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lazy-ahh · 1 month ago

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A BEAUTIFUL, MONSTROUS THING

pairing sinister! mark grayson x (superhero) male reader

they call him a monster. you call him yours. (and when he smiles at you—all sharp teeth and ruined cities—you don’t flinch. you smile back.)

you always knew something was wrong with you. you never felt it before, not like this. the blood, the gore, the guts, the screaming—it never bothered you. or rather, you never bothered with it. it just… was. but now, with so much of it around you, splattered at your feet, clinging to your skin, how could you not notice? how could you not think about it?

you knew it was supposed to be wrong. when teachers talked about wars in history class, when news anchors whispered about innocents slaughtered by villains, you’d nod along. that’s not right, you’d say. and then? nothing. no lingering horror, no sleepless nights. just empty agreement before moving on.

you always thought it was odd. not the lack of feeling—but the way you could mimic it so well. in discussions, you’d frown at the right moments, sigh when others did. no one ever looked at you sideways. in fact, they looked at you with awe. you were a hero, after all. you pulled survivors from rubble, handed out soup at shelters, smiled for cameras when they asked why you did it.

"to help people," you said, voice steady, eyes warm. "what could be any better reason than that?"

to impress him, you thought.

mark grayson had always loved superheroes. of course he did—his dad was one. he’d ramble for hours about powers, about saving the world, about standing side by side with the greats. and you? you listened. you dreamed, too. not of justice, not of glory. just… him.

you’d close your eyes and see it—the two of you, flying side by side, fists covered in the same blood, grinning at grateful crowds. you’d look at him, your best friend, your something more, and—

then you’d wake up.

you were just as excited as he was for his powers to come in.

so imagine your shock (well, not really—somehow, you’d always known, hadn’t you? lurking in the back of your mind like a half-remembered dream, the certainty that of course it would end like this, of course he’d choose this, of course he’d be magnificent at it) when you finally found him.

mark hovered above the ruins of a skyscraper, the city below him a jagged wound of fire and twisted metal. his suit—once bright, now painted in slick, dripping red—clung to him like a second skin. his face was streaked with it, blood drying at the corners of his mouth where his grin split too wide, too sharp. his father loomed beside him, a monstrous shadow, but your eyes didn’t waver from him. from the way his chest rose and fell with exhilaration, the way his fingers flexed, still warm from the crush of bone.

you’d been sent by cecil to stop them. or, more accurately, to delay—because what were you, really, against the might of omni-man? against mark, who moved like a storm given flesh? you were a distraction. a stalling tactic. a sacrifice wrapped in spandex.

you flew toward him anyway, your mouth already forming words you didn’t mean. "mark, this isn’t you—" isn’t that funny? like you were scolding a child for tracking mud inside, not staring at the aftermath of a genocide. your voice almost carried the right note of disappointment, the practiced heroism, the performance of horror—

then he turned.

and you stopped.

because mark looked at you as he lifted his boot from the ruin of a man’s skull, the last wet crack still echoing in the air between you. his eyes were dark, endless, alight with something that made your breath hitch. his smirk curled, challenging, like he knew what you were. what you really were.

your hand flew to your chest.

your heart—

did it just stutter?

yes.

because oh—

oh.

there was something beautiful in the way he ruined things. in the way the fire painted his silhouette in gold and shadow. in the way his laughter rang, bright and unhinged, as the city burned beneath him. in the way he didn’t apologize. in the way he wouldn’t.

your eyes snap to nolan—his massive frame already turning toward you, shoulders squared, fists clenched in that way that means meat is about to become paste. the air around him hums with violence, the kind that flattens cities. the kind that ended cities, just minutes ago.

but before you can so much as tense, mark’s voice cuts through the smoke, lazy and dripping with amusement.

"it’s fine, dad. he’s not gonna do anything."

his tone is smug, unbearably so, like he’s sharing a private joke with the universe. and when you look at him—really look—he’s already staring back, head tilted just slightly, his smirk a razor’s edge of playful cruelty. blood is drying in his eyelashes. you wonder if he even notices.

you raise an eyebrow at him, lips pressed into that familiar, practiced line of defiance. the hero’s frown. the "this isn’t right" expression you’ve worn a thousand times before.

"oh? and why’s that?" you ask, voice steady.

mark’s grin widens.

because he knows.

he knows you’re not going to ball up your fists. he knows your pulse is racing for all the wrong reasons. he knows you’ve always been a liar.

and worst of all?

he knows.

he knows you like it - the way your breath catches when his fist sinks into concrete and flesh alike, how your traitorous heart pounds not in horror but in something far more damning. he knows how your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and trace the blood splattered across his cheekbone like war paint.

he knows that if you weren't pretending to be the hero right now, you'd simply float there, suspended in the carnage, drinking in the way the firelight dances across his sweat-slick skin. how you'd commit every detail to memory - the way his chest heaves with exhilaration, how his pupils swallow the brown of his eyes when the killing gets good.

he knows you'd admire it all - the broken bodies, the screaming, the destruction. but most of all, he knows you'd admire him - your beautiful, monstrous mark - as he remakes the world in his father's image, and you'd think, with terrifying certainty:

"yes. this is how a god should look."

mark’s grin widens—slow, like blood seeping through fabric. he drifts closer, close enough that the heat of his body mingles with the acrid smoke clinging to your suit. when he speaks, his voice is a velvet-wrapped razor, meant just for you:

"because you’ve never stopped me before."

his thumb brushes your chin, smearing a streak of blood—his? someone else’s?—across your jaw. "not when we were kids and i shoved that bully through the cafeteria window. not when i ‘accidentally’ snapped that villain’s spine last month." his fingers curl around the back of your neck, possessive, knowing. "and definitely not now, when you’re looking at me like this."

his other hand gestures to your face—your real face, the one you never let the cameras see. the one where your lips part too eagerly, your pupils swallow all the light, your chest rises with the kind of breathless anticipation usually reserved for altars.

"admit it," he murmurs, nose brushing yours, "you’ve always wanted to see how far i’d go."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

and god, how far he’d gone.

mark isn’t good. you know this. you’ve memorized the way blood spatters his lashes when he laughs mid-kill, how his shadow stretches long and monstrous across entire city blocks. it’s been weeks since chicago fell, since he and nolan painted the sky with fire and turned streets into open graves—and now every city after wears his fingerprints, cracked pavement still warm where he pressed his palms and pushed.

but you don’t care. you don’t want to.

you want to lick the rust from his knuckles, suck the violence from his fingertips. want to whisper "again, again" against his mouth when he comes home stinking of gasoline and regret. his cruelty is a living thing, coiled under his skin, and you love the way it bites—love the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing he wouldn’t ruin (wouldn’t let him ruin).

he’s possessive. he’s cruel. he’s everything they warned you about.

you worship him for it.

"you’re mine," he snarls one night, fingers bruising your hips hard enough to stain your skin purple for days. you don’t mind. you crave it—the way he’ll spend those same days apologizing with his mouth, pressing tender, open-mouthed kisses over each mark as he looks up at you through dark lashes. his eyes are soft brown in the low light, honey-sweet if you ignore the vicious storm churning behind them, the way his pupils swallow all the warmth when your fingers tighten in his hair.

his teeth drag along your pulse, sharp enough to tease, to make your breath hitch—but he doesn’t bite. not yet. never where it’ll show. never where the cameras could catch it, where some hero might glance at the column of your throat and know. (but you wish he would. god, you wish he’d brand you right there, where everyone could see.)

"was there ever any doubt?" you gasp, arching into him like a prayer, like your body knows no other language but his. your fingers knot in his hair, yanking until his groan vibrates against your throat, until his hips jerk forward and the hard line of him presses against you, desperate. you can feel his smile, all feral edges, as you drag him closer—close enough to taste the copper on his tongue, the iron-sharp tang of someone else’s blood still clinging to his lips. he smells like burning buildings and something unforgivable, like gasoline and the ozone-crack of his own power, and you breathe him in like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

he kisses you like he’s carving his name into your ribs, like he wants to rewrite your DNA with his teeth. and you let him. he kisses you like he's starving, and you let him devour you whole. let him ruin you in all the ways that matter, let him peel you apart with every slick slide of his tongue. let him swallow every moan, every broken "yes, yes, mark—" like it’s the only word you remember, the only one that ever mattered.

(and maybe it is. maybe you forgot your own name weeks ago, lost somewhere between his teeth and the wreckage he calls love. maybe you don’t care. maybe you’d let him ruin cities just to keep his hands right here, right now, mapping your skin like he owns it—

because he does.

he always has.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"hey, can we talk?"

the voice cuts through the dim hum of the underground bunker, too gentle for a world ending above you. you turn slowly, arms crossed tight over your chest - the perfect picture of a weary hero barely holding it together. the concrete walls feel like they're pressing in, the stale air thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. you'd rather be anywhere but here.

anywhere but here means tangled in bloodstained sheets with the boy who lit the sky on fire.

eve stands beside you, her once-lustrous red hair now gone as she pulls down her hood, revealing her buzz cut. the girl who used to laugh while flying through clouds now carries shadows under her eyes deep enough to drown in. you keep playing your part, even now. no one knows about the nights you spend curled against mark's chest, tracing the scars on his knuckles while cities burn.

"yes, of course. what do you need, eve?" you uncross your arms, letting your expression soften into something resembling concern. your voice is all practiced warmth, the kind that used to comfort civilians after villain attacks. the irony tastes sweet on your tongue.

eve fidgets, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "well... it's just..." she looks away, toward the flickering emergency lights. "this sounds ridiculous, and i'm sorry but... are you... okay?"

the question hangs between you, almost funny in its innocence. because you've never been better. mark's hands in your hair last night, his teeth at your shoulder this morning, the way he whispers "mine" like it's the only truth left in the world -

"yeah... yeah, i guess i'm doing fine. better than last week, at least." you let your voice crack just right, tilting your head down so she can't see the way your lips threaten to curve. the exhaustion in your tone is a masterpiece, honed through weeks of performance.

eve reaches out, her hand warm on your shoulder. "hey, it's okay," she says, and god, she means it. her kindness is a physical thing, radiating through her touch. "i know it feels impossible right now, but we'll get through this. together." her thumb rubs small circles against your jacket. "you're not alone in this, okay? we're all struggling, but we've got each other."

for a moment - just a moment - you feel it. the guilt, sharp as a knife between your ribs. she's so good, so earnest, standing in the ruins of everything and still trying to comfort you.

but then you remember mark's laugh against your skin, the way the flames reflected in his eyes when he told you "this is just the beginning", and the guilt melts like wax under a match.

you cover her hand with yours, squeezing gently. "thanks, eve. that... that means a lot."

(she'll be dead in a minute. along with everyone else here. you won't warn her.

some loves are worth more than the world.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

people call you crazy for loving him. maybe you are. but when he comes home with blood crusted under his fingernails and the scent of burning flesh clinging to his clothes, you don't flinch. you just card your fingers through his hair - matted with someone else's life - and whisper "beautiful" against his temple like it's a prayer.

"you're fucked up," he murmurs into the hollow of your throat, voice ragged with something between reverence and hunger. his hands are still warm from the carnage, leaving smudges of red on your hips as he pulls you closer.

"takes one to know one," you breathe back, laughing when he nips at your jaw in retaliation, all sharp teeth and darker promises. the sound catches in your throat when a wet, choked sob cuts through the moment.

eve.

she's sprawled on the rubble-strewn floor like a broken doll, her body paralyzed but her eyes burning with betrayal. tears carve clean streaks through the dust on her face, her glare so full of hate it almost makes you shiver. almost.

the memory of your last conversation with her plays behind your ribs like a favorite song:

"is it wrong that i still love him?" you'd asked, letting the mask slip just enough to watch her squirm. your head tilted, the picture of innocent curiosity even as your fingers twitched with the urge to hurt.

eve's face had cycled through shock, confusion, then dawning horror. "how could you still love him after... after all this?" her voice cracked like the foundations above you.

you'd made a show of considering it, humming while tapping a finger against your lips. "give me one good reason why i shouldn't."

"he's murdered thousands of people-"

"i said a good reason, eve." your interruption came with a smile, cold and knife-sharp. the way her breath hitched when understanding crashed over her sent a thrill down your spine.

"wait... the survivors in your group. you didn't... you didn't kill them, did you? you lied about them getting killed by omni-man. you said you had barely managed to get out." her voice trembled, the pieces slotting together too late. "why would you-"

the ceiling exploded before she could finish.

concrete rained down on screaming survivors as mark descended through the dust like some wrathful god, nolan standing beside him. your heart had leapt at the sight - at the way mark's eyes found you first, always you, even amidst the chaos.

"told you we were close," nolan said to mark before the carnage began.

"you did a good job, gorgeous. loved the way you caught them for me." mark presses a tender kiss on your cheek. he'd purred later, licking the blood from your knuckles with a devotion that bordered on worship.

now, watching eve's tears mix with the debris, you feel nothing but the press of mark's lips against your pulse and the sweet, certain knowledge:

you'd burn the world a thousand times over just to keep his hands this warm.

2.8k words of sinister mark and his equally deranged partner—congrats, you’ve stumbled into the toxic love story of your dreams! kidding! this is for my fellow dark romance people, the ones who like their kisses bloody and their devotion downright blasphemous. hope i did our favorite unhinged viltrumite justice (and that i’ve successfully dragged you into this invincible variants hole that i'm in). enjoy, you beautiful bozos—teehee <3

#lazy-ahh #invincible #mark grayson #invincible variants #sinister invincible #sinister mark grayson #invincible x male reader #sinister invincible x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #sinister mark grayson x male reader #male reader #x male reader #AHHHHH MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT DARK ROMANCE #PLEASE BE GENTLE #ohoho poor angstrom #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #IT'S STUCK IN MY HEAD #are you sure?

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sleepy-steve · 6 months ago

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pt 2 of steve "dies but doesn't stay dead" harrington and eddie "ferryman of the river styx" munson // 1.9k // pt 1 ♡

—

november 1984

Eddie checks. Of course he checks. Asks around, eventually to his superiors to make sure he wasn’t going to get in trouble for not collecting Steve. It’s uncommon, they tell him, rare, even. But not unheard of. People die briefly and come back to life. Usually only the one time. The answer should be good enough. Should be. Isn’t though. It frustrates Eddie to no end. Months of wondering and ruminating with the firm belief that he won’t get to see Harrington again anytime soon to ask.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

This time Eddie is on the boat. Leaning over the edge, a hand dangling low to the black water, staring at the same patch of grass he first saw Steve sitting. In fairness, all souls appeared in that general area. But Eddie is fixated on the exact spot Steve had shown off his deep chest wounds. It’s for this reason that Eddie jumps three feet into the air when Steve materialises in the same spot again less than a year later.

Sitting up with a rattling gasp and a look of fury on his bashed-in face—again?! Eddie briefly thinks—Steve yells, “Fucking Hargrove!”

“Christ, Harrington!” Eddie shouts, hand over his chest despite the distinct lack of heartbeat. “Could give a guy a bit of warning.”

Steve looks around, eyes surrounded by more dark bruising taking a second to focus on Eddie, chest heaving as he calms down. “Shit, sorry, man.”

They just look at each other for a few long moments, Eddie standing like a frightened cat on his still wobbling boat. He clears his throat to break the silence. “Who, uh. Who’s Hargrove?”

Scoffing, Steve drags a hand down the side of his face, then winces as it passes over bruising. “Douchebag new guy.” He sighs, settling his forearms on his knees. “His sister is friends with some kids I know. Was coming after them, so I…” Trailing off, Steve gestures to his face.

“What? Offered yourself up as a human punching bag and got yourself killed? Again?” Eddie says, trying not to sound too judgemental.

“Yeah, well,” Steve sighs. “I wasn’t just gonna let him beat up a kid. They’ve been through enough without some dickhead coming in and kicking the shit out of them.”

Eddie feels his brows pull together slightly as he sits back down on the bench of the boat, arms crossed over the edge. It’s not like Harrington was the big bully of Hawkins High, but defender of local kids is… new. “Sounds like a grade-A asshole.”

Steve snorts. “He is.”

“Kids were lucky to have you around as their… babysitter?” Eddie offers, cracking a grin.

Steve rolls his eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Something like that. Probably didn’t need me at all. Stuck around long enough to see her drug him, so they should be fine.”

Humming appreciatively, a thought moves across Eddie’s mind, and he can’t help himself. “…No monsters this time?”

“Ha, ha,” Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know you don’t believe me, but the monsters did actually come back, which is why I was with those little shits in the first place.” He sounds annoyed, but there’s a fond look behind those bruised eyes. One that gives Eddie a little spark in his chest. “But no, this death was just a regular guy.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to snort. “This death. So casual.”

A full grin breaks out on Steve’s face, contrasting heavily with the bruises and the blood under his nose. “Well, when it’s happened this many times, kinda hard not to view it as like. Just this thing that happens, y’know?”

Eddie doesn’t really know. Of everything he’s learnt about death—through his own and through everyone he’s met since—this thing Steve goes through is beyond him. Incomprehensible. He nods anyway.

“How many times have you died, Harrington?”

“Hmm…” Steve looks up as he thinks for a moment. “This would be… five? Or six?” He shrugs. “I’m not sure if it happened when I was a baby.”

He says it so casually, so matter-of-fact, Eddie almost wants to double-take. It sounds so truthful, he struggles to not believe him. Even though Eddie knows he’s not losing much by believing him, a small part of him still has doubts. And worries for his job. “You gonna get in the boat this time?”

Steve snorts. “Not this time, buddy.” Something jolts in Eddie’s chest at the familiarity. “Maybe next time though.”

“Next time,” Eddie mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You anticipate dying again?”

“Well, no,” Steve chuckles. “But based on how things have been… and apparently I’m not too careful.” He gestures at his bruised up face, eyes bright with humour between the blues and purples and reds.

“The monsters?” Eddie supplies, just teetering on the edge of sarcasm.

“Monsters, douchebag guys, car wrecks… you just never know.”

The casual tone in which Steve talks about his deaths still has Eddie reeling. It’s been well over a year and Eddie is surrounded by death constantly, and he still struggles to think about his own. Tells himself he’d rather not dwell, which is true, but it also hurts. He shakes it off, shifting his focus to the bruised and beaten boy in front of him.

“Or… you could save yourself the trouble, and get in the boat now?” Eddie gestures down at his boat with a little hand flair. He’s joking. Mostly. If Steve did have the chance to go back to the land of the living, Eddie didn’t want to take that away from him. Not that he thought Steve was getting that chance. Not completely, anyway.

“Wish I could, but I don’t make the rules.” Steve grins at him, like they’re sharing a secret. And they kind of were. Eddie wasn’t sure how many people knew about Steve’s semi-regular dances with death.

“And since when have you ever been one to stick to the rules?” Eddie asks, propping his arm up and resting his chin on his palm. Looking at the boy on the grass. His hair is longer this time.

Steve laughs, head tilted back. “Fair point. But if you want me on that boat, you’re gonna have to come over here and drag me onto it.” He raises a brow at Eddie in challenge.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Wish I could, but I don’t make the rules.” He repeats Steve’s words back at him, mocking him.

“Well, well, well,” Steve says, tone playful. “Look who’s being a stickler for rules now.”

“I know,” Eddie drags it out, struggling to hold back his smile. “Crazy, huh? Divine punishment for being born the son of a criminal, I guess.” Eddie’s gaze drops down to the black water beneath him.

Steve scoffs at him. “Like you never smoked pot or broke speeding laws in that van of yours.”

Eyes widening before he can stop them, Eddie’s shocked Steve even knows about the van. Shocked that Steve knows anything about him at all. What world is he in where the king of Hawkins High knows about Eddie and his beat up old van? Even being in the grade below him, Steve had a popularity pull that was noticed by those in Eddie’s grade. Confusion and surprise subsiding, Eddie finds himself leaning forward even further.

“Coming from you?” Eddie challenges back. “We all know about the famous Harrington ragers, Mister Keg King.”

The title makes Steve roll his eyes. “Never saw you at one.”

It was true. Eddie hadn’t attended any of the parties, for fear of his reputation making him a target. He drops his gaze again. “Didn’t think I’d be welcome there.”

Steve doesn’t respond, and the silence grows between them. They haven’t moved, but Eddie feels further away from him. Like the weird little familiarity they’d developed was being forcefully shoved apart. Eddie doesn’t look up to see Steve’s reaction. Doesn’t want the pity.

“So, you really can’t get out of the boat?” Steve breaks the silence with a complete topic change.

“Nope,” Eddie responds, popping the P. “She’s my new baby, now that I don’t have my van.” He pats the side of the boat with his free hand.

Steve shifts forward until he’s sitting as close as he can to the water’s edge without getting wet. Close enough for Eddie to see the broken capillaries under his skin and the little green flecks in his eyes. He takes in the cuts on Steve’s jaw and forehead, the two black eyes, the blood under his nose. The way his knuckles are bruised and bloodied to match. Something in Eddie feels oddly… protective. Like he wants to jump in front of anything that might hurt this guy he doesn’t even really know that well.

“Change your mind about getting in the boat?” Eddie asks, voice low, now that Steve is so close.

“No,” Steve huffs a laugh. “But you can’t move, so I figured I should.”

“Just that desperate to be close to me, are you?” It slips out of Eddie’s mouth before he can think about it. And Eddie wants to punch himself in the face over it.

But to his surprise, Steve doesn’t recoil away or yell at him. Instead, he laughs softly, cheeks faintly pink beneath the bruising. “What can I say? The allure of your… baby…” He says it with a smirk. “Very tempting.”

Taken aback by Steve’s… flirting is the only word to describe it, but that can’t be right, Eddie immediately switches to joke mode. He won’t entertain the idea that Steve Harrington was honest-to-god flirting with him. He won’t.

“I’ll get you into this boat one day, Harrington. Mark my words.”

He knocks on the edge of the boat twice before smoothing his hand over the wood. Watches as Steve’s eyes follow his hand, seemingly fixated on it. Eddie briefly wonders what would happen if he touched Steve. Would that commit Steve to being stuck here? Commit him to moving on? Would Eddie even be able to feel him?

Gaze shifting back to Eddie’s face, a smile grows on Steve’s face. “Maybe. One day.” He shrugs, like his eventual death is a fun, whimsical topic.

Eddie is about to comment on Steve’s tone, but before he can, Steve’s head whips to the side, hearing something Eddie can’t. Just like last time.

Unlike last time, Steve doesn’t get up right away. “Looks like my time’s up.”

“How do you know?” Eddie is so curious, he can’t help but ask.

“I can hear—” Steve waves vaguely around his ear. “—stuff. From where I am. The kids are yelling. Hope they’re not too freaked out.”

“Guess you better get back then,” Eddie says, trying to hide his disappointment.

“Yep.” Steve pulls himself up into a standing position, now suddenly looking down at Eddie, who leans back on instinct, shifting back on the boat bench. “But I’ll see you next time.”

“I’ll be here.” Eddie gestures at the boat, palm up. Like he has anywhere else to go. “See ya, Harrington. Stay away from monsters.”

“I’ll try,” Steve laughs, walking backwards on the grass. Keeping his eyes on Eddie as he retreats.

“Try not to get that pretty face bashed in again,” Eddie calls after Steve’s already fading form, grinning wide.

Steve just laughs, the sound of it echoing even after his body disappears from Eddie’s sight.

#ohoho they're BACK my friends!!#i've been working on this between my EMBB fic for funsies #but yes there will be More of this too hehe #more of steve being a morbid little shit and more of eddie wondering what the fuck steve's life is #cira writes #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #stranger things fic #steddie

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