#wrote this while watching invincible

[necrotic-nephilim]

What's so fun about BruJay as a ship is Jason's sheer obsessive devotion to Bruce. Jason is possessive over Bruce, to the point he doesn't care about the deaths of others so long as he has Bruce's attention. A part of the UTRH arc this isn't talked about enough is that Bludhaven fucking explodes mid-way and Jason won't let Bruce see if Dick is alive.

batman (1940) #650

A lot of discussion about UTRH paints Jason as this anger-driven cold, calculating machine up against Bruce when it's so clear that his love for Bruce is what drives him at his root, even if he won't acknowledge it. He says it himself, he would've done anything if it was Bruce who'd died instead of him and his anger is rooted in that possessive devotion not being reciprocated.

batman (194) #650

BruJay as a ship always to be, to some level, unrequited. Even if Bruce loves Jason back in that way, he'll never be that obsessed with Jason. Jason will always view Bruce's love for Dick or Tim to be a distraction, proof that Bruce isn't dedicated enough to him. Jason has the need to always have Bruce's attention, even when it could come at the cost of Bruce's other loved ones. Something something cannibalism as a metaphor for love in how Jason wants to consume Bruce's whole existence. He can't let Bruce leave him again, can't let Bruce love or grieve anyone else. Forcing Bruce to choose between Jason and the Joker isn't just about confronting Jason's killer, it's about confronting the other person who exists as this duality with Bruce and consumes so much of Bruce's life. That's the role Jason wants to fill, calling himself Red Hood and forcing Bruce to look at what he's become. But still loving Bruce and wanting more than anything for Bruce to reciprocate that love in the way that Jason understands. I just think it's good soup and rife with Dynamics that are underexplored with them.

[stillwatervoid]

Now nothing’s the same | Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: You know it isn't your Mark the moment he steps into your room. The blood on his suit isn't his. The way he looks at you isn't right. The things he whispers aren't things your Mark would ever say. Yet, you let him stay. And more.

Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, frottage, overstimulation, rimming (R receiving), belly bulging, unprotected sex, spit as lube.

Tags: any Mark variant, Reader is lowkey not okay, and he’s a virgin (so prob unrealistic sex?), Unrequited love (for original Mark), Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 12.2k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language. This is the first time I write smut so it probably sucks, but hey, I wrote 12k? How did that happen? Yikes… Feedback is appreciated—as longs as is respectful. Also, I wrote this with no particular Mark in mind, so feel free to imagine your favorite variant! The only exception is Mohawk Mark, since his unique hairstyle would immediately reveal he's not the mainstream version at the very beginning (unless you prefer to imagine the reader being dense and oblivious to that glaring detail...).I guess it doesn’t really matter. IMAGINE ANY MARK! And enjoy!!!

You're here | Part 2

Ever since the news broke about cities around the world being destroyed by multiple versions of Invincible, you’ve been hiding. It’s the only logical thing to do—for someone powerless like you, there’s nothing else to do. You can only wait for the nightmare to end, for the heroes to rise victorious. For Mark to rise victorious.

So you stay in your home, clutching your phone, waiting for something—anything—to change. A day passes, and Mark still hasn’t answered your messages. He’s busy, you tell yourself, burying your face in your pillow to stifle the ache in your chest. Of course he’s busy. How could he not be? His hands are full with the weight of the world on his shoulders—fighting, saving, surviving. The news keeps reporting on the Invincibles’ rampage, updating the world daily. A stupid text message—of course Mark doesn’t have time to reply.

(You try not to think about how Mark has been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same. How you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. But you didn’t, and now nothing’s the same.)

So you wait, trapped within your four walls, your chest heavy with worry for your friends—your hero friends—who are out there risking their lives. You cling to the news like a lifeline, watching as the Invincibles tear through city after city, leaving thousands dead, all while they smile like it’s a game.

So you wait, and pray. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, pressing against your ribs until it feels like you might burst. But eventually, hunger forces you to move. You drag yourself to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fumble with the bread. You barely register the motion, your mind drifting to every terrible, unlikely scenario where Mark—your Mark—doesn’t make it. The thought alone makes your throat tighten.

It’s not good. You shouldn’t be this negative. But there are so many Invincibles, and if they’re anything like the Mark you know, then even the strongest heroes must be struggling. People will die. People you care about. And you try—God, you try—not to think about who, who, who.

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.

Not that there’s any particular sound to warn you. No footsteps, no creak of the floorboards. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of the curtains by the open window.

One second, your eyes are on the bread on the counter, and the next, an unexpected voice brushes against your ear.

“Found you,” he whispers.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering to the counter. Your breath hitches as you turn your head slowly.

(Vaguely, you think about Mark fussing over you like a mother hen, that familiar crease forming between his brows. “You really shouldn’t leave your window open like that,” he’d chide, voice laced with exasperation. “Anyone could get in.”

But you’d just laugh, brushing off his concern. “It’s a sixth floor, Mark. And you’re the only weirdo who does.”

I’ll always leave my window open for you, you wouldn’t say.

I’ll always be waiting for you to come, you couldn’t say.)

And then, there he is.

“Mark?” you breathe, relief crashing over you in an overwhelming wave. You don’t notice the differences—how his suit is wrong, smeared with fresh blood and viscera that drip onto your clean floor. How his eyes are too wide, too unblinking, something wild lurking behind them. You don’t see any of it. All you see is Mark standing there, safe, alive. “Oh my god, Mark.”

You rush to him without hesitation, arms outstretched, wrapping him up in a desperate embrace. You’ve been so worried, so consumed by the gnawing anxiety of losing him, that just hearing his voice, just seeing him, shatters any rational thought.

For a moment, he stiffens against you. But then, his arms lock around you with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too tight, too much, an intensity Mark has never held you with before. That should have been your first warning. But as soon as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your sensitive skin, you forget about everything that seems wrong. You forget about the blood, the wild look in his eyes, the way his grip feels almost possessive. All you can focus on is the way he inhales deeply, as if he’s been starved of this—of you.

You shudder, heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain, and then he sighs, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating against your skin.

(“You smell really good,” Mark would murmur, crowding into your space, his nose nearly brushing your neck as he inhaled deeply. “Like, really good.”

You’d shove at his chest, face flaming despite yourself. “Christ, Grayson, you’re not a dog. Back off.”

He’d laugh—that stupid, sunshine-bright laugh that always made your pulse stutter—and lean against the lockers with infuriating ease. “Just being honest… Hey, you could tell me what perfume you use. Maybe then Amber would actually like me on our next date.”

Your chest would tighten, eyebrows knitting together before you could stop them.

“Can’t help you there, pretty boy,” you’d say, slamming your locker shut harder than necessary. When he raised an eyebrow at you, you’d flash a razor-thin smile. “Turns out it’s natural. One hundred percent me.”) 

“It’s you…” Mark whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. You hold your breath, trying to suppress the goosebumps rising on your skin, but it’s futile. His voice is low, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He squeezes you tighter, his arms like steel bands around you. “Oh, it’s you.” 

“Mark?” you ask hesitantly, confusion laced in your voice. “What is it? Are you hurt?” 

You try to push yourself away, hands pressing against his shoulders to create some space—because you can’t do this. You can’t handle him holding you like this, his voice hoarse and low against your neck, his breath hot enough to make you weak. You’re friends. Only friends. He’s made that much clear, and this—this isn’t fair.

But you barely manage to put a few inches between you before he whines, a sound so raw and desperate it catches you off guard. In an instant, he pulls you back in, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his grip unyielding.

“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.

“Not yet,” he replies, his tone pleading. “Let me hold you one more minute.” 

And you don’t have the strength to refuse him.

Yet, as the seconds tick by and he keeps clinging to you like a child afraid to let go, you can’t help but notice the things you’ve been ignoring.

Why is Mark here? Why would he suddenly show up at your apartment when he’s supposed to be out there, saving the world? Why would Mark—the same Mark who’s been keeping you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, who barely speaks to you beyond polite conversation, who’s been looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place—be holding you so desperately right now?

Then your attention drifts to his clothes. His suit, but not really his suit. The blood—the thick, dark blood that, now that you’re truly paying attention, doesn’t belong to him. And it’s a lot, pooling around your feet, staining your floor, soaking your clothes.

A sickening weight settles in your stomach, curling, twisting, nagging at the back of your mind. Your arms go slightly limp around him, hesitation creeping in where relief had been just moments ago. Your brain, which had felt so light, so grateful just a minute ago at the sight of him safe, suddenly flashes back to the news. The destruction. The Invincibles terrorizing the world.

And you wonder.

Finally, he exhales—a slow, steady breath, like someone bracing themselves. Then, he lets go, his hands lingering on your arms as if he’s reluctant to break contact entirely.

“Y/N…” he whispers, a wide grin stretching across his face. It’s an unusual smile, unnatural, amused when it shouldn’t. “Here’s where you’ve been hiding, huh?”

“Hiding?” you ask, unsure. “Well—I can’t really do anything else, can I?”

Mark smiles spreads. But his eyes—there’s something in them you hadn’t noticed before. Wide, almost frantic, something raw burning behind them. The dark circles under them make him look exhausted. His hair is a mess. And yet, his expression softens as he studies you, gaze tracing over every feature like he’s trying to memorize you. It’s so intense, so intimate, it nearly steals your breath away.

“What—What are you doing here?” you ask, glancing away, flustered. “Is it—is it over? The fight?”

He coos, a gloveless hand reaching for your chin to tilt it back toward him with a grip that’s firm, almost possessive. “Oh, it’s over. There’s nothing to worry about anymore,” he says, voice light, too light, too nonchalant for someone who just came from a battle. Mark doesn’t speak like this after a fight—he’s never so casual, so detached.

(Mark’s hands would dig into his hair, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m just—I keep fucking up.”

“You’re not,” you’d tell him, hand pressing warm circles between his shoulder blades. “You save people, Mark. Every single day—”

“Bullshit!” He’d jerk upright so fast you’d recoil, chair screeching against the floor. “More people die than I save!” He’d pace, fingers twisting in his hair. “Stop—just stop telling me I’m not fucking up! Stop trying to—to make me feel better! You don’t understand how I feel!”

Your chest would tighten, fingers curling into empty air where he’d been. “I know I don’t.”

“Then stop!”

“However—” you’d stand up as well, eyes locking onto his as you caught his face in your hands, palms pressing gently against his cheeks. Mark would freeze, his breath hitching, wide eyes locked onto yours. “However, I know the world would be worse without you in it. Just thinking about the possibility of not having Invincible on our side—it scares me. Because you’re the only one strong enough to protect us. The only one who can stand up to the worst threats.”

Your thumb would brush over his cheekbone, touch impossibly gentle.

“And I’m sorry you have to carry that responsibility, Mark. But you’re not failing. Not to me.”

His expression would crumble, his eyes glistening with unshed tears before he’d pull you close, burying his face in your shoulder. His breath would shake, and you’d feel his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt.

Your cheeks would burn, heart stuttering, but you'd swallow your feelings and offer only the comfort a friend should.

“I’m sorry,” he’d murmur, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”

You’d breathe in, closing your eyes. “Don’t be.”)

Your cheeks burn as he tugs you closer by the chin, forcing you to look straight at him. Your hand instinctively reaches for his wrist, but you don’t pull away. You should. But you don’t. Yet, you can’t stand the weight of his stare, so intense, so close, it feels like it’s peeling back layers of you, exposing everything you’ve tried to suppress.

“Nothing to worry about?” you force the words out, trying to ignore the heat flooding your face and the fluttering sensation in your stomach. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he nods, his voice low and steady. Then, without warning, he leans closer again, his face burying into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he just couldn’t get enough. “Oh, shit. How I missed this.”

“Mark?” you ask quietly, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. His breath is hot and electric against your skin. The warmth blooming in your face spreads down, coiling through your body. “What are you doing? Jesus—this isn’t like you.”

“Oh, really?” he hums, lips ghosting over your pulse. The brush of them—so soft, so deliberate—makes you shudder. “Not even a little?”

“No…” you exhale, shivering when his arms snake around your waist, squeezing hard enough to make you squirm. “No. Mark. What—what are you doing?”

Your hands reach for the counter behind you, gripping the edge tightly, desperate for something to anchor you. But Mark—his scent, his body pressed so tightly against yours, his breath burning against the most sensitive part of your throat—makes it impossible to focus, impossible to think. It’s like everything around you is spinning, and you can’t make sense of any of it.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, his tone amused and teasing, like this is all some game to him.

And that finally makes you scowl, the heat in your cheeks now burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. You inhale sharply, trying to regain your senses, but an ugly feeling of shame and hurt settles heavily in your chest.

You lift a hand and push him, or at least try to, your strength no match for his. Still, he complies, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, an annoyed expression flickering across his face as he finally tears himself from you.

“This isn’t funny, Mark,” you say, glancing away, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. “Stop it.” 

“Stop what?” he complains, his fingers digging into your waist as if he’s reluctant to let you go entirely.

“That,” you snap, gripping his wrists and prying his hands off. “You can’t just—just ignore me for weeks and then suddenly show up and treat me this way. It’s—it messes with my head! It’s not fair, Mark!” your breath comes heavy, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to form the words. Your eyes drop to the floor, and you add quietly, “Just stop.” 

He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel his gaze burning into you, searching, analyzing. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s trying to piece something together.

“We’re not… together?” he asks after a beat, his voice incredulous, like the idea is absurd.

The question makes you flinch, and a fresh wave of anger surges through you.

(“I’m sorry,” Mark would mutter, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding yours. “I just—don’t see you that way.”

You’d glance away, your lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold back the sting of rejection. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s just—there’s someone else I wanna try it with.”

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you sigh, wanting Earth to swallow you whole and disappear forever. But this is Mark, and you couldn’t bear living without Mark. “We’re still friends, right? This doesn’t have to change anything.”

He’d smile at you, his eyes creasing at the edges in the way you adored. “Yeah—Friends!”)

“Of course not!” you snap, voice rising. “You made it very clear you—you love someone else!”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you take a step back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his overwhelming presence. Was he mocking you? Playing some cruel joke?

But then again, as you pace around the kitchen, trying to hold yourself together, your eyes flicker to his odd suit, to the blood clinging to him, to the confused, almost baffled look on his face. And you think again—why is Mark here? Why, really?

Is he even Mark—

“But Y/N—” he whines, trailing after you like a lost puppy, his voice pleading, “—I would never, and I mean never look at anyone else but you!”

You frown, shaking your head. “I can’t even believe you’re saying this to me right now,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady. “Did you hit your head too hard fighting those lunatics?”

You don’t notice the way he tilts his head at your words, don’t catch the way his eyes darken, flashing with something unreadable.

“If you don’t have anything better to do, then just leave,” you huff, bitterness lacing your tone. “I don’t wanna—humiliate myself any more than I already have. You had your fun. So go away.”

You turn on your heel, heart pounding as you stride toward your bedroom where your phone is charging. There’s a gut feeling gnawing at you, a sensation you can’t shake, and you need confirmation. You need reassurance.

Is the Mark standing behind you even your Mark at all?

Your gut twists violently, but you can’t shake it. The second you step into your bedroom, your hand fishes for your phone, fingers trembling as you scroll through your contacts and press the button.

But Mark hasn’t left. He follows right after you, moving with an easy, unhurried stride, and when he realizes what you’re doing, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.

“O-ho?” he hums, amusement dripping from his voice. “My, my, Y/N, why’re you calling me?” 

His hand moves, effortlessly covering yours, fingers warm and firm over your knuckles. The phone rings—once, twice—and Mark leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, voice low, teasing.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t need anyone else.” 

Your breath hitches. The sound of the third ring barely registers before he plucks the phone from your grasp with unnerving ease. You don’t even resist—your fingers tremble as they slip away from the device. Not that it would have done anything, anyway. The fifth ring echoes into silence, then clicks to Mark’s familiar voicemail. Useless.

The air in the room shifts, heavy and overwhelming. You watch, frozen, as he casually places your phone on your desk, just far enough out of reach.

Then, the moment your eyes meet his, you know.

This isn’t the Mark you know and love.

Mark hums, content, utterly unbothered as he slides back into your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He sighs, pleased, like he belongs there, like nothing’s wrong.

Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe it’s fear, or disbelief, or survival instincts.

Because you let him.

Your arms fall open, letting him settle more comfortably against you, his weight pressing into you as he nuzzles closer. His warmth, his scent, the way he holds you tight—it’s all too much. And you—weak-kneed, breath unsteady—let him.

“Are you going to kill me?” you can’t help but ask eventually, voice quiet, barely a whisper.

He makes a confused sound in his throat, the vibration brushing against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. “Hmm—not yet.”

Not yet. You should be terrified. Every nerve in your body should be screaming for you to run, to fight, to do something other than stand there, frozen, pliant in his grip. You know he’s dangerous. You know he could snap your neck without a second thought.

Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.

You’re not afraid. You can’t be.

Because when your eyes settle on this Mark—and he looks exactly like the Mark you know, the Mark you have feelings for—something just… doesn’t click the way it should. Fear doesn’t come. Disgust doesn’t rise in your throat. Dread doesn’t tighten its grip around your chest.

Because he looks so much like Mark. And duh—he is Mark. But not yours, and that alone should be enough to make you want to bolt. Yet—as he nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath tingling against your skin, his solid body pressing into yours with a firmness that feels both grounding and overwhelming, and the way he called you ‘sweetheart’—it all makes you want to give in to him.

The feelings you’ve buried—the ones you’ve shoved down since the day Mark rejected you, since the day you forced yourself to be okay with just being friends—are clawing their way back to the surface, stronger, faster, more consuming than ever.

“Oh yeah, you don’t have to worry though,” he says, his lips brushing against your pulse in a way that feels deliberate, calculated. “It’d be such a waste to kill you so fast. I came here for you, after all.”

His lips trail along your neck, slow and purposeful, and despite everything—despite knowing this isn’t right—you sigh, shivering at the unfamiliar, intoxicating affection. He moves upward, lips ghosting over your skin until he reaches your ear, nipping at your earlobe.

“Mark…” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, body melting under his touch.

“Ohh, I know, baby,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement, dripping with smug satisfaction. You can feel the smirk curving against your skin. “I know everything you like. I know every inch of you. Let me show you.”

Your body betrays you.

Your mind knows better—knows that this Mark isn’t yours, that the weight of his body pressing into yours should send alarms blaring through your head. But when his fingers skim your waist, when his breath fans hot against your skin, when he sighs like he belongs here—your body doesn’t fight him.

It welcomes him.

Your hands twitch at your sides, uncertain, but you don’t push him away.

“I can’t believe this universe’s Mark wouldn’t date you,” he muses, fingers wandering, exploring, curling behind your back before cupping your ass and squeezing. A choked sound catches in your throat as heat floods through you, your knees nearly giving out. “I mean—look at you.” His voice dips, teasing, triumphant. “Barely resisting.”

You bite your lip, swallowing a sound you refuse to let escape.

He laughs then—open, mocking, and so, so cocky. “And here I thought I’d have to fight this Mark over you, but—” his grin widens, wicked and pleased. “I don’t think I have any competition, sweetheart.” His lips brush against your jaw, his grip tightening possessively. “You’re all mine.”

He starts to push against you, forcing you to walk backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress. You fall onto the bed, breathless, your heart racing as he looms over you, his eyes dark and hungry.

“Just mine, okay?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with possessiveness. “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you—not even him. Not even this universe’s pathetic version of me.” He scoffs, his hands gripping the hem of your t-shirt and tugging it off with a harsh, almost desperate motion. “Loving someone else? When I have you? He’s a fool. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Y/N—you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve—” 

He groans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes raking over your exposed skin like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy him. You shiver, a deep blush spreading across your face. It’s too much, too fast, and you feel utterly exposed as his gaze devours every inch of you. His expression twists, a mix of desperation and adoration, as if he’s memorizing every detail of your body, committing it to memory so he’ll never forget. His fingers twitch, hovering over your skin but not touching, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to make you squirm.

It’s too intimate, too intense, and for a fleeting second, you forget that he’s dangerous.

“Stop staring,” you weakly complain, turning your face away.

“Oooh, oh-ho-ho, yeah, baby, you’re just like I remember...” he laughs, his breathing uneven, his voice shaking with a wild, almost manic energy. “Yeah—I’ll never let him have you. Never let anyone else even look at you. You’re just mine—holy shit.” 

And then he dives.

His lips crash into yours, claiming rather than kissing, his entire body pressing you down into the mattress, forcing your legs open. It’s desperate, feverish—starving. His tongue pushes past your lips, stealing your breath, and you moan into his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you struggle to keep up with his messy, frantic rhythm. He kisses you with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy. He groans and growls against your lips as his hands roam your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin. His fingers brush against your nipples, teasing and possessive, and you can only take it, breathless and overwhelmed, your mind spinning as he claims you in every way he can.

“Yeah, baby, keep making those sounds for me,” he murmurs against your lips before diving in again, swallowing every breath, every whimper like it fuels him. “So, so good. Fuck, you have no idea—it keeps me going.”

Your breath stutters as his fingers pinch your nipple, hard enough to make your back arch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he grinds his hips down. Your legs part without a second thought, welcoming him, urging him closer until he’s right there, pressing into you, slotting himself between your thighs.

“That’s it, spread wider for me,” he pants, voice dripping with dark approval. “You’re still so good, fuck.”

Your lips burn, swollen and tingling from his kisses, and when you blink up at him through your lashes, you catch the glint in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the usual warm brown of his eyes swallowed by something feral. That smirk—all sharp teeth and predatory hunger—should terrify you. Because the Mark you know has never looked like this before. This unhinged and unsteady. It’s a sharp, gut-wrenching reminder—this isn’t your Mark. This isn’t the sweet, awkward Mark who you fell for, the one you trusted. This Mark is wrong, a twisted mirror image, and you should be fighting him, shoving him away, clawing your way out even if it’s futile—

But then he leans down and presses the softest, faintest kiss to the tip of your nose.

And your mind blanks.

Because holy shit—Mark, the man you’ve been pining over for months, years, is kissing you. And it feels so good, so intoxicating, it messes with your head, scrambles your thoughts into something dangerous.

You know it’s wrong. You know this isn’t him. It’s like pouring your feelings into a stranger, a shadow wearing his face. But fuck—this Mark grinds against you, slow and deliberate, and you feel him, the hard press of him against you, thick and aching with want.

You gasp, body tensing, startled by how badly he wants you.

“Ohh, baby,” he whines, voice thick with desperate need, like he’s been starving for this moment for lifetimes. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, marking you as his. “Let me—” His hips roll again, dragging his thick length against your own, and you choke on air. “Let me make you feel good. Let me make you come, please, baby, please.”

Teeth scrape along your jaw before finding that sweet spot beneath your ear—the one you didn’t even know was sensitive—and you arch off the bed with a broken moan when he sucks harshly at the skin. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—he maps every inch of you like he’s memorized you, like he already knows every single weak spot before you even realize them yourself.

“Please? Please?” he keeps begging, voice so raw, so desperate, so utterly pathetic it makes you dizzy.

And you—you’re still too caught off guard to react properly. Because Mark—your Mark—never looked at you like this. Never even wanted you like this. But this Mark? He’s rutting against you like an animal in heat, his massive cock straining against his suit as he whimpers your name, making your head spin.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. Because Mark rejected you. Because you told yourself you’d be fine with just being friends. Because this isn’t even him—just the evil, dangerous version of him.

(Mark would slip into your open arms, his body heavy with exhaustion.

“I just—I’m scared,” he’d admit, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Scared of turning into my father. Scared of hurting people. And after everything with Angstrom…” his voice would trail off, fingers twitching against your back like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.

You’d run a soothing hand along his spine, grounding him. “What do you mean?” you’d ask, gentle, coaxing him to keep talking.

“He—he talked about me like I was a monster,” Mark would whisper, voice tight. “Like there’s a version of me out there who destroyed everything. A version of me who’d kill everyone I love. A version of me who’d… destroy you.”

A slow, quiet exhale would leave your lips. “But you’re this Mark,” you’d remind him. “You’re my best friend. And you’d never do that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Mark would sags against you, burying himself deeper into your warmth.

“Yeah,” he’d murmur, barely more than a breath. “Never.”)

But when you move—when you grind up into him, your body answering before your mind can stop it—he makes a noise, something between a groan and a sob, and it’s so wrecked, so full of relief it makes your stomach twist.

Your arms loop around his neck, dragging him closer, pressing your bodies so tight together you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your own. And when his teeth sink into your throat, sucking so hard you know it’s going to bruise, a sharp, broken sound escapes your lips.

The room burns around you, filled with the obscene sounds of his desperate whines and your shaky gasps, the slick friction of fabric between your joined bodies.

“Yeah—” you gasp, nails raking down his back as pleasure coils tight in your gut. “Fuck, Mark, just—Do it. Do it.”

He groans, deep and guttural, a sound so full of possession it sends a sharp pulse of heat down your spine. Then his teeth sink into your neck again—hard enough that you know he’s breaking skin. And when his tongue licks the wound, sucking the blood like he owns you—you know he’s got you.

Your mind fractures into white-hot static as every rational thought—the blood crusted on his suit, the madness in his eyes, the thousands he’s slaughtered, the fact this isn’t your Mark—dissolves into primal need. Nothing exists but the electric pleasure coiling tighter in your gut with each desperate grind of his hips.

“Mark,” you sob, voice breaking as your body arches against him of its own volition. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer. “Oh god, Mark. Fuck. Mark.”

A guttural snarl vibrates against your throat as he claims your mouth again, his tongue pushing past your lips in a violent mimicry of what his hips are doing against yours. The growing dampness between your thighs should shame you, but all you can focus on is the delicious friction, the way his teeth scrape your bottom lip when you moan too loud.

But it’s still not enough.

Not with these fucking clothes between you, not with the way you’re both rutting against each other like wild animals, frantic and insatiable. It’s maddening. You need more.

Your nails claw at his back, at his suit, needing to feel his skin the way he’s feeling yours.

“Get it off,” you manage to gasp between feverish kisses. “Please, Mark.”

With a dark chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he rears back just enough to grip his suit’s collar. The fabric shreds like tissue paper beneath his strength, revealing sweat-slick skin you immediately map with trembling fingers. His pupils blow wider at your touch, chest heaving as he crushes you back into the mattress.

“Oh yeah, Y/N...” he purrs, his voice thick with satisfaction as his fingertips trace the dark marks blooming across your neck like bruises. Proof that you belong to him. “Bet this universe’s Mark never made you feel this way, did he? Never touched you like this?” his grip tightens suddenly, making you gasp. “I’m the first, aren’t I? The only one who’s ever had you like this?”

You whimper, nodding without thinking, legs locking tight around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him there.

His grin stretches, wild and triumphant. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down with agonizing slowness—down your neck, across your heaving chest, brushing over your sensitive nipples, gliding down your stomach... Until, finally, his fingers settle between your legs, pressing against the thick, aching bulge in your sweatpants, squeezing just enough to rip a needy moan from your lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, eyes wild with possessive hunger. “So fucking perfect for me. So ready to be mine. Does your Mark know what a desperate little thing you are? How easily you fall apart under my hands?”

His smile tilts, both awestruck and predatory. Then, he leans in until his lips brush yours, his hand working you through the fabric with rough, perfect strokes that have you trembling.

“So hard just for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “He could never make you feel like this. Never touch you like I do.” His teeth graze your bottom lip. “He could never compare. I’m better, I’m stronger—”

He peppers kisses along the corner of your mouth, your flushed cheeks, tender and teasing, a sharp contrast to the way his pace quickens—faster, rougher.

“—I could make you feel even better,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear, voice so low, so filthy it makes you shudder. “Make you scream my name, so loud and clear, maybe the other Mark could even hear you.”

Your breath stutters, a deep moan slipping from your lips, body twisting under his touch.

“Ohh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he chuckles, breath warm against your neck, teasing, taunting. “You’d love to let him watch. Love to let him see you break for me. Let him realize what he’s lost—what he’ll never have again.”

His voice dips lower, sinking into something darker, something twisted.

“You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?”

Your body jolts, heat flashing through you in a violent rush, shame curling in your stomach like a vice.

“N-no—!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, face burning with humiliation. “No, I wouldn’t—”

But your body betrays you. Trembling, surrendering, completely giving in—your hips rut desperately against his hand, your pre-cum soaking through the fabric, staining it.

“Liar,” Mark breathes against your swollen lips before crushing them again in a kiss that’s hot, rough, and bruising. “I can feel how much you want it. How much you need it.”

His thumb presses cruelly against the head of your cock, rubbing slow, torturous circles through the fabric, making you see stars. Your whole body jolts, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat.

“Maybe I should drag him here,” he whispers, grinning against your lips. “Make him watch as I fuck you so good, you forget he’s your Mark Grayson. Make him see how perfectly you take me—how you were always meant to be... ours.”

You shake your head frantically, words lost between your ragged gasps. “No—”

But your back arches, cock throbbing obscenely against his palm. The more he whispers these filthy fantasies, the harder you get, hips stuttering, desperate and eager, seeking more, more, more, as his words sink deep into your brain, filling you with something forbidden, something wrong—something you like.

The pressure builds unbearable. His fingers move with ruthless precision, stroking, squeezing, dragging you to the edge, pulling sounds from you that should be humiliating—but you can’t stop.

Then you think about it. About your Mark. The one who’s still out there, fighting, struggling, exhausted and worn down. You think about what would he think. What would he do if he saw you like this. You imagine your Mark’s confused face watching—the horror in his eyes as he sees you come apart under his doppelgänger’s touch, moaning and whimpering like some cheap slut desperate for any version of him.

“Mark,” you sob as waves of shame and pleasure crash over you. “Mark, Mark—”

Mark exhales a breathy chuckle, eyes dark with fascination. “Oh-ho-ho. That’s it, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.”

And then it hits you.

White-hot pleasure blinds you completely as you spill in your sweatpants like some untouched virgin, his name tumbling from your lips in a broken prayer. Your body arches violently, convulsing as your legs clamp around his waist like a vice. Your hands claw at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, to this moment, to reality itself.

“Jesus…” he exhales, almost in awe, his grip tightening possessively. “My god… so perfect.”

You’re reduced to a trembling, gasping mess—shaky legs, toes curling, vision whiting out as the aftershocks rip through you. Mark watches it all with a smug, hungry smirk, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every twitch, every quiver like he’s trying to memorize it, to brand it into his mind.

“Yeah—let it out, Y/N,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction. “I did this to you. I made you feel this good.”

(“Does that feel good?” Mark would mutter into your ear, his hands still working awkwardly at the knots in your back.

You’d groan, face mushed into the pillow. ”Yup. Feels good. Really good.”

“I still can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he’d grumble, brows pinching together.

You’d stifle a laugh, eyes fluttering shut. ”You lost the bet, Grayson. Now keep massaging my back. My muscles are still wrecked from all the damn work you put me through covering you at Uni.”

“William never complains.”

“Because William sucks at covering! The only reason you’re not suspended is because I’m just too good at lying—Oh! Yeah! Right there, don’t stop,” you’d sigh, melting into the mattress. ”Oh my god, yes…”

His hands would freeze, fingers pressing hesitantly into your skin. ”…Can you stop making those sounds?”

“What sounds?” you’d murmur, half-dazed.

Mark would be quiet for a beat, then resume with a sigh. “Never mind. How about this? Does that feel good?”

“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)

Finally, you sink into the mattress, chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven breaths as your climax wears off. Your head falls back against the pillows, glazed eyes barely tracking Mark’s movements. His fingers leave the bulge in your sweatpants, moving to your waistband, fumbling briefly before tugging your sweatpants and underwear down, inch by inch.

“Just let me take care of you,” he mumbles, dazed. “Always gonna take care of you.”

The cold air bites at your oversensitive cock as he yanks it free, his pupils blown wide as he stares at what’s his. Before you can even process the exposure, Mark flashes you a wicked grin before his lips wrap around your cock, hot and wet and devastating. Your hips jolt, body convulsing at the sensation. His tongue swirls, savoring, exploring, a deep groan rumbling in his throat as he tastes you. The overstimulation is unbearable, electric. A strangled, pathetic cry rips from your throat as your hands fly to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, trying—failing—to push him away.

“Mark!” you jolt, thighs snapping shut around his head, trembling, squeezing, clutching. “Oh my god. Oh my god—oh my god. No—”

A deep, satisfied groan rumbles through him, vibrating against your cock and making you yelp. His hands pin your thrashing hips down, holding you there, making sure you take it.

“Mark—”

“Mine,” he snarls between filthy, wet sucks. “Gonna taste every fucking drop.”

The overstimulation borders on painful as he works you ruthlessly through your sensitivity, your cries growing increasingly broken. And yet, somewhere beneath the overwhelming pleasure, a traitorous part of you preens at being so desperately wanted.

Wanted. By Mark. Not your Mark, not the one who’d gently rejected you, but a Mark all the same. A version from some twisted reality who’d torn through dimensions just to claim you. And it sickens you—the satisfaction curling in your gut, the twisted pleasure of knowing that somewhere, in some reality, Mark has always wanted you. Craved you. And if he’s here, willing to ruin you, to unravel you with nothing but his mouth, then who are you to stop him?

His tongue works you over with filthy precision, hot and wet and perfect in ways you’d never dared fantasize about. You writhe beneath him, sheets twisting in your fists, as your gaze drops to where he’s sucking you off—Mark Grayson, on his knees for you, eyes close in joy. The sight alone punches a broken noise from your throat.

“F-fuck—!” you arch violently, tears spilling as pleasure crests into near-pain. “Fuck, I can’t—Mark, please, I can’t—!”

Finally, he lets you go with a slick, obscene ‘pop.’ He pants, breath heavy, lips red and wet as he leans over you. You’re gasping too, your chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, your body trembling like you’ve run yourself into the ground.

Mark watches you, gaze trailing over your flushed skin, your wrecked, tear-streaked face. And then he grins.

“I love you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. His thumb swipes at the wetness on your cheek. “Love it when you cry.”

(“I hate when you cry,” Mark would say, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ”I hate it even more when it’s me who made you cry.”

You’d slap his hand away, face twisting into a scowl. ”Shut up, Grayson. How dare you—how dare you act upset.” Your voice would shake, anger sharpening every word. ”You can’t even say sorry. Can’t even fake an excuse for why you’ve treated me like this, ignoring me for months… And don’t try to deny it—William noticed too!”

He’d wince, eyes darting away. ”I can’t—I can’t say it.”

“That you’re sorry?” you’d scoff, disbelief dripping from the words.

Mark would bite his lip, shaking his head desperately. ”No! Of course not. It’s—the reason.”

“The reason you’ve been pulling away?” you’d snap, swiping the back of your hand across your wet cheek. Then, it would hit you—heart lurching. ”Is it… because I confessed? I thought we were past that. That we’d still be friends no matter what…”

Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.

Mark would flinch, shoulders slumping in defeat. ”It’s part of the reason.”

“I don’t understand,” you’d murmur, voice breaking. ”You said it didn’t matter. You promised it wouldn’t change anything.”

“I don’t understand either,” he’d admit, hand scrubbing roughly through his hair. ”Just—just give me time. I need to… figure some things out.”

“You won’t even tell me?��

Mark would press his lips into a tight line, guilt flashing across his face as his gaze caught on your tear-streaked cheeks. ”I can’t.”)

A helpless sob rips from your throat as he surges forward, capturing your bruised lips in a desperate, feverish kiss. He moans into your mouth, deep and needy, and you can taste yourself on his tongue—hot, salty, intoxicating. The realization only makes you burn hotter.

Then, a moan rattles in your chest as his free hand trails lower, fingers teasing where you’re most sensitive. Your gasp is sharp when one presses against your entrance.

“W-wait—” you huff, shaky hands pressing against his broad shoulders. “No… I’ve never—never done this…”

Mark freezes, his expression shifting from surprise to something terrifyingly euphoric. “Oohh, Y/N can you get any more perfect for me? My god—not even in my universe were you a virgin.” He chuckles, low and dark. “Were you saving yourself for him? Hoping he’d finally see you the way I do? He’s such a fool—But I will make you feel good. I’ll make you feel so good.”

As he speaks, his hands roam, gripping your thighs with an iron hold before pushing them up—forcing you open, leaving you vulnerable beneath him. Your face flushes with embarrassment and arousal, your hands instinctively gripping the sheets tightly at the sheer obscenity of the position. He flashes a playful grin, his breath warm against your ass, causing you to gasp and breathe unevenly.

“What— What are you doing?” you stammer weakly, squirming uncomfortably, peering down with shame as Mark leans over your hole, a wide smirk across his face. You realize a second too late was he’s up to. “Wait, wait—Oh my god!”

Your back arches, mouth letting go a deep, throaty groan and your eyes rolling back when Mark inserts his tongue, licking and lapping at the inner walls of your hole, sucking and nibling and kissing. Your head throws back against the pillows, skin burning so hot you swear you’ll melt into the sheets. The sensation is overwhelming—Mark’s hot tongue delves between your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm, licking and probing with obscenely wet sounds that make you squirm uncontrollably. You writhe in delicious contradiction, torn between pulling away and pressing deeper into his merciless mouth.

“Mmh, look at you—” Mark pants between greedy licks, his voice thick with arousal. “That’s it. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You’re beyond responding, your hips stuttering and your asshole clenching and unclenching with the unfamiliar, yet intoxicating sensation. The pleasure is so intense you bite your lip raw trying to contain the filthy sounds fighting to escape. It’s useless, though, because Mark keeps eating you out and it only takes a few minutes of this sweet torture until you start whimpering and mewling like a little whore.

“F-fuck—!” the curse tears from your throat as your toes curl and back arches off the bed. Your cock stirs back to full hardness, dripping pathetically against your stomach. “Fuck—Mark, my god! Don’t stop, fuck—Oh my god—”

You’ve never been touched like this before—it never even crossed your mind, not even in your wildest fantasies. But damn, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Who would have thought that being pleasured like this could feel so incredibly good? You might just climax right then and there with Mark’s warm, skilled tongue working its magic, and you’d die happily. Your erection is unbelievably hard, leaking pre-cum onto your stomach, but you don’t dare touch yourself because you’re too busy gripping the sheets for stability.

But then Mark pulls away, and you moan and whimper with need, trying to tighten around him in an attempt to draw him back.

Mark smirks and chuckles, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at your own lewdness.

“God, baby, you’re so perfect for me,” Mark rasps, pulling back just enough to loom over you. His lips glisten with your taste, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Look at you—already falling apart just from my mouth. Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart? Think that pretty little hole can handle my cock?”

You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of pleasure—but Mark’s hips have been moving restlessly the whole time, fucking the air with desperate, instinctive thrusts as he devoured you. Now, as he looms over you, you can feel him, hot and throbbing, grinding against your thighs through the thin fabric of his suit. And fuck—he’s massive. Even through the material, you can feel the sheer size of him, the way he twitches with every needy thrust. And yeah—his mouth has left you slick, loose, ready to be filled—but shit. Viltrumites have monster cocks, and it scares you.

And yet—and yet, as Mark moves against you, teasing, testing, making sure you feel the sheer girth of him even through fabric, all you can feel is hunger, a desperate need.

So, huskily, with glazed eyes, you whisper, “Yes, Mark. Yes.”

He doesn’t make you beg twice. One hand tears the remaining suit away like tissue paper, his cock springing free—thick, veiny, and already leaking. The flushed tip bobs against your thigh, leaving a sticky trail as your breath catches.

“Fuck, Y/N—” Mark’s voice breaks as he strokes himself, his wild eyes drinking in every tremble of your body. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How many nights I dreamed of this moment. You—here, with me again.” His breath shudders, his grip tightening. “Had to find you. Had to make you mine again. I missed you. I missed you.”

His feverish rambling sends your pulse into overdrive, and for one fleeting moment, you wonder about that other life—what version of you could make a man this desperate, this feral with need? What was their relationship like? How did it end? How did Mark end up here, in your universe, searching for you? But then Mark’s strong hands are spreading your thighs wide, his body settling heavily between them, and all coherent thought evaporates in a rush of dizzying arousal.

Shit, shit—Mark Grayson, the boy you’ve been in love with since eighth grade, is about to fuck you. And shit—that thought alone makes your cock ache, your hole clench with anticipation, even as your mind screams that this isn’t your Mark. Your real Mark is probably fighting for his life somewhere. Maybe even dying. And here you are, letting his evil counterpart have you—willingly.

That makes you a horrible friend. You’re disgusting. A traitor. You’re giving in to every dirty fantasy you’ve ever had, every longing you’ve buried for years, all because this Mark—the wrong Mark—looks at you with the hunger you’ve always dreamed of seeing in your Mark’s eyes.

It’s sick. It’s twisted. You’ll never be able to look your Mark in the eye again. Guilt twists in your gut, heavy and suffocating.

You should stop.

You should have never let it go this far.

But then—

“Shh, baby, I got you,” this Mark whispers, shattering your spiraling thoughts. His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he lines himself up. “I got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You shiver, heat flushing your skin as his cock presses against your entrance, thick and hard and real. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, locking behind him, pulling him in.

Mark groans, deep and satisfied, his fingers pressing into your thighs as he grins down at you.

“Fuck, yes,” he hums appreciatively, running possessive hands along your trembling thighs. “You’re so good, Y/N. So good.”

His fingers dig deep enough to leave bruises as he drinks down every gasp, every shudder of your oversensitive body like a man starved. And just when desperation coils in your gut—when the teasing pressure at your entrance becomes unbearable—Mark sheathes himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck—!” your cry shatters the air as your body bows taut, back arching off the bed. The stretch burns, his thickness forcing you open in ways that make your vision whiten at the edges. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He’s massive, painfully so. You can feel every ridge, every vein as your body struggles to accommodate him. It’s too much—you’re certain he’ll split you in two.

And yet... The fullness is intoxicating. It burns. It aches. But it also satisfies something deep within you, a primal need you hadn’t even realized was there. Tears prickle at your eyes as you clench the sheets, overwhelmed by the sheer reality of Mark Grayson buried inside you.

“Fuck...” Mark’s voice is guttural, dripping with satisfaction as he bottoms out. “God, you’re tight.” His hips grind deeper, wringing a broken whimper from your throat. “Taking me so perfect—fuck, you feel incredible. Like you were waiting just for me.”

And then, slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he begins to pull back out, dragging a wrecked moan from your lips. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something solid, something to hold onto as he sets a rhythm, each movement sending heat curling through your veins.

“That’s it,” Mark pants against your neck, his breath scalding as he inhales your scent like an addict. “Just like that… you’re perfect. Nobody else could take me like this.” His teeth graze your pulse point possessively. “Only you. Only mine.”

The next thrust is deeper than the last, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your hips jolt up instinctively, a surprised sound catching in your throat.

“Oh god, Mark,” you whine, nails digging into his back, voice breaking on a breathy moan. “Ah—ngh—fuck—”

The agonizingly slow drag of his cock has your vision swimming, pain and pleasure blurring into one overwhelming sensation. He’s so thick, so long, so heavy inside you. Every time he pushes in, it feels impossibly deeper, stretching you, filling you—until it makes your stomach bulge slightly, a small bump appearing in the flat plane of your abdomen.

Mark groans, eyes going wide, his hand settling at the base of your belly. “God, look at you,” he breathes, awed. His fingers press into the bulge, tracing the outline of himself inside you. “Fuck, I’m buried so deep in you. Right here, Y/N—you feel that? That’s me claiming you. Oh-ho-ho, goddamn, look what I do to you.”

His dark chuckle vibrates against your skin even as awe colors his voice. He punctuates each word with a punishing thrust, fingers digging into the visible outline of himself inside you like he wants to brand the shape of his possession into your flesh. And you can’t look away either—because holy shit, this is the first time you’ve ever felt anything like this, and it’s almost too much. Too intense. Too consuming.

Tears streak down your flushed cheeks as your legs tremble violently. The initial pain has melted into overwhelming pleasure, your body adjusting to his impossible size with desperate, shameful eagerness.

“More,” you rasp between gasps, arching up shamelessly. “Faster. Harder. Please—”

Mark chuckles darkly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna make you feel good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

The dark promise in his words should terrify you. Instead, it sends another pulse of white-hot pleasure straight to your aching cock. Then he moves—harder, faster—tearing the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and reeling. Your body clenches around him, every nerve alight as a broken whimper escapes your lips.

“Mark—Mark—” you mumble his name between gasps, unable to form anything else. “Mark, ah—Mark—mmh—fuck—”

A sharp cry rips from your throat as Mark shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that sends a violent shudder through your entire body. Heat surges down your spine, forcing you to arch off the bed, toes curling, every nerve alight with raw, electric pleasure.

“Fuck! There! Mark—ngh—fuck!” you moan, biting down on your lip so hard you taste the faint tang of blood. Mark growls, his movements deep and unrelenting, each thrust pressing you further into the mattress. The bed creaks beneath the force, your skin burning where his grip tightens. “There! Keep going! Fuck, it feels so good—Mark!”

Then—through the haze of heat, through the sinful sounds of skin against skin, of your wrecked moans and his low, animalistic groans—something intrudes. A sharp, buzzing vibration. Your ringtone.

Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, flickering toward your desk—just a few feet away, where Mark tossed your phone. You’re aware the screen glows, the sound ringing in the background, before another brutal thrust wipes all coherent thought away. Let it ring. Nothing matters except the way Mark’s splitting you apart, remaking you as his with every snap of his hips.

The phone rings and rings… then stops. And you don’t even notice when it goes silent, too preoccupied with the drag of Mark’s cock inside you, the way your nails sink into the broad expanse of his back, leaving behind deep, angry marks.

“Perfect,” Mark rasps against your ear, his voice wrecked and reverent, “Taking me so fucking good, Y/N. Made for this. Made for me.”

Your thighs shake violently around him, toes curling as his filthy praise reduces you to nothing but lustful moans and pleading whimpers.

Then—your phone starts ringing again.

This time, Mark notices.

He stills inside you with a low snarl, his body tensing as he straightens slightly, casting an annoyed glance toward the device. But when he reaches for it—his cock still buried deep inside you, making you whimper—his expression darkens with wicked amusement as he reads the caller ID.

“Well, well,” he purrs, looming over you once more, planting one hand beside your head while the other dangles the phone just inches from your flushed, dazed face. “Take a look at this.”

Your stomach drops at the familiar name flashing on screen. It’s Mark—your Mark—calling you.

“Should we answer it, baby?” he muses, tilting his head as his lips curl into a smirk. “Let him hear what you sound like when you’re properly fucked?”

“No—!” you gasp, wrecked and breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach for the phone, desperate to snatch it from his grasp. “Mark—”

But he’s quicker.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, lifting a single finger in mock reprimand, effortlessly keeping the phone out of reach. His other hand tightens around your hip, keeping you pinned. “You need to get your shit together first, Y/N. Wouldn’t want him to know what you’re doing, now would you?” His eyes gleam with wicked delight. “With that pornographic little voice of yours—so wrecked, so needy for my cock…” He leans in, his breath fanning over your ear. “I bet he’d figure it out immediately.”

A shudder rips through you.

Your vision blurs—tears welling at the edges, cold fear twisting deep in your gut. But worse—worse—is the way your body betrays you. The way you clench around him involuntarily at the thought. At the sheer humiliation of it.

Of your Mark listening on the other end. Unaware. Oblivious. As his variant fucks and ruins you.

“See? I know you,” he murmurs, his voice syrup-thick with satisfaction as he strokes your cheek with unnerving tenderness. His free hand cups your face, his thumb dragging over your lips. “I know exactly what kind of fucked-up little thing you are.”

His grin widens as he watches your lips tremble, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants.

“I’m glad you’re the same here as you were in my universe, Y/N. I adore you like this.” Then, his tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around something dangerous. “Now—try to keep him distracted while I take my time with you, yeah?”

Before you can react, he thrusts—sharp and sudden—just once, but it’s enough to steal the air from your lungs. A strangled gasp escapes you, body reacting on instinct, pulse hammering as he stills once more.

Mark leans in, his breath hot against your parted lips, his amusement dripping with warning. “Otherwise, he’ll keep calling,” he murmurs. “And I don’t want him interrupting us.”

Your stomach twists in knots of anticipation and dread. The phone is still ringing, still just out of reach—Mark’s name flashing on the screen, a second away from being answered. And all the while, this Mark remains inside you—hot, solid, pressing deeper with each second of silence.

“Okay...” you breathe, forcing air into your lungs. “Okay.”

Mark’s smirk turns predatory as he brushes a featherlight kiss to your nose before tapping the answer button, offering you the phone back—and as soon as you grab it and press it to your ear, he immediately resumes his slow, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.

“Y/N? Y/N!” The real Mark’s voice—familiar, concerned, kind—crackles through the speaker. He sounds breathless, frantic. “Are you okay? You called and I couldn’t answer but then—but then I called back and you didn’t pick up, and I’m—I’m worried—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip, fighting so hard to keep quiet. But the Mark above you doesn’t make it easy, his hips moving with cruel precision, his smirk deepening as he watches you struggle.

“…Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you choke out, voice miraculously steady despite the way your body arches into each thrust. The not-yours-Mark’s eyes glint with dark amusement as he increases his pace. “I’m... okay.”

Your voice wavers. You can’t help it. A shaky sigh escapes when he ducks his head to nip at your throat, his hot breath raising goosebumps across your oversensitive skin.

“Thank God,” your actual Mark exhales, the relief in his voice almost painful to hear. “Listen, Cecil just— he lost track of a variant. Said he was heading your way, Y/N.”

The not-yours-Mark stills inside you, his expression shifting to something dangerously intrigued. “Oh?” he murmurs against your pulse.

“Y-yeah?” you blurt too loudly, praying the real Mark didn’t hear him.

Your fingers dig into the sheets as the not-yours-Mark begins moving again with renewed purpose, each thrust calculated to wring helpless sounds from your throat while you struggle to keep your breathing even.

“Yeah,” your actual Mark replies through the phone, his voice strained. “I’ll—I’ll come your way. Or the GDA will pick you up, but—it’s dangerous to stay in your apartment! Please, just—just leave. Right now.”

You choke back another gasp, barely holding yourself together. No—you can’t let Mark come here. You can’t let the GDA get involved either. The humiliation would be unbearable—agents witnessing you like this, being taken apart by the same monster who probably leveled cities and slaughtered thousands before claiming you in your own bed.

“No!” you blurt out, voice cracking under the weight of too many emotions. “No, nngh, fuck—you can’t!”

You’re losing control. This Mark—the wrong Mark—is hitting your prostate with every brutal thrust, his teeth sinking into that sensitive spot on your neck while his fingers twist your nipples mercilessly. Stars explode behind your eyelids as another lewd groan escapes you. Virgin or not, there’s no way you could stay quiet under this assault. You realize with dawning horror that he doesn’t want you quiet—he wants you loud, to moan, to let your Mark hear you. To let him know.

That yeah—he’s here.

And yeah—he’s fucking you.

For a moment, there’s only silence on the other end of the call.

Then finally, Mark speaks again, slower this time. “This—this isn’t negotiable, Y/N,” he says, though there’s something off—a hesitation, a shift in his tone as your breath stutters audibly. “Are you… okay?”

No. You’re not okay. You’re overwhelmed, wrecked by pleasure more intense than anything you’ve ever known, losing your virginity to a twisted version of the man you love. Hot tears of shame spill down your cheeks as a sob tears from your throat.

“...Y/N?” Mark’s voice sounds distant now. You can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, over the slick sound of skin meeting skin, over the obscene, broken whimpers falling from your lips.

“Mmmh, fuck,” you gasp as the pressure builds unbearably inside you. “Fuck—Mark—”

“That’s it, baby,” not-your-Mark whispers in your ear, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “You wanna come, don’t you? Wanna scream my name?”

The dam breaks. “Yes! Fuck, yes, yes!” Your voice shatters with each punishing thrust. Dignity forgotten, you arch desperately against him, meeting every movement as you beg mindlessly. “Mark—I can’t—oh god, please, please...!”

The line goes silent for an agonizing moment, the static crackle carrying more weight than words ever could. You squeeze your eyes shut, shame and guilt and disgust warring with the pleasure coiling tight in your belly—but it’s too late now. Far too late.

“Y/N...?” his voice comes through the receiver—your Mark’s voice—strangled and low, thick with realization.

Your stomach drops. He knows. Oh god, he knows. He fucking knows.

Not-your-Mark lets out a pleased hum against your neck, his fingers lazily plucking the phone from your trembling hand while his hips snap forward, forcing a needy moan from your lips. The wet sound of skin on skin is unmistakable. There’s no way your Mark could mistake what’s happening.

Not-your-Mark’s eyes glint with something wicked as he presses the phone to his ear, smirking.

“Too late, dickhead,” he says, just as breathless as you, his voice dripping with smug victory as he punctuates each word with another brutal thrust. “He’s already mine.”

Mark’s furious roar bursts through the speaker. “You—!” you close your eyes, mortified, tears falling down your cheeks because this is the moment Mark realizes you’re a horrible friend. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YO—”

But the sound is cut off with a sickening crunch as not-your-Mark’s fingers tighten, phone shattering, fragments falling like dust.

“Oops,” he pouts mockingly, tilting his head with feigned innocence before his expression darkens. His hand snakes around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to claim. “Now where were we, sweetheart?”

When he slams back into you, you arch off the bed with a broken scream, your legs spreading wider of their own volition. He chuckles darkly, hands sliding under your thighs to fold you nearly in half, opening you up so completely that each thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he growls, pace turning erratic as his control fractures. “Look at you—taking me so perfect. Tell me. Tell me how much you love this. How much you love taking my cock.”

“I love it,” you gasp without thought, your mind obliterated by pleasure. “Fuck—I love it. I love you.”

A deep, guttural moan tears from his throat, his grip on you tightening as he nods frantically. “Yeah? Love me? Fuck— I love you too, baby. I love you so fucking much.”

And you know he’s not your Mark. You know your real Mark is probably flying at full speed right now, minutes, or even seconds from bursting through your window. But Christ—hearing those words, in Mark’s voice, from his lips, with his face twisted in raw, desperate worship—it makes you dizzy. It makes you happy.

“I love you,” you say again, fingers twisting into his dark hair, dragging him down until your panting mouths brush. “I love you. Always have—fuck—since—since before you even got your powers, Mark!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! Ah—fuck, yes!” The words dissolve into moans as you kiss the corner of his mouth, your lips sliding messily against his. “When you were such--a nerd! Loved you since we were kids. Love you now. I always will—”

He groans, swallowing your words with a feverish kiss, his hands squeezing your cheeks until your mouth falls open, surrendering completely. Tongues tangle, breath mingles, and he moans right into you—

“I love—” he pants, his movements growing erratic. “I love you, Y/N. Fuck—Gonna take you home with me. Gonna keep you forever. Steal you from that idiot...make him see what he threw away—”

Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.

It’s been untouched this entire time, leaking wildly against your stomach, and the moment his fingers curl around it, a sharp, broken whimper escapes you. Your hips jerk helplessly, legs trembling as pleasure rips through you.

“Fuuuuck,” you sob, shuddering against him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop. I’m gonna—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, stroking you faster, fucking into you harder. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna take you away. Gonna own you!”

And God help you—his words don’t sound like threats when you’re drowning in white-hot ecstasy. In this moment, you’d let him drag you through dimensions, would beg him to claim you completely—because he wants you. He loves you. He craves you in a way you’ve always ached to be craved. And right now—you’d let him take you. You’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Ah—ah, Mark—” Your body locks up, stomach tightening, hole clenching around him as the pressure on your cock becomes unbearable. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

“Yeah, baby, let it out,” he growls against your lips, his hand working your cock in perfect sync with his punishing thrusts. “Come for me. Now.”

You shatter with a strangled scream, body jerking violently as you spill across your stomach in thick, hot stripes. Your vision whites out, every muscle locking and spasming as pleasure tears through.

Mark groans like a man possessed, his thrusts faltering as your hole flutters and clenches around him. “Fuck—fuck—” He slams into you one final time, burying himself deep, and then he’s coming too, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. His grip tightens as he grinds himself deeper, prolonging every last spurt, wringing every aftershock from you until you’re trembling and spent beneath him.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. All you can do is lie there, trembling, as he keeps pumping into you, dragging out your orgasm until you’re sobbing from oversensitivity. His hips grind against yours, forcing every last drop into you like he’s determined to make sure you remember this.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss, your body limp and wrecked. Sweat and come cling to your skin, your chest heaving as aftershocks wrack through you. Every inch of you is marked—bruises blooming where his fingers, his teeth, his lips claimed you.

You barely register the mattress dipping as he lays beside you, his arms wrapping around your exhausted frame. A soft, lingering kiss presses to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur against your damp skin.

“Shh, shh, Y/N,” his fingers trace lazy circles against your back. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of everything.”

Even in your dazed, post-orgasmic haze, you understand what “everything” means.

It means your Mark—your universe’s Mark—is on his way. It means a fight is inevitable. It means blood, destruction, the clash of two forces that look the same but could never be. And when that moment comes, you’ll have to face him—face the shame that will devour you whole.

Because how dare you?

How dare you moan his name for someone else? Whisper desperate I love yous to the wrong version of him? Come undone beneath a man who wears his face but isn’t him?

And after you told him it was fine—that you were fine—staying just friends. After you swallowed every aching, desperate feeling just to keep him close. But in the end, you gave in. You let temptation pull you under. You let yourself have him—or the closest thing to him. And now, there’s no taking it back.

You know you’re wrong.

You know time is running out.

And you know that when he says he’ll take care of everything, this Mark intends to kill your Mark—just as your Mark wants to kill him.

But your body betrays you—mind foggy, muscles lax with satisfaction, the afterglow pulling you under. As consciousness fades, this not-quite-Mark draws you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. His breathing steadies, his solid frame surrounding you in deceptive safety.

(And vaguely, you think about your Mark. About how he’s been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same.

“I promise I’ll tell you,” he’d say, a week ago, his eyes avoiding yours in a way that pains you. “I promise I’ll tell you the truth. All of it. And—”

Then he’d looked up, and something in his gaze pinned you there—fervent, almost feverish.

“I’ll—” he’d stop himself, cheeks coloring faintly, and yet he wouldn’t relent his steady gaze. ”I’ll tell you the reason I’ve been acting like such an asshole to you. And I hope...you can forgive me after.”

“Why not now?” you’d ask, puzzled, fingers curling into your palms. ”Why not when I’m asking you, Mark? Right here, and right now.”

He’d flinch, his eyes closing for a fleeting second before opening them again. ”Just—gimme one more week,” he’d rasped. “One more week and—I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’ll—confess everything.”

And as he’d turn around, his broad back to you as he’d take off—not before glancing at you with troubled eyes, an intensity in his eyes you can’t quite place—you’d only guess he’s gonna say he hates you. That he’s gonna say, now once and for all, he can no longer be your friend.

And how you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. How you should’ve never, ever opened your big mouth and let your feelings spill out.

But you did, and now nothing’s the same.)

“I’ll take care of it,” Mark murmurs again as you drift away, his voice a dark promise. “Never gonna lose you again. Never.”

The last thing you register before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.

And in the final flicker of consciousness, a single thought drifts through your mind— You wished Mark had told you the reason.

Now, he never might.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

A Whisper of Cinnamon

gif credit: @/userseraph

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, smut, oral sex (f!reader), unprotected p in v, kissing, get together fic

wc: 1,620

an: yes i wrote this ridiculously fast so if there’s repetition or typos that’s why 😭. that old man looked so good last night holy shit

pedro pascal characters masterlist | set the table masterlist

The light spilling from the small construction office was one of the only things still burning on this side of town. Most of Jackson had gone still hours ago, swallowed up by the fall of amber leaves and the kind of hush only autumn nights dusted with chill could bring.

You hesitate at the door, fingers tightening around the bundled napkin in your hands. The few slices of cinnamon bread, soft in the middle, a little messy are still warm. You’d made it mostly to keep your hands busy—mostly—but you’d wrapped up a few pieces just for him. You weren’t sure he’d still be here but then again, you kind of were.

Classic overworking Joel. You’ve noticed that about him.

You finally work up the courage to knock lightly. There’s a grunt from inside, then the sound of a chair creaking back and the door opens a second later.

Joel stands there looking more tired than usual—glasses slipping low on his nose, sleeves pushed to his elbows, stubble heavier than it was this morning. His eyes flicker over you, then to the bundle in your hand.

“I figured you were still working,” you say, trying not to sound as shy as you feel. “Brought you something.”

His brows lift, and he steps aside to let you in. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says gruffly, but you hear the softness, the gratitude underneath.

Inside, it smells like sawdust, ink, and faintly like coffee that’s long gone cold. Blueprints are scattered across the desk, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He sets your offering down, peeking under the napkin. The barest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, if you can call it that.

“Cinnamon?” he asks, already pulling off a piece with calloused fingers.

You nod. “It’s still warm.”

“Damn good,” he mumbles around a bite, which makes you laugh as your cheeks warm from his subtle praise.

He gestures for you to sit, pulling out the second chair he clearly doesn’t use. You settle in, watching him as he leans back over the plans. The lamp catches the edge of his glasses, a soft glow reflecting in his eyes as he squints.

“You ever think about getting new ones?” you ask, teasing gently.

“Every damn day,” he mutters, smirking. “Hard to come by.”

You lean closer, glancing down at the blueprint. “What’s this one?”

“New housing draft,” he says, voice low. “Tommy’s idea. Wants more space for the kids comin’ in.”

He’s still squinting, so you reach over—fingers brushing his as you adjust the page, turning it toward the light. He doesn’t pull away. Your hands lingers on his just a moment too long, the warmth of his skin unexpected and grounding before you pull away.

“You’ve got the measurements off here,” you say gently, tapping a pencil against the paper. “By like half an inch.”

Joel sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Knew somethin’ felt off.”

“You need sleep.”

“Don’t got time for that.”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “Then at least let someone help you. You’re not invincible Joel and people like having you around.”

He’s quiet for a second, watching you. There’s something unreadable in his expression, like he’s trying to decide something. Like he’s torn.

The truth is, this tension’s been there for a while—months, maybe. Laced between long looks over shared meals, brushing shoulders on patrol, the way his voice dipped when he said your name. Neither of you have said anything. You weren’t sure what it was, or if he’d ever let himself want it. But now, in the warmth of this quiet room, it feels like there’s no more pretending. Whatever this is can’t be denied.

“Don’t usually get help,” he murmurs. “Not used to it.”

“Well,” you say, keeping your voice light even as your chest tightens, “you’re allowed to. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Another silence settles between you, heavier this time. Your knee brushes his under the desk. Like before, he doesn’t move away.

His eyes stay trained on your face as he asks softly, “You always this kind to people stayin’ late?”

You tilt your head at him. “Only the ones who wear glasses and forget to eat.”

That earns you a rare, real smile. It’s a slow one, warm and a little sad— like he’s thinking about those he lost who used to be kind to him. His hand lifts tentatively, thumb brushing against your cheek.

You don’t know who leans in first. Maybe it’s both of you at once. But when his mouth meets yours, it’s not soft. It’s starved.

It’s the taste of Joel with a whisper of cinnamon.

The kiss is rough and deep, months of restraint unraveling at once. His hands cup your cheeks, teeth scraping your bottom lip. You whimper into him and that’s all it takes—he’s pulling you up out of the chair and onto the desk like you weigh nothing.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he mutters between kisses, voice wrecked. “Thinkin’ about how you’d taste… how you’d sound.”

You gasp as he spins you gently, pressing your chest down against the desk, your skirt riding up as he moves behind you. “Joel—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, pushing your legs apart with firm hands. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath catches when his fingers slide under the hem of your skirt, their cadence is contradictory: rough and reverent. He grips your panties and drags them down, slow, letting the fabric slide over your thighs and pool at your feet.

You moan—high, shaky—gripping the edge of the desk as cold air brushes your slick heat.

“Fuck me,” he breathes behind you. You hear the crack in his voice, the need. “Look at this… wet for me already.”

You whimper, pressing your forehead to the desk, the coolness grounding you. “Baby, please…”

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, dropping to his knees behind you, glasses still perched on his nose, slightly crooked from how fast he’s moving.

He wastes no time. His hands grip your ass, spreading you wide, and then his mouth is on you—hot and filthy and so fucking needy. His tongue parts your folds, licking your pussy like it’s the fountain of youth, and the obscene wet sounds coming from between your legs have your eyes fluttering back.

You gasp, your breath catching on a moan. “Fucking hell Joel.”

He groans into your pussy, the sound vibrating through you. His glasses fog slightly, the lenses catching faint lamplight as he buries his face deeper, tongue flicking mercilessly over your clit.

“You sound so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he rasps, voice muffled, eyes dark behind the smudge of his lenses. “Don’t hold back, baby, c‘mon let me hear you.”

You whimper, fingers curling tightly around the edge of the desk. “God, Joel—I can’t…it’s too much…”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Keep makin’ those sounds for me.”

His tongue slides down to fuck into you, slow and deep, while his thumb rubs tight, perfect circles over your clit.

Your hips jolt from this earth shaking combo, gasps spilling from your lips, your legs threatening to give out. “Shit, fuck, fuck, fuck. Joel.”

“You gonna cum for me?” he mumbles, licking up everything you’ve got for him, beard soaked, glasses slipping further down his nose but staying on. “Cum on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me taste you.”

You moan, back arching as your orgasm slams into you, white-hot and shattering. You moan brokenly, hips grinding against his mouth, every breath catching on the wave of pleasure he rips out of you.

Joel groans and licks you through it, hands gripping tight to your thighs, keeping you open and helpless until you’re trembling and overstimulated.

He stands slowly, eyes wild behind his fogged lenses, his mouth glistening with your essence. His hands find your hips again, steadying you as he presses his chest to your back, kissing your shoulder.

“Gonna fuck you now, baby,” he murmurs into your skin, voice low but a little softer. “You still want that? Still okay?”

You nod fast, breath still stuttering. “Yes. Fuck—yes, Joel—please.”

That’s all he needed.

“Goooood fucking girl,” he growls, reaching between you to unbuckle his belt, letting it fall with a heavy clink. “Gonna fuck you just like this, wanna see everything.”

He slides in deep on the first thrust, his cock thick and perfect, stretching you open until your gasp turns into a desperate moan. His hand curls around your shoulders to ground you as he leans in close.

“Face to face,” he mutters, pulling out slowly and flipping you with careful strength. “Need to see you fall apart.”

He positions you the desk how he wants you, holding your gaze as he slides back inside, and fuck, his glasses—still on, slightly fogged, slightly crooked—make him look devastated and feral all at once.

Every thrust is unhurried and deep, one of his hands raising to cradle your jaw as he fucks into you steady, murmuring filth between kisses:

So tight for me… you were made for this. You feel me? All the way up there, baby? Gonna fill you so deep you’ll still be wet for me tomorrow.

You moan loudly, legs wrapping around his waist, head falling back as the pressure builds quickly again, hot ans dizzying.

“Joel—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he pants, fucking you harder. “Wanna feel you cum around me.”

And when you break again—moaning his name like a prayer—he follows, spilling deep inside you with a sharp growl, holding you tight against him as you both come undone.

He kisses you soft afterward. Forehead to yours. Gentle, steady, real. Like the beginning of something.

He murmurs with a grin, mouth brushing yours with every word, “Next time, I’m bringin’ you dessert.”

> pt. II

lmk if you’d like to be on the joel taglist (must b 18+)

nsfw joel miller taglist: @lesbianhotch, @ozarkthedog, @lowrisemiller, @iamthatonefangirl, @campingwiththecharmings, @stargazingcarol, @megamindsecretlair, @nerdieforpedro, @fakeplasticfeels, @for-a-longlongtime, @bubblybubbubs, @jxvipike, @veritable-trash, @luzhesrozes

[yelenasburnbook]

Short Circuit

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob helps Y/N train to control her powers under pressure. But when frustration gets the better of her, their sparring session turns tense.

Reader’s Abilities: Electrokinesis, Telekinesis (not really mentioned here though), and Flight

Warnings: Mild angst, accidental electrical discharge, brief loss of control (non-lethal), combat training.

Please let me know if I have missed anything.

A/N: I wrote this so it takes place a few years after the Thunderbolts takes place, where Bob has a much better control over his powers and void (I will touch on his journey in some one-shots as well). Y/N has been a part of the team for a while, but struggles to control what she can do.

—————————————————

There was a hum of energy buzzing faintly in the training room of the avengers tower, dancing off the reinforced walls like static. The center mat had been cleared, the lights dimmed, and two figures stood, facing one another under the glow of the overhead panel.

Bob cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck, almost cocky looking, “Alright, sweetheart. Hit me.”

Y/N squinted at him, hiding the lilt of annoyance in her voice, “Just… hit you? You’re not even going to block?”

He smiled. It was patient. Infuriating.

“Don’t need to. This is about control, not damage.”

She exhaled slowly, raising her hands. Pale blue sparks flickered in her palms, licking at her fingers as she summoned a burst of energy

———

From the overhead walkway, Yelena was leaned over the railing, watching with interest. Bucky stood beside her, arms crossed. He was silent and stoic as per usual, but observant.

It was him who had suggested this training session. After the last mission had almost blown up in their faces, due to Y/N’s loss of control when she was overwhelmed by enemy agents, he needed to find a way to keep it from happening again. Her aim had suffered, she had gotten cornered, and Ava almost lost a limb in an effort to rescue her.

Bob was a bit reluctant at first, knowing Y/N already wasn’t proud of what had happened. He wasn’t sure that having her own boyfriend critiquing and correcting her would help.

But Bucky was insistent, considering he was the only other member of the team with any sort of powers. It also helped that once upon a time, he struggled to control his own abilities and emotions too.

With a sigh and a mumbled, “You’re paying for our couples therapy,” he reluctantly agreed.

They watched as she fired a few rounds of electric blasts at Bob, very obviously holding herself back a little.

“She’s getting better,” Yelena murmured, “But she’s tense.”

“She’s always tense when it’s him,” Bucky replied.

———

Below, Y/N was focused, her eyes locked on Bob’s chest. She extended one palm, fingers shaking slightly, and fired another tight bolt of energy. It hit his shoulder and dispersed harmlessly across his skin.

“Good,” Bob said, his tone gentle, “But you hesitated. Again.”

She huffed, “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

Bob gave her a look, “You can’t-” Y/N cut him off, annoyance layered thick in her voice.

“Yes I know. I can’t hurt you because you’re ’Invincible’ or whatever,” her voice was almost mocking, and it didn’t go unnoticed by her boyfriend, “But you never actually know, so please just humor me.”

He took a slow step forward, keeping his patience as he spoke, “You wanna know what could actually hurt me?” His voice wasn’t cold, but it was stern.

At that moment, Y/N couldn’t really tell the difference.

“If you hesitate or lose control out there again? And a situation that you’re fully capable of handling goes haywire? That would hurt me. Because god only knows what could happen to you next time.” There was a softness behind his eyes.

And enough shame behind Y/N’s for her to not notice.

“So please humor me, and stop hesitating.”

She clenched her jaw, and lifted both hands this time, “Fine.”

Six quick pulses fired from her palms, more powerful than what she had released before. It was the kind of power she would use on enemies. The kind that could flip a vehicle. Four of them missed, only two of them hitting Bob.

He didn’t move, let alone flinch. Frustration burned hot in her throat.

“Y/N,” Bob said quietly, “You’re overthinking it. Feel it. Trust yourself.”

She shot him a look. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Invincible.”

His expression hardened a bit, “You don’t have to be invincible to be in control.”

———

From above, Yelena whispered, “She’s about to snap.”

Bucky just nodded.

———

Y/N released another blast, bigger than the ones before, this one only catching him in the shoulder, and she watched as his body just absorbed it.

She didn’t know what was more frustrating, the fact that she could barely hit an unmoving target, or that any time she did hit him, he took it like it was just a light breeze.

It made her feel weak. It made her feel angry.

“You’re just standing there,” she muttered, electricity building like pressure behind her ribs, “You’re not even trying. You’re not trying and I’m still failing—”

“You’re not failing,” Bob interrupted, stepping closer.

She took a step back, not looking at him. She felt like yelling, and screaming, and kicking, and breaking anything that she could get her hands on. She opted not to for the time being.

“Don’t lie to me,” she shook her head, hardly noticing the electricity beginning to flow through her entire body, in sync with her frustration, “Don’t act like this whole thing isn’t pathetic. Like I’m not pathetic.”

All of a sudden Bob was the one hesitating, not sure what to do or say. He could see the electricity flowing beneath her skin, and how she glowed slightly.

He began to take another step forward, “That’s not true-”

“I said don’t lie!” Her voice cracked as a violent surge of electricity finally released itself, bursting from her hands as she lashed out.

Bob barely had time to brace himself, catching the wave square in the chest. He skidded back a few feet while floor around him crackled, and smoke rose from the mat. He smiled to himself for a moment, when he realized that it actually hurt.

He hadn’t felt that in a while.

Y/N stood frozen. Her heart was racing, and her chest was rising and falling rapidly, “I-I didn’t mean to-”

Bob straightened slowly, looking incredibly impressed, “There she is.”

Y/N blinked, “What?”

“That,” he said, pointing to her hands, “Is what I’m talking about. It was raw, yes. But you didn’t lose control. You held the charge, you aimed, and you pulled back at the last second. That was instinct and restraint. That was control.”

She glanced down at the mat, seeing the minor skid marks from where he had dug his heels in as she knocked him back. She looked at her hands next, feeling the current run through them more comfortably, more confidently.

More powerfully.

She looked up at Bob, a different kind of glint behind her eyes this time. He smirked at her, heart swelling with pride as he opened his mouth to speak,

“C’mon,” he said, arms going up in defense for the first time during the whole session, “Hit me with another one.”

———

From above, Yelena smiled faintly, her own chest swelling with pride as she watched Y/N throw blast after blast. They were steady, more controlled, accurate.

They were even knocking the wind out of Bob, something no other avenger had ever been able to do.

Another fifteen minutes went by before Y/N’s hands finally dropped to her sides, catching her breath. Bob relaxed his stance, making his way over to her.

“Well,” she said, glancing toward Bucky, “That was surprisingly productive.”

Bucky gave a quiet grunt of agreement, eyes still on Y/N. “She just needs space to fall apart without being judged for it.”

“She’s lucky,” Yelena murmured, watching Bob as he gently wrapped an arm around her, “To have someone like that.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice unreadable. “She is.”

Yelena shrugged, turning to walk away, “They are like lovesick puppies.”

Bucky cracked a smile for the first time that day, but said nothing else, as he followed Yelena out of the training room.

———

Y/N sat down on the mat, still catching her breath, and wiping sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her shirt.

“I actually feel good,” she said, surprised at herself, “Like I could do that again… not today though. No more for today.”

Bob sat beside her with a chuckle, their knees touching, “You should feel good, you earned it.”

She nudged him playfully, “You sure you didn’t go easy on me?”

“Absolutely not,” he said with mock offense, “I was bracing for impact the whole time.” She laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and leaned against his shoulder,

“Thanks coach.”

He smiled, wrapping an arm around her back,“Anytime, sparky.”

She snorted and shoved his shoulder.

[erindrinkstea]

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, Part 2

Main Masterlist | Invincible Masterlist

Note: It hasn't been long since I wrote this series but wow there's a lot of you already! Hope you enjoy!

What made Mark Grayson different from the others you've encountered?

What made this Invincible stand out compared to all the other variants you’ve met?

What made him so unlike the rest?

"Earth to Miss Genius. You’ve zoned out again."

You snapped back to reality, realizing you weren’t alone—sitting at the lunch table with your friends.

All eyes were on you, full of concern. The longer you sat there, staring off into space, the more it felt like you were slipping away from them.

"Are you okay?" Eve’s voice broke through the silence as she nudged you from beside you. You forced a smile, scolding yourself for zoning out.

"Sorry. Just... work." You shrugged, your voice almost too casual.

Immediately, both Eve and Mark exchanged a pointed look. "Work" was their code for one thing: Cecil.

While Eve and Mark worked for him as heroes, you worked for him as his secretary—the mind behind his operations. You fed him the intel and resources he needed, and in return, he gave you the power and money that kept your life afloat.

Cecil knew about your ability to traverse dimensions after death. In fact, he was helping you find a way to tap into that power without having to die each time. He believed that as long as the abnormal energy ran through your veins, you could shift between realities. You just had to unlock it.

"Your boss giving you too much trouble?" Amber asked, voice laced with concern. Eve and Mark leaned forward, both watching you intently.

"Just the usual. Nothing new." You assured them, though the look in their eyes told you they weren’t buying it. They didn’t push further, but it was clear they weren’t fully convinced.

"Soooo... is this a bad time to ask for some help with Physics?" Eve slapped Mark lightly on the back of his head.

"I could use some tutoring too!" William piped up, and Amber kicked his leg under the table.

"I swear—boys," Amber sighed, exchanging a tired look with Eve as the guys stared at you with pleading eyes.

"You two are ridiculous." You sighed, shaking your head. "Fine. I’ll tutor you both, but it’s not free anymore. You owe me." you warned.

Mark immediately brightened. "I’ll buy you all the pudding you want." he offered, while William winked and made a heart with his hands. "I offer you my undying friendship."

"I’ll take it in the form of something less... questionable." You raised an eyebrow at William, who gasped dramatically. "Okay, ouch."

"Mark, you better have your wallet ready." you said with a mischievous grin.

Sure, you could easily buy a lifetime’s worth of pudding with the money Cecil paid you, but it just felt better when it came from someone else’s wallet.

"Should I be scared?" Mark looked at Amber, who knew you better than anyone. Amber smirked and answered with a deadpan tone, "Yes."

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

"How are you holding up, little Grayson?"

You’d heard about the Mauler Twins incident. Neither Debbie nor Mark were happy about it.

You weren’t exactly ecstatic either, but after 87 lifetimes with a murder-happy partner, you’d gotten numb to it.

This wasn’t your first time meeting Oliver. You’d crossed paths with him in other worlds as well, but this was the first time you saw him as a child.

"I just don’t get it! They’re not the good guys! Why should we just let them live?" Oliver crossed his arms, his frustration mirroring Mark’s stubbornness.

"You know, your brother’s no saint either. Does that mean Mark deserves to die?" You stepped into Oliver’s room and sat beside him on the bed.

"No! But these guys are bad. I’m doing the world a favor by taking them out. They hurt Mark!" Oliver’s voice rose, a mix of righteousness and anger. You ruffled his hair gently, trying to ease the tension.

"I hurt Mark too." you teased lightly, nudging Oliver’s side. "I hit him pretty good in the back of his head. Bet I left a nasty bruise."

Oliver pouted, clearly not amused. "That’s not the same, and you know it."

"Sometimes, yeah, killing is necessary—for the greater good. But it’s never the only option." You said it seriously, trying to drive the point home.

"That's what Mark wants you to understand. By sparing someone, we might be doing the world a bigger favor. We prove that there’s more to life than death."

In all the other worlds, you barely got a chance to talk to Oliver. Your focus was always on Mark, often ignoring those around you.

"If you ever need me, or your family, we’ll be downstairs." You said as you stood up to leave. You paused at the door, turning back to see Oliver watching you closely.

"You’re part of the family too." He said softly, and you smiled before heading downstairs.

"Hey." Mark’s voice greeted you as you descended. He made eye contact, his expression anxious. "How is he?"

Debbie was pacing, her worry clear. She stopped when you reached the bottom of the stairs. "Is he upset?" she asked, voice tight.

You paused for a moment, carefully choosing your words. "He’s fine. A little sulking, but he’s processing it."

"He was raised by good people." You reassured them, offering a comforting smile. "He’s going to be just fine."

Mark sighed, a weight lifting from his shoulders. He leaned down, resting his chin on your head, his arms wrapping around you in a quiet embrace. "Thank you."

"What would I do without you?" He mumbled, his voice soft against your hair. You smiled up at him.

"You’d be fine, you big baby."

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

The world lay in ruins.

What was once an organized empire was now a burning apocalypse, its ashes swirling in the wind.

Amidst the chaos, two figures faced each other.

"I’m here to offer you a deal."

The other scoffed, unimpressed. "What could you possibly offer that I don’t already have?"

"Do you not want another chance to see her? You know who I'm talking about. I'm only offering once."

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

"You better not be fucking joking."

[sylusmisshunter]

18+ MINORS DNI ‼️

TAGS : forbidden romance, smut, piv sex, bathroom sex , forbidden love, forbidden desire, sylus is downbad, fear of getting caught, insatiable desires, mirror sex, cunnilingus, oral sex (f! Receiving) unprotected sex.

word count : 2.9k

ao3 link 🫶🏻 (pls leave kudos and comments, ty)

note : 2.9k words of pure filth, wrote this with one hand or whatever man, I need this man biblically. reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated 🫶🏻 also, if any of you want me to write anything feel free to give me the prompt I'd be happy to indulge in your desires hahahah that's it enjoy the fic!

HUNTED

Sylus didn't expect to see his beloved dragon li along with her fellow hunters wandering in a place like this. This place is crawling with predators, who'll grab a prey without hesitation on sight. However, tonight there was one of the biggest auctions taking place in the n109 zone and as always, sylus had to be there. Since ninety percent of the dealings were being bought by him.

His gaze followed the woman gracefully walking around the auction hall with a glass of champagne on her hand. An elegant red dress hugged her body like a second skin. Her lips, painted with the darkest shade of red. Her beautiful, beautiful hair, tied in a low bun making her look ethereal. Oh how he'd die everyday just for this sight alone. His smirk widened a bit when he saw a glimpse of a shotgun bound securely on her thigh with a strap. My kitten has done her homework well. He thought. Her fellow hunters were trying to blend in among everyone trying not to be suspicious. After all he was the one they were after.

Being pursued by his dragon li was all he ever dreamt of. But we all knew that this hunt will only make him enjoy it all too well. He knew that very well. He was invincible to everyone. Sylus swirled the amber liquid in his glass completely unbothered by the 9 million bounty on his head and was on top of the wanted list of the hunter's association. That was also something he was proud of. Sensing his foreboding hungry gaze, his prey finally tilted her head towards the vip area where he was seated somewhere within the shadows. She couldn't see him, but she felt him. She felt him watching her with that shit eating smirk of his that somehow always makes her legs feel like jelly.

Goosebumps erupted on her hands and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She quickly opened her phone to text him.

Miss hunter : Quit staring you creep. It's making me nervous. Why are you here? You should go back to your mansion, the whole hunter's association is here. What if they catch you?

Her palms sweated as she typed the text and sent it. Her eyes nervously scanned the area where all her colleagues were waiting for any hint of who sylus was. Almost immediately her phone vibrated with a notification from the devil himself.

Sylus : I can stare at you all I want, nothing and nobody can stop me. Aren't you supposed to be after me? Or are you more concerned about my safety, sweetie?

His gaze locked into her and he saw her biting her lip as she glanced at her phone. His text to be exact. A tell. She was nervous, not because of the mission-no. She was far too skilled for that, she was nervous because of him, because he had that effect on her.

The auctioneer's voice rang throughout the hall announcing the sale of another extravagant item that was probably left by sylus because he didn't like it. He barely paid attention to that, his focus was all on his huntress, his real prize. She was right there among the crowd pretending to look for him. A small smile grazed his lips as he typed in another text message.

Sylus : You're looking beautiful tonight, as always. The red suits you. But sweetie, you didn't wear it for the hunt, did you? Mocking me by wearing the same dress I gifted you while trying to hunt me down? I must say your courage is admirable.

Sylus watched as her shoulders went stiff upon reading his message. A low, velvety chuckle left his throat as he tilted his head watching her intently. She typed in a message quickly.

Miss hunter : You're so full of yourself.

No response. Not immediately. But she felt him, his gaze, burning through her, undressing her in the room full of powerful criminals in the N109 zone. Her grip tightened on the stem of her glass filled with champagne tighter as she tried to focus on her team's signal codes. But her body had other plans.

Her body remembered him. The press of his mouth just below her ear. The roughness of his large, calloused hands when he didn't even bother pretending to be gentle with her. Claiming her in the most feral way possible. The way her name left his mouth like a sin he would inevitably commit again and again. Her body shuddered as she stumbled trying to gather herself. Her skin prickled with heat. She shifted her weight to another heel and turned towards the grand hallway that led to the private lounges, balcony and restrooms. She needed a moment to collect herself, to breathe.

Her steps were shaky as she walked through the corridors completely oblivious and unaware of the shadow trailing behind her. Just as she was about to take a turn, a strong muscular arm snaked around her waist pulling her flush against his chest as he dragged her towards the bathrooms before she could even gasp. The door clicked shut behind her, her back pressing against it.

A soft breath left her lips as she swallowed his godly, intimidating presence.

"Missed me, kitten?"

His voice was like a kiss laced with venom. So sweet, so dangerous. So lethal.

Sylus' body caged her with practiced ease. One hand resting against the wall above her head while his other softly brushed along the slit of her dress, fingers ghosting mere inches from the strap that was holding her shotgun in her thigh.

Her breath hitched as she looked up at him with hooded eyes, her throat running dry from their proximity. "You're insane, sylus. You shouldn't be here!"

"Mm." His eyes trailed down to her soft, plump lips that were practically begging to be kissed. "And yet here we are, Miss hunter. You walked right into my trap."

She shoved at his chest, weakly. "I didn-.." he didn't even budge, instead his hand grabbed the shotgun from her holster and placed it on her hand pointing the gun at himself.

"Arrest me, miss hunter. I'm all yours." A mocking smirk was plastered on his face as he looked at her as if she's his sole source of entertainment. She was so cute when she's all red and flustered. He thought. The warmth of his hot breath fanning against her shot straight through her. Her thighs involuntarily pressing together. His eyes caught the movement instantly and his smirk widened.

His eyes raked over her body, drinking in every dip and curve. "You wore this dress specifically knowing I'd be here. You know, you look so pure and beautiful in this. Makes me want to ruin you completely." His voice fell merely to a whisper as he leaned in even closer. Chest to chest as his hand slid up her thigh with maddening slowness. "And now, you're all flustered. Your little heart's pounding and you still haven't pulled that trigger on me kitten. I'm starting to think you don't actually want to catch me. You just like the thrill of the chase, the hunt."

She swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. "Because I know better than to make a scene in an auction hall filled with criminals."

His chuckle was low and cruel. "Sweetie, you are the scene."

In an instant his mouth was on hers. He kissed her, not lovingly, not soft, not tentative. It was the kiss of a man who knew she hated him for making her feel like this, for how much she wanted him. It was demanding. Her hands curled into his suit jacket, pulling him impossibly closer, until their teeth clattered, like she needed him like she needed air to breathe. Her face flushed, trapped in the tension, in the sick thrill of being hunted and driven by her own desires.

His mouth moved to her jaw, then her throat and when he nipped at her pulse point there, her back arched into him without even knowing a soft gasp leaving her mouth.

"You're still mine." He growled picking her up and carrying her towards the sinks, placing her on top of the counter. "Even if you put a bullet in me tomorrow, you'll always be mine. Our souls are bound."

She tried to protest because they were literally in public and anyone could walk in any second but her body betrayed her before her mind could catch up. Hips arching into his, lips parting for more, her fingers burying themselves in the soft strands of his beautiful silver hair.

When he pulled back, she was breathless. Dazed. "See?" He whispered, kissing the corner of her jaw his fingers now sliding up beneath the slit of her dress, brushing the bare skin of her thigh and closer to her core that was aching with need. "This is how I know you still want me, kitten."

She let out a soft, involuntary whimper when his thumb grazed the edge of her underwear. He didn't even need to look, he could feel how warm she was through the thin lace. A humm reverbated through him in approval.

"I should just shoot you." She muttered, voice trembling.

"You should." He agreed, his hand cupping between her legs now, palm pressing firm against the heat. "But instead, you're dripping through your panties for the man you're supposed to arrest." He tutted at her.

She let out a moan and instantly hated herself for that. He was intoxicating, his words, his scent, the way his body folded against hers like he'd been crafted just to undo her.

Her hands came in between them, fumbling with his belt. Her breaths coming fast now, uneven. "Just shut the fuck up and fuck me sylus." Her voice was filled with so much need and greed. Vision clouded with lust.

His chuckle sent vibrations straight to her core. The smug expression on his face made her want to claw at it. Oh how she hated him for making her feel this type of way. She gasped, half in outrage, half in raw need when he yanked her dress up and sank to his knees pulling her panties aside. Spreading her thighs, keeping her pinned in place. A gasp left her mouth as his mouth closed around her core, hot tongue flicking around her clit with practiced precision.

"Shit-..sylus-.." her moan was helpless, hand slapping around her mouth to muffle it. The door just a few feet away, voices echoing beyond it. He ate her like a man starved. Tongue swirling and flicking, lips sucking. His grip keeping her thighs spread apart nice and good for him. His groan vibrated against her core as she shoved two fingers inside her warm, welcoming cunt, fucking her in time with his tongue. The wet sounds were obscene.

"S-stop, I c-can't-.... Someone will h-hear." Her words were slurred as she tried to compose herself from the intense pleasure building inside her.

"You'll make a mess on my face and I'll still be the one to walk away clean." He pulls back only for a second to dive back in. His fingers curled inside her and that's all it took. She shattered. Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, legs giving out as she bucked back against his mouth. He held her through it, fingers fucking her slowly, dragging it out until she was shaking, panting and begging with every twitch of her hips.

But he wasn't done.

He pulled back, licking his lips like he'd just tasted something forbidden and divine. "You taste like my favourite sin." She barely had time to gasp as he spun her, bending her over the counter top and bunching her dress up around her waist. Her breath fogged the mirror as she heard his belt fully unbuckle followed by a zipper being undone. His cock thick, flushed, glistening at the tip with precum. The wet slide of his cock as he rubbed it between her soaked folds.

"Sylus, condom." She managed to breathe out, panic and want mixing dangerously and surging through her.

"I'm not leaving this room until I fill you up." He growled into her ear. "So you better decide now, kitten."

And god help her, she didn't say no.

He shoved inside her in one brutal, beautiful thrust. She cried out, hands slapping the mirror as he bottomed out and filled her completely. She felt every inch, thick, hot, pulsating, stretching her in a way she had no business enjoying.

"Fuck-..so tight-.." he groaned, driving into her with relentless, punishing force. "You're made for me." The sound of flesh on flesh was obscene. She tried to stay quiet, tried to keep her voice in check, but he was ruthless. Each thrust angled perfectly, rocking her against the counter until the cool marble was slick with the mess between her thighs. He yanked one of her thighs up so that he can reach deep inside her and thrusted into her, keeping his hand on her thigh.

He reached around and slid a hand between her legs, rubbing fast, tight circles around her clit. She gasped.

"Again." He whispered "You're going to cum around my cock."

"Stop- Stop talking-.." she whimpered.

"You love it. You love the danger. The filth. Being bent over a bathroom counter while the people you work with stand outside." He grabbed her hair, forced her to look at her own reflection in the mirror. Face flushed, eyes glazed, make up smeared. "Look at yourself." He hissed against her neck as he slammed into her again and again. "Look at what I turn you into."

Her head tipped back from the force and a moan left her lips that was too loud for a public bathroom. The echo of it was obscene.

"Quiet, kitten." He rasped, even as he fucked her harder. "You want your little team to hear you getting ruined by a man they're here to catch?" That dangerous smirk returned. So cocky, so full of himself and the worst part was that he was right. She couldn't stop the way her hips rocked back to him, couldn't stop the way her body clenched, already so close, again.

"Anyone could walk in-.." she gasped when he hit that spot inside her that made her see stars.

"Exactly!" He breathed against her ear, biting her earlobe. "That's why you're so wet. You like the thrill of it. The thrill of being caught."

It was too much, the pressure, the stretch, the sound of skin meeting skin, her panting breath, the wet slap if his cock dragging through her slick folds. The heady mixture of perfume, sex and sweat made it hard to think, harder to care.

His hand clamped over her mouth when the doorknob jiggled. Someone was outside, trying to get in. Voices outside. Two of them. Male. Laughing. Her eyes widened. Panic flashing through her eyes like lightening, but sylus just grinned and- fuck- kept going.

She whimpered between his palm as he fucked her, slower now, deeper. Each thrust timed with the lull of voices outside. His breath hot against her ear. "You can come like this." He whispered, hot and tender. "Silent and messy, while they're right there."

She shook her head, her thighs trembled, her inner walls fluttering, sucking him in, begging. "Don't fight it." He growled picking up the pace as the voices faded back into the hall. "Come for me, sweetie." Her second release hit her like another wave, hot, fast and all consuming. Her pussy clamped around him so tight he cursed against her neck, grabbing her hips, as he slammed into her one last time before he followed her over the edge.

He bit down on her shoulders as he came muffling his own groans. Cock twitching deep inside her as he spilled everything inside her cunt. They stayed like that for a long second, coming back down from the intense fucking that left them both panting and gasping for air. The slick sound of him pulling out the only thing between them. Her legs barely held her when his hand moved from her waist. She stumbled, grabbing onto the sink for balance.

Her reflection was ruined, hair falling out of it's elegant bun, lipstick smudged across her cheek, skin flushed and glowing . She looked like a wild kitten, feral and thoroughly fucked. "I should kill you." She whispered when she finally caught her breath.

"You will, one day." He pressed a soft kiss on her temple. "But not tonight." He tucked himself back in, fixed her dress for her. She felt the slow leak of his cum trickling down from her cunt. He wiped the smeared lipstick from her face with his thumb and kissed the spot. Her heart fluttered. Her stomach flipped.

"See you soon, sweetie." With that he turned back on his heel and he was gone. Like he never was there in the first place. She glanced at her reflection, a small smile grazing her lips as she fixed her hair and stepped out of the bathroom only to come face to face with tara.

Her eyes scanned her colleagues slightly disheveled appearance, one eyebrow raised as she was expecting an explainantion of some sort.

"Tara what's wrong?" She asked trying to sound as casual as possible like sylus' cum isn't just leaking out of her.

"What were you doing with skye?"

[bunji-enthusiast]

Okay, Bunji, I saw you do the guardians and some Marvel rivals content for Invincible, so I just had to ask. Can you do a Mantis(in Marvel rivals) reader x Mark? Like their bonding over being alien in a way? Reader going from sweet sunshine and rainbows to angry and full of rage so suddenly and then so suddenly switching back after their anger was released? Also, they still have their sleep spores like in-game and are so precise and accurate with them. It's okay if not loll.

𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐄𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 (𝐓𝐨 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥)

Mark Grayson x Mantis!reader

Note // definitely! Love me a good bonding moment over mutual things :33

Sorta wrote this in a platonic way, but you’re free to view it as romantic too!

"I don't belong here... do you?"

Mark admits it one night after a brutal mission. You’re both lying on the rooftop of some quiet Earth city, watching the stars. You tell him you never really felt like you belonged anywhere until you found your team. He laughs — dry and tired — and says it’s the same for him, but even now, sometimes it’s like the world’s trying to spit him out. You touch his shoulder, and your empathy ability kicks in automatically. You feel his pain like it’s your own — the guilt, the isolation, the pressure. And you tell him gently, “You’re not alone, Mark. I feel it too.”

Sometimes you don’t even need words. You can feel when Mark’s about to break, when the weight of trying to be Earth’s hero is caving in on him. You don't intrude, but when he comes to you — you’re there with a calm aura, soft energy, and maybe even a little healing flower if he needs it. Mark doesn’t get how it works, but just being around you makes it feel like the world isn’t crushing him for a while. That’s enough.

"You hide how strong you are."

He notices this about you — how you hold back, how you try not to scare people. Mark recognizes that. You both laugh one day about how you’ve absolutely ended enemies with a single blast or a well-timed Spore Slumber combo, but still feel like you have to shrink yourself afterward.

“You and I could wipe out a battlefield in under a minute,” he says, staring ahead. “But we’re still scared of what people would think.” You nod. Because power isn’t the problem — being seen as a monster is.

"what's it like?"

Mark’s always asking about your planet, about how your people see emotions, how they fight, how they love. You tell him about the way your people use spores to communicate joy, or how your instincts sometimes push you to protect before you think. He listens like it’s sacred.

And you? You’re fascinated by Earth culture — the chaos, the complexity, the food. You once asked Mark why humans cry when they’re happy. He didn’t have an answer, but he cried when you used your ult to save his entire team from a sure death. So maybe that’s why.

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

You’re the anchor to his fire. He dives in head-first, and you’re always behind him — healing, buffing, stunning the enemy he missed in his rage. Your synergy is unreal. He trusts your timing more than his own sometimes.

And when he gets knocked down? Soul Resurgence goes off and suddenly nobody’s dying today. Mark calls you his guardian angel without a trace of irony.

Mark picks you up, a lot.

Not because you need him to — you're more than capable. But he likes it. The little smile he gets when he bridal-carries you out of an exploding building or mid-fight? That’s for him. And you let him, because his heartbeat steadies when he holds you close. (You’ve also done the same for him — flying him out while channeling your aura so his wounds can start healing before you even land.)

There are days Mark shuts down. The kind where even breathing feels heavy. You don’t push him to talk — you just sit next to him, radiating calm energy. Maybe you hand him a flower — just a little Healing Flower to settle the ache.

He always says thank you, even if it’s barely a whisper. And you feel it in your chest — he’s starting to believe he deserves peace.

Mark insists on training with you more often — “Your timing’s insane,” he says. “I need to learn how you fight.” You show him how to bait enemies into your Spore Slumber traps, how to use his own speed with your support in mind.

It usually ends with him slipping on one of your spores and you pinning him with a vine-thorn blast, laughing as he yelps in surprise.

He always insists he let you win. You never correct him.

One time you accidentally hit him with a Spore Slumber at the tail end of a battle when he darted into your line of fire. He fell asleep mid-air and you had to catch him in your arms.

Now it’s a running joke. “You gonna knock me out again, or are we good?” (Secretly, he loved how peaceful he felt in that half-second of dreamspace you accidentally gave him.)

You’re empathetic to your core, and Mark struggles with when mercy becomes dangerous. You talk about it — debate it late into the night. He tells you sometimes he wants to kill certain enemies. You admit you’ve never once felt that urge, but you’ve come close when someone hurt someone you love.

You don’t always agree. But the fact that you listen to each other — without judgment — keeps the bond strong.

There are times Mark tries to shut down completely. After brutal battles, after failures. But you can’t not feel the grief radiating from him like a scream with no voice. And the worst part? He resents you for it sometimes. “I just wanted five minutes without someone reading my goddamn mind,” he snaps. It stings more than any blade. You nod. Quiet. Hurt. But you understand. And you give him that space — even if it tears your heart open to do it.

He was burning himself out. Fighting, fighting, fighting — not for victory, but to drown the guilt. You tried to soothe it with gentle words, subtle aura pulses.

But you can’t heal what he won’t let surface.

One night, he finally collapses — not from wounds, but sheer emotional exhaustion. You carry him back yourself, crying quietly because you knew this would happen. And you couldn’t stop it.

There was a mission. He was overwhelmed. You were right there — so close to popping your ult. But you hesitated. One second. And he almost died. You saved him, barely, but the damage was done. You couldn’t stop replaying it — the way his eyes looked at you, shocked, betrayed. He forgives you. Says it wasn’t your fault. But your powers are built on being in sync. And for a while, that connection? It’s cracked.

You’ve never felt so connected to anyone — not even the Guardians. Not like this. Not like him.

And it terrifies you. Because Mark has already lost so much. And you are so easy to break. You’ve seen it — the way he loses himself when people he loves are threatened.

You’ve seen what happens when he chooses rage.

So you keep your distance sometimes. Not because you don’t want him — but because you don’t want to become another reason he shatters.

Mark blames himself for everything. The people he couldn’t save. The ones he had to kill. His father’s legacy. You tell him none of it was his fault. But your voice can’t compete with the echo of his father’s fists. One night, you catch him staring at his reflection like he doesn’t recognize himself. “I’m starting to look like him.” And you don’t know what to say. So you just sit beside him, silently radiating love and sorrow.

During a chaotic fight, a villain detonates a suppression field that nullifies healing for ten seconds — enough time for a shard to tear through your chest. You hit the ground.

Mark snaps.

He goes feral. Bloodied. Gone.

By the time your passive regen kicks in and your eyes flutter open, the battlefield is silent — and Mark is crouched beside you, shaking.

His hands are stained. His eyes wild.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers. “I would’ve burned the whole planet for you.”

You don’t tell him how close he came.

After everything — after Omni-Man, after Conquest, after the Viltrumite war — Mark’s hope is threadbare. You still smile. You still protect. You still say things like “Evil is a rejection of life.” He envies you. And it breaks him. “Don’t you ever get tired of trying to see the good in people?” he asks one night. You look at him, wounded. And say, “Yes. But I love them anyway. I love you anyway.” He can’t look at you after that.

You’ve been holding it all in — his pain, the weight of being the emotional anchor, the guilt of not saving everyone, the fear of losing him.

And one day, something small breaks the dam. Maybe he brushes you off too casually. Maybe he says he doesn’t need you.

And you explode.

“Then why do I feel it, Mark?! Why do I feel you drowning every time I’m near you?!”

The silence after is suffocating. You don’t cry. Not then.

But he does.

It’s a quiet horror in the back of your mind. Mark will live for thousands of years. You won’t. Not unless something changes. You’ve never said it out loud. But every time he looks at you like you’re his forever, something inside you aches. Because one day, his heart will still beat while yours is gone. And you hope, desperately, that you’ll leave behind something good in him. Something gentle.

There’s a moment — the worst one yet. A mission gone wrong. An enemy threatens you directly.

And Mark snaps so completely, you don’t recognize him. His eyes are blood-red. His punches don’t stop.

You’re the only one who can reach him.

You step into his path, even as he trembles.

“I’m here,” you say. “I’m still here.”

And when he finally breaks, sobbing into your arms — all you can do is hold him.

And hope your love is strong enough to bring him back

After one of Mark’s darker days, when you find him curled up and quiet, you don’t try to talk him out of it. You just lay beside him. Slowly wrap your arms around him. Let your aura spill into the space — not overwhelming, just warmth. You say nothing. Just: “I’m not going anywhere.” He holds you tighter than he ever has.

[deansbeer]

like father, like daughter!

୨୧ warning(s). domestic fluff | toddler swearing | ben being a menace & bad influence on ur child | affectionate teasing (?) | light humor.

୨୧ kari notes. i wrote this yesterday in my car while i was running errands for my baby sister's birthday LMAO and this sounded funnier in my head but (in bree's words) fuck it we ball. i also missed writing for mr. soldier boy <3

saturdays are sacred.

it's the one day of the week where you don't have to rush out of bed, don't have to fight through traffic or sit through meetings or deal with deadlines. it's the one day you get to just be—with ben, with your daughter, with the small, messy, ridiculous family you somehow built together.

today had been a good one.

you'd all gone to the park, let your daughter run wild for a few hours, watched her climb the jungle gym with the reckless confidence of a toddler who thinks she's invincible. ben had trailed after her the whole time, grumbling about little shits not watching where they're going when other kids ran too close, but you caught the way he smiled every time she threw her head back and laughed.

now, the three of you are home, settled in the living room. your daughter sits on the floor, surrounded by a mess of her stuffed animals and plastic dolls, while you and ben take up the couch, curled into each other as an old '80s movie plays on the tv.

it's one of ben's favorites—something with big explosions, bad one-liners, and way too much synth in the background music. he's been mouthing along to half the dialogue, grinning whenever a fight scene starts.

"god, movies were so much better back then," he mutters, stretching his arm across the back of the couch.

you snort. "you just like them because they're all violence and tits."

"yeah, and? what's your point?"

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling.

it's nice—the warmth of his body beside you, the steady hum of the tv, the quiet sounds of your daughter mumbling to herself as she plays. it's one of those rare, perfect moments where everything just feels right.

but sometimes… those moments aren't always forever, are they?

"oh, for fuck's sake."

your daughter's tiny voice rings out clear as day, full of frustration as she glares down at one of her toys like it's personally offended her.

your head snaps toward her so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

ben stiffens beside you.

"what," you say slowly, "did you just say?"

your daughter huffs, still frowning at the plastic dinosaur in her hands. "i said, 'for fuck's sake.'"

you stare at her.

then, just as slowly, you turn to ben.

he's sitting completely still, eyes locked on the tv, expression carefully blank—like if he doesn't move, maybe you won't notice he's there.

you narrow your eyes. "ben."

"hmm?"

"benjamin."

he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "look, before you start bitching—"

"are you fucking kidding me?"

the man smirks. "oh, now who's teaching her bad words?"

you elbow him hard in the ribs.

he grunts, but he's still grinning, the asshole.

meanwhile, your daughter is just looking between the two of you, completely unfazed, like she hasn't just dropped a full-blown curse word like it's nothing.

"baby," you say, rubbing your temples, "we don't say that."

she tilts her head. "but dada says it allll the time."

ben immediately turns away, suddenly very interested in the movie again.

you shoot him a glare. "unbelievable."

he shrugs. "what? she spends all day with me, she's bound to pick up some things."

"yeah, like a sailor’s vocabulary."

he smirks, leaning in, voice dropping low. "c'mon, sweetheart, you didn't exactly marry me for my clean mouth."

you swat at him, fighting back a laugh. again asshole.

your daughter, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, lets out a little put-upon sigh and mutters, "jesus christ."

ben loses it.

he throws his head back, laughing so hard his shoulders shake, like this is the funniest thing in the goddamn world.

you groan, flopping back against the couch.

this is your life now.

[lheslie]

i literally luv how u wrote harem its so hard to find harem these days TYSM ( i was the one who asked for scarlet witch reader!!)

8 Variants + 1 Reader

Thank you!!! I'll give you the full-on context. Wait. . .

You were rejected by your best friend Mark.

Now you're forced to live in with 8 different versions of him

How will you live with this catastrophe?

It all started when you met Mark Grayson, the man whom you had loved since elementary school.

When you confessed to him, he sadly did not feel the same way as you did.

Years went by, and you still hadn't moved on, although you and Mark are still good friends.

One day, he revealed to you his secret Identity as Invincible, and he was dating the Superhero Atom Eve.

You still tried to be supportive since you him to be happy, but you were hurting deep down.

He formally introduced you to Eve, his girlfriend; she was very eccentric and beautiful.

You immediately understood why he liked her; thinking about this made your heartache.

The way he looked at her, the way he talked and moved around her.

It's something that you were envious of, and that's something that you had to accept.

After you learned that he was Invincible and Atom Eve was Eve, he also introduced you to the other members of the Guardians of the Globe; he didn't introduce you to everyone but to a few that he seemed to trust.

Now that you knew that he was Invincible you can't help but worry for him whenever you see him fighting enemies on the news.

You can't help but wonder if you could do anything to help, even just a bit, so you could lessen his great burden.

You had started to learn Magic and Sorcery

And little did you know learning Magic would actually come in handy.

Because one day, Levy Angstrom had started all out with Mark.

He had called different versions of Mark to attack your dimension.

You Immediately rushed out to help everyone, trying to locate them with your magic.

Although you could not save everyone, you knew you could still save some.

With a recent spell that you've learned, which was a binding spell, you knew you could stop those other Marks from killing other people.

You were able to capture 8 Variants of Mark, binding them to your will.

And with that is the spell. They're at your beck and call.

But little did you know, that these Variants had a crush on you.

Their version of you had died in their dimension seeing you with powers astonished them, but also made them curious to learn what different scenarios had happened for you to gain such powers.

Cecil wanted them imprisoned somewhere inside the GDA, but you refused as Mark told you how Cecil recently treated him by Impantinsomethingng inside his brain.

So you've decided to take 8 versions of your best friend to live inside your house, sharing a living space.

You sometimes question if you made the right choice to have them under the same roof.

As you watch them argue and destroy your furniture.

Mohawk Mark, Target Mark, and Shiesty Mark were fighting over who should sleep beside you tonight, while No Goggleses Mark was hyping them both.

Viltrum Mark was looking at your displayed books placeonat your shelves.

Omni Mark had his arms crossed, ss just judging everyone from a corner.

While Prisoner Mark was just looking at the pictures on the walls you had with him.

Sinister Mark was trying to get out of your binding spell as he was held in one place after he tried throwing a chair at Mohawk Mark.

You sighed while you massaged your head to calm yourself down.

@hhoneylemon (I needed to changed the name)

[vampyrial]

Sugar

summary: cooking for someone is the sweetest expression of love.

pairing: mark grayson x gn!reader

content warnings: soft yan!reader, poisoning, gaslighting, caretaking, fluffy if you ignore that reader is a lil crazy

author’s note: I never posted this here but in honor of s2 of invincible, here’s this fic I wrote after s1 😵‍💫 my first mark fic

Mark remembered his mom making pancakes on the weekends. It was his favorite breakfast when he was a kid. There was less time for sit down breakfasts as he grew older and spent more time outside the house working, going to school or hanging out with William, it remained a nostalgic thing for him. The smell of butter, the sizzle of the batter hitting the hot pan, he hadn’t realized he missed it.

Not until he woke up to the clattering of pans downstairs. Debbie was out for the day already, busying herself with work. As of late, the house had become stifling and she felt ill at ease. Mark was mostly left to his own devices for food and Mark being Mark, mostly subsisted on take out.

You had slept over (in the guest room, per Debbie’s request) and woken up early to make breakfast. Into the dry ingredients, you added a vial of powder as white as flour. You sprinkled it all in, hand inside the bowl, careful not to let it spill anywhere. You mixed carefully. With a focus as complete as ever, batter dropped onto the pan, sizzling. 

“Making breakfast?” His voice almost made you jump. You thought you were used to him sneaking up on you.

“Good morning to you too, Mark” You smiled to yourself, not looking up at him. “And yes, I’m making you pancakes.”

You didn’t look up but you could tell he was surprised by the pause and the awkward shift of his silhouette.

“I didn't…I know I only eat out these days but I don’t need you to cook for me, I feel kind of like an asshole watching you cook for me in my own house” He mumbled, looking away.

“I know I don’t need to, I want to. I’d feel better if you didn’t eat pizza everyday for breakfast.” 

“It’s not everyday, just…most of the time” He was embarrassed you’d noticed. “Are you not gonna have some?” He changed the topic. 

“I had four bowls of captain crunch at 5am, I’m not exactly sure more sugar is a good idea for me right now.”

You flipped the pancakes onto a plate, sliced a pat of butter onto the top and poured the syrup. Mark, even in his quest to be somewhat gentlemanly, could not resist. The first bite of the buttery pancakes drenched in the syrup evoked strong feelings. Longing, gratitude and love. The yearning for an innocence abandoned and the feeling of being loved was so strong he could cry.

Mark, like most teenage boys, could eat. You silently kept cooking pancakes and he kept eating them. It was a lovely morning, the air was sweet and the sky was a vibrant blue. You spent the day in Mark’s room, in pajamas, tracing shapes over his skin with your fingertips as you watched a marathon of movies he liked. He eagerly explained every gag and bit of trivia. But as the sky began to darken with the day’s end, Mark’s energy declined.

He was sluggish and he felt a bit warm. When he insisted he was alright, you still stayed by his side. A comfort he was secretly grateful for. Even when Debbie came home, fatigued, you kindly asserted that you would stay up with Mark and watch over him. It was only right, Debbie already had enough to deal with and she fussed over Mark until the early hours. If there was anyone she could trust Mark to, it would be you, just while she got some sleep at least.

You wiped the sweat from Mark’s brow with a gentle hand. You brought him water and aspirin, you rubbed his tender muscles, you changed his sheets soaked by sweat. Mark felt like shit but knowing you were there, unperturbed by his frequent vomiting, was a comfort beyond words. You even slept in the same bed as him now, holding his hand, rubbing over it with your fingers. He felt like a kid again, cared for and safe.

Even though after more than a week, Debbie wanted to bring him to the hospital, you waved away her concerns. “Part of this might be coming from Mark’s emotional state after what happened, maybe we have grief to blame for this, in part. Mark doesn’t need a hospital, his symptoms aren’t worse than the stomach flu, he just needs to be cared for” you had said, so convincingly, so knowingly, that it made her hesitate. You only had his best interests at heart. Mark even spoke up and said he didn’t need to go to the hospital. He had been in the hospital so often, he was sick of it. Even the memory of the strong antiseptic smell brought a sense of dread. He would rather be with you, at home being touched by your familiar, healing, hands.

He loved you so much, and told you as much very often. When you were showering with him, washing him because he was too winded; your wet, warm skin carefully cleaning his, he murmured ‘I love you.’ He was vulnerable, tender, worn and tired but he was certain of one thing. He couldn’t live without your warmth. Everyone else counted on him, they needed something from him and if he failed to deliver he’d be letting them down. It’d be another fuck up to add to the roster and yet another time someone he loved would look at him like a loser. But with you, he felt the closest thing to unconditional love he had ever experienced from anyone besides his mom. You didn’t care who he decided to help or what he messed up, you would always accept him. Even if you weren’t always pleased with what he did, you never judged him harshly for his mistakes. For his wins or his fails, you loved him. Mark thought it was way more than he deserved and part of him really did regret his actions more in the face of your forgiveness. He did feel like such an asshole when he found comfort in your acceptance, when you consoled him as if he really deserved it. But fuck if he didn’t need it.

He obviously couldn’t rush off saving people like he had, so he stayed safely inside. His world was small and manageable. His body was whole, if aching and feverish. That was what you intended. For Mark to be safe. He was always putting himself in danger like it didn’t matter, running off to save the world like no one else. Sometimes he would come back intact and sometimes he wouldn’t. Sometimes he was a hair’s breadth away from death. But Mark didn’t want to stay put, you weren’t strong enough to protect him directly and you couldn’t order him to. What were you to do?

A bit of poison wouldn’t do him in, in fact, you were certain it wouldn’t even keep him down very long. But buying even this amount of time was a blessing. You wanted to keep him safe, keep him inside forever if that’s what it took but that wouldn’t work. For now, you were just buying a little time and some peace of mind. You tell yourself you were driven to this.

A few days later, Mark’s strength had recovered somewhat. You fed him soup and he kept all of it down. He was relieved to be recovering even though he would miss being babied by you and Debbie’s worries eased meaning you were safe from her suspicion. He went back to school, back to saving the world eventually. You waited until enough time passed. Until you could return things to how they should be.

The moment came six months later, the previous night you two had been out with William and Eve. He’d rushed off to the city with Eve while you were in the middle of eating at some greasy pizza joint. Your heart fluttered as you gazed at the empty space next to you in the booth. At least Eve was with him, though it was a poor consolation. They were fighting the same aliens they were overwhelmed by a few weeks ago. He came home in one piece, thankfully, but he had been fighting so much lately. Cecil asked so much of him, he’d been flying off to this and that attack. He was bound to be hurt again soon, even just that month there had been threats he’d barely escaped from. It was your misfortune to fall in love with a hero, it meant that he would never really be safe and neither would you.

You called Mark to sleep over at yours when he came back that night. Your mother worked late or sometimes, simply didn’t want to come home so the house was yours. The two of you watched mafia movies, argued about whether the godfather was overrated or not and ate an ungodly amount of popcorn. The following morning, you cooked a big breakfast, muffins, bacon, omelets. Pancakes. 

He ate so hungrily it hurt your heart. He truly did love your cooking. Even though Debbie had gradually started making dinner for him again months ago, he had really missed your cooking. It wasn’t that her’s wasn't delicious, it was just…there was something that made him warm inside about the idea that you should make something for him. That you thought about him, cared about him enough. That much effort wasn’t necessarily a given in a high school relationship. It was new and nice to be with someone who showed their love for him so frankly.

You watched him eat with such a sweet look on your face. You ate with him, an omelette and bacon, for the sake of appearance. Planned out in anticipation of Mark’s tastes and in the interest of keeping suspicion to a minimum, you added your remedy to both the muffins and the pancakes. The muffins had less of it, as you knew Mark would be likely to eat more pancakes than muffins but if he chose to forgo that for the opposite, he would still be made ill. You even had plans for the unlikely event that he chose to eat neither. But Mark wasn’t rude enough to pass up food made for him by someone he loves.

Shortly after breakfast, Mark was in the bathroom vomiting. It seemed far more likely that the pizza joint with the sticky seats and chain smoking cooks gave him food poisoning than anything having been wrong with your food. In his head, it didn’t even occur to him. When you helped him into bed, he felt grateful that he was with you. It was such a relief not to say that he was fine, not to have to be brave. Nobody cared for him as gently as you did. 

Your sheets and your pillows smelled like you. Mark felt weird smelling your things but it was nice to be surrounded by comfort. You washed him in your soap so he smelled like you too. He couldn’t have wanted you more in that moment, he wanted your skin against yours. He wanted your voice, the brush of your fingertips against his. When he was well, he wanted to be someone you would be proud to be with. To be that hero you deserve. When he was this sick, he still had that desire lingering somewhere in the background but he melted down into the barest of wants. And what remained was a need for you, an uncomplicated desire. He felt as if he’d dissolve into your mattress if he couldn’t feel you.

“I’m right here, Mark” You murmured, cleaning the sweat from his chest with a cloth. You have such gentle hands, your eyes stay on his to make sure you’re not hurting him. Under your loving attention, a few tears roll down Mark’s cheek. He can’t help it, you’re always there for him. Without you, who does he have to lean on like this? His mom was already a wreck, Eve had her own problems, William had no idea how to deal with something as big as what he went through — he doesn’t even know how to deal with it. He cannot live without you, who doesn’t understand what he went through but understands what he needs better than anyone.

“What’s the matter? Does something hurt?” You asked, panicked at his tears. Mark didn’t cry easily, you hadn’t meant to put him in so much pain he’d cry. You had added just enough, you always operated on that balance. Just enough pain, just enough sickness, just enough time.

“No, it’s just-” Mark’s voice was raw. “I’m glad I’m with you, that’s all.”

You softened. Hearing him say that made you melt into a puddle of sticky sweet syrup. It only strengthened your resolve and you were overcome with the need to keep him safe. And with the knowledge that if something happened to him, you would die. When the savage, gruesome fight happened, your stomach was in knots for days while you heard no news. Your heart squeezed painfully as if you were going to have a heart attack and it went on for days. When you slept to escape the constant anxiety, you had nightmares. You didn’t even go to school, you couldn’t get out of bed for anything other than checking whether or not he’d come home. For weeks you lived in hell, thinking you would lose him. And although he was alright that time, a piece of that moment lived in you every time he flew off toward danger. 

“I love you so much, Mark” You bowed your head and rested it against his chest, hearing his strong heart beating. You pressed a kiss there, along the contours of his chest, right over his heart.

“I love you too” He mumbled weakly. There couldn’t be anything sweeter than you.

Your love was falling over him like powdered sugar. These moments, without knowing it, he had come to need them. Being sick was the only time he was allowed to fully be human. No one needed or expected anything of him. Under your care, he could be briefly vulnerable. 

That was all you needed to ease that inkling of guilt that rose in the back of your mind. Who was protecting him like he protected everyone else? No one but you. It was why you had to resort to using underhanded methods, if everyone was trying to protect him, if they only cared — you wouldn’t need to. That was what you reasoned, anyway.

Mark needed you, anyone with eyes could see that. And you had no intention of abandoning him. Whatever you had to do, in your eyes it was all the desperation of a powerless human trying to save the man they love. It was romantic, even. You anticipated the moment where Mark might put two and two together. It made you anxious and you had practiced the speech you’d give him a thousand times. “I love you and I’m scared. I’m so scared for you. I always am." But you soothed yourself with the knowledge that Mark would understand, above anyone else, you’d earned the benefit of the doubt.

Because Mark knew what he needed, even if it was something he couldn’t have expressed on his own. Even if it was something that he shouldn’t. He was only human — even if he was half viltrumite — could he really deny your feelings and his own? No. Not when you were his saving grace. How could he not understand what you were trying to do when his sentiments were nearly the same?

You were watching Mark sleep, laying next to him, his arm around you. His skin was warm and his breaths were labored. You reassured yourself as you pulled the blanket up to his chest. You would take good care of him, he knew that. He had to, he had to know. He just had to.

[yuujispunches]

Silk and sharp edges ~ T.F.

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x Fem!Reader

Summary: Toji Fushiguro hated doing babysitting jobs, specially when they involved protecting spoiled rich brats but when he starts realising that you aren’t one it somehow makes it even worse.

CW (content warning): bodyguard!Toji, mentions of blood, mentions of guns, Toji should kind of be a warning of it’s own really, MDNI (+18), p in v sex (it’s not too graphic but still).

AN: Hi guys! I have a kind of love-hate relationship with Toji but while I was writing this I had fun and somehow I ended up kind of falling in love with him somehow 🙃 Anyways, thanks for all the support I’m getting, I never really thought about posting my writing but seeing people enjoying it is really great hahaha. As always a reminder that English isn’t my first language and I’m typing this on my phone so I’m sorry if there’re any typos/mistakes. Enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I wrote for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

Toji Fushiguro hated jobs that came with strings.

Babysitting contracts were the worst of them. High-profile clients, extra rules, fragile egos, and zero payoff outside the paycheck. Which, granted, was substantial this time. Obscene, even. But that only made him more suspicious.

“Bodyguard gig.” Shiu had said, handing over the file. “Private client. Not a cursed user. Political ties. Possibly targeted. You’ll live on-site.”

Toji raised an eyebrow. “You left out the part where it’s a spoiled brat in a luxury tower.”

Shiu just grinned without denying it, seemingly amused for some reason. “Are you saying you’re scared of rich girls, Fushiguro?”

He took the file. Didn’t smile. “I’m saying I charge double for civilians who think they’re invincible.”

——————————————————————————

He expected gold-leaf doors, champagne attitudes, and demands he’d ignore. What he didn’t expect was silence.

You opened the door yourself.

No assistant. No security team. Just you in a knit sweater too big for your frame, sleeves swallowed by your hands, eyes soft with the kind of quiet that unsettled him more than arrogance ever could.

“You’re early.” You said. Your voice was gentle. Clear. No perfume choked the air. No pretense in your tone.

Toji blinked. “And you’re not what I expected.”

You smiled faintly. “Most people expect pearls and daddy’s credit card.”

He didn’t respond, but his expression must’ve said enough, because your smile shifted turning smaller and, if you looked king enough, sadder.

“I don’t bite.” You added, stepping aside to let him in.

Toji stepped through the doorway and into something that, for the first time in a long time, made him feel restless.

——————————————————————————

You were soft. That was the first thing he really noticed.

Not weak. Not clueless. Just… soft. The kind of person who brewed two mugs of tea when only one was needed. Who remembered how he liked his eggs after the second morning. Who apologized when you accidentally interrupted his workout, like it wasn’t your own home.

You didn’t ask stupid questions. Didn’t treat him like hired help. Didn’t even seem all that interested in why you needed protection, although Toji figured you knew more than you let on.

Instead, you simply coexisted beside him. Always kind. Always careful.

He hated it.

Because it made him notice you.

——————————————————————————

You read at night. That’s when he first began watching you.

Not because he had to but because you were always there. Tucked into a chair, reading something he couldn’t pronounce. Sometimes you hummed without realizing it. Sometimes you looked out the window for hours.

One night, after a storm passed, you caught him lingering in the hallway and asked. “Do you sleep at all?”

Toji crossed his arms. “I’m not on vacation.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t have to be miserable about it.”

“I’m not.”

You laughed softly. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

And just like that, he was in trouble.

——————————————————————————

The quiet built slowly between you.

It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even awkward. Just two people orbiting each other carefully. He with his locked jaw and slow glances, you with your open warmth and soft footsteps.

He noticed you never yelled. Never cursed. Never even raised your voice when upset. But you still somehow filled every room with presence. It got under his skin.

Toji had dealt with every kind of client: arrogant, paranoid, seductive, insufferable. But he didn’t know what to do with someone who was simply… kind. Especially not when they directed that kindness at him.

“You don’t have to pretend to like me.” He muttered one morning, finding you in the kitchen making him coffee without being asked.

You blinked at him, unbothered. “I’m not pretending.”

He almost believed you.

——————————————————————————

Things changed the first time you got scared.

It was a simple moment. A broken window. An attempted breach. One intruder, a professional, but not skilled enough to avoid Toji.

It was over in minutes. Blood on the marble. Sirens on standby. And then you, there shaking, barefoot, wide-eyed while coming down the stairs with a whisper-soft. “Are you okay?”

Toji wiped the blood from his knuckles and turned to look at you. “That’s supposed to be my line.”

You didn’t smile. You looked pale.

He watched you sink to the floor, knees folding under you, breath catching in your throat. He crouched in front of you, unsure why he didn’t just walk away.

“Hey.” His voice was low. “It’s over. You’re okay.”

You nodded. But your eyes were still glassy, far away.

And then something he didn’t expect. You reached out and touched his hand. Not clingy. Not desperate. Just needing something solid. Real.

Toji didn’t move. He couldn’t.

He let you hold on.

——————————————————————————

After that, something changed.

You kept your distance but you glanced at him more often. Brushed past him a little closer. Sat near him on the couch, the space between you shrinking by degrees.

And Toji, for all his resolve, let it happen.

Against every instinct, he let himself like the way you softened the silence. How you’d hum while making tea. How you’d whisper “goodnight” even when you knew he wouldn’t answer.

You asked him one night, voice barely above a breath. “Do you ever get tired of pretending not to care?”

Toji stared at the floor. “No.”

But that was a lie. And you both knew it.

——————————————————————————

The night you touched his face, it nearly broke him.

You were sitting beside him on the balcony. It was late. The city was sleeping beneath you.

“I don’t understand you.” You whispered, looking out into the dark.

Toji didn’t turn to you. “Most people don’t.”

“You act like nothing matters. But you’re always the first to get between me and a bullet.”

Still, he didn’t look at you.

“I think you care more than you know how to admit.” You said.

And then, slowly, you reached up and touched his jaw. Gentle, like the breeze, like silk on scar tissue.

Toji caught your wrist. Held it there. His breath caught, and so did yours.

And for one terrifying second, he almost leaned in.

But he didn’t.

He let go. Stood there for a moment, his eyes searching your face for something neither of you could put your finger in. Walked away.

——————————————————————————

He couldn’t sleep that night.

He watched the security feed for hours. Checked the perimeter. Avoided his reflection in every mirror. Because if he looked, he’d see it.

He wanted you.

Not just your skin, not just your body. He wanted the quiet you carried, the peace he didn’t deserve. He wanted your voice in the morning and your hand in the dark.

And that meant danger. For both of you. Because Toji Fushiguro didn’t fall for people. People got hurt when he did.

——————————————————————————

He started pulling back.

Late mornings. Fewer conversations. No more soft glances in the hallway. He avoided your touch like it burned. Because it did.

And you? You were patient, definitely too good for him. You let him.

But your eyes followed him like they always had. Gentle. Understanding.

It made him want to scream.

——————————————————————————

“You’re avoiding me.”

Your voice broke the stillness one evening, after dinner. You stood in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, soft and sad.

Toji didn’t turn around. “I’m doing my job.”

“You weren’t doing it like this before.”

He was silent.

“You think if you push me away, I won’t notice you.”

Still, silence.

“But I do notice you, Toji.”

His name on your lips hit him like a blow.

“You’re the only person I feel safe around.” You continued. “And you’re the only one who looks at me like I’m not made of glass.”

Toji finally turned. His jaw was tight. His eyes tired.

“You shouldn’t look at me like I’m someone worth trusting.”

“But I do.”

His voice dropped. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why?” you asked. “Because you think you’ll hurt me?”

“Because I will.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.

Toji left the room.

Not because he wanted to but because if he stayed, he’d do something he couldn’t take back.

Like touch you again or worse. He’d tell you the truth.

——————————————————————————

Toji didn’t sleep that night either.

The rain came again. Thin. Steady. The kind that fills your chest with things you don't want to feel.

He stood outside your door once. Hand poised in the air, not quite touching the wood. His shadow lingered under the hall light. He didn’t knock. Didn’t move.

He just stood there and he hated himself for it.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t try to talk to him the next morning. Or the one after that.

You didn’t avoid him. Didn’t give him some cold, pointed silence. No dramatics. No bitterness.

You just kept being you. Soft. Steady. Warm in a way that made him ache.

That, somehow was way worse.

——————————————————————————

The breach happened on the third night. Two men this time. Armed. Professional. One made it inside.

Toji caught him at the top of the stairs. Fast. Efficient. Brutal. But it wasn’t fast enough.

He heard the crash in your room. Heard the scream-

By the time he burst through the door, the second intruder had you cornered.

Toji didn’t hesitate.

Gun. Two shots. One breath. The man dropped.

You did too.

Not hit. Not bleeding. Just trembling.

And for the first time in years, Toji’s hands shook as he pulled you into him.

“You’re okay.” He whispered into your hair. Over and over. Not sure if it was for you or for himself.

You clung to him. Not like someone helpless, but like someone tired of pretending they weren’t afraid.

Your voice was a whisper against his chest. “I thought you weren’t going to come.”

“I always come.” He said, low and rough. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

You leaned back to look at him, pulling away ever so slightly. The closeness between you was sharp now. Real. Like everything had peeled itself raw.

You were crying, but quietly. You weren’t asking him to fix it. Just be there.

That, he could do.

He touched your face. Thumb brushed your cheek.

“You keep doing this.” He murmured, pained, as if saying those words hurt him more than the cuts in his knuckles. “You keep being soft. Even after all this.”

“And you keep acting like that’s a problem.” You whispered back.

His thumb slowed. His hand stilled.

“It is.”

And then he kissed you. It wasn’t careful. It was deep. Starving. Like a dam breaking.

You tasted like tears and relief. Your hands were in his hair. His grip was firm on your waist, pulling you closer like he needed to feel all of you to believe you were still breathing.

He broke the kiss once, just to whisper. “Tell me to stop.”

You shook your head, eyes dark and wide. “Don’t you dare.”

And that was it.

——————————————————————————

Toji carried you to the bed. Not because it was romantic, but because his knees almost buckled when you kissed him again.

Clothes peeled off slowly. Not in a rush. Not desperate. Just needing contact. Skin against skin. Proof of life.

He paused when he saw you bare beneath him.

You weren’t fragile. But you were beautiful. Not in some glossed-up, perfect way. Just real. Open. Vulnerable in a way he hadn’t let himself be with anyone.

“You’re shaking.” You whispered.

“Yeah.” He breathed out. “So are you.”

You smiled. “Then we match.”

Toji kissed every inch of you like he was learning a language no one had ever taught him. His kisses descended down your body. First your neck, stopping at your pulse point, whether it was for your pleasure or to make sure you still had one, you didn’t know.

He didn’t rush. Every touch was deliberate as he watched your every breath.

Your hands touched every scar. Your lips brushed his jaw, his chest, his ribs. When you whispered his name, he closed his eyes like it hurt to hear it.

There was no time for foreplay, you didn’t need it anyways, you just needed to feel him, to know that this was real.

When he pushed into you, slow and careful making you gasp softly and buried your face against his shoulder.

He held you. Not just your body. You.

The sound you made when your hips lifted to meet his made him curse under his breath.

“You’re too good.” He rasped. “Too fucking good to want someone like me.”

You reached up and touched his face, just like before.

“You’re the only one who makes me feel safe.”

That nearly broke him again. He made love to you like he was trying to erase every ghost in his body.

You clung to him. Not because you needed to but because you chose to. That made it worse. That made it unbearable.

You arched beneath him, gasping his name again and again. You dragged him down into the mattress and kissed him like you knew how broken he was and didn’t care.

When you came, your breath hitched and your body trembled and he didn’t stop whispering your name until you stilled.

When he came, it hit him so hard he choked on it. Your name was on his lips like a prayer.

——————————————————————————

You lay tangled after. Skin against skin. Legs over legs. His hand on your hip, grounding him. Your fingers tracing the shape of his jaw like you couldn’t stop.

No one spoke for a while. The storm moved on.

His heart didn’t.

“You’re not a monster.” You whispered into the dark.

He didn’t move.

You ran your fingers over a scar near his ribs. “You think you don’t deserve peace. But you do.”

Toji exhaled. Long. Shaky.

You leaned closer, voice still low. “I don’t want a perfect man, Toji. I just want you.”

That did it.

He pulled you into him like he couldn’t breathe otherwise. Buried his face in your shoulder. Didn’t say a word.

You didn’t ask him to because you already knew.

——————————————————————————

Days passed differently after that.

You didn’t announce anything. Didn’t make him define it.

But Toji was different. He sat closer. Touched your back in passing. Let his hand linger on yours longer than necessary.

When you made him tea, he actually said thank you. Once, he brought you flowers. When you asked why, he just shrugged. You kissed him anyway.

——————————————————————————

The job didn’t end with fireworks. No final boss. No last stand.

Just the threat dying down, the client choosing to keep the protector and Toji staying even when he could’ve left.

Because this time… he didn’t want to.

“You’re still here.” You said one morning, wrapped in his hoodie, eyes sleepy but clear.

Toji looked up from his coffee. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

You smiled. “It is. But I’m glad.”

He watched you for a long moment. Then he reached for your hand across the table.

“You scare me.” He confessed simply.

You squeezed his hand.

“You scare me too.”

And somehow, that was enough.

Tags: @pickledsoda @noooo-onee @hawkwithsocks

Taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)

[op1umeyes]

baby, pass the bottle quit with all the stallin’…

🥃 — synopsis. You- Draco’s fiancé- make a bet.

🥃 — warnings. Alcohal consumption. I messed with the timeline like I always do. Weird scenario? Idk. I wrote this to get back to writing for Draco.

Draco watched your bet Ravenclaw Booker Winston 20 galleons you could down a bottle of Firewhisky before he could. Booker raised the stakes to 50 galleons: you were a fifth year and he was a seventh so obviously there was no way Booker could be out-drank by someone so early and so early in the evening.

Your bet got little attention. People had bet against Booker before and lost. But you confidently accepted and handed him a bottle. Booker’s friends waited until both bottles were uncapped before yelling ‘go’ over the blaring music.

The rest of the fifth-year Slytherins watched in awe, screaming ‘Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!’ while you put the opening of the bottle between your lips and throw your head back. Mattheo chuckled in disbelief, smacking Blaise and bringing his attention from the lightskin he was flirting with. Blaise sucked his teeth and shook his head. 

“Go get your woman, mate,” he said into Draco’s ear. “Before someone else makes a move on ‘er.”

By now you were about done with half of the 750 ml bottle of Firewhiskey. Your chest heaved and the white button down you were wearing flashed along with the color changing LED lights. He parted through the crowd of Slytherins, Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, and Hufflepuffs alike as he reached where you were just finishing the bottle. You threw the glass down on the ground, whooping. You coughed and Draco watched you scream along to Chase Atlantic’s ‘Okay’ as you caught your breath.

You hadn’t even noticed Draco, basking in the hoots and hollers of everyone in the party. A fifth year had downed a bottle of Firewhiskey before Booker Winston! You’d definitely be the legend for the years to come. And honestly, Draco would be lying if he said he didn’t find the way your teeth shone in the seizure-inducing lighting and how much your chest heaved as you sang along to the music. You were definitely a force to be reckoned with.

Another wave of screaming filled the room as Booker- pissed- threw his hands up and gave you a sack of 50 galleons. You held the bag in the air and laughed as fifth-years carried you on their shoulders as if you’d singlehandedly won the Quidditch World Cup. 

Draco followed as you savored the victory over a seventh year on the shoulders of your classmates. You laughed at something one of your friends had said and slid down, letting men and women pat you on the back to congratulate you for unofficially taking over Booker’s spot as the ‘Keg King’ (an odd name, yes, but it was an honor nonetheless).

Finally Draco appeared at your side, one hand at your waist as you danced with your girl friends and spun around with the people that entertained you. Your shirt was almost entirely unbuttoned, revealing the emerald green of your sports bra. “Merlin, trouble,” Draco muttered as you turned to him and immediately linked your hands together around his neck and stepped closer to him. “How does it feel to be the Keg Queen?” He joked, lips grazing your ear.

“Like I’m fuckin’ invincible,” you replied. You looked at Draco with that million dollar smile that so many had tried to copy. “Definitely a party-starter, don’t you think?”

Draco laughed. His ring-clad hands grasped your hips and pulling you closer to him as more people showed up to get drunk and have a good time. “Yeah, trouble.” 

You swayed with Draco, caught in his eyes. It goes without saying that you were one of the most influential pureblood witches was an understatement. Luckily you got along with your parents enough to pick the pureblood candidates to marry (your parents believed arranged marriage was best to keep the blood pure). Your parents and Draco’s were more than pleased with the arrangement as you had all known each other since conception. Everyone knew you were together, but not that you were getting married as soon as seventh year was completed. 

Everything was always too much for both of you. But right here and now, just being two drunk and in-love teenagers was perfect.

[hanlimz]

a/n: hyung line as gym bfs :D im so down bad (also i wrote this at 5am) / sorry if this isn’t ur cup of tea, im was just tired n i needed to write abt gym bf enha :(

gym boyfriend!heeseung who insists on lifting right next to you, solely to make silly faces in the mirror. you’re pushing a personal record doing seated presses while he’s holding two eight pound dumbbells, claiming that he’s “practicing endurance”. monitoring the form of your last rep, you accidentally spot him in the mirror and almost drop a weight on yourself. heeseung’s brows are quirked in a ridiculous manner, and a foolish smile has spread across his lips. his expression melts into one of pure adoration as he watches you laugh. and, in the midst of your peal of giggles, you decide you won’t even need to work abs today.

gym boyfriend!jongseong who always pushes you to do your best, to try your hardest (even when it hurts). a bead of sweat trickles down your face as you’re on the last stretch of an arduous plank. 30 seconds, he says. but, you’re almost positive he said that 30 seconds ago. the timer is music to your ears, and the view of jongseong’s smile is a sight for sore eyes. undeniable pride twinkles in his earthen gaze; jongseong blots the sweat that has collected on your forehead before placing a kiss in the same spot. i knew you could do it, he beams, you’re amazing. it’s moments like these that make you realize just how strong you are, just how invincible he makes you feel.

gym boyfriend!jake who loves cardio, especially when it’s with you. at your local gym, it’s an unspoken rule that every other day, the two treadmills overlooking the city are reserved for you and jake. sometimes the two of you partake in a light jog; other times, it’s a test of endurance—loser buys lunch. but, it’s always joyful. jake likes to point out interesting things he spots on the streets; a group of kids playing hopscotch, an elderly couple taking a stroll in the park, a dog running after a tennis ball. after 15 minutes, his lungs are burning and his feet are aching. but, jake knows he could run for the rest of his life if he had you by his side.

gym boyfriend!sunghoon who is just as princely in the weight room as he is on the ice. people tend to stare at him—hypnotized by his control, mesmerized by his skill and confidence—but, he’s only looking at you. ever the gentleman, sunghoon helps you re-rack your plates after squats and leg press, he grabs the bar for you once you mention lat pulldowns, and he will always be there to spot you if you ask. though sunghoon has his own routine to work on, he never leaves you behind. his sharp features and chiseled figure sometimes manage to disguise his kind, tender heart. but, you don’t mind keeping a little something for yourself.

[eternalera]

hate when people deny that eve was done dirty in s3. cause she literally was. like i get the "oh but she needs to support mark!" argument and i get that. i love her for that so fucking much. shes understanding to him and shes caring. but compared to the other seasons theres like absolutely nothing to her in this one besides being marks anchor which absolutely sucked. i love eve, i love her character, shes so fun to write and draw and i love her backstory. everything about her is so cool but to just reduce her to marks superhero girlfriend this season is just... it doesnt sit right with me. i think some people say that its better in the comics and that her and mark had a lot more banter when this stuff was taking place which once again... makes me HATE how they wrote her.

she can have her character development, her moments, and STILL be marks supportive girlfriend and everything. ive seen it done SO. MANY. TIMES. so to see invincible fuck it up (a show that has phenomenal writing) just makes it stand out even more.

tsubaki in your lie in april is arimas friend but she pushes him and the story develops her along with him and doesnt just give her that role. some with kaori who is also arima's friend (that he has a crush on) and she supports him but they give her personality while doing it. they make her fiery and expressive. eiji in banana fish is supportive to ash (who has went through a LOT) and he grows with him. he's not just there and honestly they had about as much time in that one season as invincible had in s3 (which is wild when you think about it).

you can have a character support another AND develop them while doing it. its really not all that hard. of course invincible had other things to focus on but they really couldnt give eve one thing besides standing up to her parents? she has her conquest fight and that was AMAZING. her deciding to go get mark gave me chills. then shit happened and then it went from her saving mark to oh watch mark go apeshit because eve (the character who THIS season did nothing but establish as his girlfriend) died. which is reasonable but it feels like such a betrayal cause in seasons 1 and 2 she was so good.

it might just be me though. like i wouldnt put it past lol. anyways lemme know what you guys think

[fuzzybirdie]

Hero Of Changing Faces

Ch.3 pt 2

Looking arround, even if everyone got out of the way of the blast, the tracks would likely fall on everyone after. Danny was running on instinct when he grabbed Biker who was furthest away and threw him into Actual Bat. He then started growing an ice shield arround everyone.

The thing about his core's abilities is that they're way stronger than his basic abilities. Yes, he could make an ectoplasam shield more quickly, but that would break on impact. His ice was more tiring, and he would have to let go of the ice on the ride, but it wouldn't break unless he let it.

The shield was paper thin at first, but then he let go of the ride and it grew to arround an inch before the blast.

The girl in overalls hugged a guy(?) In a studded leather jacket as he(?) yelped at the sound. The mother hugged her kids as they stared up in amazement, and the gentleman just watched him appraisingly.

The rails feel through the flames with a loud creak and clang. They bounced off the ice and tore into the ground.

Only once the flames died and metal stilled did danny release the ice. Three other people were running up to them. One dressed in black and blue, one covered in primary colours, and the daylight one, Signal.

As the shield lowered, the gentleman thanked both him and the bats, "I'm sorry, but i need to find my family"

"That's fine," Actually Stealthy (the one in black and blue) said "Spoiler will be at the gate, she'll help you find them, Mr. Wayne" The gentleman nodded and ran off.

The rest of the bats wasted no time getting everyone evacuated and checked for injuries. Another person who looked like a bat showed up soon after to help.

"So, you're a Meta?" Colourblind Test asked.

"What's a Meta?" Danny immediately shot back, as everyone in earshot winced for some reason.

Colourblind Test squinted at him and opened his mouth to say something before Big Bat inturupted. "Of course," he grunted, "there are no Metas in Gotham," before nodding at Danny and stalking off.

Signal sighed and hopped over. "Sorry about Batman "(His name was actually Batman??)" and Robin. The whole No Metas In Gotham rule is more to warn aginst going out thinking you're invincible then getting hurt."

Robin (apparently) aborted his angry squawk halfway through and stalked off to Nightwing.

"All well and good, but that still doesn't answer what a Meta is."

Signal stopped short of his next sentence and gaped like a fish at him for a few moments. "Are you serious?" He ended up choking out.

Danny nodded and gestured for Signal to continue.

"Right! Ok then, Well, I'm... a Meta"

A blank stare

"Right, doesn't help. So, a Meta is anyone with extraordinary abilities. Usually humans who've been through some sort of life-or-death situation, or exposed to some sort of compound that releases latent abilities. A prime example of the latter there would be the Flash family, or Poison Ivy."

Danny was to busy thinking about how perfect of a cover this was to think of how he knew exactly none of those names."Alright, cool cool. I need to tell my parents. And my sister... Oh Ancients, everyone nearly just died."

Signal nodded as if he were waiting for that fact to hit. "Come on, I'll help explain it to your family, and get you checked for shock." Danny nodded, so exhausted enough to forget his hair was still all snowy.

~~~~~~

first / prev / next

masterpost

So! Who noticed the cameo beforehand! I wouldn'tv'e! (Edit, i actually didn't realise he was there at first. Wrote the first chapter and was just 'who is that?' Then i started ch.2 and was like 'Bruce Wayne?!?!?')

I should also note how I'm gonna use names before the next arc starts.

The name I use while writing will be determined by the name most characters will be using for them in the scene. Like how Duke was refered to as 'Duke' until he put the Signal suit on. Then he was 'Signal'.

This is important because for reasons to be explained, Danny has 9 of them.

[fruitsywriting]

May I please request Rex splode dating dating reader who dresses emo? 😽

Of course, of course. I wrote it for a gender neutral reader and I did make it generally emo/scene/goth/punk/alternative because it is hard for me to tell the difference completely

Reader: Gender Neutral!Reader, Gn!Reader

Fandom: Invincible

Headcanons:

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

　　　.   　　˚　✭　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　　　 ✦˚　✭　 　　*　

He thinks it’s very eccentric. Your sense of style definitely makes you stand out among your peers but it’s not enough for that alone to catch his attention. What will catch his attention is when you were cutting things out that you liked from a home design magazine. He at first was annoyed, saying that magazines are expensive and shouldn’t be wasted but then he looked closer to see what you were cutting out. He calms down when you explain it’s for an art project.

The art project reflects your fashion taste and that causes him to fully appreciate your clothing in depth. After that, it took only a month of hanging out before he asked you out. 

He will listen to your genre of music without complaint. It’s not his specific type of music he’s into, but he likes it enough to listen to it with you. Plus, he likes seeing you jam out to the music. 

He would like to watch you go shopping- online or in person. He finds fashion similar in a sense to home design, liking the artistic aspect of it. 

He has to hit you with the fit checks- every time either of you will go out you have to pretty much model in front of him and he will rate your outfit.

Likes over the top outfits, with accessories and makeup (no matter your pronouns/gender identity). If you don’t like makeup, he will understand, but he will continue to encourage it. If you’re more masculine presenting, he will point out artists who wear full face makeup and still look masculine. 

It is easy to get him to dress in your clothes, he dressed in Atom Eve’s costume, so it’s very easy to get him into your clothes. No matter if the clothes are too big, too small, or just right- he will be wearing them for you. But not out in public because it may be uncomfortable material to him. 

While he is very supportive of your style, it does take some getting used to. He dated Atom Eve before and when he dated her he got her everything pink because of her hero costume. So he has to rewire his brain for it to fit the aesthetics of your room, fashion, and personality.

At first he doesn’t know what to buy so he will just buy CDs of your favorite artists/bands and hope you will have a CD player or at least like the value of the CD. You love it and he lets out a breath of relief.

If you wear platform boots, he’s trying them on every now and then and walking very awkwardly back and forth in your room. 

“See? I got this. And I look hot while doing it. Babe, you got some competition~”

Almost twisted his ankles a few times in them.

Helps decorate your room. Even if he isn’t into emo/goth/punk/alternative fashion, he loves house designs and will make your room aesthetically pleasing. 

𖦹°‧★🌹⭒💌⭒🍓★‧°𖦹

He smiles at you, confident but also a hint of warmth, as you help him with his art project. After he saw you cut out pieces you liked in the modern house design magazines, he thought about doing it himself. He just didn't know where to start, so he asked you for help.

"Remember, don't douse the paper with glue," You gently reminded him as you cut out some of the objects and furniture from the magazine with the precision he didn't have.

"Yeah, yeah. I got it hun, don't even worry about it," He he gently puts a thin outline of glue around the rim of the cut out of the couch and gently pats it onto the paper below. He had printed out a picture of an empty bedroom he thought looked cool and is gluing furniture, decorations and neccesities onto the paper like he's designing a house.

As you cut out more of the pieces he picked out, some of them remind you of what you like. It doesn't entirely fit with the theme of the bedroom, which is odd because Rex is always on theme. You don't question his creative liberty with this art project he decided on making out of the blue on a random Tuesday. Once you're finished, you pull your knees to your chest and watch him do the rest.

"I never thought you would be into art."

"I'm not- not really. But this is special."

"How so?"

"It's a dream bedroom, for when we get a house"

He lifts up the slightly wet piece of paper, showing off what he made like a kid showing their parents their finished project they made at school. It's a big bedroom that is filled with both stuff you like, and stuff he likes. He nailed all of your favorite designs, aesthetics, band posters- he put a lot of thought into this. Hell, he went through 12 magazines just to make this project. It warms your heart.

"Aw, Rex. It's beautiful. I can't wait to have this house with you"

"Me either, but don't worry. One day I will make it a reality."

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊