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lazy-ahh · 1 month ago

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Hello!! this is just a silly request of a idea that spawned in my head, what about a Sinister Mark (+ variants) with a male or gn Reader, they're in a 'healthy' (as healthy as it can be if they're unhinged/fucked up), like, every variant had a reader that either die or they accidentally kill them, main mark reader is dead and is just that Sinister mark is the only one with a alive reader? (english isn’t my first language so sorry for any errors, i just imagine Sinister all smug that he has a living reader)

THE LAST ONE STANDING

pairing sinister! mark grayson x gender neutral reader (+ variants)

what happens when you're the only one left alive across every dimension? ask the eight broken marks trailing behind you—or better yet, ask your mark, the one who saved you. the one who watches with a smirk as his variants crumble at the sight of you: breathing, laughing, his.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

you're alive.

that’s the thing that sets him apart from the rest—the other marks, the ones who stagger in from broken dimensions like starving dogs, fists clenched and eyes hollow with grief. they’re here to burn this world down, to carve their pain into something that bleeds, because what else do they have left? some of them killed you by accident—hands too strong, a battle they couldn’t end fast enough, a mistake they’ll spend eternity choking on. others were just too slow, forced to kneel in your blood, useless as your pulse stuttered out under their fingers. and then there are the worst ones—the ones who chose it, who tore into you themselves because their love was always just another kind of violence.

but your mark?

he didn’t just keep you.

he saved you.

and not in some noble, selfless way—no, this was something hungrier, something possessive and brutal and his. he fought for you like a man clawing his way out of a grave, and he’d do it again. he’d do it a thousand times.

and yeah, he’s smug about it. you feel it in the way his fingers press bruises into your hips when another variant stumbles into your path, all ragged breath and shattered composure. his grin is a blade, glinting in the dim light as they freeze, staring at you like you’re a ghost—alive, warm, his.

"look at that," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, voice dripping with something between pity and triumph. "another one who couldn’t hold onto you."

it should hurt you, seeing any version of mark like this—broken, desperate, ruined. and it does, a little. but there’s something else, too, something dark and curling in your chest as you watch their hands tremble at their sides, fighting the urge to reach for you. for a second, you imagine what it’d be like to see your mark like that—kneeling, shattered, yours in a way that’s more surrender than victory.

the thought makes your pulse jump.

(and from the way his grip tightens, he knows.)

it's been one day since the invincible war started.

now, it was your job to round up all the broken, furious, useless versions of mark before angstrom got them killed. you weren’t an idiot—you saw the writing on the wall. angstrom would toss them aside the second they stopped being useful, and you? you weren’t done with them yet. not when every single one of them looked at you like you were the last drop of water in a desert, starving and pathetic and yours to play with.

convincing them to abandon their posts wasn’t hard. all it took was a look, a smirk, the barest hint of come with me if you want to live wrapped in something softer. they followed like strays, hungry for whatever scrap of attention you’d throw their way.

you weren’t stupid enough to think your mark wouldn’t notice, of course. he’d let you wander, let you have your little game—because he knew, in the end, you’d always come back to him. but until then? you were going to enjoy yourself.

so far, you’d collected eight.

there was the mohawk-and-piercings variant, all sharp edges and sharper desperation, playing at indifference while his eyes tracked your every move like you might vanish if he blinked. you later find out that he had a harem of people who looked like you, but he had killed them off because every time they made a mistake (whether they didn't laugh the way you did, didn't stand their ground in situations where you would, didn't look at him the same way you did), it would break the immersion, and the grief would hit him ten times harder. the veiled one—arrogant bastard, vulgar as hell, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab you by the throat or pull you into his lap, never deciding which. pretended not to give a shit until something so much as scratched you or inconvenienced you, then he was the first one ripping throats out. hypocrite. the fully masked one in black and blue—no skin, no tells, just the slight tilt of his head when you spoke, like he was recording your voice to replay later. soft-hearted idiot. still talked about his dead mom like she might walk through the door, still smiled when remembering dumb childhood games. you made sure to keep him close. not because you cared. just because he’d be the first to get himself killed otherwise.

the goggle-less one was a riot—literally. his eyes too wide, too raw, like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. but he adapted quickly. cracked jokes mid-battle, laughed when punches landed, blood in his teeth and excitement in his eyes like pain was just another way to get off. you’d never admit it, but his shitty one-liners sometimes got a smirk out of you. the maskless variant didn’t joke. didn’t smile much either. just floated there like a kicked dog, staring at you with this hollow look while casually mentioning how he’d torn his father apart piece by piece for killing you. you approved, of course. even combing your fingers through his hair and watch his expression light up, a soft pink hue dusting across his cheeks as he looked at you like you just kissed him. you might've. you might've not. the red-and-white cape bastard was ice personified—monotone voice, cold eyes, the kind of guy who’d call genocide "mildly inconvenient." but his hands shook when you got too close, and that? that was hilarious. "you were the only tolerable thing on this rock," he’d muttered once, like it physically pained him to admit it. or to remember. pathetic. so deliciously pathetic.

and finally—the hardest one to crack. the viltrumite. white uniform, perfect posture, face like carved stone—until you flew in. then his jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grind. called you a liability. a distraction. liar. this one missed you so much it was practically rotting him from the inside out. raised on viltrumite dogma but still clung to that last shred of humanity—you. and when you’d died in his world? that shred had frayed to nothing. now he trailed you like a shadow, silent and watchful, intercepting threats before they even got close. brought you trophies from battles you didn’t even ask him to fight—an old bully’s severed hand, the head of a reporter who had talked shit about you in the news once, even a fucking crown, gently placed on top of your head without a word. his way of saying mine.

(you wore it for a few hours just to watch his pupils blow wide. worth it.)

now, they were all yours. for now. your mark would come eventually—he always did—but until then? you had a whole collection of broken toys to play with.

(and when he did? well. you’d make sure that was fun, too.)

and just like that, the day was over.

playtime was supposed to be over. but since when did you ever follow the rules?

your mark’s face was priceless—confusion flickering across his features as you landed at the agreed spot, trailing eight battered, bruised, and entirely too attached versions of himself behind you like some fucked-up parade. the air shifted the moment you got closer, thick with tension and something dangerously close to jealousy. you could see it in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his pupils dilated just slightly as you stopped right beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

"had fun?" he asked, voice low, teasing, but with an edge underneath—like he already knew the answer and wasn’t sure if he wanted to punish you for it or praise you.

you grinned, sharp and unrepentant. "oh, you have no idea."

his lips curled, slow and satisfied, and for a second, it was just the two of you—his hand sliding possessively around your waist, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, "good." because he loved this. loved that you came back. loved that you wanted to. loved that even when he let you wander, you always found your way back to him.

the other marks didn’t move. didn’t speak. some stared at you like they were starving, fingers flexing like they wanted to reach out and take. others looked like they were one wrong breath away from snapping, from tearing you apart just so no one else could have you.

your mark’s grip tightened, just enough to bruise.

he wouldn’t let them try.

you weren’t naive. you knew exactly what he was—what this was. his love was teeth against your throat, a hand around your wrist, a promise whispered in the dark that sounded more like a threat. it was obsession, all-consuming and violent, and you? you fucking reveled in it. you never flinched. never backed down.

because you were just as bad as he was.

"missed you," you muttered, just for him, just to watch his eyes darken.

he laughed, soft and dangerous, and pulled you closer. "liar."

(you were. but he loved that about you, too.)

the red-and-white variant scoffed, turning sharply so his cape snapped like a whip behind him. "this is beneath us." his voice was ice, but the leather of his gloves groaned under the pressure of his clenched fists, betraying him.

the mohawk-and-piercings variant barked out a laugh, sharp and jagged. "what in the actual fuck is this?" he sneered, arms crossed so tight over his chest it looked like he was trying to physically restrain himself from reaching for you. "some kinda twisted harem fantasy? fuckin’ disgusting." but his eyes—dark, hungry, jealous—never left where your mark’s hands gripped you.

the maskless one was silent. just staring, his expression hollow, fingers twitching at his sides like he was already imagining the way your mark’s throat would collapse under his grip.

the veiled mark dragged a hand through his hair, laughing—a bitter, broken sound. "oh, this is fucking rich," he spat, voice thick with something between fury and desperation. his fingers jerked toward you before he forced them into fists, knuckles white. "you really dragged us all here just to watch you play house with him?"

viltrumite mark didn’t speak. didn’t move. just watched, his face carved from stone—but you saw it. the way his jaw flexed when your mark’s fingers pressed possessive bruises into your hip. the flicker of pain in his eyes, raw and aching, before he locked it away.

something twisted in your chest. guilt? pity? you couldn't imagine what it was like to lose someone—really lose them—and for a second, you wondered what you’d do if it were your mark gone. if you were the one standing there, hollowed out and desperate.

but then—

the way they looked at you. pathetic. submissive. like they’d fall to their knees if you so much as crooked a finger. and god, the thought of them breaking further—lips trembling, eyes wet, soft whimpers escaping no matter how hard they bit down—sent a thrill down your spine.

your mark smirked against your temple, his kiss burning like a brand. "cute," he purred, voice thick with mock pity as his fingers tangled possessively in your hair. "look at them—really thought they stood a chance." his lips curled into something vicious as he glanced at the broken reflections of himself, his grip on you tightening just enough to make his point. "weak. all of them. couldn’t even keep what was theirs."

you leaned into him, arms locking around his waist like a claim of your own, sighing as his other hand traced down your spine—gentle in a way that would’ve seemed impossible for anyone else. but this was yours. the way his touch lingered, the way his voice dropped into something warm and honeyed when he spoke only to you. "not you, though," he murmured, lips brushing your forehead. "you’re perfect. mine. only one smart enough to stay alive."

his grin sharpened as he looked back at the others, drinking in their rage, their grief, the way their hands shook at their sides. "bet that stings, huh? seeing what you could’ve had if you weren’t such fucking failures?"

you laughed, low and satisfied, pressing closer just to watch their expressions crack—

and something sick twisted in your chest when you saw how they flinched, how their eyes burned with something raw and starving. because that sound—your laugh, bright and fucking alive—it had been years for them. years of silence, of bloodstained hands and empty beds and the ghost of your voice haunting every battle. and now here you were, curled against him, looking at him like he hung the goddamn stars while they rotted in the periphery.

(and oh—the way their faces twisted. like they wanted to scream. like they wanted to beg. like they’d burn the world down just to tear you away from him.)

(they wouldn’t. couldn’t.)

(your mark would make sure of it.)

hey chat!! hope you enjoyed this messy little 2.1k word dump—this fic fought me like a rabid raccoon and had me struggling the entire time not gonna lie 😭 sorry anon if it's not exactly what you pictured, but i tried my best to make it deliciously messy for you! (lowkey viltrum mark kept stealing the spotlight in my drafts like the favourite he is—had to physically restrain myself from writing 5k words of just him sigh. the struggle was REAL y'all) BUT OMG THOSE LAST LINES WITH SINISTER MARK??? even i was kicking my feet and giggling like an idiot while writing that possessive bastard's dialogue heheh

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lazy-ahh · 2 months ago

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Hnnng thinking about A Beautiful, Monstrous Thing again, with Reader calling Sinister Mark his little bumblebee with his whole black and yellow fit. I know many call him a wasp, and I agree with it, but the cutesy name for a destructive being who’s only soft towards Reader gives me life ❤️‍🔥🖤💛🖤❤️‍🔥 Mark can’t help being attracted to a sweet (and secretly twisted) thing like Reader~. It’s Mark’s job to help Reader flourish across the universe with him. Reader is his one and only flower with the lethal nectar that enticed Mark since the beginning. Both need each other to re-invent the universe in their image.

Cue the song Bumble Bee by Bambee playing— 😂 … Actually, after listening to it again, it surprisingly fits them. 😳🐝

HONEY ON HIS LIPS, VENOM IN HIS KISS (MY LITTLE BUMBLEBEE)

pairing sinister! mark grayson x (superhero) male reader

from a beautiful, monstrous thing

a chillingly sweet one-shot where mass murder is just foreplay, where pet names are whispered between executions, and where the only thing more terrifying than mark grayson’s power is how desperately he’s adored by you. when a foolish hero tries to stand against you both, they’ll learn the hard way: this couple kills together—your hands just as bloody as his, your smile just as sharp. after all, why should the world get to keep its heroes when you could keep mark all to yourself?

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

the city burns in the distance, a symphony of screams and crumbling concrete, the skyline painted in violent oranges and choking black smoke, and mark can’t help but grin.

it’s beautiful.

not as beautiful as you, though.

you’re perched on the edge of a half-collapsed skyscraper, legs swinging like a child on a playground, humming the tune of your (our) favourite song under your breath as the wind tugs playfully at your hair. there’s blood on your cheek—not yours, never yours, mark makes sure of it—a single crimson streak like war paint, a badge of honor from the chaos you’ve embraced. your fingers trace idle patterns in the dust coating the ledge, drawing little hearts and jagged lightning bolts, as if the apocalypse is just a canvas for your whimsy. when he lands beside you, the rubble shudders under his weight, but you don’t flinch. you just look up, and your smile is all teeth, all warmth, all his.

"took you long enough," you tease, leaning into him as his arm curls around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. his suit is still warm from the fight, the black and yellow fabric streaked with crimson, the scent of iron and ozone clinging to him like a second skin. you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, and mark’s chest tightens—because you fit there like you were made for it, like the universe carved out this space between his collarbone and jaw just for you to rest your lips against.

he loves the way you’re no longer afraid to show your true self, loves the way your laughter spills like sunlight through broken glass, loves the way your fingers curl into his suit like he’s the only anchor in a world you’ve both set aflame. most of all, he loves the way you’re his—not as a possession, but as a promise, as inevitable as gravity, as irreversible as the blood on your hands.

"got distracted," mark murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering like he’s trying to memorize the way your hair smells—smoke and sweat and something sweet underneath. his free hand flexes, knuckles still slick with gore, flakes of dried blood cracking as his fingers curl. "some hero tried to make a last stand. pathetic."

you giggle, pressing a kiss to his jaw before sinking your teeth into the plush of his cheek—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make him huff, enough to leave the faintest imprint behind. you soothe the bite with your tongue, kitten-soft, and his breath hitches. "aw, did my little bumblebee have to sting him?"

mark groans, rolling his eyes, but he can’t fight the way his cheeks heat up, the way his pulse jumps under your lips. "you’re the worst."

"you love me."

"unfortunately."

you laugh, bright and delighted, and mark thinks, not for the first time, that he’d raze entire galaxies just to hear that sound forever. he leans in, pressing his nose and lips to the side of your face, nuzzling like he’s trying to burrow into your skin. he doesn’t pull away, just stays there, breathing you in, his eyes half-lidded as he tilts his head to admire you—the curve of your lashes, the way your lips part just slightly, the flecks of something sinfully divine in your eyes catching the firelight. and you let him, turning your face to meet his, until the two of you are just... kissing. it’s not heated or passionate, it’s silent—your lips pressed together in something achingly soft, noses nudging, breaths mingling. his hands rise to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you can feel the way he trembles, the way he holds himself back like you’re something sacred.

you stare into each other’s eyes, and the world narrows to this: the warmth of his palms, the way his lashes flutter when you smile against his lips, the quiet, reverent sigh he lets out when you do. then, he starts kissing you slowly, pressing in with deliberate, unhurried movements—each one a question, a devotion. his mouth moves over yours like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into the slide of his lips. you let him, resting your outstretched arms on his shoulders, wrists crossing lazily behind his neck, your fingers playing with the hair at his nape.

and before things could go further than that, a choked gasp interrupts the moment.

the hero—some c-lister with a lightning motif, some middle-aged man with a patchy beard that clings to his jaw like a sad, frayed rug—is dragging himself across the rubble, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle, the bones beneath his suit pressing grotesquely against the fabric. his suit is torn and smoking, the stench of burnt nylon and charred flesh clinging to him as he gags on his own blood. his eyes are wide with horror, flickering between the two of you like he can’t decide which is worse—the bloodthirsty conqueror with his hands still damp from slaughter, or the boy nestled so sweetly in his arms, your lips still curved in that lazy, amused smile.

"y-you—" he rasps, coughing up a thick glob of blood that splatters onto the cracked concrete. "you’re supposed to be a hero—"

you blink, tilting your head like a curious bird spotting something shiny. "was i?" you muse, tapping a finger against your chin, smearing a little more dust across your skin. "huh. must’ve missed the memo."

mark snorts, tightening his grip on you, his fingers pressing possessive crescents into your hip as he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of your jaw—slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the way your pulse jumps under his lips. his other hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he murmurs against your skin, voice low and honeyed with amusement, "he’s got you there."

the hero's face twists like a man choking on poison, his split lip trembling as he watches mark's teeth sink into your neck with the same casual cruelty he'd use to tear out a throat. "you're monsters," he spits, but his voice cracks halfway through—because you're laughing, actually laughing as mark's tongue soothes over the fresh bite, his lips warm and wet against your pulse point.

you sigh dramatically, arching back against mark's chest like a cat stretching in sunlight. "see, this is why i don't miss it," you say, waving a bloodstained hand through the air. "so much judgment." mark chooses that moment to tug your collar down further with his teeth, exposing the constellation of bruises he'd painted there last night, and you shiver when his tongue drags slow and hot over the most tender one. "like, wow, okay," you continue, voice going breathy as mark's canines scrape warningly over your jugular, "sorry i don't wanna waste my life handing out sandwiches to homeless people when i could be—" you gesture vaguely at the burning skyline with one hand while the other tangles in mark's hair, holding him closer as he sucks a fresh mark into your collarbone, his teeth sharp enough to make you shudder, "—this."

mark grins against your skin, his breath humid and dark with promise. "you're such a brat," he murmurs, but the way his hands slide possessively around your waist says he wouldn't have you any other way. the hero makes a wet, strangled noise—whether from his injuries or the way mark's tongue is now tracing the shell of your ear—and you can't help but giggle at how easy it is to break people, in so many different ways.

"your brat," you correct, voice dripping with false sweetness as you turn to kiss him—slow, deliberate, your teeth catching mark's bottom lip just hard enough to sting. you don't hurry, don't even acknowledge the wet, choking sounds the hero makes as he watches. when you finally pull away, it's with a soft sigh, like you're disappointed the moment had to end.

the hero's face is a grotesque mask of revulsion, his split lip trembling. "you're disgusting," he spits through bloody teeth.

your head tilts, just slightly. no gasp, no theatrics—just the slow curl of your lips into something that might almost be a smile if it reached your eyes. "am i?" you muse, fingers tracing idle patterns along mark's arm. your voice drops to a whisper meant only for him, though you know the hero will hear: "bumblebee, baby, he thinks he gets an opinion."

mark's grip tightens instantly, his glare making the hero stagger back despite his injuries. the air crackles with violence. "want me to shut him up?" he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

you consider for exactly three seconds—long enough for hope to flicker in the hero's eyes—before your hand lifts in a lazy gesture. "no," you decide, voice soft as a knife sliding between ribs. "i think i'd rather watch him realize." your fingers curl into mark's hair, nails scraping lightly. "let him see what happens to things that don't know their place."

before the hero can even blink, you're suddenly in front of him—not crouched, but standing over his broken body, your shadow swallowing what little light remains in his dying eyes. that smile of yours isn't sweet anymore; it's clinical, detached, the way a surgeon might regard an interesting specimen before dissection.

"here's the thing," you murmur, voice so soft it's almost lost beneath the crackling fires around you. you kneel slowly, methodically, one knee pressing down on his shattered forearm until the bones grind together with a wet crunch. his scream is delicious. "you're absolutely right. we are monsters."

your fingers—still warm from mark's touch—trail down the hero's face almost tenderly before suddenly gripping his jaw, forcing his mouth open. "but unlike you," you continue, slipping two fingers into his mouth and hooking them behind his teeth, "we don't pretend to be anything else. why don't you bastards just let us be happy, huh?" with one sharp twist, you dislocate his jaw—not enough to kill, just enough to make his screams come out as wet, garbled whimpers.

mark watches, rapt, as you methodically break each of the hero's fingers one by one, taking your time between snaps to wipe the blood on his ruined costume. when you finally tire of his pathetic twitching, you press your palm flat against his chest and let your powers surge through him—not enough to kill instantly, but just enough to make every nerve ending fire at once in excruciating overload. his body arches violently off the ground, muscles locking in agony as his skin blackens and cracks like dry earth.

only then, when his eyes have rolled back to show nothing but whites and his body has stopped convulsing, do you finally grip his head between both hands and twist sharply. the vertebrae separate with a series of satisfying pops.

mark lets out a low whistle as you stand, wiping your hands casually on your thighs. "show-off," he murmurs, but there's nothing but pride in his voice as he pulls you close, licking a streak of blood from your cheekbone with deliberate relish.

you rise slowly, methodically wiping each finger clean on the hero's ruined costume before standing. there's no skip in your step now—just measured, deliberate movements as you return to mark's side. "you love it," you state flatly, watching his reaction with dark, unblinking eyes.

"i do," he admits without hesitation, his arms encircling you possessively. his hands leave smears of blood on your waist where they grip too tight, but you don't mind the stains. they'll match the ones already marking your skin.

the city burns around you in great, heaving gasps—skyscrapers collapsing like dying giants, the air thick with the scent of molten metal and charred flesh. through the smoke and screams, mark can't imagine anything more perfect than this: you pressed against him, your breath steady against his neck, your fingers curling into his suit like you'd tear the world apart just to stay this close.

"so," you murmur, your voice soft as a razor's edge, fingers tracing the tattered hem of his cape with something like reverence. the movement is almost tender, if one ignores the blood caked beneath your nails. "what's next, bumblebee?"

mark grins, pressing his forehead to yours hard enough to bruise. when he speaks, his lips brush against yours with the promise of ruin:

"the world."

2.1k words full of our favourite sinister couple! wrote this during break time in class and honestly, apologies to those non-freaks (endearing) who didn't like the excessive PDA in this one-shot LOLOL!

#lazy-ahh #invincible #invincible variants #sinister invincible #mark grayson #sinister mark grayson #male reader #invincible x male reader #invincible variants x male reader #sinister invincible x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #sinister mark grayson x male reader #sorry for the excessive PDA teehee #HELLOOOOO TO THE FREAKS WHO DID ENJOY THE PDA #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #are you sure?

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