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[bcbatea]

been working on a fic where the reader is a gamer girl and mark is super submissive :3

[bcbatea]

Mark Grayson smiley icons because he’s cute and the world deserves to know

[bcbatea]

sub!mark grayson plsss

working on this btw <3

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omfg guysss look at this official art by Ryan Ottley of Sinister & Deadpool

i’m foaming at the mouth about it 😭

[bcbatea]

Mark and Eve by Gabriel Picolo

[bcbatea]

── .✦ Fuck You Me

⋮ summary .ᐟ mark and reader 'dislike' each other and he's sick of her always teasing him

⋮ warnings .ᐟ 18+, smut at the end but it's short, MDNI, swearing, mark gets a bit confident toward the end

⋮ pairing .ᐟ main!mark grayson (invincible) x fem!reader

⋮ wc .ᐟ 1.9k+

⋮ an .ᐟ idk if i wanna continue this yet :3

You and Mark were supposed to be studying for an exam. Supposed to be. But instead, the two of you have been arguing for the last fifteen minutes over the shirt you're wearing. The argument started all because he made a slick comment after seeing the revealing shirt on your body that tested his ability to form a coherent sentence.

Mark rubs his hand down his face, letting out a groan that's half frustration and half pure agony. "All I'm saying is you could probably get sick, (Y/N)," he says, his voice slightly panicked at your choice of attire. "It's… kinda breezy in here."

You look down at the low-cut top, then back up at his flushed face, a smirk appearing on your lips. You tilt your head and lean back against your arms that are placed behind you on his bed, your posture a silent challenge. "That's the excuse you wanna go with, Mark?"

Your challenging question is the final straw. He throws his hands up, pushing himself back from the desk he'd been sitting at, the chair almost falling over. "It's just so…." he starts, his voice trailing off. "You sure you're not cold? I'm a little cold," He rambles, struggling to make eye contact with you. He crosses his arms and rubs them as if trying to warm himself. Unbeknownst to you, a voice in the back of his head was yelling at him. 'Cold? It's 70 degrees in here, you idiot!'

His absurd behavior causes you to bust out laughing, and unrestrained sound that bounces off the walls. "You're so ridiculous. You're really standing here flustered because you think I'm hot and you don't know what to do with yourself." The awkward boy in front of you is in absolute shambles, all because of a top you didn't even bother to look at before putting it on.

You laugh and break him out of his state of panic. He stops pacing and his hands fall to his sides and clench into loose fists. The previous flustered energy shifts into something else. Something more intense. He finally looks up at you, his eyes full of desire.

"You like it," he says, voice dropping low, all of the nervousness and panic is now gone, and replaced with a frustrated edge. "Messing with me is just a game to you. You're extremely irritating, you know that?"

His words make you smile. The thought of being the reason why Mark Grayson is currently losing his mind, only strokes your already inflated ego even more.

You stay seated on the edge of his bed. You lean forward, your hands now placed on either side of you, pressing into his bed. "You're literally a superhero," you giggle. "You're supposed to be able to control your emotions."

Mark's irritable pacing suddenly stops and he finally looks up at you since this whole thing started. "I can't concentrate when you…." he starts, his ears flushed and eyes deep with something you can't explain. He gestures toward you and your relaxed position on his bed, and the shirt that started this whole thing. "When you keep looking at me like that."

The rawness in his voice makes your heart flutter. He's conflicted and completely undone by your presence, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't love every second of his pacing the room and sweating bullets at your glances in his direction. Every time you and Mark are together, you argue to the point where one of you has to leave the room, so the sudden change in the atmosphere— from genuine irritation to irritation with a bit of desire stirred in— sends a shiver down your spine. You have to shift your weight on the bed as a fresh wave of heat pools in your stomach, and you start to feel a wetness between your thighs.

He's still standing only a few feet away, frozen in place by the force of his conflicted emotions. Every single part of his brain is yelling at him to fly out the window right now and leave you sitting on his bed, just to clear his head. But his feet feel like they're glued to the floor. 'You fight villains all the time. You can handle a girl.' 'But fuck…Why does she have to be so hot?' 'Get a grip.'

His voice drops to a low, intense rumble that makes you squeeze your thighs together, an unintentional, involuntary response. "You know exactly what you're doing to me."

It's a direct accusation, and it does something to you. He just stares at you, a war playing out in his mind.

"If you're so tired of me bothering you," you challenge, your voice like silk, "then do something about it. Stop just standing there."

The silken command hits him like a physical blow, one he can't seem to tank despite being a superhero. He lets out a sharp breath, as if the air had been snatched from his lungs.

"You're so hot," he finally spits out, the words sound like a painful confession ripped from his throat. "And it irritates me more than anything."

And that's when he finally moves, but it's not confident. It's a slow, deliberate advance. His hands open and close at his sides, unsure of what to do with themselves. His eyes are locked onto yours, looking down at you as if you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen. 'She's the prettiest thing I've ever seen.' His gaze is, without a doubt in your mind, full of undeniable desire along with a mix of fear and adoration.

He doesn't stop until he's standing directly in front of you, the shadow of his tall frame looming over you. The silence of the room is allowing you to hear your own heartbeat and you're hoping he can't hear it too. He just stays there for a moment, fighting with himself internally, telling himself to be sure this is what he wants to do. 'What if she's doing this to make fun of me?' 'There's no coming back.' His eyes flicker from your eyes to your lips and back to your eyes again. His hands hover in the air for a few seconds before they finally come down. He dips down and grips the mattress on either side of your hips, trapping you under him with his strong arms. He leans in, leaving his face just inches from yours, his eyes burning with intensity.

And then his lips are on yours.

The kiss is anything but gentle. It's a release of pent-up frustration. There is no softness, no gentle exploration, only the friction of his lips moving desperately against yours. He tilts his head, deepening the angle, his teeth grazing your bottom lip.

Your hands, which had previously been behind you holding your weight, fly up to his chest, your fingers spread out over his black t-shirt. A small, muffled sound escapes your throat as your nails dig into it and pull him impossibly closer. Then, his tongue slips into your mouth, hot and demanding. The action shifts your dynamic from a fight to an all-consuming surrender. The overwhelming intensity of it all is what does it, throwing your mind back to three weeks ago, in the silence of an almost empty library, the scent of paper and coffee lingering in the air.

It's little after midnight, and the two of you are the last ones left from your extremely disastrous group project. He leans over your shoulder, heat radiating from him and his proximity unwelcome.

"I fixed your part of the project," he says, his tone showing no emotion as if he didn't just tell you he changed something you worked hard on.

You stop typing, your blood running cold. "Fixed it? You rewrote the whole thing from start to finish, Mark."

"It was missing something," he replies, not a hint of apology in his voice. "I just… made it better."

His arrogance made you see red. "You think I can't do my part?" you seethe, turning your chair to face him.

"That's… not at all what I said. Don't be so sensitive," he says, crossing his arms. "I just want us to get a good grade."

That was all it took to make you slam your laptop shut, the sound breaking through the silence of the library. You start shoving your books into your bag with furious, jerky movements. Your only goal right now is to get away from him.

"(Y/N), wait. I'm sorry," he says while reaching for your arm.

You snatch your arm away, spinning around to face him one last time before you go back to your dorm.

"Fuck you, Mark."

The memory slowly dissolves and the world comes back into focus as he slowly breaks the kiss, a string of spit between you. The fluorescent lights from the library are replaced by the soft, warm lamp of his room. You're both panting for air as his forehead comes to press against yours.

The way he's looking down at you right now makes you shudder. His eyes are burning like they did during your arguments, but it's not anger anymore. It's pure need. Your head falls back onto his pillow as you try to catch your breath. His hands, which had been braced on the mattress to trap you, are no longer still. One hand slides from the bed, the rough calluses on his palm a stark contrast as his fingers skim over the soft skin of your exposed stomach. His touch is hesitant at first before growing more confident as he feels you tremble under him and struggle to keep a stable breathing pattern. His thumb reaches the waistline of your pants, pressing down just to see if you react. His other hand trails up your side, his fingers splaying out over your ribs, sending heat through your veins as he remembers every curve of your body.

He lowers his head, his lips once again brushing against yours. He moans softly, savoring the moment. The words that were once used against him in the heat of an argument are now an invitation.

"Fuck me," you breathe out, the command a desperate plea against his mouth.

'I will.'

Those words are all the confirmation he needs.

The rhythmic slap of skin on skin is the only sound in the room, a steady beat punctuated by his low grunts and your soft whines. Your leg is hooked over his shoulder, the position keeping you wide open for him as he pounds into you with a relentless, punishing rhythm. All the anger from months of hating each other is being channeled directly into his hips, each thrust deeper than the last, and being used as a way to prove you wrong about all the times you insulted his ability to function around you.

His hands grip your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave prints, holding you in place. He pulls back for a second as he watches himself slide back into you.

"Holy shit," he moans breathlessly, his voice a strained rasp. "Is it this wet all the time?"

Every single time I'm around you. No, I'm not telling him that.

"You caught me on a good day."

[bcbatea]

writing a mark fic where the reader is a mean girl :3

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"I can see the future. You don't live to see tomorrow." — Mark Grayson

Another ffanart i made for Invincible hope yall like it 😤🙏💛

[bcbatea]

Blunt Rotation From Hell

Variant Mark Graysons/Reader | Interactive Otome Fic

WARNINGS: Weed use, Fem!Reader, Heavy themes (all the variants lost their world's version of you and are traumatized from this)

It's about three months after the Invincible war, and somehow you've found yourself sitting on your living room floor in the middle of quite possibly the worst blunt rotation in the history of all blunt rotations with six of the variants who almost destroyed your world. What could go wrong?

A cloud of hazy smoke wafts around you as you wander out of your bedroom, eyes half-lidded in a peaceful stupor as the hard edges of the world seem to blur just a little.

Enough to relax your racing mind.

But all of that goes out the window when you notice the six grown men bickering and shoving each other in your living room.

Your heart practically drops into your stomach when you recognize two of them from the news, from the cataclysm that happened three months ago. While most of the men are dressed in plain clothes, one is dressed similarly to your world's Invincible, with the notable difference of Omni-man's classic red and white colorscheme—the other you recognize is dressed in stark white and gray, in the Vitrum Empire's uniform, save for the symbols on his shoulders.

Both of them were responsible for atrocities beyond what any one man should be capable of, and when you realize how similar the other four men look to them, you realize that you have not two, but six dangerous variants arguing in your living room.

They haven't seemed to notice you yet, but the way they all seem less than five seconds away from going at each other's throats makes you uneasy. Especially when you realize that the topic they're so heated about... is you.

"I'm not giving her up," the Invincible in Omni-man's colors spits, crossing his arms over his chest. "If I have to fight the rest of you for her, I will."

"By all means," the one with the short, scruffy beard and shaggy hair scoffs, lips curling into a menacing snarl. "Try it, see how far that gets you."

"You can't fight all of us," Mohawk boy pushes his way into the fight, eyes gleaming with manic intensity. "If we team up, you're fucked."

"Is that how you all feel?" His snarl turns into low, cruel laughter when his malicious eyes narrow on his alternate selves. "Why don't we test that?"

The Invincible in the viltrumite uniform's jaw tenses, eyes uneasy like he doesn't want this, but his fists are already clenched at his sides, unwilling to back down. At least, until those pretty brown eyes land on you, and his lips part in a soft gasp.

The others notice his change in demeanor and follow his gaze, leaving you pinned under six, intense stares.

Fuck.

🖤 🍃 Continue the Story on Glimmer 🍃 🖤

[bcbatea]

── .✦ A Different Kind of Team-Up

⋮ summary .ᐟ eve and her gf ask their bff mark to join them and how could he ever say no

⋮ warnings .ᐟ 18+, smut, MDNI, swearing, threesome, oral (fem and male receiving), msub (tiny bit), eve and reader are dating, mark doesn't end up in their relationship

⋮ pairing .ᐟ main!mark grayson (invincible) x eve (atom eve) x fem!reader

⋮ wc .ᐟ 4k+

The worn cushions of the sofa dipped comfortably under your combined weight. Your head was nestled in the crook of Eve’s neck, her arm draped securely around your shoulders. The scent of her was the most comforting smell in the world. Outside the window, the city murmured its nightly rhythm, the distant traffic and soft sirens serving as nothing more than background noise to the quiet intimacy of her apartment.

Your fingers were laced with hers, her thumb stroking idly over your knuckles. This was your favorite state of being: tangled up with your girlfriend, safe and content in the bubble you’d built together.

“He’s late,” you murmured, your voice muffled by her shoulder.

Eve sighed, a soft puff of air that rustled your hair. “He’s Mark. He’s probably saving a kitten from a tree or trying to figure out how to work the self-checkout at the grocery store. Could be either, really.”

You laughed, the sound vibrating through her chest. It was true. For a guy who could punch a hole through a mountain, Mark Grayson navigated the mundane world with a surprising amount of baffled awkwardness. It was, you’d both admitted to each other on more than one occasion, ridiculously endearing.

He was your best friend. Their shared history as Teen Team members had forged a bond of battlefield trust and sarcastic banter, but your friendship with him was different. It was softer, built on late-night study sessions, terrible movie marathons, and a mutual appreciation for bad pizza. And Eve, being your girlfriend and his oldest friend, formed the third, crucial point of your weird, wonderful triangle.

You shifted, propping yourself up on an elbow to look at her. The lamplight caught the fiery red of her hair and reflected in her intelligent, blue eyes. God, she was beautiful. Even after two years, the sight of her could still make your breath catch.

“Are we sure about this?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Eve’s expression softened. She reached out, her fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. Her touch was always so deliberate, so full of care.

“Are you sure about this?” she countered gently. “We don’t do anything unless we’re both one hundred percent. You know that.”

You nodded, leaning into her touch. It wasn’t a new conversation. It had started weeks ago, a half-joking comment that slowly, surprisingly, blossomed into a series of hushed, late-night conversations. You both loved Mark. You trusted him implicitly. And you were both, to varying degrees, incredibly attracted to him. The idea, once spoken aloud, had taken root, growing from a funny “what if” into a tangible, pulse-quickening possibility.

“I am,” you confirmed, your voice gaining strength. “I’m just… nervous. It’s a big step. It’s Mark.”

“I know,” Eve said, her gaze unwavering. “That’s why it has to be him. Anyone else? It would be weird. But with Mark… it’s just adding another part of our lives we already share. And,” she added, a sly, wicked grin spreading across her face, “let’s be honest. You’ve seen him without a shirt on. We’re only human.”

A hot blush crept up your neck. You couldn’t deny it. You’d been there for training sessions, patched him up after fights. You were intimately familiar with the powerful, scarred landscape of his physique, and it did things to your insides you tried very hard to ignore.

Eve’s grin widened. She knew you too well. “Exactly. And I know you see the way he looks at you sometimes. When he thinks no one’s watching. He’s a terrible actor.”

“He looks at you,” you retorted, nudging her playfully. “He’s been in love with you since forever.”

“He’s fond of the idea of me he built up in his head,” Eve corrected, her tone losing a bit of its playfulness. It was a familiar, complicated topic. “He loves you. The real you. He’s just too much of a gentleman and too good a friend to ever act on it.” Her eyes met yours again, the intensity back. “Which is why this is on us. We have to be the ones to open the door. He never will.”

A sharp rap on the door, a familiar rhythm of two quick knocks followed by a third, saved you from having to respond.

“Speak of the devil,” you muttered, disentangling yourself from Eve’s embrace.

You opened the door to find Mark standing there, a lopsided, apologetic grin on his face. He was holding two large, greasy-looking pizza boxes. He was dressed in a regular outfit: jeans, a faded comic book t-shirt, and a hoodie. His dark hair was a mess, as usual, and there was a faint smudge of what looked like dirt on his cheekbone.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, stepping inside. “There was a… situation. With a runaway Ferris wheel. Don’t ask.” He kicked the door shut with his heel. “I got pepperoni and that weird pineapple thing Eve likes.”

“It’s called Hawaiian, you freak,” Eve called from the couch, though her voice was warm with amusement. “And thank you.”

Mark’s eyes found yours, and for a split second, his smile faltered. His gaze flickered down your body and back up again, a brief, almost imperceptible once-over that still sent a jolt straight to your core. He recovered quickly, his usual awkward charm slotting back into place as he shuffled towards the coffee table.

“So, what are we watching? Please don’t say it’s that show about the rich ladies who yell at each other.”

“Of course not,” you said, taking the boxes from him. “We waited for you. We were thinking… we’d just talk tonight.”

That got his attention. He paused, looking from you to Eve and back again. “Talk? Did I do something wrong? Because if this is about the hole in the training room wall, I swear it was already there.”

Eve patted the cushion between you and her. “You’re not in trouble, Mark. Sit down.”

He eyed the spot warily, as if it were a trap. But he did as he was told, sinking into the sofa. The space, which had felt so large moments before, now felt incredibly small and charged with a nervous energy that was almost palpable. He sat stiffly, his hands on his knees, looking like a student in the principal’s office.

The three of you sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren. You and Eve exchanged a quick, loaded glance. It was now or never.

Eve, ever the brave one, took the plunge.

She cleared her throat, and Mark’s head snapped towards her. “Mark,” she began, her voice calm and steady, a stark contrast to the frantic beating of your own heart. “You’re our best friend. You know that, right? We trust you more than anyone.”

Mark’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Yeah, of course. You guys too. What’s going on? You’re freaking me out.”

“We’re not trying to,” you chimed in, finding your voice. You reached out, placing a hand on his knee. His muscles tensed under your touch. “We just… have something we want to talk to you about. A proposition.”

“A proposition?” he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. “Like… you need help moving a couch? Or, like, a financial proposition? Because I’m pretty broke until my next GDA check.”

Eve took a deep breath. “No. Not like that.” She paused, choosing her words with deliberate care. “(Y/N) and I,” she said, her eyes flicking to you before settling back on Mark’s bewildered face, “have been talking. About you. About how much you mean to us, and how much we… care about you.”

Mark’s face was a canvas of confusion. He looked utterly, completely lost. “I care about you guys too! You’re my best friends! Why does this feel like you’re about to ask me to join a cult?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “It’s not a cult, Mark.” You squeezed his knee. “We were wondering… how you’d feel about sharing an experience with us. A physical one.”

The gears were visibly turning in his head. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His gaze darted between your face and Eve’s, searching for a punchline. He found none. The color started to drain from his face, replaced by a creeping, blotchy red flush that started at his neck and worked its way up to his hairline.

“Physical?” he squeaked, his voice cracking on the word. “Like… a three-person sparring session?”

Eve finally took pity on him. She laid it out, her voice gentle but direct. “Like a threesome, Mark.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

It was so quiet you could hear the frantic thumping of your own heart. Mark just stared, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide with a combination of shock, disbelief, and something else… something you couldn’t quite decipher. He looked as if Eve had just confessed to being a secret lizard person.

His internal monologue must have been a chaotic symphony of alarm bells and screaming. You could almost see the frantic calculations happening behind his eyes. Threesome? With Eve? And (Y/N)? My friends? Is this a joke? A test? Did I hit my head on that Ferris wheel harder than I thought?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. Two words, barely a whisper.

“For real?”

“For real,” you confirmed, your voice soft.

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He looked at Eve, truly looked at her. At her confident posture, the knowing, gentle curve of her lips, the fiery intelligence in her eyes. He saw not just Atom Eve, his best friend and teammate, but a stunning, desirable woman making an unbelievable offer.

Then, his gaze shifted to you. He saw you, not just as the friendly face who brought him snacks during study breaks, but as Eve’s girlfriend, as half of a loving couple. He saw the nervous hope in your eyes, the way your hand trembled slightly where it rested on his knee. He saw the two of you, together and separate, a combined force of beauty and sincerity that seemed to short-circuit his entire nervous system.

“I… uh…” he stammered, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Wow. Okay. That’s… wow.” He looked down at his hands, then back up, a helpless, overwhelmed expression on his face. “You guys are… I mean… you’re both so…” He gestured vaguely, at a loss for words. He was trying to say hot, trying to say beautiful, but the words were stuck behind a wall of pure, uncut awkwardness. “You’re my friends,” he finally managed, as if that explained everything.

“We know,” Eve said softly. “That’s the point. This isn’t about just hooking up, Mark. We would never, ever treat you like that. This is about trust. And affection. And… curiosity.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “But it has to be you. It only works if it’s you. And if you’re not comfortable, if this is too weird for you, you can just say no. Right now. We’ll order another pizza, put on a stupid movie, and we will never speak of it again. And nothing will change. We promise.”

Her words were an out, a lifeline he could grab onto to pull himself back to the safe, platonic shore. He could see the sincerity in her eyes, feel it in your touch. They weren’t pressuring him. They were offering, and the offer was genuine.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air rattling in his lungs. He looked at you again, his dark eyes searching yours. The shock was starting to recede, replaced by a dawning, terrifying excitement. The idea, which had been so abstract and impossible seconds ago, was starting to solidify in his mind. The thought of being with you, of being with both of you… it was overwhelming. It was terrifying. And it was, without a doubt, the hottest fucking thing he had ever imagined in his entire life.

A slow nod was his only answer. It was a small movement, barely perceptible, but to you and Eve, it was seismic.

“Yeah?” you breathed, your heart leaping into your throat.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his voice still shaky but a little more certain. “Okay. Yeah.”

A wave of relief so potent it made you dizzy washed over you. You and Eve exchanged another look, this one filled with a mixture of triumph, nervousness, and a heavy dose of ‘oh my god, this is actually happening.’

Eve, ever the practical one, immediately shifted into logistics mode. “Okay,” she said, her voice taking on a slightly more commanding tone. “A few ground rules, just so we’re all on the same page. One: anyone can call a stop at any time, for any reason. No questions asked. The safe word is ‘Cecil.’”

Mark let out a strangled laugh at that, a burst of nervous tension. “Cecil? Really?”

“Would you prefer ‘Omni-Man’?” you shot back with a smirk.

“No! Cecil is fine. Cecil is great,” he said quickly, his eyes wide.

“Two,” Eve continued, ignoring the interruption. “This is about pleasure. Everyone’s pleasure. No one is just a spectator unless they want to be. And three: we’re friends. Tomorrow, we’re still friends. This doesn’t get weird. We talk about it after if we need to. Agreed?”

Mark nodded, looking slightly less like a deer caught in the headlights. The rules seemed to ground him, giving him a framework for the chaotic, unbelievable situation he’d found himself in. “Agreed.”

You looked at him, then at Eve. The air was thick with anticipation. The pizza sat forgotten on the coffee table, its greasy scent mingling with the heady aroma of possibility.

“So…” Mark began, trailing off, looking between the two of you. “What happens now?”

Eve’s lips curved into a slow, sensual smile. She stood up, her movements fluid and deliberate. She reached out a hand, not to Mark, but to you. You took it, allowing her to pull you to your feet. The two of you stood before him, a united front.

“Now,” Eve said, her voice dropping to a low, husky purr that sent shivers down your spine. “We go to my room. And we take off our clothes.”

Eve’s bedroom was a sanctuary of soft textures and muted colors, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the rest of the apartment. The walls were a calming lavender, and instead of a traditional bed, a large, low platform dominated the room, covered in a mountain of pillows and plush blankets. It was a construct, of course, something Eve had spun from pure energy, making it both impossibly soft and perfectly firm.

The three of you stood in the center of the room, the awkwardness from the living room having followed you in, amplified by the sudden intimacy of the setting. Mark looked like he wanted to be anywhere else on the planet. He was fidgeting, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his eyes darting around the room, landing on everything except you and Eve.

You decided to take mercy on him.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

He jumped, startled. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m great. It’s a nice… bed. Very… purple.”

You and Eve shared a look of fond exasperation. He was so hopelessly, endearingly Mark.

Eve took the lead. She moved towards him, her steps silent on the soft floor. She stopped directly in front of him, so close he had no choice but to meet her gaze.

“Mark, look at me,” she commanded softly. He did, his dark eyes wide and uncertain. “You can breathe. We don’t bite. Unless you want us to.”

A faint blush returned to his cheeks, but he managed a small, shaky smile. Eve reached up and gently placed her hands on his chest, right over his heart. Even through his hoodie and t-shirt, you knew she could feel the frantic, jackhammer rhythm of his pulse.

“Let’s start slow,” she murmured. She leaned in and captured his lips.

It wasn’t a demanding kiss. It was soft, exploratory, a gentle introduction. Mark froze for a second, his entire body rigid with shock, before he seemed to melt into it. His hands came out of his pockets, hovering uncertainly in the air for a moment before they came to rest on her waist, his touch hesitant, almost reverent.

While they were kissing, you moved to stand behind him. You wrapped your arms around his torso, pressing your front against his broad back. You stood on the tip of your toes and rested your chin on his shoulder, your eyes meeting Eve’s over his collarbone. She gave you a slow, encouraging wink.

You pressed a soft kiss to the side of Mark’s neck, right on the pulse point that was fluttering like a trapped bird. He shuddered, a full-body tremor, and a low groan escaped him, muffled by Eve’s mouth.

The two of you had him surrounded, a sensory overload of soft touches and warm bodies. He was trapped between the two women he admired most in the world, and the sheer, overwhelming reality of it was finally starting to break through his wall of awkwardness.

Eve pulled back from the kiss, her lips red and slightly swollen. She left him panting, his eyes dazed and unfocused.

“Your turn,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on you.

You released your hold on his back and moved to stand in front of him. Eve took your former position, her arms wrapping around his waist from behind, her chin resting on his shoulder. It was your turn to be the center of his world.

You mirrored Eve’s actions, placing your hands on his chest. You could feel the solid wall of muscle beneath the soft fabric, the raw power held in check. You rose up on your tiptoes and kissed him.

Your kiss was different from Eve’s. Where hers had been a gentle exploration, yours was filled with all the nervous, pent-up energy you were feeling. It was a little more eager, a little more hungry. You felt his hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as he kissed you back, his initial hesitation gone, replaced by a burgeoning confidence.

From behind him, Eve’s hands began to move. Her clever fingers found the hem of his hoodie and t-shirt, slowly pushing them up, exposing the taut, scarred skin of his lower back. Her touch was feather-light, tracing the lines of old battle wounds, sending fresh shivers through him.

You broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. You looked into his eyes, and the dorky, awkward boy was gone. In his place was a man who looked thoroughly, beautifully overwhelmed, his eyes dark with a burgeoning, undeniable lust.

“Okay?” you whispered.

“More than okay,” he breathed, his voice raw.

Working together, you and Eve stripped him of his hoodie and t-shirt, tossing them to the floor. The sight of his bare chest, broad and powerful and so incredibly familiar, still made your stomach do a little flip. He was a perfect blend of boyish charm and raw, god-like power.

Now it was his turn. He looked at you, then at Eve, a silent question in his eyes. Eve answered by tugging at the hem of her own shirt. With a shared nod, you and she began to undress. You moved with the easy, practiced familiarity of a long-term couple, unhooking each other’s bras, helping each other out of your shirts, until you were both bare from the waist up.

Mark just stared, his mouth slightly agape. He looked like a kid who had just walked into a candy store and been told he could have anything he wanted. His gaze flickered between your breasts and Eve’s, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on his face.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, the words slipping out unfiltered.

You and Eve both laughed, a genuine, warm sound that finally seemed to break the last of the tension. The absurdity and the sheer excitement of the situation hit all at once.

“Come here,” you said, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the bed.

He stumbled after you, allowing you to push him down until he was sitting on the edge of the plush platform. You and Eve knelt before him, a mirror image of your position on the sofa, but this time, the context was worlds away.

Eve leaned forward and kissed a pale, faded scar on his abdomen. “Every one of these tells a story,” she murmured against his skin.

While she paid homage to his battle wounds, you focused on his jeans. You unbuttoned them, your fingers brushing against the hard ridge of his erection, straining against the denim. He sucked in a sharp breath. You slid the zipper down and, with Eve’s help, tugged the jeans and his boxers down his powerful legs, tossing them aside to join the growing pile of discarded clothes.

He was fully naked now, exposed and vulnerable in a way he rarely was. And he was, as you had suspected, magnificent.

You let your eyes roam over him, a slow, appreciative perusal that made him squirm. “See?” Eve murmured, her lips still ghosting over his skin. “Only human.”

The three of you moved onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and hesitant touches. The initial awkwardness was gone, replaced by a palpable, thrumming hum of pure, unadulterated lust. It was time to stop thinking and start feeling.

The next hour or so was a blur of skin and breath and whispered words. It was a dance of three bodies learning each other in a new and profound way.

You discovered the thrilling difference between Eve’s practiced, confident touch and Mark’s eager, almost frantic desire to please. Mark, in turn, discovered the dizzying sensation of being the single point of focus for two women who knew each other’s bodies almost as well as their own.

At one point, you were lying on your back, with Eve’s mouth on your breast and Mark’s hand tangled in your hair as he kissed you senseless. He tasted of mint and pure, boyish excitement. Eve’s tongue was a marvel, teasing and circling your nipple until you were arching off the bed, a desperate whine escaping your lips. Mark’s free hand came down to rest on your stomach, his fingers splayed across your skin, a warm, heavy weight that grounded you.

Then, the dynamic shifted.

Eve moved her attention from your breast to your mouth, her kiss fierce and possessive. And Mark, after a moment of stunned hesitation, lowered his head. His dark, messy hair fell forward, brushing against your inner thighs as he settled himself between your legs. His gaze met yours, a silent question, asking for permission one last time. You gave a single, sharp nod.

His mouth on you was a revelation.

He was inexperienced, you could tell, but he made up for it with an earnest, whole-hearted enthusiasm that was incredibly endearing and devastatingly effective. His tongue was clumsy at first, a little too rough, but he was a quick study. He learned your rhythm, the specific spots that made you gasp and clutch at the blankets. He mimicked the things he’d seen Eve do, the things he’d obviously heard you respond to, and he added his own eager, desperate energy to the mix.

While Mark was working his magic on you, Eve didn’t remain idle. She broke her kiss and moved to lie beside you, her hand finding Mark’s. She guided his fingers, showing him the specific pressure you liked, the rhythm that would drive you wild. It was an act of such profound intimacy, of such selfless love, that it brought tears to your eyes. She was sharing not just her body, but her knowledge of yours, all to maximize your pleasure.

Under their combined, relentless attention, you fell apart. Your orgasm was a sharp, shattering thing. You screamed Mark’s name, your body convulsing as waves of pure, ecstatic pleasure washed over you.

He stayed with you through the entire thing, his mouth never leaving you, his tongue lapping up your release as if it were the sweetest nectar.

When you finally came back to yourself, you were panting and trembling, your body feeling boneless and thoroughly, blissfully sated. You looked down to see Mark looking up at you, his face flushed with exertion, his lips wet, a triumphant, proud grin on his face.

“Was that… okay?” he asked, his voice endearingly earnest.

“Okay?” you rasped, a hysterical laugh bubbling up. “Mark, that was… fucking incredible.”

His grin widened. He looked like he’d just saved the world.

Now, it was Eve’s turn.

You and she switched places with a practiced ease. She lay on her back, her fiery hair a stark, beautiful contrast against the dark blankets. Mark moved to kneel between her legs without any hesitation this time, his confidence bolstered by his recent success.

You took up the role of guide, lying beside Eve, your hand on Mark’s back, your lips at his ear, whispering encouragement, telling him all of Eve’s secrets.

“She likes it when you hum,” you whispered, your voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. “And a little to the left. Right… there.”

Mark followed your instructions to the letter, his brow furrowed in concentration. The sound of Eve’s sharp, sudden gasp was his reward. He went to work with a newfound vigor, his awkwardness completely burned away, replaced by the focused intensity of a man on a mission. And his mission was to make Eve fall apart just as completely as you had.

Watching him, guided by your words, bring your girlfriend to the peak of ecstasy was a whole new level of eroticism. The power of it, the trust, the shared intimacy—it was intoxicating. Eve’s hands were fisted in his hair, her hips arching off the bed as she chased the pleasure he was so expertly providing. Her own release was a sharp, guttural cry, her body going rigid before melting into the bed.

Two down.

Finally, the focus shifted entirely to Mark.

He lay on his back, his chest heaving, a dazed, blissed-out expression on his face. He looked like he’d just run a marathon and flown to the moon and back. You and Eve flanked him, a tag team of sensual destruction.

You kissed your way down his chest, your tongue flicking out to taste the salty sweat on his skin. Eve, meanwhile, focused on his thighs, her hands and mouth teasing and tormenting, her fingers tracing lazy circles perilously close to his straining, thick erection. He was trembling under your combined assault, his hands fisted in the blankets, his head thrown back, a string of breathless curses falling from his lips.

“Holy… fuck…”

When you finally took him into your mouth, he groaned, a deep, primal sound that seemed to shake the entire bed. His hips jerked, an involuntary, desperate movement. Eve joined you, her mouth closing over your hand as you stroked his length, her lips and tongue adding another layer of impossible sensation. He was being worshipped, and he was coming undone.

He didn’t last long. With a choked cry of your name, and then Eve’s, his body went rigid, and he poured his release onto your tongue and hand, a hot flood that spoke of a pleasure that had been pushed far beyond its limits.

In the aftermath, the three of you lay in a tangled, sweaty pile in the center of the big, soft bed. Every muscle in your body ached in the most satisfying way. You were nestled under one of Mark’s arms, with Eve curled up against his other side, her head resting on his chest, right over his still-beating heart. His hands were tangled in both of your hair, his touch gentle.

The room was quiet, the only sound the soft symphony of your three heartbeats slowly returning to a normal rhythm. The air was thick with the scent of sex and contentment.

For a long time, no one spoke. There were no words for the experience you had just shared. It had been more than just a threesome. It had been a profound act of friendship, of love, of trust. It had been messy and awkward and beautiful and perfect.

Finally, Mark broke the silence, his voice a low, sleepy rumble.

“So,” he began, his voice still a little hoarse. “Was that… weird?”

You and Eve both laughed, a soft, tired sound.

“No, Mark,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “It wasn’t weird.”

“It was perfect,” Eve added, her voice muffled by his chest.

He sighed, a deep, contented sound. “Good,” he said simply.

He was still awkward. He was still the same sweet, earnest Mark. But something had shifted between the three of you. A new layer of intimacy had been added to your already complex relationship, a shared secret written on your skin.

You looked across his chest at Eve. She was already looking at you, a soft, sleepy smile on her face. Her blue eyes were full of a deep, abiding love that was just for you. She winked.

The future was uncertain. You didn’t know if this was a one-time thing or the start of something new. But in that moment, tangled up with the two people you loved most in the world, you felt a profound sense of peace. You were safe. You were loved. And you were, without a doubt, the luckiest woman on the planet.

You closed your eyes, a smile on your lips, and let the gentle rise and fall of Mark’s breathing lull you to sleep.

[bcbatea]

Ｍａｓｔｅｒｌｉｓｔ ♡

𐙚 - Smut/NSFW, MDNI

ʚɞ - Angst

Started 7/26/25

Last updated 8/21/25

╰┈➤ Invincible

Mark

𐙚⋮Thin Walls and Tall Tales wc .ᐟ 2k+

𐙚⋮The Art of Surrender wc .ᐟ 3k+

𐙚⋮Fuck You Me wc .ᐟ 1k+

𐙚⋮That's My Genius (In progress)

𐙚⋮A Different Kind of Team-Up wc .ᐟ 4k+

Eve

𐙚⋮Polished (Paused)

𐙚⋮My Pretty Girl (Paused)

𐙚⋮A Different Kind of Team-Up wc .ᐟ 4k+

╰┈➤ Marvel

Spider-Man (PS5)

𐙚⋮(In progress)

[bcbatea]

── .✦ The Art of Surrender

⋮ summary .ᐟ mark asks scarlet witch!reader (not exactly like scarlet witch but VERY similar and inspired by her) to get in his head

⋮ warnings .ᐟ 18+, smut, MDNI, swearing, msub, reader calls mark a good boy once, mind control so ig dubcon?, reader and mark live together

⋮ pairing .ᐟ main!mark grayson (invincible) x fem!reader

⋮ wc .ᐟ 3k+

The silence in your shared apartment was a rare and precious thing. Usually, it was filled with the low hum of the television, the sound of Mark rummaging through the fridge for his fifth meal of the day, or the distant, familiar chaos of Chicago. But tonight, a heavy, weighted quiet had settled over the space, thick with the unspoken tension of the day’s events.

You were curled on one end of the sofa, a book open in your lap that you hadn’t read a page of in the last hour. Mark was on the floor, leaning back against the cushions, his long, powerful legs stretched out. He was staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight. A fresh, angry-looking bruise was blooming high on his cheekbone, a stark purple against his olive skin.

Today had been bad. A fight with a new villain—a psionic, like you, but a brute-force telekinetic who used buildings as projectiles—had left half of downtown a wreck and Mark battered and exhausted. You had been there, of course, your own powers a crucial defense, weaving illusions and psionic shields to protect civilians and misdirect the villain’s attacks. But you’d seen the moment Mark had almost lost control. The moment the villain had hurled a city bus toward a packed intersection, and Mark had caught it, his muscles straining, his face a mask of raw fury. You’d felt the spike of pure, unrestrained rage from him, the Viltrumite instinct that whispered, ‘obliterate the threat.’ He had held back, as he always did, but the effort had cost him.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you said softly, breaking the silence. You didn’t need your powers to know he was replaying the fight, dissecting every move, every decision.

He let out a long, slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He turned his head to look at you, his dark eyes full of a weariness that went bone-deep. “I almost lost it today.”

“But you didn’t,” you stated, your voice firm. It was a fact. It was the most important fact.

“Yeah, but it was close,” he muttered, running a hand through his perpetually messy dark hair. “This guy… he wasn’t just throwing things. He was enjoying it. The fear. I could see it in his face. And all I wanted to do was… wipe that smirk off. Permanently.” He looked at his own hands, large and capable, hands that could punch through planets or hold you with infinite gentleness. “It’s this fucking… switch inside me. This instinct to just… end it. And I spend so much energy, all the time, just holding it back. Being in control.”

You put your book aside and slid off the sofa to sit on the floor beside him, leaning your head against his solid shoulder. His skin was warm. You could feel the incredible power thrumming just beneath the surface, a sleeping giant of cosmic force. You understood, better than anyone, the burden of his control. Your own powers required a similar, constant vigilance. Your mind could shatter other minds, rewrite memories, build worlds of illusion. You lived your life walking on psychic eggshells.

“I know,” you whispered, lacing your fingers with his.

He squeezed your hand, a silent thank you. For a long while, you just sat there, two beings of immense power finding solace in a simple, quiet touch. The day’s tension slowly began to bleed out of the room, replaced by the familiar, comfortable intimacy you shared.

He eventually turned his head, his lips brushing against your hair. “You know,” he began, his voice hesitant, a stark contrast to his usual straightforwardness. “Your powers… I was thinking about them today.”

“Trying to get pointers on how to throw a better illusionary bus?” you teased gently.

“No,” he said, his voice dropping lower, becoming more serious. He shifted, turning to face you more directly. The look in his eyes was intense, a mixture of curiosity, nervousness, and something else you couldn’t quite decipher. “I was thinking about the control. The way you can just… get inside someone’s head. Make them feel things. See things.”

A knot of apprehension tightened in your stomach. You were intensely private about the full extent of your abilities. To you, your psionic abilities were often a weapon, and the idea of them being anything else felt strange, almost wrong. “It’s not as simple as that. It’s messy.”

“But you can do it,” he insisted. “You can… influence people.”

“Mark, where is this going?” you asked, a slight edge to your voice.

He took a deep breath, like a man about to jump off a cliff. “(Y/N)… I trust you. More than anyone in the universe. More than my dad, more than Cecil… more than myself, sometimes.” He looked at you, his gaze so full of raw, earnest sincerity it made your heart ache. “I want… I was wondering if you would… use them on me.”

The question hung in the air, heavy and shocking. You stared at him, trying to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

“Absolutely not,” you said, your voice coming out sharper than you intended. You pulled away from him slightly. “Mark, no. I would never… that’s a violation. I can’t do that to you.”

“It’s not a violation if I’m asking for it!” he argued, his earnestness overriding your shock. “God, (Y/N), that’s the whole point! I spend every single day holding back, reining myself in. I have to be in control of my strength, my temper, my instincts. I have to be ‘Invincible’.” He gestured around the apartment. “The only place I can ever really let go is here, with you.”

He moved closer again, his voice dropping to an intimate, pleading whisper. “I want to let go completely. I want to feel what it’s like to not have to hold anything back. I want you… in my head. With me. I want to feel what you feel, what we feel, without any filters, without any control.” He looked at you, his eyes dark with a desire that was deeper than just physical lust. “I want you to make me lose my fucking mind.”

Your mind reeled. The very idea was antithetical to your every instinct. Your powers were a fortress you had built around yourself, and a weapon you pointed outwards. The thought of turning that weapon, even generously, on the person you loved most was horrifying. It felt like a line that, once crossed, could never be uncrossed.

“Mark, you don’t know what you’re asking,” you said, your voice strained. “It’s not a magic trick. It’s… I’d be messing with your brain. Your perceptions. Your free will.”

“No,” he countered firmly, taking your hands in his. His grip was warm and steady. “You wouldn’t be taking my will. You’d be… borrowing it. Look, I’m not asking you to turn me into a puppet. I’m asking you to… turn up the volume. On everything.”

He saw the deep-seated fear and hesitation in your eyes, and his expression softened. This wasn’t something he could force, and he knew it. He had to make you understand.

“Think about it,” he said, his voice becoming soft, persuasive. “When we’re together… when we’re in bed… it’s the best thing in my life. It’s incredible. But I’m still me. I’m still… in here.” He tapped his temple. “There’s still a part of my brain that’s thinking, that’s processing. What does she like? Am I doing this right? Don’t move too fast, don’t crush her.” He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “It’s hard to shut it off.”

He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. “I want you to shut it off for me. I want you to take all that noise, all that control, and just… mute it. I want to feel you. Not just your skin, not just your body. I want to feel your pleasure as if it’s my own. I want to get so lost in you, in what you’re making me feel, that I can’t think. I just… exist. For you.” He swallowed, his vulnerability a tangible thing in the air. “I trust you to know my limits better than I do. I trust you to keep me safe, even from myself.”

His words chipped away at your defenses. He wasn't asking for submission. He was asking for the ultimate form of connection, the ultimate act of trust. He was offering you the very core of himself, his consciousness, and trusting you to hold it gently. The sheer, terrifying beauty of that trust was overwhelming.

“There would have to be rules,” you whispered, the words feeling foreign on your tongue.

A slow, hopeful grin spread across his face. “Anything. Any rules you want.”

“If I feel you pushing back, if I feel any genuine fear or resistance from you, I stop. Instantly. No questions asked,” you said, your voice gaining strength.

“Deal,” he agreed immediately.

“We need a safeword. A verbal one. In case you manage to break through my influence,” you continued.

“Okay. ‘Red light’,” he suggested.

“And a mental one,” you added. “A specific image, a feeling. Something that is without a doubt, ‘stop’.”

He thought for a moment. “My mom. Making pancakes on a Sunday morning. The smell of the batter, the sound of her humming. That feeling of… absolute safety. If you feel that from me, you pull out.”

“Okay,” you breathed, your heart hammering. This was really happening. “And, Mark… you have to understand. I can’t… I can’t promise what it will be like. I’ve never done this before. Not like this.”

“I’m not scared,” he said, his dark eyes blazing with an intoxicating mixture of love and raw, primal excitement. “As long as it’s you in there with me, I’m not scared.”

You looked at him, truly looked at him. The boy who could juggle tanks and the man who was terrified of saying the wrong thing to you. The god who bled and the hero who worried. You loved every tangled, contradictory part of him. And he was offering you the ultimate key, the master password to his entire being.

How could you say no?

You took a deep, shuddering breath, a silent surrender. “Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

The look of pure, ecstatic joy and anticipation that washed over his face was a thing of beauty. He stood up, pulling you with him, and swung you effortlessly into his arms.

“Seriously?” you laughed, the sound a little breathless.

“You’re doing all the work,” he grinned, his lips finding yours in a deep, promising kiss. “I can at least carry you.”

As he carried you down the hall, you rested your head against his chest, your mind a whirlwind of fear and a dark, thrilling excitement. You were about to take control of Invincible. You were about to own him, mind, body, and soul. And god help you, a part of you couldn't fucking wait.

The bedroom was your sanctuary, a space steeped in the comfortable intimacy of your relationship. But tonight, as Mark laid you gently on the bed, it felt like an operating theater, a laboratory for an experiment of terrifying, electrifying potential. He moved to turn on the lamp, but you stopped him.

“No,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “Leave them off. I want you to rely on your other senses.”

He paused, then nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. He understood. This wasn't just about sex. This was about rewiring his entire sensory experience. The room was cast in the familiar, soft glow of the city lights outside, painting his powerful, athletic form in moving patterns of shadow and muted silver.

He shed his clothes with an uncharacteristic slowness, his eyes never leaving yours. It was a silent, deliberate act of vulnerability. He was stripping away his physical armor, preparing to let you strip away his mental armor, too. When he was completely bare, he stood before you, a masterpiece of divine engineering, and yet, in his eyes, there was only the open, trusting look of a man offering up his entire world.

“What now?” he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated in the quiet room.

“Lie down,” you commanded softly.

He obeyed without hesitation, stretching out on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, an offering of complete submission. You took a moment to just drink in the sight of him. The broad, powerful chest that had been a pillow for your head so many times. The tightly corded muscles of his abdomen, the result of a metabolism that burned hotter than a star. The impressive, heavy length of him, already semi-aroused in anticipation.

You didn’t take off your own clothes. Not yet. This first part was about him. You crawled onto the bed and straddled his hips, your weight settling onto his powerful thighs. He didn't move, just watched you, his breathing already growing heavier.

“Close your eyes, Mark,” you whispered.

He did. The room fell into a deeper silence, broken only by the sound of your two heartbeats.

You placed your hands on his temples, your fingers cool against his warm skin. You closed your own eyes and reached out with your mind. It wasn't a forceful push. It was a gentle, questioning touch, like a key sliding into a lock. You felt the outer layers of his consciousness, the surface thoughts—wow, this is really happening, she’s so beautiful, don’t fuck this up, Mark—and you smiled. Beneath that was the deeper hum of his power, the faint, cosmic thrum of his Viltrumite cells. And beneath that was the core of him, bright, warm, and so full of love for you it was breathtaking.

He had left the door wide open.

It’s just me, you sent, not as a voice, but as a feeling, a signature of your presence gently knocking on the door of his mind.

You felt a wave of pure, unadulterated welcome wash back at you. I know.

You took a breath and stepped inside.

You started small. You didn’t implant thoughts or give commands. You simply took his existing senses and turned up the dial.

You started with touch. You leaned down and let your hair cascade over his chest. In his mind, you amplified the sensation a thousand times. Each silky strand became a distinct, electric filament tracing paths of fire across his skin. He gasped, his back arching slightly off the bed.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, his eyes still squeezed shut.

You trailed a single finger from his collarbone down the center of his chest, over the hard plane of his abs. You focused all his tactile awareness into that single point of contact. To him, it felt like a brand, a slow, deliberate line of pure pleasure being drawn down his body. His stomach muscles clenched under your touch.

Next, you moved to sound. You leaned close to his ear, your lips almost brushing the shell of it, and you simply breathed. You made his mind perceive that soft exhalation as the loudest, most important sound in the universe. It filled his head, a warm, intimate rush of air that was more erotic than any dirty word. His breath hitched, and a low groan rumbled in his chest.

You focused on scent. The natural, subtle fragrance of your skin, the faint scent of your shampoo in your hair. You made them into a potent, intoxicating perfume that bypassed his nose and bloomed directly in his brain. The scent of you. It was overwhelming, addictive. He inhaled sharply, as if trying to draw more of it in, his head turning on the pillow towards you.

You were playing his nervous system like a finely tuned instrument, and he was responding with an intensity that was both shocking and deeply, darkly satisfying. He was so beautifully, willingly receptive.

You leaned down and captured his lips. The kiss was a sensory explosion. You made him feel the soft, yielding texture of your lips with a clarity that was almost painful. You let him taste not just your mouth, but the psychic echo of your own desire, a flavor of pure, unadulterated want that made his mind spin. He kissed you back with a desperate, hungry force, completely lost.

When you pulled away, he was panting, his body thrumming with sensory overload. “Fuck, (Y/N),” he rasped. “That’s… I can’t even describe it.”

“I’m just getting started,” you whispered, and you could feel the jolt of pure, ecstatic anticipation that shot through him at your words.

Now, it was time for the next step. You weren't just going to amplify his senses. You were going to start guiding them.

You slid your hands down his chest, over his stomach, lower. His breath hitched as he felt your fingers brush against the top of his erection. He was thick, hard, and pulsing with need. You wrapped your hand around his length, and a raw, guttural sound was ripped from his throat.

Feel that? you whispered into his mind. This is how much you want me.

You began to stroke him, a slow, steady, deliberate rhythm. With each stroke, you sent a wave of pure, concentrated pleasure directly into his brain’s receptors. You bypassed the nerves, the spinal column, all the usual biological pathways. You simply made him feel it. It was a clean, uncut, overwhelming ecstasy.

His hips began to buck against your hand, his body instinctively chasing the feeling. He was losing himself, his control shattering under the relentless, perfect pleasure you were feeding him.

“Please,” he begged, the word a ragged, desperate plea. He didn’t even know what he was asking for. He just knew he needed more.

You leaned down, your lips at his ear again. “More what, Mark?” you purred, both aloud and in his mind. “Tell me what you want.”

His mind was a whirlwind of sensation, a beautiful chaos of your making. But through the storm, he focused on a single, driving imperative.

I want you. All of you. Inside you. Please. Need to be inside you.

A slow, predatory smile touched your lips. His surrender was the most potent aphrodisiac you had ever known.

“Good boy,” you whispered. And you finally began to take off your own clothes.

He kept his eyes closed as you undressed, as you had commanded, but you let him experience it through his other senses, heightened to an impossible degree. He heard the whisper-soft slide of your shirt coming off, a sound like a secret being shared. He felt the subtle shift of air against his skin as you moved. He could smell the scent of your arousal, a heady, musky fragrance that drove him mad with need. He was a prisoner in his own body, and your senses were his only window to the world. It was agonizing. It was perfect.

When you were as naked as he was, you returned to your position straddling his hips. You leaned forward, your breasts brushing against his chest, and amplified the sensation for both of you. He felt the soft, heavy weight, the friction of your hardened nipples against his skin. But through the psychic link, you gave him a gift: you let him feel it from your perspective, too. He felt the exquisite, aching sensitivity of your own peaks, the jolt of pleasure that shot through you at the contact. It was a feedback loop. His mind reeled. Feeling his own pleasure was one thing. Feeling yours simultaneously was a whole new level of reality-bending ecstasy.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands finally coming untangled from behind his head to grip your hips, his touch firm and possessive. “How… how are you doing that?”

I’m sharing, you whispered into the intimate space of his mind. This is what you wanted. To feel us. This is what I feel when you touch me.

His grip tightened, a wave of profound, love-drenched awe washing through the link. The knowledge that he caused this kind of pleasure in you, now that he could truly feel it, was a powerful, humbling thing.

You took his thick, pulsing length in your hand again, guiding the slick tip to your entrance. You were wet for him, so incredibly ready. You slowly, deliberately, lowered yourself onto him.

The invasion was a slow, controlled fire. For Mark, it was a sensory supernova. He not only felt the incredible, tight heat of your body engulfing him, but you made him feel it from your side, too. He felt himself filling you, stretching you, the feeling of perfect, overwhelming fullness from both the inside and the outside. He cried out, a raw, wordless sound of a man being pushed past the edge of reason.

You didn’t move at first, just let your bodies adjust. You were fully joined, not just physically, but mentally. Two consciousnesses intertwined, wrapped around a single, shared core of earth-shattering pleasure.

Is this okay? you sent, a gentle, checking touch on his mind, feeling for any flicker of his safeword image.

The response you got back was a tidal wave of pure, primal need. YES. FUCK, YES. DON’T STOP. NEVER STOP.

You began to move, your hips starting a slow, deep grind. With every rotation, you painted a masterpiece of filth on the canvas of his mind. You didn't just let him feel the physical sensations; you gave him the narrative.

Feel how wet I am for you, you purred in his brain as you slid up his shaft. How I'm clenching around you. This is all for you, Mark. You’re the only one who can make me feel this.

He was lost. Utterly, completely gone. His hips began to thrust upwards, meeting your downward grind. The careful rhythm dissolved into a frantic, pounding desperation. He was no longer a superhero, a being of immense control. He was a creature of pure instinct, a man completely and utterly owned by the woman riding him, the woman who was also currently living inside his skull.

“Oh god, (Y/N),” he panted, his voice a ragged mess. “I’m… I’m so close…”

Not yet, you commanded, your mental voice sharp and absolute. You come when I tell you to come. Look at me.

His eyes snapped open. They were wide, his pupils blown, unfocused. He was seeing the room, seeing your face, but his reality was the one you were feeding him. You leaned down, your hair falling around your faces, creating a curtain of intimacy.

“You belong to me right now, Mark,” you said aloud, your voice a low, husky growl of possession. “Your body, your mind, your pleasure. It’s all mine.”

The psychic blast of his answering arousal was so strong it almost made you come right then and there. This was it. The ultimate surrender he’d craved. To be claimed so completely.

Fuck, yes, he thought, a prayer, a plea. Yours. All yours. Please, just… please.

You leaned down and captured his mouth in a deep, savage kiss, your tongues tangling as your bodies pounded together. You let the psychic link between you dissolve completely, your consciousnesses merging. There was no longer a ‘you’ and a ‘him’. There was only an ‘us’, a single entity trapped in a feedback loop of escalating ecstasy. You felt his powerful thrusts from inside your own body, and he felt your inner muscles clenching around him from inside his own mind. It was a dizzying, terrifying, impossibly hot vortex of shared sensation.

You felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of energy that was both physical and psychic. You knew he was right there with you, his own release straining at the leash you held.

Now, you commanded, a final, permissive thought. Come with me.

You let go of the leash.

The resulting explosion was a psychic detonation. You screamed his name as your climax ripped through you, your body convulsing violently around his length. At the same instant, he roared, a deep, guttural sound of pure, unrestrained release, and flooded you with his heat. For a split second that stretched into an eternity, your minds fully merged. You saw flashes of his life—flying through the clouds for the first time, his mother’s smile, the bloody face of his father. He saw flashes of yours—the loneliness of your childhood, the frustration of your powers, the moment you first saw him and felt that first, unwanted flicker of attraction.

It was everything. It was too much. It was the most intensely intimate experience two beings could possibly share.

And then it was over. You collapsed onto his chest, boneless and trembling, your mind a blissful, empty void. The only thing you were aware of was the feeling of his heart hammering against yours and the sticky heat of your combined fluids between your legs.

The silence that followed was profound. It wasn’t the tense, heavy quiet from before, but a deep, boneless, satisfied peace. The air in the room was thick, tasting of salt, sex, and the faint, electric tang of your residual power. You lay sprawled on top of him, your head pillowed on his chest, your limbs tangled together. His arms were wrapped loosely around you, his body a dead, comforting weight beneath yours.

Slowly, carefully, you began to withdraw from his mind. It was like pulling your hand out of warm water. You disentangled your consciousness from his, brick by brick, until you were fully yourself again, back behind the walls of your own skull. The moment the link was fully severed, he let out a long, shuddering sigh, a sound of such complete and utter satiation that it made you smile.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. There were no words for what had just happened. It was a language spoken in nerve endings and psychic energy, a story written on the canvas of his surrendered mind.

Finally, he stirred, his hand coming up to stroke your hair with a touch that felt heavy, lethargic.

“Holy,” he whispered, his voice a hoarse, scratchy remnant of what it had been. “Fucking. Shit.”

You let out a weak chuckle against his chest. “Wow.”

“There are no words,” he murmured, his voice full of a drowsy, wondering awe. “I don’t think they’ve invented words for… for that.” He shifted slightly, tilting your chin up with his finger so he could see your face. His eyes were soft, hazy with bliss, and filled with a look of such profound love it made your heart feel like it was going to burst. “Was that… was I… was it okay?”

“Mark, you just experienced a full sensory and psychic merge during a shared orgasm that nearly shorted out my brain,” you said, a small, tired smile on your lips. “I think it was okay.”

A slow, lazy grin spread across his face. “Yeah. Okay. Good.”

He lapsed back into a comfortable silence, his fingers continuing their slow, gentle stroking of your hair, your back. This was the aftercare. The quiet, tender moments that were just as important as the explosive passion. This was the reassurance that the trust had not been broken, that the surrender had been a gift, not a violation.

“You were incredible,” he said after a while, his voice still thick with sleep. “I was… I’ve never felt anything like that. It wasn’t just physical. I felt… everything.” He paused, searching for the right words. “It wasn’t like you were controlling me. It was like you were… translating me. To myself. You showed me how much I wanted you, by letting me feel how much you wanted me. It was… a goddamn symphony.”

His words were a balm on the last lingering embers of your fear. He understood. He truly, deeply understood what you had done, what you had shared.

“I was so scared I would hurt you,” you confessed, your voice a small whisper against his skin. “That I would push too far.”

“Never,” he said firmly, his arms tightening around you. “I told you. I trust you. The whole time, even when I was completely gone, there was a part of me that knew I was safe. Because it was you.” He kissed the top of your head. “Thank you.”

“For what?” you asked, confused. “For psychically dominating you and reducing you to a quivering mess?”

He chuckled, a low, warm rumble in his chest. “Yeah. For that. And for trusting me enough to do it.”

You snuggled deeper against him, a profound sense of peace settling in your soul. He was right. It had been an act of trust on your part, too. You had let him into the most powerful, most dangerous part of yourself, and he hadn’t been afraid. He had welcomed it.

You had taken control of the most powerful man you had ever known, and in doing so, had surrendered a part of yourself. You had explored the very limits of pleasure and intimacy, blurring the lines between two minds, two bodies, two souls.

And as you lay there, drifting off to sleep in his arms, you knew that the unbreakable bond you shared had just been reforged in the fires of a psychic, sexual supernova, into something stronger, deeper, and more beautifully, thrillingly dangerous than you had ever imagined possible.

[bcbatea]

── .✦ Thin Walls and Tall Tales

⋮ summary .ᐟ telekinetic!reader and mark are supposed to be studying in his dorm. they find out the walls aren't as thick as they thought.

⋮ warnings .ᐟ 18+, smut, MDNI, swearing, getting caught (not rly they just hear them), reader is a loud moaner, backshots, reader is best friends w eve

⋮ pairing .ᐟ main!mark grayson (invincible) x fem!reader

⋮ wc .ᐟ 2k+

The dorm room walls at Upstate University were, to put it charitably, a suggestion. They were less a barrier for sound and more a thin, papery membrane, seemingly constructed from a combination of drywall, institutional despair, and the compressed shame of a thousand walk-of-shame-sicles.

You were currently, acutely, and gloriously, aware of this fact.

Your head was pressed against the cool, slightly sticky surface of said wall, right next to a cheerfully ironic poster for a kitten hanging from a tree branch that read, "Hang in there!" Your back was arched, your hands fisted in the messy sheets of Mark Grayson's extra-long twin bed, and a scream of pure, unadulterated pleasure was being brutally, beautifully, fucked out of you.

Mark was behind you, his powerful, magnificent body a furnace at your back. He was deep, deep inside you, his hips a relentless, driving piston of pure, concentrated bliss. Each powerful, driving thrust of his cock was sending shockwaves of ecstasy through your entire nervous system and, you were fairly certain, through the very structural foundations of the dormitory itself.

"Fuck, Mark," you gasped, the words a ragged, breathless prayer. "Oh, my God."

He didn't reply with words. He replied with a low, guttural growl that vibrated from his chest, through your back, and straight into your soul. He gripped your hips, his hands strong and possessive, and pulled you even harder against him, his next thrust so deep, so impossibly, perfectly, placed that you saw stars.

This was Mark. Your Mark. To the world, and even to most of his friends, he was the sweet, slightly awkward, dorky guy. He was earnest, and polite, and had a heart of gold so pure it was almost blinding. He was the kind of guy who alphabetized his comic books and felt genuinely bad about accidentally breaking a dish.

But in the bedroom—or, in this case, on the precarious, squeaking precipice of his dorm room bed—he was a different creature entirely. The shy, nerdy boy was a carefully constructed facade. Underneath, there was a god. A god of raw, primal, and deeply intuitive fucking. He was a natural disaster of pleasure, a beautiful, perfect storm, and you were happily, eagerly, letting yourself be destroyed in his path.

This whole beautiful, noisy catastrophe had started with a study session. Or, at least, that had been the official cover story. In reality, it was a rare, precious Friday afternoon where neither of you had classes, missions, or existential crises to attend to. You had commandeered his room, locked the door—a gesture you’d reinforced with a subtle, telekinetic "suggestion" to the deadbolt—and had proceeded to spend the last two hours engaged in a very different, far more carnal, kind of education.

He had started slow. He was a master of the slow burn, a sadist of sensual torture. He had undressed you with a reverence that made you feel like a sacred artifact, his hands and mouth worshiping every inch of your body. He had eaten you out with a focused, single-minded devotion that had left you a screaming, trembling, boneless mess, your orgasm so powerful you had accidentally made every pen on his desk stand up on its tip.

And now, he was taking you from behind, a position of such raw, animalistic intimacy it made your mind short-circuit. He was setting a brutal, pounding, glorious rhythm, and you were nothing more than a willing instrument in his beautiful, filthy symphony.

And, unbeknownst to you, you had an audience.

Outside the thin, vibrating dorm room door, a small, confused, and increasingly concerned crowd had gathered. It had started with William, Mark’s roommate, who had returned from his chemistry lab hoping for a quiet afternoon of video games. He had been met with a locked door and a series of… alarming noises.

Low, rhythmic thumping sounds. The unmistakable, tortured squeal of a bed frame being pushed to its absolute structural limit. And, most distressingly, a series of high-pitched, feminine screams that sounded less like terror and more like… something else entirely. Something he really, really did not want to put a name to.

His first thought, of course, was that Mark was in trouble. That some villain had somehow bypassed GDA security and was attacking Invincible in his own dorm room. He’d frantically called Eve.

Eve had arrived a few minutes later, her expression a mask of cool, professional concern. She'd put a hand on the door, her own powers allowing her to sense the energy signatures within. Her brow had furrowed in concentration.

Amber, who had been walking down the hall, had stopped, drawn by the commotion. "What's going on?" she'd asked, her own expression worried. "Is Mark okay?"

"I don't know," William had said, wringing his hands. "It sounds like he's… fighting a ghost? Or a really aggressive washing machine?"

Eve's eyes had snapped open. The professional concern on her face had been replaced by a look of profound, soul-shattering, and utterly weary resignation. "Oh, for the love of—" she’d started, before pinching the bridge of her nose.

"What?" William and Amber had asked in unison.

Eve had just sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that contained the accumulated suffering of a thousand third wheels. "He's not fighting a ghost," she’d stated, her voice flat and dead. "He's fine. He is… very, very fine."

It was at that moment that a particularly loud, particularly raw scream of "OH, FUCK, MARK, YES!" had echoed through the thin wood of the door, followed by a series of deep, guttural, and distinctly masculine grunts.

William and Amber had frozen, their faces a comical mask of dawning, horrified comprehension.

"Oh," William had said, his face turning a pale shade of green.

"Oh, my God," Amber had whispered, her own cheeks flaming red.

They had all known Mark as the sweet, shy, almost comically chaste guy. He’d never even really dated before you. The idea of him being the source of that, of those raw, primal, and deeply carnal sounds, was a paradox that their brains were struggling to compute. They had thought he was a nerdy, innocent lamb. They were just now realizing, to their collective, dumbfounded shock, that he was a goddamn wolf. And he was currently, by the sound of it, eating you alive.

Inside the room, you were blissfully unaware of the impromptu listening party happening in the hallway. Your entire universe had narrowed to a single, white-hot point of sensation.

Mark was a machine. His hips were a relentless, driving piston, his rhythm unwavering, his power seemingly endless. He was fucking you with a raw, savage, and beautiful fury that was pushing you to a place you had never been before. The angle was perfect. He was hitting your G-spot with every single deep, powerful thrust, a feeling so intense it was bordering on painful, a sweet, exquisite agony that was rewriting your entire nervous system.

His hands were on your hips, his powerful fingers digging into your flesh, leaving marks you knew you’d be admiring later. He was using them to pull you back onto him, to set a deeper, more punishing pace. He was a force of nature, a hurricane of pure, unadulterated lust, and you were happily, eagerly, being swept away in his beautiful, perfect storm.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he growled, his voice a low, guttural sound against your ear. "So fucking tight around my cock. Like you were made for me."

His dirty talk, the raw, possessive, and utterly honest words, was like pouring gasoline on an already raging fire. You were moaning, a constant, breathless stream of his name, of please, of fuck, yes. You were beyond coherent thought. You were a creature of pure, mindless, and beautifully debauched sensation.

"Look at you," he panted, leaning forward to bite your shoulder, not hard, just a sharp, possessive claiming. "Taking it all. My good girl. You love it, don't you? You love being fucked like this."

"Yes," you sobbed, the word torn from you. "I love it. Don't stop. Please, don't ever stop."

He took your plea as a command. His pace quickened, his thrusts becoming a frantic, brutal, and glorious onslaught. He was no longer just fucking you; he was pounding you, claiming you, branding you as his with every powerful, driving stroke. The bed frame was now slamming against the wall in a loud, rhythmic thump, thump, thump that was probably shaking the very foundations of the building.

The climax was building with a terrifying speed and intensity. It was a massive, coiling serpent of pure, white-hot pleasure in the pit of your stomach. You knew you were going to be loud. You didn't care. You wanted the entire world to know what this man was doing to you.

"Mark, I'm gonna come!" you screamed, your voice a raw, throat-shredding sound.

"I know, baby," he roared, his own control shattering. "Come for me. Fucking scream my name."

He gave one final, impossibly deep, soul-shattering thrust, and your world exploded. Your orgasm was a cataclysmic, full-body event, a violent, convulsive wave that had you screaming his name until your lungs burned. Your telekinetic powers erupted in an uncontrolled, concentric wave, and every loose object in the room—books, clothes, the ever-present empty pizza box—was slammed against the walls with a series of loud, percussive thwacks.

The sight, sound, and feeling of your utter, complete, and destructive release was what finally pushed him over the edge. With a final, guttural roar of your name, a sound that was pure, triumphant, male dominance, he found his own release, his hips giving a few more frantic, deep, powerful thrusts as he flooded you with his hot, thick seed. There was no condom, no barrier. This was a raw, primal, and deeply intimate act of breeding, of filling you, of marking you as his in the most fundamental way possible.

He collapsed on top of you, a dead weight of spent muscle and pure, blissful satisfaction. The only sounds in the room were the ragged, desperate gasps of your two sets of lungs and the soft, sad tinkle of the broken glass from the picture frame that had just fallen off his nightstand.

In the hallway, there was a stunned, deafening silence.

William's face was a pale, ghostly white. Amber was staring at the door, her mouth agape, a look of pure, unadulterated shock on her face. Eve just had her eyes closed, a look of profound, spiritual pain on her features. She looked like she was contemplating renouncing her powers and joining a silent monastery.

"Well," William finally whispered, his voice a tiny, squeaky thing. "I guess… I guess Mark’s not a virgin anymore."

Amber just shook her head, a slow, dazed motion. "I think," she said, her own voice a stunned, awestruck whisper, "I think I need to go lie down. For a week."

Eve just let out a long, slow sigh, a sound that contained the accumulated suffering of every friend who has ever had to listen to their best friend getting railed through a dorm room door. "Yeah," she said, turning away, her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Me too."

They dispersed, a small, traumatized, and deeply enlightened crowd, leaving the dorm room door to its vibrating, silent vigil. They had come seeking a friend. They had found an alleged god of sex. And they had all, in their own way, just borne witness to a miracle of beautiful, filthy, and very, very loud, destruction. Mark Grayson, they now knew, apparently had it like that.

Blissful, post-coital ignorance lasted for another ten minutes. You lay tangled in the messy, damp sheets of his bed, your bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with the triumphant, musky scent of sex. He was a warm, heavy, and deeply comforting weight on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing slowly, very slowly, returning to normal.

"Wow," he breathed, his voice a hoarse, satisfied rasp against your skin. "I think… I think I saw God."

"I think I was God for a minute there," you replied, your own voice a weak, trembling thing. You felt boneless, shattered, and more completely, utterly, satisfied than you had ever been in your life. He hadn't just rearranged your guts; he had rewired your entire nervous system.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. He rolled off you, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his side, his arm a possessive, heavy weight over your stomach. He kissed your hair, your temple, your cheek, a series of soft, lazy, proprietary kisses.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice thick with the afterglow of your shared passion.

"I love you too," you whispered back, a slow, incredibly tender smile on your lips.

It was in this moment of perfect, peaceful intimacy that your phone, which had been tossed onto the desk in your initial, frantic rush, began to buzz.

You let out a groan of protest. "No," you whined. "Go away."

Mark, ever the responsible one now that his brain was starting to function again, reached out a long arm. "It might be the GDA," he said.

With a sigh of pure, put-upon suffering, you reached out with your telekinesis, and the phone floated from the desk into your waiting hand. The screen was lit up with a series of frantic, all-caps texts. From Eve.

EVE: ARE YOU ALIVE?

EVE: SERIOUSLY, I THINK I HEARD A SONIC BOOM.

EVE: WILLIAM IS HYPERVENTILATING AND AMBER LOOKS LIKE SHE'S SEEN A GHOST.

EVE: WE NEED TO TALK. ABOUT WALLS. AND DECIBEL LEVELS. AND COMMON FUCKING DECENCY.

EVE: I'M SERIOUS. ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE.

Your blood ran cold. You sat bolt upright, clutching the phone in your hand. Mark, sensing your sudden, panicked energy, sat up beside you.

"What is it?" he asked, his expression full of a sleepy, post-sex concern. "Is everything okay?"

You just looked at him, then at the phone, then back at him. You handed him the phone without a word.

You watched his face as he read the texts. You saw the sleepy satisfaction drain away, replaced by a look of dawning, horrified, and deeply, deeply, embarrassed comprehension. He went from flushed, to pale, to a brilliant, beautiful shade of crimson that started at his neck and spread all the way to the tips of his ears.

He looked at the door, then at you, a look of such profound, mortified panic on his face that, under any other circumstances, would have been absolutely hilarious.

"They… they heard us?" he squeaked, his voice an octave higher than normal.

"I think," you said, your own voice a strangled, mortified whisper, "that the entire western hemisphere might have heard us, Mark."

He buried his face in his hands, letting out a low, agonized groan that was the sound of a man's entire, carefully constructed persona of "sweet, nerdy guy" being utterly, irrevocably, and very, very loudly, annihilated.

You had been so lost in your own world, so consumed by the sheer, overwhelming pleasure he had been giving you, that you had completely forgotten about the flimsy, pathetic excuse for a wall that separated your beautiful, profane sanctuary from the rest of the world.