charon-i

[charon-i]

→ darling, you're my lover ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ v1

synopsis. ꨄ︎ a series of random texts you send to your bllk boyfriend

featuring. ꨄ︎ fem!reader x sae, kaiser, otoya, karasu, bachira, reo, nagi (separate)

includes. ꨄ︎ established relationship, suggestive (sae, karasu), cursing, fluff, reader just messing with the bllk guys, mentions of violence

notes. ꨄ︎ changed my setup a little hehe. anyways, i am back in my bllk era...

♪ track. ꨄ︎ lover by taylor swift

ver 2. yukimiya, rin, aiku, isagi, shidou, ness (it's a strange combination. i know.)

end notes. ꨄ︎ i do want to redo my taglist, so please check out the doc below and fill it out if ur interested <3

join my taglist

bllk masterlist | general masterlist

[charon-i]

BATBOYS BUT THEY SEE SOMEONE THEY RECOGNISE ON F!STREAMER!READER'S IRL STREAM. FT. WALLY WEST!

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, absolute crack energy, the boys are still majorly obsessed with you, jealousy, death threats, wally—sorry, the flash—flirts with you like there's no tomorrow, your username is just your name

★ A/N: more batboys being super fans of you since you all asked so nicely <3333 you don't need to have read the first part to read this btw!!

The day starts off normal.

Dick is sifting through the fridge for a snack. Jason is sat at the kitchen island with his elbows propped up and a book in his hands. Both Duke and Tim are sat on the couch, scrolling through their phones with seemingly no thought behind their eyes. And Damian is stabbing into his freshly made pancakes like they've personally wronged him just by existing.

So yeah, a normal day at Wayne Manor.

That is, until, all of their phone's chime at once.

Dick, Jason, and Damian all exchange a glance, each with one brow quirked up and the other furrowed down.

Duke and Tim, on the other hand, shoot up from their seats like lightning, hands burning with the answer to the question in their brothers' eyes.

Duke is the first to speak.

"[Name]'s streaming," he says, slow and in a bit of disbelief.

"[Name]'s streaming?" Dick echoes, "But today isn't Friday."

"You would know, wouldn't you, Dickhead?" snorts Jason, the memory of the last time his older brother mixed up the days still fresh on his mind.

"Shut up."

"An IRL stream," Tim cuts through the two eldest's bickering. "Look who I ran into," he quotes slowly and with furrowed brows.

Then he clicks onto the stream, and immediately, all of his brothers rush to his side.

Tim's screen is black—not a hint of colour, or even a speck of your pretty smile, displayed upon its surface. Just the reflection of all the boys staring back at themselves.

The sight makes Tim's jaw tick.

"Why the fuck are you all crowding me?"

Dick shrugs. "You're the first one to click on the stream."

The detective narrows his gaze, lips parting to retort, when he's interrupted by the phone in his hands.

"Is this thing working?" your voice breaks through the screen, and in an instant, all the boys' chests flutter. "Sorry guys, still not used to the whole IRL streaming thing. Can y'all see me?"

Tim's hands move before he can even think.

@/greatestdetective donated $1,000! nope, just a black screen

"Shit. Okay, hang on a second."

A shuffling sound then follows your voice, moments passing by before the screen alights like a flame, and the warmth of your face travels through Tim's phone to bless everyone's eyes.

"How about now?"

@/therealdamianwayne donated $10,000! Perfect, Habibti.

"Huh?" Duke mutters in confusion, turning to the left along with all his brothers.

Damian stands there, phone shamelessly situated in his hands as he stares back at them all with a quirked brow.

"What?" he scoffs. "Did you just expect me to watch my beloved's stream without donating to her? What type of future husband do you take me for?"

"The non-existent type." Tim deadpans, turning back to his phone screen and ignoring the demon head's electric glare.

"—and I'm rambling again, aren't I?" You nervously laugh on the other side of the screen. "Anyway, sorry about the sudden stream, guys. I know I'm not much of an IRL streamer, even less one that doesn't stick to a schedule, but I think today is a special exception."

You grin wide after your words, eyes sparkling with an excitement that has the bats' breaths hitching in their throats, hearts swelling with such love and adoration that it seeps into their eyes and blinds them all for just a split second.

Then you turn the camera, and their vision clears up again.

"Look who I ran into!"

On the other side of the screen, holding a red-gloved-hand up in a peace sign, stands a man.

Red hair exposed at the top of his head, lightning bolts strapped to the sides of his mask, freckles peeking out from just underneath his cowl—to anyone else, the civilian identity of the hero would be unknown. But to the bats, it can't be more obvious.

Dick snatches the phone out of Tim's hands.

"Hey—!"

"Is that Wally?!" shrieks the eldest like a teen girl who just found out her best friend attended a party without her through someone else's Snap story.

Duke squints, lips pulling into a frown. "Seems like it."

Dick lets out another shriek.

"I was in Keystone," your voice sounds from the phone, "and just so happened to come across my favourite Flash!"

Dick stops breathing, despair choking him as his siblings peer over his shoulders just in time to see the way Wally's lips quirk up into a smirk.

"Your favourite Flash, huh?" He winks. Dick chokes. "I'm honoured, doll."

"Doll?" Jason's hair casts a shadow over his eyes. "I'm gonna kill him."

"Thank you for agreeing to be on my stream, Flash," you say, and your voice carries warmth, gratitude, that big smile they can't see because of the camera angle but know is still there anyway. "It really means a lot."

Wally's smirk softens a bit at the edges, and he regards you with the same warmth. "Anything for a beautiful lady such as yourself."

"Grayson," Damian growls through gritted teeth, "Tell West to use that super speed of his and run a hundred thousand miles away from my beloved before I slit his throat."

But he didn't even have to say anything, really, because as soon as Wally started talking to you in that tone, Dick handed the phone back to Tim and pulled his own out, furiously typing on it before hitting that big send button.

On the stream, a phone buzzes in Wally's pocket.

The camera lowers, and your form peeks from the corner of it, a step closer to Wally as you ask in a quiet voice, "Do you need to get that?"

Wally pulls his phone out, glances at it for a brief moment, then stuffs it back in his pocket. "Nah, it's nothin'."

Dick's veins bulge, his own phone starting to shake in his grip. "Did that little shit just leave me on read in front of eighty thousand people?"

As if to further Dick's swelling rage, Wally's smirk broadens.

Boiling beneath his skin, the oldest of all the siblings starts typing again, and Wally's phone buzzes once more.

"Are you sure?" you ask, tone a little wobbly with uncertainty.

Then, Wally West, the little shit, fucking turns his phone off, right then and there. "Yup."

"I'm gonna kill him," Dick mutters.

"Oh okay." You adjust the camera back to its previous position.

"Now, where were we?" Wally grins, and all the boys see the way he looks at the camera, that knowing glance—the piece of crap knows exactly what he's doing. "Something about me being your favourite Flash?"

"How fucking dare he?" Tim mutters, already planning on burying his oldest brother's best friend's reputation in the dirt. Maybe he'll conjure up a scandal, or start a rumor—people usually mindlessly believe those, right?

"Oh yeah!" You perk up, beaming. "Y'know, super speed is actually my favourite super power."

"Favourite super power..." It's Duke's turn to mutter in despair, heart shattering in his eardrums as he all but hugs his sides. "Super speed..."

He's broken out of his little trance, however, at the sound of a new voice coming from the hallway. A new voice that catches everyone's attention.

"Master Damian, where are you heading off to?"

Alfred. And he seems to be looking straight towards the door of the manor.

Everyone's heads whip in the same direction.

There, somehow fully suited up in his Robin armour—hood pulled over his head and all—strides the demon head, one hand curled firmly around the handle of his katana, the other already on the knob of the door.

"To take out the trash."

No one stops him.

Later that day, Dick's phone lights up with a message notification.

'GET YOUR LITTLE DEMON BROTHER AWAY FROM ME'.

Dick leaves it on read.

COMING NEXT -> BATBOYS BUT THEY ATTEND F!STREAMER!READER'S MEET-N-GREET.

[charon-i]

Nothing pisses me off than those fics tagged with character/reader then the so-called 'reader' has a fricking full name and physical description tf.

[charon-i]

# DON'T LEAVE ME, GIRL

because brainrot can take people places. this is men from KAIJU NO. 8, BLUE LOCK & WIND BREAKER as henry danger memes.

STARRING . . . soshiro hoshina, gen narumi (kn8), yoichi isagi, reo mikage (bllk), yamato endo, hajime umemiya (winbre). gn reader!

SOSHIRO HOSHINA

the fact of the matter is, soshiro hoshina had you MONITORED ever since he realized he had romantic feelings for you. with the excuse of receiving daily reports from platoon leaders about their officers, he only paid any mind to any reports about you.

and he was so obvious about it, that some platoon leaders caught on to what he was doing. nakanoshima genuinely enjoyed it, as seeing the vice-captain with wide eyes trying to conceal any emotion when you're mentioned was a one-of-a-kind experience.

"oh, by the way! officer l/n got hit on by one of my men yesterday."

nakanoshima tried her best to hold in her laughter while hoshina choked on his food in the middle of the cafeteria. she could see how his face contorted with disgust, as he anxiously began to play with his food.

"and what does that have to do with the reports?" he sneered. she gave him a knowing look, to which he sighed. he was utterly hopeless, wasn't he? a complete idiot in love. so much of an idiot, that even his subordinates caught wind of what was happening.

"…so, what'd they do about it?"

"they turned him down" she shrugged, "well, at least that's what i saw. if you want the whole thing, you'd probably have to ask okonogi. she was there way longer than me."

hoshina's next stop was the operations room.

"okonogi, dear, do you happen to have any camera footage of the hallway leading to the cafeteria from yesterday at about 5pm—"

the salute that followed sent a shiver down his spine, as he turned to his side to see you, comfortably sitting in okonogi's seat.

"vice-captain hoshina? sir, miss okonogi is currently on break, and she left me here to help her run through some reports" you smiled sheepishly, "if this is about yesterday, sir, just know that nothing happened with the officer that approached me. i completely apologize."

when you bowed in apology, hoshina simply grinned as he raised his hand to pat your head. "ya know i care about my officers, sweetheart, so i jus' wanted to make sure ya weren't being harassed."

"did—did you just call me sweetheart, sir?"

"that's 30 pushups for ya, l/n."

GEN NARUMI

being in the first division was already hard enough with all of the highly skilled officers around you, but having captain gen narumi follow you around like a lost puppy? yeah, you unlocked a new level of hell.

the fact that you had a higher-up on your trail didn't bother you, it was the fact that narumi himself was insufferable, and if the rumors that other officers came to spill to you were true…

gen narumi was head over heels for you, and he took every opportunity he had to show off in front of you.

as much as you hated to admit it, narumi truly was something else. his ability to slay kaiju was unlike any you had ever seen before, and it was nothing short of admirable. off the field, though, narumi was like some annoying influencer trying to sell you their latest product from some pyramid scheme.

his product? himself.

whenever he wasn't boasting about himself or trying to show you his social media fame, he was constantly in your messages trying to strike up a conversation. today was no different, as he slid into your messages asking if you knew about his latest video game records.

NARUMI 17:04 and that's how i ended up winning you should've been there, i was incredible

YOU 17:10 wow yeah that's a shame

NARUMI 17:10 something wrong? you're cold today

YOU 17:20 sorry it's been a hard day today, i'm feeling pretty down

NARUMI 17:21 i know what could cheer you up [1 Attachment]

you could not believe your eyes.

in your phone was a picture of gen narumi, holding his phone like a facebook parent, duck lips and all, winking.

you didn't hold it in, laughing hysterically at your screen. tears were forming from how hard you were laughing, and the messages you received made you drop to your knees.

NARUMI 17:25 i'm outside your office btw WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING???

YOICHI ISAGI

when isagi accidentally revealed to kurona and hiori about his growing crush on you, he settled on keeping your name hidden in public conversations. a part of him thought that, yes, it might be childish, but code names could save his ass from the prying eyes of blue lock tv and the press.

he knew you were watching at home, as he constantly texted you about what you saw on your television throughout the week. he’s grateful that there are no cameras in the stratum’s bedrooms, as he mostly spends his time kicking his feet like a schoolgirl whenever he’s chatting with you.

while having lunch with his teammates, the topic of relationships had surged, as there were some which wondered if their teammates had someone waiting for them back home.

“so, isagi, did you confess to y/n already?”

“confess! confess!”

“huh.”

isagi’s eye twitched as his teammates slowly stood up from their seats. they looked at each other nervously, and in response, isagi sighed.

"the code name was apple" he sneered, "if this ends up on blue lock tv, you're fucking dead."

hiori and kurona were grateful that social media did not rave about isagi's love life, thus thinking they were safe from any tormenting. isagi was relieved that his teammates' slip up was kept under wraps, as he wasn't ready to express his feelings just yet.

luckily for him, blue lock TV released a special episode filled with drama and gossip from all teams, and much to his dismay, "APPLE" started trending on twitter, along with his name, and the phrase "WHO IS Y/N".

REO MIKAGE

reo mikage knew that your job as bastard munchen's social media manager meant that he wouldn't see you as much, with him seeing you on award shows, events, or football matches that you both attended as guests.

every day, he would text you a new reason for you to switch teams and join manshine city instead. he offered to fly you out, help you with paperworks and your cv—mikage had everything covered.

except for your approval.

it was hard to leave a team you grew to be fond of, after almost two years of working there, you learned to love everyone as you would with your own family. after hearing mikage's pleas day after day, you finally gave him the go ahead to submit your job application.

which just so happened to fall on the day in which manshine played against bastard.

it was a complex match, with your team winning 3-2 against mikage's. after celebrating with some nice dinner on a rooftop, isagi had invited you to go around manchester for some shopping, as he wanted to buy a present for his mother.

reo mikage's phone had blown up in a way he had never witnessed before. from his friends, social media, hell—even nagi was spamming him with messages, sending him a link to an article.

"yoichi isagi spotted with mystery person in cartier for a shopping day! what we know about them so far…"

reo mikage had to be forcibly removed from his phone and social media, with his teammates having to hold him back from causing a scene.

because why on god's beautiful earth were you shopping with isagi instead of him?

when he received his phone back, he saw a text from you, explaining how isagi asked for your help to buy jewelry for his mother's upcoming birthday. he felt himself melt at the thought of your kindness, as according to him, you were doing charity work. nothing against isagi's mother, though.

he smiled as he exited your chat and typed out a name, starting a new conversation.

REO 23:11 Listen here you Mr. "I take Yn shopping in Manchester" I swear if I ever see you near them in public again you better pray that you stay in Bastard because do you know who I am I am the heir of Mikage Corp and the amount of power I have would put you to shame because WHO do you think you are first stealing Nagi from me and now Y/n you seriously have to have a death wish for that you stupid good for nothing Be grateful that they're leaving your poor little team and joining Manshine soon, so they'll never see you again you punk

YAMATO ENDO

"—and then he told me that if i went to the beach with the girls and that one guy, he'd break up with me on the spot. can you believe him? we had to pick up trash at the beach for a school project and he said that"

"i can't believe it!" endo gasped, his hand on your shoulder, "if that were me, i would've never said that. that's a shitty move on his part."

"annnnd then he had my socials on his phone, and he read the notifications that i received. he got mad because a friend told me they loved me."

okay, that one he could agree with.

the joy of having yamato endo listening to your horrible experiences with your ex was that, at face value, endo was agreeing with everything you said. internally, though, he thought different.

the more he heard, the more intrigued he was about your ex. because endo yamato found himself relating to him, and was on the verge of asking you for his number.

"damn, he was oversteppin' boundaries" he sighed. snooping every once in a while ain't bad, though, is what he thought. 'cause what if they're cheating or something, or covering for someone?

he shook his head as he discarded the thought, as neither of those situations could ever apply to you. you went on and on, describing the various ways in which your ex had either pissed you off or straight up did you dirty.

at the end of your rant, endo slyly pulled out his phone and opened the search tab of his social media.

"damn y/n that's crazy! anyway, what was his name again?"

HAJIME UMEMIYA

you knew hajime umemiya was too trusting and naive, but you let it slide. when you and him were cuddling on your couch, mindlessly scrolling through his social media, something was off.

his page was filled with instagram models.

and sure, you wouldn't have any trouble with it, but the fact that there were half naked people clogging your boyfriend's feed, you felt a bit iffy. when asking him about it, he simply laughed.

"oh, the kids at the orphanage took my phone a while back! didn't know they followed all these people, though" he smiled.

well the kids at the orphanage have very good taste, you thought.

when the next week rolled by and umemiya found himself in a brawl outside of pothos, you stood in the sidelines next to kotoha. "did he do anything about the models?" she asked. when you shook your head in response, she smirked.

"give me your phone, y/n."

she opened the camera app and pointed it towards the brawl, motioning for you to slide a bit to your left so that you would be in the frame.

"now say cheese!"

"hey—what's going on?" umemiya questioned, before having a punch thrown at his face. kotoha chuckled in return, her fingers intertwining with yours.

"don't you see? y/n's modeling. if you need anyone to save you, ask sommer ray! we're out of here."

taglist (open, yippee!): @stunie @kaiser1ns @nyxypoo @karasuglazer @littleplantfreak @maruflix @heartkaji

[charon-i]

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 3317🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

a/n. low-key forgot to specify the timeframe but this is like, a couple days after the sex.

“You know, I’d really fuck the shit out of Riddler.”

“Can we bring back shame?” Mark lowers his comic book, expression scrunched into a grimace as he stares at you from where he’s lounged on your bedroom floor, the edge of his T-shirt raised just enough to showcase his rippling abs and that deep, deep V.

“I’d suck the tip clean off.” You’re unbothered by his audible gag, simply focused on the crack of paper as you turn the page, your legs extended and crossed at the ankles, your toes wiggling in your socks and you let out a bashful giggle, biting lightly down on the nail of your index finger as your eyes rove over the panels. Your eyes focus on the bright colours, occasionally flitting towards Mark’s seething expression.

“I’m disturbed.” He announces, before lifting himself from the floor, muscles flexing as he stretched his arms overhead and he sets his comic down on the bedside table, before prying yours from your hands and tossing it into your desk with freaky accuracy.

Gorgeous brown eyes stare at you from beneath long lashes, gaze roving over you and the way you lounge so lazily across your bed, a double chin formed at the way your head is propped up by pillows.

“You’re gonna get a neck pain like that.” Mark huffs, before moving to stand at the edge of your bed, hands wrapping around your ankles and he tugs you roughly, your head sliding off the pillow and he moves to straddle your hips. Hands slide up your arms, fingers lace with yours and he pins your hands to the soft covers and he cracks a grin.

“How’s college?” Mark inquires. “Mom says you’re an overachiever.”

“Define ‘overachiever’.” You peer up at Mark through your lashes, your gaze locked on his, and goddamn, your brain’s melting the more you focus on how warm his hands are against yours. Fingers laced with yours, folded over one another like they belong there, his lashes fluttering with each blink and the curve of his smile as he just looks at you.

Not doing anything.

Just looking.

And you’re starting to think Pinterest was right when he brings a hand up, gently picking an eyelash from your cheek before he fists his hand, brushing it against your chin and he mimics an explosion.

And the laughter just bubbles from you, your head tipped back as giggles fall from your lips, and he shifts his body, wrapping his arms around your waist and he pulls you onto him. Your knees dimpling the sheets on either side of you, his face pressed into the curve of your neck, lips ghosting over the supple skin that has an indentation by a bra strap too tight and Mark’s teeth bite into the elastic, tugging it from your shoulder and he presses his lips against the mark left behind.

His lips are soft.

Hands cradle you like you’re something delicate, like you haven’t been his biggest bully for majority of his life, and you melt against him.

Muscular arms keeping you pressed against him, your soft thighs bracketing his hips and you press your lips against his temple.

“I didn’t think heroes had the free time to dick around like this.” You hum with a snort, your hands shifting, cupping Mark’s face as you lift yourself, pulling one of the pillows absentmindedly to prop his head up and he watches you with soft, heart eyes.

“It’s Saturday.” He answers you, hands bracketing your hips. “I’ve got all the time in the world.” He pauses. “Until night time. Then I have no time.”

“My mom said we can patrol tonight if it’s okay with your mom.” Your giggle is melodious, it’s sweet and messy all at once. His eyes rove over the curve of your lips, the dimples in your cheeks and the way your eyes crease at the corners. He likes the way your necklace dangles so carelessly, he loves the way your eyes watch the sun and he just loves.

He's known you for over a decade and he can’t think of a single thing he hasn’t fallen in love with.

“When did you get so… pretty?”

Mark’s voice is a soft, almost theatrical whisper, his thumbs brushing along the soft flesh of your hips where your shirt had ridden up. “You look like an angel…”

“It’s the sunlight.” You snort at him, a grin curling your glossy lips. That warm, summer-y smile that has his breath stuttering in his lungs, your hand shifting to cradle his cheek, your palm warm against his flesh.

“No.” He lets out a breathless laugh. “No, like… you look like a fucking painting right now.”

“Wait, like, really?” Your brows furrow.

“Yeah, like… that painting of— you look like a Monet.” He tilts his head, pressing a kiss to the softness of your palm. And there’s a warmth that burns at his belly when your head tips, a light and easy smile creeping onto your face.

“You’re really beautiful…”

The sweetest silence settles between the two of you, and Mark hums softly. He never thought loving someone could be this easy. He knows it’s not too soon. It never could be when it’s you.

“Which painting?” You hum softly, leaning forward and your lips press against his cheek.

“Bitch—” Mark huffs. “Just touch my wiener.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“I’m not a furry but—”

“You’re gonna say the most furry thing ever.”

“The shark could get it.”

Mark lets out a heavy breath, eyes shutting and he takes a moment. Before looking at you, expression distasteful and he grimaces.

“Can we never watch ‘The Reef 2’ without you wanting to fuck an actual shark?”

Mark watches the way you shovel a handful of chips into your mouth, your gaze locked on his and he should be turned off, but the way your grin grows as you shake your head, mischief in your actions as you giggle.

“No.” You snort. “No we can not.”

“Sick freak.” He grunts under his death, reaching over, a pudgy thumb wiping away the crumbs from the corner of your mouth, absentmindedly bringing his thumb to his lips, licking away the salt before turning his attention back to the screen of your TV.

And your lips purse and you try to ignore the way your pulse flutters, instead focusing on shuffling more comfortably, your back pressing against your puffed up pillows and you swallow.

“That’s gross. I don’t know where your thumb was.”

“It’s gonna be in your ass if you don’t stop fucking with me.” Mark takes another handful of chips, his toes wiggling in those stupid fucking Hot Wheels socks.

And you swallow.

“Say ‘no homo’.”

The leer Mark gives you is something nightmares and very, very dark fantasies are made of and he takes a slow slurp of his smoothie, lips pursed around the straw. And he simply turns his attention back to the screen, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his smile hidden but the dimple in his cheek pops.

“Mark, say ‘no homo’!”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Oh my God.” Mark grunts. “Why did I agree to this?”

His knees and palms dimple your mattress, powdery blue sheet refusing to bend to his will, edges popping off the corners of your mattress and you hum, lips curled as you keep your eyes glued to that stupidly perky ass.

“I don’t know but I’m loving the Invinci-cheeks.”

Mark glares at you over his shoulder, the tips of his ears burning a furious red as he clenched his jaw, annoyance only spiking at the way your grin widens.

“Yeah, look back at me.” You tease.

And Mark huffs. “Same way you looked back at me?”

The silence is deafening, your obnoxious slurping stilling and you swallow, sucking in your cheeks and Mark doesn’t know why the act makes him a little breathless. He’s seen you do it countless times when you’re speechless, unable to come up with an immediate retort but he swallows hard.

“That’s a pretty fucked up thing to say.” You whisper, your heart beating erratically pounding behind your rib cage because did you actually look back at him?

And Mark lets out a huff, finally managing to spread the sheet comfortably enough, and you plop down, internally gloating at the way he silently stews at the creases that form in the sheet.

“Why’re you making me make your bed?” Mark huffs, muscular arms crossing over his chest. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“Because, dear, naïve Mark, when you leave, I’m gonna take an 8 hour nap and wake up on a plane of existence higher than yours.” And you stretch your arms overhead, letting out a yawn and Mark’s eyes drop to where your shirt rides up, exposing the soft skin of your belly, and his arm reaches out, a warm hand splayed across your tummy. It’s sweet and a little weird, but you like the way the heat seems to sink into your navel, warming you up like some kind of humanoid toaster.

“That’s nice.” You sigh softly, your lashes fluttering and you rest back, your back flush against the memory phone and your head lolls, gaze falling on Mark and the way he looks at you like you’ve personally designed and hung the stars in the sky.

“You’re so—”

“Do you have a foreskin?”

Mark’s expression falls. “Can we not have a single nice moment without you ruining it?”

Your lips purse and your brows furrow like you’re deep in thought before you shake your head. “No, m’sorry. I can’t see that happening for us.”

He would be annoyed if that devious little smile on your lips didn’t make his tummy tense, and his hand reaches for the front of his jeans.

“You wanna check if I have a foreskin?” He questions and once you nod, you’re wishing you didn’t. Because seeing Mark undo his buckle with one, nimble hand, is a religion you weren’t sure you’d ever find yourself being a part of but holy fuck, you could watch him do that for hours.

Mark frees his cock. Easily, and lazily pushing the waistband of his boxers down and he shifts comfortably. You’d think it’d be less impressive because he’s soft but no. Not at all.

A pretty, flushed pink head, just a little bit darker at the base with a teensy bit of skin that overlaps just the ridges of his tip and you purse your lips.

“Is now a bad time to tell you I can’t tell the difference between cut and uncut when they’re soft?” You peer up at Mark through your lashes, shifting a bit more comfortably and he lets out a huff of a laugh.

“Here’s the scar,” He hums, moving just a bit closer and he shows you that barely imperceptible scar, right near his tip, “see?”

You don’t know what convinces you to do it. You really don’t.

But you’re tracing your thumb over the scar, peering up at him through your lashes and your eyes are so soft, so concerned.

“Who did this to you?”

“Oh my fucking God.”

The laugh bubbles from him easily, his head tipping back and you watch the curve of his throat as he laughs, shoulders shaking and lips curling. Pearly teeth showcased, and the dimples in his cheeks deepen, accompanied by a healthy little flush and he snorts, before looking back down at you.

He watches the way you watch him, teeth biting down on your bottom lip to hide your smile but he can see the way your cheeks turn rosy the longer you watch him.

And you look back down, tracing your thumb over the scar once again. Feeling the subtle change in texture.

“It’s a cool scar though.” You hum. “Kinda makes your dick look like a hammerhead.”

Mark nearly loses it when you begin to hum the Jaws theme, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle the laughter but it all comes to a grinding halt when his dick twitches, and your lips part, watching as a bead of precum slowly drips from his slit. And he swallows.

“Do you get hard when people make jokes?” You raise a brow, scooping up the bead and watching the way it rests so comfortably on the pad of your index finger, and he shakes his head.

“Only you.” He inhales sharply when you trace that divot with your finger, his brows furrowing and he tries to keep his hips from twitching, anchoring them down to the bed instead of letting them crave the contact.

Your lips purse in concentration, before you hum quietly.

“You gave me head but I never got to do it to you.” You state with a hum, nails tracing patterns on his thigh, and he can feel the ticklish sensation through the denim of his jeans and he swallows.

“You— uh-um… You don’t have to. I don’t mind if you’re not into that…—”

“I am.” You reassure, eyes lowered and watching the way his cock stiffens, blood rushing all the way to the appendage as it flushes a pretty, rosy pink and your hand wraps around his base.

Your hand’s all warm, all soft and delicate-fingered. The cool metal of your rings make his skin prickle and his hips are jutting before either of you can say anything, cum spurting across the front of your T-shirt, as well as creamy ribbons that reach all the way up to the curve of your jaw.

And you swallow.

“I— fuck, m’so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Mark’s breath stutters when your head dips, your eyes locked on his and your tongue drags along the tip of his cock, wet muscle flicking against his slit. And his hands fist the sheet.

“Finish making my bed.” You lift yourself from where you’re resting, unbothered by the mess on your throat and you make your way towards your en suite, closing the door behind you and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Internally panicking and you have to fight to get your nerves steady.

And your lips purse, an intrusive thought causing you to drag your digit through the messy spent on your throat, and you bring your finger to your lips. Tasting the peculiar taste. Brows knitting as you try to place the flavours. Sweet. A little bit bitter, and so, so warm.

Mark stares at the bathroom door, his heart pounding in his chest before he grabs his phone, bated breaths slipping past his lips and he pants hard. Thumbs flying across his keyboard and his leg bounces.

Invinci-bitch: “Tell Cecil I’m not coming.”

Invinci-bitch: “Space flu or whatever.”

Rex takes a while to respond.

Rex Splooge: “Space herpes. Got it 👌”

Fuck. Mark discards his phone, tucking himself back into his boxers before continuing to make your bed, although, big brown eyes keep glancing towards the bathroom door.

He’d really prefer to not have ‘space herpes’.

But he’ll take what he gets.

Especially if what he gets, involves that plush, shit-talking mouth wrapping around his cock.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“William, she’s making my hands sweaty.”

Mark’s voice is hoarse, wiping his sweaty palms on the surface of his shorts for what could be the eighth time this hour, eyes darting towards where you’re helping clean up the kitchen, a mess after Mark’s 13th birthday party. A few neighbours kids, maybe a handful of classmates he liked and a mess of wrapping paper that you’d suggested he keep.

“Yeah.” William slurps on his milkshake, blueberry tinting the inner bits of his lips a slight blue. “Me and your dad were mocking you for it.”

And Mark huffs.

“Of course you were.” And he glances back towards you, your arms submerged in soapy hot water, lips curled into a grin as you chat so easily with Nolan, who’s rough hands remain drying the dishes. “She’s so… pretty.”

Mark’s lips curl at the memory, eyes focused on you as you continue swiping through your For You page, attention entirely captured by the sight of makeup brushes, gently brushing against some stupidly overpriced mic, accompanied by gentle taps against the stand. His arm remains tossed over your belly, cheek pressed against your shoulder and a leg wrapped around yours. His warm palm, pressed against your even warmer tummy.

And he swallows.

“I think Mark’s got a crush on you.” Nolan’s voice is quiet, hands wrapped up in a plaid kitchen cloth, the bright crimson standing out against his muscular forearms. “Look.” And you follow Nolan’s gaze towards Mark.

Surrounded by kids, opening birthday presents and giving toothy grins and sweet ‘thank you’s.

And your expression softens.

“Mr Nolan, if Mark likes me, it’s because he’s never spoken to another girl before.” You snort. “He’d have a crush on William if William was a girl.”

And you glance back towards Mark, catching his gaze and you watch the way his lips curl, perfect teeth displayed and God, your heart clenches in your chest. And you smile back, trying to play off the way those rosy apples make your face heat up.

“Your heartbeat got sooooooooooooooo fast.” Nolan whispers, almost conspiratorially. And you glare up at Nolan.

“I’ll make him dress up as Duct-Tape Man.” You threaten and Nolan’s eyes narrow at you. And you snort out a laugh.

“Why’d you get so mad about that in the first place, sir?” You question.

“He used the good tape.”

“It wasn’t because you were the only girl I spoke to.” Mark speaks up, swallowing heavy and he glances up towards your face, eyes roving over your features and ultimately, landing on the curve of your bottom lip. So plump. So inviting.

“Huh?” You question, a brow raising and you pause the video on your phone, screen displaying, ‘GRWM FOR CONFRONTING MY BF ABOUT CHEATING ON ME W/ MY BD’.

“When you told my dad I would only like you because you’re the only girl I spoke to.” He whispers softly. “That wasn’t why.” His warm grip tightens on your waist, fingers pressing into the soft, squishy flesh.

“It was because you were the only girl I wanted to talk to.”

There’s a knot in your belly, your lashes fluttering with each slow, cat-like blink you give Mark and you feel the way his heartbeat gets faster. His breathing deepening and his eyes flicker towards your lips, brows knitting in a way that could only be described as longingly before he meets your gaze again.

Puppy eyes soft and loving.

“You’re still the only girl I wanna talk to.”

Your expression softens, lashes fluttering so prettily and you swallow, the corners of your lips tugging downwards and you can feel your eyes becoming a little bit glossier.

“What about William?” Your voice is sweet, and so soft, and it would’ve sounded earnest if he didn’t understand you. And he snorts.

“William doesn’t count.” He huffs out a laugh, his hand leaving your belly to cradle the side of your face, wiping away that fat rivulets before it an even reach the curve of your cheek and his lips curve into a soft smile.

Before he teases you.

“Now say something nice about me.” He nudges you, shifting over you until your thighs are on either side of his hips, one hand bracing your hio whike the other presses against your cheek.

“You too, are the only girl I wanna talk to.” You snort and Mark rolls his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the grin that threatens to make his cheeks dimple in that adorably dorky way.

“I’m a man.” He corrects.

“You’re a boy at best.” You huff.

And he leans in, the ball of his nose brushing against yours, breath ghosting over your lips.

“Oh really?” He hums. “You wanna see how much of a man I am?”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @lov3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd

[charon-i]

“sit still,” you hum, applying the blush on mark’s face as you readjust his face to sit in the position you want. he huffs but doesn’t do anything, trying his best to stay in one spot.

this is the closest you’ve ever been near him. sure, he invades your personal space and gets close and personal all of the time, but this is the first time you’ve come so close on your own.

slow, sweet progress. over a year of waiting and the results are worth it. not best friends, but close! and mark likes that. it’s simple. it’s something he enjoys—as much as he does want more, he refuses to rush you. the fact that the two of you have come this far shows that you don’t completely hate him; that’s more than good enough.

“i would put lashes on you. except yours are longer than mine, and i don’t wanna waste anything on your ass.”

“i’m. . . sorry?” mark says hesitantly, confused, about to tilt his head before you correct his position. again.

“stay. still.” you glare at him before finally putting the makeup you’d bought on a whim away.

for a moment, you just stare at him, before shaking your head. “you look like shit even with makeup. there’s no saving you, markus.”

“mark.”

“markus. that’s your name.”

“you know what? fine, whatever.”

connected to this series ఌ

[charon-i]

The Mark Grayson hype is kinda dwindling but I for sure know that it will come back stronger than before when the next season comes and he gets beaten to a pulp.

Girlies eat bloodied man.

Watch I tell you, once that man is covered in bruises and whimpers in pain, everyone will get resurrected grrrrr

[charon-i]

Who you truly are

Viltrumite Mark x Female Reader

Summary: When the Invincible variants arrived on Earth, you never expected to get involved. It’s not like you knew Invincible personally. What you didn’t know was that you’d ended up housing one of these variants, and you didn’t know for weeks. Basically Viltrumite Mark pretends to be the Mark you know.

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: None! Maybe some violence, but if you watched the show, it’s basically nothing. Maybe slight ooc? In my defense this guy is pretending to be another person though.

Quick A/N: Hey, this is actually my first post on Tumblr so sorry if the formatting is weird or anything. Let me know if you guys want a part 2 :D

Life was so much simpler when you didn’t know. Who knew that in a singular month, your life would change so much? You could lie and say that you expected it to happen, but again that'd be a lie. Hell, even now you can barely believe the course of events that went down.

Sometimes you think about how many others got hurt during the war and its aftermath. You were so oblivious. You think about how he spared you like he did.

--------------------------

“Mark! Eve!” You call out, waving your hand to your friends across the hallway. Mark stops in his tracks, along with Eve.

Mark is more of your friend than Eve is, but you get along with her well. You walk purposefully to Mark, feeling like he may disappear if you take too long to get to him. It seems like he disappears all the time now.

“I haven’t seen you recently. Where have you been?” You approach him smiling.

Mark shares an indecipherable look with Eve, and chuckles awkwardly, “Around… You know, I’ve been busy with… stuff.” He says gesturing to his backpack. You raise an eyebrow seeing his backpack filled with books. 

“Studying? You? My, we really haven’t talked in a while. The last time we all hung out, you bailed halfway through.” You smile teasingly, not truly mad, but more concerned than anything.

He grimaces, “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just been so hectic lately.” He looks over at Eve once again, she seems to empathize with whatever Mark is going through. You can’t help but feel… insignificant.

Mark was once one of your closest friends. What happened for them to grow so close? You can’t even bring yourself to be mad, Eve seems to understand him way more than you ever could.

Perhaps at one point, you would have felt different about that truth, but Mark as your friend is more important.

“Woah!” You chuckle, “It’s okay, really. I just want to make sure you aren’t, ya know, dead.” You smile, jokingly gesturing to your neck as if it was slit. He smiles and shakes his head, “Nope! Still kicking. I’ll be around for a while.” He glances at Eve, who seems to find what he said extra funny.

You laugh, “Yeah huh... Hey, I was wondering if you’d wanna hang out with us sometime soon. You, William, me, maybe one of my friends? Serena perhaps?” You raise a finger for each person you talk about. “Eve is free to join us too of course.” You smile at her, which she returns in good nature. 

Mark nods, “Yeah, I’ll make time for it. It’s been a minute since we’ve all hung out. Eve, would you wanna join?” Mark asks, turning to Eve.

“Sure. It’s been a while since we’ve all hung out as a group. I look forward to it.” She smiles at you. “I should be busy for a bit, but I’ll let you know when I’m free.”

You smile, “Great! That works for me!” You start to walk off before you stop abruptly and turn around. “You know we’re always here right?” You look at Mark and glance at Eve. He smiles back, but it looks more like a grimace. 

”Of course.” Suddenly he stands up straight. “Oh shoot I gotta go.” He announces before looking at Eve silently expressing… something? 

“No worries, see you guys…” They’re already speeding off to who knows where. They certainly have a mission in mind. They weren’t that rushed five minutes ago. Could whatever Mark forgot be that important?

(You didn’t know it at the time, but the reason he left was actually important. You later found out the reason on TV, even if you weren't aware it was him under the suit.)

“Hey, did you see what happened on the news?” Your friend, Serena, asks you later that day back in your apartment. She would often come over after classes to hang out.

You raise an eyebrow shaking your head, “No? Why? Anything interesting?” You sit down on the couch, leaning your head on the back as you respond.

“Somebody was trying to get Invincible’s attention earlier. He was talking for ages. Was claiming that he was the one who killed all those people in Chicago. I don’t know, he definitely has some issues he needs to sort out.” She waves a hand dismissively. 

That catches your attention, “Really that happened today? How’d I miss that? Wait, he was mad that Invincible ‘killed those people,’ but he is trying to kill people to get his attention?” You ask, doing air quotes as you say “killed those people.” 

“I’m not sure, it mainly just seemed like he wanted Invincible. I don’t know, I stopped questioning these villains a while ago. I only know the bare details.” She sighs.

You nod in agreement, “Fair enough.” You search for the remote and find it between the couch before turning on the TV. Perhaps this story is on the news?  

“ . . . just in! The newest villain, going by the name “Powerplex” has been arrested. Invincible was there to stop him this time, but that did not come without a cost. There were two casualties during this specific attack by him, not even counting his other attacks during this week. The casualties of this attack were his wife and child, who were electrocuted to death. It appears he took them hostage to get Invincible’s attention. You will all be happy to know that he has been arrested. . .” 

“That’s awful.” You frown. “Can’t believe he brought his wife and kids into it. That’s such a cruel thing to do… You think she knew what she was getting into with him?” You ask, turning toward Serena. 

“I mean maybe he was just a good actor? Perhaps he was able to blend in for a while?” Your friend throws out suggestions. “She could’ve also known though. Not that it’s my business. We’ll never know, and I don’t think I want to know.” She sighs before standing up.

“It’s horrific in either scenario. Imagine living with somebody for that long and not truly knowing who they are.” Serena chuckles, but there is no humor. You both stare at the TV screen, watching as the reporter drones on about the details.

“I think I’m going to head back home.” Serena stands up, grabbing her keys and swinging them in her hand. You nod, “Okay, drive home safe… Don’t get electrocuted.” You give her a thumbs up and smile. Is it wrong to joke about events like this? Probably, but if you don’t laugh you cry so…

She gives you an unamused expression “Ha. Ha. Very funny.” She rolls her eyes good-naturedly,  “I’ll see you later.” You wave as she walks out, turning your attention back to the TV. 

You have no connection to Invincible or any of that “superhero” life. The idea of superheroes excites you, but after seeing what occurred in Chicago, you can’t help but feel like it’s not all it’s made out to be.

It’s not like you’d be able to help. You’d end up as a casualty, another body to clean off the field. The thought makes you shiver.

Every time you see a story like this you wonder if there is a universe where it was you that died. It’s easy to just brush these events off like nothing when you aren’t living them.

That was how most people do it nowadays. Doesn’t affect you? Not your problem. It was a frustrating way to live. You didn’t like to think about how people are dying every day due to these villains.

However, you can’t not think about them. Hearing about this whole situation with, what’s his name, Powerplex? It creates this feeling of dread, a feeling you’re unable to ease. Who is to say that you aren’t going to be the next casualty mentioned on the news?

It truly was easy for the whole world to live in that ignorance. It was easier for you to live in ignorance, then they appeared.

--------------------------

DAY ONE

Honestly, the first day wasn’t that eventful for you. It wasn’t until the late evening you even heard about it.

You didn’t live in an area that was immediately affected by the attacks, so it wasn’t as if your apartment suddenly came crashing down on you. Instead, you got a call from Serena. You raise an eyebrow before picking up the phone. 

“Uh hey?” You wonder why she called you, it wasn’t like you got calls often.

”Oh my God, you’re okay.” She breathes out in relief, and now you know something is up. “Please tell me you’ve seen the news.” Her voice is filled with worry.

You stop moving, “No… You know I don’t check the news that often.” You respond. Admittedly, that's on you. You probably should keep up with the news more often.  

She sighs, “Turn it on. There’s like over a dozen Invincibles out destroying major world cities.” You feel your heart drop before immediately moving to your TV and turning it on. You switch to the news.

No words are being spoken, they don’t have to. The screams of panic strike fear into your heart.

The camera shows a gigantic building in Chicago crumbling down. The cameraman focuses their lens on the figure floating above it all. Whoever it is, they’re wearing a white uniform.

The camera isn’t advanced enough to zoom in on their face, but you don’t find yourself doubting Serena’s information. Suddenly a white blur knocks the camera away, and it fades into static. You watch in horror. 

“Oh shit…” You whisper to yourself, forgetting that you are still on the phone. 

“It’s being recommended that we don’t exit our homes. We just pretend like nobody is home.” Serena’s words barely register, but you nod, forgetting that she can’t see your visual response.

“Okay… So we just sit here until they leave?” You ask, feeling stupid for asking the question. What else could you do? Fight them? You’d sooner kill a bear with your bare hands than somehow survive facing off one of them. 

The silence between you two is loud, “Not like we have any other choice.”

--------------------------

DAY TWO

By this point, you had been living in relative darkness for a little over a day. Serena sent you a link to an article advising citizens what to do: keep the lights off, and stay away from windows. You don’t want them to know you’re there. You had occasionally gone to get some food and drinks from the kitchen, but besides that, you were pretty much locked in your room.

The small peeks you took of the outside world showed promise. Realistically, the chances of one of the variants coming to your suburban neighborhood to wreak havoc aren’t high.

You close the curtains and look away from the window. To be fair, they also aren’t zero.

After being bored and doing nothing for over a day, you were instantly aware when something changed in your environment. You felt your heart stop for a moment. It sounded like somebody entered your apartment. 

You remain frozen as you try and listen for any more signs of life outside your room. Eventually, you hear something. A voice calling your name, whoever it is sounds familiar. However, that doesn’t mean you’ll come running out. You don’t respond immediately, sitting there in silence and fear, slowly inching towards the closet to hide.

On the way, you pass by your door, which was slightly cracked open. The intruder could walk in whenever they wanted. It wasn’t the most brilliant move you’ve made, but it wasn’t like you were expecting guests okay?

Your eyes widen as you take in who it is. “Mark?” You push the door open hesitantly. His attention immediately snaps to you. “What are you doing here?” You ask, exhaling slowly and calming your pounding heartbeat. 

He stares at you stoically, before walking over to you, his steps are unhurried. Suddenly you realize that he left the door open behind him. You feel your heart rate spike up again. 

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!?” You whisper yell as you push past him to the door. You accidentally bump your shoulder onto his while walking by, causing him to halt and falter in surprise.

”How did you get in? I thought you said you lost that emergency key I gave you.” You lock the door and turn to him again. He observes you silently.

“I found it.” He responds, tone even. 

“Well yes, I kinda assumed that.” You respond dryly before feeling the anger leave your body.

“Hey…” You place your hand on his shoulder and he stiffens. “Are you okay? Did one of those variants attack you or your mom?” He finally looks you in the eye for the first time since he unexpectedly entered. His stare is piercing, it feels like he’s looking at your entire soul. 

He pauses for a moment before answering, “They came through and destroyed my house.” His voice sounds detached like he’s somewhere else right now.

You feel your eyes widen and your heart drops, “Oh my God, is your Mom okay?!” You guide Mark back to your room, he seems to follow with no resistance. You sit on the floor, but he remains standing.

“She’s fine. She wasn’t there.” He responds, and you breathe a sigh of relief. 

“That’s good… I mean not good that your house was destroyed, but good that she got out of there. I mean have you seen the damage that these Invincibles have done?” Mark looks at you like he’s expecting something, and you feel slightly unnerved. Maybe he’s in shock? You can’t exactly blame him. You do feel kinda awkward though. How exactly do you comfort somebody who just had their home destroyed and almost had their mom killed?

“I was watching the news when it started, there was this one I saw. I think it was Chicago he hit?” Mark freezes slightly, his eyes narrowing in on you, but you don’t notice.

“It was crazy… He didn’t look like Invincible at all. However, judging by how many of the other attackers look like Invincible, I want to say that this one was probably some weird Invincible variant in white.” Mark gives you a weird look.

“What’s wrong? Still worried? Don’t worry we should be safe here. I don’t see why an Invincible variant would attack me. I don’t even know who is under that mask. We’ll be safe here if you wanna stay until it’s over.” You feel like you’re talking too much at this point, so you stop before you embarrass yourself more than you already have. 

“So I can stay.” Mark eventually speaks, getting your attention. The phrase is less of a question, and more of a statement, like he needs you to reaffirm what you already said.

You nod, “Of course, stay as long as you need.” You smile at him. Mark stares down at you before nodding and sitting right next to you on the floor. 

You raise an eyebrow, “You know you can sit on my bed right? You don’t have to sit on the floor.” He looks at you and slowly nods. 

“Right…” He sounds hesitant, but eventually stands up walking over to your bed. He sits down on it and looks back at you. He stares at you expectantly. You feel scrutinized under his gaze.

"Uh, is there something on my face?" You ask. He continues to stare at you before he looks away.

"You look different." Well okay then. Is that an insult or compliment?

“Uhh, I don’t exactly look much different than the last time I saw you. Maybe it’s the lack of sunlight.” You joke. He looks at you like you’re stupid. “Hey don’t give me that. Come on wanna play a game or something? I’ve been bored out of my mind here.”  You stand up stretching.

“A game…” He repeats dryly. “What ‘game’ would you wanna play?” He asks.

You hold your hand out giving him the “wait” gesture. He watches as you search around your room before finally finding what you're looking for. “Here we go!” You show him your deck of Uno cards. 

“Uno?” Mark responds confused. “You want to play this... ‘Uno?’” He gestures to the cards. You raise an eyebrow looking back at the cards.

”Yes…? Something wrong with that? I only have the original one if that’s what you’re upset about. Couldn’t find the Seance Dog version, I must've lost it.” You sit next to him starting to shuffle the cards.

”That’s not the problem…” Mark starts to sound unsure looking at the deck of cards. ”Do you perhaps have its original packaging?” He asks. 

You blink in confusion, “No, why?” You start giving him his cards.

”I just need to see its instructions.” He looks at the cards blankly.

You sigh, “No, stacking plus twos and plus fours is not in the rules. Yes, we will play with it anyway.”

You give yourself your cards before setting the giant stack down and flipping over the first card, it’s a green four. “I’ll go first.” You place a green seven down.

Mark stares at the cards, before looking up at you. He stares at his cards for half a minute. “You gonna play a card or are we just gonna sit here?” You joke. 

“Just…” He sounds frustrated, “Just give me a moment…” He looks at the cards. 

After another period of silence, you eventually break it, “Dude just place down a seven or green, please. Whatever strategy you’re thinking of, it clearly isn’t working.” You chuckle.

He looks at his cards before slowly placing a green five down. “Right… I was just planning something.” 

You immediately slam down a blue five. “Yeah sure, try all you want. You aren’t gonna win this time.”

He looks at you with the most serious look you’ve ever seen on his face, “I wouldn’t count on that.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“HOW?! YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” You point at the stack of cards in the middle, telling you to take 14 cards. 

“The rules are the rules. Take the cards.” Mark points to the deck of cards, his lips upturned slightly. 

You glare at him before smiling. That was the first time he’s "smiled" today. He’d been off all day, and if losing a game of Uno was what it took to cheer him up, it was a price to pay.

You both play a few more rounds before you get tired of losing. “Okay, you never win this much. Are you cheating?” You jokingly ask.

He scoffs, “Cheating? I don’t need to cheat to win.” He taunts holding his singular card in plain view. The words "UNO" in the back taunt you for the seventh time. The trace of a smile is gone from his face, but you can see the mirth in his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, enjoy it while you can.” You sigh placing down your only play. You look up at him, and he stares at you for a long moment.

“You know dramatically holding out your move doesn’t make you mysterious. Just draw more cards, I know you don’t have a yellow or two.” You roll your eyes. 

He looks at his card and sighs in the most contrived manner possible, a stark contrast to the serious demeanor he had when entering the apartment. “You’re right. I don’t have either…” He places his last card down, a wild.

You look at him blankly, he returns the stare with a smugness he didn’t previously have. You place your cards down before walking out into the kitchen, Mark follows you. “What are you doing?” He asks, the smug tone gone. 

“I'm gonna sacrifice myself to those variants running around, that fate might be better than having a seven-time losing streak.” You respond sarcastically.

“You know what,” You point out to the window, “at least I would beat them in Uno.” You say referring to the Invincibles out destroying the world.

Mark looks at you, then at the window, then back at you, “I doubt that.” 

You lean back on the counter dramatically, feigning offense, “Oh how you wound me! I think I could beat their asses in Uno! I bet at least one of them doesn’t even know how to play it!” 

“I’m sure.” He replies, there seems to be amusement in his voice, but you can’t imagine why. 

“Hey, I beat you in Uno all the time. Consider this your lucky day.” You grab a bag of chips. “I was going easy on you today.” You say before you begin grabbing chips out of the bag. “Want some?”

Mark looks at the bag, his face turning to a grimace, “I’ll… pass.” You shrug and continue snacking before putting the bag away.

”Suit yourself. Feel free to eat whatever I have, just don’t eat it all.” You gesture toward your pantry, his gaze following the direction you point. 

You start to walk away, “Where are you going?” He asks as you pause.

”Pillows? Blankets? I need to grab some extra for myself. You can take my bed.” You look into one of your cabinets, grabbing an extra couple of pillows and a blanket. 

“Is it not your bed though?” Mark asks, frowning.

”Well, yeah, but you’re my friend and my guest.” You smile walking towards your room, and he follows behind you. “I mean with everything you’ve been through recently, I’d feel bad if I forced you to the floor.” Mark remains silent.

You start to create a pile of blankets on the floor, rearranging the pillows how you like them. Mark watches silently. 

“Hey, could you turn my TV on? Make sure it’s muted. As long as the lights aren’t flashing too bright on it I think we’ll be okay.” You ask Mark, he gives a hum of acknowledgment before heading back to the living room.

You finish setting up the makeshift bed before joining him. You look around making sure all the windows are closed and secure before joining him. 

“Oh my God…” You whisper as you watch different clips play out on the TV. These Invincible are destroying cities. You can only stare in shock, you watch as buildings topple over, skyscrapers crumble to the ground, citizens get buried under rubble, and nearby life burns.

What you saw that Invincible in Chicago do was a fraction of the damage.

Mark doesn’t say anything, and the initial glance you took towards him when you walked in reflects that indecipherable look once again. Who knows what he’s thinking? These monsters almost killed his family.

You look over to him to see if he’s watching, his gaze looks detached and uninterested. You turn back toward the TV. “I’m sorry…” You mutter, feeling his eyes turn toward the back of your head.

“For what?” He asks, and he sounds genuinely confused. “You didn’t do it.”

You look back at him, his eyes reflecting disbelief at an apology. “No, but I’m sorry it happened to you.” You look at the screen, showing the burning buildings. It feels like you can hear their screams despite the muted volume. 

He looks at you, not that you can see, as if you're a puzzle. “Why apologize for something you didn’t do? Seems pointless.” He asks.

You look at him, your eyes meeting again, “Sympathy, perhaps.”

--------------------------

DAY THREE

You open your eyes to the blinding light of your window. You blink the sleepiness away before processing that your window is OPEN.

You stand up quickly, tripping over your pillow before you reach to close the window and curtains. You look at your empty bed, perfectly made. 

”Mark?” You call out. You open your door to see him in the kitchen with a mug in hand, windows all open, and lights bright as day.

You gape for a minute before walking over and closing all of them. Once you close them, you turn off the lights, you can still see, but you will admit you kind of missed lighting like that. “What are you doing?!”

Mark looks at you, raising an eyebrow.

You gesture wildly to the house around you, “Uhh I don’t wanna burst your bubble, but we are not Invincible. What are you gonna do if one of those variants attacks us? The attack on your house proves that nobody is safe.”

Mark looks at you uninterested, “Nobody will attack this place.”

”You can’t guarantee that, Mark.” You respond exasperated. “If you could, you wouldn’t be here right now.” You frown as Mark stares at you stoically.

“Look, I’m sorry. I really don’t want to take this out on you, but it’s scary out there. I don’t want to be this paranoid, trust me, but I can never be too sure what will happen.” You sigh looking at him.

“Hell I mean, one of those Invincibles could kick that door down, and we’d be toast. I mean how many even are there?” You ramble.

“Sixteen total.” 

“Sixteen?! Damn.” You exhale in disbelief. “That’s sixteen different Invincibles who could essentially destroy the world. Wait, how’d you even know there are sixteen?” You ask.

Mark gestures lazily toward the TV. “Righttttt, that was a dumb question.” You sigh. Suddenly you pause that train of thought, “Wait, what happened to Eve?”

Mark takes a slow sip of his coffee, “Not sure.”

You frown in concern, “Have you had contact with anybody since they invaded?”

”Just you.” He takes another sip.

”Damn, that’s sad… Do we want to try and contact her?” You ask hesitantly. It doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about Eve.

He shrugs, “Lost my phone.”

You frown, “Oh… Do you wanna. . .” You look up at him, his eyes dead set on you. “You know what, never mind.” You make a mental note to check if you have Eve’s number later, and maybe ask what his whole attitude is about.

“Anyway, were you up long before I got up?” You ask, changing the subject. 

He shakes his head, “No.” He responds. 

“Okay good, I was worried I had slept in or something.” You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. You pull it out and see that Serena sent you a new link, you’re so grateful that she keeps up with news better than you can.

”Hey it seems like the variants disappeared from the cities.” You casually mention, Mark looks up, suddenly interested. 

“Where did they go?” He asks. You shrug in response, reading the rest of the article. He walks over to try and read over your shoulder.

“It seems like they all left at roughly the same time, perhaps something called them. Maybe they have a ‘Boss Invincible’ or something.” You joke.

Mark chuckles humorlessly, “You think?”

“You don’t think that?” You retort, smiling.

“No, I mean you’re probably right.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “It just sounds strange.” He continues.

You nod understanding, “Yeah, but I mean what else could bring them together? They have to have a leader of some kind. This attack seems too coordinated to just be unplanned.” 

Mark sips his coffee loudly, “I guess.” It sounds like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. 

You feel your phone vibrate again. You check it and see a text from William. “Hey, William texted me! You’ll be glad to hear that he is okay.” You hear Mark hum in acknowledgment before opening the message. 

It’s safe. They’re gone for good.

You look at the text message surprised. You have multiple questions.

 

How do you know?

Just trust me on this, I know some people who work with the government. The Invincibles are gone. 

Mark notices your silence, “What is it?” He asks.

You turn towards him, “They’re gone gone. The Invincibles apparently vanished, completely. They didn’t just stop attacking the cities or get called away, they aren’t here anymore. They’re gone for good. ” This catches his attention. 

“Are you serious?” He asks. His eyebrows furrow, is he mad?

”...Yeah.” You pause before confirming. “Are you okay?” You walk up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He immediately tenses up.

“Hey, they’re gone. They can’t do any more damage. Everything will be okay.” You try to reassure him.

He looks down before relaxing. “They’re gone.” He repeats, you nod. “All of them?” He asks quietly, you nod. 

“All of them.”

--------------------------

“What do you mean they’re not all accounted for?” Cecil yells out walking down the hallway as one of the assistants follows closely.

“You mean to tell me that there is still one of those Marks out there?”

The assistant nods frantically, “We accounted for every single one that died, and the ones that were sent to that alternate dimension. There is still one here, and he’s not our Mark.”

Cecil stops walking, “Does Mark know?” He asks.

The assistant shakes their head, “No… We weren’t sure if we should tell him. I thought it was best to tell you first.”

Cecil nods in approval, “I’m glad you did… Do you know where he was last seen?”

“It was the Invincible that destroyed Chicago, he left after decimating that city. We aren’t entirely sure where he went. He could be on the other side of the globe, but we do know he hasn’t left the atmosphere.” The assistant replies.

"Good, we need to see if there’s a way to locate him. For all we know, he’s already aware that his counterparts have been banished. I can’t imagine he’d serve himself up on a silver platter for us to eliminate." Cecil starts walking towards Eve’s room, there’s a large chance Mark is still there. 

“He can’t hide for long, sir. We’ll find him.” The assistant follows closely behind him.

"Like you already said, he could be halfway across the globe. We can’t leave a threat like that lying around ready to strike whenever. We need whatever leverage we can get right now. If we make it public information that he’s wanted, he might just leave the planet."

"I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly feel safe knowing an evil version of Invincible is out there somewhere in the universe. We were unprepared for this attack, next time we’ll be ready." Cecil walks down the hall watching through the windows as more ReAnimen are being created. He continues to walk past them.

“There’s only one of him. We’ll bide our time. Keep me updated on any status updates on him. If you hear anything that sounds like Viltrumite sightings, I need to know as soon as possible. I will spare no expense, understand?”

”Yes, sir.”

[charon-i]

“ LIKE STRAWBERRIES. ” — M. Grayson Part one, part two Info : Slow burn, duh. Mark’s perspective and him being an annoying little freak. General fluff before things get freaky W / C : 2.6k+. A / N : microsoft word didn’t wanna cooperate so i hopped in google docs and got to fucking work. mb for the delay, genuinely started tweaking out when i realized i was already behind schedule LMFAO

“Where do you live?”

The question was genuine and curious, as Mark sat there and let you use him as a lab rat. He was more emotional support than anything, actually, seeing as you didn’t really need to do anything too hard unless it was being the resident doctor. And, to be fair, he hasn’t seen you outside of the GDA unless you were placed out on the field for emergencies. That alone was a rarity.

You don’t even look up at him, sighing, “That sounds creepy. Like, scammer or stalker kind of creepy.”

He ignores the fact he technically is somewhat a stalker, instead focusing on the topic on hand.

“I’m serious. I’ve never even heard you mention anything outside of work unless it’s about Oliver or Eve.”

“Good,” leaning back in your new swivel chair—because Mark had broken the last one by pure accident—you look at him with a bored look in your eyes. “I like it like that. You already know too much.”

Mark shifts on the medical bed, not injured this time, which had become a more frequent thing. He’d drop by more often. Less bloody each time, but with heavier weights on his shoulders. It wasn’t something he bothered you with. Your presence alone seemed to remedy whatever ringing lingered in his ears.

“I don’t know what that means.” Mark shrugs, holding your stare. “The most I know is that you’re here, 24/7, using me as an emotional support pet.”

You snort. “You’re hardly emotional support, Markus. You’re an accessory at best. Every time I turn around, you’re there, and I don’t know why.”

“Do you have to?”

“Yes. I do, actually, because whenever Stedman catches you in here, we both get put on probation. Which is stupid considering I never tell you to come here. You’re like a dog,” You hum and set down your paperwork, done for the day. “And not in a cute way. I’d pet a dog, I’d castrate you.”

He winces at that, unable to help picturing the uncomfortable feeling of that. “That’s rude.”

You nod languidly, spinning around idly in your chair. The one he insisted on paying for because he wanted to know a little more about your preferences. If anything changed at all, if there was something new about you that he hadn’t noticed before and hadn’t made both mental and physical notes of.

“It’s supposed to be, Invinci-Boy,” You smile, but only faintly. It’s a sight that makes Mark pause every time he sees it, even if it’s barely noticeable by the untrained eye. He’s learned to watch close enough that even the smallest uptick of your lips has him stopping, just for a moment.

Over the last few months, he’s made slow progress. Slow, most definitely, but still more progress. You’re not as guarded. Mark himself isn’t sure if you’ve noticed it or not, but he’d prefer the latter. If you ever did notice how you ever so slowly relaxed around him, how you’d smile—despite it always being barely there—the longer he’d stick around. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you you’re wrong about him being like a dog.

Because you’re not wrong.

You’ve got him on a leash, and if you were to tug on it, he would follow.

“Please stop reminding me.”

“So this is your place? It’s. . .”

“If the right words don’t leave your mouth, I will gut you.”

The house itself on the outside was simple. A two story house, a light but faded blue color with a dark roof, actually quite the distance from the larger cities and areas that’d usually have crowds and countless buildings. It looked old. Something that had been passed down, for sure.

The interior, in Mark’s defense, was cute. Floral print walls that were slowly yet surely yellowing, dark wooden floors, and a plain white ceiling. It was cozy. Lived in; which was a surprise, considering how often you’d get to work early and stay late into the night. Years on years of memories scattered on the walls. People you don’t mention. Pictures you don’t talk about. Thoughts you don’t think about anymore.

“You live on your own?” He looks around, and there isn’t really any other indicator of anyone besides you living here besides those photos and decorations. Except for what looked like a cat’s food and water bowl, and a bag of what seemed to be really, really expensive cat food. But he’s not sure if a cat counts as a someone.

You’ve never mentioned a cat before. Mark supposes he should’ve known—you seem like a cat person. You have cat themed pens, and occasionally doodle weird looking animals on your reports to annoy Cecil. Maybe those were cats; even if they looked oddly misshapen. He can’t help but zone out as he thinks about it. Cats suit you, he figures. He buries the little fact deep inside his brain for later.

“I have a cat,” The words are nothing but a murmur as you crouch down, looking at the bottom of your couch with a slight furrow in your brow. With a huff, you reach under and pull out a small cat, which blinked as it woke up. “Her name is Apricot.”

“Apricot,” He repeats, testing the name on his tongue as he watches the cat in question purr and practically fall back asleep as you hold her. You don’t seem as jaded as you do when you are working. Fatigued, for sure, but you seem gentler. Softer around the edges. Something he wants to see every day. He’s surprised you’ve come around to the thought of him, enough to let him in.

It was strange. If it had been a month before this, or hell, a week before, you wouldn’t have trusted him enough. Not even enough to tell him your cat’s name.

As he said before. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

“Were you hungry when you named her, or?”

“I will let her claw your face off, Markus.”

Your home constantly smells of vanilla and something purely you, Mark comes to realize. There is always an extra carton of strawberries in your fridge thanks to him, and every time he drops by, you let him stay a little later. You let him stay until sunset. Then until the moon is hanging high in the sky, and then until the sun comes back up. It’s like you don’t notice, and if you do, you don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything, either. Doesn’t want to. This is something that is meant to go unsaid, Mark decided. It wasn’t every night, but it was definitely frequent enough to notice, even if no one said anything. He’s memorized the main floor of your house—knows the feel of the couch cushions, the smell of your air fresheners, the sound of rain against the windows. It’s something he’d subconsciously etched into his memory. Into the hollow of his bones, really. All the things he doesn’t want to forget.

The sound of both Apricot’s and your heartbeat is cemented into his mind. Mark’s never been much of an animal person, but your cat seemed to be an exception as she purred quietly against his leg.

“Why do you have a whole process for strawberries?”

“Because just rinsing them doesn’t do anything,” You tell him as though he should know, drying off your hands as you leave the strawberries he’d gotten you to soak. It’s become a new piece of your routine. Whether or not you asked, or said no, there’d be a new container of strawberries left on your desk or in your bag.

You couldn’t be annoyed. Not at the fruit, anyway. You usually ended up baking them into something and feeding it to his little brother or Eve, or gave it right back to him just to hear him insist that he share his piece with you.

“I didn’t realize you were a germaphobe.” Mark comments, leaning down to pick Apricot up after she basically tried to crawl up his leg. The joke itself was a lie. You’re a healer, and he’s seen firsthand how particular you are about the cleanliness of your workstation and of the people you interact with. He knows about the little pet peeves that you don’t even know about, the small habits that are second nature to you.

It’s just gotten worse since you’ve let him a little closer. To Mark, it doesn’t matter if you realize how much you’ve come to trust him or not. As long as he can stay in a close proximity, it won’t ever matter. As far as he knows? He’s the only one you’re willing to let invade your space. The one he gets to rant to, even if all he gets in response are mumbles and scoffs—even the taunts and sly remarks you make. He enjoys it. Revels in it, really, and he refuses to have it any other way unless it means getting even closer.

“You’re stressful. Like a toddler.” The words that leave your mouth come out as more of a yawn, and the quiet of your home accompanied by your heartbeat is what peace sounds like to him. “I wish nothing but nightmares and despair on you, Markus.”

“You know you are literally the only person who calls me that. It’s disturbing,” He hums, wandering over into the living room and is secretly delighted by the way you follow behind.

All day, you were working your ass off. Paperwork, Cecil, patients, and a last minute emergency where you had to be out on the field. Healing people with your own two hands seems to drain you, something Mark wishes he’d noted sooner. The solutions you’d made to avoid healing with your hands were depleted, unsurprisingly, with the sudden spike in injuries amongst the heroes.

The amount of times you’d berated people in the last month were too many to count. Still, the insults you would hurl towards his way still amounted to more, and he wouldn’t change that for anything—as dumb as that sounded.

It’s a comfortable silence between you two when you both settle on the couch. Opposite sides, of course, a quiet boundary that Mark couldn’t be bothered to break. Just being this close to you was enough.

At least, that was what he would keep telling himself until it wasn’t enough, and he’d crave more again.

He’d always crave more when it came to you. 

“I’m staying the night,” He rests his head against the back of the couch as he stares at the tv, which wasn’t even on. It wasn’t a question. It didn’t feel like he had to ask anymore, and you never protested. He’d leave if you told him to, but you don’t. Instead, it’s quiet for a few moments, before he can hear you sigh.

“I know.”

Mark can’t help but smile at that, noticing the way you curl up ever so slightly, shifting to get comfortable on the couch as Apricot crawled off of him and onto you. He can’t help but stare for a few moments, even if those moments are something he wants to last forever, and he blinks when you tilt your head to look at him. As usual, it’s blank. Tired, physically and emotionally. You don’t look like this whenever you’re on duty, but it is a look that he’s seen more as he spends more time with you outside of work.

Your heartbeat sounds like peace.

“Go grab the blankets from upstairs, you freak,” You lean your head on your hand as you reach for the tv remote and ignore the way he is seemingly snapped out of a trance. Slowly, he nods and stands up, wordless as he goes upstairs.

There are framed pictures hung on the walls of people. Not people you’ve mentioned before, and probably not anyone you could even remember yourself. They looked old. Aged, despite the moment being timeless and put behind glass and a wood frame to be hung up and looked at by those who could remember them. The wallpaper was somewhat chipped, little pink and blue flowers slowly fading and peeling. Every step he takes makes the stairs creak under his weight, and oddly enough, it feels comfortable.

You keep your blankets folded neatly in your room, on rare occasions. This is, what, the third time Mark’s stayed over? The second time he’d stayed, the blankets were sprawled on your bed, set up in a way you’d probably found comfortable enough to sleep on. He would figure it out at some point. Surely.

You’re still scrolling through movies and shows by the time he comes back down with all the blankets, setting them down beside you on the couch before sitting down next to you. Indecisive on what to put on, or if you even wanted to watch anything as you would doze off.

“What do you wanna watch?”

“Are we friends?”

Both questions come out at the same time, Mark’s voice being quieter than he had originally intended. He can hear the hitch in your breath, sees the way you stop scrolling through mindless television at his question. It’s been a nagging thought for some time, one that’d taken root barely even a month after he had met you a year ago. He wants to pretend that if anytime were a good time to ask, it’d be now.

When your heartbeat is slow and steady, calm and beating. When the creaks in the house have settled, when the sound of Apricot purring soothes the both of you, when he can’t help but feel his fingers twitch with want and feel his chest ache with so many thoughts swarming his head, he just can’t seem to focus on one.

You’d tilted your head slowly, a slight scowl on your face, and Mark can feel a lump in his throat.

He hadn’t felt this type of nervousness since high school—which, admittedly, felt like a lifetime ago after getting his powers, since moving on with his life. It was strange. A creeping feeling up his throat, his spine, his very soul. Down to the root.

“Friends.”

“Friends,” He repeats, nodding slowly. At best, you’d probably call Eve another coworker, Oliver an occasional nuisance, and Mark a constant pain in your ass that refused to leave no matter how much you turned him away.

The quiet that follows makes him want to claw at his throat, and he can feel his cheeks heating up. Whether or not it’s from embarrassment isn’t something he wants to think about right now, because he was certain he’d stopped being embarrassed around you quite some time ago, but it seemed that that wasn’t quite true.

And, again, you sighed.

“You know what? Sure. We’re friends,” You shrug, going back to focusing on the tv after making such a simple statement. As though Mark hadn’t felt like he was going to throw up just a few seconds ago. “Now, what do you wanna watch? Or else I’m putting on those obnoxious sleep noises and wait for a hell playlist to pop up and give you nightmares at like, three in the morning.”

He blinks, mouth opening for a moment before closing, and then opening again.

“Hell. . . Playlist?”

“I can show you. If I have to go through it, you do. I’d have to be smitten by the gods themselves if I didn’t torture you psychologically.”

As if you hadn’t done that enough just by existing, but Mark says nothing. He just laughs—relieved. You were willing to let him just a little bit closer, and that was enough. It had to be enough. Just for now, it was enough.

Until he’d start to crave more, just as he always did.

TAG LIST : @lxluvsmoney @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha @pookiei-bookie @tokoyamisstuff @koilikesthefishy @treeteaofversailles @astrelz @tryingandfailingtowrite @vghjvvhhj

[charon-i]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢’𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭 (𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮) — m.grayson oneshot

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. being mark’s best friend has always been difficult, he’s a nerd. but when he suddenly starts disappearing mid-hangout you can’t figure out what you’ve done wrong.

𝐰𝐜. 4.5k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. you’re acting like a doormat again, generous use of angst, big misunderstandings, feelings of abandonment, mark being a dickhead and not realising what he’s been doing is hurting you, swearing, and then they kiss, after arguing though

𝐚/𝐧. i actually had so much fun writing this darling ( @flwrch1d ), thank you sm! it’s not a lot but i tried my hardest for you 💪🏽

Before everything, it was always the three of you.

You, Mark, and William — the trio glued together by years of inside jokes, movie marathons, and a shared cafeteria table that was somehow always sticky. But really, it was you and Mark who were inseparable.

It wasn’t weird, not to either of you. It just was. Movie nights that turned into sleepovers on the couch. Falling asleep with your head on his shoulder while he quietly changed the TV volume. Late-night walks with no destination, sharing earbuds and arguing over which Studio Ghibli movie was objectively superior— you always won those types of arguments.

He wasn’t exactly popular, but Mark had that quiet, harmless kind of presence that didn’t invite trouble. He wasn’t the smartest, a little awkward, one of those nerds no one hated but no one really hung out with either—excluding you and Will.

But you were his person. The first one he texted when something stupid happened in math class. The one who knew what his hoodie smelled like and the kind of cereal he ate when he was stressed. You made space for him in your life without even thinking. And for a while, it felt like he made space for you too.

But then things changed.

Slowly at first. One missed hangout. Then another. Then a week where he barely answered your texts. He started looking tired all the time — eyes rimmed red, shoulders tense like he was bracing for something invisible. You asked if he was okay. He’d smile, say “just tired,” and change the subject to the newest Seance Dog comic.

You started doing more things without him. William did too. The table at lunch got quieter. Your weekends got longer.

And then you met Daniel.

It was dumb — your pen ran out of ink in chem lab, and he offered you his like it was a grand gesture. He had an easy confidence to him, the kind that wasn’t trying too hard. Funny, in a smug but charming way. You told him a joke Mark once made and Daniel actually laughed. And for a second, it felt nice. Like being seen again.

You never meant to start spending so much time with him.

But Daniel texted back. He showed up when he said he would, at that cafe you and Mark used to go to religiously. He didn’t vanish without explanation. And when you smiled at him, he looked at you like he knew exactly what it meant.

The hardest part? Mark didn’t fight it. He didn’t ask where you were going. He didn’t stop you. He just watched— from across the hallway, across the lunchroom—with that Mark Grayson-specific look on his face.

You’d convinced yourself he didn’t care. But that wasn’t Mark, not at all.

It still hurt, walking past his locker and seeing him laugh at something William said, only to fall quiet the second he noticed you looking.

It all started small.

Daniel offers to walk you to class one day when Mark doesn’t show up in the morning. You’re used to that by now — used to watching your phone screen go dim, unread texts hanging in your chest like anchors on sewing thread. Daniel doesn’t make excuses. He’s just there. Warm smile. Easy laughter. He knows your coffee order, knows you hate the sound of metal chairs scraping on tile. He starts waiting for you outside of lecture halls. Offers you half his lunch.

And you let him.

Because he makes you feel noticed. Present. Not like someone left on the back burner while other things pop up.

It’s not like you mean to pull away from him. Or William, for that matter. It’s just… easier, sometimes. Being around Daniel means no tight smiles, no dodging questions, no waiting for at least a ‘still alive’ text.

Still, every now and then — when Daniel says something funny and you laugh without thinking — you catch Mark watching.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does. But his eyes follow you like he’s trying to decode a language he forgot how to read.

It happens during second period.

You’re in the back row of your history class, seated beside Daniel like you have been for the past few weeks. Mark’s two rows ahead, and slightly to the left — close enough that you can see the curve of his jaw, the way he keeps tapping his pencil against his notebook, like he’s itching to be anywhere else. He always did hate Mr. Jace.

You try not to look. Or at least, not to be caught looking. But it’s hard. Not when a muscle flutters in his jaw like he’s thinking about anything but the Industrial Revolution.

Daniel leans closer, nudging your elbow with his. It snaps you away from Mark, away from the thought of Mark’s hair being longer than it was last time you hung out. Your heart stutters, is he gonna call you out?

“Tell me again why this guy thinks he can teach history through interpretive dance?” Oh.

You snort. It slips out before you can stop it—and for a second, you forget.

“That’s what I used to say to Mark all the time,” you say, grinning. “W–we had this running joke that Mr. Jace choreographed the French Revolution.”

You glance back towards your best friend—your old one—before you can help yourself.

He’s frozen. Completely still.

His pencil is hovering mid-air over the page, like he’s paused in the middle of writing. You see his shoulders stiffen — just barely — and then he presses the pencil tip to the paper hard enough that it snaps. The sound is small, but you feel it in the way Mark’s fingers tremble. In the way those brown hues are cast down straight at the shards of graphite scattered on his book.

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t even flinch at the fact he just crushed a pencil in his fingers. Just calmly gets up, gathers his things, and walks out of the classroom without a word.

You blink. Flinching at the way he slams the door shut behind him. Little wooden bits scatter onto the floor, and a girl at the back of the class shrieks.

The teacher didn’t even notice he left, but he damn well does now.

Your heart starts pounding.

Daniel nudges you again, quieter this time. “Hey… what was that about? Is he okay?”

You shake your head slowly, the joke dying in your throat. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

But you do. You just don’t want to say it.

Because you remember that joke. The dumb one about Mr. Jace tap-dancing through history. Mark used to do it with a fake accent, arms waving dramatically in your living room until you were wheezing with laughter in the throw blanket Mark brought over. It was your little thing, one of many.

And now you’d handed it off — just like that.

You glance back at the door again, chipped at the edges and swinging on its hinges, as Mr Jace huffs and puffs in all his red-faced glory.

The hallway is empty.

You don’t see Mark after that class.

You check the hallway. The stairwell. Even the front entrance of the school where he sometimes stands, where he used to wait for you.

Nothing.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That maybe he just needed air. That he wasn’t angry, just overwhelmed. But the lie tastes bitter, and your phone feels impossibly heavy in your fingers. You glance up at your chem teacher—an older lady with large lensed glasses, she’s too nice for this school—then back at the screen. It’s a selfie of Will and you at Burger Mart, Mark standing behind the counter with your order held out like the world sent him a punishment in the form of his friends. You miss them, both of them. You breathe out a half-sigh half-laugh.

Swallowing your stupid sorrow, you unlock it.

You open your messages and stare at your last conversation with him—from nearly two weeks ago.

You: did you wanna go for lunch at that new cafe today?

You: markkkkk?

You: we can go somewhere else if you want

All left on read. You didn’t say anything after that, didn’t wanna bother him. Maybe he was finally moving on. Better friends or something.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You type something. Delete it. Type again. Biting at your nail as you resist the urge to rip it off entirely.

Finally, you send:

you okay? i saw you leave class

Three dots appear. You sit up straighter, heart kicking like it’s on a timer. You spare a glance at Miss Lily to make sure she hasn’t caught you.

They vanished.

No reply. No message. No explanation.

Just that haunting “Read 2:33 pm” stamp glowing beneath your text like a ghost.

You shove your phone back into your pocket, frustration and something deeper rising in your throat. You sit back into your chair too hard, making the metal legs scrape across the scratchy linoleum, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written in the cracks.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m all good Danny.”

It doesn’t stop you from thinking about him.

It’s worse at night. When the house is still and your phone’s gone quiet. You replay old voice messages—ones you never deleted, where he’s laughing too hard at his own joke or asking you where you are that time you got lost in the shopping mall.

You see him everywhere, too. In the hoodie at the back of your closet that still smells like popcorn and the cologne he used to borrow from his dad. In the half-empty slushie cup in your freezer from the last time he showed up unannounced and dragged you to 7-Eleven “just because.”

You sit at your lunch table now with Daniel sometimes. William stopped sitting with you last week. You don’t blame him. It’s not the same. Maybe Mark said something.

And the worst part is that you still look for him—in the hallways, at his locker, in the corners of your classrooms where he always slouched like the chairs offended him personally. Horrible posture even for a teenage boy. You tell yourself you don’t care. That if he wants to ghost you, fine.

But you do care.

You care so much it feels like grief.

And every time you check your phone, you still hope the read receipt disappears—replaced by something that feels like him again.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement as you and Daniel make your way down the neighborhood sidewalk, your steps syncing in that easy, casual rhythm that comes from walking the same way more than a few times.

Your backpack digs into your shoulder, but you walk slower than usual. You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Drawing out the silence between things. Trying to outrun your own thoughts.

He’s talking about something—a goofy movie, maybe, or how the vending machine still owes him two dollars and a grudge match. You nod along, offering the right laughs at the right places, but your heart’s not really in it. Hasn’t been, not lately.

Because your mind keeps flickering back to Mark.

To that pencil snap in class. To the unread messages. To the way he looked at you like you were a stranger.

Daniel notices your quiet. He always does. For a guy he’s a bit too in tune with your inner workings.

He nudges your arm gently. “You’ve been kinda spacey today.”

You force a smile. “Yeah, just tired. Long week.”

He buys it. Or at least pretends to. “Well, you sure you don’t want me to walk you all the way home?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, slowing as you reach the corner where his street splits off. “Thanks, though.”

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, then just nods. “Alright. Text me, okay?”

You nod and wave as he heads off, then slide your headphones on, turning up the volume just enough to fill the empty space.

The music cushions your walk—from the odd 80’s song to something stupidly sad that you skip because you can’t handle that right now, to ‘Get down on it’ by Kool and the Gang of all things.

You laugh at that switch up, you remember that one time Will, and Mark, were playing blind karaoke and Will somehow, out of all the songs in the world, began singing Pitbull. You were dying on the couch, quite literally. You choked on one of the sour strips you were eating. Mark fell over himself trying to save the day. He did end up saving the day and ending your near-death experience, your ribs were so sore that night.

Your shoes crunch along the sidewalk. Your fingers trail over the stray flower bushes as you pass. You miss those dumb little sleepovers you used to all have. It makes you miss the group.

What you don’t notice, is the footsteps behind you.

Not until you reach your gate—the familiar squeaky latch already at the tips of your fingers—when a haggard voice cuts through the one quiet song in your playlist.

“Please wait!”

You freeze, nearly like a deer in headlight.

Your heart does a strange, sharp flip. He’s a little breathless, like he jogged to catch up, hands tapping at the sides of his sweater you know better than your own. He looks bigger, or maybe the sweater’s gotten smaller. You can’t tell. You slip your headphones off, scratching at the stupid little sticker he put onto it.

His brows are furrowed like he’s barely holding it together. His lip is split—not badly, but enough that you notice.

He’s standing at the edge of your driveway, chest rising and falling like he ran the last block to catch you. His hair’s a little messy, wind-tousled. There’s a quiet desperation in his eyes—the kind that makes your own throat tighten.

“I need to talk to you,” Those bay brown eyes you missed so much flickering all over your face. “Please.”

You stare at him for a second.

Then push open the gate, you take two steps in and when you don’t hear him behind you, you simply turn. Tugging at the loose threads of your cardigan as you watch him. Finally, finally he’s here and you don’t know what to say, or how to feel. So you spit out the first thing you can think of, the way you used to talk to him. Like slipping back into normalcy.

“You coming, or what?”

He blinks like you’ve just broken whatever trance had him frozen in place, then finally moves—quick strides crunching over the cement path behind you. The two of you slip through the side gate like you used to—like nothing’s changed, like the silence between you hasn’t cracked the foundation. The gate creaks shut with that familiar metallic whine, and the two of you are alone in the backyard.

The sky has moved slowly into dusk. The sky’s already dipped into shades of gold and lavender, the edges of the day softening like bruises fading. The backyard is lit by the warm glow of the string lights above flickering to life as they sense the dark. You’d put them up with Mark last spring, threading them between the beams with both your hands dirty from potting soil and pruning the gardens. Your hanging plants sway gently in the breeze—ivy and succulents and little flowering herbs you’ve been nursing for months. Longer than all this stuff, has been happening. Ferns and ivy hang from every corner.

Little ceramic pots painted by hand line the railing, overflowing with green and bursts of colour that slowly blur with the darkening of the sky.

It smells like rosemary and fresh dirt.

Mark lingers by the patio entrance as you step up onto the wood, slipping off your shoes before curling up into one of the cushioned chairs closest to the back door. You don’t invite him to sit. You don’t have to. You know he loves these chairs, not as much as you, but still.

He doesn’t, at first. Just stands there, watching you like you’re the only thing right this moment.

You break the silence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

For a moment, a singular breath between you both, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the soft creak of the wind swaying hanging pots.

He exhales through his nose.

“I’m sorry.”

You cross your arms, eyes fixed on a chipped piece of the wooden patio floor. “For what?”

“For avoiding you, for not answering, for all this stuff that I’ve done.” He pauses, toeing at a stray leaf. He can’t even look at you as he says it. “I just want us to go back to normal.”

You laugh.

Not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only thing stopping your throat from closing. A dry, bitter thing that makes Mark’s shoulders tense.

“Normal?” you echo, your voice sharp. “Mark, you haven’t even spoken to me in weeks.”

“I know,” he says quickly, eyes snapping up. “I know, okay? But it wasn’t because I didn’t care—”

“Then what was it?” you cut in. “Because from where I was sitting, it sure as hell felt like you just didn’t want me around anymore.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he fires back, louder than you expected. He catches himself, fingers curling so hard his knuckles turn white. “God, I didn’t want to drag you into—into the danger, the pressure. I thought if I just… let you go a little, you’d be safer.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Your voice starts to shake now. “You say you’ll meet me and you don’t show up. You never explain anything, you just disappear. You don’t get to disappear, an—and then act like we can just snap back to what we were.”

“I was doing my best!” He starts pacing toward the edge of the patio. “You don’t know what it’s like, okay? Balancing everything. Trying to be there for everyone and still not being enough.”

“And you think I don’t know what that feels like?” You’re on your feet now too, arms at your sides, fingers curled into fists. “I’ve been showing up for you, Mark. Even when you wouldn’t answer me. Even when it felt like I was screaming into a void just hoping for one text back.”

His jaw flexes. He turns, hands gripping the railing, back to you.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You stare at him, your voice dropping, cracking.

“You could’ve said anything.”

The string lights buzz quietly above, casting halos around the plants you’ve poured your heart into, into him. The air feels heavier now, thicker, like it’s trying to hold the weight of everything that’s never been said between you.

“I felt like you hated me,” you say. “Like I did something wrong.”

He turns then, his eyes wide, like the idea guts him. “No. God—no. I never hated you.”

“Well, you sure made it feel that way.”

He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling like he’s been running, but this time, it’s not from chasing you down the block. It’s from running in circles inside his own head. And you’re just… tired.

“You don’t get to play the victim in this,” you say, quieter now, but firmer. “You ghosted me. You left. And you only came back when you saw someone else being there for me.”

That hits. You see it land.

His lips part like he wants to argue, but no words come out.

So you just stare at him. And wait.

Because if this is going to mean anything at all—he needs to mean it.

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit,” you snap.

The word hangs in the air between you, sharp and ugly. You don’t regret saying it.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t glance out at the garden. “You don’t get it. I couldn’t tell you. Not then.”

“Why not? What could possibly be so bad that you’d rather have me thinking you hated me?”

He chews on his words, opening his mouth more than once, it makes you angry. He can’t even find a good reason. Right as you’re about to start up again, he blurts it out. “Because I’m Invincible.”

Silence.

The word falls like a nuclear bomb in a suburb.

You stare at him.

“What?”

Mark steps closer, eyes flicking over your face like he’s watching you come apart. “I’m Invincible. The superhero. That’s where I’ve been. That’s why I leave. That’s why I’ve been gone.”

You’re frozen. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” He’s jumping all over his words, speaking so fast it hurts your brain as you try and figure out, how? “I thought if I distanced myself, if I cut it off before it got serious, I’d be keeping you safe. But I was wrong. I just hurt you.”

You don’t say anything at first. You can’t.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in—everything you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe months, starts clawing its way out of you in shallow breaths and a pressure behind your eyes that refuses to stop building.

“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.

Mark’s face crumples. “What? No. No, I—”

But it’s too late. Your throat tightens and the tears start falling, hot and fast. Not the kind you can wipe away and pretend never happened—these are ugly sobs. The kind that rip out of your chest in pieces, leaving your voice shaking and your hands trembling. You try to cover your face, embarrassed, but your body won’t stop heaving.

“All this time,” you gasp, “I thought I did something wrong. I thought I pushed you away or—God, something. You stopped texting back, you’d look right through me, and I kept trying to pretend it didn’t hurt but it did, Mark. It did, and you didn’t even say anything.”

Mark’s already moving before you finish—stepping forward, arms wrapping around you with a desperation that almost knocks the wind out of you. You don’t fight it. You collapse into him, fists gripping the front of his hoodie, sobbing into his shoulder like you’ve been carrying this pain in silence for way too long.

“I didn’t hate you,” he whispers, over and over again, holding you like the world is ending. “I never hated you. I thought you’d be safer if I stayed away. But it just made everything worse. I’m so sorry.”

His voice breaks at the end.

You cling to him like you’re scared he’ll vanish again, shaking with all the weight of what’s gone unsaid. He just holds you tighter, like he needs you just as badly.

“I missed you,” you manage through the tears, voice muffled by his shoulder. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m here,” Mark whispers, forehead pressing to yours as he holds you so lovingly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You sniffle, the sound ugly and wet and real, like everything else. “I thought you didn’t feel the same,” you whisper, eyes squeezed shut, the warmth of his breath brushing against your face. “I thought maybe you never did.”

His thumb catches a tear slipping down your cheek. You open your eyes, and his are right there—wet and glistening, holding yours like they never stopped trying.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day you made me sit through that terrible romcom and you cried harder than the main character,” he says softly, lips curved with the smallest, saddest smile you’ve ever seen on him. “And I didn’t even care that it sucked because you were leaning on me the whole time.”

You let out a watery laugh, tears still spilling, and he cups your face gently, reverently, like you’re made of glass and starlight and a thousand things he almost lost.

“I didn’t know how to be both,” he murmurs. “A hero and myself. But every time I was out there—saving people, fighting monsters, almost dying—I just wanted to come back.”

You reach up and hold his wrists, holding him now. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” he breathes. “I was scared.”

“So was I.”

He leans in, foreheads still touching, your breath shared under the fairy lights of your backyard. The rosemary sways in the breeze, brushing against your leg like a memory.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You let out a broken sound—half sob, half laugh. “Say it again.”

He smiles through his tears, nose brushing yours. “I love you.”

And this time, when he kisses you, it’s like the sadness finally gives. It’s messy and tear-soaked and trembling, and everything you both have been holding back for too long. His hands are in your hair, yours around his neck, and the kiss is so, so soft but aching—like the words he couldn’t say finally found a way out. It’s messy, so messy but you need this. Need him.

When you break apart, foreheads still pressed together, you whisper, “I love you too.”

You don’t need to ask if he’s staying. You already know the answer.

.

[charon-i]

jason todd x short!reader ⠀ ໑ ׄ ⠀꒱

𝜗୧

you’re so short, you don’t even reach his shoulder. jason doesn’t tease you for it—well, not much, anyway. most of the time he makes quiet use of the difference. pulls things down from high shelves with a gruff “you could’ve just said something.” all the while resting a hand on the small of your back while he reaches for whatever it is you’re standing on tiptoe to grab.

when he’s in a more playful mood, he calls you “half-pint,” “bite-sized,” “dangerously smol”—all with a deadpan delivery like it’s classified intel. it doesn’t stop you from latching onto his arm like a monkey, legs kicking off the ground while he sighs and flexes his bicep, lifting you with zero effort.

you steal his clothes constantly. his hoodie swallows you whole—hits past your knees, sleeves bunching around your hands like paws. he never asks for it back.

in crowds, he keeps a hand hooked in your back pocket or loops his fingers through your belt loop—you disappear too easily in the shuffle. “i lose sight of you for one second and you’re gone,”

more than often, he lifts you onto the kitchen countertop, then stands between your legs as you frame your hands around his face and kiss him until you’re both breathless.

you’re small, yes, but you occupy more space in his heart than anyone ever has.

[charon-i]

silver moon’s sparkling (so, kiss me!)

pairing: mark grayson x fem reader 4.9k

summary: mark decides it’s totally normal to offer to be your fake boyfriend. you decide it’s totally normal to practice kissing for said fake relationship. (all in the name of friendship, of course.) ft. best friends in loveeee + a bit of fake dating

notes: ive been waiting to write a fanfic like this since tom hollands peter parker first showed up on my screen. title from kiss me by sixpence none the richer

“And you’re one hundred percent sure you’re not busy?”

“Yep.” Mark nods quickly, as sweet and sincere as ever. “Make that one hundred and one percent. Could probably multiply that by ten, too.”

You hate his stupid face.

He gives you a sheepish smile, his lips pressed together like he's fighting back laughter. Mark rocks back and forth on his heels while he blinks at you, waiting. He knows you’re going to give in. It’s just a matter of when.

“And you’re sure about your calculations there, Poindexter?” you press on, watching him swing open the door to his room. You stay rooted to the spot, unmoving on the hardwood of the hallway. “We both know how great you are at math.”

He frowns. “Jesus, you fail one quiz and your best friend thinks you don’t know how to multiply. For the fiftieth time, yes, I’m sure.”

“No, your best friend thinks you don’t know how to count. You’ve failed three quizzes, Grayson. There was the one on derivatives, and then the one on—”

“Okay,” he cuts you off before you can read off the laundry list of zeros on his report card. “Leave my grades out of this, please. I’m positive I’m not busy.”

Sick of waiting, he grabs the strap of your backpack and tugs you into the room, snickering when you stumble forward.

You roll your eyes at his manhandling and the way he drops your bag haphazardly on the floor next to his bedside table. Happy he’s gotten his way, he shuts the door behind you with his heel.

“I even left my phone downstairs!” He makes a show of turning the pockets of his sweatpants inside out. “There will be zero distractions tonight, I mean it. No calls, no nothing. I’m all yours for the next… five hours. Or so. Give or take.”

“It’s six PM. Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight, or something? Is that why I haven’t slept over in so long?”

He shrugs, his head tilting sweetly. “Something like that.”

You tilt your head at him, unamused, and he just smiles.

It seems like second nature to him when he pulls you forward and shrugs your jacket off for you. He ditches it on the ground the same way he left your backpack and corrals you in the direction of his bed, further away from the door.

“We’re going to watch this movie from start to end,” he promises, “and I swear the only thing that will take me away from you is if a bomb goes off and blows the both of us up.”

For the past few months, Mark Grayson has done nothing but prove to you that he’s decided to become a terrible liar, completely unreliable, and a bad friend. He’s started cancelling plans last minute, prattling off lame excuses about something he forgot he had to do. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you’ll get to listen to a rushed apology in a voicemail he leaves you.

Other times, you don’t even get a heads up that he’s ditching, and find out he’s ‘not gonna make it’ while you’re waiting for him to show up.

You haven’t spent more than a few hours a day with him since probably the start of the school year, and it sucks.

Mark Grayson sucks.

…And unfortunately, he’s your best friend. Which means you know just how sincere he is when he apologizes (no matter how shitty it is), and know just how badly he wants to make it up to you. He just has no idea how to follow through with it.

You sigh, flopping backwards onto his pillows. You focus on the sight of his ceiling fan instead of his presence at your right side.

The bed dips under his weight, and his frustratingly sweet smile comes into view. He plants one hand next to your head as he slips the remote into your hands, his touch lingering on the skin of your palms. “I swear on my life that I’m not going anywhere. Now, can you pick the movie, already?”

With the way he’s leaning over you, your mind can’t help but drift to the thought of how solid his arms are, all muscle and smooth skin right next to your face. He still hasn’t moved away, and your fingers twitch where they brush against his.

You want to shove him away from you. You also kinda want to kiss him.

Fumbling for the last scraps of your sanity, you reach up with your free hand and tug hard on his ear.

“Fine. Can you shut the window, though?” you ask, tilting your chin to where the pane is slid open.

He pokes you goodnaturedly, happy with your compliance. “Of course, Your Highness. Want me to feed you grapes, too? I can totally fan you with a giant leaf if you’re into that.”

Ignoring his quip, you watch him as he goes, your thoughts lingering on the way his shoulders roll as he stretches.

You get the urge to strangle him.

Not one, but two unwelcome thoughts about Mark in the span of a minute has to be a new record. His absence has made your mind go weird.

“Are you cold?” he asks, as the curtains settle against the wall again. It’s a serious offer when he says, “I could get you a hoodie, if you want.”

“No, thanks. But since your phone shut off, I’m half convinced a carrier pigeon’s going to fly in here to tell me you have to go.”

A look comes across his face while he squints out the glass, his eyes darting both ways down the street. “Uh—we’ll shut the curtains for good measure then, yeah?”

“Hm. Thanks.”

You choose a random romcom from one of Mark’s fifteen streaming services, and it’s forgotten about immediately after you put it on.

You lay propped against his headboard, and Mark sits with his back to the TV at the foot of the bed. The floor behind him is littered with popcorn he didn’t manage catching in his mouth.

“Walsh and Cassie?” Mark repeats, his mouth full. “You’re kidding.”

“Gross, Mark, chew first. You’re gonna choke,” you complain, poking your heel into his stomach.

He rolls his eyes while he swallows. “My bad. But can you blame me? Who caught them?”

You lean forward, grinning. “The soccer coach.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“I swear! They were just going at it in the parking lot after his game, apparently. Poor Coach M.”

Mark squeezes your calf where it rests over his lap, and you toss him another piece of popcorn that he’s lucky enough to catch.

A few seconds of exaggerated chewing later, he says, “I’ve really missed a lot at school, huh?”

“No shit,” you say, your eyes moving to the TV for the first time in a while. It’s a flashback to what’s probably the 80’s. “That’s what happens when you miss class half the time.”

He drags his knuckles against the skin at your ankle, smiling when you jerk, ticklish.

“I don’t skip school that much,” he defends, one hundred percent serious.

You can’t help it—you laugh.

“Dude, you haven’t shown up in so long that someone’s started sitting in your seat in Spanish.” You brush crumbs off the blanket while Mark turns back to look at you, his brows furrowed. “He thought it was empty.”

He inches closer to you, confused. “What? Who?”

“Uh, Brian. You know him, he—”

He blinks. “That—the asshole with the mullet? He’s sitting in my seat?”

You make a face. “Are you being serious?”

All he does is move even closer to you, resting his hands on your bent knees, waiting for your explanation.

“He’s not an asshole, Mark,” you defend, picking a piece of fuzz off his sleeve. “And what was I supposed to tell him, no?”

His eyes morph into appalled pools of brown. “Yeah, kinda. Did you forget about that time he almost concussed me?”

You groan. There’s absolutely no way he’s bringing this up again. “We were eight and he accidentally hit you with a pitch in Little League.”

“Believe it or not, I was there. He was a little child asshole back then, too.” Mark squints at you. “And I still haven’t forgotten the way he was with you. Pushing you down slides and pulling your hair. What a dick.”

He says it so seriously, you’re kind of endeared. Mark’s really been holding a grudge against some kid for being mean to you ten years ago.

“Okay, fine,” you huff, trying to watch the movie around Mark’s massive head. He’s purposefully sitting in front of you like this to annoy you, and—is being this close to you really necessary? You tug at your sweater, feeling hot. “He might’ve sucked when we were kids, but he’s really nice now, okay? Even William agrees.”

“He’s got William on his side, too?” he cries, sounding downright horrified.

“Come on, Mark—”

“I can’t believe this. You’re letting this guy replace me.” He gives you a very pointed look when he adds on, “The next thing I know, we won’t be allowed to hang out because he doesn’t want us to.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” You place a soothing hand on his shoulder, though it’s not very effective. He’s still frowning, the thought of Brian weaseling his way into your lives irking him. “He’s fine. And he’s not stealing me away, he’s just—”

Mark stares at you, waiting for you to continue. The movie drones on in the background, playing a pop song from the early 2000s.

You blink at him, retracting your hand. You’ve said too much.

“He’s just… what?” Mark repeats, pushing you to continue.

“Nothing,” you insist, wanting to slap your hands over your face. “It’s nothing.”

You really hoped you wouldn’t have to have this conversation with him, but you’re just as shit at lying as Mark is.

You press two fingers to his jaw, trying to direct his gaze back to the TV, and find that you’re met with a surprising amount of resistance.

You poke at his neck. What the hell is this guy made out of?

“Whatever,” you continue, switching topics, “did your mom ever find that shirt I left here? The one with the stripes?”

“You can ask her when she gets home,” Mark says slowly, so close to you now his chest is pressed against your shins. “But c’mon. What were you gonna say?”

You feel pinned by his eyes. He looks half ready to physically drag the words from your larynx himself.

You slide up his headboard, practically sitting on top of the pillows. “It’s not a big deal. He’s just… we’re going out this weekend.”

You thought you had shocked Mark earlier with the news of your classmates’ parking lot hookup. Turns out, the expression on his face then would be nothing compared to the look he’s giving you now.

“You’re what?”

The sentence comes out so quickly, you wince. “He asked me out last week. We’re going to the movies.”

“And he asked you out… during Spanish class?”

“Yeah.”

Mark drags a hand down his face. Overdramatic and clearly distraught, he gets up from the bed to pace the length of his room. “I can actually never miss class ever again. Is this dick blackmailing you, or something?”

You roll your eyes, watching as he nearly wears a hole into his carpet.

“I just don’t get why you’re going out with him. Like, out of all the people that go to our school.” Mark sits back down on your left side and sighs like he’s just come back from a long day of work. “He sucks. And you’re just… the opposite of him.”

Ugh. He’s kind of cute, stressed out about this, his elbows resting heavy on his knees. The pads of his fingers massage circles into his forehead, like the thought actually pains him.

“Don’t worry, Romeo, I’m only doing it to get back at my ex.”

Mark turns slightly, an eyebrow raised. “What? What does he have to do with this?”

“He and Brian are best friends. I’m just being petty,” you admit. “He came into Giordano’s with his new girlfriend. Passed on a free table just so he could sit in my section.”

Even though he’s still clearly upset at the thought of your date, he still reaches over to rub your arm in sympathy. “You should’ve said yes when William offered to hit him with his car.”

You smile at him, sitting forward to squeeze his wrist. “It’s whatever. But I’m only going out with his friend to piss him off. We aren’t getting married anytime soon, so don’t worry.”

“I don’t care what the reasoning is. You deserve better than going out with a loser.”

Seated close enough now, you move a loose strand of hair out of his face. “I’m glad you think so. But I’m still seeing it through, so.”

Mark very clearly wants to say more, but you climb over him to grab the remote and crank the volume of the TV up, effectively ending the conversation.

You toss it back over to his bedside table and stare at him until he has no choice but to lay down too, your sides pressed together just enough that you can tip your head onto his shoulder.

Mark makes it all of fifteen minutes before he brings it up again. You feel his lips ghost by a few inches from your ear while the characters argue in a bar.

“Hey,” he whispers, before pulling back.

You hum.

“What if you got back at him in another way?”

“Mark, I already told you I’m not breaking any laws.”

“What? No. I meant… I think instead of going on a fake date with Brian, uh—”

You look over at him. His eyes are dead set on the screen again, though you can tell he isn’t actually watching.

“You could… Jesus,” he cuts himself off, frustrated. “Just don’t go out with him.”

The tail end of that sentence is lost somewhere in his head. You nod at him. “Because?”

“I could fake date you, instead.”

The two of you go silent.

Your eyes trace over every square inch of his face, looking for the slightest upturn of his lips, or the faintest twitch of his jaw — any sign that he’s messing with you.

All he does is look back at you, the beginnings of… embarrassment creeping into his features.

“I mean, he totally hated my guts, didn’t he?” Mark continues. “If we dated — uh, fake dated — it’d probably have the same effect.”

Your time with your ex had been… interesting. He’d only been your first boyfriend, but even you know it shouldn’t have been that much of a disaster.

The guy already had a mile long list of red flags, but what had truly ended the relationship was the way he had treated Mark.

From day one, your ex made it clear he had it out for him. The weird comments had started as just about him, like how he was shit at driving or had said something irritating. But it wasn’t long until the digs started including you and your friendship with him.

He was convinced you were acting like way more than friends, and out of fear of losing your first ever relationship, you ghosted Mark.

It ended up making you feel like actual shit, though, and only lasted a week. Even though you’d basically stopped seeing Mark altogether, your ex-boyfriend couldn’t go a day without bringing him up — there was always a comment about the way he was always asking about you, or ‘staring at you for way too fucking long that it was starting to get creepy.’

You came to your senses sooner or later, and in the end, Mark was kind of the reason you broke up with your boyfriend.

Now, the thought of pissing him off by doing something as simple as pretending to date your best friend…

It was all too perfect.

Your face splits into a grin. “You would… you’d actually be my fake boyfriend just to help me be petty?”

Mark nods, relief replacing the short-lived tension in his shoulders. “Yeah, I mean… I’d love to.”

You hit him lightly on the shoulder. “Okay, weird.”

“I mean, it can’t be that hard, right?” His brows furrow, deep in thought. “What’ll I have to do, like hold your hand?”

“I mean, I guess. We’ll probably have to kiss a few times in front of him.”

This manages to catch him off guard. “Kiss?”

“If you’re cool with that. What kind of fake relationship would it be if we never kissed?”

There’s a few seconds of silence while Mark turns the thought over in his head. “Yeah. I guess you're right.”

His jaw clicks, like something’s still nagging at him.

“Is that okay with you?” you ask, and he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling lightly.

“‘Course it is. You’re you. It’s just kind of weird, knowing that I’m going to kiss you in front of your ex. The same one who threatened to show up to my house after I walked you to class once.”

You fake two punches to his chest just to see the upwards twitch of his lips. “Aw, don’t worry. You can handle him.”

“Pfft. I know that. But, what if he doesn’t buy it?”

Definitely a possibility you hadn’t considered. After all, you’d only seen your ex and his girlfriend last week. If this was going to work, you and Mark would have to convince him.

“We could always practice kissing, then,” you offer. “It could make it look more natural when we have to do the real thing. If you’re good with that.”

Mark shrugs. “Not a bad idea. We might as well go all out, right?”

“Right.”

The two of you nod in sync, mostly to yourselves, though you’re not sure why.

You think you’re trying to psych yourself up for what’s probably going to be the most nerve-wracking moment of your entire life. You have no idea what Mark’s trying to convince himself of.

You’re still sitting side by side, and your right arm feels like it burns where it brushes against his.

Demonic possession is the only way you can explain why you ask, “Could I sit in your lap?”

His lips part slightly, surprise coloring his eyes.

“I just—I think it’d be easier that way,” you rush to explain, your heart racing.

Mark nods again, shifting on his sheets so he’s upright against the headrest. “No, yeah. That’s cool. Great. Come here.”

He taps his knee and gestures for you to move closer, and you have to swallow to clear your throat.

You move on unsteady limbs as you shift to straddle him, sitting back against his thighs. You’re almost startled at how tense he is, the nerves radiating from his skin as you smooth your hands down his arms. His muscles are stretched taut—with stress or anticipation, you’re not sure—so you cup his jaw in the palm of your hand.

There’s the smallest patch of discolored skin on his right cheekbone, the remnants of a bruise he said he had ‘no idea how it got there.’ Mark shivers when you swipe your thumb over it, deep in thought.

“You don’t have to be so worried, you know,” you tease, guiding his hand around your waist. “It’s just us, right?”

When it doesn’t seem like a strong gust of wind is going to snap him in half, you return your hand to the smooth skin of his face.

Seated this close together, you get to watch as his eyes dart over your face, never settling. He inhales and seems to relax a little, tightening the hold he has on your hip.

“Yeah. I just don’t want to do anything you don’t like.”

A sudden wave of sadness washes over you. You’ve never felt so cared for like this, sitting with a boy who is sweet and wants to be good to you.

This is fake, you remind yourself. Mark’s just offering to help you out, as a friend.

“That’s why we’re practicing.” You lean close enough to kiss the apple of his cheek, and his eyes slide shut. “We’ll be pros soon.”

Mark’s hand makes its way to the nape of your neck, urging you even closer. He tips his head up, so close you can feel him exhale, his lips parted ever so slightly.

“We really don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to,” you remind him gently. Your faces are so close together you’d be kissing if you moved an inch. “I didn’t mean to throw this on you like this.”

You think back to ten minutes ago, when he’d been seated so far away an entire bed separated the both of you. You wonder how you ever had been happy without him so close.

“I want to,” he promises, one hand warm against your back. “I really want to. So don’t worry.”

“‘Kay,” you hum.

You’ve both been patient enough.

There isn’t any fanfare. Your head pitches down the slightest bit, and the two of you are kissing.

This one is quick. There’s no way it lasts longer than a few seconds — just a short press of lips while he cradles the back of your head in his palm.

His lips are soft, and it means you’re forced to exercise the utmost restraint to pull away.

You’re quiet at first, frozen at the reminder that you’ve just kissed Mark. For practice.

The tips of your fingers tingle like you’re having trouble breathing.

It takes a second for his eyes to open, but when they do, his gaze darts right down to your lips again.

You let out a sigh, your hand fisting around a tuft of his hair, and it’s like you watch his head clear in real time. Mark leans forward to pull you in, both of his hands reaching to hold your face.

The stream of consciousness going in circles around your brain shifts from normal, coherent thoughts to flashes of your best friend — his eyes, his skin, his voice, his… so on and so forth.

Mark kisses like he’s been deprived of something vital. He sucks lightly on your upper lip and you go limp, leaning heavy against his chest.

He doesn’t settle for a second. His hands roam your sides before going up to your shoulder blades or down to your thighs, and the cycle repeats, like he can’t sit still.

You feel warmth spread throughout your entire body, like molten rock was just poured into your bloodstream. You wish desperately that Mark had left the window open — you’re burning where you’re pressed against him.

Your hand not woven into the hair at the nape of his neck slides down his chest, and Mark groans against your mouth when the pads of your fingers graze over his sternum.

You wonder if Mark would consider a fake marriage, too.

It’s only when he moves to kiss along your jaw that you manage to catch your breath.

“You’re crazy,” you say, though it comes out as more of a sigh.

He slows but doesn’t stop, speaking into your skin. “Is this okay?”

You feel the vibration of his voice in your throat, and a shiver wracks your entire body. Reaching blindly behind you, you find one of his hands up the back of your shirt and place it over the left side of your chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

Funnily enough, Mark looks… a little tipsy. His face is flushed red, and his gaze is a little unfocused when he looks up at you.

He smiles at you, somehow having the capacity to look shy after letting you pull at his hair and slipping his tongue into your mouth.

“We can’t have that,” he says coyly.

Your ears start ringing when he lowers you down against his bed sheets.

You only regain sentience some time later, when you get too tired to kiss and Mark moves onto laying a line of them down your sternum.

Someone’s lawn mower starts up outside, a low growling sound that cuts through the quietness of the room. There’s the screeching of tires and then the screeching of some sort of animal, and you find yourself tilting your head in the direction of the window.

“What was that?” you say, your head cloudy.

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Mark answers, his mouth at the dip of your neckline. “This house isn’t burning down, and the movie’s still on, which means I’m not leaving this room.”

He’s so determined, you say nothing about how the TV is silent and let your hands smooth over his shoulders as your eyes slide shut again.

“Are you gonna kiss me like this in front of him, too?”

The mention of your ex doesn’t even sour the moment. You feel dizzy.

He shifts back over you to hum against your lips, his lungs made of fucking steel, apparently. “Sure. Against his car in the parking lot?”

He says it so casually, like he’s offering you the last of his fries, or offering to walk you home from his house.

“Funny.”

He laughs. “Can you blame me? I mean…”

Mark freezes, his hands unmoving where they rest on your side and on your thigh. His head pivots, and—

Down the hall, a voice says, “Mark?”

Your head is spinning. You blink, and you’re on the floor next to his bed, the side by his window and furthest from the door. The carpet tickles your shoulder blades as you try to reorient yourself.

What the—

Mark gets up on shaky legs, his eyes wide.

You can’t see her from the floor, but it is unmistakably Debbie standing in the doorway.

You think you stop breathing.

From where she’s standing, there’s no way she can see you where you lay frozen on the ground, but your heart drops anyway.

You can only imagine what the two of you look like, your shirt askew and Mark unable to focus with his eyes. The hair on the back of his head sticks out at an odd angle from how you’d been tugging on it earlier.

He gives his mom a tight-lipped smile, looking like he’s just fallen down a flight of steps.

“You’re, uh—you’re back early,” he says, kicking the sweatshirt he discarded earlier out of view.

There’s a heavy pause, and you thank your lucky stars that the heat of her scrutinizing stare is on her son and not you.

“I called you eight times, but you weren’t picking up. All the roads to the store are closed, so I took it as a sign to order in.”

“Sorry,” he rushes out, his face scrunching in a wince. “I left my phone downstairs on the counter. But, uh, that’s good with me.” He drums his fingers against his sides, a nervous tic. “I can call the pizza place.”

“What’ve you been doing?” she asks, so obviously skeptic it makes your head hurt.

“Nothing much,” Mark lies, as terribly as always. “Just watched a movie.”

“By yourself?”

“Mhm, yeah. Why?”

You glance up at the TV. It’s dark, but a few white words glow back at you.

Are you still watching?

There’s another few seconds of quiet while Debbie considers his words. “No reason. Could you also order some wings with the pizza?”

“Yep. Garlic parm?”

Debbie must nod, because the door creaks as she turns to leave. Mark turns around, running a stressed hand through his already mussed hair.

Before the door shuts, she pauses in the doorway.

As casually as ever, Debbie says your name.

Mark pales. You feel your soul leave your body.

“Uh, what about her?”

“Get her off the floor, honey. And ask her if she wants to stay for dinner.”

The door clicks shut behind her, sending the room into a stifling silence.

It’s only a few hours later, after you sit across from Debbie at dinner and pretend like nothing happened, that you finally ask, “Mark, how did we end up on the floor earlier?”

You’re on your new fake-boyfriend’s bed, watching him vacuum up old pieces of popcorn. Unlike before, his bedroom door is now cracked open a few inches.

He gives you a weird look before laughing, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Uh, I pulled you down, remember? I heard my mom coming up the steps.”

You think back, wracking your brain to the seconds before Mark’s mom walked through the door.

Weirdly, it’s all a blur. All you can remember is him kissing you before you registered the sound of the door opening, and then… you were laying on the carpet.

“It felt like we teleported,” you say, for lack of a better description. You’d been on his bed one second, and somewhere else the next.

He laughs hard, even though you weren’t trying to be funny. “I’m such a great kisser you lost your memory, I guess.”

“Ew, whatever.”

—

notes: one of the scenes at the end is very loosely a spiderman hoco reference lol lmk if u can tell which one. also cartoon characters voiced by steven yeun have taken me many places… i love that guy

[charon-i]

Sometimes he misses you, sometimes he feels he's lost the capacity to breathe without feeling pain where you were supposed to be next to his heart.

Sometimes he just regrets everything that went wrong to turn you two into complete strangers.

Sometimes he hates you.

Sometimes he marks your number but never call.

Sometimes he feels envious when you come back from college and William post a story of you on his bedroom or you on your favourite café, you even hangs out with Rick but you can't send Mark a single text!

Sometimes he dreams of you and how you asked a last time if there was something wrong. Mark never responded. He never found the words, he only can see your face even if your features are a bit blurred on his memories. He still can't connect your young appearance with how you look now, with how much you changed without him.

Sometimes he can smell your favourite bakery and asks himself if you will ever appear with surprise cakes and cupcakes for a movie night, but you no longer appeared on his doorstep to walk to school together, you no longer sit next to him in French class and let him copy from your notes, you no longer live on the house next to his.

Sometimes he hears your favourite artists but he can't hear you bothering him with your favourite songs.

Sometimes it felt wrong when Amber asked about the polaroid he keeps of you in his phone case, he knew she knew, but she never asked that question about the friendship he had with you.

Sometimes he didn't know how to react when Eve touch the bracelet you made for him and he just shuddered. The letters have lost their form, the charms are dull, and the string is dirty, but he could never get it off. He even put it back together when it broke while fighting a villain. He spent two hours searching for each piece.

Sometimes he feels like he's insane. Maybe he's just too stressed. Or it's just the absence of you what makes his body feel numb?

Sometimes he asks himself if you miss him.

Because you left nothing and yet everything, because his room is filled with photos of your shared childhood, little notes you shared, your favourite book next to his comics, one of your favorite plushies sleeps next to him, the mark on his leg is still there from the day you tried to teach him how to use your roller skates.

He still has your favourite earrings on his desk next to a photo.

Maybe one day you'll come back for them.

Maybe one day you'll come back for him.

Maybe one day you will come back to your home inside his ribs.

[charon-i]

SING FOR ME BABY

Summary: The Batboys with a famous musician for an s/o

Pairings: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake x fem! reader.

DICK GRAYSON: Nu Metal

Everyone expects him to end up with a popstar, if anyone famous, someone typically feminine/fashionable to match his charm. They forget they're talking about the og crashout kid. After the incident that sees him stepping away from Robin and, subsequently, Bruce, he spends months thrashing bands like Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park

It's Roy that ends up introducing him to your band when he's suddenly unable to attend the concert he'd gotten tickets for. In typical Dick fashion, he forgets all about it until the day, attending on a whim and becoming a little mortified when he realises 1) he doesn't know any of your songs & 2) you're gorgeous. And oh my god, you're looking at him. You're laughing at him he swears!

He watches you smash a guitar into smithereens like it's nothing and he thinks he's in love. Actually shoves someone out of the way to catch the pick you throw.

It's you who slides into his DM's after the show, one of your bandmates having recognised him. He asks you out almost immediately, who cares if it's a little desperate? This man is determined to have you hanging off his arm by the next Wayne gala.

Being in a band lends you at least some anonymity outside of your fanbase, all of which is completely shattered once you go public with Dick. Not just because he's a Wayne and therefore pretty famous himself, but because he's so obsessed with showing you off, playing your music for anyone that will listen (and the people that don't want to).

JASON TODD: Pop

You're passing through Gotham whilst on tour when the inevitable happens, someone takes the opportunity to kidnap you. Enter the Red Hood, who just happened to be in the area.

Despite the hyperfeminine persona you display for your audiences, you know how to throw a punch. Which is the sight that greets Jason as he bursts through the window of one of the hundreds of warehouses in Gotham picked out by the amateur kidnappers, you, kicking the shit out of a thug whilst still in high heels.

For a few seconds, he forgets he's supposed to be saving you, too busy watching the woman decked out in pink sequins and glittery makeup kick ass. He gets his head in the game when a gun gets pulled and he's pulling you into his arms (totally unnecessary but he's not gonna pass up the opportunity. Hopes you don't notice how bricked up he is.)

You give his helmet a kiss of thanks afterwards, leaving a glossy mark whilst slipping him your number, neither of which he notices until hours later after a full day of patrol. He's never regretted the helmet over the domino mask more.

He can't exactly show his face in your music videos, but you can bet your ass he's not gonna let anybody but himself play the sexy muscular dude touching you up in them.

TIM DRAKE: Indie/alternative

He is the type of guy who sits with his iPad, phone, personal laptop, and even the bat computer open as he waits to snag tickets to your concert. He's getting those motherfucking backstage VIP passes if it kills him (or he has to kill someone else to get them).

Actually cries when he somehow still fails to secure one. Damian takes a photo and posts it on Twitter. Tim's too distraught to even care, that is until you message him. One of your friends showed you the post, and you thought he was cute. Bruce bursts into his room when he suddenly hears hysterical screaming, convinced his son is being murdered, only to back away slowly when Tim yells something about VIP tickets and some singer.

Nearly faints when you ask him out on a date after the show. He's sweaty, dishevelled and a massive mess after having a near-religious experience from hearing you live. He's honestly not convinced he's still alive, blacks out for a few seconds before all but screaming yes! in your face.

This man is your no.1 stan, and yes, that's a title he regularly defends on social media. Especially after you begin dating. Constantly gets into fights with the legions of lesbians who are distraught that you've got a boyfriend.

[charon-i]

Again and Again

Main! Mark "Invincible" Grayson x F! Reader x Variants! Mark "Invincible" Grayson

TW: Violence, Blood, Death, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Angst.

Description, Part 1

Main Masterlist | Invincible Masterlist

"I thought…"

"You thought…?"

You faced a smug-faced Mark, unashamed and filled with pride for his actions. He floated above you, looking down with no regret for what he’d done. This was the 87th time Mark Grayson abandoned you. The 87th time Invincible crushed your hopes.

"I just thought you’d be different. You hadn’t lost anything. You have what may be the definition of a perfect life. I…"

I thought I saved you.

The words stayed unsaid.

You stared blankly as Mark laughed at your little statement. You used to adore his laughter—back when you were kids, cheeks flushing at the way you could bring a smile to his face. Now, you knelt before him, horrified by the same laughter that sounded the same, yet felt so different.

87 variations of Mark Grayson. 87 failures.

"Funny, sweetheart," he mocked, calming down from his fit. "You always know how to make me laugh, don’t you?" He floated closer, stopping right in front of you. "Maybe I’ll keep you."

"No thanks."

In another variation, you let him. You let him treat you like a pet. Let him ruin you. Then, like a bored child, he abandoned you. You were surprised how long you lasted without food or water. A year.

The only thing keeping you alive was the abnormal energy—the one that let you jump dimensions upon death. But even that had limits. Eventually, you succumbed to starvation and dehydration.

So this time, without waiting for another word from Invincible, you wrapped your hands around your neck and pulled—

SNAP.

Invincible’s feet dropped to the ground, your body falling into his arms, neck twisted unnaturally.

"Sweetheart?"

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

"Hey, genius. Mind if you let me borrow your notes?"

You were done with Mark Grayson. You wanted nothing to do with Invincible. That’s what you told yourself when you landed in the 88th dimension. Growing up, you kept your distance from the raven-haired boy—ignoring the clumsy kid that clung to your side.

You held no expectations. You didn’t want to be disappointed again. Betrayed again.

But as the years passed, as that same idiot never left your side, your walls began to crumble—slowly but surely.

Because that’s always the case with him, isn’t it? You can never hate him. You can never abandon him. You never had, and you never will.

So here you were, in class, while he bugged you for calculus notes.

"It’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention, Grayson." You huffed, but handed over your notes anyway.

He smiled brightly and leaned over, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek.

"Gross." You swatted at him. He ran off, waving the notes and yelling his thanks.

You told yourself not to hope this time—but you couldn’t help it.

This Mark Grayson felt different.

He got his powers much later than the others. Debbie’s influence was stronger than Nolan’s.

"You cave in so easily. It’s sad," Amber commented from behind, unamused by the whole interaction.

"Shut up. Don’t act like you weren’t the same when you two were dating," you shot back.

"I only said yes to a couple of things. You say yes to everything he asks."

"I don’t."

"You totally do."

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

[charon-i]

TAKE ME TO YOUR BEST FRIEND'S HOUSE

Pairings: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne x fem! reader.

Summary: So, he might be going against "bro code". He can't help it, though; his best friend's sibling is just too cute.

A/N: Reader can be imagined as biological/adopted/found family.

DICK GRAYSON & WALLY WEST

How Dick hadn't learnt to not leave his phone unattended was beyond Wally, especially when, for a vigilante, the man had such lax security for his personal phone. Nor should he have ever trusted Wally with the password.

Already drafting his absolute PR nightmare tweet on Dick's account, he's mentally rubbing his evil little hands together when his thumb hits the banner notification that pops up on the top of the screen.

My Heart: Thinking about you, come home soon xo

Alongside the text is a photo, a very suggestive photo of a woman dressed in nothing but one of Dick's hoodies. Wally knows because he bought Dick that hoodie, he's also very familiar with the woman in the photo on account of it being his baby sister.

He shrieks, the phone slipping from his slack with shock grip and landing on his big toe.

He doesn't hear the ringtone over his sudden stream of pained expletives, hopping on one foot, until he hears your voice from the speaker.

"Hey babe! You left your hoodie at - "

"YOU!" Wally screams, blubbering incoherently, pointing an accusing finger at the phone like you can see him.

"Jesus Christ," he can practically see you recoiling away from your phone, "Wally?" You've heard enough of your brother's meltdowns over the years that you can recognise him from just a single word.

"YOU, YOU - YOU HARLOT!" You snort at his words, staying silent until his stream of consciousness is finished.

"You done?" You hum, completely unphased at the tantrum Wally's just thrown for the past seven minutes.

"Am I, am I done? No, I'm not done." He squawks, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!" There's a beat of incredulous silence on your end.

"Excuse me? What have I done to you?"

"DEFILED THE SACRED BOND OF BROTHERHOOD IS WHAT YOU'VE DONE, HE'S MY BEST FRIEND"

"The sacred bond of brotherhood? I'm your fucking sibling, you're supposed to attack him, not me!" Wally can't help but notice how you don't deny his words.

"Oh, believe me, Dickhead is gonna get what's coming to him."

"Yeah, whatever, I'm hanging up now, tell Dick I'm getting pizza for dinner."

"Don't you dare - " He doesn't even get to finish his sentence before you've followed through.

"Hey Wally, have you seen my ... phone?" Dick trails off as he spots the item he's looking for in his agitated friend's hand.

"You don’t fuck your best friends younger sibling. That’s like the number one rule of bro code!” Wally shrieked, not greeting him like a normal person, and not giving Dick even a second to realise what was happening before he was being grabbed and shaken by his shoulders.

"I love her." No explanation, no apologies, just pure earnestness and the softest look Wally had ever seen on his friend's face.

The declaration takes all the wind out of his sails, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He drags a hand down his face slowly,

Finally, he groaned and dragged both hands down his face. "Ugh. I hate that you’re so genuine. It ruins my ability to stay mad. Barry's not going to be happy you kept this from him though."

The mental image of the Flash going protective uncle giving him the slightest bit of sick satisfaction, until Dick shatters his dreams by casually saying, "he already knows."

"He what?! Am I the last to know?" Dick makes a show of thinking about it before shrugging with an unapologetic grin.

"Kinda, yeah."

"I'M SURROUNDED BY TRAITORS!" Wally yells, sinking to his knees in defeat.

JASON TODD & ROY HARPER

Nobody had ever accused Roy of being a detective. He might not be as smart as the bats (an impossible hurdle in Roy's opinion), but he wasn't completely fucking stupid.

An unfortunate reality for his sister, who he'd caught sneaking into the Titans Tower at the ripe time of 4:47 am, wearing a familiar leather jacket with a bullet hole in the sleeve. A jacket that could only mean one of two things.

You had joined a biker gang.

You were dating Jason Todd, AKA, his best friend, AKA dead fucking meat.

Because while option one terrified him, he'd still prefer it to the option he had a sinking suspicion about was actually correct.

The next afternoon, he finds Jason working out in the Tower's gym, and he grins wickedly. Bastard didn't even have to make Roy track him down.

"Hey, Roy." Jason greets, never once faltering in his reps, entirely unbothered, like he hadn’t committed emotional treason.

Roy thinks he could be forgiven for his following action, he could have done a lot worse than picking up the nearest kettlebell and throwing it at his unsuspecting friend.

"WHAT THE FUCK ROY?" Jason screeched as he dove for cover.

"YOU’RE DATING MY SISTER?!"

"Um, what?" He squeaks, before clearing his throat, "I mean... I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't try to gaslight me!" Roy jabbed a finger at him, seething. "You're supposed to be my best friend, and you went and... and started... canoodling my sister."

Jason’s brows shot up in amusement despite himself. "Canoodling?"

"Don't try and deflect either." Roy flushed as red as his hair.

"I’m not—well. Okay. I am. But in my defense, it wasn’t like I planned to fall for your sister."

"Have you kissed?"

Jason contemplates lying but bites the bullet and nods.

Roy gasped like an old lady hearing someone say cunt. "ON PURPOSE?!"

Jason gave him a flat look. "No, Roy, I tripped and fell. Of course, it was on purpose. More than once, too." He smirks, unable to stop himself from prodding the bear.

Roy spasms.

"Ok, let's not make this weird." Jason huffs.

"Make this weird? It's already weird, we're neck deep in it, NAY!, We're drowning in it!"

"Oh dear god," Jason sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and speaking before he can think better of it, "I love her."

Roy chokes, Jason startles, clearly surprising, even himself, "Oh my god, I love her."

There's a heavy, pained silence before Roy croaks "... Bro"

"I know." Jason tugged at the roots of his hair.

"…BRO." Roy was trying to prevent a panic attack, his panic fuelling Jason's.

"I know."

"You love me?" A slightly giddy voice breathes from the doorway.

Both men groan for different reasons as they spot you bouncing toward them.

"Babe, I -"

"I love you too," you beam, throwing your arms around Jason's neck and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Roy gags, forcing you to pull away. "God, this is gonna ruin every group hang for the rest of my life." He whined.

"Nah. You’ll get used to me kissing your sister in front of you."

"I SWEAR TO GOD —"

TIM DRAKE & CONNER KENT

Conner's knee is jiggling furiously. From across the room, Cassie raises a questioning brow, but Conner makes no effort to stop as he checks the time for the fourth time in less than three minutes.

You're late. So is Tim, but it's not him Conner's worried about. You're never late; you've always been a perpetually early person, and you always get so anxious if you aren't. Conner knows, having been on the receiving end of your time-anxious meltdowns more than once.

"Dude, calm down, they're not even five minutes late yet," Bart says, looking at him as if he's the weird one here, when clearly, something terrible has happened to you.

You've been in a car accident (you don't drive), you've been shot, (you're bulletproof), you've been taken hostage by Lex Luthor (plausible), you've -

"Hi guys, sorry I’m late, I slept through my alarm." You laugh bashfully, avoiding Conner's gaze, which narrows in suspicion.

"That never happens." He scowls, his enhanced hearing picking up the slight stutter in your heartbeat.

"Well, it did today." You rolled your eyes, crossing the room to sit next to Cassie.

Barely two minutes later, a harried-looking Tim scurries through the door, brushing his sweaty hair from his face, and in doing so, accidentally reveals a hickey just beneath the neckline of his shirt.

It's only for a second, but that one second is all he needs to connect the dots.

"No." He says, glaring at Tim as everyone else, including you, watches in confusion.

"No?" Tim repeats.

"NO!" Conner snarls, jumping up from his seat and pulling down the neckline of Tim's shirt to display not one, but three love bites.

"YOU’RE SLEEPING WITH MY SISTER?!"

"Technically, there wasn't much sleeping involved - " Tim mutters, with absolutely zero regard for his well-being.

"I trusted you with my life, and you go behind my back to DEFLOWER MY INNOCENT BABY SISTER?!"

"You're the same age?" Tim mumbles at the same time you scoff.

"Deflower? Innocent? Are we living in the Middle Ages? Are you my owner?"

"Stay out of this!" Conner whirls on you, his gaze dangerously red.

"Stay out of my own sex life?" You guffaw, ignoring the way Conner puffs up like an angry cat. "Besides, Tim's hardly my first."

Your words are enough to shock your brother enough that he drops Tim, reeling back with a hand on his chest like he's suffering a heart attack.

You take the opportunity to scoop your partner into your arms, flying away before Kon can recover, until you reach the safety of the bed you've both only just left.

"I think he's actually going to kill me." Tim mumbles, burying his face in your chest.

"Hmm, guess you''ll just have to keep me around forever, for protection."

"Sounds perfect." Tim dreamily says, clutching you even tighter in contentment.

BRUCE WAYNE & CLARK KENT

Once, there would have been a time when interviewing Gotham’s Bruce Wayne would have left him an anxious wreck, but now, Clark relished in the opportunity. Giddy that his best friend, no matter how much the man denied it, would turn to him (him! A Metropolis interloper), instead of someone like that tart Vicki Vale.

(That thought has him mentally apologising to his ma for his crudeness, but what she wouldn't know, couldn't hurt her.)

Needless to say, Clark was excited to have been given the chance, and he refused to squander it.

They were in Bruce's "office," a room they both knew he hardly ever even stepped foot inside, but had occupied to keep up the facade.

A brilliant facade it was, Clark thought in amusement, as he watched Brucie Wayne ramble on earnestly. Nobody would ever suspect the man, reaching for his wallet to pull out a picture of his kids in an interview on Wayne Enterprises' newest ventures, to be the fearsome Batman.

Clark, ever affable, just smiles, nodding along until a second picture flutters onto the desk. Bruce freezes, his perfected mask slipping just a fraction, but enough for Clark to notice as the unshakeable man's eyes widen in sheer panic.

Bruce was composed. He was always in control, a master of self-control. Bruce was unflappable, he had a plan for everything.

Bruce, evidently, did not have a plan, beyond freezing in horror, for when an intimate Polaroid of his girlfriend, Clark's sister, landed face up on the table between them.

You're wearing one of his button-up shirts, seated sideways across Bruce's lap, the man's large hand clasped over your thigh, as you stare up at him like he's your whole world.

Clark paused, staring at the photo on the desk like it was a live grenade.

Bruce, very carefully, snuck a hand out to retrieve it. Only to be thwarted by Clark's superspeed. He holds it between his thumb and his index finger like it might bite him, the blinding grin never once fading from his face.

Bruce thinks it's the most terrifying Clark has ever looked.

There's a long pause, with Bruce mentally calculating how long it will take before he has some Kryptonite on his hands and whetehr or not Clark will flatten him before then.

"Oh my god," Clark said.

Bruce grimaced. "It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you're dating my sister."

"Ok, it's exactly what it looks like, but—" He cuts off once more as Clark speaks with surprising giddiness.

"You carry her around in your wallet. Like a real boyfriend, it's sickeningly sweet."

Bruce opened his mouth, closing it and opening it again repeatedly like a stunned fish as he blushed a brilliant red.

Clark wasn’t finished; if anything, he looked like Christmas had come early.

"Is there more?" Bruce stiffens, "There is! Do you have a shrine? I bet you have a shrine!"

"Clark."

"Is it in the batcave?"

"Clark."

"What about a scrapbook? Is she on the manor walls yet?"

"Clark."

"Do your kids know? Wait, am I the last to know?!" He seemed genuinely hurt by that thought.

Bruce looked up at the ceiling like it could save him from the confrontation; he thinks he'd rather fight than... whatever the hell, it is Clark's doing.

[charon-i]

ONG DUDE CAN YOU PLEASE WRITE GOOGLE-LESS/LENSLESS MARK PLS I'M BEGGING I LOVE YOUR WRITINGS 🙏🙏

HOW TO (NOT) CONFESS YOUR FEELINGS VIA ATTEMPTED MURDER

pairing goggle-less! mark grayson x gender neutral reader

they say violence is a love language—and yours is practically poetry. mark grayson knows this better than anyone. (or: the one where you punch him in the face daily and he still looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

the sun is barely up, casting a weak orange glow through your half-open curtains, and you already want to punch mark grayson in the face.

it’s not even his fault this time (which is rare, because usually, it is), but the way he’s sprawled across your bed like some overgrown golden retriever—limbs everywhere, taking up way too much space—grinning at you like he knows exactly how much he’s getting on your nerves, it’s infuriating. his hair is a disaster, sticking up in every direction like he just flew here at top speed (he probably did), and oh look, he’s stretching out another one of your favorite shirts because now he’s got more muscle on him, thanks to his stupid viltrumite genes and training. he’s got that look in his eye, the one that means trouble, the one he’s had since you were both dumb kids throwing rocks at each other in second grade.

back then, you hated him. or at least, you told yourself you did. he was loud, obnoxious, always pushing your buttons just to see how far he could go before you snapped. but even then, there was something about him—the way he never backed down, never flinched when you shoved him, punched him, kicked him, just laughed like your anger was the best thing he’d ever seen. you told yourself it was annoying. you told yourself you couldn’t stand him.

(like that one time in fourth grade, when your parents forgot your birthday—again. you sat alone at lunch, picking at the sad little cupcake your nanny had packed for you, trying to ignore the hollow ache in your chest. then he showed up, grinning like an idiot, elbowing you hard enough to make you drop your fork. "what’s your problem, grumpy?" he’d teased, and something inside you snapped.

you don’t even remember who threw the first punch. all you remember is the scuffle, the way your knuckles stung when they connected with his jaw, the way he laughed even as his lip split open. the teachers dragged you both to the principal’s office, scolding you for fighting, but you didn’t care. you were too busy simmering in your own misery, glaring at the floor like it had personally wronged you.

then, out of nowhere, mark nudged you. when you didn’t look up, he nudged you again, harder. 

"hey," he whispered. you finally glanced over, ready to snap at him—only to freeze when he dropped something into your lap. a small, slightly dented action figure—the limited edition space knight you’d been obsessing over for months but could never afford. its paint was chipped at the edges, one arm loose in its socket, but it was unmistakably yours, the one you’d pressed your nose against the toy store window for, the one you’d never admitted out loud that you wanted.

your breath caught.

mark’s grin was crooked, his split lip still smudged with dried blood. "saw it at the thrift store last week," he said, like it was nothing. like he hadn’t remembered. like he hadn’t carried it around in his backpack just in case. "figured you’d wanna beat it up or whatever. y’know. since you like breaking my stuff."

you stared at it, your chest too tight. idiot, you thought. absolute idiot.

(you still have it, tucked away in your desk drawer where no one can see. even now, you’ll sometimes take it out when you’re alone, turning it over in your hands, pretending you don’t smile.)

his smile was bright, warm, completely at odds with the bruise forming on his cheek. "happy birthday," he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

you never asked how he knew. you never thanked him either—just scowled and jammed the figurine deep into your pocket before the principal dragged you in. but that night, alone in your room with the door locked, you carefully glued the loose arm back in place, smoothed out the chipped paint with your thumb, and spent way too long arranging dramatic battle scenes on your bedsheets. you told yourself the wetness on your cheeks was just from yawning too hard.)

now, at seventeen, you know the truth: you never stood a chance.

the memory fades like sunlight through closing fingers, leaving you staring down at mark where he’s still sprawled across your bed, grinning up at you like an idiot who’s won some secret game. he waits, smug, until the silence stretches too long—then he chuckles, tilting his head just enough to make his stupid hair catch the light. "did you even hear what i said?"

you roll your eyes so hard it aches, turning back to your homework like the scattered papers and dog-eared comics might save you. your desk is chaos—pencils chewed at the ends, textbooks splayed open to the wrong chapters, a half-finished doodle of (embarrassingly) mark in the margins. it’s as messy as the thoughts in your head. "i’m sure it wasn’t anything important anyway."

your brows furrow deeper, teeth gritting just slightly when mark laughs—that laugh, the one that starts low in his chest and spills out like he can’t contain it, bright and reckless as a car crash you can’t look away from. it hooks under your ribs, warm and irritating, like sunlight burning through closed eyelids. you hate it. (you crave it.)

mark's laughter settles into quiet huffs, but he doesn't look away. no, it's worse than that—he's studying you like you're some priceless artifact behind glass, his gaze tracing the curve of your frown, the way your fingers twitch around your pencil, the barely-there flush creeping up your neck. it's not piercing. it's reverent. the way morning light memorizes every detail of a landscape it's about to paint in gold, the way a poet lingers on a favorite verse, committing each syllable to memory. it makes your skin prickle, makes you want to both hide and lean closer.

then,

"how do i know if i have a crush on someone?" casual as anything, like he hasn't just turned your room upside down with his presence yet again, like he hasn't made himself at home in your space, in your head, in the quiet places between your ribs where you store all the things you'll never say out loud.

you glare hard enough to bruise, knuckles whitening around your pencil. "not my problem," you mutter, but the words lack their usual bite. when he just keeps looking at you with those stupid hopeful eyes, you cave with a growl. "fine. you can't stop thinking about them. you feel all...weird when they're around. and then you want to—" your voice catches as you finally register his expression, the softness there that wasn't there before. "—why are you looking at me like that."

because he is. looking at you like you're the last firework of summer bursting against a midnight sky—all spark and glow and unbearable brightness. that stupid, lopsided grin cutting across his face like he knows a secret, eyes crinkled at the corners and focused with terrifying intensity, like you're the only thing in this messy room, in this entire city, maybe in his whole damn universe that matters. it makes your stomach swoop like you're falling from a great height, makes your pulse stutter in that traitorous way you'll never admit out loud, and you hate it. you hate how warm it makes you feel. you hate how much you don't hate it at all.

"no reason," he says, but the words dance with barely contained laughter, too light and too amused and too everything. he props his chin on his palm, fingers drumming an absent rhythm against his cheekbone, still watching you with that infuriating focus. "just thinking."

"thinking is dangerous for you," you snap automatically, your hand already moving to flick his forehead hard enough to sting. but he doesn't even blink—just leans into the contact like a cat seeking pets, his laughter bubbling up like carbonation in a shaken soda can. ever since the viltrumite blood decided to make him near-indestructible, he's become absolutely insufferable, turning every shove, every punch, every irritated smack into some twisted game where the prize is the way your hands linger a second too long against his skin. (and you know he loves it. the freak. the absolute, irredeemable, beautiful freak who makes your chest ache with something terrifyingly close to affection.)

if people knew this was invincible—son of omni-man, earth's 'golden boy', the living weapon who could level city blocks before breakfast—they'd piss themselves at the thought of laying hands on him. they'd tremble at the idea of shoving him, of snapping at him, of treating him like anything less than the walking natural disaster he is. but you? you've never been normal. and this isn't invincible. this is mark. the same mark who used to eat glue sticks in second grade, who cried during disney movies, who still sleeps with that ratty old seance dog poster above his bed. you knew him when he was just a scrawny kid with scraped knees and too-big dreams and questionable morals, and that knowledge makes him somehow more terrifying than any superpower ever could. maybe that's why you're like this—two fucked-up puzzle pieces that somehow fit together despite all the jagged edges.

"c'mon," he says, rolling onto his back with that infuriating, effortless grace that shouldn't belong to someone so stupidly powerful. his arms stretch above his head, muscles flexing beneath golden skin as his stupid shirt (your shirt) rides up—revealing the sharp v of his hips, the tantalizing trail of dark hair leading south, that unfairly sculpted abdomen that looks like it was carved from marble by some greek god with too much time on their hands. you can see the way his sweatpants sit dangerously low on his waist, the faint outline of—nope. absolutely not. you swallow hard, throat suddenly dry, and pointedly focus on your homework like it holds the secrets of the universe instead of just random scribbling.

"you're the expert on this stuff, right?" he continues, completely oblivious (or more likely, completely aware) of what he's doing to you. his voice drops into that teasing lilt that makes your stomach do backflips. "so tell me more."

"expert?" you scoff, digging your nails into your palms just to feel something other than whatever the hell his smile is doing to your insides. "what, because i've rejected every loser who's ever asked me out? because i don't fall for cheap lines and emptier promises?"

"because you're you," he says, simple as breathing, easy as gravity. like it's the most obvious truth in the world. like you hung the stars yourself instead of just being some messed-up kid who never learned how to love gently.

(it makes your chest ache something fierce, a dull throb beneath your sternum that feels suspiciously like hope. you crush it immediately, shoving it down deep where it can't ruin you.)

"shut up," you mutter, grabbing the nearest pillow and swinging it at his face with enough force to knock out a normal person. but mark isn't normal—he's mark, so he just lets it smack into him full-force, the impact sending his stupid hair flying in every direction while that infuriating grin never wavers. if anything, it grows wider, like you just handed him a gift instead of attempted assault with a throwable object.

"see, this is what i mean," he says, voice muffled by the down-filled fabric still pressed against his face. when he finally pushes it aside, his cheeks are flushed pink from the impact, eyes sparkling with something dangerously close to affection. "you're so violent with me. it's kinda cute." he says it like it's a revelation, like he's just now realizing how your sharp edges fit perfectly against his soft spots. because that's the thing about mark—he's invincible to the world, but for you? for you, he's always been vulnerable. he loves the way your punches linger a second too long, how your insults carry the weight of inside jokes, how every shove and smack and pillow-to-the-face is just your fucked-up way of saying 'i care' without having to say it at all.

"i will end you." the threat would carry more weight if your voice didn't crack halfway through.

"you won't." his reply is instant, smug, accompanied by that look—the one that says he knows you better than you know yourself.

you growl, grabbing another pillow and launching it at him with all the pent-up frustration of a thousand unresolved tensions. but this time he catches it, his laughter bubbling up as he yanks it toward him—and because the universe hates you, the momentum sends you stumbling forward until suddenly you're way too close, noses almost brushing, his stupid warm eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that steals the breath from your lungs. his grip on the pillow tightens just slightly, and for one terrifying, exhilarating moment, you think he might actually close the distance between you.

your heart does something unforgivable—a traitorous somersault that leaves you breathless, your pulse hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape. you can feel the warmth creeping up your neck, the way your palms suddenly feel too clammy against his stupidly firm chest.

"...you're the worst," you mumble, but the words come out all wrong—too soft, too fond, lacking their usual venom. your voice betrays you, cracking just slightly at the edges like it always does when he gets under your skin like this.

"you love me," he counters immediately, that smug, shit-eating grin spreading across his face like wildfire. he says it like it's fact, like it's written in the stars or carved into the fucking constitution, and the worst part is he's right. he's always been right.

you shove him away with more force than necessary, desperate to put space between you before he notices the way your face burns hotter than a supernova. "in your dreams, grayson," you snap, but the effect is ruined by how your voice wavers.

he just laughs—that bright, unrestrained sound that makes your stomach do backflips—before flopping back onto your bed like some overgrown golden retriever, limbs splayed out like he owns the place. and you could kick him out. you could scream, could throw his stupid jacket at his head, could pretend he means nothing to you like you've done a thousand times before.

but you don't.

(because the truth is, you'd rather die than admit it, but he's carved out a space for himself in your chest, nestled right between your ribs, and you can't remember what your heartbeat sounded like before it learned to sync with his. the truth is, you're terrified of how empty the world would feel without his laughter echoing through it. the truth is, you're so, so fucked.)

2.4k of my FAVOURITE INVINCIBLE VARIANT and GO AHEAD AND CALL ME A BASIC BITCH but look at this little guy i love him and his little twisted(?) sense of love and how he thinks that reader's love language is violence and how he takes the hits but never EVER gets violent with reader and AHHHHHHHHHHHHH