#Invincible x reader

[vviltrumite]

not that this is really a big deal...to each their own but GUYS😭😭😭 MARK DOES NOT HAVE SUPER HEARING😭😭😭😭😭

I see alot of fics where they mention mark being able to hear everything cause he has enhanced hearing cause he's a viltrumite but it's stated like five times in the comics that he does NOTTT have enhanced hearing!!!!!

Anyway not really a big deal it doesn't matter that much but it's just a little pet peeve of mine that I wanted to talk about real quick

edit: if anything he probably has really BAD hearing because he's constantly around explosions and screaming and chaotic noise when he's fighting

[12welveinched]

Me after clicking a p link thinking it was a fic rec.

Jumpscare.

[readingbunny44]

You're Dead Everywhere But Here │Invincible Variants x Reader x Mainstream Invincible │#5

An Invincible that was friends with you in his dimension has something up his sleeve...

MARK bring me a beer and bend over I'm back

also I've rewritten and edited the chapters but there's no actual plot change so you can just read this with no worries. I've updated it on here and ao3, but if you want to reread cause of the "new" content and to refresh since its been two months LOL I suggest going on ao3 for easier digestion. not required though!

#1, #2, #3, #4, #5, #?

CW: swearing

WC: 4.6k

Jesus fucking Christ, what was wrong with you?

You tried not to grumble under your breath, and with how much you were huffing and puffing you resembled that of the big bag wolf in that three little pigs fairytale.

You sat on an old mattress, your back against the wall as you stuck a spoon inside a can of pineapple that you had stashed away inside of your hideout. It was still miraculously good for consumption—at least, gauging from how it tasted.

The expiration date was scratched off so you couldn’t exactly tell whether or not if it was well past the suggestion for consumption. You chewed on the pineapple chunks that were coated heavily with sugar, forcing yourself to swallow the processed fruit that held a sicky and strong sweet taste.

It wasn’t great but it filled your stomach from hungering pains, so it was whatever.

You actually sort of missed the G.D.A dungeon, they served good food from time to time. Especially on Thursdays. The chicken pot pie was divine, whoever cooked that shit really deserved a raise.

You didn’t know chicken pot pies can taste that good before your capture—but then again you never really tasted a real one. The closest you got before was one time when you stole a box of half frozen pot pies.

You had changed out of your blood-stained ripped prison unison, finding a pair of pants and black top that were a size too big for you. They were dusty and had a couple of holes, but you didn’t care. You were just grateful that there was something to change into with how this hideout was hoarded with miscellaneous items.

You would just throw random shit that caught your attention into your hideouts—which was usually junk.

You reached to scratch your skin, feeling the dried patches of blood on your skin that clung like stubborn Velcro. Some of it was smudged with how you messily tried to wipe off the excess.

Suddenly, a plastic cup filled with broken pencils, dried pens, and used erasers fell on the floor. The insides of the cup were scattered on the floor, rolling away on the concrete flooring.

Your eyes flickered away from what you were looking at that was currently upsetting you, focusing on the Invincible variant who was responsible for knocking off the cup.

He muttered a quick apology, hastily picking up the fallen contents and putting them back where they originally belonged before going back to what he was doing.

Mask was exploring the dusty shelf that was filled with random objects and items you had thrown together in the past in an attempt to clean up. Half-burnt books, old DVDs, mini figurines from kid meals from various fast-food joints, and more useless trash that people had thrown away.

The masked Invincible had made it his personal mission to find you something better to ear, clinging on to the mention of you keeping various amounts of nonperishable foods in all of your hideouts to fill your stomach when resting.

You were completely fine with just the canned fruit, annoyingly telling him that so he could stop with the noise, but he had brushed you off. Saying that you deserved to eat something “better.”

What is he, mother hen?

You snorted quietly to yourself at the thought, shaking your head. It was better than him trying to make conversation down here at the secret bunker, thankful for the silence. He had surprisingly kept his promise to shut the fuck up when you let him follow you, and you weren’t in a rush to get his grating voice back to buzzing in your ear.

You were thankful, sure, but that didn’t make you any less uncomfortable.

Having one Invincible variant in your vicinity was dangerous, and your mind was on high alert, at least on high alert as it could be with how tired you were—on whatever he could potentially do.

Your gaze shifted back to what you were staring at earlier, resuming cursing at yourself and having a mental crisis as your eyes narrowed.

Your mind was even more on high alert because it wasn’t just one variant you had down here—it was motherfucking two.

Yeah, I did go crazy. You thought as your glare didn’t waver. Whatever disease those freaks had rubbed off of me. Only explanation on why I let another one down here...

The silent Invincible wore a close carbon copy to your world’s Invincible. The only difference was the mask he always wore was absent, his sharp but exhausted features on full display for you to observe.

Unlike Mohawk, who had a noticeable line crease with how much he smiled, this one had no wrinkles at all. You would say it was similar to the white one, but it wasn’t. There were no smile wrinkles, but there were wrinkles on his forehead like he had a permanent deep-in-thought look.

He also had a permanent line on his lips with a downcast gaze like he had been given the most devastating news.

You internally sighed, bringing another spoonful of processed fruit to your mouth as your mind wandered off.

You didn’t fully understand why you had allowed him to accompany you, nonetheless, let him inside the bunker with you and Mask. It was basically signing your death warrant to let two superhuman (were they even human?) beings inside close quarters with you.

Yet, against your better judgement, you did anyway.

You blamed it on how utterly tired you were. But it was an immature excuse, of course. You could’ve told him to bug off, but you didn’t and you hoped your impulsive decision wasn’t going to bite you in the ass anytime soon.

The no masked variant had made his presence known when you and Mask were about to enter inside the secret entrance that was propped behind a big smelling dumpster. It caught the two of you off guard, unaware someone was stalking the two of you. How long was this one following them? Did anyone follow him?

Mask was ready to drive him away, and you were all for it until you caught a glimpse of this Invincible’s eyes.

It sounded—still sounds stupid, but something about this one seemed... different.

He held that familiar look towards you that made it apparent that he knew you, holding some sort of relationship with you. His body leaned closer to you as he held a puffy, teary gaze in your direction. That look wasn’t that of attraction, obsession, or possessiveness like the others. It held something else—something nicer.

Mask was telling him to go somewhere else and leave you alone, but it was like the variant didn’t hear anything that he said. His eyes were on you, half focused and unfocused with how badly he was dissociating.

He was touch and go, and you wondered faintly if he was even aware of what was happening with how out of it he seemed.

He suddenly spoke, whispering your name. His lips barely parted. He hesitated before saying your name, trying to remember how to pronounce it with how long it had been since he said it out loud.

His voice was croaked and scratchy, like it hadn’t been used in such a long time.

“... I’m so lonely.” He confessed, his eyes flickering to the empty spot next to you like he was expecting someone else that should be there. A pitiful glimmer of hope flashed his empty brown eyes, lighting them up just for a millisecond before it was taken away as fast as they appeared when he realized the person wasn’t there.

You watched his shoulders sag, and his eyebags intensify. His gaze snapped to the entrance that you and Mask were going to enter. “... Can I come?” He asked, barely above a whisper as he looked like an abandoned puppy that had lost their will to live so long ago.

“You have to go somewhere else, man.” Mask interrupted, stepping in front of you to block his line of sight. The no mask simply paused, becoming silent. Deep in thought.

He stood there, back straight as he hovered inches above the ground. His eyes trickled down to stare at the ground, not making an effort to go away or move any closer. He chose to just... stand there, waiting for the two of you to crawl inside the entrance and leave him behind.

You poked your head out to catch a glimpse of his sorrowful face, the blood splatter on his face and chest doing nothing to deter you from seeing the sad man underneath the carnage.

“What do you want?” You asked, and Mask looked over his shoulder—surprised that you weren’t just going to tell him to get moving.

No-Mask paused, blinking slowly. He himself wasn’t even sure what he really wanted, his attention getting snapped back to reality. “Help you, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Protect you, but...” He clarified, trailing off, thinking back to William. He wanted to protect you; you were his friend and William’s friend—but he didn’t want to force it. His boyfriend always gave him a choice, even if option a was clearly better than option b. William always gave him a choice.

He wanted to give you that too. Did he want to leave you with this masked version of himself? No, but he wanted you to choose, not him. That’s what William would’ve wanted to—he can practically imagine his deceased boyfriend scolding him if he didn’t. “... If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.”

You stared at him with pity. Whoever he was feeling so heartbroken for wasn’t directed towards you, but someone else that was out of his reach. It was such a different sight than you were used to. New and fresh.

You still didn’t like it—like him, but the pity forming in your chest was weakening your resolve. You shouldn’t ask this but...

“Who am I to you?”

His brown eyes lifted from staring at the ground, unblinking as he spoke softly. The Invincible spoke it without skipping a beat. “... A friend.” His voice was so small, if a wind were to stroll by you were sure it’d take it and him away.

And with what he said, he was going to go away.

.

.

.

You cursed at yourself, tearing your eyes from the pitiful Invincible. “Fuck it, get in.” You threw yourself inside the entrance as Mask looked at you in shock. You didn’t want to turn and look at either of them, already regretting what you just impulsively said.

“Put the dumpster back in its spot!” You yelled as you walked further in.

Mask was sputtering out reasons why No-Mask should not come with the two of you, but it fell on deaf ears as you ignored him. No-Mask stayed quiet as he followed after you, glancing over to the other variant as if to say you’re closing the entrance.

Now, you are here. With two Invincibles. In an enclosed space because the overwhelming emotion of pity got to you. Great.

Something was thrown to your face, and you caught it with your hand. You looked down at your palms. It was beef jerky.

“That was in a photo album.” Mask laughed, amused he found it there. It was a photo album of random strangers that was clearly not related to you at all. You undid the wrapper and plopped it in your mouth, chewing it to soften the hard texture.

He watched you eat it, smiling to himself how you scarfed it down with more gusto than when you were eating that can of fruit. “Taste good?” Mask continued, trying to make small talk.

“It’s fine, Invincible.” You snapped, swallowing the dried beef. It did taste better than the pineapple.

“You can just call me Mark.”

“No thanks Invincible.” You refused.

You weren’t going to get personal and use his actual name. You didn’t want to add any more to their delusions. Besides, it just felt strange. You learned of this superhero’s civilian name through a different version of him.

Speaking of the original Invincible—you did need to find him. He was annoying, but he’s the closest ally you can get.

A silence passed, and No-Mask spoke up. “... You can sleep.” He suggested, “I can keep watch.” He offered. Keep watch just in case there is someone trying to break in but also keep watch on Mask who looked offended as soon as he said that.

“I’m—I’m not going to do anything! I’ll also keep watch!” He flushed, knowing the implications of the Invincible’s words.

“...”

“I’m not!” Mask reiterated, watching No-Mask’s expression not falter one bit. However, he did give him a light side eye, conveying that he did not trust his words at all.

“Sorry to break the news, boys, but there’s no way in hell I’m sleeping with you two,” you pointed, throwing the pineapple can that was now empty to a lonely corner, “here. Might fucking wake up in doggy style for all I know.” You half-heartedly said.

Mask broke out in a rambling mess, trying to reassure while simultaneously defending himself that he would never do something like that.

He threw in very subtle jabs at the other variants, Sinister in particular. His sick mind would be more likely than anyone else to do that. He was a psychopath, and Mask wouldn’t be surprised if he was some sort of sexual deviant as well.

You rolled your eyes at him, moving to look at No-Mask who—had a sour expression?

“What?” You asked, and he flickered to look at you.

“... I would never do that.” He stated, a bit angry that you had clumped him in with the other variant. Also, he just wouldn’t do that, he’ll never in a million years cheat on William. “That’s... weird. I would never touch you like that.”

“Why?” You asked, raising a brow. “What are you, gay or something?” You chuckled, tilting your head. It was supposed to be more of a playful joke to make yourself laugh than a genuine question.

Though he only faintly nodded, shrugging his shoulders. “Yeah.” He confirmed. Mark wasn’t a stickler for labels, but it wasn’t like he could deny he fit in that box.

Shock shown in your face, not expecting that genuine response “Oh.” You popped your lips. “Just cause you play for the same team doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep still. Could still do something.” You pointed out, and No-Mask just stayed silent as a response.

In a strange development, all three of you were all talking to each other in a normal enough conversation. You let the men dominate the conversation, not that keen in genuinely joining in.

The two Invincibles had tried to coax you to sleep a few times then and there, but you sternly refused, not wanting to be in such a vulnerable state with them here.

There wasn’t anything that they could do to change your mind, so they just talked, and you joined in sometimes. For a while you just listened to them, but they had morphed into background noise that lulled you to sleep—and lightly participating in conversation helped make you stay awake.

“-I tried to explain the entire lore of Séance Dog to William, but he didn’t get it.” No-Mask recounted. He got more active in talking whenever he brought up this William guy, and Mask seemed to know who he was.

“It was because it was super ‘unrealistic,’ wasn’t it?” Mask asked, his back against the wall.

“Yeah. Couldn’t get it—or like it as much as I did.”

“It’s weird so no surprise he didn’t like it.” You pitched in. You read the comics when you were bored, having collected them because of people discarding them in the trash. You rubbed your eyes, drowsiness haunting you.

“It’s not weird, it’s a masterpiece.” Mask remarked.

“Both then, whatever.” You shrugged. You eyed No-Mask, a faint smile on his lips after a two hours of talking. It all seemed to be contributed to the fact that he was talking and thinking about this William guy. “Whose William anyway?”

You and Mask watched him tense, and Mask sighed softly. “He was our best friend.” He answered him, not knowing if his counterpart was going to dig deep into the relationship they had with William. Back at the ship when Angstrom brought them here, he stayed silent—but Mask had kind of figured out William was a little bit more than a best friend.

Many variants talked about various things out of boredom, and there were some who briefly mentioned William. Specifically killing the poor guy. No-Mask didn’t react, but Mask found himself noticing how more dissociated he looked whenever their best friend was mentioned.

The masked Invincible felt bad, so he went over to talk to him. Admittedly he kind of ran his mouth off, jumping from one topic to another. No-Mask just listened while Mask talked and reacted with small twitches. He figured the other one wasn’t really listening, and Mask was thankful for that since he talked about things he wasn’t proud of.

“... and is—” No-Mask sucked a breath, his lips thinning, “was my boyfriend.” He muttered, his voice cracking just a bit. He clasped his hand over his other one, gripping it tightly. “Nolan got him.” No-Mask bitterly spat out, his back hunching over like it was painful to think about that man.

Mask tensed, becoming silent at the mention of that man.

“Nolan?”

“Omni-Man.” Mask informed, and you nodded hesitantly as it wasn’t common knowledge of the Earth’s traitor’s civilian identity. “... He’s our dad.”

You turned to No-Mask, puzzled. “Your dad killed your boyfriend?” He parted his lips, speaking softly with grief riddling him.

“... Killed you too. Got everyone important to me.” He hesitated, looking at your face. A flicker of something appearing before it disappeared when he looked at the Invincible who was standing across the room.

He looked back at you but flinched, averting his gaze. It was hard to look at you without thinking of your mutilated face, torn apart by his dad’s bare hands.

Nolan had used his fingers to literally dig inside your flesh like it was a bowling ball before pulling, evident by the holes in your head when he arrived too late to save you or his boyfriend.

“Shit. I would be depressed as fuck too, I guess.” You commented, a bit too loudly. That was supposed to be more of an inside thought, but you’re very used to talking to yourself, so your brain didn’t compute it wasn’t supposed to be an internal comment.

“... You’re awful at words.” He deadpanned, but a crack of an amused smile played on the corner of his lips. He raised a hand, stifling a laugh that choked out of his throat.

Even though you were a pretty good friend that understood him well in his dimension, listening to his problems so intently—you were quite bad at how to give comfort. That was more of William’s thing. You really tried to offer helping words, but you always ended up phrasing it the worst way possible somehow.

Your cheeks burned unexpectedly, a twinge of embarrassment creeping on you. “Fu—”

“They are, aren’t they?” Mask snickered, unable to help but tease you. It was fun to see you express emotions other than anger; it really warmed his heart. This was the closet thing he ever seen you conscious and relaxed. It was just like back in the hospital room.

You snapped your neck to look at him with a crazed stare, wanting to pounce at him and choke him out. “Fuck both of you. I can kick you two out.” You barked, pointing at the door. The nape of your neck felt warm.

“Sorry, sorry.” Mask apologized, but he didn’t mean it as he was giggling to himself. “We’ll behave.” He promised, but you simply rolled your eyes.

The topic shifted, and you just stayed silent as you sat on the old mattress. They talked about stuff they only knew about, being an outsider meant you really didn’t understand things they were referencing to.

As time slowly ticked by, you felt your eyelids grow heavier. You stifled a yawn, not wanting the two of them to know how incredibly exhausted you felt.

You were becoming well-rested, and if you powered through this tired state you could go out again and find help and somehow ditch these two. Your Invincible must be somewhere, and you faintly wondered what he was doing. Probably saving people or something, he probably doesn't even know you're out here. 

You figured No-Mask would be easier to leave behind with how he didn’t even force himself down here, but Mask... you’d definitely need to find a way to get rid of him with how stubborn he was to stay by your side.

You quietly hung your head against the wall, blinking slowly as you tried to formulate a plan.

It’s been a few hours since you fell asleep.

Mask and No-Mask noticed how close you were to falling asleep and just continued their small conversation, trying not to bring attention to how they knew you were dozing off.

Then finally, you completely stilled with your eyes shut.

Mask walked over silently, and No-Mask eyes trailed silently—following his every move. He watched as he picked you up, and he hummed in displeasure to give a warning that he was there and not to try anything to his friend.

“Don’t worry, just fixing their posture. When they wake up their neck will be sore if I left them like they were.” Mask reassured, gently putting your head against the mattress. Though, Mask was clearly displeased that the variant was there—if he wasn’t, he would for sure kiss you.

Instead, he brushed your cheek and straightened up the collar of your shirt. Mask heard a rustling behind him, but he didn’t look as he was preoccupied with just taking in the sight of your sleeping face.

“... Sure.” No-Mask nodded, but with his tone it was like he knew that Mask wanted to do something else.

“What?” he asked, looking behind his shoulder at the quiet variant that was glaring at him. “I’m not bad like the others, you know that. We’re not bad like them.” Mask said in a hushed town, turning to fully face him.

No-Mask was holding a clear plastic water bottle. Where did he get that? He curiously wondered. It must’ve been under some of the miscellaneous junk.

No-Mask stared at him, a brief silence passing by them as he gripped onto it—his eyes bore into him with a calculating gaze. “... No, maybe not like them but somewhere close.”

After he said that, he quickly threw the water bottle at the blue and black variant—Mask easily catching it. He looked at him puzzled, wondering what was going through his head.

No-Mask nodded as if to say go ahead, drink it.

Mask slowly opened it, and he noticed how the cap had no resistance—the cap smoothly came off like it was already opened beforehand. His guard was completely down, not threatened at the quiet Invincible.

“I would never hurt them, I love them.”

“...”

“I do! Why are you staring at me with that look like I’m going to do something!” Mask accused, pushing his mask upwards. His face was revealed, and his hair was overgrown with purple eyebags to accompany it.

“... I miss William, you know. I loved him.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mask nodded, his accusatory voice still there but more calm. “I’m sorry that happened to you, dude. He was a good friend to me so I’m sure that must’ve hurt.”

No-Mask flinched, like the way he called William a friend pained him. “And if William was right here, in my reach, I would do anything, so he never ever disappears.” His voice cracked. “Anything.”

Mask stayed silent, awkward at how to respond to that. He took a swig of the water bottle so that he didn’t need to say anything, and No-Mask watched silently as he did that.

He didn’t begin speaking until he watched him swallow half of the bottle, his eyes shifting down to the ground. “So that’s how I know even with how much you love (Y/N) and never want to hurt them, you would do anything too. Even something bad.” He whispered.

“I won’t hurt them.”

“... I know you’re probably planning to take them back to your home. If you do and (Y/N) refuses to go with you to your dimension,” He blinked, his quiet voice unwavering. “Would you let them go?”

“...”

“You wouldn’t. You’ll use force. You would do whatever it takes, even if (Y/N) didn’t like it.” He stated matter-of-factly.

“How do you know that for certain?” Mask said bluntly, his fists clenching. He wanted to refuse the variant’s words as baseless assumptions but... no, he wouldn’t. ... Right? “You’re just making assumptions.”

No-Mask shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper as his eyes wandered to the pill bottle that he had quickly hidden from Mask’s view. He had found it along with the water bottle while silently observing his surroundings when he was conversing with his counterpart before you fell asleep.

It was a relief that you still had bad sleeping habits. In his dimension, you always kept some form of sleeping pills to get you to catch up on some rest, so he was hopeful you’ll keep some lying around too.

If there wasn’t any, he was just going to knock out Mask the old fashion way.

He crushed half of the pills in the bottle inside the water to ensure that the variant would actually knock out cold. “I know for certain that you would, we’re the same person after all...”

“... and I would do the same exact thing too if it were William.”

That made Mask become silent. He wanted to say something, a retort or a counter but he just simply shut up—biting his lip as he looked away, walking to the other side of the room. He threw the water bottle to the ground, getting as far away as he could get.

Mask sat on the ground, staring at his mask that he just removed seconds ago. His gut was stretching itself and twitching at what he was saying, and it made him feel sick.

A good twenty minutes passed, and Mask found himself feeling abnormally tired. Drowsy even. Did today really take a toll on him?

No-Mask side eyed the other Mark, already knowing how sleepy he must feel. He was ready to fall asleep any minute now, and he just had to wait so that he could take you away to someone who can help you. This dimension’s Invincible should be safe enough, but where could he be?

“I’m not bad like the others.” Mask whispered to himself as he closed his eyes and No-Mask narrowed his eyes at that.

No-Mask waited before saying something, observing how the other Mark kept his eyes close. His chest raised in a soft, rhythmic pace. “Tell that to the kid you killed.” He whispered, thinking back on the ship when Mask had rambled to him. He was out of it pretty badly, but he heard everything as clear as day. No-Mask assumed that the black and blue Mark didn't know he was listening with how quiet he had been, but he was. He knew everything he did. 

Even though Mask was in denial, he was capable of hurting you just like everyone else. And he would do it too if things didn't go his way. Just like what he did to that kid—even though he felt guilty about doing it, he still did it. 

It wasn't like Mark was shaming this variant of himself, because if it were William instead of you dying with that type of circumstance, he would do the same thing too. 

I know this is short but like next part is WAY longer i still havent finished it and this just gets the ball rolling and to alert everyone that hey um... i didnt abandon this... im still cracking mark

also me when mask did something bad and i vaguely mention it at the end:

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[kitkatscabinet]

TAKE AWAY THE PAIN BABY, I'M HEALING

requested: by anon

pairing: mark grayson x batsis

summary: you find a bleeding and bruised boy along with his baby brother in an alleyway, and well... you are your father's daughter.

A/n: no there will not be a part 2

You notice the light before anything else —a sickly, neon green that illuminates the sky from two alleys over, your body already moving as you rush to investigate the phenomenon. The light’s gone by the time you arrive, but the mystery of its source takes a back seat at the sight that greets you. 

There’s a body, one you identify as male when you run closer, dropping to your knees as you search for a pulse beneath the blood covering his yellow and blue suit. A new vigilante? A villain? You hadn’t heard of any new players matching his description, whoever he was, your questions quickly took a backseat as you studied him. He was curled protectively around something, and you felt your heart drop at the sound of a baby’s cry. 

Frantically, you tugged at the unconscious boy's arm, frowning a little at the ridiculous strength he seemed to have despite not even being awake. Your hands are slick with blood, but you pay it little mind as you finally manage to pry the infant from his arms, the purple infant. 

“…where’d you come from, huh, little guy?” you mutter. He’s warmer than he should be and unmistakably alien despite his mostly humanoid features. 

Gently checking him over for injuries, you let out a sigh of relief once you determined that none of the blood was from him. In fact, he seemed completely unbothered by what’s happening around him. If anything, he’s more curious than afraid as he coos up at you and reaches for your face with tiny, determined fingers.

“Okay,” you breathe, adjusting your grip, as you smile reassuringly at the infant. “You’re definitely not from around here, are you?” Predictably, the baby doesn’t answer you, but the injured boy in front of you groans, low and pained, and your attention snaps back to him. 

Whether from the sound of your voice or the lack of weight in his arms, the costumed boy stirs. He blinks up at you, eyes hazy, full of pain and fear. He’s trying to move again, but his weary body refuses to cooperate. “Oliver,” he croaks. “My brother…please…”

You glance at the baby, Oliver, cooing in your arms, his little fingers curling around your cape in fascination. Stable, breathing, and unharmed. “He’s ok. I’ve got him, and I’ve got you.”

Mark freezes, his aching body relaxing despite himself. He can barely feel anything that’s not pain. Fire dances across his ribs with every breath, indicating they were likely broken, and black spots flash across his hazy vision. 

None of that matters, though, because Oliver isn’t safe in his arms anymore, and someone is leaning over him and —

He hears the voice first. Steady and calm, as a warm hand gently pushes him back down, preventing him from doing further damage. “He’s ok. I’ve got him, and I’ve got you. Oliver’s okay”

Oliver’s okay.

The words echo in Mark’s skull like a lifeline. It takes a second for them to fully register—longer, maybe, because of the blood loss, or the pain, or the overwhelming, bone-deep panic that hasn’t let go since they landed here, wherever here is.

But then he hears Oliver let out a soft little coo, high-pitched and curious, the sound of a baby too young to understand danger but unharmed. 

He doesn’t have Oliver in his arms anymore. That fact alone should terrify him. But the voice is so steady, so certain, and Oliver sounds okay. He blinks up at the figure again, not fully registering their face, just the glow of a streetlamp behind their head and the warm pressure of their hand holding him down.

“You’re safe now. Both of you.”

He wants to speak, to thank them, but his body’s giving out—his vision blurs. There’s blood in his mouth, a sharp sting in his side, and then, nothing.

There’s a persistent ache thrumming through his body, his head pounds with a terrible ache that’s only exacerbated by the lights that feel as if they’re searing into his retinas. He tries to move, only to regret it when the world spins traitorously. A pathetic whimper escapes his lips, but Mark pushes through the pain and nausea for Oliver. Where was Oliver?

“Don’t even think about it,” a vaguely familiar voice says, before there’s a gentle pressure on his shoulder, pushing him back down against what he now realised was a mattress, soft blankets pooling around his waist. 

He turns his head, groaning, still blinking the light from his eyes. “Where—?”

“My place,” the woman, whose distinctly feminine features he can now make out, soothes. He tries to speak again, only to break into a coughing fit. It doesn’t last long before the mysterious presence is there, helping him sit up and holding a glass of water against his lips. 

“Slowly,” you chide, preventing him from choking. 

“Where —?” He tries to speak again, but you’re already ahead of him. 

“Oliver’s fine, not a scratch on him. You, on the other hand, not so much.” His vision’s cleared enough that he can see the downward curve of your lips, and his breath hitches for a new reason entirely. You’re gorgeous, is his first thought, the second being how much he’d love to see you smile. 

“Bwa-bwa!” An excited voice cuts through the haze, sparing him from embarrassing himself further when little purple hands reach for him. Just like that, the remaining tension evaporates from his muscles, and Mark feels tears slide down his cheeks, pain momentarily forgotten as his baby brother snuggles into his bruised chest. 

His chest which is covered in an unfamiliar shirt. “My suit!” He exclaims, panic filling him as he reaches for his mask, only to feel it gone. 

The look you give him feels judgmental in nature, and Mark's cheeks flush with shame. “Hate to break it to you, but by the time I found you, your suit was well beyond repair. Care to explain how that happened, or why I’ve never seen you before?”

There’s a sharp look in your eyes, a keen intelligence that has Mark doubting he’d be able to lie to you even if he wanted to. 

“Probably because I’m not from this dimension?”

You straighten, an indifferent mask of professionalism sliding into place as you command. “Explain, now.” 

Looking back on it, Mark thinks this was the moment he fell in love.

You had taken his babbled explanation about Angstrom and dimensional travel extraordinarily well, almost too well. It was a little disconcerting, but you’d simply shrugged and made an off-hand comment about speedsters and flashpoints and the multiverse like this was a regular old Tuesday morning for you. 

(Mark almost hates that the longer he stays in Gotham, the more he understands your initial reaction. A regular old Tuesday indeed.) 

It had been nearly three months since he’d crash-landed in your city. Three months spent in your upscale apartment as the two of you attempted to figure out a way home for him—three months since he’d seen Angstrom, Cecil, or his mother. 

Three months of co-parenting his baby brother, watching you walk around your apartment with Oliver sitting on your hip like an accessory, of sleeping in the same bed because you refused to let him take the couch, and of learning exactly what each of your microexpressions meant. 

Three months of falling in love with you. 

How could he not? When you treated Oliver like he was your own, soft smiles that shone like sunshine reserved for the two of them in the sanctity of the place he’d come to consider a home. It shouldn’t have been possible, in just 90 days he’d come to accept that he was probably never going home, that he’d never see his mum or his friends again. It wasn’t… okay, exactly, but the ache was significantly lessened by your presence. 

He should probably be embarrassed by how panicked he was to wake during the night to find you and Oliver missing from the bed. Rationally, he knows you’d never just leave like that with no warning, but… ok maybe he wasn’t as well adjusted as he pretended to be. 

He finds you on the balcony, Oliver nestled in your arms, your face buried in his fluffy hair as he snores softly. “You okay?” he asks, easing himself beside you, trying to ignore the way his heart skips several beats when you casually move aside so you can share the seat, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Just… had a day.” You murmur, a small furrow to your brow that he’s come to associate with your family. 

“Your father?” He tries to keep his tone casual, but you side eye him all the same. 

“Brother.” There’s a tightness to your voice that has him humming in contemplation. There’s no fond exasperation, or quiet resignation. That ruled out Jason, Tim and Damian too, which left —

“Dick?” 

“If the shoe fits.” You grumbled, before giggling a little at the poor joke. Mark sighs in relief, just glad whatever fight you’d had hadn’t diminished your ability to laugh. 

The two of you devolve into a comfortable silence, broken only by the rapid thundering of his heartbeat that Mark’s sure you must be able to hear and the Gotham foot traffic. A brush against his hand makes him jump a little and he nearly chokes when you entwine your calloused fingers with his. 

“You know,” he clears his throat, inwardly wincing when his voice cracks a little, “I don’t think I ever did thank you, for you know, saving me, taking us in.”

You shrug, averting your gaze. “Didn’t do it for you.”

He smiles, biting his cheek at how cute you’re being. “Right. It was the baby. I’m just the side quest.”

“Exactly.”

“You could’ve dropped us at a hospital…But you didn’t.” He’s aware he’s fishing, but it’s a question that’s been plaguing his mind since the day he woke up in your bed. 

“No,” you agree casually, still dancing around the question. “I didn’t.”

“Why?” Your jaw tightens, then relaxes, a sudden intense focus on your face as you study your conjoined hands like they’re the most interesting thing on the planet. 

“Because the last time I found someone bleeding out in an alley,” you say softly, voice tinged with regret. “I was too late.”

Mark doesn’t respond. He doesn’t quite know how, even if he understands. He remembers that nothing Eve or Cecil or his mother said to comfort him had ever really helped, so he stays silent, squeezing your hand in a silent show of support. 

“Hey, it’s getting late, maybe we should—”

“Baby bat! I’m sorry I—” 

Several things happen at once, nearly too fast for him to register, but Mark thinks it goes something like this. 

A man, dressed in black and blue with a mask covering his eyes, descends from fucking nowhere. The apology on his lips, presumably for you, dying as you let out a startled screech, kicking out with a foot that connects with the stranger’s left kneecap. The stranger who’s too busy gawking at Oliver to dodge the blow and crumbles like a sack of potatoes. 

“Oh my god, Dick! You scared the shit out of me!” You hiss, sliding off the chair to check on your newly identified older brother. 

Your worry goes in one ear and out the other as Dick pales, clutching his chest like he’s having a heart attack while a shaky finger points at the now very awake and very grumpy Oliver. 

“That’s a baby. A real, baby” he murmurs in a horrified daze, before his pitch increases hysterically, “a baby— You… you— When did you have a baby? When did you— how! Who…” Dick’s gaze snaps threateningly toward the still shellshocked Mark as he pushed himself up, “You! You knocked up my baby sister! Who even are you, you little… you little… PUNK!” 

Before Mark can even get a word in edgewise, you transfer Oliver to rest securely in one arm, your now free hand lashing out and chopping your brother’s throat. For the second time in minutes, Dick goes down, your foot sliding forward the only thing preventing him from cracking his head open on the tiles. 

“You—um… is he gonna be ok?” Mark squeaks, spine unintentionally straightening when you turn your dead fish stare on him. 

“He’ll live.” You deadpanned, standing and grabbing one of Dick’s ankles as you start to drag him inside, “now come on, I’m getting cold.”

“Yes ma’am.” Mark follows like a loyal puppy, all the while trying to figure out what went wrong in his brain that he found that hot. 

You, meanwhile, were mourning your once peaceful life with Mark, knowing that your family was about to become even more insufferable than ever. A feat many would think impossible, but if there was anyone that could manage, it was your family. 

Though, as you look back at Mark and study the way he so eagerly follows you, you decide he’s worth it.

[veryoccasionalwriting]

It's a Viltrumite thing, you wouldn't understand.

Mark Grayson has a plan! It involves genetics, his legacy, and best of all, you! Unfortunately for Mark, you're still in high school and not remotely ready to discuss intergalactic breeding charts. [Omni-Mark in mind, but can work for any Viltrumite-loving variant]

You’d learned early on that when Mark got quiet, it meant he was thinking and when he stayed quiet for more than five minutes, hovering a few inches above the ground, arms crossed, jaw clenched, you knew something was coming. Something deeply Mark. Something you.. certainly didn't want to hear most the time.

He finally spoke. “You’re aware of what I am.” It wasn’t a question.

You glanced up from your sketchbook. “Yeah? Kind of hard to miss. You flew me to Italy in like 2 minutes last week because I said I liked their bread.”

“I don’t mean my powers,” he said. “I mean my origin. My… role.”

You closed the book slowly. “Okay. Go on.”

Mark landed with a soft thud, the gravel crunching under his boots. He didn’t sit, just stood there, stiff and serious, like this conversation had already happened in his head a hundred times.

“Viltrumites are conquerors. We don’t just fight, we seed. We pass on strength and if we can’t evolve our kind, we fall behind. That’s how the Empire sees it.”

You didn’t speak. Just waited.

“I’m different,” he added, more to himself than to you. “I’ve seen what that kind of logic turns people into. I don’t want to become that.”

You watched the tension in his shoulders, the way he clenched and unclenched his jaw.

“I want something different. But I can’t ignore what I am. What’s expected of me.”

There was a small pause for a moment. “You’re… ideal. For someone like me.”

Your mouth opened, shut then you finally spit something out. “Mark.”

He pushed forward before you could shut it down. “Not just physically. You know who I am, what I could become and you haven’t run from it. You push back, you ask questions. You make me think about the parts of myself I’m not proud of.”

“That’s… a weird way of saying you like me,” you said, cautiously.

“I do,” he said, steady. “But this isn’t just about feelings. It’s about survival, continuation. The Empire will come. Maybe not now but eventually. And if I don’t act first on my terms, someone else will do it for me.” His tone turned.. almost nervous. “I’ve calculated the probabilities. You’re a strong candidate, our genetics would align. The child would be-”

“Mark.”

He stopped.

You stood, staring at him like he just told you that he would go conquer the planet. “You’re talking about making a child, like a tactical maneuver. We’re not even eighteen. I still live with my mom. I barely passed algebra.”

His brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t force you-”

“I know you wouldn’t,” you said quickly, before he spiraled. “But you’re talking about this like it’s a mission objective. And I get that’s how you were raised but I’m not a checklist. I’m not part of some breeding plan.”

Mark’s expression didn’t change much but you could see the way he shifted from foot to foot.

You softened a little. “Look. I know you mean well. I do. And I know this is hardwired into you. That you're trying to... make sense of everything, but if we’re going to talk about future stuff, we need to start with us, not hypotheticals. Not kids. Not legacies. Just... whatever this is. Right now.”

For a long moment, he was quiet. Then he nodded. “Understood.”

You stepped forward, nudging his arm. “We can still date like normal people, you know.”

Mark gave you a look.  “Define ‘normal.’”

“Movies, Milkshakes, maybe getting awkwardly sweaty when we almost kiss. That sort of thing.”

“…Sweating sounds inefficient.”

“Mark.”

“…But I’ll try.”

You smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

[slutla]

SUNBURN ‘N SILK ! | MARK GRAYSON X FEM READER

warnings: 18+, pool boy! mark, milf! reader, cheating, breeding, brief mentions of the husband & readers kids, crying, creampie, reader is a neglected wife 2 some random, outdoor sex, pet name, gendered terms, age gap duh, etc

summary: mark was just after some extra cash, but what began as a side job quickly became something more.

an: minors dni. haven’t posted on here in 4ever, dunno if the invincible fandom is still alive.. :p meows. self indulgent as always excuse grammar mistakes.

The sun’s got fangs today. Mark swears he can hear his skin sizzling, like bacon in a pan. He’s slick with sweat and halfway to miserable, dragging his bucket up another driveway like he’s selling dreams. Same routine—knock, smile, mention the heat, offer to clean the pool. Old people usually bite when the air’s thick enough to choke. No one wants to labor in this kind of weather, not even God.

He’d gone through half the block already, arms aching, back stiff, fingers raw from dragging gear he couldn’t afford to replace. Sweat clung to him like guilt. Then he hit your house. Not old like the others. Not rotting porch chairs and faded patio furniture. Yours had flowers still breathing in the heat, vines curling up white columns like they had nowhere better to be.

You answered the door like you always do—a little too done-up for suburbia, a little too sparkly for midday. Late thirties, he guesses. Still pretty. Still got that kind of fluttery laugh like you’ve never had to yell over anyone. Always in something soft and expensive-looking. Silk, maybe.

Today though, it’s just a bikini top and a long, flowy see-through skirt, probably from tanning in the backyard. Skin still warm, hair a little damp like you’d rinsed off in the hose.

That ring, the big diamond one on your finger, glints like it’s watching him. You’re married. Husband’s never around though. Just those two little girls who play in the yard sometimes, the ones who look like you and nothing like him. They’re not here today, he notes.

He’s not sure what makes him pause longer than usual on your porch. Maybe it’s the shade. Maybe it’s the way you tilt your head at him like you’re trying to remember something. Or maybe it’s just the heat messing with him again.

“Same offer?” you ask, finally breaking the silence Mark unintentionally set. Your voice is casual, but there’s a glint in your eye like you already know the answer. You lean against the doorframe, the skirt shifting just enough to tease at the curve of your thigh. He forces his eyes up, polite—or trying to be—but his gaze stutters at the hollow of your throat.

“Yeah,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, suddenly too aware of how sweaty he is. “Pool cleaning.”

Your smile tilts lazy, like you’re amused he’s still pretending this is just about the pool. “You always work this hard for a couple bucks?”

He shrugs. “Pays better than doing nothing.” A beat passes. Cicadas buzz. Somewhere behind you, a sprinkler ticks on.

“I’m sure it does,” you murmur, stepping aside, the door creaking wider. “You know where it is.” He hesitates. Just for a second. Then he steps inside.

He trails down the hallway fast, like if he moves quick enough he won’t notice the way your perfume clings to the air—sweet and floral and way too soft for a house this quiet. The place is decorated nicely, too nice. Cushions that look untouched. Photos on the wall he doesn’t let himself linger on.

Then the door swings open and he’s back outside. The heat hits him again, thick and unforgiving, but the backyard makes up for it. Big, bright, and obsessively cared for. That kind of pristine that says somebody still gives a fuck.

The pool gleams, water catching sunlight like it’s showing off. A couple leaves float near the edge. Bees circle lazy above the surface, drunk off chlorine and summer. It’s normal. Lived-in. Expensive. There’s a chair sprawled out right in the sun, and a little table beside it with a half-finished drink and a glossy magazine folded open to some perfume ad. He doesn’t touch anything, but he looks—just long enough to picture you stretched out there, one leg draped over the other, sunglasses sliding down your nose, sweat beading at the dip of your stomach.

He swallows that thought fast and turns toward the pool. Back to the job. Just water and leaves. Just another paycheck. Still, he hears the door click shut behind him and it’s the kind of sound that makes his shoulders tense, like maybe this isn’t just another house after all.

Mark peels off his shirt without much thought, more out of survival than vanity. Working under this sun with fabric clinging to him would be stupid, and hell, a tan wouldn’t hurt. His skin’s already warmed up, slick with sweat, muscles drawn tight from hours of lugging hoses and skimmers around. He squints up at the sky, wondering if he slapped on sunscreen this morning or just told himself he did.

He’s mid-thought, running a hand through his damp hair, when the sound of the sliding door drags him back down to earth.

You’re there again, only this time, you’ve shed the skirt completely. Just the bikini top now, pulled snug across your chest, and a thin string of black barely passing as a bottom. The kind of thing women wear when they’re either entirely confident or don’t care who’s watching. With you, it’s probably both.

You don’t say anything—just ease back into your chair like you never left, legs out, toes pointed, sunglasses resting low on the bridge of your nose. You reach for your drink like this is routine. Like the boy in your backyard doesn’t matter. Mark turns his back on you, quick, more out of instinct than manners, dragging the net through the water like it demands his full attention. Leaves, bees, nothing else.

But his ears burn hotter than the sun, and his grip tightens on the pole. You’ve shifted something in the air and he knows better than to look again.

A couple minutes pass and he finally settles into it. The rhythm, the quiet, the work. Skimming the leaves, checking the pump, watching the water move in slow, sunlit ripples. It’s mindless, easy. He likes that. The kind of task that lets your thoughts soften at the edges. Chlorine’s fine. Temperature’s good. Backyard paradise, nothing out of place.

Until your voice cuts through the stillness like a silk ribbon across skin. “Mark, sweetheart?”

It’s sweet, too sweet. Dipped in honey, soft like you’re asking a favor you already know he’ll say yes to.

He turns slightly, not all the way. “Do you mind oiling my back?”

The pole in his hand suddenly feels stupid, awkward. Useless. There’s a lump in his throat—thick and dry—and he struggles to swallow it down. His mouth opens, but nothing clever comes out, nothing that sounds like no, thank you or I should really finish up.

Instead, he just stands there for a second too long, the sunlight catching on his shoulders, sweat clinging to the lines of his muscles. You’re reclined again, facing away now, the bow of your bikini top undone, the fat of your boobs squished under your body, strings loose, your back bare and glinting. A bottle of oil sits uncapped beside you, the scent of coconut already in the air.

He wipes his palm on his shorts. Then walks toward you.

“Uh… u-um, s—” he stammers, voice cracking like the heat got caught in his throat. “S-sure.”

You glance back over your shoulder, all wide-eyed and sugary, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. That kind of look that coils low in his stomach. It’s the smile, really—innocent and sharp at the same time. Makes his cock twitch in his shorts before he can will it still.

He clears his throat hard, hoping you didn’t notice. You lean forward slightly, elbows braced on the lounge chair, hair swept to one side, exposing the full line of your back. Golden skin glinting, soft and smooth. The curve of your spine dips down and disappears into the tiniest black string he’s ever seen.

His fingers fumble for the bottle. The cap clicks open with a sound that feels way too loud.

He pours a little into his palm. Rubs them together. The oil’s warm and slick between his hands. He hesitates a second—just one—then sets his palms against your back.

You’re warm. Hot, actually. From the sun. From him. From something else maybe. He moves slow. Careful. The pads of his fingers sweeping across your shoulder blades, down the slope of your back. He keeps it professional—or he tries. But your skin’s soft and his hands are calloused, and the contrast makes his jaw clench.

You hum, soft and low like the sound bubbles up without your permission. Mark tries not to lose himself in it.

“You’re doin’ real good, sweetheart,” you murmur, voice all breath and syrup, thick with that slow, drawn-out pleasure.

It comes out like a moan, not even trying to hide it. Mark freezes for a second, breath catching, then swallows hard.

His dick twitches again, traitorous and obvious in his shorts. And you—you’re still facedown, stretched out pretty, all sun-warmed skin and soft curves. Your ass is right there in front of him, round and plush, framed perfectly by those delicate little strings. There’s cellulite clinging to the backs of your thighs, faint stretch marks striping your hips like they were painted on. Tiger stripes, he thinks—pretty. Real pretty ‘n kinda perfect.

He drags his hands lower, not too low, but close—the oil slick between his fingers and your skin. He’s careful with pressure, not because you’re fragile, but because this moment feels like it might split at the seams if he moves too fast.

The heat presses down on the both of you, thick and humming, and he’s pretty sure his heart’s beating loud enough for you to hear. He wants to say something—something stupid or sharp or safe.

But your body shifts, just slightly, hips tilting like you’re inviting him to go lower. And suddenly, words don’t really matter anymore. His hands slide lower, slow, deliberate. Palms skimming down the backs of your thighs, then rising to knead the soft flesh of your ass. His touch is heavier now, more certain, fingers sinking into skin like he’s not just rubbing oil but memorizing you.

You don’t say anything, not right away. But your body reacts: the way your back arches slightly, the soft catch of your breath, the way your thighs part just barely, like instinct. Mark’s chest tightens. Every nerve feels live-wired, every second stretched thin. You’re either blissfully unaware of what you’re doing to him or worse, blissfully aware.

Another sound escapes you. A moan this time, soft, drawn out, like sugar melting on the tongue. He curses silently, adjusting his stance, fighting the tension that’s coiled deep and low inside him. You’re lying there like temptation wrapped in silk and sunlight, and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep pretending he’s just helping.

You shift again, hips tilting up just slightly and it’s not subtle. It’s an invitation. And Mark? He’s never wanted anything more in his life than to be inside but he hasn’t moved yet. Not until you ask.

You can’t take it anymore. The throbbing between your legs isn’t subtle. Your puffy cunt, dripping with need. That stupid little thong’s doing nothing but teasing the both of you, fabric damp and clinging to the print. You shift, slow but deliberate, pushing it to the side, plump, perfect and leaking. Your juices glistening in the sunlight.

The air thickens. Mark sees you, really sees you and his breath catches in his throat like he forgot how to breathe.

“Please?” you whisper, voice all sticky with need, barely holding together. It’s not a demand. It’s a surrender. That’s all it takes.

His hands fumble at his waistband, clumsy with urgency, and when he finally manages it, he’s already halfway gone, flushed, hard, and shaking with restraint. His body moves like it’s been waiting for this moment longer than his mind can admit.

His hands grip your hips, firm and possessive, fingers sinking into soft flesh like he’s anchoring himself to reality. You’re warm under his palms, skin flushed and trembling.

He watches, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, as a slick bead trails down between your slit and wets the head of his cock when he presses it against your tiny hole. Your body tenses, hands curling into fists, nails biting into your own skin as you brace yourself.

He’s thick, too thick and the stretch makes your lips part in a soundless gasp, breath stolen. Your back arches instinctively, legs trembling, heart knocking against your ribs like it’s trying to claw out.

“M—” your voice catches, shaky and high, “M-Mark!”

Your name on his tongue would’ve been worship. But he’s silent, focused, watching every little reaction bloom across your skin like it’s the only thing that matters. He holds there, still for a heartbeat, letting the moment settle heavy between you.

And then he moves.

Mark’s eyes roll back when he’s balls deep in, he has to compose himself momentarily, testing the waters by moving his hips forward. You’re so responsive, letting out downright lewd moans each time he bottoms out.

“’S so deep,” you sniffle, peering back at him through teary eyes as your nails scrape at the chair, trying to hold onto something, anything, as your body gives in, again and again.

“Can feel it— feel it so… so deep, Mark.” you babble, and Mark groans, rolls his hips and grinds his cock deeper into you. You melt, head tipping back and tongue lolling out—fucking hot. You’re so hot. He can’t take his eyes off the way your ass bounces, digging his fingers into your soft, plush skin.

“Pussy this pretty ‘n no one’s fuckin’ it right,” Mark groans, lost in your perfect cunt. You mindlessly babble, cock making you go dumb, body wracked with sex-induced shivers, pussy tightening and milking him for all he’s worth as you gush around his shaft.

“Perfect, little pussy jus’ for me.” He sighs, pressing tiny little kisses on the back of your warm shoulders. Your back arches at that, ass pressing back like you want him even deeper and his breath stutters, low and ragged. He grinds harder, slower—watching you fall apart with every roll of his hips, every slap of skin against skin.

Squelching pussy trying to greedily suck everything out of him, and with that his balls clench. And he groans, breath catching, hips stuttering.

“Gonna cum inside, pretty girl… that okay?” he pants, voice ragged.You nod fast, too far gone to speak straight, tears in your lashes, lips slick and parted and drooling.

“Please—yeah, inside,” you gasp, breathless and breaking. “I want it.”

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he rasps, “‘M gonna give you another baby.”

That’s all it takes. His grip tightens, body tensing as he buries himself one last time, deeper than deep like he’s trying to bruise your cervix. You feel it all: the warmth of his seed painting your womb white, his cock still twitching inside of you.

When he finally pulls out, slow and deliberate, he lingers—gaze warm, hooded, locked on the way you leak. It drips out of you in lazy trails, warm and glossy, making a mess between your thighs. And it’s pretty, stupid pretty—like your body’s trying to show off what he just did to you.

It nearly makes him hard all over again. You don’t move, just lay there boneless and breathless, legs spread and twitching, your chest rising like you’re trying to catch air. He can see it in the way your fingers curl—you’re still reeling, still wrecked. And he’s not sure if he wants to clean you up or make you messier.

[totallynotpochacco]

IF I SEE ONE MORE OC x CHARACTER IN THE “x reader” SECTION IMA TWEAK.

I AM NOT YOUR OC💔💔💔

[svckmyballzfr]

- All They Wanted

[Invincible Variants x Subaru!reader]

Warning: obsession, dark themes, yandere themes, injury, foul language, smut(maybe), dubcon, self harm, Suicide, gore, violence, death

00- “Are you serious?”

I’m kinda a loser to be honest. My grades are average, my looks are… well, okay? I’m just, you know… an average senior about to graduate. College is still a big question mark. I don’t really have anything going for me. Still job-hunting, but at least I’ve got an apartment. Mom sends rent money every month.

[Name] slowly sat up in bed with a weary grunt. The motion stirred a of wrappers and empty bottles that tumbled off the edge like old people dying in nursing homes.

“God, I really need to clean up,” she muttered, rubbing at her scalp. Her fingers snagged briefly in a knotted tangle of hair.

The moon filtered through half-drawn blinds, spilling silver light across the cluttered room. Outside, the stars blinked with quiet judgment, peering into her restless gaze.

“It’s late.”

Her stomach let out a grumble loud enough to make her wince from embarrassment.

“So damn hungry… I need a snack.”

Without consciously deciding, she was already in the kitchenette, yanking open the fridge door. Cold air seeped out, along with the familiar disappointment. A faint smell of forgotten leftovers lingered.

“Fuck… I knew I should’ve saved those noodles.”

She shrugged on a hoodie and stepped out into the crisp night, walking with half-hearted urgency toward the 7/11 down the block. Each step on the pavement tapped steady that matched her thoughts.

“Lays chips? What flavor though… maybe barbecue…” she murmured, lost in deliberation. Then, realizing she was talking out loud again, she cleared her throat. “Right. Let me stop. No wonder people give me weird looks.”

Inside the store, her eyes wandered over neatly lined manga. She reached out, fingers brushing against one, flipping through the pages with idle curiosity.

“Ah, I see. This is where they suck you in,” she said, voice low and amused.

“Run…”

Outside the window, a couple walked together, smiling beneath the moonlight—so effortlessly wrapped in each other’s world.

[Name] sighed, gently closing the book and setting it back. “Maybe one day,” she thought.

Glancing over to the ramen section, she made a face at one of the options. “Nah, not natto,” she muttered and reached for a familiar bag of potato chips.

“Wait there…”

Startled, she paused—but the voice faded into silence. Shaking it off, she approached the counter.

“That’ll be 363 yen.”

She fished out her wallet and paid without comment, stuffing the receipt into her hoodie pocket as she stepped back into the night.

Music drifted faintly from somewhere—a slow, haunting melody that didn’t belong to any nearby speaker. She stood at the edge of the road, watching as cars flickered past in streaks of light.

“I’m…”

She turned her gaze to the left, eyes drawn by something unseen.

“…going to…”

From the shadows, something dark and skeletal reached toward her—like the silhouette of a hand stretching across dimensions.

“Save you.”

Her legs moved as if pulled forward by invisible strings. The traffic had vanished and was back in town. Only silence remained.

“I guess anyone’s eyes would be tired after holing up in their room, gaming all day,” she said quietly, dabbing at her dark under-eye circles.

She blinked. And just like that—it was morning.

“What the—?”

Cars bustled around her. The city had transformed, and alive with movement.

“When did it become daytime? And where the hell am I?”

She spun slowly, absorbing the unfamiliar skyline and glowing billboards.

“This stuff obviously isn’t fake… So does that mean… I’ve been summoned to a different universe?!”

Later, she wandered the streets, absorbing lore from the world around her. Apparently, heroes with powers were real here?

“One of the popular ones is called Invincible? Lame. Wanna-be knockoff Superman. Wait, would I get copyright for saying that… Whatever.”

She flipped through a magazine while walking, skimming articles on hero rankings, scandals, and power classifications.

“I wonder who the villains are…”

A/N: Hey yall I’m back from uh retirement? I haven’t wrote anything bec I’m on like author’s block or sum so I hope this small chapter isn’t too bad 💔 also I’ll update the “I know it’s over” series, I have chapter 4 in my drafts and I’m half way done.

[married-to-google-translater]

Plssss I must have yandere sinister mark steal readers first kiss pretty please with a cherry on top 🍒

Yandere Sinister Mark

If Sinister Mark paid attention to you in the first place, it would all be over.

A yandere version of him would be even worse...

It wouldn't matter how you met.

When Mark decides you're his, you're his.

Oh and when he finds out you've never kissed before~

Mark would see this as a way to mark you as his and show that you're his.

Your first kiss wouldn't be the best experience.

The kiss certainly wouldn't be sweet.

It would be be really long, possessive, and deep.

The kind of kiss that leaves you breathless and from which you can't pull away.

Mark wouldn't be out of breath because he doesn't breathe the same way you do.

Damn Viltrum biology lol

This definitely won't be your only kiss.

The next time there is a 99% chance he would bite you if he didn't do it the first time.

Mark wouldn't give you or your lips any mercy.

[spacycatmeowx3]

When you thought you found a good fanfic but it’s just inc3st/p3d0phila/non-con/something weird

(Also stop telling me to end my life because of this post before you get your feet tickled by the tickle monster)

[rel124c41]

PEAS & LOVE. alternative #12 / no goggles! invincible

In the beginning, you were the freshest squeeze. In the second beginning, you are still the freshest squeeze, just a bit different. Like a tangerine and mandarin, just a slightly altered taste! Not that this difference in citrus changes anything to Mark. A bite is still a bite. Besides, you are "mine, all mine," Mark grins toothily, Bee-boppa-doo-doh Badoo-bee-doo-wah!

tags: past platonic relationship, blood and violence, dubious morality, food as a metaphor for love, rekindling with your old soulmate who’s been DEAD dead for a while, cannibalistic thought, first date?, hypoglycemia

word count: 15,912

It is really hard to keep track of what is going on. What with the fact that you are approximately forty-five meters in the air, constantly being maneuvered back and forth like a water hose mapping out all the area of a garden, being bombarded with the piercing sound of people dying, guns blasting, hearts pounding, and, lastly, the mere fact that you are blindfolded as all this cacophony happens underneath you both.

You are trying your best to do your job but there are so many variables you did not anticipate. 

There are hundreds upon hundreds of systems of circulation that you must read. Each one has a rhythm specific to itself, increasing in fortissimo if adrenaline is active or decreasing if they are bleeding out from an injury that has been sustained. Every discrepancy has to be scrutinized as a single system yet juxtaposingly melted into the group as one paramount system. The identities of these venous systems are inconsequential; all you see behind the black of the blindfold are a thousand red glowing systems of veins pumping blood like a field of flowing spider lilies. Any of these hearts could belong to one of your comrades and then you would majorly be a screw up and all your privileges would go revoked and then —

“The Flaxan population is currently at approximately nine hundred and thirty individuals. The current antecedent of how many the Teen Team and Invincible is subduing is eighty percent equal to the current consequent, the rate at which they emerge from out of the portals. Cecil Stedman has informed me that your limit is a thousand?”

His voice startles you so much that you almost fall off his lap. You settle back, skittish in a seat that is only a shell of hard metal, no blood circling to track. Eyes aflutter behind the blindfold, you respond diligently to Rudy Conners, “Yes. I have not gone above a thousand before.”

“But, there is a possibility that you could,” Robot questions, more talking aloud to himself to catalog this untested probability. 

Should you answer that? Obedience gets you more rewards so you open your mouth to answer, “It is certainly something I could attempt to do.” as he says over your answer.

“After I dismiss Teen Team and Invincible from the area, you are going to count down from exactly five Mississippi before doing your job.”

You nod in understanding, remember you cannot see if his robotic optics are looking at you, and hastily shout, “Yes, uhm, of course!”

His vision is not zeroed in on you; the verbal confirmation was a smart move. From the aerial view of a little less than half the average height of a skyscraper, he keeps count of the dwindling than growing Flaxan militia, watching droves die in pieces and watching droves emerge full-bodied from the portals. He steers the hovercraft from sector to sector, each of the Teen Team members locked in position as Invincible jumps from sectors and interferes with his count.

So filthy, so unconventional, new baby superhero on the scene and he is already moving like he has been making bloody messes since diapers. He strikes perfectly yet deliberate, leaving them legless on the ground before hopping to the next hoard. Doesn’t finish his plate, leaves leftovers, inefficient in the plainest term. 

Invincible smiles wide with each blow, despite the fact that his comatose father is in the stomach of the G.D.A, despite the fact that the Guardians of the Globe were killed two days ago.

“Wh-When will I know when to start counting,” you pipe up nervously. 

Robot naturally cannot feel it but he is not ignorant to your fretful shifting, arms looped around and caressing his neck relocating to his shoulders then back to his neck, never quite comfortable. His venous system of circuitry makes you feel like you are sitting on a cloud despite his callused metal. Both of you are experiencing something uncomfortable with this proximity but making it work for the sake of the job.

Descending by two meters, Robot says, analyzing the scene closer up, “once I have placed the noise-canceling headphones over your ears, you may start counting down from five.” Where his orange digits are enclosed around the hovercraft’s handles, the pair of headphones are held tight too.

Below, Invincible raises his leg like an axe and slices a Flaxan in half. Below, Dupli-Kate hammers her fist through a Flaxan’s face before popping like a zit. Below, Rex Splode throws coins engraved with Franklin D. Roosevelt and George Washington’s side profiles at Flaxans. Below, Atom Eve shields herself from multiple gun blasts with a reinforced pink wall.

The ratio between the Flaxans dying and the Flaxans arriving won’t stay even for any long, fluctuating the odds against them.

You say nothing so Robot fills the space by ordering, the speakers of the hovercraft carrying his voice, “Teen Team and Invincible, clear out immediately. Clear out immediately from the Zone.” 

Then, your world goes blank into nothing, headphones set over your ears, eyes already covered. Five Mississippi, you start diligently.

A lot happens below you that you are unaware of during that precious five seconds. It is all white noise to you — not even white noise to be honest, more like silence — as Robot shouts orders at Invincible to leave as Atom Eve scoops up Rex Splode and Dupli-Kate. Completely ignorant to it all, you count down.

A heart does not beat like a metronome. 

An organ moving to its own tempo and whims, the heart is not a steady thing. To the philosophers, to the whimsical, to the literary poets, a heart is an idiosyncratic thing, changed evermore once it has experienced something ‘life-changing��� — which is partly true in the lens of cardiology. Outdoor factors alter it; a dosage of fear causes it to speed it and a dosage of happiness causes it to slow down. Unlike a metronome which can click-click-click away in the same fixed BPM, hearts shift around due to physical activity, substances ingested, affiliations like diabetes. However, as a conductor, you direct the orchestra so each heart within a radius of twenty-two meters starts to involuntarily change its BPM to match yours like one grand metronome. Each swinging click of the inner pendulum is a cycled circulation that, despite injuries or adrenaline, starts to follow along to your own beat.

The space behind your blindfold starts to glow red like someone is trying to shine a flashlight through the skin of your eyelids. Each spider lily is caught in a dance with one relaxed breeze. 

“One Mississippi,” you whisper underneath your breath, unheard in your own ears and unheard over Robot barking at Invincible to move, fly, get out of there.

It happens simultaneously. Rather than happening in intervals or one by one, it is one massive explosion of sanguine. In a very personalized way — all his horrible thirty years of being a living mummy of metal — it reminds Robot of bad bulbs exploding when overloaded with too much electricity. 

For each heartbeat, electrical signals are conducted; we know this through the use of pacemakers and how defibrillators work. The rudimentary teachings of the nervous system explains how essential all these electrical impulses are. Sparks travel in the human body like wired circuitry in a house. 

If you sharpened your superpowered abilities towards the cardiac conduction system, you might be able to hold your own against someone like Rudy Conners and his gundam-esque flesh, but your powers are not honed towards electricity; it is the blood that influences you. It is the blood that explodes underneath you and him. For one Mississippi, there is activity of individuals and, another one Mississippi, the head of each Flaxan bursts open like an overfilled balloon stretched too thin with water pressure.

Your nails tremble and scrape his orange neck, hands shaking with the jolts of blood rushing in your fingers. Robot analyzes, surveying your BPM which passes the summit of 180, the number of beats after orgasm, before slowing down to your normal resting rate.

Methodically, he removes the device over your head as you breathe heavily in his lap, trying to keep yourself out of the grave and smother down the riptide of cardiac arrest which licks at your flesh.

The world is a ringing bell to you, so the removal of those bulking noise-canceling headphones does nothing. Ears not picking up the praise of Rudy, “That was impressive. I had my doubts – what with the population density – but you were extremely efficient in your reach.” Just like how you do not hear the agonizing screams of the sole survivor below. 

Well, not agonized, but certainly frustrated. Holding his temples like he has got the world’s worst brain freeze, Invincible is huffing through gritted teeth at the pain between his eyes and yelling at each Flaxan who does not respond to his kicks, both variables putting him in a very bad mood.

“Get up! Get up! Get up!” He barks, a dog on repeat. He is still barking when Robot lands the hovercraft, crushing alien goop on the underbelly of his precious machine, and you reach to untie the blindfold. “I’m not done! This isn’t over — get up!”

You are not expecting a survivor when you pull off the blindfold; what you are anticipating is mass homicide, undisputable, a field of dead spider lilies that have wilted forever. Something that could resemble hope or relief from old shackles blooms in your chest when you see a sole survivor. His strong heart beats in the streets of your ribcage like a neighbor. It does not feel like you are talking, muscles feeling so airy and light, when your lips form around, “You’re alive.” like he is someone precious to you, like he has been dead for years.

He turns on you two sharply, eyes bloodlust. Despite the rage brewing in those brown eyes, his voice takes on a whine, “What the hell was that! You guys said this would last a while, that was so quick! Why was that so quick!”

Robot nudges you off his lap, down the steps of the machine, and stands while reiterating, “The protocol for this mission was to stop the Flaxan invasion as quickly as possible, with minimal damage or casualties. We try to finish things swiftly and efficiently here.”

This is inconsequential to Invincible. He is still wearing his skin of bloodlust, taking deep breaths and wincing every so momentarily at the pinch between his temples. Dangling from his fingerless gloved hand, the arm he took off an alien hangs limply; he tore it off hoping to get a reaction, to summon a scream from a headless body. 

Thus, Rudy adds, trying to appeal to his human nature, that receptiveness to praise, “You were extraordinary in your speed, Inv–.”

“I could care less! It took my Dad a whole day to defeat them! This should have lasted!” This barely took up an afternoon, felt to him like mere Mississippi seconds. Mark’s so pissed he does not even hear Robot’s droning voice anymore, ears ringing.

“What even was that? Did you do something!” His attention turns to you.

Yes, you did. Among the thousand and twelve dead Flaxans — a total that once counted will disconcert Cecil Stedman and intrigue Rudy Conners — you have just exercised a dormant power and sparked a chain reaction, caused an overflow of blood in the branches of internal carotid arteries that arise from the neck into the brain, conducted multiple vasospasms within the system, essentially pinched a hose at the end and leading to a burst. But, this is something you cannot explain to him because your jaw is still dropped in awe.

You feel the pulse of breath in your open mouth, trying to formulate words, but nothing comes. All it does irk Mark.

“Answer me! If someone doesn’t tell what is going on, I’m gonna,” he raises the Flaxan arm as his brain pauses, stumped on exactly what he is going to do. He is so ineffably bored now. Cravings for bloodshed and violence are not yet satisfied. He could go for a second helping, eyeing you and Robot.

“There is no need to –,” Robot steps forward, hoping to corral the baby superhero, when you suddenly grab his arm and step two steps in front him, moving closer to danger. He stops in conciliating with Invincible because you shout out. 

“Who are you,” you gasp, sweaty and breathless because you are on the cusp of a panic attack, thoughts discord and words more so, “How did you survive that! I haven’t – How can you even stand after that! No one’s ever survived that! Do you have a metal plate in – I don’t understand … I don’t understand how you could possibly be alive!” 

You shake like a soaked puppy, acutely feeling the blood drain out of your face. Terrified for his sake, you want him to live a long life more than anything in your life.

You did all this? He can’t really wrap his pounding head around all the gibberish that you were spilling out. The itch for that elongated fight is present under his boiling skin, fiddling with the possibility that you could be his new opponent. So, loopy and excited, Mark decides to answer your first question, might as well introduce himself to the human he is going to battle. 

“I’m –”

A perfect streamline of blood leaks out from underneath his eye, trailing down like a tear until it is absorbed into the yellow of his mask.

“Invincible,” he finishes in a weak wheeze, collapsing in a heap along with the bodies of Flaxans.

The ‘you’ now has never lived such a life. 

And even if you did have these memories, transcribed over into your hippocampus like text translated language from language, alternative person to alternative person, it would not be a big concern to you. The paramount strife in your life is the closed titanium doors of Guardians of the Globe HQ which you wait patiently yet anxiously to open, counting your eight multiplication tables in your head to stop yourself from passing out on the floor.

This suspicion of an upcoming fainting spell is not from cowardice; you are running on fumes, burnt down to the last centimeter of your body’s metaphorical candle wick. Working since 03:00 then working since 10:00 when clones of Invincibles split open the skies yesterday, it is 14:00 on the second day of Armageddon and you need sleep like oxygen.

But, you could not lay down guiltlessly unless it is an involuntary loss of consciousness. Thus, you volunteered for the medical squad to clean up after Darkwing II’s sacrifice that happened less than five minutes ago. The world is moving fast, rinsing and recycling heroes.

When the doors slide open with one loud vacuum-suck sound, you pause to take it all in. Slow down, smell the roses. Roses of blood, that sharp metallic stench of liters upon liters drained. It is such a soothing and familiar scent that you let the other doctors rush past you, each racing to attend to one of the Guardians that are splattered and smeared across the floor, checking vitals.

Just from where you are standing, you can feel each of their heartbeats, knowing instinctively those that are off and those that are slowing down. 

‘Samson,’ you access, opening your eyes to see nothing but blurs of the HQ. You are shaking like a soaked puppy, so fatigued that both your speech and vision are under strain. 

Still, you hurry over because he has a hemorrhage in his skull, face previously punched and brain rattled just enough to rupture a blood vessel. Or, it could just be his nose bleed, jaw and cheek slick with red. You are too out of it to tell, enough to be confusing the proximities…?

All the same, you rush to the doctor attending to him, flashing a penlight in his one working eye, tools laid out to stitch the gash in his left shoulder. Like a drunk raccoon, you stumbled over just in time before the stitching could begin.

“Do-Don’t you dare stitch him,” you snap, climbing and fumbling over fallen metal, suitcase hugged tight to your chest. Both doctor and superhero give you matching confused gazes. Sweat glistens on your face. “You’r-eee-e ‘bout to, a hemo-hemorrhagic stroke,” you inform the superhero, perhaps making a false claim, still so uncertain. 

Black Samson opens his mouth, “Miss, I think you should sit down”, taking a step to altruistically help you over the hurdle of rebar you are struggling to cross. He goes to assure you of his regenerative ability but only stumbles, left leg failing and bumps head with you. You both end on your knees, groaning.

“Ugggh.”

You recover faster, your head not a slowly rising pool of blood. The world is still a blur but you can still sniff out the injury like a bloodhound. “‘cuse me,” you say before taking two fingers and sticking them in his open wound.

“Jesus! Mother fuhh –!”

You ignore him, ignore everything, even your own tiredness, trying to scrub the smell of others' blood out of yourself so you can focus on his blood alone. 

O positive, common blood type. He has a closed head injury; his skull is not broken which is truly a relief, the spread of visible blood over the right side of his cranium gave the impression that he might have a penetrating TBI. But, he’s not out of the woods; a blunt TBI is still a possibility. You close your eyes as the image of a crude map of the brain’s blood vessels print itself to the skin of your inner eyelids. Unconsciously, you lick your lips — in the manner of a lion salivating at the hint of a wildebeest stepping out of the herd. 

Two essential blood flow circulations connect at the base of the human brain. Named Circle of Willis, its anatomy is familiar and intimate to you. The shape of the Circle of Willis is one that could be crudely described as a human stick figure; complete with noodle arms and noodle legs, little filaments stretching from the spine like ribs, and that oval head, it resembles a standing man.

It has been a companion to you more than a foster parent, captor, or co-worker. In a way, Willis is like your childhood best friend. 

Willis is fine though. No injuries to be found. You recheck him thrice like a fretful mother patting down her son, seeing a spill of blood on his shirt but no pinpointed, bleeding area in sight. Each artery is a limb you pat in a wellness check, accessing blood flow through the tips of your fingers.

‘Where is it?’ You are almost positive Samson’s brain bleed would be in the subarachnoid area of the brain, directly on the level where the Circle of Willis is located. After physical trauma, the subarachnoid area is the common floor of the house of the brain layers to find broken blood vessels. 

‘Into the basement or attic?’ You think to yourself, eyes shut and racing along the multiple other highways of arteries, checking each one. You do not get to decide because there is suddenly a rumble in the floor of the HQ. And two new, erratic heartbeats are pounding like the drums of war.

Eyelids wrenching open, you turn sharply away. The entire world tilts and your vision swims like a shaken snow-globe, whitening out as artificial flakes swirl round. Concrete is not a soft pillow.

You come back into the land of the living with a penlight shined in your face and a mammoth hand propping you up by the shoulder. Red is slick on your index and middle, coated to the second knuckle. The tongue in your mouth is heavy like a cinder-block as you wag it to tell the superhero and GDA doctor fretting over you that you are fine. What comes out is a jumbled alphabet soup.

Black Samson holds his index finger, a motion that your unseeing eyes do not catch, to his lips and knocks them against the surface twice to tell you to shush.

Uncooperative, you wrench your unsteady head from the hold of your fellow GDA employees. That awful penlight is finally out of your eyes. Sections of the demolished Guardians of the Globe control room come back into focus. Limp hands resurrect and search for your briefcase – a bloody caricature of Velma from Scooby Doo, momentarily helpless like a newborn. 

Cold against your fingertips, you touch the combination and latches just as Darkwing II screams. A flinch causes the briefcase to rattle. Alert and vision unfogging, you look towards where those two new heartbeats … no, just one now, beat. 

As previously established, you have been working since 10:00 yesterday. You were in the midst of pipetting when the skies split with green anuses and green mouths, shitting and spitting out fake Invincibles. It was 10:01 when the Global Defense Agency was renovated with a new skylight ceiling even though those portals opened over Poland and your workplace was in Arlington, Virginia. It was fucking, aggravatingly bad luck when it was the science wing that the now dead fake Invincible dived through first; you lost your sample to the linoleum floor, the pipette squeezed in surprise.

You’ve seen those Bizarro Invincibles up close and personal before — the Invincible dressed in Flaxan attire and your coworkers' blood held your face in his unrelenting hands, leaving you purse-lipped and silent to hear his forlorn whisper of, “I can’t believe this is really your face. I didn’t think – It’s been years,” he paused and somewhere even softer than a whisper said, “It’s been years.” — but that does not lessen the tension that coils through you at seeing another.

He has Darkwing’s intestines gripped in his hand. He circles his wrist once, twice, and thrice, wrapping the thick muscle in a bundle around his fist, gathering them up like they’re a string of Christmas lights to be put away. 

“Hahaha, so much for that sacrificial shit, huh! Guy gets just an inch of guts taken out and cries Uncle. What a pussy!” He pulls the last of the coiled small intestines out; dripping red, they spin around in a loop down the length of his arm like a snake twisting on a branch. 

It is so outlandish that you aren’t entirely sure if what you are seeing is reality. The HQ was already clear; you wouldn’t have to face a second helping of emotional turmoil dealt at the hand of a human-Viltrumite hybrid; you sent in here for cleaning up messes only because the coast was clear, moved to the medical staff; you are not a fighter but a cockroach. These contrasting variables and unforeseen circumstances ping-pong in your rationale. This is so far from being a cleared out, neutral territory. 

It took thirteen screeching ReAnimen to take down that last fake Invincible. Even when ReAnimen fell upon him like a pack of hunting dogs, he picked some of them up like they were stuffed animals and lobbed them across hallways and into walls. This new fake Invincible just survived an unprecedented amount of time in the Shadowverse.

Maybe, it is finally time to cut your losses.  

It’s not like you are head over heels for this place. The Global Defense Agency is simply a well of resources, a fountain of blood; your hematology research has flourished with such versatile samples. All of those strictly classified blood bags can only be assessed with a fancy little GDA badge, that very one that hangs on the lanyard around your neck. But, you are certainly not loyal to them.

Unlike that little puke who makes the ReAnimen and Darkwing II, you have nothing incriminating in your history that keeps you stuck here, no leash to Cecil Stedman’s finger — not in the way that Flaxan Invincible made it sound like. 

You grasp your dangling ID badge just as the fake Invincible turns his body, light and enthusiastic as his eyes set on the doctors, paralyzed in fear, rebuilding the Immortal and scooping up Shapesmith. “Stedman sent in the cleanup already, huh? I’m pretty sure I already killed that guy. I don’t think you’re gonna get anything else out of him.” 

There is that floating lab in the Pacific Ocean working with Atlanteans, another option is that Arctic outpost with ossified bodies of alien shapeshifters, and you could even be reassigned to the space satellite where that young hero Zachary Thompson works; the world is full of escape routes and you are no coward when it comes to change.

“Man, they work you guys to the bone!”

It really is time to cut your losses.

You bring your briefcase to your chest, heartbeat irregular and fluttering. It is your life-perseverer that you hold so tightly and it is the only belonging you need to survive. Watching this new Invincible stride over to the trembling doctors, Darkwing’s guts swaying in his hand, you make the decision to get the hell out of dodge.

Straining, you try to get your legs up from underneath yourself. The briefcase in your hand feels like trying to lift a boulder and the dizziness in your head is debilitating. Still, you push yourself to hobble on uneasy legs. You are crouched, legs bent, heaving like you ran a marathon, but you manage to stand. It is a victory you cannot even bask in because you collapse a millisecond after. Loudly, you groan. 

“Huh?”

The effort of standing plunges your blood pressure down and alerts the fake Invincible of your presence. … well, not the sound of your knees hitting concrete or the involuntary sound that slipped from you in agony. 

What alerts him to the presence of the other remaining survivors is the incessant alarm of your wristwatch – “low blood sugar warning, refuel, low blood sugar warning, refuel, low blood sugar warning, refuel.” The fake Invincible turns towards that sound, analyzing your group, as this strange look comes across his face. 

His face muscles are untrained for this.

Which is such an odd word — untrained. Never once would he think to use it for himself. Since he graduated crawling to mere waddling on two legs as a toddler, Mark has been put through a training regimen that has developed his physical abilities beyond human standards; yet, he still cannot figure out which ways to mold his expression into one that shows he’s listening.

Facial emotes are a fickle thing on Viltrum; his real people communicate with actions rather than worrying with morphing their lips and brows into a passage to be read. His father, Nolan, never broke his poker face. A concept that is surreal to humans who use all sorts of micro-expressions, little involuntary twitches, or sometimes break out in unexpected bouts of laughter, a permanent deadpan is possible if you are only of a superior race — as Nolan reiterates. 

His mother is often used as an example of that human ineptitude to interface with another without falling to the folly of emotions.

Mark only sees his mother on Sundays. She smells like a plum freshly bleeding, has much better food in her fridge than the one at his house, and is always smiling at her son. 

Not immune to other emotions, she will sometimes look at him sadly when he leaves bloated with good food on Monday mornings; she will sometimes have a crease in her brow when he says certain things too, but most of the time, she smiles. It is her most common face. Pink, moisturized lips will lift causing both the corners of her mouth and corners of her cheeks to pull. To the outside observer, mostly Mark, one can see how Debbie Grayson smiles unconsciously with her eyes. Genuine joy to be found in her duchenne smile as she greets her son, making grand gestures like bringing him to zoos for the day or purchasing ice cream cones with three scoops whenever she gets to have momentary custody. It is the face of an alien. When asked once by a curious young Mark, aged at the age where he would’ve began elementary school if he was raised like a normal child, why she did that face, Debbie Grayson crouched down, hair swaying on her shoulders and face doing it again, and said it was because he made her so happy. 

Mark mimics his mother’s smiling face. He hopes it is enough for Cecil Stedman to stop being such a hard-ass with his debrief-slash-lecture. Dear old Daddy’s lectures were always with fist, which Mark appreciates, so all this wordy talk is really grating on his nerves. Safety protocols mean shit to Mark; he could care less about listening to his mission leader Robot; he wants to know something.

“Hey,” he interrupts, “Hey. Where did that other leader end up? That chick, I wanted to talk to her.” 

He cannot remember a single faucet of you — other than your voice sounding feminine enough, he cannot describe your hair or body type or anything when Cecil asks ‘whom?’ — because all he can remember is that thrilling sensation of a hemorrhage in his head, the loss of gravity and thoughts. 

It takes a lot of convincing. Mark has to play nice, basically stepping into the too small shoes of a child who learns to make friends on the playground. Aiding Teen Team comes off with the payment that he is gaining Stedman’s dubious trust. The Guardians of the Globe tryouts are held and his father sleeps through it on ventilator calibration. Eventually, for all the metamorphic gold stars he earns, Mark gets to cash in his reward. 

You are housed in Payton Penitentiary. When he was working hand in hand with all those superheroes, he never caught wind of you even once, ears strained to see if that voice might be among his team. Apparently, they don’t let you out unless you’re really, really good, or if the world is ending.

It makes you similar to him; he also isn’t allowed to go out unless he has been obedient too.

Through a plated sheet of glass, you two met again. You are kept on a cocktail of drugs; a low dose of halothane here and a high dose of calcium channel blockers there and so many other things that he does not recall. What Mark remembers most is that first look you gave him, his mind crystal clear while you were lethargic, hardly able to construct sentences without gasping for breath between each word, when you finally managed to summon the strength to lift your dropping, bowling-ball-heavy head up from your shoulders, and you blinked lizard-esque at him. 

You have the (eye color)-est eyes.

Deer in headlight eyes are the eyes of someone going to die. 

Mental paralysis is a killer that tips a battle faster than a well-timed punch or quick reaction time ever could. It is why both you and Mark shudder and shed off any acute shock that tries to subconsciously bubble up, staring at each other across The Guardians of the Globe HQ. 

The world falls away around the two of you for entirely different reasons. The emotions inside of you could not be any more different from the emotions inside of him. 

Paralyzed, the group of three – Black Samson, the surely underpaid GDA physician, and yourself – watch the fake Invincible’s right hand move. Fingerless, pallid fingers curling, thumb set on the outside, yellow fabric creasing over a mountain valley of knuckles, he has made a fist, terrifying all of you with its presence. Then, he punches himself. It is a jarring motion. If he aimed that punch at any of you three, the muscles of your face would cave in like a deflating cherry pie. All it gives himself is the little drip of a red icicle falling from his nose, and, apparently, clarity. 

“Huh,” he remarks, straightening his head and squinting, “guess this isn’t a hallucination.” He stretches out the ache in his jaw through a lion-esque yawn. “Though, you could just be a concussion … Never know, with how much I’ve been knocked around today …” He laughs airly, his brutalization a sweet memory.

While he is at ease, putting languid hands on his hips, the three of you have only tense more at his carefree words. The superhero wants to move to protect the civilians, the doctor wants to exit to protect himself, and you … want to keep fighting and abandon both of these loose ends behind you but the blaring repetition of “low blood sugar warning, refuel, low blood sugar warning, refuel, low blood sugar warning, refuel” ensures that any move you make will be fruitless, even a move without your hypoglycemia flaring up would be like an ant trying to take down an elephant. So, all of you sit in wait, trying to predict someone who is unpredictability’s personification.

It is worse that his gaze is directly planted upon you and he hasn't broken eye contact since the punch. 

“You’ll check out my head, right?” He points at it, unmistakably the face of Omni-Man’s son who no longer works with Cecil Stedman, where a thin paper-cut injury and nosebleed lies. “Make sure it’s not too bruised like last time.”

That was directed at you. No mistaking it, his brown eyes have not diverted their attention elsewhere. 

“Not from this distance,” you say, distractedly mapping out your escape plan without taking your eyes off him.

The fake Invincible is in front of you in a blink. Since you didn’t dare to blink, you find that your limited human vision can hardly track the motion; almost as if he phased from point A to point B with nothing more than a teleportation watch.

“How about now?”

Angling your neck, the dimension of his muscular thighs, that ridiculous jockstrap, his sinewy abdominal and pectoral meat come into slow focus. This is a question you are more hesitant to slip up on. Tilting more obtusely, the imprint of your larynx stretches your skin as once more eye contact is reestablished. He has irises like the rings of a tree, a brown that is so deeply brown. A ball of spit is swallowed in the tight space of your throat and the fake Invincible watches the swallow with rapture.

“What, cat got your tongue?” He smiles boyishly down at you, buzzing with energy from head to toe. His grin falters as his gaze descends to your screeching wristwatch. “God, that thing is annoying. What’s it for anyways? I can barely hear myself think over it.”

You are hauled to your feet. Forearm grasped, he pulls you up as easily as lifting a sheet; his grip is sturdy yet not bruising as you fumble to plant not quite sturdy feet. The fake Invincible exhales on your face, leaning in close to observe your foggy eyes with private objectiveness. When his attention turns to your watch, maneuvering your limp wrist sideways to view, you find your voice.

“It tracks my blood pressure.” No shit, it’s screaming out a warning about it now. “I-It’s like an uh-advanced CGM.” A nervous drop of sweat rides down your neck into your uniform collar.

“Do you like it?”

“Wha?”

“Do you want it on you?” 

Yes, you want it attached to your wrist as much as you want this lunatic to take his hands off you. He has his dominant hand cupping just below your wrist on your lab jacket’s sleeve and his other hand gently pushed on your left shoulder blade to keep you stable. The words won’t come out though. Whatever leaps and bounds have been made in his decision-making, or maybe he simply hates the noise, the fake Invincible inches his hand up to the leather strap in a move to tear it off. 

“Wait … Wait.” You jostle, unable to pry with your other hand on your briefcase and unable to wrench your wrist away. “I – uh. I.” Butterflies rattle around in your stomach.

“Low blood sugar warning, refuel, low blood sugar warning, refuel, low blood sugar warning, refuel.”

Earth spins. Earth always spins but now it really pirouettes. As bile rises in your throat and the briefcase cracks on the pavement, you watch sheets upon sheets of merry-go-round colors move across your eyes, unable to see straight as vertigo clamps on your senses.

“Didn’t I kill you? Still up and attem unlike those chumps? Heh, you sure are strong. Good, I’ll save myself a snack for later.”

Fresh blood, you can smell it. It floats into your nostrils like the scent of barbecue shimmering on a grill caught on a breeze. It reminds you of thick globs of sauce, a red paste even thicker than mariana, almost like paint. ‘A snack?’ You cannot comprehend his meaning.

Feet are swept up and out from underneath you. The fake Invincible rids you of the burden of having to balance but worsens your chance of escape by holding you so completely, a small pet scooped up without strength to escape. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll come back and beat these Guardians to death in a few, promi-sss-e! Let’s get you out of here, huh, (Name)?”

Vertigo overtakes and swallows you.

No one comes after you. There is no one left to pursue you. Mark didn’t think that guy in the purple was going to get back up, but, now, he is definitely not going to come chasing after the two of you. Aiming for the head is not exactly Mark’s strong suit. He likes to dawdle. But, with you in his arms, it felt right to direct that punch at the side of Black Samson’s head and feel a part of his skull cave like an egg tapped against a frying pan’s edge.

That bothersome wristwatch is still going off but it is background noise in the wind rushing past Mark’s ears; the whole world is simply background noise in your presence. For a few moments, he simply flies through the atmosphere with his brain only focusing on the weight of you.

He only stops in his mindless flight, landing on one of Arlington’s metropolitan building roofs, because he needs to check your heart.

Grown so used to a still chest, Mark basks in the way you are heaving. Each rise and fall of your front is volcanic like a geyser just about to burst. He has to lay you down on your back because you are not coherent enough to stand. If you are drugged again, he is going to find Cecil Stedman and pick him apart in the way grade-schoolers rip legs and wings off dragonflies.

He straddles and leans over you. Lucid enough to analyze his motions but not to protest, you look up at him from beyond eyelashes. He flashes you what he judges is a charming smile. Wasting no more time, Mark makes haste to put ear to ribcage and listen to that … lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub, swift as rushing wind. The alarm warning is inconspicuous to him.

“Ah, you have n-ooo-no idea how much I needed this, (Name).”

If there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, it is this. No human tradition or ritual embodies this sentiment he feels, so it must be his Viltrumite side reigning supreme, but he wants to build a place for himself within your ribs. With just a little bloody force, he could make himself a hibernation cave inside of you, lay his head on a heart-pillow.

“I love the way you have a head on your shoulders,” he muses aloud, still laid on your chest. “There are other things I really like about you but that one is my favorite. What do you like about me?”

When Mark pulls back to see your face, you have your eyes closed and lips parted. ‘Aw, cute.’ How he missed you. Sure, there were always other enemies to fight against and eventually kill, but when you went away, it was like a rabid fan’s favorite MMA fighter announcing their retirement from the ring. Mementos were kept but it could never compare to the real thing. 

He hasn’t felt this warm and fuzzy feeling in his heart since you’ve been gone. It must be your powers. That disruption of blood vessels and arteries, leaking out like radiation from your dormant abilities, speeding up his heart.

It slows when he notices what lies over your chest.

In fingerless gloved hands, coated with the blood of so many that red has eclipsed the yellow fabric, he picks up and thumbs the ID badge. Even he cannot summon any vitriol for the item because it has your face on it. Something like that would never make him angry. It is a simple identification: (Name) (Last Name), Affliction. Employee, Agency Department. The G.D.A Science Foundation, Expires. 2027SEPT10. He makes sure to keep the blood staining plastic lower so it does not obscure your photograph. 

In the top leftmost corner, you do not smile. In it, you wear a simple white button-up with the top button undone. You are not following laboratory regulations because (your hair is down/you wear a necklace with a large aquaprase stone hanging from it). Mark’s eyes follow the curve of your lips where a poker-face resides. You look to be about fifteen in this photo.

Mark’s lips are a dead line as he looks at it, not comprehending it. 

“Whatever. It’s lame anyways.” He yanks the lanyard off your neck, the buckle snapping open. It is like pulling the starter cord on a lawn mower because you start to have a seizure almost instantaneously. 

PANIC.

There is a giant robot above you now. It is not a robot that you can see but you can hear it. About the size of Mount Fuji or the Burj Khalifa, you can tell it is a behemoth structure because of the sound of its stomps. Hissing pistons lift its gargantuan feet with thunderous booms. Despite the obvious weight of it, maybe a thousand elephants or hundred naval ships equivalent, this robot is moving swiftly, almost running; it raises the question: how can something that large move that fast?

The answer involves the fuel being used, PANIC: People Anxiously Negating Intelligence, C’est-la-vie. 

There is obviously no ‘robot’ above you; this world may be full of kaijus, superpowered men and women, and other ridiculous things, but a giant gundam is a little too far-fetched — something that should stay in fiction like Pacific Rim and 20th Century Boys. No, that noise is the noise of those who are running for their lives. The heavy cacophony is a symphony orchestrated by PANIC.

Payton Penitentiary is packed full of panicking people. 

Hah, say that seven times fast. You probably could not in your state. In such a nebulous state, you could not possibly sniff out even a single heartbeat. It has all blended together into pounding, thunder-after-lightning booms. Hidden below the ground and below even the basement, you lie untouched by mass hysteria, drool on the corner of your lips. You do not even hear the hissing.

Vents align the walls of your prison cell like family portraits. From them, halothane seeps out and cascades downward like miniature Niagara Falls in transparent waves. Wall to wall, ceiling to floor, the room is flooded with this potent halogenated anaesthetic gas. Designed to decrease your blood pressure and slow your heart rate, it keeps you on the constant threshold of respiratory depression. You haven’t died yet so they haven’t stopped pumping your cell full of the anaesthetic. 

But, outside, someone has put up a beaver dam to halt the flood, momentarily turning off the pour of gas into your room. Motionless, you lie untouched by these changes. You breathe in air that is so clogged that you do not even notice the thinning of it as your cell door opens minutes after.

Mark strides in. He crosses his blood-stained arms over his chest in a self-assured manner and inhales deeply the scent of your room. Sweet like fruit, the scent of chloroform-like odor seeps into his nostrils. It would knock anyone else out in seconds but only tickles Mark.

“They rea-lll-y got you locked in deep down here. For a moment, I thought I missed a turn or something; thought you might have been up on the top floors with the rest of them. But, nope! I just had to keep digging a little deeper. Then, bam, you’re right here.” He plants his rear on the edge of your mattress. “You know, I’m kinda like a prince saving the princess from the tower and an evil dragon. Pretty cool, right?”

Like a dead person, you lie without reacting to your environment.

“Hey!” Mark barks at you. “Hey, cut the shit! What the – What’s wrong with you!” Steadyfast, you keep seizing all through Mark’s initial panicking. “(Name)! Hey, (Name)! Cut it out!” 

Intelligence evaporated out of him – not that there was much there –, Mark uses an atom’s worth of his Viltrumite genes to restrain you. He grips the biceps of both your arms, digging nails into cotton sleeves, and pushes you as flat as possible on the PVC rooftop. It worsens your erratic jerks, kicking them up by several degrees. If you weren’t thrashing like a furious bull before, you are now.

“Hey! (Name), cut the bullshit!” He pushes down harder, eyes flying to your wrists wondering if those are better to grab or if he should just engulf you in a bear-tight hold until you cut it the fuck out. The longer it goes on, the more his tone grows desperate. “You’re scaring the shit out of me, (Name) – just stop it!” 

Has he said or done something to upset you? You two were getting along just great before. Mark has never seen you do this before; he has never even seen something like this in general! Uneducated in human nuance, he puts an iron-flesh hand to your chest, feels the stomps and firing pulses of your heart, and pushes down so ribs and the cardiovascular organ kiss together. 

Coincidentally, the seizure subdues with time. A puff of air escapes Mark’s lips in relief. He should have known it had something to do with the heart – it always does when it comes to you. Satisfied that he figured it out, a smile quirks up his lips as you slowly wrench yourself into consciousness. You wake up to the face of Omni-Man and Debbie Grayson’s twenty-one year old son, Invincible, that bumbling superhero who has no idea what the real world is like. 

For a moment, you misjudged that he above you is the one from your universe. You only remember the time you were standing over him, helicopter wings causing your labcoat to rustle, as he laid smashed into the side of a mountain, a single glimpse of a black eye visible due to a broken lens. Lens?

No, a pair of brown eyes is arrowed down at you, absent of any goggles, displaying relief yet smugness too. 

You do not care anymore. His mouth is forming around benign words that you are deaf to. Though the ringing of your ears blocks it out, you are positive that your wristwatch is shrieking unless this brute has smashed it or removed it. You are on a tightrope that has long since burnt at both ends, leaving you with no route to escape. If there is nowhere left …

“Juh– J – hng –Juh-s – sa –Juh-ice,” you choke around too heavy words.

“Huh,” the fake Invincible leans in, “didn’t catch that.”

“Juice.”

At Dad’s house, Mark only got water. Mostly from the tap and on rare occasions bottled if they went somewhere new for training, the water never came with a straw. Mom’s water came with straws, bendy ‘crazy’ ones, straight ones, striped ones, colorful ones. His Mom’s house also had enough flavors of water to make a little boy feel like he was on a booze cruise. Of course he never was as Debbie Grayson would always tell him that he could not have any of her ‘adult juice’; even though he did sneak a sip when her back was turned at fourteen, sticking out his tongue in disgust mere moments after.

Mark Grayson knows what juice is. If you want, he could name all the labels that were in his Mom’s fridge from the Welch’s Mango Twist to the Hawaiian Punch Polar Blast. But, he is not sure that is what you want and you freaked him out enough where he is compliant to anything. “Do you want me to get you some juice,” he asks, hesitant to remove his hand.

The pressure from his palm is too suffocating to spit out any more heavy words. It feels like a peine forte et dure. You need to save your breath so you only nod your confirmation.

Vaguely, he does remember where to get juice. This universe has got to have a Trader’s Joe or Krogers somewhere. Mark’s not sure but he is sure as hell not going to leave you here. As he picks you up, supporting underneath the knees and spine, squinting at you, he seems apprehensive. “You’re not gonna do all that freaking out again, right?”

His hand may be off your chest but you are so utterly weak. You shake your head, not really comprehending. 

“‘Kay, good.” He takes off, you secure in his arms.

This is the end of the world. 

And, you do not mean that in a pessimistic and wave-the-white-flag way. Nor is your statement one of hysterics. When you internalize that is in fact the end of the world, it is in a solidification of the tightrope burnt at both ends. Even with devastating death tolls, there has always been something to rebuild from. With approximately more than fifteen invincible Viltrumite-human hybrids roaming the planet, with no idea of how long their visit will last, you are certain there will be no way to salvage this planet.

They are humanity’s equivalent to the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs. You knew this was the end of the world when that Flaxan Invincible, attempting to gather you in his arms, said,  “I have to get you somewhere safe.”

“Somewhere safe?” You are in one of the safest places in the entire … hm, there is that light breeze coming through the new hole in the roof. Dropping your gaze back to his black lens, you assert, “if I am going anywhere, it certainly will not be with you.”

Mark drops his arms as soon as he feels the invisible puppet strings in his circulatory system tighten up. He forgot your powers were like that, or is this special to this specific version of you? He has no time to dawdle with the semantics. Both of you need to turn tail and leave right now.

“We don’t have time for this, (Name). The world is going to burn to a blaze. I need to keep you safe, no matter the cost and no matter the repercussions.” He is as grim as a reaper. “This is the end of times.”

You had not taken him seriously, who possibly would! Now, the stench of fire and blood has painted the inner walls of your nose. Soon, you will have another seizure, then another, and another until you slip into a coma, fallen from the tightrope. You are coming to reckon with the death of humanity when apple juice hits your lips.

You suckle like a famished newborn. Apple juice glides everywhere, across your neck and into your coat collar, rolling down your cheeks to soak into your hairline, cresting over the mountains of your ears, but most importantly, it glides down your throat. Choking and sputtering on the end of it, you combat whoever is trying to momentarily lift the plastic rim away from your lips by seizing the bottle. The last glistening pool of yellow tornados down into your eager mouth as you sit up, denting plastic with your fingers. How could you possibly forget? You are a cockroach, not human.

“Low blood sugar warning, refuel, low blood –.”

“Geez, not a sharer much? Heh … Wow … You’ve really got the (eye color)-est eyes.” The very thing that Mark calls attention to turns to analyze him. He stops from saying his next sentence, staring back like an entranced cat. 

Ignoring him, you take a look at your wristwatch, the sleek face reading out your glucose levels and vitals. 53 mg/dL, your watch informs you. “No,” your lips form the word in disbelief. There is no way it could have dropped so drastically below seventy; you would have to be hospitalized by now. 

Caught in a state of perpetual shaking, you hit the palm of your jittery hand against the side of your watch. The two, pencil lead-sized needles shift to the right underneath your skin, straining from the hit. This ridiculous device is constantly embedded in your skin, siphoning blood out in three minute intervals. That must be the old reading … why hasn’t it updated!

“See, I knew you didn’t want that stupid thing on. Don’t worry. I got ya,” the fake Invincible assures. He sure is a yapper when attention is not given to him. “You’re just out of loop like you were last time. Can’t believe-eee-e I’ve got to come to your rescue again.”

“Please, don’t.” It amazes you that your small, shivering hand eased onto his wrist is enough to stop his advances. Brown eyes carry their attention from your wristwatch to you. You two are giving each other the same look that you gave in the Guardians of the Globe HQ just as the very device caught between you two started its wailing alert, realizing who stands before them as the metaphorical fog lifts.

“I need this,” you try to talk him down. You are skilled enough to get through this with half your vision and hearing dwindled to nothing.

“That’s what you thought last time too.”

“Well, I was wrong that time but I’m right this time.”

“I don’t know, (Name) …”

“I know some other things you can help me with. Rescue, is that what you said? These things would rescue me.”

“Hm,” he seems to be really deep in contemplation, like he is making the decision whether to take someone he loves off life support or not, but that heavy cloud clears off his face with nothing more than a cheery, “‘kay!” 

“Can you get me —”

You give him a list. What you recite is a long-winded grocery list of everything that you know has fast-acting sugar that has helped you out of numerous tight spaces. Then, for extra measure, since your wristwatch has not changed from that stagnant 53 mg/dL, you add pumpkin seeds, fruits, and anything that might relatively refuel you and might keep him away from you, just so you can formulate and think up escape plans.

Blinking, Mark finds his lips twitching up into a smile. He stayed sitting to absorb all the requests you threw at him, but you really are an odd one. If blueberry yogurt covered pretzels paired with jelly-beans and washed down with mandarin Jarritos is what you want, he will deliver. 

“Is that it,” Mark questions after you finish such a lengthy list. Once he’s got verbal confirmation, he springs up to his feet light, swaying on the balls and wiping bloodied hands on his spandex tights. “All of that, coming right up.” Just as he is turning to speed off to grab a cart, he tacks on, “Don’t get any funny ideas about leaving, (Name). You wouldn’t get far anyways.”

Your heart only pulses once nervously before you manage to subdue it. You had not estimated someone so rash to be observational. Well, he does know your name; but, that could simply be related to your missing ID badge.

Taking it in stride, you answer, “I’ll be right here waiting for you, Inv – Mark.” It is the truth. 

The section that the fake Invincible deposited you at is side by side to many refrigerated doors. From the closet one that you scoot over to, you grab the first juice carton that you see on the bottom row and tear it open at the top to make a beak of sorts. You chug Peach Punch like a college senior celebrating their last days before graduation. 

Down aisles, you can hear Mark wheel a cart, laughing to himself as he crashes into collapsing walls of food and chatting with himself about the list you gave him. Whatever grocery store chain he dropped you in, you are not sandwiched between two aisles. There may be a wall of doors on your right but the left is all open space.

There are separate tables loaded high with pies, danishes, cupcakes, and various other bready sweets. Past these tables are another wall of refrigerated doors. Between this square of tables are freezer display cases, shaped like boats almost, of yogurts, cream cheeses, butter, and various other cool foods. 

You grab the first plastic box your eyes fall on, tearing off the seal reading 10.99 and the expiration date July 09. The pop of those plastic divots unlocking motivates your ravenous hunger. The pastry package you hold contains six cupcakes, three vanilla and three chocolate, all of them topped with plastic rings. Sitting back down, you slide a Fourth of July themed ring on your index finger, a flat circle with an eagle and American flag behind it, and remove the wrapper. It is finished in three gaping bites, blue frosting left on your lips. Without hesitation, you reach for another and another, wearing rings and discarding wrappers, until the box is empty.

Rested uncomfortably against the table leg, you try to regain your sense of identity. Since fourteen, you have worked for Cecil Stedman; you are not trapped in some complex scheme or doing against your will like keeping a watch on. Now, you no long work Cecil Stedman because it appears to be the end of the fucking world. 

‘Where am I going to go,’ you think to yourself, fourth cupcake consumed. ‘I’ve only worked for the G.D.A before and the United Nations and Russia are a bust now.’ You saw that pink, torn-skinned one on a scene demolishing Moscow before stepping out the control room. ‘A moonbase? No, I’d have to really go deep into the solar system to escape this.’

There are no worldly attachments keeping you anchored here. The only confounding thing is your lack of means to get the fuck out of here … unless this Invincible is on your side. He is too unpredictable for your taste. 

“Hm.” You knock your head back into the table’s edge. “Guess I got to go with the flow.” But your hand outstretching up to grab a container of strawberry danishes tells a different story.

You are on your first mouthwatering bite, sinking teeth in heaven, when you see it. A floating orb of metal, circuits, and a single red eye. A scowl forms and your taste-buds go rotten. You fucking hate robots. The orb’s face parallel to your face switches direction, seeming to have caught a glimpse of you but not caring, and moves east to where Invincible is making a ruckus.

The torn off pastry starts to melt underneath your fingertips, squeezing the bread and glaze flat. “I have a bad feeling about that thing,” you whisper; no matter your aversion to the robotic laboratory, you can tell that is not one of the G.D.A’s. 

Mark is in the candy section when Angstrom’s little orb finds him. This version of you must have one crazy sweet tooth because half of the items you wanted were in this one aisle. He imagines prison slop is as decent as Dad’s homecooked venison, so he’s been grabbing a variety of flavors per item even if you didn’t ask for them. Pinched between thumb and index, he holds onto a stack of Kit Kats, each plastic a different color for the flavors; he drops them in the carriage as Angstrom’s little orb floats down to him. No sweets taste as good as blood though. 

The orb bumps Invincible’s shoulder, causing the package of Skittles to slip out of his grip in his calm. He turns, sharp and ready to kill, before recognition washes over him. “Hey! It’s you!” Mark exclaims as the orb shakes itself back and forth in an ambience of disapproval. 

Jumping to his first assumption, because Angstrom did say he would send a message to collect him and his variants when the job was done, Mark excitement quickly flips to panic, interrogating without breathing between each sentence, “Wait, it’s not already over? Wait, wait, wait. It can’t possibly be over already; I’ve only been here for maybe a day and you’re just gonna call it off like it’s no big deal!”

He only got one good fight in with Immortal; he still has to go back and fight Black Samson if he is still alive. In the cockpit of Angstrom’s ship, Mark wrote himself a whole bucket list of all the superpowered individuals he wanted to pulverize in a fight again. He has barely gotten a fourth of the way through the list!

Angstrom’s robot moves forward, punching him twice on the side of his skull. “Hey! Quit it!” Mark starts to swipe at it like it is one giant, metal gnat, growing furious as it bumps into the lower part of his back, into his shoulder, even into his chest. “I’m not going back when I just barely got started.”

That is not the intent of the orb’s prodding. Levy Angstrom did not incorporate a microphone into the design of them because it would serve no purpose in a spying device. It is an oversight because all the pushing does not translate over to ‘get out there and kill more people’ but to ‘mission over’ which leaves Angstrom at no surprise or shock when a bloodied hand comes down and cleaves the orb right through the center. Well, he knew from the start that not all Mark Graysons were the sharpest tool in the toolbox. It is no big loss to let this one roam this universe’s Earth evermore and die on it eventually. 

Glaring down at the cut sphere, blue sparks of electricity buzzing from its innards, Mark picks back up the Skittles and spits in the direction of the orb. He cannot stand robots. As he crouches down while retrieving the candy, he notices a brand of sweets that catch his eyes on the bottom shelf: Ice Cream Chews. 

The first date Mom and Dad went on was to an ice cream parlor. It was one of the most concrete proof that there was once amicableness between them. Both talked about the memory fondly and both talked about it without any juxtaposing details when comparing their stories side by side. 

It is something that he wanted to do with you before things turned out how they did. Freed from imprisonment, wouldn’t that be the best treat ever, to sit across from each other, no glass dividing you two, so you could share spoonfuls of ice cream with each other?

With a speed that could rival a pure-blooded Viltrumite, Mark starts to locate and toss the other hard candies that you asked for into the awaiting mouth of the carriage. It is a rapid flood of smacking candy and rustling plastic as he flings jelly-beans, suckers, and chewable candies in and swings the cart in the direction of where he left you.

“(Name)’s gonna love it. Who doesn’t like ice cream,” Mark wonders aloud. 

You are thinking of literally everything else but ice cream right now. Finally, your watch is reading 68 mg/dL. The normoglycemic levels of glucose is 72 to 108 mg/dL, meaning you are just on the border where you need to be. Ice cream is not exactly the ideal food to quickly climb up those blood sugar levels. As your cheeks puff out with the cheesecake filling, resembling a chipmunk, you are thinking about seeing if you can find yourself some honey-doused deserts or grabbing another pint of juice.

In your go-with-the-flow panic, you are really only thinking of the singular word, refuel.  Reiterated so much from your watch, you seek to finally be back as full power like a declawed cat regrowing its hooked, sharp defenses. 

You almost choke on graham cracker crust when the phone miraculously still in your pants pocket starts to vibrate. Fumbling, you reach to quickly turn the blasted thing off before it attracts Invincible’s attention. The only reason you pause a hovering thumb over the decline button is because the top line reads: GDA Director, Stedman. 

Cecil is staring at you like he is afraid. It is jarring. You have been so, so scared of him since your height was at his hip, since before you knew the fucking times table, since you were pulled from elementary school — taken from hand-turkey drawings, snacktime with animal crackers, hopscotch at recess — and thrown into the most secure prison on the planet.

“You’re terrified of me. I can hear it in your heartbeat.” Your articulating tongue can almost lick at his lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub like catching a whiff of greasy pizza in a supermarket and recalling the taste.

His heart rate accelerated as soon as the door creaked open, you and Mark stepping in. As your head cleared of a halothane-fog, the chatty Invincible revisited old conversations you two had through plated glass, teasing the surprise that he had at his house for you, a kind of Welcome Home gift. 

You had forgotten about the concept of a surprise because you were enraptured at him telling you about childhood stories, how he could raise his hand like an axe and cut a log in half to use when building his and his Dad’s cabin, how he could outrun a pack of wolves and wrestle with bears; Mark was fascinating because he was the only one to talk to. Now, all your attention falls to Cecil Stedman. The director sits tied to a chair. Ropes are too tightly fastened and cut off most of his circulation; his big toe is already starting to go dead without any blood, discolored purplish-blue.

“Haha! Isn’t it great! Look at him, shakin’ in his boots,” Mark meanly bites. His arms come around your neck in an amicable hug, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I was never one for neatly wrappin’ up a Christmas present but I think I did pretty well!”

Is it near Christmas? You caught sight of white snow while being flown through chilly air in Mark’s grip. It amazes you how many seasons have come and gone without you knowing, trapped underground where spring, summer, autumn, and winter do not exist. 

“It’s really a great gift,” you say with a gentle smile, the devil on your shoulder laughing. Not knowing what to expect when Mark took from Payton Penitentiary, this unexpected sight is better than feeling the sun on your skin once more after months of nothing. 

“You did this for me?” Quickly, you check that you are not being too conceited. He said this was for you, but so many of your past rewards were more for the tasks you had done than your actual sentient flesh and blood. 

“Yep! My Mom says you should, um, do unto others as you wish they would do unto you, or something like that. And, I really like killing and fighting, so you must too! We have so much in common.” He laughs, proud of himself.

You could live with or without killing and fighting. What you really care about is securing a place for yourself, moving onto new opportunities. Killing Cecil Stedman will be burning a bridge long overdue for demolition. 

Shifting your stance, you gently press your hands over your ears, creating a firm suction to block out sounds. Eyelids fall close like clouds over a sun. When you open your eyes, the color of them bleeding with vibrancy, there is a flower imprinted on the log walls of Nolan’s cabin and the petals drip like red nectar as gravity pulls them down, Stedman’s headless body slumped drunk-esque in the chair.

“So fucking awesome!!”

You are being corralled out the cabin. “Wait, where are we going?”

Mark’s smile is a sunbeam, brighter than the color of yellow on his suit. “Anywhere we want to go!”

You power off the device, mid-ring, just as Mark comes around the corner. He eyes all the empty plastic containers at your feet as your attention is fully devoted to him. 

Involuntary, your heart starts to speed up. The sensation is something you loathe; you are unwilling to participate in anxiety but always your anxious heart betrays you by accelerating in pulses, racing fruitlessly when danger is in sight. There is nothing that innate fight-or-flight response can do for you in such a situation, so you just wish it would go away.

Mark is holding your glucose tablets in hand, shaking the bottle and pointing it out towards you as he suggests, “Me. You. Us. Ice cream date. What’d you think?” 

You had no idea what position you held in this fake Invincible’s universe; you could not even write a rough draft of what you suspect you might have been doing in an alternative universe, not with all the previous words said and assumptions made. So, smiling happily, you respond, “I’d love to.”

The shelves of ice cream and popsicles stretch the length of about twenty-five see-through doors. Whatever town or city or part of Virginia he flew to, the blackouts have not reached here yet. Each container has a layer of icy crystals growing on it like moss. Mark presses his hand to the tempered glass, feeling the cold kiss at his fingerprints, and goes down the line of ice cream, reading each flavor.

Unlike Mark, you stand a reasonable distance back, not pressing your nose and forehead up to the glass like he is. It feels like a millennium since you ate any ice cream. You cannot even recall if you have ever had Talenti before, simply letting the superhero corral you to the shelf he abruptly stopped in front of. Arms crossed and brow furrowed, you do not even gaze at the door, attention locked on him. 

He is a confounding individual. 

Right now, he is giving you a rundown of what his yesterday looked like as you fought for your life against that Flaxan Invincible. “So, me and him are coming across this like h-uuu-ge desert. And, like, his punches are so! weak, like c’mon, I’ve barely worked up a sweat and you’re gonna punch like you’re tired out? Lame! But, then, finally, he hits me with something with a little oomph! And I go flying down into this underground grave place –”

Part of you is worrying over what your tomorrow is going to look like. Do you even get tomorrows at the end of the world? You are positive that a cockroach like yourself will survive whatever, be it a scolding desert, be it a fake Invincible, be it the end of the world, but maybe you should indulge yourself in a sweet treat before this all goes to shit.

Just as you take your eyes off the back of Mark’s hair, a pint of see-through ice cream is being shoved in your face. You blink down at it. “Here. For you,” Mark informs, finally done with his story and finally making his choice. What he holds is gelato layers of mint fudge cookie. 

It (is/is not) your go-to flavor which you suppose is telling of how much he knows about you … at least, you think it might. As you accept the pint, you cannot help but to ask, “Who are you to me?” He tilts his head like a curious puppy. Perhaps that is the wrong question. “Who am I supposed to be? I’m not exactly sure anymore.”

His smile shows off his teeth. “You’re just supposed to be you.” 

What a confounding and unhelpful answer.

As he springs up to his feet, Mark tosses his pint from left hand to right hand, back and forth, while saying wistfully, “Though, I suppose you don’t really like know-know me anymore. This is a fresh start. I mean, it’s super freaky you work for G.D.A ‘cus those guys ruined your life where I’m from.”

“Ruined my life?” Are you an outlier in your universal relationship with the Global Defense Agency?

“Threw you in jail all because you killed a few thousand people. Total bullshit. It was self-defense anyway, so it wasn’t even a crime.” He starts meandering away so you follow. “If someone picks a fight, you fight back; you don’t just lie down and take it.”

“A thousand people?” You don’t think you could even kill two people, much less a thousand. 

“Or something like that. It was some ridiculous high number. And then, you killed all those Flaxan soldiers and that was another thousand-something. You’re s-uuu-per powerful where I’m from. I was kind of hoping you would attack me when we met again but then you passed out on me.”

Everlastingly curious, you want to pry for more but you miss your opportunity when Mark exclaims. “Gnarly!! I t-ooo-tally missed this when I walked in! Damn,” he laughs. What he stands over, both of you having made your way to the front entrance by the registers and cafe, is a dead body.

A body of a superhero to be exact, and not even really the body but simply the head. The helmet with the silver claws rising up from the eye-slits, making almost a metal-replica of a raccoon’s patterns, identifies him clear enough for you. That is ShadowHawk’s head, absent from its host body therefore leaving it as vulnerable as any other human’s. 

Underneath the head, a blue spandex-coated shoe comes to jostle it. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise when Mark starts to treat it like a soccer ball. He bounces it on the tip of his foot, the metal clanging with each ascending jump, before moving onto his knees and ankles. Up and down, up and down, ShadowHawk’s head is moved by the fancy footwork of a sadistic Invincible until he sends it rocketing through the front’s ceiling tall windows like a football player kicking a field goal.

“He shots … He scores!” ShadowHawk’s head sails until it blinks out of existence. “And the crowd goes,” he turns to you, mirth in those gleaming brown eyes, and the smile drops off his face, “and the crowd is unimpressed. Boo.” He pouts. 

You manage to pull a half-smile to your features. Pointing in the direction of the cafe, you say, “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

His good mode resurrects easily. “Haha! I could tell! You were stuffing your face like a pig back there!”

They are tiny plastic spoons in a sleeve of plastic abandoned and ready for use. Chairs are pulled back to allow both of you to sit down, pints unlidded. Knowing that you and Invincible are most likely going to be the last one eating, sitting, and enjoying this cafe makes you loiter while removing your red spoon from its plastic. You even do a little, “Cheers”, and tap the curve of your utensil against Mark’s in a toast. 

This is the first date of your life. Too busy to entertain while working with the G.D.A, you never really sought out companionship before. As your mouth melts mint gelato, you try to comprehend another version of you who would do this sort of thing. Your spoon slices through green gelato, creating a divot.

‘The work I do. I never thought I could give it up before.’ You used to look at your research as part of your soul. Once you could walk into the laboratory, gesture to each testing sample and full culture tubes, and say with full confidence: This is my flesh and blood. This is my list of ingredients. 

You are a horse having run out of its stables. Where do you go now?

“Aaaaah.”

Startled, your eyes bounce up to see Mark leaning over the table, tongue out on display. “Aaaaah.” he goes. You blink in surprise, watching that pink appendage wiggle back and forth before asking indignantly what he is doing. 

“Um, waiting for you to feed me obviously. I wanna bite,” he sings, letting his tongue roll just back out after talking. He puppeteers it up and down in wet flicks. It looks more like he is trying to do an elaborate dance with his tongue rather than accept a spoonful of your ice cream.

The obscenity and absurdity of him causes your first genuine laugh since the skies split open with portals. He really is a character. Surely, textbook-level evil but with those boyish charms that come with a highschool romance. Digging down your utensil to scoop up layers of mint gelato, fudge bits, and chocolate syrup, you decide to appease his whims if only because that little act brightened your mood slightly.

As you pull your spoon back, green and brown streaks racing across the surface, Mark keeps this ridiculous eye contact with you, moaning around the bite in his mouth. Once you free your utensil, he latches right back onto it. His brown eyes wide like twin suns, staring you down and waiting for a reaction, as he clenches the plastic in his teeth. Challenging you like a dog.

Once you wrench it out, almost flying off your chair when his teeth suddenly lift up, you whack him on the nose swiftly. Dreamily, he giggles and blushes at the abuse.

“Alright, your turn. Say ‘aaaah’,” Mark instructs. You do no such thing but still open up to accept the spoonful he feeds you. It is sea salt caramel and he is surprisingly gentle as he removes his spoon, watching your mouth intensely. 

You still haven’t been able to make a solid impression of him and yourself. As you dig into the fudge layer of your gelato, you cannot help asking hesitantly, “In your universe, did we …?” 

Something flashes in Mark’s eyes. It is like watching a lighthouse’s illumination fall over a specific spot of the water, creating a shiny reflection, but it is gone as soon as it appears. His smile is strained, unable to commit to a frown, as he answers.

“We made a good team.”

It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out. Kill the new Guardians of the Globes. Catch up with Dad/Nolan after all was done so the Viltrum invasion could quickly begin. The thing is the headquarters had lit up, a thousand or so robots powering on at once like sleepy bats’ eyes opening simultaneously in a dark cave.

The collar suddenly latched onto your neck like a cobra creating a quick scarf around its prey. It moved so fast that it did not register in Mark’s vision which is so much superior than human or machine. Despite his biological preeminence, it did nothing to halt the collar from beeping a singular conformation and blowing your head clean off your shoulders. 

Like a wave, your blood splashes over his face, streaks getting in his brown eyes, sticking in his hairline and eyelashes, and even a bit landing inside his agape mouth. Slowly, almost mechanically, he closes his parted lips. The taste of your blood is swallowed. It is sweet, not metallic like others would have you believe.

Mark guesses it is time to leave. You have eaten enough to where you are refueled, seemingly happy when you check the numbers on the face of your watch. Those twin red spoons are touching the bottom of empty Talenti containers, left on the single table. Another copy of Angstrom’s floating red eyes is sure to come around and piss him off some more. He is angsty to get out there and kill some more people and superheroes too. 

Yeah, it is definitely time to head out.

Over the awaiting cooler bag, he tears into plastic and lets ice cubes cascade down into the open mouth. “Boom, done.” He looks towards you, who walks towards the cooler with multiple things in your arms. 

“Thank you.” 

You deposit jars of honey, apple juice boxes, Jolly Ranchers, glucose tablets, and a variety of your favorite fruits. It is an amateur replica of your suitcase with scientifically engineered glucose tablets that would raise your blood sugar back up to normal in mere seconds. If only you took one sooner at the HQ, you would not be in this situation with this person. But you are just glad to have something, even if it is …

“You got me a tangerine instead of an orange.” 

“What?” He snatches the fruit from your hand, rolling it in examination. “Nah, I got the right one. It’s orange.”

An involuntary chuckle slips out of you, warmed. “Well, I can’t deny that, but …”

“But what? An orange is an orange.”

“A tangerine is much different from an orange, even if they’re in the same class.”

“‘Kay, smartie. What’s the difference? How is that not an orange?”

You catch the tangerine like a softball when Mark throws it to you. As you peel off the skin, you begin to explain, “First off, there are many different variants of oranges. Even those ones have subgroups within each class. This,” you hold your peeled tangerine on display, “It’s honestly an entirely different fruit.”

When you hand off Mark’s share of the tangerine, he flips a slice back and forth in his hand as if he is going to find some hidden message written within. “Mmm, tomato to’mato.” He eats his slice.

Ah, no, he doesn’t eat it. When he pulls his lips back into a smile, it is wedged between his teeth like an orange rind. Sharp and startled, a “Ha!” escapes you. Mark swallows, your little astonished gaze much sweeter than any citrus. He could eat you alive, starting with your tangerine heart and sucking out the juice.

“How’s it different,” Mark inquires after a moment. 

From past conversations, you have been able to deduce that this alternative Mark Grayson likes a little verbal teasing, nudges with sentences, like the jabs thrown before the start of a real impressive boxing match. You are establishing a connection and extending an olive branch when you say whimsical, “I’m not telling you. You’re gonna have to figure it out.”

“Boo.” His pout is almost endearing. 

You roll up your button-up’s sleeves, cuffing them at the elbows. Zipping the cooler close, you sling it over your shoulder and start to make your way over to the register, hiding your smile from view. Mark watches confused as you put some money onto the conveyor belt of a 15 items or less register. 

When Mark questions what you are doing, you reply, “This is human courtesy.” 

Human, huh? He didn’t get to learn a lot about that.

The realm of a human upbringing is completely alien to him. What he received about the human consciousness was fed to him through an embellished perspective; his mother’s bottomless happiness and the ways she spoiled him never managed to help click in place the values of humanity. His culture is brutalization which he holds dearly to his soul like one might a religion or ‘words to live by’ framework.

Still, Mark snatches all the coins out of the take-a-penny & leave-a-penny tin. He drops them all in a noisy clatter on the buck and three nickels you fished out your pants pocket. In the end, it equals a buck and ninety-one cents, far too little for what you are leaving with but it is the gesture that matters in the end of the world. 

You are ready to step back into that blaze, moving down the registers when the sliding doors open to the presence of another.

Out of all the probabilities in the world, the person who walks in is Mark Grayson. ‘What luck,’ you think, halting your steps immediately when the lensless fellow beside you is slow on the uptake. However, you suppose the probability would be in favor of that. There are sixteen Mark Graysons on Earth right now and only one of every other person. Of course it is more likely for Mark Grayson to walk in than any other person.

He is not your dimension’s Mark Grayson. Yellow ditched from his color scheme, that alone is a big hint that this isn’t the Invincible who wears black and blue solely. The bigger hint is the two swords strapped to his back, hilts peeking over his shoulders.

He does not notice either of you for a blissful second or two. When he does, it is you – why is it always you – who his attention falls upon.

“(Name) …,” this new fake Invincible says softly in a stupor. His brows pinch together like two fighting caterpillars. “(Na-Name)! 괜찮으세요?” He asks, desperation in his voice. “널 해치지 않았지?!”

Neither you or Mark answer, clueless about his sudden anguish. Instead, you two stare as his mouth opens to reveal gritting teeth and wet salvia where inside his language is jumbled on his despairing tongue. It is an almost constipated look that passes over his taut features. 

You are glad for the unattached, robin egg blue lens covering his sad eyes. 

After a few tense moments, Invincible stables his heart enough to find the words to the question he yearns deeply to have answered. He does not see any Jopok marks on you, but they could be hidden from elbow up in this universe. His dimension’s you went down to your wrist with the needle in your loyalty, decorating skin with the symbol of your gang, all those dragon scales and rising waves. “A- Ah, are we allies in this universe?”

You contemplate that. Thinking about your Mark Grayson who’s falling out with Cecil Stedman wrecked eighty-two ReAnimen and has caused your coworkers nail-biting strife, you answer, even though you are no longer with the G.D.A, “No. I don’t think so.”

Pain flashes across his face as if you managed to physically injure him. His head bows so you cannot see the tears slipping past his lens and across his cheeks. “I see. That makes me sad to hear. I am sorry that I have failed you in another lifetime.”

Empathy is not something that the selfish possess; empathy is not a trait that aligns with your morals and emotions. Impassively, you watch him for any hint of hostility, knowing how unpredictable these Invincible variants are. A man whose entire body is a weapon carrying a weapon on his back? It turns your stomach.

Composing himself, Invincible lifts his head. He has stilled the involuntary quiver of his bottom lip and settled it into a scowl. It causes him insurmountable han to find that one of the universal constants is that you two stand on opposing sides. He wants nothing more than to stand side by side again. But first …

Invincible points his attention towards Mark’s figure. Whatever was unsteady in his heart falls to a calm rhythm, confidence in each beat. When he removes the two shiny swords from the scabbard sheath strapped to his spine, Invincible metamorphoses into a man devoid of any emotions, that stone-faced killer he was born to be.

“Still … it is unwise to be around me. Double-crossing was not something that Angstrom outlined to be frowned upon. Prostate yourself and accept your death. I might just make it quick if you don’t fight back.” 

“Prostate myself,” Mark mocks in disbelief. Involuntarily, he starts to laugh, throwing his head back with the fizz of bubbling giggles. “Can’t you believe this guy, (Name). Prostate myself?”

“If you value your tongue, do not talk to her.”

“Oooh, I’m gonna have a fucking time killing you.” Mark throws a few loose combos in the air, readying his fist for a fight. Ah, he is so happy to fight again!

“I assure you that it is not me that is going to yield.” You can tell just from the mere confidence and maturity in his voice that it is a true statement. “Though, I am sure there will be some internal self-searching to do after killing myself. I eagerly anticipate it.”

 “D-ooo-n’t care. C’mon, let’s do this. C’mon! C’mon!”

You cannot let this fight commence. 

In the simplest terms, you need to establish a team. The world is ending and you need strong players on your side. What you do next is survival — after all, you held down that Flaxan attired Invincible, made the blood in his system gain sentient mass, restricting him from defending against each blow, kept that hold apathetic even as his eye looked at you betrayed through a cracked len, firm on your winning position in the G.D.A until the scoreboard read Invincibles: 1 and Earth: 0 — and you already have stock in Mark who stands besides you now.

You start to raise your dominant arm, attention drawn to you like a magnet. 

“Please don’t do this, (Name). It’s not you that I wish to fight.”

“Do it! Do it! Do it!”

The sound of your own personal cheerleader locks your decision into place. You hope you won’t live to regret it. You hold up four fingers, thumb tucked. Skin un-moisturized, decorated with Fourth of July plastic rings, and nail plates uneven on each end, they stand up like growing weeds. Both Invincibles watch enraptured like waiting for a little league pitcher to throw, anticipation in both their eyes while unsure of what to be anticipating. You drop your middle and ring, making bull horns. 

Where children drew stick figures of family members, you surprised your foster father by being able to perfectly draw a Circle of Willis. He thought it was an imaginary creature, all wiggling ribs and filaments standing out like a bacteria’s ring. At least until he poured over anatomy textbooks and found Willis within it. 

You know acutely where those limbs are placed.

The first thing that falls in his right-held sword; then, his entire body follows after like a tree. This new fake Invincible screams in pain as the stumps of his right arm and left leg pour generously into the sanguine puddles below him. He collapses on his single remaining knee and palm, yelling at the top of his lungs in unprepared agony.

“Let’s go,” you urge, snapping Mark out of his stupor. Already, you are popping a Dum-Dum into your mouth, rolling the hard candy around on your tastebuds to patch up your powers with cotton candy-flavored sugar. 

“Huh?” Mark blinks at you, a little slack-jawed, feeling like he might start drooling. Those are your powers? The blush on his face and the size of his pupils only grow in intensity. 

“I rather not wait for the time that his pain settles into rage,” you state. That cold detachment melts from your face as you turn towards Mark, wearing a manipulative smile and speaking saccharine from your sugar-high, “you said that we should get to know each other better. I think we would make a good team. Let’s walk and talk?”

The words drop the heart of the Invincible bleeding on the ground into a pool of acid and light a fire under the heart of the Invincible standing before you. 

Mark, brown eyes eclipsed by his pupils, teases, trying to be lighthearted when his pulse is electric under his skin, “Wherever you go, I’ll follow.”

He has never broken a sweat before in a fight. Fighting Flaxans, fighting superheroes, fighting his Dad – none of those things have ever exerted him to spring a leak. During battles, the most water that has ever covered him was the blood of others (or his own). Mark glistens with sweat.

His heart is roaring from a multitude of factors. Red blood cells are like F1 drivers in his veins, pumping at a speed that is inhuman. It causes his useless left stump to spew all over the floor of the Guardian of the Globes HQ, leaving glutinous puddles – a party girl bent over the toilet who just cannot stop vomiting.

With a drenched face, he overlooks the ocean of dead Robots. The count does not really matter to him; all he knows is that at one point that overgrown Fanta can stopped sending in reinforcements and he eventually got to dig the wires out of his original’s neck, pulling them like sparking guts from a pumpkin. Mark is not the brightest bulb in the drawer but he knows that won’t stop Robot. He will have to destroy all of Earth until he tracks whatever shapeless thing that controls these drones.

He’ll enjoy the chase. He always does like the hunt and kill methodology of Viltrum customs. But, there is no excitement coursing through him now, no premature battle high anywhere to be found, just a desolate confusion.

“Weren’t you supposed to be strong?”

His shadow eclipses over you like a tree’s shade. Where there is nothing past your shoulders, the folding blanket of his dark silhouette has left the dimensions of his own head, leaving you like a Frankenstein stitched back together with two vastly different dolls, one made of flesh and the other made of shadow. He waits very patiently for you to rise, to twitch, to seize, to do anything a dead body cannot.

“I mean, you injured me before, so this is kind of underwhelming.” Mark crouches down, running his fingers under the damp fabric of his mask, those thin yellow arrow-points running across his cheekbones. The sweat on him is salty. “All it took was that stupid thing to take you down.”

You two conversed for months, separated by a paper-thin sheet of bulletproof, plated glass that would crumble under a punch from him, and he thought he was painting a good picture of you in his mind: a powerful foe and a powerful friend. Neither of you learned anything serious or below the surface about each other, but it was still one of the most meaningful connections of Mark’s life. Mark really liked talking with you. He wishes you would come to your own defense but your lips, tongue, and teeth have been blown into chunks of red and red-covered white. 

“Get up,” Invincible says, voice so defeated that he can't put any energy behind his plea or reaching hand. “Get up.” The jostle to your shoulder shifts dead flesh that falls back where gravity placed it. “Get up. Get up. Get up.”

Mark wants to go with you to a zoo … He thinks he will turn his back on Viltrum as long as he gets to experience the humane mundane with you … Mark wants you to get up so you two can go somewhere together, anywhere but here, anywhere you want to go. So …

“Get up.”

[sunsetbois]

Invincible Variants - Smutty Drabbles (based on kink HC's)

That's a wrap folks. Finally getting to write about the kink post

In other words, work is slow and I got bored

Some Comfort... dome dubcon... some violence

Edit- Mohawk's mixtape mentioned in question riiiiight here

___

Emperor- Mark:

"As I was saying, The species appears non threatening from the reports sent in." His right hand man's voice in your ears didn't help. He had cuffed your hands to either side of his fancy arm chair as the verbal meeting took place. When your legs grew tired, he gave you a look that spoke volumes of what would happen if you stopped. He mutes himself after saying just enough to to confer with the reports. "Don't give me that look. I'm not the one who made a scene in the hallways. I don't care if your legs hurt- you've earned it." His hips canted up insistently, stuffing the lonely few inches back inside your warm depths, his balls pressing tightly to the crevice of your stinging sweat soaked cheeks. you were a mess, but not that bad of a mess to beg him to let you rest- he had taken two meetings since the 'punishment.' he clicks himself back off mute when you get the clear hint and force yourself to grind against it. He only begins considering the implications from his right hand man when he figures you know better than to make a fuss or a peep. It was another way he got to punish you. Until the call was over, you would not be allowed to cum, let alone make a noise.

The times you did get close, he pinched your clit, producing a muffled barely audible squeal- it took sheer willpower to cull the venom you wanted to spit for the nip. He's let you cum eventually but it seemed like he was dragging this out. The chains of the cuffs attaching your wrists to the arm rests dug in as your legs gave out. he tuts, re-adjusts you, ruts upwards in a burst, repeat. You would learn.

Viltrumite- Mark:

The very first time he had you where he wanted you, in his bed- mewling so sweetly for his cum- something he came to find he liked more than he would admit. He had had a hard week, not that he would let you in on that one either. He left work at the doorstep, much like his father had done with his mother. It was simpler that way, and this? was his stress relief. This week he had asked to try out a new position, he looked every bit as awkward behind the self imposed mask as he cupped your hips and watched you chew your lip under him. Your approval was enough to set him alight. Instead of the pillow usually used to keep your hips up for him and aiding in him reaching that oh so special spot.

Sliding back in to warm himself back up, he let out the lightest of all sighs. When his pelvis finally met your backside- he pressed into it with a deep and low groan. The sounds vibrated against the empty space of the minimalist bedroom. The windows fogging up after a while. Leaning over you, he lets you feel him for just a second. circling his hips produced a gasp and a little wiggle into him. burying your hands in the covers he pulls out, delivering himself fully. "I think this will suffice" Code word for he was liking his little suggestion if the little hitch you heard was anything to go by. Where he found about mating press, you didn't know, but didn't ask- enjoying what he was doing to you. Leaving you feeling simultaneously full and empty, too quick, too deep- a fat cockhead edging against that special little spot only he knew how to reach so efficiently. You are a negative bobble head the moment he asks if you wanted him to stop, not realizing you were seizing in his arms, not to stop but for more. when he cums he' pressed your legs further into your shoulders and drapes himself in the space- kissing at your babbling lips.

Omni- Mark:

Caresses your belly gently, thumb gently teasing your clit as he rolled himself upwards. Long, Languid and completely unrushed. Unhurried. He doesn't hide the fucked out grin when you need to bite at the pillow, yet he hears it all the same. Third, followed by the fourth load still stuffed up where he needed it to be. His palm hugs the outline in your belly, just the right angle to really feel it.

You're gone, lost to the world, pussy throbbing uselessly and unbearably sensitive. Insides reminiscent of a cream donut. He liked that look of bliss on your face, you didn't need to worry about a thing, he'd handle it, like always. "Is my baby done for the night?" He asks, tempted to push for another 'deposit' yet he knows better than to push you further when all you can do is mewl for a break. Obliging, he lifts you, letting his soaked cock slap against the taut expanse of his stomach as he readjusts you to look at him, his thumb nudges your chin upright, eyes meeting yours and he melted for just a second. He always liked watching you, watching you react to what he was doing to you. The truth was he meant it when he told you he thought you trully were made for him, but again- unlike the other times- you hadn't finished him, so he asks. "Will my baby take care of me?" gaze soft, dick twitching. Evidently, you weren't quite as done as he thought, hearing you hum a soft, "Mhh hm." He smiles. "and will you use that sweet little mouth and tongue on me?" Your hand, the slow push off to lower before him already told him what he needed. He watches down his nose- pleased and lovestruck as you lick at him, suckling along the length before just taking him. He almost forgot. "Angle your hips" He didn't want any leaking out.

Lenseless- Mark:

"C'mon they didn't see!" He says, heaving your legs higher up to your shoulders, holding you like a damn front pack. he licked the tears rolling absently down your flushed visage. The cool chill of the night air licked at your most intimate of places, lenseless either didn't care for the cold or straight up liked it licking at his balls as he punches upwards, sending you both upwards in the air a notch like a fucked up game, literally using that all too familiar super strength. "They did, they did!" You insist yet choke when his pelvis slapped your ass, chin falling with another grunt into the night air.

This hadn't been the first time it happened either. The way things had been going, it hadn't exactly been hard for him to bend you over the nearest object and just do at it till your both a panting sweaty mess. IF you were lucky, sometimes he wouldn't be covered in bodily fluids or congealed bodily matter- he got excited a lot. "Woahhh fuck. You're squeezing me so tight." Not even trying to hide his sadistic delight. Your drooling cunt obliged. The noises didn't help, wet and loud enough.

You had just begun to lose feeling in your legs when he finally gave you something to sit on, take the pressure of- his tilted lap. Cockhead kissed cervix. "Heyy AhAhhdeeep!!" he had just done it to get the last few inches DEEP, deep. So deep it arched your spine to meet the fullness plunging snug, deep and filling you achingly to tears.

"You held out longer last time babe" he licked the sweat from your temple when you tried tapping out, chewing your earlobe as he rutted harder. He really hadn't came yet? It's like he could see the dread on your face, through the multi-long stretched orgasms he was pulling from you like he was the damn puppet master. he lives to see you squirm, squeal, scream- the three S's of your relationship.

Mohawk- Mark:

Your boyfriend was a weird one. "Uh uh" He pulls you back into his face, licking the point of his tongue into the crevice of the little squeezing hole he loved so much, his nose nuzzled your clit in a cutesy eskimo kiss. he embraced your hips harder, moaning into you. "F-F-Fuck!!" He watched your face screw up, the way your mouth opened only to close, and open again, a moany, stuttering mess for him. He could die alive, drowning in your cunt, but he couldn't resist. The hitch in your breath followed by that off-guard squeal, making his hips rut harder against the bed, teasing himself. His tongue swirls around your cute little nub, upwards, downwards, repeat, oh you were too busy clutching at the bed and his hand on your hip to think, but he was low key unimpressed you didn't catch on that he was just spelling his name into you, taking all the credit.

"Look at you..." his fingers split you open to give him a lovely view, followed by his dick. He was nothing if not a man determined. Flipping you onto your front, he guides the pillow to your mouth and finally lets himself feel the main event, where he wanted to be above all else. Reverently he eases his tip in, watching you stretch nicely around it. It wasn't long before the bed was slamming into the wall, his hands holding you steady as he railed you like a man starved, wet lewd claps echoing to the pace of whatever new punk shit mix tape he had brought with him. He held off, growling into your ear, egging you on, feeding off your muffled whimpers and moans stuffed into the pillow. You couldn't breathe but by fuck you didn't seem to give a shit. With the right angle, he jackhammers that spot carefully, feeding his cock into you, his hand trails downwards and lightly circles your clit, rutting into you. he wanted it. he knew you could do it. he knew he could make it happen. when he feels you clamp down on his intrusion, massaging him rythmically, he chews hickeys down your spine, you tense, he doesn't stop. Not even arthur could pull his sword out, You just- his lap..was.. soaking... "did you?"... you did! you fucking squirted on him. "Another one, I aint stopping till the mattress needs tossing"

Sinister- Mark:

Breathing came in stuttered puffs. He was actively hunting you, giving you hope, just at the very last minute to pounce like the monster he was. His teeth find your neck, biting down. HARD. The split cherry red skin nothing compared to the scream that tore from your throat, the vibrations massaging his gums. You can't hit him, he has you down and terrified. It's like a twisted opera just for him and you saw that in the brief glimpses in your peripherals of the matted unruly hair usually slicked back, the blood on his cheeks was more interesting. he pulls back. His relaxed expression on his partially masked face felt more unsettling. The lack of eye contact deafeningly quiet, yet his bloodied mouth still ran. "Thought you could outsmart me, did you?" One crack and he bend your hand back at an unnatural angle, a mere warning- that he could have done or do worse. Despite the broken state of your pulsing wrist, he took delight in unbuttoning the top you wore, sliding his gloved hands down your front- knowing full well if you weren't as terrified that you might have spat at him like before, but that was the thing. "You've been bad, I can see it in the way your little heart races at what I might do to you. You should be scared." His fingers slipped down your jeans- a slow nerve wracking trail devoid of the big tease, leading to him feeling the hot flesh of your gummy cunt in his palm. "Very bad. You're probably thinking, this" The squeeze of hand on cunt earning him a choked involuntary gasp. "Will save you, but only you can decide that" He says as if he hasn't said the same thing over and over only to not put you out of your misery.

His palm lets you breathe for a fragment before a rough finger pushes it's way inside the searing heat of your clenching tunnel, you could choke- you could cry but you couldn't beg the enemy even if he had taken you as a glorified trophy wife. your spine shook when he pulsed within, see-sawing fingertip to knuckle until a gooey trail began to coat the very same tormenting hands of his. Pumping with intent to drive you over- make you- "Cum on my fucking fingers, that's your apology. Right now or I will hurt you elsewhere" his pinky slipped, just teasing a touch against clenched ring. You bucked- didn't say anything, knowing it would spurr him on if you reacted, yet you tried to meet his pace. Your momentary defeat at his hands yet again, he had never threatened your ass before, he wouldn't be gentle- thus you try your damn hardest to just let go.

Flaxan- Mark:

Hours upon hours you waited. He had promised he'd be back within the hour, only said hour had slowly creeped up and then some. The vibrator buzzing insistently against your entrance worked you up to tears by the time the door finally opened again. "Did someone learn their lesson yet?" his voice was every bit as condescending as it was unintentional- he still had issues understanding human limits, but it's very clear from your flushed cheeked, glazed eyes and messy mouth that you had reached, potentially gone past the limit. He couldn't bring himself to hurry up and turn off the teasing device he had stuffed into you. He had never seen your entrance so... sopping.... you had soaked the panties he had put on you before he had left. great, with his pocket knife, he kneeled one leg on the bed and cut each side of your panties to reveal the pinky creamy mess of your cunt stretched around the device, the purple handle keeping your cunt excited for him. He wasn't a man of many word, most not pretty but fuck if he had a hard time disguising how excited the sight pleased him. "Are you ready for me now? ready to apologize?" It comes out haughtier than intended, but he already had a hunch that you knew how much acting out got him hard.

Torn between begging for the stupid device to just be taken out and just giving into it, as far as apologies went, fucking him hadn't been the worst. He atleast cared/knew enough to know what he was doing, but that didn't mean that he was prone to forgetting little things at times. One of which being that you didn't like how long he left you before coming back. You were squeezing around the wide toy still lodged and tormenting your pussy into submission on his behalf. His lenses aleady told him how much blood was racing and staying in your lower area, the heated flashes lingering, but he preffered you like this. With a gentle smile, he takes your averted eyes and small buck of your hips as a yes, an action you had done plenty of times since he took a liking to you. It only takes seconds to remove his armored bottom half, freeing his bobbing dick from it's confines. in sight, it's beautiful, but in your pussy it's a masterpiece, just as pretty as your apology will be when he fucks you stupid.

Prisoner- Mark:

"Are you sure? Not hurting you?" For the fifth time tonight. "No, too slow"

"Too slow?" in his own little haze he hadn't noticed his one vigorous fucking had evened out, softened from fucking you into the mattress like he was trying to break it to doggy style- he couldn't see your face and the way your pussy sucked him in with a warm hug each time, he had gotten lost in you- as pussy drunk for you as they come. Each soft roll felt like home, watching the slick skin of his scarred shaft glisten in the soft lighting of the hovering lamp only to stuff you full with that telltale sound of air making way for him. Being buried in your pussy conjuring the worst he would do just to stay and fuck you like this, just like this all night. his dry hands cup your hips, fingers flexing to feel the soft flesh under him- taking him, making him feel like he had been raptured with each stroke.

His cheek lands on your upper back, hunched over as he closes his eyes and focusses, feels- not hearing your little whines to hurry up. When you whine and call him an asshole, he only then reacts. his hand caressing your hip shoots up like a snake, sandwiching between the pillow and your face to hook two fingers into your mouth, delivering small smack to your rear with the other. "Don't be whiney, I'm building to it so it'll be twice as good for you." Readjusting his legs wider and closer over yours, he pulls out all the way to the tip before leaving a small kiss on your shoulder- followed by a spine rattling thrust into you, a knock of pain tapped at your cervix, repeating over and over. and Over, until the pain left you wanting, hurting so good, pussy swallowing him in each time.

[readingbunny44]

How I feel after rewriting my whole fanfic to be longer (20k to 30k), edited the whole thing, updating it on both platforms, posting a new chapter, and a new one in the making:

[vviltrumite]

— tease him just enough to hate me ᡣ𐭩

⚛ mark grayson x you

wc :: 3,696 ( 19,916 char . )

rating :: nsfw (dacryphilia, teasing, begging, etc)

synopsis :: After spending two weeks in space, the only thing on his mind right now is you. OR mark grayson is a PATHETIC. WHINEY little SLUT and i want to see him teary eyed and on his knees BEGGING and crying like a stupid BITCH.

a/n :: if u think u saw this on ao3 already.... its because u have. I lowkey abandon my ao3 sometimes and I just remembered I had this sitting in my works so I might as well copy it over onto here while I work on other stuff.. enjoy😁

He looks impossibly beautiful like this, knees pressed into the carpet of your bedroom floor, cheek pressed against your clothing-covered knee with his fingertips gently curled around the base of your ankle, tracing small circles into the side of your Achilles and staring up at you with those glistening brown puppy-dog eyes, the ones you have to avert your gaze from in order to stop yourself from cracking and letting him eat your pussy there and then.

No, you wanted to drag this out.

"Tell me," You start, pressing your index finger and thumb into the side of his jaw and tilting it just enough so his head is straight on his shoulders, angled up slightly so he can look at you from his comfortable spot between your legs as you sit on the edge of your bed. "How bad do you want me, Mark?"

And though you're sure your mattress would definitely be a more preferable place to be sat right now, he looks like he'd rather not be anywhere else other than here. Like this was where he was meant to be, on his knees practically worshipping you as if you were an angel sent from heaven.

But you're most definitely certain that you're the farthest thing from an angel. In fact, you're probably going to go to hell after tonight just for how much you plan on teasing him.

"So bad. God, I want—Need—you so bad." He draws out the words between kisses through your sweatpants against your thigh after pulling away from your fingertips, and you'd be lying if the action didn't send a wave of pure wanton need through every vein in your body.

You let out a skeptical hum, biting your lip in mock uncertainty. "Sure, but do you deserve it?"

He blinks when you say that, caught off guard and maybe taken aback just slightly. After two weeks off in space, he hadn't anticipated you to want to drag this out; it was already maddening being planets away from you, why are you prolonging his torture?

"What? I do, really." He insists after hesitating for just a beat, nodding along reassuringly in order to distract from the way his voice shakes from uncertainty. Or maybe that's desperation? You couldn't really tell.

"Then make me believe you."

His breath hitches at your words and the implication that he doesn't miss buried underneath it, looking up at you in awe like a deer caught in headlights as if to say 'Do you really mean that?' mouth slightly agape and truthfully you wouldn't be surprised if he started drooling right now. Gosh, you almost feel bad for him. The boy practically hangs on your every word and he'd probably do anything you asked if you just told him.

You let out a soft laugh and to him, it sounded like that of an angel. "Do I need to spell it out for you?"

Mark blinks, shaking his head both to snap himself out of his daze and to tell you no as he hooks his fingertips under the waistband of your sweats, tossing them to a heap onto the floor behind him with haste.

Licking his lips and, taking a moment to look at your underwear, a rose tint spreads across his cheeks when he recognizes them as the ones he'd bought for you not long ago, the lacey ones that he likes. He looks up at you with a nervous crooked grin and you reciprocate with one of your own.

He doesn't waste his breath complimenting you, but it doesn't matter because you can practically read his mind, predicting all the things running through his head. Mutters of 'you're so pretty' and 'I love you so much,' on a loop and electrifying his movements as he slides the thin fabric down your waist and legs until they fall into place by your pants, leaving you completely exposed to him.

He looks up at you again and speaks this time. "Are you—" but you're quick to cut him off, causing the words to die on his tongue.

"Mark," You hush, palm running along the side of his face, his cheek down to his jaw before you return it to its place on his shoulder and give him a reassuring squeeze.

He doesn't say another word, taking in the fact that you're already dripping wet as encouragement enough to bring his tongue to your slit, exploring your folds and spinning circles around your clit in a way that makes you realize just how much you missed this. Missed him.

Him, between your thighs so perfectly obedient like this, like it was his life's purpose to please you. Him, breathing you in as if he'd just spent hours underwater fighting for air. It was a sight to behold, that's for certain.

He was eager, you could tell. Eager to please. Eager to make you believe him. Believe that he really did deserve this—Deserve you—splayed out so beautifully before him like an old panting to be admired in an art gallery just for him. And it was evident in the way that he so fervently explored you with his tongue sliding patterns into your skin that he wasn't going to relent until he was sure you were properly spent.

A moan escapes your mouth and his gaze flits up to you briefly through his long black eyelashes, engraving the image of your fluttering eyes and parted lips permanently in his brain as if he had never seen you like this before—Had never in his life witnessed something so beautiful despite the countless times you'd been intimate with him like this, it never got old. Each time you shed your clothes for him was like the first time all over again, all butterflies and nervousness and not wanting to mess up. Not like he ever could, he was perfect and knew exactly what he was doing even if he claimed that he was just making everything up as he went. You always thought that was a lie, though.

His tongue drags lower down your pussy, tracing over the rim of your entrance, not going past it but it's just enough to make you clench at the feeling of his tongue sliding down and then back up to your clit, working tirelessly between your legs. You let out a stifled moan, stomach rising and falling unevenly as the feeling of him fucking you with just his expert tongue drives you mad.

Your hand—the right one, the one that was previously on his shoulder, eventually finds its way into his hair and tugs lightly at the root as he takes one hand off of your thigh and moves it in between your legs, pressing two digits past your entrance and curling against your walls slowly, tantalizingly so. Just enough to replace the feeling of his tongue as it works on your clit.

Despite it not being all that aggressive or painful, the feeling of your hand pulling at his hair elicits a whine from within his throat, a sound that seems like it had been held back up until now as it vibrates against your pussy and sends electric currents beating through your veins that make your legs shake and fingertips clench into the sheets of your mattress, digging into the thin fabric.

You let out probably the most pornographic moan of his name that he's ever heard, thighs squeezing around his head though he stops them with ease, holding you open to him with the palm of his hand. Your moans and whimpers only serve as sounds of encouragement, music to his ears that's only spurring him to drive you further and further to the edge with his tongue against your core and fingers curling against your inner walls, pumping in and out of you once he's found a steady rhythm to follow.

Maybe it had slipped your mind just how good it felt to be fucked by him during his two weeks away, or maybe it was the fact that because he's back, he's more determined than ever to make this unforgettable for you. You weren't even being fucked yet. Not really, at least. And it only made your pussy drip an embarassing amount more to imagine what it would feel like once he was finally inside you after so long. Not that Mark was complaining, though. He loved the taste of you, could hardly ever get enough of it.

"Mark, I'm—" You whimper out, cut off by a moan as his fingers increase in both speed and intensity, pounding inside you intensely with no sign of stopping. The sound you make brings his eyes up to look at your face and the way your chest rises and falls, mouth slightly agape as you breathe shallowly through your teeth. The sight only made his cock strain even more in his pants, the fabric tightening around it maddeningly.

And when you do finally climax, dipping your head up to look at the ceiling as you shake and convulse with him between you, he laps up your juices like a man who'd been stranded in the desert, dehydrated and desperate.

Releasing his hair, he pulls back, standing from his position on the floor and joining you on the bed where he lays your head back against the pillow and follows you down against the mattress, finding comfort of his own with his arms wrapped snugly around you, tracing figure eights into the skin below your shirt that was hiked up just enough to expose the skin where your waist dips and curves.

"Was that... Good?" He questions. He always did ask. Always unsure, always wanting to make sure you felt nearly as good as he did from just hearing the way you come undone around him.

"Always." You reassure. And it always was good. Great, even. He was better than anyone you'd ever had and you're unsure if that's because of the Viltrumite DNA in his blood or just because the way he gets so worked up around you always works as fuel to the fire, making him try harder and harder to please you.

Mark brings his head up to rest on your chest, tilting it up almost uncomfortably to be able to properly look you in the eyes, and he whispers your name above the rise and fall of your panting breath, clearly spent from being eaten out so perfectly. The way your name falls from his lips sounds like a plea, and you know exactly what he wants.

He's perfectly fine with making you come without anything in return and in fact he almost prefers that over fucking you. Or at least, he would be if he hadn't just spent what felt like an eternity away from you, daydreaming about coming home and rushing to you the second he planted his feet back on Earth.

"Oh," You start, biting your lip to hold back the small grin that threatens to tug at your mouth when you feel him grind against you with a small sound like a wince and it's clear he's desperate for any sort of friction he can get. "You want to come?"

He only nods in response, pulling back from you slightly and hovering above you, forehead pressed against yours as his hands press into the mattress beside your head to support his own weight.

You give him a look, not taking the nod for an answer. "Tell me how." It always gave you a strange sense of pleasure to hear him admit his dirty wants out loud, his fantasies that turn to reality in your bed, and it gave you a rush to hear him tell you exactly how he wants to be fucked. And he always would, despite how embarrassed he would get upon his admissions.

"Can I— If you wanted.." He always emphasized that, despite how long you two had been dating. But you thought it was sweet anyway. If you wanted. You always wanted, when it came to Mark.

"Can I come inside you?" He says it nervously, probably worrying you'd turn him down, not grant the satisfaction. But you wouldn't do that to him, no of course not. You'd only make him think you were going to deny him.

"Mark, you've been gone for how long?" You question, voice a slight hum as you speak. "I'm going to need a bit more effort than that."

Despite the fact he could overpower you in half a second and have you shaking like a leaf underneath him, all tears and mindless blubbering and regretting being a tease... Marks a good boy. He'd always listen to you. Wouldn't come until you told him he could, even if his body was shaking and his brain was reduced to mush, all fucked-out and stupid from being edged until he cried. So when he hears you say that, he knows exactly what you want to hear and gives it to you immediately. Shamelessly.

"Please, I—" He stumbles over his words, mind moving a mile a minute, thoughts reduced to you, you, you. He wanted to be inside you more than anything. Feel your warmth around his aching, desperate cock, so hard that it almost hurts. "I've been thinking about you nonstop, I missed you so bad and I just wanna be inside you. Please, just for a little," He begs, hands running over every curve of your body and it's not enough to feel the warmth that radiates off of you against his fingertips while your bodies are pressed flush against one another. Never is. He needs to feel your warmth from the inside.

Mark did deserve at least some sort of reward. He thinks. After spending two weeks in space fighting off Sequids, other Viltrumites, or God knows what else, he was practically feral. Even just the sight of you, or the scent of your perfume that he swears you chose meticulously just to make him trip over his own feet when he was so close he could smell it radiating off of you, it made his head spin and his whole world tilt on its axis and topple over. And you could tell all of this by just the way the corners of his eyes prick with tears that he blinks back each time you deny him further, each time you give him that look that makes his cock twitch with desperate anticipation. It was maddening, but at the same time, it was the most intoxicating substance he'd ever gotten a high from.

When you still don't look convinced, he continues pleading and whining about how grateful he'd be if you just let him, how he promisses he'll be on his best behavior, and you don't miss the slight quiver and crack in his voice, and the way that tears are pricking up again in his eyes, threatening to spill over due to your consistent refusal. And eventually you crack, not wanting to prolong his suffering any further.

"You really do deserve it, don't you?" You question rhetorically, sounding almost condescendingly sweet as your fingers comb through his black hair, tousling it in that perfect way that makes the frontest few strands rest lazily over the top of his forehead. "You've been so busy saving the world, so busy being a hero. I bet you've been waiting all this time to get home and just come inside me."

He nods his head, leaning into your touch like he lives off of it. Needs it to survive. "Mhm.." He hums. "Been... Thinking about you so much—Please, I just wanna..." He admits it suddenly and shamelessly, bringing his lips to yours, but you pull away before they have the chance to barely ghost over the other, and you feel his hot breath graze against your skin.

The face he makes is clearly distraught at your incessant teasing, and it brings a devilish smile to your expression which only makes him pout further. It's obvious that some part of you gets off on this, but you just can't help the fact that the teary, glossed over look in his expression just does something inexplicable to you. Sends a heatwave like no other shooting straight to your core.

After a beat your lips press against his, a quick peck before you draw back again and slide your shirt over your head, leaving you in nothing but your bra beneath him. He blinks, eyes taking in your form for just a moment before he returns them back to your face, leaning in for another kiss which you grant him without any objections this time.

His hands slide over your naked body, sending an electrifying buzz at each place where his fingertips graze over, exploring you entirely before replacing his hands with his lips and kissing your neck, collarbone, chest, lower, lower, lower until he's just below your bellybutton.

You hear the sound of metal clinking as he fumbles with his belt, taking a moment to looks back up at you. "So, can I?" He questions softly.

You grin, hands finding your way to his hair and comfortably tangling your fingertips through the strands. "Yes, Mark, you can." You confirm with a nod.

His breath hitches in his throat and he pulls back for a moment, sliding his jeans down just enough to expose his cock, tip flushed a shade of light pink and already beading with precum at the slit.

He hastily finds his way to your entrance, one hand wrapping around the base of his cock and dragging his palm up and down as he lines it up with your entrance, the other remaining occupied with steadying your waist, fingertips pressed into your skin with just enough firmness to make it lighten where the pads of his fingers rest.

He spares a quick glance back up at you, question evident on his face. Always so nervous. Luckily you found it endearing. When you don't offer any words or protests, he slowly pushes the head of his cock past your enterance, nipping at the corner of his lip slightly at the feeling of you tight around him. He gasps at the same time as you do, face flushing probably more than yours at this point.

Mark pulls you close to him as he begins to find a steady rhythm inside you, wanting to hear the way you moan right against his ear, pulling out each and every sound you make with a practiced ease. Closeness was always a big thing for him, even if he was buried deep inside you, he was almost entirely insatiable. Never close enough, not nearly.

Your hands find their way up the back of his shirt, beneath the fabric your nails drag along the skin of his back and leave red tinted scratches in their wake as you lift yourself off of the bed just enough to arch slightly into him, allowing for Mark to reach deeper inside you, hitting your cervix with each desperate thrust into your dripping pussy.

He touches his forehead to yours and you feel the beads of sweat that form against his skin as it presses against yours, offering a delicate giggle in between the sounds of your already perfect moans and whimpers. Hearimg the noise above his short, ragged puffs of breath makes his hips stutter and his stomach flip, filling him up even more with a dizzy desperate desire for you. He could come at the sound alone if he wasn't careful to control himself.

"You're so pretty," He whimpers as he moves into the crook of your neck, leaving sloppy wet kisses—or maybe those are tears?— against your skin, breathing you in at the same time as he fucks into you.

Your hand makes way to the short hair at the base of his neck, tugging it back lightly enough so that it doesn't hurt, but it still manages to drag a sudden whine out of him that you weren't expecting, and your walls pulse around him at the noise. Tears, you realize as you look at his face. You almost feel bad when you realize he might have lets on. And your concern must've shown because he's quick to reassure you.

"I'm fine, I–Ah—Dont worry about it.." He pants, and you kiss against where the droplets slide against his cheeks, tasting the salty dampness of them on your lips when you flit your tongue out to sample them.

You press your lips against his, and he doesn't pull away at the taste of his satly tears, still fucking into you at a once steady pace that grows more uneven as the seconds tick by, frantic as he chases his release. He only tries to pull back to speak, but your hands keep him pinned down against you. Not like he'd manage to get a word out anyway, his brain was too jumbled and messy right now to think of anything coherent to say.

He let's out a strangled moan when you keep him against your lips, and you swallow the sound up without a complaint, his hips stuttering for a moment inside you as he comes without warning, releasing thick ropes into you and surely painting your insides in a sticky white. He buries himself to a hilt, taking a moment to appreciate the way you feel squeezed tight around his cock before he reluctantly pulls out with a satisfying pop, gazing down between your legs to see how his come pools out of you and messes the sheets; you gasp at the sudden emptiness.

Marks lips pepper kisses onto the surface of your skin, the action speaking volumes even when he can only manage to mutter out soft 'thank you, thank you..'s between each one.

Finding his face, your hands hold either side of it, looking into him and smiling at the way his eyes seem so glossy and filled with a sense of awe. "You're welcome," Is all you say before he lays his head back down onto your chest, and you two remain like that for who knows how long.

[veryoccasionalwriting]

The Best Notifications

Summary: Mark has a new habit: texting you every time he thinks of you. Which.. is a lot.

Dating Mark Grayson wasn’t always easy. There were stretches of time where he’d go completely silent, not because he was ignoring you, but because he was off fighting aliens on Mars, stuck on some distant planet, or deep in intense training.

But when he was on Earth? When he had even a sliver of free time?

He was blowing up your phone like it was his full-time job.

You hadn’t even gotten out of bed when the first ping came in.

Mark 💙: Good morning! Did you sleep okay?

Mark 💙: I just had a dream where you came over and stole some of my collectables to sell them but I wasn’t even mad lol

You let out a sleepy laugh, seeing the typing bubble pop back up. 

Another ping.

Mark 💙: Also your hoodie still smells like you. I’m never giving it back.. I’d fight Immortal for it. I see why you keep stealing my clothes.

You groaned and finally sat up, smiling at your phone then.. your phone buzzed again.

Mark 💙: Okay maybe not Immortal. But like… Dupli-Kate? For sure.

You typed back quickly before he could message you more.

You: I want my hoodie back, Thief.

Mark 💙: Not a thief if you gave it to me 😇

You: I gave it to you because you were shivering after crashing into a lake

Mark 💙: Exactly. Romantic. And need I remind you, you took several of my hoodies!

You rolled your eyes, glancing towards your hamper that had a pile of Mark's clothes. Okay.. Maybe he wasn't incorrect with that. The smile on your face never once faded as you stared at the messages from Mark.

He didn’t stop texting all morning. Silly, random things, you had asked him if he was bored today and he had been offended you'd ask such a thing! Finally, as you were getting a snack, he had texted you again.

Mark 💙: Just saw a bird that reminded me of you. Graceful, kinda loud tbh.. May have tried to steal a sandwich.

You: Are you calling me a sandwich thief?

Mark 💙: I’m calling you majestic 🥺

When he finally showed up at your door later that day, hair a little messy from flying too fast, he didn’t even knock. He just hovered outside the window, peeking in with a grin and knocking on the glass with one finger.

You opened it with a small grin. “You know you can use the door like a normal person.” You teased him.

“I’m not normal,” he said, swinging inside easily. “I’m in love.”

You made a face, laughing as he pulled you into a tight hug. He smelled so good. Like fresh air and mint.. and just like Mark. Nothing but pure comfort, like home.

“Hi,” he mumbled into your neck.

“Hi.”

“You smell good.”

“You say that every time.”

“It’s always true.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, and he practically melted. Literally. His knees gave out and you both toppled onto the bed. It was like you two hadn't kissed before.

“I wasn’t ready for that,” he whined, smiling so hard it scrunched his nose. “Sneak attack kiss. Not fair.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him again, this time properly. He grinned at you afterwards, brushing a strand of hair from your eyes.

“...That was nice,” he said dreamily. “I love you.” It came out so easy. So Mark.

You blinked.

He sat up quickly. “Wait. I mean! Not like ‘oh my god proposal’ love. I mean I love you in the way where I think about you all the time and want to tell you dumb stuff and when things suck, you’re the first person I want to call, and-”

You kissed him again, giggling through the kiss since you found his own nerves to be so adorable. When you pulled back, you smiled softly at him. “I love you too.”

He made a noise that somewhat sounded like someone was strangling him, his face red.

And later, as you lay side by side, tangled in a blanket, Mark turned his head toward you.

“You know,” he murmured, “you’re my favorite notification.”

You grinned. “I would say the same… but you text me so much, you’re basically the only notification I get.”

Mark gasped. “Wow. Rude. I’m out here sending you love poems and memes, and this is the thanks I get? I'm taking you off my texting list.”

“Oh no,” you said, mock serious. “How ever will I survive without my daily bird updates and blurry selfies of you mid-flight?”

He pouted dramatically. “Those are art.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours, “still your favorite notification.”

“…Fine. You win.”

“Victory tastes like kisses. Gimme.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him anyways.

[moviecritc]

✦ ˚ : · NO HESITATION · : ˚✦

pairing ☆ atom eve x fem!reader

word count ☆ 1.4K

summary ☆ porn without plot

warnings ☆ mdni, wlw, pussy eating, fingering

main masterlist | letterboxd

You had been kissing each other in bed for a while, lazy, drawn-out, slow. The kind of kissing that made time feel irrelevant. You were on top of Eve, her skin warm under your palms, your hands tangled behind her neck, fingers buried in that bright, unruly orange hair you loved so much. You liked the way it looked spread out across your pillow, like fire licking up the sheets.

She had her hands on your hips, holding you like she needed the contact to stay grounded, fingers gripping the fabric of your shorts. Her thumbs dragged under the hem, skin on skin, and you could feel her breath catch every time you rolled your hips just enough to tease.

“God, you’re annoying,” she said, though she was smiling, eyes half-lidded.

“You love it,” you murmured, brushing your nose against hers before dipping your head to kiss the corner of her mouth, then down along her jaw. “You like when I take my time.”

Eve made a frustrated sound in her throat. “I like you. Time’s negotiable.”

You grinned against her neck, kissing it lightly, letting your lips drag along the soft spot just beneath her ear. She shivered, her grip tightening on your hips. But something shifted when your hand trailed lower—past the waistband of her shorts, easing between her thighs. She sucked in a breath, but it wasn’t the same as before.

You stilled, immediately.

“What?” you asked gently, lifting your head to look at her.

She blinked, caught. “Nothing.”

You tilted your head. “Eve.”

Her eyes flicked away, then back to yours, like she was trying to convince herself to just get over it. “I didn’t shave,” she finally said, so quietly it nearly got swallowed by the space between you. “Like, at all.”

You stared at her for a second, then let out a soft laugh, not mocking, just honestly baffled. “Okay?”

She looked unconvinced. “I just didn’t think we were gonna… you know. Tonight.”

“So?” you said, shifting so you could brush a hand down her side, slow and deliberate. “You think I’m gonna care about a few curls?”

She blinked up at you, clearly still in her head.

“You could have a goddamn jungle down there,” you added with a shrug. “I’m still getting in.”

That got a laugh out of her, short and shaky, but real. “You’re the worst.”

You grinned. “And yet, here you are. Flat on your back, letting me crawl all over you.”

Eve snorted. “I didn’t let you. You just do whatever you want.”

“I asked,” you said, mock-offended, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Consent queen, remember?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft now, almost shy. You could feel her slowly unwinding beneath you again, the tension easing out of her muscles like you’d cracked open whatever little shell she’d retreated into.

You kissed along her collarbone, gentle and unhurried. “Seriously,” you murmured between kisses. “I don’t care. I don’t even notice unless you point it out. And even then, I’m just like, great. More of you to kiss.”

Eve’s fingers tightened around your hips again. You felt her shift a little underneath you, like she was trying to get closer without saying it out loud.

“You sure?” she asked, quieter this time. Not just about the shaving anymore. About being seen.

You pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “I’m obsessed with you,” you said simply. “Hair, no hair, messy eyeliner, your weird sock collection, doesn’t matter. You’re hot. You’re mine. Let me have you?”

Eve blinked a few times, then tugged you down into a kiss that was all teeth and gratitude and the kind of wanting that had no room for shame. Her legs shifted around your waist, thighs pressing to your sides, drawing you in closer like she’d just remembered how much power she had.

“You’re so full of shit,” she murmured into your mouth.

“Mm,” you hummed, licking playfully at her lower lip.

You were busy with your mouth trailing a path of kisses in her lower stomach. Then you tugged your fingers around the waistband of her shorts, pulling them down. You kissed her thigh and spread her still with her panties on, purples with a white bow in the center. It wasn't fair how perfect she was, and how good she looked like that.

Slowly, you drag your finger between her clothed lips, sensing the wet spot forming. Eve shivered, her thighs twitching against your shoulders as you kept your mouth warm on her skin, your finger teasing just enough pressure to make her hips jerk. She was already breathing faster, trying not to squirm, but you didn’t let up. You loved the way her body betrayed her, how she tried to keep some semblance of composure, but it always slipped the second you got your hands on her.

“You’re soaked,” you murmured, voice low, reverent, brushing your lips against the top of her thigh. “And I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

Eve let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “I hate you.”

You looked up at her through your lashes, lips curling into a smirk. “Liar.”

Your fingers hooked around the waistband of her underwear, slow and steady, giving her every chance to stop you, but she didn’t. She just lifted her hips slightly, the tiniest permission, and you pulled them down, dragging your mouth along her skin as you went. Down her thighs, past her knees. You tossed them to the side without looking.

Then you paused, kneeling between her legs, hands running slowly up the backs of her thighs as you looked at her. Really looked. The way her stomach rose and fell unevenly. The flush high on her cheeks. Her arms loose at her sides now, palms open, like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

You kissed the inside of her knee. Then higher. Then higher still.

“You okay?” you asked quietly, fingers brushing the edge of her hip. “You still with me?”

Her eyes were already glassy. She nodded. “I’m here.”

You kissed her again. This time just above the crease where her thigh met her body. She gasped.

“I love all of you, Eve,” you whispered. “You don’t have to hide anything from me.”

And then you licked one long, slow stripe up her center.

Eve let out a sound that was almost a sob, her hips stuttering up into your mouth. You flattened your tongue against her, slow and deliberate, and when you felt her hand suddenly twist into the bedsheet, you smiled against her skin.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “How—why—how are you so—”

“You’re babbling,” you teased, before closing your mouth around her clit, sucking gently, then rolling your tongue against that perfect spot that made her hips jump.

She moaned, louder now, no longer trying to hide it. Her thighs tried to close around your head, instinctive, and you just pressed your palms to them and held her open. She was squirming under you already, and you hadn’t even used your fingers yet.

“Stay still,” you murmured against her, and she whined.

You slipped one hand lower, fingers teasing her entrance, coated in how very not-shy her body was about this. You slid one finger in, curling slowly, keeping your mouth soft and steady, and she cried out.

“Fuck—oh my god—”

You chuckled softly, the vibration making her hips jerk again. “You’re so sensitive tonight.”

“Shut up,” she panted, but her legs were trembling already, her breath catching every few seconds. “I swear to god, if you stop—”

You didn’t.

You added another finger, curling just right, your mouth never leaving her, the rhythm steady and cruel and perfect. Eve was gasping now, high and breathless and getting louder. Her hands scrabbled across the sheets, then found your hair, tugging hard like she needed something to hold onto.

“I’m—I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t stop.

You moved faster, tongue and fingers in sync, not letting up until she broke apart with a cry that was sharp and messy and absolutely gorgeous. Her body curled, spasming under you, thighs shaking, her whole face twisting like it was too much and not enough all at once.

You kept going through it, just gentle enough to draw it out, to keep her gasping, until she finally pushed weakly at your shoulder.

“Stop,” she whispered, breathless, laughing. “Too much, I swear—please—”

You pulled back, kissing her thigh softly, then the other. Her body was still twitching slightly, trying to come down.

You crawled up next to her, brushing her hair back from her flushed face.

Her eyes were still fluttering. “You’re a menace.”

You grinned. “Yeah, but you’re in love with me, so.”

She groaned and covered her face with one hand. “Don’t remind me.”

You kissed her temple. “You wanna return the favor later?”

She peeked at you between her fingers. “You’re insatiable.”