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Oh Jesus Christ I'm old as shit now

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Sorry gang, I'm not dead, I randomly just got hyperinvested in transformers and it's taken over my brain. Just curious what yall wanted to see next from me.

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Tongues and Teeth // (Sinister) Mark Grayson

Notes: Inspired by both the usual (Mdgf) and user @sinfiction who gave me the sinister brain worms in the first place 💔 the plot lowkey sucks I just wanted to get into the cannibalism and smut and you can tell.

Content/warnings: Sinister Mark. Detailed descriptions of injuries/wounds and blood, biting, aforementioned cannibalism. Dub-con turned hinted con and probably kidnapping hinted. Mating press hinted at but not clear.

Word count: 1,117

You've been here for all of five minutes- Sent by Cecil to determine the fates of the eight remaining Invincibles who'd vanished two months ago (because Mark was displaced, post Conquest)- And already, you're lost, being cooked alive in armor you know wouldn't last a second in any real fight with a Viltrumite, no matter how earned by starvation or lack of water, and everything hurts. You kick up sand with every step- hot, and gritty, and you sink as you go. Sunlight reflects off the metal pillars stuck out of the earth, and if not for the visor attached to the helmet, you'd likely be blinded.

The smell of blood draws you in the direction of the setting sun- East, toward a little settlement- Some shoddy concrete lean-tos and makeshift trash and metal structures. The closer you get, the clearer the image of the tiny outpost becomes. Splintered, sunbleached skeletons lie half buried, and torn bits of cloth color the camp, be it weaved into sheets of beige and white plastic bags, or sticking out of the sand.

A yellow dot sits hunched under the shade of a flat bit of rock, and the scent of blood seems to originate from it. Only when you wander some steps further forward, do you finally see the splash of red around his legs, sopped up greedily by the dry earth and only leaving behind a stain. He snaps around when you trip- Stumbling forward and leg falling straight through a sink hole. One second, he's some ten, fifteen feet away, and when you've blinked, then next he's right in your face, breath hot and rank against your skin. Something sinister churns in his one, exposed eye- crinkled at the corner with interest and pupils eating up all of the color in them. Hair sprouts out of his chin, lips slick with spit and body trembling with an excitement seemingly laced with violence.

His hands squeeze your arms tightly as he leans forward, closing harder around the muscle when you bend away from discomfort. Mark's head settles in the crook of your neck, quietly huffing and trying to pick up the smell of your flesh through the multiple layers. A soft grunt passes his lips, a hand sliding up your arm, to your shoulder, and he hooks his fingers around the lip of the protective pad that rests there, before he tears it off your arm, letting the sleeve fall. His lips find your skin, and he lathes his tongue over the muscle, leaving a layer of red spit in a trail as he goes.

Mark moans, a hand falling on your hip, just before he sinks his teeth into your flesh, body pressing into yours and mouth sucking at the wound. You can feel his tongue poking into the divots while his fingers pluck off plates of metal from your body like it's nothing, and his hips grind against you, stuttery and unpracticed- frantic, you think. Rabid. After a minute, the pain starts to blend into something you don't really recognize. Not exact pleasure, but not the all consuming agony you'd expected from his mouth, chewing at the sinew and muscle of your shoulder as he sucks and greedily laps at the running blood from the injury. You're pulled out of your thoughts when he rips the belt around your waist off, and shoves his hand past the hem of your pants.

He pulls off your shoulder with a loud, obnoxious smack, face caked in crimson and teeth stained when he smiles at you, leaning in close to press his lips to yours. It's not romantic in the slightest- Sucking at your tongue like he's trying to eat it out of your face, canines cutting into your flesh and growl reverberating against your mouth. You see his eye roll back before you close yours, and the hand that'd been on your uninjured arm fists in your hair, tugging harshly at your scalp. His nose mashes into yours, and you feel his hard forehead clink against and rattle your skull.

He barely pulls away from more than a few seconds, before you're being tackled into the hot sand and trying to squirm away from the pain. He rips the helmet from off your head to leave you blinded by the sun and exposed to him, and for a short moment while you adjust to the light, he tenderly traces your features with a finger that smells like copper, before he ruins the moment and lathes his tongue over your face.

The rest of the armor around your front is peeled off you like tissue paper, and tossed away into a dune- Sinking the second it hits the sand, to be forgotten and questioned, when you inevitably do have to go back home, and face both Angstrom and Cecil. That's a problem for future you, though- The consequences slip your mind the second Mark gathers the fabric of the crotch of your underwear into his fist and tears it away. You're not given any time to think, before he's smashing his lips against yours again, hand delving between your bodies to slide his fly open and clumsily draw his cock out from his suit.

He doesn't prep you at all- Just buries himself raw to the hilt, and you almost suffocate when you choke on your spit mid-kiss, forced to breathe through your nose and only allowed fresh air when your lungs start to burn, and your fists beat against his shoulder and chest. He pulls back, but you're not given any real space, and he just winds up wrestling your wrists against the ground while he folds you in half.

Your spine aches in protest from the manhandling of your legs onto his shoulders, the brutal, messy pace of inexperienced thrusts, and lack of structural support under your form. Mark, however, seems a lot worse for wear- Breathing ragged, eye flashing with a wild, near rabid intensity and red drool splattering against your cheek. He seemingly remembers, in the haze of pleasure, to rub your clit with his thumb- Just, not that he should be gentle, necessarily, when he mashes the digit roughly against the sensitive bud, and when you cum, gasping and choking, it's more from the motions, than anything else.

He pulls away as you come down from that high, legs falling into the sand as they slip away from his hips. He stands, after a minute, fingers balling up what loose, little cloth is still attached to your form and starting to drag your toward his little camp, smiling down at you, all teeth and an ominous glint in his eye. “I think I'll like you.”

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There's something so funny to me about the difference in atmosphere between the Dark Romance book crowd and the Dead Dove Do Not Eat fanfiction club. One uses the proper terms/descriptions and treats it like its actual labels, and the other one likes using flowery terms to skirt around saying what it is. One is full of cannibalism and stated to be cannibalism, and the other is Stockholm syndrome marketed as teehee! Mutual falling in love.

Did this make any sense at all.

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Randomly got hypermotivated and pumped out 677 words all in one go for the Sinister fic

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What music do the Marks listen to. Main mark very obviously Radiohead but what about Sinister or Omni.

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You're all getting sinister next and it's going to be fucked up and evil btw

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I love the difference between comic and show Mohawk Mark. One looks like the average sleep deprived douchebag who goes to your college, and the other one is a thrill goblin half high on every drug known to man.

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Viltrumite Mark this Viltrumite Mark that. I raise you: Mark that never got his powers and is whipped for a Viltrumite reader.

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Rivulets // (Omni) Mark

Notes: He has another one on the way in multiple parts, this isn't the main solo one for him. I need him so bad.

Warnings/content: Another fingering fic. Can you tell what I like writing. But, this time it's in the bath!! Fluff, soft Dom Mark and some slight teasing. He's a Lil strange but not bad overall. I'm bad at ending fics.

Word count: 524

This is the most relaxed you've seen him in a while. Shoulders slack, the tension drained from his muscles, and eyes closed with the exhaustion built up by the day. Mark's head rests against the tiled wall behind him, and the only way you know he's still awake is because he's breathing in a way that's way too controlled, too deliberate and soft, like he's trying not to bother you. The same way he does in bed every night- Lying back, hands flat on his stomach and eyes on the ceiling, waiting for you to go to sleep before he allows himself to roll on his side and hold you until he eventually drifts off.

Mark stirs when you thread your hand in his hair, pulling you flush against his chest and head dipping to press a kiss into your shoulder. His chin settles there, and he allows himself to crack open an eye, flitting about the room to take it in, before he slightly pulls back, and his hand lifts out of the water to take the bottle of body wash from off the shelf on the wall. He pools some into his hand, lathering it before he massages the soap into your skin with gentle presses and soft scratches. Mark dunks a small cup and pours it over your back and shoulders, eyes following the slick slide of the suds in rivulets down your spine. You hear him swallow, hard, and momentarily pause before he spills the rest of the water over it to fully rinse away any bubbles.

A light tap on your hip tells you to turn around, and you do, facing him and offering your arm for him to scrub over. He swallows harshly at how you hold his stare, eyes half lidded and breath hitching when you slip your hand in his- Fingers intertwining above the surface of the water, before he pulls you into his lap, and lies back. Mark presses kisses to your chest, lips ghosting over your collarbones and nails trailing up your spine, to the back of your head where your skull meets your neck. He takes your hair in one balled up fist to lightly pull your head back, and he drags his tongue over the lump in your throat when granted unobstructed access to the expanse of skin there. Mark's free hand slips beneath the bubbles, and you feel his fingers tease at your entrance, thumb rubbing over your clit in small, slow circles. He pulls away from your neck so he can watch you closely through long lashes.

His pupils are blown out, his lips reddened and glossy with spit, a small, slightly cocky- almost uncharacteristic for him- smile plays at the corner of them, revealing a sliver of straight, pearly white teeth. Mark slides two fingers into you, and he softly hushes you when you whine. They curl upward, and his palm rests flat against your cunt for you to grind against while he fucks you.

He fingers you until you're shivering from the cold water against his chest, arms lazily looped around his neck and eyes drooping with exhaustion.

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I procrastinated on the fics.

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Finally writing Omni Mark gang!!! I swear I'm trying to be organized and work on multiple fics and I definitely won't stall or procrastinate on this!!!

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Distraction meme flashbang + spoilers on who's getting fics next

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The biggest jumpscare in fiction is finding out the male romantic interest has a dick bigger than 6-7 inches. Where is all that going? Respectfully, writer, are you a suitcase?

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How to 'pretty please?' your way into fucking your captive. // Mark Grayson

Notes: This was originally a Lensless test fic before I realized he takes a lot of aspects from multiple variants. Feel free to imagine whoever you want in this. Had a lot of inspiration from @13tinysocks characterization of Lensless and that art they made of Mohawk fingering dregs 💔 Can you tell I'm absolutely normal about mdgf.

Content/warnings: You get kidnapped and almost fuck the guy who did it. Reader could be either female or male, biting, outercourse, whatever you would call touching someone through their clothes. Stalking, dub-con. You get blueballed.

Word count: 702

Ever since Mark had plucked you off the street mid fight and locked you away in his room on a Viltrumite ship parked outside Earth's gravitational field, he'd been staring at you with a kind of expectative glint in his eye that spoke of nothing good for you, or your future. When he wasn't getting into fights, he was bouncing on his heels close behind you, eyes crinkled and smile crooked while he blabbered on about killing some poor soul or squashing rebellions, until you'd respond negatively. Mark gave little indication he cared at all about privacy when you woke up at odd hours of the night to find him cuddled up to you or standing in the corner and watching you sleep, butt ass naked and only barely visible under distant light through the metal shutters over the windows.

He drapes himself over your shoulders as you walk, going increasingly slack until his legs drag behind him on the floor, and you eventually crumple under his weight, hard. He crawls over you, arms circling your waist and face emerging over your shoulder. He rolls onto his back with you in tow, squirming and kicking in his grip. Mark gives a little squeeze that makes you squeak and steals the breath from your lungs. When you go limp, he tightens his grip around your middle, only loosening with disappointment when he doesn't get the reaction he seems to want from you. He whispers close to your ear, cheek squishing against yours. “Aww, come on. Do it again. I like when you struggle.”

He gives another squeeze that makes your ribs and back pop in a way that sets off your nerves before he gives up, but his grip doesn't relinquish. Your head lifts, before you let it fall, the back of your skull banging against his nose and earning you a groan that doesn't sound pained, but instead pleased. You doubt you've done any damage, because there's no crunch of the cartilage on his nose, and your head just winds up pounding. Mark draws his legs up to plant his feet flat on the ground, sitting both you, and himself up.

He sets his hand on your thigh and pauses, fingers lightly pressing into the meat of your leg. When you don't tell him to stop, he brings it to hang over the side of his leg, low and slow in case you want to tell him to fuck off. His other hand comes around and hooks it on the invisible magnetic zipper of the Viltrumite uniform on your body, before he slowly drags it down with a finger, and you tense when the cold air of the ship washes over your skin, flinching from the breeze and eyes squeezing shut. Mark's lips meet your cheek in a gesture that's too sweet to not be backing something that's about to be nefarious. And nefarious it is, because shortly after he's sinking his teeth into the soft flesh, and you elbow him in the stomach hard reflexively.

He doesn't move, or keel, and he's still biting your face like a fucking animal, but the absurdity of it all stops mattering when he's slowly dragging his hand down your middle, and his thumb teasingly toys with the elastic band of your panties, pulling it back and letting it slap against your stomach. You feel him smile against your cheek when you quiet, and he lazily dips his palm to flatten over your clothed crotch. He rubs you through the thin fabric, steadily letting his pace quicken until the material soaks through, and you're melting in his lap, drool forming at the corner of your lip and hips bucking into his hand.

Before a ringing catches your attention, and you're reeled back from the edge of an orgasm when all the touches pull away. He shoves you off his lap and shoots to his feet, eyes darting between the flashing, chirping device attached to his hip, and you. “Sorry, babe. Duty calls.”

You don't get a word in before he's already down the hall, and you're internally cursing him out, legs clamping shut and hands quickly closing your uniform with equal parts embarrassment and frustration.

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