself, it can't get worse.

On the fourth day, you are laying on your living room couch and staring at the black screen of your phone. Enjoying the silence. Accepting that you were going to be out of a home and that your parents, sweet as they are absent, weren't going to help you out of this one. No one was going to help you. That was your lot in life. No one was going to remember you, little old you. You were going to count all the dust bunnies and do all your shifts and finish all your work and clean up all the vomit and that was what you were going to be.

You count. You have to count for something.

You remember counting the time when your phone screams open with light from the notification. Ten-forty at night and you bolt up fast. Spine whining from the adjustment, hip cracking at the speed. You don't recognize the name but you recognize the group it's coming from. Some public group for your town that you had been desperate enough to use an account you hadn't touched in months to post on. [LOOKING FOR ROOMMATE. ASAP.] It was sloppily written and so needy as to be creepy and you knew it but it was day two and you were still hopeful then. Something about that little bit of hope tingles up in you. Winds its way around your spine and starts bearing down on your chest as you read the message.

Mark S Grayson: still looking?

And just that.

"still looking" and a notification, a moment after you finally remember how to breathe, that a message has been sent to you by Mark S Grayson. The contents of the message as innocuous as the first notification.

Mark S Grayson: I can pay by tomorrow afternoon.

For an hour after, you talk to this Mark Grayson. Smooth through his profile. Look at his pictures while waiting for a response to each question you throw his way after the shock finally fades and you start typing. "I live an hour away." He says and you stare at a picture of him at his high school graduation. He's tall but not that skinny either. "Don't have any pets if that's a problem." He's got his mom somewhere in his picture but you don't spot a dad and even if you did, you didn't want to search too far in. "Got security deposit and first two months." But he seems... safe, that's what you tell yourself. He's got a job somewhere on his profile and he's around your age and somewhere in that, the desperation mixed thoroughly in, the shame of no one else, you accept his offer.

When you wake up the next day and check your bank account, there's more money in your checkings account than you had seen in a while. A deposit, zelled to you by a Markus Sebastian Grayson, of rent for the next two months and the security deposit nestled on top. You nearly cry when you transfer it seconds later and all that money disappears into your landlord's wallet. But then all the fear collapses out of you. All the time you've spent these last few days, running around like a chicken without your head, all the despair, all the counting (Quarters, pennies, anything you might have lying around. Anything to pay the bill. Anything to not have to go back, to not be a burden), it disappears and you sleep again.

When you wake up, there's a text message from Mark Grayson. Short. Mark. You hadn't filled out his full contact information on your phone. Just Mark. You really thought the offer was too good to be true. Too perfect to be possible.

Mark: Be there tomorrow.

Mark is there when he says so. In the middle of feverish tidying up, still teetering on the brink of despair and hope, Mark Grayson rings the doorbell. Taller than you expect him to be. A bit broader than any normal person should be. But he's standing there, two duffel bags and pushed back black hair. A couple little strands sticking out. Some tired look to his eyes that don't feel like sleep but feel like something permanent, adhered to him. You don't really see a Markus Sebastian Grayson (Not in the way his clothes seem to cling to him like a third skin. Like there's something between there, a second thing, between fabric and flesh.) but you do see a Mark and Mark, with those tired, dark eyes, sees you too.

"You're the one I was talking to." Not a question, a confirmation. One look, in the seemingly endless black of Mark Grayson's eyes, that says with no voice to speak it, 'I can see right through you.'

It feels like Mark Grayson is always seeing you after you meet him.

Always the first thing when you notice when you come home from work. Always somewhere out now in your town. Not doing much but always around. Thirteen hour shift and Mark is in the kitchen, under the microwave light, reading something on his phone while heating a pan on the stove. Waking up to him on the couch, quiet, watching something on the screen. On the car ride home when you pull into your neighborhood, walking somewhere in the dark of night, somewhere confident enough that he never seems to be on his phone while doing so. Mark Grayson is everywhere now that you notice him, in the same way that the wind is, stronger on stormy days, gentler on sunny mornings.

Mark doesn't meet your friends so much as he stumbles upon them when he comes in through the front door. He stays. He chats. You watch him talk and everything about the way he speaks to them sounds more natural than anything you could ever say. From the stool on the kitchen island, you watch him, back turned to you, and Mark Grayson, a complete stranger, feels closer to them than you ever possibly could be with any of your so-called "friends." Just an hour of conversation and you can see it in the way they speak, in the way they laugh. Feel it when they shake his hand, feel it in how one of your friend's tugs at his sleeve, pulls him closer to stay and keep talking.

But you see something when he finally excuses himself. Chuckling as he turned away and down towards the hallway leading up to his bedroom. A minute, infinitesimally tiny expression. Something so small as to be non-existent, but you catch it. On Mark Grayson's face, right there in his eyes, is some snapshot of a man that is so disgusted he could choke the very life out of something to rid himself of it. And from the corner of his endless black eye, you can see Mark looking right back at you, noticing him noticing you.

Your friends come by more often now than Mark is here.

Every other night, it feels like there's some sort of excuse or reason as to why they come over. "I just finished this stupid assignment I've been working on for two weeks." Another day. "Coming over with" (whoever, whatever) "and a bottle of reposado. Mark should join." The next day. "Is Mark there? Gonna pass by with a couple friends, wanted to talk to him about something." You never really understood why they texted you about it rather than him, but a part of you knew. You were a speed bump. An orange cone.

If they didn't run it by you, they couldn't be considered "friends" enough to keep coming over. To keep sitting on your couch, to keep using your cups, to keep eating your fill.

You don't notice how much things begin to change with Mark around. Not at first, anyways. The places he chooses to sit, the way he uses his body around your friends. Using his heavy hands to shove people out of the way when he goes to the kitchen. Just enough force to startle, just not enough to get a real reaction out of them. Always standing with his back to the door. Cutting off the choice to get out; laughing quietly when someone is forced to squeeze past him and his broad frame. It's mean, almost, it's got a bite to it that no one addresses but you can feel it.

The things he says sometimes too. The way they come out. The kind of thing that would punch ice through your chest and out your back if Mark said them to you. Delivered in this sort of mocking, canary-like, poisonous way. "You really think another drink is what you need?" Mark Grayson, in his soft, gentle tone, with his arm curled around your "friend's" shoulders. "You got a real problem, man. You know, let's get you another drink." Balancing his drink with three fingers, smiling like it's natural, not like the sun but like a great, hungry maw. Waiting to devour them whole. "Go put your glass in the sink and wash it. You might as well have the whole bottle to sip yourself."

When everyone finally leaves and you are lighting a candle to waft away the smell of fast food and joints, you grab your cup and head for the sink. For the first time, in the two months since meeting Mark Grayson, the sink is completely empty. When you look up, there's orange light pouring in from the bathroom and Mark is standing there in the doorway. Staring at you, drying his hands off, leaning on the frame like he's studying you. It doesn't matter that you've looked away or that you start washing your cup. He's noticed you noticing him and it only draws him closer.

"Must want them dead." Mark says, like it's utter fact, completely uncontested. He says it like it's true, which it is, but all you do is focus on the water which feels easier to focus on than Mark's words or his eyes or his frame, which peeks into your peripherals. Big, wide biceps in a loose black wife beater. Hands that could wring someone's spine out like a vice. Leaning against the stove next to the sink, arms crossed like he's in thought but you can feel the difference now. He isn't thinking, Mark is inspecting you. He isn't waiting for you to keep counting the stains on the glass or the dust bunnies. Leaning closer, Mark Grayson is speaking and it's only for you to hear. "You do, don't you?"

"Don't act like it's just me." The only people that couldn't see it was them. But you could see it. In all the ways Mark smiled, like he was fitting on another person's lips right onto his own. The way he would continue pouring the bottle even after your friends started to protest, filling their cups, filling it even more when they weren't looking. All of Mark's gentle "pushes" and "shoves" that were more punches done with comedic "intent" and shoulder checks with bone and tightly-wound muscle. "I just wish they'd stop acting like it matters if I'm around when they are here for you." It's jealous and it's bitter and you know it. But Mark doesn't address it. He doesn't so much as blink, but he does follow. When you dry the cup and put it away, you can feel Mark's eyes trailing after you and when you go towards the couch (One last inspection. Habit, ritual at this point), Mark is a step away from you.

When you assess and there's nothing, no bags, no napkins, no spare utensils and scattered chips, you turn and Mark is behind you.

You'd always noticed, of course. The size of him, the make of him. Mark Grayson is six feet of pure muscle and no gym membership to show for it. No gym clothes in your dryer that you have to boot out into a laundry basket because it's been sitting there waiting for you to deal with. No duffel bag that you'd stumble over because it's in the hallway rather than his room like your other roommate. Wherever it is that Mark Grayson goes when you don't see him, when you don't notice him, it's keeping him built like a panther and of course you notice.

You notice because there are times it feels like he wants you to know how strong he is. Not in some weird bizarro jock way but in a Mark way. Pulling the table back with one hand so you can grab your phone that fell under it like it's made out of cardboard and paper. Flattening a roach that had been harassing the kitchen for two days straight under his palm while setting up his dinner, quick, easy, almost carelessly. Wrenching your tire off when you hit a nail outside your driveway and carrying it under his arm while you replace it with a new one. You didn't stare but of course you had, and even if you didn't, the glimpses are what Mark notices. Perceives with such quick simple recognition. 'I can see right through you.' Always there in every look. Like he's already imagined burying himself right in you. Living in all the little insecurities and hunger and split-second glimpses you've given him.

You can feel it now, as he's standing before you. Couch set between you and Mark's looming body. Even with the light of the bathroom streaming in against him, Mark's eyes seemed like two voids. Not tired, no. Feverish. Not feverish, no, hungry.

"You think you deserve better than them." You can feel Mark's voice vibrating off his chest. Feel it in the way that it resonates down to the pit of your stomach and crashes right back up into your heart. The pounding, beating thing rising to your throat when Mark's hands lift and you can feel them settle there on the sides of your neck. Heavy, slightly cold things that sit on your jugular and force you to look up. "Hm.”

Hm and Okay. No goodbye and no respect. Dirty dishes and vomit on the carpet and texts that say “had no clue you weren't coming” and “we didn’t think to invite you” and Mark Grayson’s hands, which feel as wide as they do terrible, and the fact that you know he’s doing something at night because you follow him every once in a while. You turn your lights off and you coast somewhere close and once, you even got out and started walking by foot. Mark and his steady pace and his phone-less nights and you can tell he’s doing something. Something that requires strength, something that requires muscle, something that makes it so his skin always smells vaguely of cleaner and iron. You know something about Mark isn’t right because no one would travel an hour away from home, last minute, thousands of dollars thrown at the wall, and somehow not have one congratulations or goodbye post written by his Mom.

The account hadn’t been active in months. All the photos of Mark’s mother were old. Debbie Grayson was a phantom on the web and Mark Grayson was still lauding it around as ammo. Mark Grayson, in all his black and yellow fabrics, black shorts that had the tag still on them once, a jacket that you remember seeing on a classmate once, was doing something to this town. Not just to your friends, but this whole city and you were the center of his storm’s eye. The one building left untouched.

“Maybe they don’t.” Mark says simply. “You might be right.”

Two days later, one of your friends posts on Instagram that his little brother has gone missing and one messages you asking if you’ve seen their girlfriend since you take class with her. You have to remind them that you’ve never taken classes with her and the other never asks for your help even as they start putting fliers up.

Mark is watching you the whole day afterwards. Watching as you wring your hair, staring with his tired eyes as you wander circles around the living room and kitchen. Wondering to yourself what the fuck is going on and knowing exactly what’s going on and letting you continue until you’ve finally sat down. Only then is Mark upon you again, as if giving yourself a moment to breathe means he’s allowed to fill it back up with himself. Mark is standing there over you, but this time it’s the kitchen counter and this time, he’s as unsubtle as the day before. Reaching over you to grab your phone from the ledge. Looking it over before dropping it gently onto your lap.

“You could give them a call.” Mark knows you won’t. You know you won’t. He knows you just as well as you do. “Maybe they’ll come over here and beg to cry into your shoulder. You think they’re feeling up to it?” You wanted to hate the way Mark spoke about them sometimes when he knows they can’t hear. This horrible, mocking voice that sounds almost like them but echoed back somehow crueler. With all his teeth and tongue and jaw. “What do you think?”

“Why not do it to them, Mark?” It’s a genuine question. A part of that is what Mark likes about you. How earnest you are. How transparent you are under all those invisible little layers. He almost can’t stop himself from drooling when you look up at him. There’s enough hate and conflict and intrigue in your eyes to fill an ocean with. “Why not just get rid of them?” You speak and even though it’s just a whisper, he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek and he inhales in. Just enough to have you live in his lungs for one second longer.

Just enough to finally get the chance to kiss you.

Your back pressed against the hard edge of the kitchen counter, his hands cupped around your waist. The heavy weight of his body pressed against your chest and the dull, slow beat of his heart slapping against your lungs. Mark Grayson isn't kissing you as much as he's devouring you. Watching as you squirm against him, hesitant and frigid, protesting weakly, "Mark-- This isn't- I'm not--" but not pushing back.

Mark remembers the way you reacted when a friend of a friend touched you. A loose and careless hand around your shoulder. Tugging you close to a red solo cup lip; laughing when you lifted your hand and refused, laughing more when you try to recline back and only stopping when it ghosted your lips. You remember looking out of the corner of your eye and seeing Mark across the room. Lounged over your couch alone, arms rested over the back, the whole room a void with him at the very center. All these beating, breathing bodies in your home and your new roommate was the only one in it that truly looked alive. Surrounded by so many future victims. Looking at you. Only you.

Mark Grayson wants to bury himself in you. You can feel it in his palms, in his invasive fingers as they dip beneath your shirt and splay across your stomach. Dragging themselves, an inch at a time, across to your back where he only pulls you closer. He groans when your protests turn into whimpers, your body melting against his. You don't even notice when he pulls you off the chair, only realizing when you're dropped, back first, into the couch. The air punched out of you and replaced with his lips before you can breathe back in. Claiming you, warming you, the weight of his heavy, sturdy body pressed into your skin.

After what feels like a century, Mark pulls away and speaks while you suck every ounce of air back into your lungs. His pupils blown completely wide. The heavy, slow beat of his heart pulsing against your thighs and lower stomach as he leans back down, pressing soft, hungry kisses against your neck. The drag of his teeth over your jugular. Chest pressed against yours, hands dragging your hips against his own. "I want it to tear them apart." Mark chuckles. A deep, heavy thing that feels like it's coming from somewhere further and dirtier than the body he's caged you under. Yet the only thing you can feet is the wet heat of his body against yours, the dizzy stars of oxygen starvation dancing around Mark Grayson's feverish black eyes. "Don't you think it's right?" Another kiss, pressed against your collarbone. Another kiss, pressed against your clothed shoulder. "Their just desserts?"

"Mark---" He eats up the way his name sounds on your lips. You can tell. Feel it in the way his cock twitches up against the fabric of his sweatpants and pulses against your inner thigh. Chews on the sound of your quiet, surprised whimper when he rolls his hips up to hear you repeat it again. Quieter but hungrier. "Mark." You don't know what it is that's making him harder. Hearing you beg for him to slow down or the fact that there's people out there, right now, pleading to find their loved ones, who will only find them in pieces. And that's being hopeful. That's assuming Mark left anything for them to find at all. "Is this what you came here to do?" You whisper out and Mark seems utterly unfazed. Concentrated more on the flesh of your thighs as he pulls your pants off one leg at a time, the way the skin sinks beneath his thumbs as he brings them up against his chest. Pressing the full weight of his body down upon you, the heavy warmth of his length grinding against your clothed cunt. "To destroy, shit-- this fucking town too?"

"Maybe." Mark mumbles out against your mouth, canines catching on your bottom lip, the taste of pennies against your wet tongue. "But tomorrow. Maybe in a week." You can feel his hands everywhere. Through your hair, kneading the flesh of your ass, fingers brushing your nipples, wet teeth against your jawline, but it still doesn't feel like enough. He thrusts up against, harder, sloppier, head dripping against his boxers, and you can feel just how little resistance your underwear is giving against him. "But fuck, for right now?" He could rip them off. Pound you right into the couch cushions right here and now but there's no fun in that. No fun in making everything quick and easy. He’ll stay here with you forever, trapped under his arms, watching as you weakly follow after his hips, feeling you drip down against his heavy balls, begging for more despite all your protests and questions.

"I think I want to destroy you first."

writer's comments: hi there! if you got here to the bottom, thank you for reading! this is greatly and wonderfully inspired by my dear friend cherubz (@sepulchr4l on twt) who has the juiciest most wonderful apartment au and it inspired me to write this! i might continue this, i probably will, and if you guys are into that-- then i can definitely do a part two! sinister mark is my second fav mark variant (i want you to Guess who is #1) and i love writing this fucked up, terrible, horrible man. i hope you enjoyed and thank you again!

#invincible x reader #sinister mark x reader #invincible x you #invincible x y/n #sinister mark x you #mark variant x reader #alternative universe #invincible fic #invincible imagine #anyways so how are you guys doing on this wonderful tuesday afternoon #i hope this makes a good intro to this blog

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stars-eclipsing · 3 days ago

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#- Who let the dog out?

Features: The dawg, Mohawk mark.

Merchant's tip: "Wonderland can be very scary, but if you show it you're scared, it’ll try and take advantage of you…

Oh, and try and remember something... your actions have consequences...good luck"

Tags: Kinda creepy, lots of mentions of death but no one dies, also its just suggestive at the end I guess? Kinda dubious consent tho errrr

wc: 2.2k

You hit someone.

You think you did. You're not sure.

Your hands are locked on the steering wheel. Your knuckles have gone white. You can hear your heart in your ears, high and shrill and unnatural.

You open the door. Not because you're ready, but because you need to.

Your legs shake. You're trying to walk normally, as though someone didn't just crash into your windshield. Your body won't cooperate.

Still, you force yourself forward. One step. Then another.

The man’s lying there, sprawled like a ragdoll in the middle of the road.

You crouch in front of him, breath catching. Blood pools beneath him—too much blood, and from where, you can’t even tell. The sight makes your eyes blur, your stomach flip.

Your mouth works before your brain does. “Hello…?”

The man almost immediately groans, shifting slightly, though you suspect it's more of a spasm.

With the sign of sentience, panic builds into your body, and you clutch his shoulders, “Hello?! Hello, are you okay?”

You let go of him and fumble with the phone in the back of your pocket. You get the password wrong a few times in your state of alarm, and it just makes you panic even more.

You want to say something to relieve him of the agony he must feel. But all you can come up with is, “Im going to c-call an ambulance…” You slur your words as you fumble with the buttons.

“Wait,” He says, perfectly clear. Though his voice is a little raspy.

You immediately obey, looking up from your phone to the man, “W-What is it?”

“Don't call an ambulance.”

Your heart is beating loudly, pumping so much oxygen in your blood you're somehow growing woozy, “Okay…”

He sits up with a grunt, clutching his side. Your eyes stare lifelessly at his face, purposefully avoiding the wound.

“Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” You speak slowly, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. You're not sure you're pronouncing words properly.

He shakes his head, and you notice a shaky grin on his face. You suppose because he is scared that he is going to die, “No. No hospital.”

You speak before you think, “Please, I’ll cover the expenses–”

He lets out another loud groan, and the shrill sound in your ears grows louder.

“No…” His face is beading with sweat and he’s breathing shallowly, “Can you… can you stitch me up?”

No. You’re not a doctor. You don't even know what that would mean. “I have a first aid kit in my car.”

He speaks to you calmly, “Alright. Then go get it.”

At his sharp tone, you snapped out of your brain fog and got up, bambi-scrambling to your car. You find that familiar white box you've never used in the passenger seat compartment. With shaky hands, you set it down on the asphalt, and click open the latches.

“Can you go a bit faster, sweetheart?” You hear him tell you, almost like a taunt, “You don't want a criminal record this young, do you…?”

You take some antiseptic, and look towards him. He's already presenting his wound to you.

Fuck.

You resist a gag because you know you’ll end up immediately throwing up. You want to pass out and never wake up after this. It's so bad. It looks really really bad and it's pulsing. Oh my god it's pulsing and it's bleeding so much. Oh God…

You don't understand… Why hasn't someone driven by? Did the neighbors not hear the crash of a body colliding with your windshield? Making a huge crack onto it? Did they not hear your car skidding to a halt? Or the way your heart beat so much it was about to jump out of your chest?

You don't understand.

You feel a hand coming on your shoulder, snapping you out of your panicked fit, “Easy there, sweetheart,” He tells you, boredom seeping into his tone, “Calm down. It's fine.”

You don't know when you started sobbing, “It's not fine. You’re going to die.”

He snorts, “I ain’t gonna fuckin’ die.”

You can't help yourself when he gathers you in his arms, shushing you. You feel the warm wetness of his blood against your side, but you don't care. You cry into the crook of his neck. Confused. Confused on why this is happening to you and why nobody is coming to help. Why…

“Are you sure?” You ask, shakily.

“Pretty fuckin’ sure,” He tips your chin to look up at him. His pupils are blown wide, but other than that, he looks fine… His skin color is a normal shade, too. In fact, it even seems to be a bit ruddy…

“Would you feel better if you stitched me up at your house?”

You nod gratefully, sniveling and heaving, but grateful for the opportunity. Grateful that he isn't mad at you. Or sad that he is going to die on the road. Because you’re the one already sad that he is going to die on the road.

You stand up first, and extend your hand to help him get up. He leans his weight mostly on you, and he groans with each step you take. But you make it to the car.

You help him to the passenger seat, and click the seatbelt in place for him.

“Safety first, right?” He mocks with an upturn of his lips.

Your stomach churns.

The ride back to your house is quiet. At first, he runs his eyes along the interior of your car, curious. After a while, he just lays there, eyes closed, but breathing. You have never been so happy that someone is breathing.

You slow and put the car in park in your driveway. He still hasn't opened his eyes yet.

Driving sobered you up a bit from your panic, and you’re feeling steady on your feet when you circle around and open the car door. You haven't even realized how much the car had smelled coppery from the stench of blood till you're exposed to fresh air.

You lean across his form to unbuckle the seatbelt when he stirs, like he woke up from a cat nap. You pause.

“You’re a little touchy-feely, aren't you?”

It's strange how there isn't even a tremor to his voice. It's all so strange, really. When will someone realize something is wrong and come help you…?

“Sorry,” You say, a little embarrassed. But you still act as his crutch as you reach your doorstep. He leans most, if not all his weight on you. He must be in a world of pain, poor thing... And he still had the decency to help you calm down. You need to get your mind straight and help him.

Like he did in the car, the second he arrives in your home, his eyes rake over every crevice.

He whistles, “You live here? Fucking cherry, babe.”

Your home is nice. Not because you got a job and worked hard for it, but because it was inherited from your grandmother who gave it to you after she was admitted to a care home.

It's a two story open floor plan. The furniture is old. But it has its charm.

The french windows were always open, letting in the fresh air. Tonight, the first thing you do when you get home is shut them.

You don't know why you don't want anyone to know there is a bleeding man in your home, but suddenly the noble part of you that was willing to accompany him to the hospital and face charges for your crimes was gone. He did not want to go to the hospital, and you did not want to go to jail. Maybe you could work something out…

For now, you grab the bigger first aid kit at the top of your kitchen cabinet. This one had much more equipment than the one in your car.

When you pass by the closed window, the darkness makes a sort of mirror. When you see your face in the reflection, you blink. Your face is bleak and sunken. Your eyes have puffy bags under them and your hair is a mess.

You rinse your face before going to see him again. You feel infinitely better afterwards. Not good, because you're still scared and you're feeling lost. But better.

You spend a good part of the night learning how to stitch a wound.

While you're watching the tutorial, he lays lazily on the couch next to you. Watching, but not with much attention.

When you calmed down and told him you didn't know how to close a wound, but you’d be happy to hold his skin together while he stitched, he laughed in your face.

“Well, you better fucking learn then, huh?” He had told you.

You're not that weird. You first helped him with the bleeding and the wound’s much cleaner now. There's a warm dish towel pressed to it to stop any more bleeding. However, it's been a few minutes and the cloth is still completely white.

He sits there. Shirtless and a little sweaty next to you. You’re not sure when he put his cheek on your shoulder. But he does. A heat blooms on the apples of your cheeks.

“This is soo boring,” He laments.

“I am trying to save your life…” You mutter. Not really convinced in yourself either.

You put your phone down, confident in the technique, and take a deep breath. You spend a few moments threading the thin string to the eye of the needle, and his yawning exaggeratedly did not make your hand any less shaky.

The wounds shallower than you remember when you were scared in the dark and alone. But the pink flesh still pulses, thrumming.

He holds the edges of his skin together like he’s half assing a task at his corporate job. You don't deter, remaining focused as the needle pierces his skin.

And so, you begin to stitch.

There's hardly even a grunt of pain on his end. You suppose he’s tired of that. Still, the way the thin needle pierces the flesh makes your heart beat faster with fear and your hands start to get sweaty.

You’re at it for a few minutes. Finally, there's the satisfying snip of sharp scissors cutting the thread.

You did it. You really did it. It doesn't look very pretty, but you could care less, really. He is not going to die. And you played hero. God…

You allow your shoulders to sag and to exhale deeply. Almost immediately after, fatigue hits your body faster than you hit the… All the adrenaline keeping your form steady seeps out of your system as you begin to calm.

You throw the dishcloth into the laundry basket and put everything back in place. You wash your hands that are already clean (hardly any blood on him by the time you started), but just in case.

You’re beginning to feel dizzy. The events of tonight are finally starting to catch up to you. All you want to do is fall asleep on your warm bed and forget this all happened.

From behind you, two hands creep across your waist, wrapping around it. He leans his chin on your shoulder.

You stop. And your heart is back to beating like a hummingbird. You swallow before you speak, “...Yes?”

He hums, muttering against your skin, “Thank you. For taking care of me.” His words are breathy and have a lilt of something… devilish in them, “That was so…” He smirks, though you can’t see, “Brave.”

Inhaling deeply through your nose, you answer, “You're welcome. And…” You swallow, genuinely guilty, “I'm sorry for what I did to you.” You can't say out loud what exactly. Not yet.

He almost says for what? Then catches himself, clearing his throat, “It's not that big of a deal, honest…” He grins, “I'm a very forgiving person, you know?”

His hands begin to entertain themselves by moving under your shirt, feeling at the soft flesh there. You remain deathly still.

“Listen, doll,” He starts, “You know I hate to bother a pretty little thing like you, but you wouldn't mind if I crashed here a couple days, would you?” He starts to play with the waistband of your pants, and a heat starts to pool in your stomach, “Just until I recover. Then I’ll be out of your hair. Promise…” The low timbre of his voice was starting to do things to your head.

You don't know when you started to lean into his touch, just that you started to nod, “Yea, okay. Obviously… stay–” You choke on your words as his other hand inches towards your breasts, “Stay as long as you need.”

He chuckles darkly, “You’re such a doll…”

#Wow ur so sweet. Im impressed #wouldve left that idiot to die in the road #invincible #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #mohawk mark x reader #invincible variants #mohawk mark #eclipse's mark grayson #eclipse's case files #Hi. Its me one day later. i edited it cause the intro sucked before LOL

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crashnbrn · 5 months ago

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THE NEW SEVERANCE SEASON 2 INTRO!!!

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oprahsfriendgayle · 3 months ago

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The amount of detail!!!!!!

#severance #severance mark #severance intro #mark s #gemma x mark #severance spoilers #severance season two

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kestrel-of-herran · 3 months ago

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severance opening animation breakdown, part 2/2 (part 1)

commentary is below each image.

now this is really fascinating. here we have innie mark lifting the curtain so outie mark can go into the testing floor elevator (note the red arrow pointing down). outie mark seems scared and is going backwards (i can't imagine being in lumon feels relaxing). so to me this is outie mark assuming innie mark's identity to get to the testing floor and gemma.

but then we have innie mark carrying outie mark through another curtain, this time indicating the regular lumon elevator (note the green arrow pointing up). what's really striking here is that outie mark appears to be unconscious now, not even walking backwards in fear but completely out. innie mark is in control of that motion.

now here is where i think we really need to pay attention. first, note the symmetry of the twin sides of the book. on one page we have innie mark carrying outie mark in some relation to the elevator, with gemma's heads and many crouching/suffering innie marks around. on the other we have outie mark carrying innie mark again in relation to the elevator, with helly heads and crouching/suffering outie marks around. cobel is looking over it all bc the book is lumon's testing floor, her experiment. likely this is the regular elevator and both marks are going into lumon.

i can't decide if one mark carrying another means the walking mark is in control of the movement, or the walking mark is just a body and the carried mark is in control of the movement. the suffering marks are easier to explain -- each of the choices will be painful, even when winning, because each mark remembers the other mark's love enough to feel the pain of its loss. it's interesting to note that both marks are carrying the other towards one set of heads and away from the other -- outie mark carrying innie mark towards gemma and away from helly, with some part of outie mark suffering for it, and innie mark carrying outie mark towards helly and away from gemma, with some part of innie mark suffering for it. getting to gemma means leaving helly, getting to helly means leaving gemma. so maybe the walking mark really is the one in control. this is all happening under cobel's gaze, it's all part of her experiment, she wants to know which mark will take precedence.

lots have been said about the elevator shot already. i think two things are significant here: (1) outie mark gets spooked by something. he's in cobel's head, so maybe she did trick both marks and he realized that he was playing by her plan. he drops the torch and starts running towards the elevator, like he changed his mind at the last moment. (2) the last person in the elevator shot before the doors close is helly. she's the one outie mark is running to save.

lastly, the kier eagan baby head. mark participating in the literal or metaphorical siring of the world eagan wants to make, or both.

#*bows down*#this show said we see you love analysis here's a little treat #severance #severance theories #severance spoilers #markhelly #markhellyna #markgemma #mark s #mark scout #helly r #severance intro

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toddtakefive · 1 year ago

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one of my favorite things about dps is the completely irrelevant background conversations/comments you’re probably not meant to hear but are still just barely audible? like the two guys in the study room arguing over their turns on the dart board, or the guys laughing under their breath and making ridiculing remarks when knox reads out his poem for chris, or the people in the opening scenes you can hear finding their friends and saying hi. it literally doesn’t matter at all, but it makes it feel so much realer and like you’ve really just been dropped into the setting with todd on the first day.

#tbh a lot of the welton extras are so fun to watch in certain scenes #the guy eating in class (who my friend nik and i dubbed Johnathan ‘Johnny’ Mark Roberts who is tumultuous besties with Stick)#the kid by the door who looks awkward as fuck when mcallister bursts in while they’re tearing out the intros to their books #the kid behinds hopkins that gives him a thumbsuo after his the cat/sat on/the mat poem #spaz and everything He gets up to (the fact that both knox and charlie throws shit at him 😭😭😭???? like LMFAOOO???????)#and ofc everyones favorite with zero dialogue stick #love them so bad i hope theyre all doing alright #dps #dead poets society

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foggymyst · 6 months ago

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Welcome To Mystic's Blog!

↳˗ˏˋAbout Mysticˊˎ˗ ↴

I am an eighteen year old female. I've always been into the idea of hypnotist since I believe elementary school, and found it as a kink when I hit 16. So you bet that when I turned 18 I really dove right into it to get to know more about it.

I'm a lesbian dom, simply because I find women attractive and am generally to scared to sub, so that's that. And I really hope to get to meet so many people as I go on.

I'm excited to learn and grow in my skills as a hypnotist and am open to any and all feedback good and bad, so feel free to send asks whenever! I love answering them!

↳˗ˏˋAbout The Blogˊˎ˗ ↴

This blog is an 18 and up blog where I mainly post hypnosis inductions, hypnosis fantasies, and whatever comes to mind regarding the topic of hypnosis.

This blog is made specifically by a lesbian for lesbians, so while most of my relaxant inductions will not use any specific term, all of my lewder/sex focused inductions will be for the female community, which includes anyone who gets that little twinge in their head and heat between their legs when I call them a "good girl". If that's not you, then it isn't for you. That's all there is to it.

No, this isn't an AFAB or CIS Fem only blog, this is for ANYONE who identifies as FEM. What does that mean? If you have a dick, that is not an immediate expulsion, because trust me, I will work on making inductions for trans females! So long as you're fem leaning of any kind, non-binary, trans-fem, cis-fem, you're welcome to stay and enjoy my blog to the fullest.

But that doesn't mean those masc-leaning or presenting aren't allowed to interact with me. As a lot of doms are male these days, it means a lot if those wiser, more experienced hypnotists can give me pointers/advice. And as mentioned, my more subby male friends can simply use my relaxation inductions if they really want.

↳˗ˏˋRulesˊˎ˗ ↴

✮ Don't use my post to add on an induction, I see plenty of doms reblogging with nothing. I'm not a fan, simply because if you want to be a hypnotist, and your blog is so you can be a hypnotist, do not use other people's works to make you seem like a hypnotist

✮ Please don't start doing inductions on subs who dropped to my work, see sometimes on other people's works where they'll post an induction, a sub will drop, and a dom will go and interact with that sub on that post to get them to play with them. It ain't cool.

✮ Please minors/male subs looking for private sessions DNI! This blog isn't for you, so please move on! Thank you!

↳˗ˏˋMy Tagsˊˎ˗ ↴

Figured that as I grow in popularity that I should come up with my own tags so people can find my work easier, so they are as follows:

❥ #mystic inductions: A tag where all my inductions will be collected for easier findings of them

❥ #mystic rambles: Any rambles or fantasies I have without any actual hypnosis being done

❥ #mystic answers: My answering tag for any asks I get that I have answers to!

❥ #mystic reblogs: My reblog tag for any reblogs I post having to do with my asks

❥ #mystic polls: Any polls I post for some reason or another, usually to get an idea of inductions to do

❥ #mystic asks: Anytime I ask my followers a question not in a poll, typically for fun or ideas!

❥ #mystic audios: All my audio inductions or sound clips since I want to get into that more

↳˗ˏˋMy Linksˊˎ˗ ↴

A collection of my links such as to my main blog/my request form and whatever else I make with it!

❀ My main blog: @spacedoutkeys where I post whatever I want at the time, such as hobbies, photography, life updates, and whatever. SFW and very very greenish

❀ My request form: Mystic's Session Requests where you can go and fill out if you want a session with me! You can check in my bio if it's open or not.

❀ My horny blog for all non hypnosis horny: @starymyst where I'll post all my other horny thoughts and keep this strictly hypno horny lol!

❀ My subby blog: @dewwymyst where I post a bunch of subby fantasies to get them out of my head♡

❀ My survey form: Mystic's Induction Survey where you can answer a quick survey that will allow me to improve and guide my blog for more people, while I'll cover everyone's preferences hopefully, the most common answers will be done first as it will apply to a larger section of my audience!

❀ My Throne: Mystic's Wishlist where you can buy me things instead of constantly asking if I charge people because these items would be why I would charge people lol

↳˗ˏˋHonorable Mentionsˊˎ˗ ↴

My favorite personal subs, hypnoblogs, tists, and whatnot, give them a look and check em out!

◬ @captivecamellia , my personal favorite, while I love all my subs, she's just an absolute cutie patootie. I love her "Good girls make more good girls" vibes and she's so easy to drop! Definitely give her a looksey!♡

◬ @kittygaykitty , absolutely adorable. The second I get my hands on kitty everyone will know.

◬ @waddle-d , an absolute cutie. I just love tapping on her brain and watching her go all cute and stupid for me, a true joy whenever I get notifications from her♡

◬ @compliant-fuckpuppet , precious girl. She's just too cute and I love making her all nice and empty like the good girl she is.

#a very mystic intro #hypnosis blog #18+ mdni #hypnotist #have fun and stay safe #hope to see you soon #introduction post #pinned intro #pinned info #this is a repost yes #the og was marked as mature lol

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