#mark grayson angst

[cherryite]

overthrown - part 1. the twins

summary. tragedy strikes your home, a prophecy leading you to the viltrum empire where you encounter people who you are bound to by fate. (word count. 4.3k)

content. princess!reader x prince!mark, fem!reader, strangers to lovers, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, fantasy au, saving the world, war time activities, found family

warnings. MDNI!!, depictions of violence, blood and injuries, loss of family, grief, rex being a dickhead lowk, survivors guilt, eventual smut (not until the last part hehe)

author's note. well.... you know how i said this may take a bit to come out? here it is because i'm crazy apparently. the content tag and the warnings tag will get things added to it as the story progresses, just to keep certain things a secret mwahahah >:) once again if you have any questions feel free to ask! i also LOVE reading comments so dont be afraid!

next

plot/ world info character index

“Your Highness, the castle walls have been breached.” 

The sound of glass shattering echoed throughout the large and extravagant dining hall. Glass and blood red wine from the king's cup lay scattered across the stone floors. The royal family had been enjoying their usual late night dinner when the member of their royal guard burst in with the news. A panicked soldier stood at the large, wooden oak doors of the hall, breathing heavily. The royal family of Ephia, a kingdom in the realm most respected, sat stock still. The younger twin of the king and queen glanced at his parents, soup dribbling from his lips from the dinner they were enjoying just a second before, suddenly upright. 

The eldest daughter, you, sat silently, stroking a small white feline, orange patches coating its fur. Your eyes showed the emotions stirring within; panic. After the fall of the Grand Duchy of Durna and the most recent fall of Kaltia, the Dark God’s army had laid in wait. They had been driven to the outskirts of the realm a few months ago, and had been quiet… until recently. In the past few weeks, there had been reports of the Dark God’s people slinking around the border between Ephia and Kaltia, and it was even rumored that they were plotting to take over the northern border between Ephia’s own kingdom and the Viltrum Empire. Thought no one had thought the supposed invasion would become a reality; until now. 

As the  heir to the throne, you  knew how stressed your parents had been as of late, as evidence of the upcoming attack piled up. They had been preparing battle strategies and possible outcomes of this possible war day and night. They rarely got more than four hours of sleep, and it worried the staff and their children, who were worried their parents were working themselves to the bone. Eventually, the king stood with determination in his eyes as his queen rose beside him. She worriedly set her aging hand on the soft fabric of his cloak that covered his broad shoulders. 

“Malchor, what do we do?” She questioned in a hushed tone, her eyes flickering between her husband and the palace soldier. You stayed glued to your seat, continuing to stroke the cat’s back that sat in your lap. It seemed as if it calmed you, running your delicate hands through the animal's long, fluffy pelt in a way made you more mellow. The king didn't even seem to think about what to do next. He turned to his wife, a serious look on his face. 

“Take the children, you must get out of Ephia, it's no longer safe for you. Go to Viltrum, the High Queen will ensure your safety,” the queen shook her head, loose strands of her hair, tinged with grey fell on her face. A tense aura filled the room. You rose from you seat, still grasping the cat in your arms. Your face was solemn, knowing what had to be done. The blue dress you were wearing swept at your ankles as you strode to your mother, resting a hand on the older woman's shoulder.

“Mama, we have to go,” You soothed in an attempt to convince your mother to do as your father instructed. This would be proven difficult, knowing your mother was a stubborn woman and wouldn't back down. As the princess, you would have to take the situation into your own hands if you wished to keep your family alive and away from the Dark God's forces for as long as possible. You notice your younger twin run off, most likely, to grab his traveling cloak and his sword. Not that he really needed such a thing, as he could wield his magic instead. Your parents continued to bicker between themselves about the situation they were in. Your eyes landed back on the palace guard, who was looking even more fussy as they continued with their battle of words. 

You inaudibly scuttered over to the young man as your parents continued to dispute. He seemed to sputter at the sight of a royal family member before him, as he was about to bow, but you stopped him. You crossed the room quickly, your movements soundless. 

“Go,” you instructed the guard in hushed tones. “Find the staff. Ensure their safety. Then return for us.”

As you  turned from the guard, who was now leaving, you saw the athletic build of your brother come running back as he carried his cloak as well as yours and your mother’s.

Aaric threw his cloak over his shoulders, clasping the metal clamp into place. You stiffened, watching as your brother slipped your Mother’s elegant shawl over her now quaking body. You couldn’t bear to stay still, almost as if you had just taken a shot of the fresh brew your family stored in the cellar. Shuffling over quickly, you neared your family mutely, turning to your father.

“I’ll look after them,” you spoke softly, as if someone else was listening. Your father’s normally hard eyes were soft, like the mashed potatoes that lay abandoned on their dinner plates. The weight of his hands resting on your shoulders was comforting. You two weren’t the closest, never truly got along. Now you both stared at each other, a mutual understanding bringing you close for the first and last time. Your eyes started to well with tears as you forced out the word that hung on your tongue. 

“I will avenge the crown.”

The old king, your father, nodded stiffly, his own eyes brimming with regret. He released your  shaking shoulders, chastely planting a rough kiss to the side of his wife’s temple, while his rough hands ruffled his son’s head of ragged hair. You turned, the spotted cat gently brushing at your feet. Your heart pounded, eyes fixated on the wood doors instead of your mother’s gut wrenching wails. How long did they have, how long ‘til it was too late, how long ‘til you all were doomed to expire instead of just one of you? Pulled from your thoughts, your brother’s comforting hand slid into yours. His other hand firmly grasped the withered and taunt hands of your mother. The cat nimbly leaped into your other arm, as you started out the door, not looking back, ignoring your mother’s shrieks to her husband. You silently hoped one day you could love someone like that, love so fiercely.

The guard from earlier had returned and escorted them throughout the winding halls of the castle, passing rushing cooks and handmaids who were gathering their things in sheer hysteria. You could hear your heart beating, but almost nothing else. Your family's worst fears had happened, your most ghastly of dreams couldn’t even come close to competing with this. A rumble shook the castle, arousing shrill cries and screams from staff and your family behind you.

“Quickly! We must get to the stables before-,” the guard manages out, his voice choking, before he screams and you can feel the pressure of his hand on your back, shoving you forward. The crashing of stone, of terrified screams ring through the halls. Your knees and hands collide with the ground. Blood rushes from your hands, the skin of your palms and kneecaps burning. A sharp and distasteful scent washes over you as you raise your head wearily. The walls of the castle are crumbling around you, ancient brick exploding as a ball of what she can only assume to be dark magic, comes crashing through the structure where you had grown up. You know you need to get up. Stumbling to your feet, you swivel, the fabric of your dress skims the cuts on your knees. You note how it stings. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the scene before you. The air exploded with dust and rubble. One moment, your family was just feet away. Now, only broken stone and swirling darkness stood between you. Their voices pierced the chaos.

“Mama! Aaric!”

Your scream tore through your throat, raw and desperate. On the other side of the fallen wall, muffled cries of horror and frantic spells crackled in the air, the unmistakable hum of Aaric’s magic battling the unseen enemy. Smoke stung your lungs. You clawed at the debris, but the stones would not move. You were trapped, separated. Alone.

“No, no, no!” Your fingers bled against the jagged stone. You could still hear them, still feel them so close.

A weak cough pulled your attention. A few feet away, the guard lay, half of his body crushed under the rubble. Still in a panic, You rushed over to his side, grasping his hand with horrified eyes. His grip was weak, the coarse skin of his hand brushed your cuts. The guard’s lips opened, blood was smeared across his white teeth and dripping out the corner of his mouth, words tumbling out of his throat like the stones that crushed his spine. 

“Get to… the Viltrum Empire, it’s your only chance, they’re expecting you. You can’t wait, go,” he urges with as much force as his dying body willed him to. His eyes glazed over and lolled back into his head, and the last words he spoke died on his lips with him. The blood seeped into your dress, staining the fine linens more than they already were. The breath from your lungs rattled out as you leapt to your feet, mind a mess of panic and determination. Bodies shouldn’t be scary to you anymore. The cat sat a few feet in front of you as you stumbled forward. It seemed to be nursing a hurt paw, watching the scene without much worry. Scooping up the cat, you ran, your skirts nearly tripping you as you bolted to the stables. Tears stung your eyes, pain throbbed throughout your body. Your life was crumbling around you, and you weren't sure you were going to make it out alive. 

With the stables in view, you scampered to your riding horse. Castle staff were running around, not sure what to do, unsure of what was happening. You reached for the reigns of the dark horse, pulling yourself and the cat up onto the beast. The ebony creature took off as soon as you found yourself in the seat, silently begging the horse to go faster. You burst through the stables into the murky air. A metallic smell hit your nose, causing it to wrinkle with disgust. Blood. 

The horse's hooves thundered against the ground as it sprinted from the siege, its nostrils flared and puffing out hot air. In a moment of clarity, you turned your head to stare at your home. Fires were raging from the towers, the beautiful tapestries and garlands that collected around the castle's walls had begun burning, a dark smoke rising from the carnage. Magic was flying everywhere, tearing down the stone brick fortress slowly. The air was lit up by the purple shine of spells. It would have been beautiful if under different circumstances. 

Loose strands of your stuck to your face like glue, tears clearing the dirt and grime from your face. Your people cried in the distance as you retreated. A sob dropped from your mouth, eyes screwed shut in pain, your heart aching. You thought of your mother, your brother, your father. Trapped behind the rubble. Fighting. Dying. Stuck in the crumbling walls of the castle your family had cherished. You had run, you left them all. And what for? You couldn’t lead, that was your father’s job, not yours. 

Your sobs became broken, as your horse continued on at a fast pace. You brought your eyes forward, staring into the night, your surroundings blurred by tears. The guard's words hung in your mind. ‘It’s your only chance, they’re expecting you.’ Your grip tightened on the reins, your shoulder moving up hastily to dry your tears, the soft silk of your dress providing you comfort. A labored breath escaped your lips, wetting your lips with the tears that soaked your face. The night air stung your face. Only one thought was on your mind though. 

‘I will avenge the crown.’

~

Mark traverses the halls of the castle he knows so well he could walk them blindfolded, every step falling into rhythm with the memories etched into the stone. William, his best friend and gentleman-in-waiting, walks beside him as they near the war room. The air hums with the quiet bustle of attendants, their hurried steps echoing through the grand corridors. Golden sunlight filters through the stained glass above, dappling the polished marble in shifting hues of ruby, emerald, and sapphire. Servants weave between one another, their arms burdened with silken drapes and gilded chairs, still making accommodations for the excess of heirs now housed within these ancient walls.

Mark doesn’t like admitting he’s nervous, but he is. He twists a house emblem ring around his finger absentmindedly. The cool metal grounds his thoughts, his mind drifting to the oracle visiting him late in the night not even a fortnight ago in his chambers. A faceless being, a shadow physical form, its essence swirling with constellations of sapphire and midnight, had woken him from the fragile grasp of sleep. Its voice, layered like a chorus from beyond the veil, had unraveled a prophecy before him; a warning veiled in the form of a poem.

" when shadows stretch across the skies,

and darkness wakes with heavy sighs,

five souls shall rise from distant lands,

to hold the fate within their hands.

through trials deep and hearts undone,

their unity will see the sun.

if they should fail, the world will fall,

but if they stand, they’ll conquer all.

the dawn shall break, the dark shall cease,

and light return, bringing peace."

He half thought he was dreaming, until the formless being started listing heirs, the remaining living generation who was next to ascend their thrones. After calling a small council meeting and explaining the figure that spoke to him the night before, his mother’s brows pinched together and Cecil, the hand of the Queen, immediately got to work on locating the heirs Mark had recounted. And so, as if the looming threat of the Dark God’s army and the volatile magic crackling through his veins were not enough of a burden, Mark now had to grapple with the knowledge that destiny had marked him to either save or fail the world as they knew it. Fantastic.

Mark’s eyes fall to his feet as he and William approach the war room, his brown eyes flickering down to the dark material of his slacks. The heavy sword still sheathed at his side from training earlier. Even after training, the remnants of magic thrum beneath his skin, simmering in the aftermath of exertion.

William turns to look at him out of the corner of his eye. “You know, people get nervous when they see the crown prince of the Viltrum Empire just as nervous as they are,” he chides, his voice a mix of wry amusement and vague concern, a smile on his lips. Mark exhales sharply, turning his head to level his friend with a weak glare that borders on a pout.

“My people can’t see me right now, I can be nervous,” he breathes out, his hand clasping against the cool hilt of his sword, Steelsworn, as his fingers drum against it. William studies him again, pieces of his sandy blonde hair falling over his forehead.

“Just take a breath. How hard can it be to tell a princess who just lost her home and family that she’s now a part of a prophecy to save the world.” 

Mark groans, his hand fragging down his face in frustration. 

“You are not helping right now in the slightest,” he mumbles, turning to weakly glare at William, who just shrugs his shoulders, gesturing for the prince to enter the war room.

“Whatever you say your Highness,” he responds as Mark places his hands on the large, carved wooden doors.

Inside, the grand round table is already occupied. Princess Eve sits poised, sharp eyed and composed, while Prince Rex lounges back in his chair with infuriating ease, balancing on the back two legs as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His tunic hangs open, baring tanned skin that gleams in the torchlight, his posture more befitting of a tavern rogue than a royal. Across from him, Princess Rae fidgets with the green lace at the hem of her sleeves, absently adjusting the round spectacles perched on her nose. The bickering has already begun.

Mark can already feel his blood pressure rising as he sits at the far end of the table, William standing close by as he hears the prince of Troylos yapping loudly. Mark can’t help but roll his eyes unceremoniously.

“Do we really need nameplates?” Rex scoffs, “I think I know all your names by now after dining with you lovely lot for the past week. Shouldn’t we spend our efforts on saving the Realm or something,” Rex chucks the yellowed, triangle of parchment over his shoulder that had his name printed on it. Eve rolls her eyes next to him, throwing an annoyed look his way. 

“Are you thick in the head? The princess of Ephia has never met you-”

“At least I hope she hasn’t,” Rae pipes up beside her, pushing her round glasses up her nose. 

“Well maybe she should have done her research on the way here,” Rex shrugs his shoulders, paying no mind to the words of the women beside him. Mark tries to ignore the fact that the prince is completely unsympathetic to the fact that you had just lost everything you’ve ever known, not even mentioning you are wholly unaware of how your fate is intertwined with the rest of theirs. Mark’s hands fold in front of him, his elbows resting on the wood table as he thinks, tuning out the bickering between Eve and Rex, his deep brown eyes locked on the tapers that flickered in the center of the table. 

Even though he’s never met you, he knows just a fraction of what you’re feeling. When his father died, the world as he knew it shattered. Suddenly he couldn’t dilly dally with WIlliam all day, couldn’t train whenever he pleased; he had to help his mother, strong in her grief as she managed leading the Empire, taking care of the realm. 

He remembers the small council meeting after the siege on Grayson’s Stronghold, the one that resulted in the death of his father, High King Nolan, First of His Name, Uniter of the Realm, the God’s Born, where his mother, in all her grief stood at the head of the table with her head held high. Her posture was tall and regal, immediately diving into the actions that should be taken promptly in the wake of her husband's death, planning with Cecil until dawn broke over the horizon. And with the new knowledge of the prophecy, it just made his life that much harder.

The grand doors push open, pulling Mark from his thoughts. He immediately rises at the sight of his mother. Queen Debbie, regal and unyielding, carries herself with effortless authority. A delicate crown encircles her head, her hair twisted into an elegant updo, her deep purple gown pooling like liquid night around her feet. But it is the figure beside her that draws his gaze.

 Mark’s eyes coming face to face with the princess of Ephia. 

He takes in your appearance, he’s only ever seen paintings when you were a child or heard about you from his mother. Debbie and your mother Shallan were apparently quite close, queens of neighboring kingdoms and such. He remembers seeing them walking the halls of the castle when he was only knee high, giggling between themselves. Now, before him, you are no longer a figure in a story but a presence in your own right.

Your hair is loose over your shoulders, midnight blue silks drape your form, the off-the-shoulder design baring the elegant slope of your collarbones. The fabric moves like water, rippling with each step, darker threads woven throughout like veins of glittering night sky. There’s something haunting about you, it sucks the air from his lungs, seizes his heart. An unexpected vulnerability tugs at Mark, like the room has suddenly become too small for him to occupy without being painfully aware of her every movement. A beautiful princess, plagued with guilt, walking into a room where they meant to tell her that her whole life was about to change again in the span of only a week. 

The Hand of The Queen, Cecil Stedman walks in neutrally from behind them. He nods to you and Debbie as he passes, greeting you both in a hushed tone,”Your Majesty. Your Highness.”

He is barely seated at the grand table, Cecil is quick to speak as soon as he lowers himself into the chair, his voice measured, professional. "Now that everyone is here, we can begin."

He does not waste time. The prophecy is repeated, each word like a stone added to the growing pile of burdens resting on your shoulders, it suffocates you. The flickering candlelight catches in your eyes, but you remain silent, attempting to absorb it all without interruption. Words are thrown out, so many people speaking, you hardly even twitch when you hear the Queen’s hand speak of their next steps. 

“What we need is action, especially in light of recent events in Ephia. Each of you has a role to play in this, and we do not have the luxury of hesitation.” The older man lays out maps, highlighting weak points in borders, battle routes, and other important information your brain struggles to decipher.

“Thankfully, you lot are some of the most powerful magic users in the Realm-,” Cecil continues on plainly, starting to speak again before a quiet voice interrupts him.

“What are you talking about?” Your words are hoarse, tired eyes going over to Mark in confusion. Debbie tenses beside you, her frail hand moving to rest on your arm as Mark searches your face from beside his mother. 

“With all due respect your Highness, maybe you should pay attention better,” Rex responds, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Your eyebrows furrow, shaking your head and Mark nearly tells him to stop being an ass for once, holding his tongue so as to not add to the tension of the moment.

“I am listening, I just-,” you pause, turning to look at Cecil, who is staring at you with expectant patience, his eyebrow raised as he fiddles with the corner of some browning parchment paper. 

“Princess, now is not the time to be humble, just accept the compliment please. We have a lot of issues to tackle right now.” Cecil pinches the bridge of his nose. You stand suddenly, your hands slamming on the table, your eyes frantic, brimming with grief.

“Would you please just listen to me!” She cries out, staring down the old man, who sits partially shocked at her outburst shaking his head. Everyone shifts at the table uncomfortably, tension hangs thick in the air. Your breathing is coming out in ragged gulps  and Mark can tell you’re trying to control your breathing.

The room is so quiet Mark almost thinks he can hear the way the fire wicks at the tapers.

“Aaric,” you whimper out, your voice cracking, Debbie rises to grip at your shoulders because you are starting to look faint, swaying at your upright position. Eve furrows her eyebrows in concern at the scene playing out in front of her, throwing a glance at Rae, who shares a similar expression.

“Aaric, my twin, he’s the magic user.” 

Cecil stares at you, cogs turning in his head, he turns to Mark as you continue to puff out heavy breaths. Debbie, in all her queenly glory, soothes you in a hushed voice, but it doesn’t seem to get through, “I-I’m not, I’ve never been able to use magic, I can hardly manage to use a sword half the time.” Your voice echoes in the quiet hall, hardly keeping your composure. 

“You got the wrong twin.”

Mark stands as well, the movement of his chair scraping against the stone floors. He tries to catch your gaze, but your eyes remain fixed on the cool wood of the table beneath your fingertips, as if grounding yourself in its solidity will steady your emotions.

“The oracle said your name, not your brother’s,” he says, voice low, careful, as if speaking too harshly will shatter you completely. “I heard it myself.” You shake your head, staring down at your hands and their place on the table below. 

“Aaric,” you choke back a sob in your throat, thick and suffocating, “Aaric is the strong one. Aaric should be here.” Your knees buckle, the strength leaving your body in a sudden wave. You fold inward, collapsing under the unbearable weight of your loss. Like a baby deer learning to walk, your legs betray you, wobbling and weak. But unlike a newborn, this isn’t something you’ll grow out of, this is something you must learn to live with. Because Aaric is gone, along with your mother and father, bound to forever rest in the ruins of your old life.

The queen steadies you, her embrace warm and comforting, motherly, your grief stricken cry continuing to bounce off the old stone walls. “Oh Gods, it should have been me. My baby brother, my Aaric, oh Gods. He should be here right now.” The words tear from you, raw, broken, each word dripping with anguish.

Mark now realizes the impact the news has on you, the news of your destiny; because it doesn’t involve your brother. He watches closely as Debbie leans down to speak to Cecil, her hands still cradling your form as you gasp for air. The Queen’s Hand can only nod in understanding. Mark’s mother nods to him, before leading your shaking figure out of the war room, the oak door swings shut, and your wails echo in Mark's head long after the meeting is over.

[luverine]

Sunburn ₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊

Yearning // sfw // fluff/angst // gn!reader

The sun hangs high, its golden light spilling over your skin, making you glow as if it was made just for you. Your eyes shimmer, reflecting the glimmering water at your feet, a universe of stars hidden in their depths.

Your damp hair clings in loose waves, wild from the salt and humidity, a halo of frizz that only makes you more breathtaking. You don’t seem to mind. Your smile never falters, soft and effortless, as the waves kiss your feet, pulling back just to return- just like I do.

The sun paints you with warmth, brushing your cheeks with a blush that makes my breath hitch. Your lips-plump, God, your lips. I wonder how they’d feel against mine, how they’d taste.

I want to be the reason your face flushes. I want to steal the breath from your lungs the way you steal mine without even trying.

I wish you’d turn to me, gaze deep into my eyes, and tell me what I already know, that we are meant to be, tangled together by fate itself.

But instead, I sit beside you, my fingers curled into the sand-dusted towel, letting the sun burn into my skin- all for the chance to be close to you.

Just me and you.

Friends.

Likes, Reblogs, Comments appreciated ☀︎

Divider by: enchanthings-a

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤUGLY LOVEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Mark Grayson x Fem Reader Part 1

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : Mark Loves You. He Loves You So Much. But You Don't. And Yet You Agree To Go Out With Him. Maybe Because No One Else Wants You. Maybe Because You Were Lonely...

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You remember the first time Mark Grayson asked you on a date.

It was embarrassing.

Not for him, no. For you. Because he did it in the middle of the school hallway, right when you were already feeling like shit, surrounded by people who immediately turned to stare like this was some kind of rom-com moment. Like you were supposed to blush and giggle and say yes because Mark Grayson was the loser who somehow still managed to be well-liked.

And you? You weren’t special. Not in any way that mattered. You weren’t pretty enough to turn heads, not hot enough to make guys stumble over themselves. You weren’t the girl anyone fell in love with. So when Mark fucking Grayson—big smile, nervous hands, that stupid blue-and-yellow jacket—asked you out, you just blinked at him.

"Are you serious?" you had asked, voice flat.

His expression faltered for half a second before he recovered. "Yeah! I mean, I think you're really pretty, and, uh, I'd love to take you out. Like—dinner, movie, whatever you want."

You wanted to say no. You really did. But then you thought about it—about how the guy you actually liked barely knew you existed. How you were always the afterthought, the last pick, the option. No one was lining up to take you out. But here was Mark, all bright eyes and open hands, so eager, so desperate.

So you said yes.

Dating Mark was easy. And awful.

He was in love with you.

Not in a normal, lovesick puppy way. No, Mark was something else. He looked at you like you were air and he was drowning. He texted constantly, always wanting to know where you were, who you were with, if you were okay. He remembered everything you ever said—your favorite color, the way you hated cold weather, that one time you mentioned wanting to try some random Thai restaurant downtown. It was suffocating.

And the worst part? You liked it.

Not him, though. Just the way he needed you. The way he worshipped you.

You let him hold your hand even though his palms were always a little too warm. You let him kiss you even though he always lingered too long, like he was memorizing your lips, like he thought you’d disappear if he stopped. You let him call you pet names that made your skin crawl—"baby," "angel," "my girl."

You never called him anything but Mark.

Then, of course, came the worst part.

The superhero bullshit.

The time he told you, it was supposed to be some big moment.

He sat you down in his bedroom, looking at you with this nervous excitement, like he was about to give you the best news of your life. Then he told you.

"I'm Invincible."

You blinked. "...You're what?"

He grinned, all proud, like an idiot. "Invincible! You know, the new hero? Yellow suit?"

Oh. Oh, that was him?

The guy flying around looking like a blind bee?

Invincible. What a stupid fucking name.

You had so many questions. None of them were good.

"You're telling me you willingly wear that suit?" you said instead, voice dripping with disgust.

His smile faltered. "I—I mean, yeah, it's kind of cool, right?"

You stared at him. Stared at the boy you were dating, who was apparently running around in an ugly-ass yellow and blue suit with those stupid fucking goggles like he was actually blind.

"You look so dumb," you muttered.

His face fell. "Wait, what?"

"Yellow? Seriously? Who the fuck told you that looked good?"

"Babe—"

"And the goggles? Are you blind? No, actually, are you?"

He looked heartbroken. Like you had just kicked a puppy. It was honestly kind of funny. But then he smiled again, weaker, like he was trying to brush it off.

"You’re not... mad?" he asked hesitantly.

Oh. Right. That was what he was expecting, wasn’t it? Screaming, crying, breaking up because oh no, my boyfriend is a superhero, it’s too dangerous, I can’t handle it!

You just shrugged.

"Why would I be mad?" you said. "Not like I actually care what you do."

He just stared at you for a long time. Then he smiled.

Too wide. Too happy. Like you had said something perfect.

God, he was pathetic.

Mark loved you too much. And you let him.

Every date was his idea. You never asked. He was always the one picking you up, texting first, clinging to you like he was afraid you'd disappear.

You tested him constantly, just to see how much he could take.

Ignored his texts? He sent more.

Canceled a date? He rescheduled immediately.

Made fun of him? He laughed, like it was endearing.

You let him kiss you, let him touch you, but never too much. Just enough to keep him hooked. You never said "I love you." He said it all the time, and every time you just looked at him, blank, and let the silence stretch until he got uncomfortable and changed the subject.

And god, he never gave up.

He looked at you like you were the fucking moon. Like you hung the stars in his sky. Like he needed you just to breathe.

You hated it.

You loved it.

Because you could never have what you really wanted. No one had ever loved you like this before. So you let Mark do it.

Even if you could never love him back.

Mark never noticed when you looked at someone else.

Maybe because he didn’t want to notice.

Or maybe because, in his head, you were already his. Permanently. Like he had claimed you the second you said yes in that stupid high school hallway.

But you noticed.

You noticed him. The guy you actually wanted.

He was everything Mark wasn’t—cool, confident, effortlessly charming. When he walked into a room, people turned. Girls actually wanted him. They laughed at his jokes, flipped their hair when he talked, hung onto every word. He could have anyone he wanted.

But he didn’t want you.

That stung. Even though you knew it shouldn’t.

You had Mark. Mark, who worshipped the ground you walked on. Mark, who held your hand like it was the most precious thing in the world. Mark, who would probably die if you asked him to.

And still, you wanted someone else.

You tried. For a while.

It happened on a random night—Mark was picking you up from class, his stupid yellow goggles shoved into his pocket, hair still messy from whatever dumb hero thing he had been doing earlier. He grinned at you, all excited like always.

"You hungry? We could get that ramen you liked."

You weren’t in the mood. Not for him. Not for his stupid, endless happiness.

But then you thought about it.

You thought about how it would feel if he—the one you actually wanted—looked at you like that. You thought about how you were being handed something most people dreamed of. Unconditional love. A boy who would do anything for you.

So you tried.

You smiled—tight, forced. Let Mark hold your hand as he walked with you. You let him talk, rambling on about some new villain he fought, how he was getting better at flying, how his dad was actually talking to him about superhero stuff now.

You nodded at the right times. Gave him a few mhms and oh, really? Like a normal girlfriend would.

But it didn’t last.

Because Mark wasn’t what you wanted.

And because you were fucked in the head.

It always came out of nowhere.

One second, you’d be fine. Barely tolerating him, but fine. The next, something small—something stupid—would set you off.

Like tonight.

You were sitting in his room, scrolling through your phone, only half-listening as he went on about his superhero bullshit again. And then he said something—some dumb, innocent comment.

"I know I’m not, like, the coolest guy around, but—I dunno, sometimes I wish you’d talk about me the way you talk about him."

Him.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned to face him. Mark looked nervous, like he regretted saying anything. Good.

"What?" Your voice was sharp.

Mark hesitated. "I—I mean, I know you think he’s, like, really handsome and—"

"Are you seriously bringing this up right now?"

He blinked. "I—"

"No, really, Mark, really? Jesus Christ, I can’t have one fucking conversation without you getting all insecure?"

Mark flinched. Like you had actually hit him.

And fuck, that only pissed you off more.

"You always do this," you spat, voice venomous. "Always. Acting like I’m the fucking bad guy when all I do is put up with your bullshit, your stupid works, your pathetic little—"

You stopped.

Because Mark was looking at you like a kicked dog.

Like he had just realized something awful.

And fuck.

You felt sick.

The guilt hit fast.

You pressed a hand to your forehead, exhaling sharply. "Fuck."

Mark swallowed. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Just—just shut up, okay?"

You didn’t want to hear him apologize. Not again. Not after this.

You weren’t a good person.

And Mark wasn’t good enough to fix that.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 2. Part 3.

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[midniqhtt]

mark grayson - invincible

masterlist • invincible • 04/15/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

𑣲 they do it in porn I @sobbingscripter

𑣲 our turn pt1 pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 I @/sobbingscripter

𑣲 request I @sanguineterrain

𑣲 request I @thewritetofreespeech

𑣲 hello, you I @earlgreylatte

Of course he would come to see you. You’re the reason he’s here, after all.

𑣲 second chance at love pt2 pt3 pt4 I @tokoyamisstuff

...in which another version of Mark invaded your world to claim something he once lost.

𑣲 payback I @/tokoyamisstuff

In his timeline, Mohawk killed you for rejecting him - and now he seeks you out to do it again.

𑣲 variant!invincible I @slutoru1207

Multiple versions of Mark Grayson from different dimensions find the reader, each desperate to keep her because they lost their version of her. Now, they refuse to let her go.

𑣲 invincible!mark x reader x variants I @/slutoru1207

𑣲 mistaken devotion I @/slutoru1207

𑣲 i love you, but i need boundaries I @/slutoru1207

𑣲 i can feel it in my bones I @couldeatthatgirlforlunch

Being Invincible’s pet is cruel, but you manage to find comfort in it.

𑣲 fail safe I @invoncible

𑣲 bluff I @/invoncible

when mohawk mark doesn't find debbie at his childhood home, he goes after the next best thing: you. he thinks you're together in this world too, and when he realizes you're not... well, how could he possibly give up such a perfect opportunity?

𑣲 smut I @/invoncible

𑣲 running into invincible variants I @/invoncible

𑣲 keep away w/ invincible variants I @/invoncible

𑣲 mohawk!mark I @/invoncible

𑣲 viltrumite!mark I @/invoncible

𑣲 the only exception I @jks1uv

in every universe, mark grayson turns into his father and seals his destiny as a true viltrumite. what if things are different this time?

𑣲 u love me and i love you I @controld3vil

Mark accomplished what his father couldn’t – he conquered Earth. Accepting that wasn’t the hardest part; living with it wears you down.

𑣲 drabble I @halcyon-writings

𑣲 scenarios / bestfriend!reader I @radlovesfics

𑣲 third wheel trouble I @cherryyluvs

𑣲 starfire!reader I @/cherryyluvs

𑣲 streamer!reader pt2 I @/cherryyluvs

𑣲 don’t wake up my parents I @/cherryyluvs

𑣲 you’re all i think about I @/cherryyluvs

Mark becomes obsessed with you, stalking your social media, learning your routines and slowly inserting himself in your life.

𑣲 mark loves his best friend pt2 I @starzyangel

𑣲 a different kind of star I @acenanxious

𑣲 right there pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 I @/acenanxious

neighbor!reader x invincible variants

𑣲 shattered affections I @wordsofwhimsy

All surviving Variants have been brought to the Main Universe as a means to help defend and protect Earth.

𑣲 takeout mishap I @0bticeo

mark stumbles in, looking wrecked—bruised, bloody, barely holding himself up—but guess what? he still has a takeout bag. the paper’s stained red, but he just grins like an idiot and goes: "still hot." priorities.

𑣲 and they called it puppy love I @sqgeism

𑣲 a man’s greed I @/sqgeism

𑣲 snip it/sneak peak I @ay0nha

𑣲 one-shot I @swightops

"in every dimension, Mark Grayson falls for you, but not this one."

𑣲 superhero drabble I @rainydaygotham

𑣲 mark being down bad I @tiramissyoucake

𑣲 mohawk!mark I @/tiramissyoucake

𑣲 different roles!reader I @/tiramissyoucake

𑣲 reader!doesn’t know I @/tiramissyoucake

𑣲 omnimark I @/tiramissyoucake

𑣲 drabble I @gojoidyll

𑣲 a girls first love and heartbreak (sister/daughter!reader) I @tamayakii

𑣲 mark grayson dating hcs I @angelltheninth

𑣲 wonder boy I @serensho

au in which mark is hercules in ancient greece! and he saves a sassy damsel who changes everything.

𑣲 invincible variants pt2 I @mirai-lunar

𑣲 healer!reader I @thegr33nc0met

𑣲 touch I @grimmsbride

mark grayson doesn’t give a damn what you can do, or how fear hurting him; he would touch you again and again no matter the consequences.

𑣲 invincible variants x reader I @mocharyc

𑣲 cockwarming I @asaarii

𑣲 lucky! lucky! lucky! I @/asaarii

hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend

𑣲 doomsday arrives I @certifiedlovergirlsstuff

𑣲 retro invincible/ goggles invincible I @stareiiez

𑣲 you’re dead everywhere but here pt2 pt3 I @bonsubear

[serensho]

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა

ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა

wings

in which mark meets someone with viltrumite-like powers — and has an angel’s wings?

invincible x fem!reader

warnings: world-building, smut fluff, not canon-compliant at all

inspired by kali uchis’s angel & igual que un angel

wc: 2800

“We don’t know exactly where she came from… but we do know she fell from an extreme height in the sky, or even space, down to Earth.”

Mark examines the hospital bed as he glances at Cecil with suspicion. He crosses his arms, puffing his chest out as he peers closer through the glass. It’s unlike Cecil to joke, much less about something as ridiculous as this.

“Do you realize what you’re telling me right now? Some girl with angel wings fell out of the sky suddenly? Is this some sort of prank?”

Cecil sighs, looking at his feet as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“No, Mark. She fell in Chicago, and left a huge mess for us to clean up. But after everything that’s happened, who knows maybe she was sent here for a reason. God knows that the city needs something to believe in after all the destruction.”

Mark turns away from the glass, fidgeting as he looks at the ground. 

“So why did you call me here? Is there some sort of problem with her?” Mark asks as he turns back to Cecil, sizing him up. 

Their relationship was never a good one, but when Mark received a message that he needed his help with some sort of situation, he felt compelled to come to the Pentagon, despite their bad blood. There was some sort of unexplainable pull – a siren’s call urging him to listen for once to see what was happening. But maybe that gut feeling was wrong, since all Cecil had done so far was present to him some poor girl in a hospital gown hooked up to countless machines, her wings held tightly together with some sort of harness or tape so that they couldn’t take up too much space. They looked to be pretty big, a mixture of ivory and white but he couldn’t get too good of a look as she shifted in the cot.

“Well, we’ve been running some tests and found out some interesting information about whatever she might be. She’s incredibly strong, and if she wakes up on the wrong side of the bed could do some major damage, even more than when she fell. And –”

Mark scoffs, rolling his eyes. Cecil gives him a look before continuing, “Mark, we believe the powers she possesses aren’t that far off from your own, or even Atom Eve’s. She can make beams of pure light, heal herself, and even though she’s unconscious has some ability to sense and manipulate the emotions of those around her. Don’t ask how we found that out.”

Mark raises his eyebrows in confusion looking back toward the girl behind the glass. 

“I see. What do you want me to do about it?” 

“Well, the reason you turned out so…you is because of your mother and the fact that you got to experience humanity. So, show her how to be human.”

Mark stutters out, “Huh!? Do you want me to play house with her and show her the ropes of being normal? I’m the last person who could do that!”

Cecil rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “What I really want is for you to let her stay at your home for a bit, let her experience some normalcy. For all we know she could be here to take over Earth. Or because it’s some sort of punishment. Just let Debbie talk to her at least. She’s doing a pretty good job with Oliver so far.”

“You want me to let her stay with my family? No way–”

“I already spoke to Debbie and she said she doesn’t mind. Even though the girl has powers, she could’ve used them in far worse ways and hasn’t yet. She just crashed here, passed out upon impact and has been sleeping since. But we think she’ll wake up soon.” 

As soon as Cecil finished speaking, Mark heard the sounds of the monitors behind the glass beeping rapidly. He watched as you woke up slowly, rubbing your eyes, stretching your arms, pushing against the restraints against your wings until you looked to your back in confusion. You examined your surroundings before landing on Mark and Cecil, walking towards the glass, tapping on it tentatively. 

Mark looks you up and down as you stare back at him with curiosity. There’s definitely something otherworldly in the way you move, not to mention your looks. Such beautiful eyes, a shine in them that gleams as he finally makes eye contact with you. There’s a strange swirling in his stomach – but that was probably just your powers. 

You tilt your head, eyeing Mark in his suit. The way his muscles ripple, material spread taut along the span of his shoulders and his sharp jawline visible – but you can’t see his eyes. You huff and turn away from the glass. 

“Where’s Donald? He always spoke to me. You just stare and this one I’ve never met before,” You say as you conjure up a beam of light that cuts through the bindings holding your wings together. 

“He’s busy. And you have someone new to talk to: Mark Grayson,” Cecil introduces, patting Mark on the back before opening up the door to your room, ushering Mark in. He bristled as the door slammed shut behind him, effectively trapping him and you together. 

The air felt different suddenly. Electric. He watched in awe as you stretched and unfurled your wings a few feathers falling and landing gracefully. They seemed to somehow shimmer despite the sterile lighting and looked impossibly soft. He met your eyes seeing a vulnerability in your gaze that hadn’t been there before. But as soon as it appeared it faded away as you spoke.

“So they want you to be my babysitter? The customs of my people are not that different from yours. But you’re not completely human, are you Mark Grayson?” You asked your eyes never leaving him as you walked around him, examining him. You went to grab his goggles off of his face before he swatted you away.

“No, no I’m not. But I’m not going to treat you like a child. Cecil just wants me to… help you adjust to life here on Earth.”

“Oh.” You looked away from his eyes standing in front of him with your arms crossed. “I may have just awoken, but I know many things. Your kind– your father’s kind are the reason I’m here. But I…I can’t remember what exactly happened to my….” You trailed off, a hand coming to your face as you turned your back to him, wings filling his vision completely. 

Mark wanted to reach out, to comfort you somehow but he didn’t know what to do. “I can guarantee you, that I am nothing like my father, or any Viltrumite,” he spat the word out in disgust. 

You turned back around, conjuring a small beam of light that reached out to him, and he froze. Were you going to attack him? Instead, the light shaped into a hand-like shape, its fingers taking off his mask and goggles and placing them gently onto your cot. You waved the beam away as you walked towards him again, finally completely face to face with him. In the silence there was an understanding and again, that pulled towards you to let you do whatever you wanted with him, to him, and he felt frozen in place.

“A heart like yours has gone extinct among the Viltrumites, if it ever even existed in the first place. And my own I think is what caused me to be sent here. I won’t harm you Mark.”

In your luminous eyes he saw his own and relief washed over him. A heart like his? He wasn’t sure if whatever you were sensing was a result of your powers or just sweet talk. But he was definitely looking forward to learning more about you. 

“You think you’re here because of Viltrumites?” he asked as he shifted under your gaze.

“I think so. Whatever my purpose is, it’s tied to you and this planet. But it’s as though a fog has been placed over my mind, I-I can’t completely remember. I do remember falling, sorry about that,” You played with the end of your hospital gown nervously. “But I feel it in my chest, in my soul that I’m in the right place.”

You smiled gingerly at him, something new in your eyes. Embarrassment, maybe from the fall and having been so close to him.

“Alright. If you’re going to live with me and my family there’s a few rules that need to be laid out.”

Mark wasn’t kidding when he said there were lots of rules for you to follow. Despite being under Cecil’s watchful eye regardless, Mark made sure to keep tabs on your whereabouts and what you were doing as much as he could. You spent a lot of time at his home, helping Debbie with dinner, watching and spending time with Oliver, becoming a role model and friend to him. You especially liked playing sports with him, and flying since he was so curious about your wings. They also fascinated Debbie, the only person you had let touch them, feeling a sense of comfortability only a mother could create. It was fleeting, but it was a sign that you were embracing this new life, something you explained to Mark after she had rubbed the space between them on a night when you were feeling homesick, not having left your bed all day.

In a way, you just fit into his home, his family so well, he couldn’t help as that pull towards you, grew into a sense of affection and fondness. And that feeling was tested one day when Mark went up against a particularly strong villain.

Mark really hadn’t expected the guy to be so strong. He was facing punch after punch, being beaten into the ground late at night when he looked towards the sky and saw… it had to be–

A blinding beam of light exploded, shattering nearby windows, the force pushing the attacker away. Somehow you had created a cell of light that he was now trapped in, hearing his shouts of pain and the sizzling of skin as he tried to get out.

“Mark! I saw what was happening and had to help–I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” You exclaimed as your hand hovered above the center of his forehead. His limbs and face tingled as he closed his eyes, succumbing to the feeling that began to roll over him in crashing waves of tenderness, softness. Your healing powers began to take effect as he felt himself finally able to sit up.

“T-Thank you, angel…” He coughed as he looked toward you, a vulnerability in your eyes that was reserved only for him. 

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, melting into him as you scratched at the hairs near the nape of his neck. That felt good…

“I was so scared, Mark. Please–Please you have to let me and Oliver help you. Don’t ever go off on your own like this again!” You let go of him as you looked into his eyes, scolding him. Your gleaming eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight, eyes shining with tears. One fell, Mark carefully brushing it away as he cupped your face delicately.

“I’m sorry. Let’s go home, angel.”

Instead of staying in your own bed that night, you ended up in Mark’s, tending to his lingering aches and pains wearing one of his shirts that you cut the back off to make room for your wings. You began rubbing his back, relaxing him further before he moved to face you.

After what had happened, he knew he had to do something, to finally act on whatever it was lingering between you. You looked at him, as curious as the first time you met and tilted your head so cutely.

“Is something wrong, Mark? Was I too rough?”

He waved his hand away, dismissing what you had said. 

“No, never angel. It’s just I was thinking and maybe I could…” He took a deep breath before taking your hand into his, “Maybe I could help you relax too? Could I touch your wings?”

You offered a coy smile, eyes downcast. You looked up into his eyes, watching as his face bloomed into a timid smile matching your own. You nodded, before saying, “I might need some help, you know,” You gestured to your–no, his shirt. You turned your back to him, crossing your arms as you moved to take it off, Mark rushing to help you. 

“O-Oh yeah, of course.” 

He helped you take it off carefully, the expanse of your back visible to him, wings unfurling and fluttering coquettishly. His hands hovered as he took in the sight before him. He could also see the soft curve of your breasts, but they became obscured as you crossed your arms. 

“You can touch me. I trust you, Mark.”

He swallowed, before rubbing the space in between your wings watching as you rolled your neck. The skin there was soft, and he moved to touch where your wings protruded from your back. You shifted, a small noise of pleasure escaping from your mouth.

He continued, stroking the feathers of your wings as he felt you relax, slumping slightly. They were so soft, so delicate and yet he could feel the strong hard muscle lying underneath. He began to massage the space beneath where your wings came out from your back and you whimpered, wings fluttering and stretching out further. You moved to clasp a hand over your mouth in shame before Mark leaned into your back whispering against your ear, his voice seeming to deepen.

“It’s okay, baby. Let me hear you, angel. Can I keep touching you? Somewhere else, maybe?” 

“Y-yes, please,” you whined quietly, music to his ears. 

Mark reached around from behind you to cup your breasts, feeling their weight between his hands. You turned your head to the side, the sensation engulfing you as he began to place soft kisses against your neck. He rolled a nipple between his fingers, pinching it as he began to nip and suck against your neck. His rough hands felt so good against your silky skin and he breathed in your sweet smell.

“You like that, angel?”

You nodded, crying out in pleasure, already sensitive from his hands on your wings.

“Use your words, sweet girl.”

“Mmmm, I love it. Please Mark, please,” you begged, unsure of what you were even chasing as his lips met yours in a searing kiss. Your tongues melded together as you brought your hand to run through his hair, your other becoming entwined with one of his hands still playing with your chest. The kiss continued, as Mark trailed his hands lower, pulling away to look into your eyes, asking for permission. The hand in his hair left, guiding it to the heaven between your legs as you began to grind against his hand. 

“Angel, you’re so wet.”

He lovingly caressed you, rubbing against your clit over your panties as he pulled you into another kiss, swallowing your moans. He rubbed faster, as your breathing became heavier, pleasure overwhelming your senses. 

“Mark–!” you cried out as a final warning before complete bliss filled your senses, wings spreading as far as they could, the downy feathers glowing. The room was illuminated as you came down from your high, slouching into his embrace as you rested your head against his shoulder. He kissed your temple as you felt something warm and hard…and wet against your backside.

“Mark, did you…?” You looked into his tired eyes as he looked to the ceiling in embarrassment.

“I-I couldn’t help it!” He stuttered out as you shifted, your bodies moving against the bed until you were on top of him, straddling him.

Your eyes shimmered as you splayed your hands across his chest, kissing him sweetly. Whatever this was– at first it felt inevitable, inescapable. But now you knew that you two were meant to be, a connection, a binding of hearts that were meant to connect in one way or another. It just happened to be like this. He looked at you as you used your powers to convey this feeling, eyes softening even further if possible, as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, placing his hands on your hips and squeezing.

You laid on top of him, your wings creating a sort of cocoon around you both as you whispered into his ear as he had before your voice sultry and yet sweet, “It’s okay, baby. Now I get to return the favor.”

You two were in for a very, very, long night.

a/n: if you made it this far, thank you for reading! this is my longest fic to date and i hope you all enjoy it!! i'd love to maybe make this a series of sorts w/ supernatural reader so lmk what you'd like to see; i'm also going to begin working on that hercules!au but please send in requests and inspo, i'd love to hear your thoughts!!

[clownprincesshq]

Chapter 7: Lost to the Unknown Part 1

"Your personal road to ruin. Each will be different. But whatever the story, for you… the nightmare will become real. Just know that I sympathize. Because right now, Angstrom, who poisoned my life threatens everything I love… my nightmare is already real."

Main!Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader

warnings: more smut </3, panic attacks, angst, baby oliver is a cutie

w/c: 10k

a/n: decided i'll finish posting unshaken first before posting my next fic! ty for the feedback :)

It’s quiet at the Grayson house, too calm for how much has changed.

When Debbie wakes, it isn’t because of a noise. It’s the opposite. No mild fussing from the nursery, no repetitive creak of the rocking rocker she’s learned to rely on during sleepless nights. Just a heavy quiet that prickles at the edge of her senses, enough to draw her from what little slumber she achieved. Something’s odd.

The room’s still dark, weak gray light creeping through the drapes. Her limbs feel heavy, every part of her fatigued in a way that sleep never completely touches anymore, not since everything fell apart, not since Nolan, not since Omni-Man departed and left her behind to pick up the shattered pieces of a life she'd never chosen. But she moves nevertheless. Forces herself out of bed, footfalls muffled on the chilly floor, every stride a silent echo in the quietness of the home.

And then she sees him.

Oliver.

Standing.

He’s in the hallway, just outside his nursery door, teetering slightly on legs that should still be months away from this level of equilibrium. His fingers are wrapped around the edge of the doorframe for support, knuckles pallid. He’s gazing at her.

She freezes.

Her mind stalls, attempting to catch up with what her eyes are showing her. Because she just put him to bed nights earlier, and he was small, tiny, really. yet cooing, yet hardly crawling. But this�� this isn’t right. He’s taller. Not by much, but enough that it’s obvious. His cheeks are less round. His hair has become thicker, darker. His eyes, those piercing, strange Viltrumite eyes, seem more alert than they did only hours earlier.

“Oliver?” Her voice is raspy, tinged with a delicate apprehension.

He blinks at her. And suddenly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he lifts one foot and takes a step. Stumbles a little. Rights himself. Takes another. And now he’s walking. It’s clunky and fresh, but obviously occurring.

Debbie goes to her knees before he reaches her, hands extending like it’ll help her believe it, help her anchor herself in something solid. He crashes into her arms, chest rising and falling fast, like the exertion of walking tired him, even with his rapidly growing coordination. She holds him. Feels the weight of him against her, heavier than she recalls. Warmer, more substantial.

“What’s happening to you…” she murmurs into his hair. “You were just a baby.”

And he is. He is. But he’s not.

Her imagination races to fill in the voids she doesn’t want to face. Nolan’s DNA. Viltrumite biology. Growth patterns that don’t follow human reasoning. It’s one thing to be informed about it, another completely to experience it, this silent, horrifying reminder that Oliver isn’t like the other children. That he will never be like other children. And that she’s parenting him alone.

He draws back from her slightly, his brow scrunching in perplexity. She can almost imagine he’s trying to grasp her anguish, attempting to absorb it the way a toddler would. But he’s hardly even a toddler. Or—was.

She cups his face, tenderly. “Does anything hurt?”

He doesn’t answer, obviously. He merely pushes his forehead against hers, something instinctual about the move. Like he’s attempting to reassure her. Or attempting to seek reassurance from her. Maybe both.

And she clutches him tighter, heart aching in a manner that is both entirely new and achingly familiar. Because this child is growing so rapidly, and she doesn’t know how to keep up. Doesn't know whether she can.

She doesn't know she's weeping until a tear strikes her sleeve.

She thinks about Mark. Where he is. How much he still doesn't know. She thinks of the craziness that has enveloped her family from the day they became a family. Omni-Man. Viltrum. The falsehoods. The legacy.

And now this.

Her kid is developing quicker than time should allow. Her baby isn’t just hers.

She kisses the top of his head, clinging to the last shreds of anything normal. “It’s okay,” she lies, because she has to. “You’re okay.”

But she doesn’t feel okay.

Not at all.

She doesn’t move for a long time.

Just continues kneeling there on the hallway floor, arms wrapped tight around a boy who shouldn’t be able to walk yet, whose head suddenly rests differently against her shoulder, heavier, warmer. Debbie doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have the words for what this feels like. For the silent, dreamlike fear twisting in her belly. She only breathes, shallow and slow, believing if she keeps motionless enough, the moment would reverse itself. That when she opens her eyes again, she’ll find Oliver little and swaddled in the bassinet, precisely as he should be.

But he moves in her arms. Restless. A little impatient. He’s never done it before.

She draws back, just enough to look at him again.

His face is distinctive. Subtle things, but difficult to miss now that she knows what to look for. The softness of infancy has thinned. His jaw has the barest sign of definition. His eyes, his father's eyes, are too alert, too watchful. They don’t carry the dull, dreamy haze newborns generally have. They observe her. Really watch her, like he's studying her face and trying to comprehend her terror.

It takes everything she has not to flinch.

“Oh god,” she moans under her breath, stroking a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’re changing. Too fast.”

And he makes a sound then. Not a word, she knows it would shatter her, but something more sophisticated than a cry. A quiet, inquiring murmur, followed by a peculiar tilt of his head. Like he’s wondering why she’s unhappy. Like he’s waiting for an explanation.

And all at once, she wants to shout.

Because she didn’t ask for this. None of it. She didn’t ask to fall in love with a man who would turn out to be a live weapon from a warrior species intent on conquest. She didn’t ask to raise a half-Viltrumite baby alone in a house that still rings with the memory of Nolan’s voice. And she definitely didn’t ask for this, for Oliver’s body to betray time, for her to wake up one morning and find that a chunk of her son’s boyhood had disappeared overnight.

He should be babbling. He should be nibbling on his fingers, having tantrums over peas, waking her up at 2AM for a bottle and falling asleep on her chest. He shouldn’t be strolling down the corridor and gazing at her like this, like he knows she’s terrified of him. Or worse, like he’s used to people being terrified of him.

“No,” she responds quickly, voice breaking. She clutches his little shoulders, not to harm, just to hold. To anchor him. “You’re still my baby. Do you hear me? No matter how fast this occurs, you’re mine.”

He blinks, his expression unclear. Too neutral for a toddler. It fractures something in her chest.

“I don’t care what he was,” she adds, and she doesn’t intend to bring Nolan up, but she can’t help herself. “You’re not him. You’re not. I won’t let you be.”

A tear slips down her face, and this time Oliver reaches out to stroke it. It’s awkward and off-center, more like a pat than a wipe, but it sends a sob creeping up her throat. She holds him again, tighter than before, letting her cheek rest on the top of his head.

He still smells like baby lotion. Like the gentle detergent she uses on his onesies. He still makes those small gurgling sounds while he’s attempting to settle in her arms. And despite everything—despite the awful reality of his inconceivable growth, his body cuddles into her like he trusts her, like she’s still his whole universe.

She remains like that for a while. Eventually, her knees start to hurt against the floor, and her arms begin to quiver beneath his weight, but she can’t bring herself to rise up just yet.

Because once she does, it becomes real.

Once she puts him down, once she cooks breakfast and changes his clothing, everything that’s broken about this moment will solidify into permanence. And she’s not ready. She doesn’t think she ever will be.

But the world keeps going, even when she doesn’t want it to.

Oliver moves again, whispering a gentle “muh,” or maybe “ma.” It’s the closest thing he’s come to mentioning her name, and it tears her wide open.

She exhales shakily. “Okay. Okay. We’ll work it out.”

She wipes her face with the back of her palm and slowly gets to her feet, adjusting her grasp on him as she moves into the nursery. She partly expects the room to be changed too, to discover the cot shattered in half, toys too little to match his new hands. But everything’s as it was. The only thing that’s changed is him.

She places him on the cushioned changing table and softly presses her palm against his chest. His heartbeat is rapid, yet stable. Strong. Another reminder of who he is and who he isn’t.

“I’ll protect you,” she murmurs, though she doesn’t sure whether that’s a promise she can fulfill. “No matter what you become.”

And even though he doesn’t comprehend the words, she speaks them anyhow.

Because she needs him to know.

Because she needs to hear it.

Even if he grows too rapidly. Even if he begins flying. Even if his father’s blood takes hold of him one day and warps him into something unrecognizable. For now, for as long as she can, she’ll be his mother.

And she’ll love him through everything.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

The sunlight spills across the hardwood floor of Mark’s apartment, sharp and golden, catching on the twisted sheets and your bare legs tangled in them. Your thighs ache. Your ass feels raw, in that warm, used way that still hums with a greedy satisfaction. Mark's got that half-wild look in his eye again, like sleep barely touched him, like being back here with you, away from Debbie's hovering, had flipped some instinctual switch he couldn't shut off. It’s not tenderness now. It’s not missionary. It’s not slow.

He’s behind you. Rougher this time. Not cruel, Mark isn’t capable of cruelty with you, but he’s different today. There’s a hand pressing down on your lower back, keeping you pinned. His other one is bruising your hip, holding you steady while he slams into you with that impatient, fast rhythm that says he’s lost track of time. You’re both supposed to be at Debbie’s by now. Oliver’s probably already cooing or crying or crawling in that weird, gummy baby way.

But none of that feels real. Not with his cock shoved deep inside you, not with the way your face is buried in the pillow, muffling every shameless noise you make.

“You’re gonna make us late,” you gasp, voice cracked and half-laughing, half-moaning.

Mark grunts above you. “Should’ve thought of that before you started grinding on me in the kitchen.” His voice is low, but not smug, he’s not good at smug. Just breathless, flustered, a little in disbelief at how much he wants you all the time now. “You started it.”

You can hear the little hitch in his breath, the strain. His thrusts go deeper, sharper, making your toes curl against the bed. The sound of skin slapping echoes off the walls, pornographic and intimate all at once. You twist under him, looking over your shoulder just enough to see the furrow in his brow, his flushed face, the way his mouth hangs open.

“I didn’t think we’d fuck for an hour,” you say, panting. “I thought maybe a quickie.”

He scoffs, thrusts a little harder. “There’s no such thing as a quickie with you.”

Your back arches involuntarily when he hits that spot, and you cry out, fingers gripping the sheets like a lifeline. “God—Mark—”

“Yeah,” he breathes, a little ragged now. “Yeah, that’s it. Keep saying my name.”

There’s sweat slicking both your bodies. His chest hits your back with each forward snap of his hips. Every movement feels urgent. He’s gotten comfortable with you. Not shy anymore. There’s something addictive in how he takes you now, not the unsure, fumbling boy from those first times, but the full weight of his need, his craving for your body, for this home you’ve built together away from the world.

You try to twist again, maybe kiss him, but his hand grips your hair suddenly, pulling you back, arching you into him. It’s not rough in a cruel way, it’s Mark’s version of rough, awkward and desperate. “Stop moving,” he says, but the edge in his voice is soft, cracking.

“You like me like this?” you tease, your voice breathy.

“God—” His voice falters as he ruts into you, a hand sliding from your hip to your waist, drawing you back onto him, forcing you to take every inch. “You’re fucking perfect like this. I—I think I’m gonna—fuck—”

You clench around him, deliberately. Mean. He groans, stutters, presses his face into the back of your neck. His teeth scrape your skin, not biting, just anchoring himself. And when he cums, it’s a full-body thing, his cock pulsing inside you, his breath catching, his grip tightening. You feel the warmth fill you. He doesn’t pull out.

He stays there a moment, slumped over you, catching his breath, his heart pounding against your back.

“Okay,” you murmur into the pillow, after a beat. “We’re definitely late now.”

Mark groans, forehead resting against your shoulder. “My mom’s gonna kill us.”

You shift under him, still feeling the wetness dripping down your thigh. “Yeah, but at least we’ll die happy.”

That gets a quiet, post-orgasmic laugh out of him. He finally pulls back, his cock slipping out with a sticky, wet sound that makes you both wince and laugh again.

“I’ll get the wipes,” he mutters.

“Mark, that’s a baby thing.”

“I don’t care,” he calls from the bathroom. “At this point, I’m using whatever’s closest.”

You bury your face in the pillow, grinning like an idiot. Even fucked out, dripping with his cum, your body sore in the best way, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

You hear the squeak of Mark’s sneakers just ahead of you, scuffing across the hardwood as he hesitates near the living room. He’s still learning how to walk softly in his mother’s house, like part of him feels like he doesn’t belong here anymore, not the same way he used to. The house still smells like her, though. Coffee and lavender and the delicate citrus of the cleaner she’s always used on the windows. You can know it hits him, even if he doesn’t say it.

His shoulders are stiff beneath his jacket. He hasn’t taken it off yet, even though Debbie offered to hang it up. You suppose maybe he doesn’t want to let himself become comfy.

There’s a calm sound from the nursery. A voice, soft, high-pitched, not quite babbling. And you both freeze. Because it doesn’t sound like a baby anymore. Not precisely.

Debbie joins you in the hallway with weary eyes and an armful of clothes. You offer to take it she waves you off. “He’s awake,” she says, voice like the bottom of a coffee cup. “And… different. Again.”

Mark frowns. “Different how?”

She doesn’t answer. Just motions toward the nursery door.

You follow him in.

And Oliver’s standing. Again.

He’s bracing himself against the edge of his crib this time, fingers wrapped tight around the railing. His physique seems straighter than the last time you saw him more confident in itself. And when he sees Mark, his entire face transforms. Lights up. There’s no hesitancy. No sluggish buildup. He puts out this piercing, ecstatic cry and nearly launches forward, small knees shaking as he crashes into Mark’s legs.

Mark barely responds soon enough to catch him.

“Whoa—hey, hey, bud,” he whispers, hands under Oliver’s arms before he can faceplant. “Careful.”

But Oliver’s already reaching again. This time higher. More intentional. And his fingers locate the hem of Mark’s shirt, twisting around the cloth with a frightening amount of power. He pulls, like he wants to climb him. His small face is twisted in focus, and when he opens his mouth again, it’s not a chuckle or a wail, it’s a name.

“Bra.”

The room stills.

Mark stiffens like he’s been shot. His eyes snap down, wide and confused, and you can literally see the breath leave his chest. “Did he just—?”

“Bra Bra,” Oliver repeats again, and this time he’s more persistent. More deliberate. He tugs at Mark’s shirt again, eyes beaming with something like pride, like he understands what he’s doing. Like he’s been waiting to say that.

You don’t know you’re holding your breath until your lungs ache.

Because this moment, this second when a kid too small to walk properly is uttering Mark’s name with surprising clarity, it shouldn’t be possible. Not yet. Not for months. But Oliver isn’t following the laws of normal human growth. He’s rewriting them. Stretching them into something new, something else. And as scary as it should be, all you can feel right now is this gradual, odd tug inside your chest.

He’s trying. He’s attempting to talk. To name the individual in front of him. And that individual is Mark.

You take a step closer. “He remembers you.”

Mark stares at you, shocked. “I mean… yeah. Sure. I visit when I can.”

“No, I mean really remembers.” You turn back to Oliver, who’s now rubbing Mark’s chest like he’s proud of himself. “That wasn’t a fluke. He knew you the second you walked in.”

Mark’s still motionless, hands awkwardly gripping Oliver as if he’s frightened to break him. “He said my name,” he mutters, like he can’t believe it. “He’s a baby. He’s not meant to talk yet.”

“Apparently he doesn’t care what he’s supposed to do.”

You observe Mark’s countenance shift. The wonder on his face doesn’t vanish, but it sharpens into something else. Concern. A type of fear you recognize too well. The way he holds Oliver becomes increasingly cautious. More protective.

“His grip,” he adds after a time. “It’s stronger than yesterday.”

You nod. “His walking is better too.”

“You saw him walk?”

“I saw him run last time I came,” you repeat, calmer now. “Not far, but… he knew what he was doing.”

Oliver pushes his weight forward, burying his small face against Mark’s neck. Mark shuts his eyes, just for a second. You watch the muscles in his jaw twitch.

“He’s growing too fast,” Mark admits finally. “It’s like… like he’s skipping steps.”

You cross your arms, holding them tight to your chest. “He is. Debbie saw he looked bigger this morning. Again.”

Mark swallows. “What if he keeps growing like this? What if—what if he hits five years old by next month? Ten at the end of the year?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I don’t think any of us do.”

Oliver mumbles again. A quiet string of incomprehensible words that concludes with ‘Bra Bra’, and you see the slightest smile twitch at the corner of Mark’s mouth. Like even with all his dread, all his questions, part of him can’t help but feel honored by it.

You get it.

You squat alongside them. Oliver stares at you momentarily, but his small body remains securely wrapped around Mark’s chest like he’s decided this is where he belongs.

“I think he’s imprinting on you,” you add gently, noting the way Mark’s arms eventually relax around his brother. “Like a baby duck.”

Mark scoffs, the sound barely audible. “Great. That makes me feel like a Disney character.”

You grin, even if it’s a weary one. “You could be worse things.”

He doesn’t answer immediately away.

But then he continues, “I didn’t get to hold him when he was born. We didn’t even see him till weeks later. TIll my dad came. I just kept telling myself I’d make it up to him. That I’d be a nice big brother once I could be around him again. But now… he’s already changing. And I don’t even know who I’m meant to be to him.”

You reach out and put your hand softly on Mark’s knee. “Be this. The one who shows up. The one he holds onto.”

Oliver sneezes suddenly, loud and wet and lovely. You both chuckle. And it’s so human. So little and real that for a minute, all the fear, all the worries, all the what-ifs looming over this house are simply background noise.

He’s still a baby.

He’s still a baby.

And he stated Mark’s name first.

So you breathe that in. Because this may not last. Tomorrow he might change again. Next week he may be a stranger in a child’s body. But today, right now, he’s wrapped up in Mark’s arms, saying ‘Bra Bra’ like it’s the most holy word in the universe.

And maybe—for him—it is.

The fragrance of fresh bread and grilled veggies wafts through the air, lingering in the cramped kitchen like a soothing promise. Debbie walks around the stove with practiced ease, turning something in a skillet, her movements smooth yet efficient. Her sleeves are rolled up, her hair twisted into a lazy bun at the back of her neck. She hasn’t said much since Oliver’s ‘Bra Bra’ incident, just gave Mark a long look and then retreated into the kitchen, saying something about lunch.

Mark stands behind you, his hands resting uncomfortably at the back of one of the dining seats. He’s still clinging onto that moment from earlier, like it hasn’t completely landed yet. You can feel the tension hanging to him like static, even as Oliver, now seated in his high chair, bangs a baby spoon on the tray with gleeful, violent delight.

You arrange the table softly. Three plates, even if one of them will be primarily ornamental. You peek over your shoulder at Oliver, who pauses mid-spoon-thump to smile at you like he’s cracked some kind of cosmic joke.

You grin back. “You ready to make a mess?”

“Ma!” he exclaims triumphantly. It’s not exactly your name, but it’s near enough to pull at something inside your chest. You blink rapidly and turn back to the silverware.

Mark moves alongside you. He nudges a folded napkin into position. “He said something to you,” he murmurs.

You nod. “Might’ve been gibberish. Might’ve been ‘mom.’ Might’ve been him practicing syllables.”

“But it felt like something.”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “It did.”

He exhales softly and reaches for two glasses from the cupboard without being asked. He still recalls where everything is, even after all these time. It makes you wonder how many tiny rituals he’s carried from this house, buried down somewhere deep and quiet inside himself.

Lunch is simple, Debbie’s always been skilled at making the commonplace feel holy. Warm pita loaded with roasted squash and chickpeas, a tiny bowl of yogurt and cucumber for dipping, and some chopped fruit that Oliver promptly tries to pitch across the room. Mark catches the fruit mid-air without thinking. Reflexes of a superhero. You both clap. Oliver smiles like he just cured world hunger.

Mark hands the strawberry back and laughs under his breath. “I think he’s testing gravity.”

“He’s his father’s son,” Debbie remarks dryly from the sink, not looking back.

Mark winces. You peek at her, but she’s already busy cleaning off the skillet. Her face is artfully unreadable.

You clear your throat and alter the discussion. “So, Oliver. Tell us your opinions on squash.”

Oliver smacks his spoon into the hummus with flare and then stares at the beige stain like he’s done something revolutionary. “Ba!”

“I’m gonna take that as ‘culinary genius,’” you remark.

Mark smiles. “I think he just invented a new dipping technique. It’s really aggressive.”

“He’s confident,” you add. “That’s a good thing.”

The three of you settle into a groove. Oliver gnaws on crumbs of soft pita and spreads yogurt around his tray like it’s finger paint. You and Mark eat slowly, passing the bowl back and forth without speaking occasionally, comfortable in the way that silence comes to seem when it’s shared with someone you trust.

He doesn’t inquire whether you’re alright. You don’t ask him, either. But it’s there, in the way his knee touches yours beneath the table and doesn’t move. In the way you reflexively peel the crusts off your bread and hand them to him since he used to steal them from your plate anyhow.

Oliver babbles cheerfully, alternating between munching, hammering, and loudly recounting his own meal. Occasionally he speaks something that seems like a genuine word, and both you and Mark perk up like dogs hearing a faraway whistle.

“Was that, did he say ‘duck’?”

“I think that was definitely ‘truck.’”

“That sounded more like ‘guhrruh,’ which, obviously, means… cheese?”

Mark chuckles as Oliver splashes hummus on his plate like he’s painting the Sistine Chapel. “Kid’s got opinions. I respect that.”

“He’s got something,” Debbie yells out from the kitchen. But her voice is gentler this time. Less guarded.

When she eventually joins you at the table, settling down with a silent sigh, she watches the three of you with a difficult face. Like she wants to let herself appreciate this but isn’t sure she’s allowed to. You don’t blame her. ‘Nothing in my house has been normal since Nolan left.’ And today isn’t typical, either. But maybe, just for just now, it’s enough.

You peek at Mark, who’s rubbing yogurt off Oliver’s chin with a handkerchief that Oliver is vigorously attempting to eat.

“You’re good with him,” you remark gently, so Debbie doesn’t have to hear if she doesn’t want to.

Mark shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“No one does.”

“But I want to,” he says. And then he stares at you, eyes shaded by something heavier. “That’s the part that scares me.”

You know what he means. Not only with Oliver. With everything. With you. With this bizarre, in-between existence he’s making from the wreckage of who he used to be. And you don’t have an explanation for it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you lean closer, laying your forearm on his on the table. And he doesn’t pull away.

Oliver lets out a victorious little ‘hah!’ as he flings a grape that strikes the wall and rolls beneath the table. The sound it produces is gentle. Barely a thing. But for some reason, it drives you all into laughing. Debbie chuckles behind her hand. Mark tosses his head back. You laugh till your ribs ache, because it’s ludicrous, and it’s true, and it’s normal. For one second, it seems like a family.

And maybe that’s what this is.

Not the one you anticipated. Not the one you planned. But something fresh. Something odd and hurting and maybe, if you’re cautious, maybe even something lovely.

The dishes are left in the sink.

nor because someone says so, nor because there’s a major choice taken. It just happens—quietly, wordlessly—like everyone’s scared if they start cleaning, they’ll break the enchantment. So the dishes stay where they are, coated with hummus and squash, while the yogurt bowl sits half-full and abandoned. The kitchen hums with the faint drone of the fridge and the odd clink of something settling in the sink, but otherwise, the house is calm. Soft. Settled.

You’re the one who recommends it, perhaps because you’re still chasing the afterglow of that unexpected chuckle. “We should watch something.”

Mark doesn’t argue. He lays out on the sofa like he’s done it a hundred times before, even though you know it’s been months since he last fully let himself be here. You sit alongside him, one knee curled beneath you, and Oliver, naturally, crawls into the space between. Not quite on your lap, not quite in Mark’s, just there, trapped in that little middle-world where he belongs to both of you in a manner that’s difficult to articulate.

Debbie offers you the remote, and you choose something animated. Bright colors, little speech, enough music to keep Oliver riveted to the screen. Some old program Mark says he used to watch as a kid. It’s familiar in that nice, low-stakes way Saturday mornings used to be when you were small and analyzed the world from screens.

For a while, that’s all it is. The flutter of light over the walls. The gentle sounds of characters performing goofy activities. Mark drapes his arm around the back of the couch, and you lean just enough to rest against his side without thinking. He doesn’t flinch. His hand grazes your shoulder.

Oliver leans his cheek on your thigh, singing to himself, legs kicking gently like he’s dreaming even as he’s awake. You gaze down at him.

And it hits you.

‘There you are.’

It’s not a thought. Not precisely. It’s more like a gentle echo, like someone speaking through glass. You blink, your whole body tensing for a second, then glance around like maybe someone else shouted it out loud. But no one did. The voice was within your skull.

Your hand soars forward before you can think, fingers gleaming faintly with the glitter of your power. Oliver watches the lights dance over your knuckles with wide eyes. He's enthralled, beaming that gummy, too-wide baby smile but below it, there’s more. Not only amusement. ‘Recognition.’

He understands what you’re doing.

You reach again, not with your hand this time, but with the part of yourself you've learnt to keep buried. The tranquil part. The component the GDA trained and oversaw and cautioned you never to use on someone without authorization.

But Oliver isn’t resisting. He isn’t protecting or retreating away. If anything, he’s reaching back.

Your powers expand like a thread. Soft. Cautious. Like speaking a secret into the dark.

And his mind, what should be the jumble of a toddler’s inner world, is strikingly structured. Not grownup, not intricate in the way yours or Mark’s is, but not simple either. His ideas come in forms. Images. Concepts. They brush across you lightly, interested and open.

‘You are soft,’ he thinks. Or maybe warm. It’s not a word, not really. But it’s the closest translation you can give it.

The sense of your strength surrounding him makes him dizzy. He squeals and claps, putting both hands up now, attempting to grasp the light like it’s something he can keep.

You blink, astonished.

“Mark,” you say, scarcely able to take your eyes off Oliver. “I can hear him.”

Mark turns to look at you. “You what?”

“I can hear him. His mind—it's... not like a baby’s.”

Mark’s brow furrows. “You’re reading his thoughts?”

“I didn’t mean to. He let me in. It’s... he’s not like us. He’s not like anyone.”

Oliver giggles at that precise time, like he agrees.

You let your fingers light up again, this time producing little rings of energy that pulse and move in the air. His eyes grow wide, comically wide, and he collapses onto his back, laughing with such full-body ecstasy that you feel it in your chest.

‘More. Do again. The circles.’

That notion is crystal-clear.

You smile and make the rings spin faster. Little circling galaxies in the space between you. Oliver extends his arms like he wants to hold the whole universe in his small hands.

You gaze at Mark. He’s observing you both with an expression you can’t name. There’s wonder in it, yes, but also something more. Longing. A type of agony you recognize too well.

“I think he understands more than he should,” you whisper. “He’s communicating with me in pictures. Concepts. They’re hardly entire phrases, but they’re plain. Focused.”

Mark swallows. “Is that normal? For his—”

“No,” you respond gently. “Not even close.”

Oliver turns onto his stomach and pushes himself upright. The move is too coordinated for a toddler, and you see it on Mark’s face too, the silent knowledge that this child is outrunning his own body’s commands. But when Oliver turns to look at you, there’s nothing foreign in his gaze. No threat. No violence. Just trust. Deep, unwavering trust.

He touches your knee with his palm, a little hand warm and sticky with fruit juice. And there’s another pulse of thinking. Softer, now.

‘Yours.’

You breath forcefully, chest clenching.

“What did he say?” Mark asks, voice subdued.

You can’t stop glancing at Oliver. “He thinks I’m his.”

Mark doesn’t talk for a moment.

Then, gently, “You kind of are.”

You gaze at him. Your abilities dissipate gently, disappearing into the ambient calm of the living room. The television is still playing, figures dancing across the screen in joyous oblivion. And Oliver cuddles into your side again, yawning like the excitement of the day has caught up to him.

You drop your hand to his back and let it rest there.

Mark moves closer till your legs touch again. “You didn’t have to come here with me.”

“I wanted to.”

He nods. “I don’t think I could’ve done this alone.”

You don’t answer. You merely put your head on his shoulder, and together, the three of you stay there, on the couch, surrounded in a peculiar, delicate moment of serenity. Oliver moans in his sleep, his dreams flashing at the border of your consciousness like fireflies in a jar.

You let yourself feel it. The stillness. The belonging.

Maybe, for now, this is enough.

The TV is still playing, but none of you are watching it.

Mark’s arm is still over your shoulders. Your body leans gently against his, your head tilted enough to sense the calm cadence of his breathing. Oliver is cuddled between your knees on the couch, his small body warm and firm, his attention wandering between the TV and the faint blue glow flowing from your fingers as you silently, wordlessly let your powers dance above him. Circles. Sparks. Gentle bursts of energy he keeps attempting to capture, eyes wide with open surprise.

And then, without warning, it occurs again.

That voice. That pressure.

‘Him.’

It’s not a word. Not even a murmur. But it’s his. It’s Oliver. Reaching out.

You still. The light in your palm flickers as you focus, bringing the thread taut again, slipping gently into his mind.

He’s clearer this time. Not simply interested and fun like previously. This time, there’s form. Meaning.

‘Bra Bra is good.’

‘Bra Bra strong.’

‘Bra Bra great voice.’

You gaze at Mark, your heart hard in your chest.

“He’s thinking about you,” you mumble.

Mark startles somewhat. “What?”

“He’s saying your name in his mind. Not just the baby noises. It’s you. It’s how he thinks of you.”

Mark’s gaze goes to his brother, his baby brother, who’s now tracing his own little fingers along the worn hem of Mark’s shirt.

“I—what’s he saying?”

You close your eyes, tuning in further. Oliver’s ideas are vivid. Raw. It’s like standing in sunlight you didn’t know was there.

‘Bra Bra makes the room soft.’

‘Bra Bra makes Mom smile.’

‘Mom soft too.’

You gasp, and your hand finds Mark’s without thinking. “He called Debbie his mom. Mom. Like he knows. Like it’s not just habit—it’s real.”

Mark goes silent. Too quiet. His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t say anything straight away.

You drop your palm to Oliver’s back, anchoring yourself. “And he’s asking questions now.”

Mark blinks. “What kind of questions?”

There’s a pause. A tense hush.

Then you pronounce it, slow and careful.

“He wants to know where his dad is.”

Mark’s whole body stills.

You feel it ripple through him, the way his grasp on your hand falters for a second, the way his eyes wander toward the hallway, like maybe if he stares hard enough, he’ll see a version of Nolan that isn’t a memory or a nightmare.

“Oliver doesn’t understand why his dad isn’t here,” you continue. “He’s not angry. He’s not even afraid. Just… curious. Like it’s a hole he hasn’t filled yet.”

Mark swallows hard. “What do I tell him?”

You peek down. Oliver is studying the lights again, but you can feel the pull of his thoughts, the weight of them getting heavier, more intricate. He’s searching, reaching, for connections he doesn’t know how to name.

“He’s too young for the whole truth,” you reply gently. “But not too young to need something. He’s aware of who’s around him. Who’s missing.”

Mark sinks back against the couch, his free hand sliding over his face. “I don’t want him to think I’m lying.”

“You’re not. You’ll tell him in chunks. The same way he’s finding things out.”

Another pause. The only sound is the gentle echo of cartoon music from the screen.

Then—again—Oliver’s voice, a whisper on your thoughts.

‘Bra Bra… sad?’

You blink against the burning rising in your eyes.

“He knows you’re upset,” you say.

Mark lets out a weak breath. “Of course he does.”

‘Bra Bra lonely sometimes.’

‘Mom lonely too.’

‘But not now.’

The last one strikes you like a wave.

Not now.

You stare at Mark. “He doesn’t understand all of it yet. But he understands this. That you’re here. That Debbie’s here. That he’s not alone.”

Mark’s lips separate slightly. He stares at you like he doesn’t know what to say.

And Oliver turns his head, laying it on your leg again, soft and drowsy, as that voice nudges into your consciousness one final time, tired, little.

‘Warm hands. Yours. Mom’s. Bra Bra’s. Safe.’

You place your palm lightly on his little back.

“He feels safe.”

Mark studies him for a long while. “I didn’t think that’d be enough. Just… showing up. Being here. But maybe it is.”

You nod. “Maybe it’s everything.”

And for the next five minutes, you don’t converse. You don’t try to explain what follows next. You just stay there, all three of you, bathed in the type of stillness that’s full instead of empty. The sort that means something. The sort that feels like home.

Oliver’s asleep before supper.

Not in his crib. Not even in his room. He falls asleep on the living room floor, curled on top of a folded blanket like a cat, his little hands tucked behind his cheek, his eyelids heavy on his skin. The lights from the TV flicker lightly across his face. There’s a smear of yogurt still sticking to his chin, and one sock has half-fallen off his foot, yet he looks calm in a manner that makes something hurt in your chest.

Mark crouches alongside him, hands on his knees, peering down like the prospect of walking away is strange. You observe him with quiet patience, arms folded over your chest. Neither of you have said anything since the last time Oliver’s thoughts brushed against you, gentle, questioning, trusting. It’s not something you can brush off. Not when it remains like warmth in your bones.

“He always fall asleep like that?” Mark whispers, gesturing toward Oliver’s splayed figure.

“Not usually,” Debbie replies from the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “But today was a big day.”

You gaze at her. The stiffness in her shoulders has alleviated, even if her eyes still appear exhausted. There’s a warmth in her voice now when she talks about him. A portion of the walls falling down.

“He likes you,” she says, more to Mark than to you. “A lot.”

Mark laughs under his breath, still watching Oliver slumber. “He doesn’t even know me that well.”

“Kids don’t need history,” Debbie answers, going into the room and lowering herself softly onto the couch. “They know presence. They know who’s showing up.”

Mark glances down at his hands. “I didn’t show up at first.”

Debbie shrugs, lightly. “No. But you’re here now.”

You cross the room and sit next her, feeling the couch shift slightly beneath the weight. You gaze at Mark. “You stayed. That counts.”

He’s quiet for a second, then lowers himself into a sat posture beside Oliver, knees crossed, hands resting in his lap.

“I used to wonder,” he replies gently. “What it would’ve been like to grow up with a sibling. I always thought it’d be cool. You know, someone to share stuff with. Someone who understands what it’s like to be in your house, in your family.”

You can hear the weight behind those words. This house. This household.

“I didn’t think I’d get one,” he continues. “And now I do. And he’s growing so quickly I’m worried I’ll miss anything important.”

Debbie sighs. Not irritated. Just considerate. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re not your dad.”

Mark flinches. Not visibly, not to most people. But you see the way his shoulders shift, the way his mouth sets. The way his eyes sink.

“I used to wonder what kind of father he would’ve been if he hadn’t been lying to us,” Debbie adds softly. “If the man I loved had actually existed. And for a while I was afraid you’d turn into him. That it was inevitable.”

Mark glances up. “Thanks, Mom.”

She grins weakly. “But then I see you with him. And you’re careful. You don’t push. You listen. You’re gentle. You protect him without making it about control. That’s not your father. That’s you.”

He exhales forcefully, like he’s been holding his air.

And then—softly, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Neither did I,” Debbie admits. “You think I had any idea what I was doing when you were born? When Nolan would leave for days and come back with blood on his hands and excuses? You just do your best. You keep your youngster safe. You speak the truth as much as you can. And when you screw up, you stay. You clean it up. You apologize. You keep showing up.”

You look across to Mark. He’s blinking quickly.

“I’m proud of you,” Debbie says, voice quiet but forceful. “And I know that’s complicated, considering everything. But I am.”

Mark swallows. “Thanks, Mom.”

Oliver stirs in his sleep then, producing a delicate, breathy sound that’s half a moan and half a sigh. Mark moves without thinking, softly resting a hand on his back. The tiny rise and fall of Oliver’s chest evens out beneath the touch.

“You’re good with him,” Debbie adds, studying Mark intently.

“I don’t feel good with him,” Mark says. “I feel like I’m holding a bomb sometimes. Like one wrong move and he’s going to change into something I can’t stop. Like my dad”

You lean forward, resting your forearms on your knees. “He’s not a bomb. He’s just… a pretty large kid in a really little body. And you’re not alone in this.”

Mark glances at you. “No?”

You shake your head. “You’ve got your mom. You’ve got me. And he’s got you. That’s more than most kids get.”

He glances down at Oliver again, his expression softening. Then he digs into his back pocket and takes out a crumpled receipt. He smooths it against his leg and starts folding it quietly, his fingers operating on muscle memory alone. A crane starts to take form.

Oliver wakes with a tiny murmur and turns onto his back, eyes flickering open. They land on Mark quickly, and his face glows in that pure, innocent manner only a youngster can accomplish.

“Bra Bra,” he says, still asleep.

Mark holds up the paper crane and grins. “Hey, kid. I made you something.”

Oliver blinks at it, captivated.

Mark places it lightly on Oliver’s chest.

And Oliver brightens, wrapping his fingers around the tiny wings like it’s the most amazing thing in the world.

The moment is very little. So simple.

But it fills the room.

You sit back against the couch, your hand brushing across Debbie’s. She squeezes your fingers once.

And for the first time in what feels like a long time, none of you are waiting for the next calamity. No one’s holding their breath.

You’re just here. Together.

Not perfect. Not whole.

But enough.

The moment shatters like glass.

The warmth still remains in the room, Oliver’s delicate hold on the paper crane, Mark’s calm grin, Debbie’s fingers still loosely twined with yours, but it’s the buzz that breaks it. A vibration you feel in your bones before you hear the harsh double-ping of Mark’s emergency communicator. It's buried deep in his jacket, but it rips through the silence like a siren.

Mark’s entire body tenses before he even checks it. You’re already leaning forward.

“What is it?” Debbie asks, voice low, already suspicious.

He takes the gadget out, the light from the screen throwing a blue tinge on his face. His eyes flit over the message once—twice—and then he curses beneath his breath.

“Cecil.”

You’re on your feet immediately. “What kind of alert?”

Mark rotates the communicator so you can read it too.

PRIORITY RED. GUARDIAN HQ. IMMEDIATE BRIEFING. REALITY GLITCHES INCREASING. URGENT RESPONSE NEEDED.

A second later, your own comm buzzes in your jacket pocket. The same message. Same severity. The same dread collecting in your gut.

Oliver frowns, noticing the shift in the environment. His small fingers still clasp the paper crane, but his gaze wanders from you to Mark, puzzled. There’s a flicker, not a thought this time, but something emotional. A wave of uneasiness against your consciousness.

“He knows something’s wrong,” you mutter, brushing your fingertips on his shoulder. “He feels it.”

Mark’s jaw tightens. “We need to go.”

Debbie’s eyes narrow. “Go where?”

“Guardian HQ,” Mark adds, already grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. “Cecil’s calling everyone in.”

Debbie gets from the couch carefully. “More dimensional instability?”

You nod. “Not localized anymore, apparently. The glitches are spreading.”

“Cecil said this might happen,” she says, stepping approaching Oliver and crouching alongside him. “But this soon?”

You can’t answer. Neither can Mark.

Oliver sits up fully now, eyes riveted on you. The innocence in them hasn’t changed, but the awareness has. He knows. Somehow, he knows.

‘You go now?’

‘Bad things coming?’

The concept strikes you with enough power to make you sit back on your heels.

“He’s seeing it,” you say, eyes wide. “In flashes. Not just feelings, he’s getting impressions. Fragments.”

Mark slides into a squat alongside Oliver. “Hey, buddy,” he says, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “I’ve gotta go take care of something, okay? But I’m coming back.”

Oliver glances up at him. His small mouth trembles, not with terror, but with effort. With understanding.

You stop bad things?’

‘You and Light Hands.’

Mark glances at you.

You say nothing, simply put your palm lightly to Oliver’s cheek. “We’ll be back. Both of us.”

He doesn’t utter another word. He doesn’t need to.

Debbie rises, her eyes full of steel. “Go. I’ll keep him safe.”

Mark kisses the top of Oliver’s head without hesitation. You do the same. And suddenly you’re following him out the door, the air colder than it was an hour before, like the entire earth just recalled what it’s made of.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

The briefing room in Guardian HQ is full by the time you arrive.

Cecil is already talking, of course he is, pacing like a caged animal in front of the large digital monitor. It’s a sea of moving maps, red zones erupting like raw sores throughout North America. You slide in behind Mark, your fingers touching the small of his back. He doesn’t look at you, but he leans back into the touch for half a second before advancing forward.

“—entire neighborhoods vanishing for minutes at a time,” Cecil is saying, voice harsh with the type of anxiety that doesn’t bother covering anymore. “Reality glitches. Memory collapses. People stepping into one area and ending up in a totally different universe. We’re not talking about predictions. These are full-scale, three-dimensional rips.”

The room is deathly silent.

You gaze at the others, Atom Eve, Immortal, Black Samson, Dupli-Kate, Bulletproof. All here. All watching. Tense. Waiting.

Cecil turns, eyes settling on Mark and you like magnets. “Thanks for joining us. You’ll want to hear this.”

Mark steps up alongside him. “How bad is it?”

Cecil doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he points to a red flare on the map. “This was downtown Chicago two hours ago.”

The screen flickers. And suddenly it’s a wasteland.

Not fire. Not ruins. Just gone. Buildings deprived of color. Skies static-gray. A huge block of reality scraped like someone half-erased it with a shaky hand.

“Oh my god,” someone gasps behind you.

Cecil zooms in. “No casualties yet. No confirmed ones, anyway. People are being displaced. We’ve had stories of people endging up in other versions of their houses, only to blink back seconds later. One woman was gone for two minutes and returned with third-degree burns. She doesn’t remember where she went.”

Your mouth gets dry.

Mark crosses his arms, tense. “Do you know who did this?”

Cecil’s face darkens. “We don’t know yet. But this many rips, this fast, something’s changed. Something big.”

You feel it too. nor in your bones, nor in your skin, but in your mind. Like a storm cloud on the edge of your senses, rolling in with pressure and weight. Something enormous. Something watching.

“He’s accelerating it,” you murmur, largely to yourself. “Or someone is.”

Cecil turns toward you. “You’re sensing it?”

You nod slowly. “It’s… louder. Like the veil between dimensions is thinning. Like the universe is starting to notice.”

Cecil doesn’t blink. “Then we’re out of time.”

The room filled with movement, people standing, taking orders, gear, routes. But Mark stays where he is. So do you. Because the worst thing isn’t what Cecil just said.

It’s what you didn’t tell him.

That before you left, Oliver saw it too.

Cecil doesn’t blink. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t breathe until it’s to feed another phrase. You’ve never seen him like this, wound so tight that even his stillness feels like action. The flickering display behind him moves again, spilling broken light across the floor and the worn, shocked faces in the room.

Mark hasn’t moved.

Neither have you.

You watch the television in quiet while Cecil hooks up the next portion of footage.

“This was Brooklyn,” he continues, voice low and brittle with tiredness. “Three hours ago.”

The movie is taken from a drone, high above a residential complex. You see rows of buildings, parked automobiles, a calm afternoon. And then—

Gone.

Not ruined. Not lifted. Just wiped. The roadway vanishes in a flash, replaced by a vast, overgrown field. A deer rushes into view, startled by the camera drone, then departs almost as abruptly as the film stutters and flickers and the neighborhood snaps back into place like a glitchy video game loading the wrong map.

Someone in the room murmurs a curse. Another person mutters something under their breath, prayer or wail, you can’t tell which.

Cecil lets the film play a few seconds longer, then cuts it.

“The phenomenon is growing in scale. It’s not just locales anymore. It’s time. We’re seeing fleeting, unsustained times where entire city blocks are returning to prior eras—prehistoric, industrial, even potential futures.”

Mark finally finds his voice. “Time travel?”

“No,” Cecil answers hastily. “Not in the traditional sense. There’s no movement through time. Just displacement. Fragments of other times are being superimposed on our current. Temporarily. And erratically.”

Cecil taps another button. A static image pops up, what looks like a train platform in Tokyo. Except it’s not a subway anymore. It’s been overwhelmed by jungle. Moss, vines, and something that looks frighteningly like prehistoric claw marks. The air seems dense with humidity, even in the still photograph. But what attracts your eye are the people caught mid-transit.

Some are gone. Just missing. Others are present, but out of place, wearing attire that doesn’t match the era, standing in rigid, frozen positions like statues caught mid-movement.

“They return?” someone asks from the rear.

Cecil’s expression is bleak. “Some do. Some don’t. We don’t know where they go. Or why.”

Mark runs a hand through his hair, stress radiating through his whole body. “What about… cities? What if it spreads to areas like L.A.? Chicago again? D.C.?”

“We’re monitoring,” Cecil answers. “Right now, it’s isolated to short bursts, in relatively scattered locations. The longest continuous shift thus far lasted four minutes. But it’s escalating.”

The inference sits there like a weight.

You gaze at Mark. He’s quiet again, but his jaw is tense, his arms folded across his chest like he’s keeping himself in place. You want to reach for him, but not here. Not in front of everyone.

Cecil continues.

“Until we understand what’s causing the anomalies, or how to contain them, our hands are tied. We’ve despatched crews to all known hotspots. But for now, our emphasis is monitoring and protection.”

“Protection of who?” someone requests. “You want us to just stand by while the world eats itself?”

Cecil turns to face them. His tone is steady, yet you can detect the undercurrent of steel in his voice.

“You want to punch a glitch in the face? Be my guest. But until we know what’s real, I’m not putting life into a system we don’t understand.”

A hush descends over the room again. Bitter. Defeated.

Cecil fixes his tie. “Stay on alert. Report anything out of the usual. Even slight discrepancies. People talking unusual stuff. Buildings that look… odd. Objects where they shouldn’t be. No detail is too small.”

Cecil's gaze remains on you. “If you feel anything, anything like you did earlier, I want to know immediately.”

“I will.”

He closes his datapad with a harsh click.

“Dismissed.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

The hallway outside the Guardian briefing chamber is cooler than it should be. The type of cold that creeps into your bones and makes everything feel little unreal. Like maybe this is the first glitch. Maybe it’s already started here.

You don’t know you’ve stopped walking until Mark speaks.

“Hey.”

You turn.

He’s eyeing you with that gaze again. The one that seems like it slices through layers. “You okay?”

You hesitate. Then shake your head. “No. But I’m here.”

Mark exhales and steps closer. “That’s all we’ve got, right now.”

You nod. “I’m just scared we’re already too late.”

Mark’s hand finds yours this time. On purpose. Firm. Steady. “Then we make the most of what we’ve got left.”

You clutch his fingers, eyelids shutting for just a second. You think about Oliver. Of the way his speech pierced your head without fear. Of how he inquired where his dad was. Of how he reached for Mark.

Of how he saw the storm approaching.

You open your eyes.

And you walk out of Guardian HQ, side by side with Mark, into a world that no longer makes sense.

But you walk anyhow.

Because it’s still your universe.

And someone has to fight for it.

You sense it before it happens.

Like static pressure across your skin, like your head hitting a wall it can’t see. You and Mark have barely been patrolling for twenty minutes, just the two of you, gliding discreetly through the western region where the anomalies have supposedly hit the worst. The city is calm here, perhaps deceptively so. No automobiles. No dogs barking behind fences. No music from open windows. Just the steady hum of your own thoughts and the crisp click of Mark’s boots against pavement.

It’s nearly peaceful.

Until it isn’t.

You’re mid-step when it shifts. The transformation is so fast, so total, that for a brief second your senses can’t catch up. One second, your foot presses down on cool concrete. The next, dirt. Thick, loose soil that crumbles under your sole.

You freeze.

Your breath leaves your chest in a trembling rush.

Mark, a few steps ahead, doesn’t notice immediately away. But you do.

Everything is wrong.

The air thickens around you. The light shifts, distorting somewhat at the edges. Trees when there weren’t any a second ago. A wooden fence appearing, then fading, then returning again in half-formed slats like a dream losing detail. The buildings on the corner stretch, tall and thin, then squat and rounded, as though reality can’t determine what century it’s in.

And underlying it all, you sense it.

Inside you.

Something deep. Something waking.

You wobble back half a step, palm pressing to your stomach like you’ve been punched, not from pain, but from pressure. Like something inside you is expanding, reaching out with grasps, aligning itself to the frequencies surrounding you. Your thinking, usually sharp, always tight and guarded, feels suddenly permeable. Like the curtain between you and everything else is thinner.

Like the barrier between worlds is seeping through you.

Mark calls out your name.

You blink. Mark’s voice sounds farther than it should. Muffled. Distant. You turn slowly.

He’s looking at you from where the sidewalk should be, except now it’s cobblestone beneath his feet. And behind him, the lamps have changed to torch posts, glowing orange against a violet sky.

You open your lips to answer him, but your words become stopped in your throat. The globe tilts again.

Then snaps back.

A shiver.

Like the whole district simply breathed.

The sidewalk reappears under you. The trees vanish. The structures glide back into their natural forms, like a rubber band stretching taut.

And you’re back.

But your knees buckle. You nearly tumble.

Mark’s by your side in a flash, hands grasping your arms hard as he steadies you. “What happened? Talk to me.”

You suck in a breath. It shakes. “It moved. Not just the world, me. Something shifted through me. I felt it.”

Mark’s eyes are wide. He’s scanning your face, attempting to decipher your emotion, your color, your everything. “Like a glitch?”

You shake your head. “No. Like I was the door.”

He doesn’t grasp it yet. You scarcely do either.

You push your palm against the nearest structure for balance, feeling the chilly firmness of it. “It wasn’t just a flash. It was sustained. Maybe three, four seconds.”

“I didn’t see all of it,” Mark replies, peering back toward where the reality flicker started. “But I felt… something. A pulse. Like when you and I spar, and your power—like a wave of it. But everywhere.”

You swallow, hard. “I think it’s because I was standing in the center.”

Mark frowns. “Of what?”

“Of a rupture. Not just a glitch. A tear. A bleed-through.”

You close your eyes, reaching inward, gently this time, cautiously. And you feel it. Residual heat. Like the world brushed too near to the interior of your head and left an impression. Your powers vibrate faintly at the boundaries, like the echo of someone breathing down your neck.

Mark is still holding your arms. “Did you get anything from it? Visions? Flashes? Like with Oliver?”

You shake your head. “ Not pictures. Just… feeling. Expansion. Like I was stretching. And—” you stop, breath catching.

“And what?”

Your voice lowers. “Like something was looking back.”

He goes motionless.

You don’t elaborate. You can’t.

The roadway returns to its normal state totally presently. The clouds overhead settle. A automobile engine sputters to life half a block away, oblivious that the rules of physics just twisted around you both like wet paper.

Mark looks around, mouth tense. “We should report it.”

You nod. But your hand is still shaking.

He notices. He draws you closer, one hand on your back. “You’re okay.”

“No,” you murmur. “But I’m still here.”

He holds you for a long second, eyes scanning the street. Always watching. Always bracing.

“I don’t like the idea of you being the center of these glitches.”

“Neither do I.”

“But maybe,” he continues slowly, “it’s not that you are the center.”

You gaze at him.

“Maybe you’re what the universe is trying to reach.”

That thought rests in your gut like a stone.

And it feels right.

You don’t know what’s coming next. You don’t know what’s lurking in the pauses between moments. But as you and Mark go forward, hand touching hand, the sky above you murmurs with invisible strain.

The world has begun to alter.

And you are no longer just watching it happen.

You are part of it now.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

taglist: @ladynoirx321

comment if you'd like to be apart of the taglist<3

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

misery of a superhero | m.g. x fem!reader

“why do you have a purple baby?” whispering to mark when you entered his home, a new surprise to see debbie holding onto a small child. he grasped your hand and led you upstairs to his room.

mark pursed his lips together for a moment before replying, “so…remember how i told you there was this bug person who needed my help with their planet?” you blinked slowly, “i can’t believe that was a real sentence in the first place, but yes i remember you being gone for like, a month.”

he nodded, “okay so turns out it was actually a ploy to get me there because…turns out my dad is alive. and he got a new wife and that’s their…son.” scrunching up his eyes in exasperation just from the absurdity of it all.

all you could give back was a, “holy shit. your life is kinda fucked, you know that?” trying for a bit of morbid humor to lighten a bit of the tension being held in mark’s shoulders. it got a soft nose huff from him.

“how…how are you feeling? about everything?” resting a palm between his shoulder blades, giving a gentle rubbing. mark took a shaky inhale, his head dipped down. “i’m-i’m tired.”

“i bet. you got stuck with the young hero syndrome, the weight of the world on your shoulders cause your the strongest person on earth. you should be at the club, wait, is your alcohol tolerance different as well?” the random thought suddenly distracting you.

“i haven’t checked recently,” mark humored you.

you leaned your cheek onto his shoulder, “that could be a fun ‘experiment’. testing your alcohol tolerance is also a brief study into your biology. pretty sure eve could make us drinks, ooo, okay now that’s something i definitely have to plan.” rambling mostly to yourself as your hands mindlessly comforted mark’s tense muscles.

“y/n?” “mark?”

“do-do you think i can do this? be a son to my mom, be a brother and maybe even a father figure to my new brother, and-“ mark searched out your free hand and intertwined your fingers together, “and be a good boyfriend for you? do you think i can do all three along with being invincible?”

you stayed quiet for a moment, making sure you word yourself well. “i think you can. will you be perfect at being all three, of course not, that’s just something normal for everyone. i won’t hold anything against you, i’ll be here to help you when things get tough for you.” bringing your head back up, you used your free hand to touch mark’s cheek and turn his attention fully and solely on you.

“sometimes you need to remember, you’re only nineteen, you’re gonna mess up and ruin shit catastrophically. you were an only child all your life until a little brother was gifted to you, and he’s fully alien, technically, so somethings are just gonna be completely foreign to him. and you’re mom…she’s doing better now. she doesn’t need you to carry all her problems on your shoulders, she just needs to know that you’ll stay safe and come home to her.”

mark’s eyes were glossy, lids a bit droopy. the corner of his lips quirked up, “i bet all my shit makes you happy to be an average citizen.” you smiled softly, eyes fluttering closed, “i’ll be honest, yes. i’d be a terrible hero slash normal girl. but you’re doing your best, and that’s all that matters.” letting your thumb swipe under his growing dark circles.

mark leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before pulling back. “wanna watch a movie? like a normal couple?”

you smiled, “i think we can do normal for the day.”

-

a/n: there needs to be more fics!

[luvztodd]

KEEP IT IN THE BEDROOM

rex sloan x FEM OUTCAST! reader

in which you don't know what you want

♫ I'm Not In Love - 10cc

contains - childhood trauma, bullying, alludes to sex, smoking and depression

Nobody knew.

It was a well kept secret between you and Rex. Even if Rex wanted to shout it from the rooftops and you wanted to forever hide from the fact that you spent most of your nights in his bed.

He would hold you, ramble on and on to you about his day or whatever superficial shit he thought was important. You laid there, tired and naked, just listening to him while he combed through your unruly hair with his strong scarred hands.

And then you’d come up with a bad excuse to start getting dressed and then you’d leave him. Careful not to leave any traces that would set anyone off about what really went down in his bedroom during the late hours of the night.

Truly, you didn’t know why you were so ashamed of whatever you had with Rex. You thought maybe it was because of his past? Were you embarrassed to be seen hanging around a known cheater? No, that wasn’t it. Were you ashamed to be seen kissing a man whose ego was as big as his….no that wasn’t it either.

The question stumped you for weeks. Late nights spent on a balcony in Guardians Headquarters, a cigarette perched between your index and middle fingers, a black leather jacket hugged tightly around your body. But not tight enough to resemble the way Rex would hold you while he was trying to mimic aftercare he had read about in ‘healthy sex’ magazines.

He was trying to do better, you knew that. The other Guardians knew that. He was becoming a better version of himself, as was everyone around you.

And then it hit you. Hard and fast like a strong gush of wind during a hurricane. You weren’t embarrassed to be seen with Rex. Not at all. You were scared. Scared that Rex would be embarrassed to be seen with you.

As much as you hated to admit it, it seemed that your grade school habits were hard to shake. The bullying, the name-calling, the fighting. You shuddered, the horrid memories almost always brought an angry chill to your spine.

You took a final drag of your cigarette before dropping it onto the concrete floor, stepping on it with your boot. You watched the ashes fizzle out with a satisfying hiss. You stared at the cigarette butt on the ground for a long time getting lost in your thoughts.

“Trailer park trash can’t even read. Maybe she could just stick to something she’s actually good at, like folding laundry or sucking di-“

“Tyler that’s enough.”

It was seventh grade, you sat in the back of your English class, a hoodie loosely around your body, a paperback cover of Romeo and Juliet clutched in your hands. Your life was falling apart. You were no longer soccer captain, you no longer had any friends to bide time with, boys mocked and taunted you in the hallways and girls avoided you like the plague.

All because the secret had got out, you lived in a trailer park, which wasn’t a big deal to most but to prepubescent teenagers, it was the lowest way of life. Not to mention the fact a rumor that you gave handjobs to every boy on the baseball team was spreading around the school like wildfire. And this all started because what? You rejected that douche eighth grader Doug? As if you would have ever gone out with him.

You were taunted, bullied, your name slandered and dragged through the mud by students and teachers alike. You spent your nights infront of the cross in your mother’s living room, surrounded by all of the shit she hoarded wondering what you did to deserve this. So many nights spent sleeping on a foam mattresss topper with a black trash bag acting as a blanket wishing you could have been born into a poshy rich family, with a cute little white dog and two parents that loved you.

You were miserable. Depressed and rotting away in that trailer, in that awful school for years until you had discovered something that was always there, laying dormant inside of you. A superpower apparently. And of course you used it. Just...not in the right way, instead of using it to help people you were using it to make the people who hurt you suffer.

Word got out and it wasn’t long before you were approached by a fair-skinned man with long white hair. He told you his name was Cecil and that you could leave your entire life behind if you wanted and work for him as one of the ‘good guys’. He didn’t have to say much else, you had agreed almost too quickly. And of course, Cecil claimed he didn't work with criminals but he could make an exception for a misguided young girl with an exceptional abilty.

And now here you were. Almost six years later, still just as miserable. But you had to wonder, was this your fault? If people like Rex were able to change, could you? Could you be better? Could you be happier, less angry, less stoic and more outspoken and cheerful? Did you have to be so miserable-

“Hey…what’re you doin’ out here by yourself it’s fuckin’ freezing.”

You glanced over your shoulder to find the man who's been haunting your thoughts for months, standing near the glass door in nothing but stained grey sweatpants and mismatched socks.

"Rex, go back inside." You sighed, not able to find it in yourself to keep a conversation with him right now.

“Is something up with you? Feels like something’s up with you.” He pried, completely ignoring you and stepping out further. He stood behind you, his arms moving to wrap around your waist.

"What're you doing?" You tried to pull away, not very hard but still.

“Relax, no one else is out here, just me and you.” Rex nuzzled his face into your neck.

"Still," You pulled away, turning around to face him. He was standing there in all his tan, muscled glory, with a little pout on his face.

“Don’t be so mean.” He groaned, “I’m just trying to feel you up, nothin’ wrong with that. You sure did like it last night.” He shot you a smug grin.

"What did i say about that?" You scoffed. "No talking about our...thing in public. That stays in your bedroom, Rex"

“Yeah, yeah i know, but why? I mean, what’s the big deal. If you’re stressed about the team finding out i guarantee they couldn’t give any fucks, i mean, i dated Eve, i dated Kate. Trust me, they don’t care.”

Your jaw clenched at the reminder of the other women he’s been with. All beautiful, talented, heroic girls who would give their life to the cause of being a hero. Meanwhile anytime you thought your life was truly in danger, you would cut and run.

“Hey, Earth to babydoll? You present?” Rex waved his hand infront of your face, snapping at you. Your hand shot out to grip his wrist, making him stop. “Okay seriously, talk to me. I know something’s wrong.”

"You don't know a fucking thing about me Rex, get real."

“Hey…” Rex was taken aback by how cold your tone was, “That’s not true. I do know you, better than you think i do. Look, i know i seem like all i care about is myself and getting laid, but i really do care about you.”

"Right." You replied flatly. Rex sighed in response, the sound making you internally wince.

“Baby…just talk to me please. I’m actually getting…like worried.” Rex scratched the back of his neck, stepping closer.

"I don't know what's wrong. I don't know." You buried your face into your hands letting out a deep sigh.

It didn’t take Rex long to envelop you, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pulling you into his chest. You pried your hands away from your face and slowly wrapped them around his warm neck. There were no words exchanged between you two for a while, just the sounds of Rex’s soft breaths and trees blowing in the breeze nearby.

When you finally looked up at him, he looked sad, confused, nervous. "Do...” You tried to force the words out of your mouth. "Do you wish i was someone else?" You croaked out, swallowing harshly.

Rex pulls away in response, still holding onto you but his eyes now piercing through yours, dark brown eyebrows furrowed. “What? What the fuck are you talking about baby? Why would i ever want you to be someone else?”

"I don't know...it's just...i don't know." You stammered letting out a deep sigh.

“Babydoll…you’ve…turned me into a better person. I mean, i’ve chilled out since being with you. The team thinks i’m less of an annoying prick and everything with you has just been fucking rad. I mean i know i got issues but im working on ‘em. For you.”

"For me?" You echoed, disbelief apparent on your face. Rex nodded in confirmation, one of his strong hands came up to cup your cheek.

“Who else?” He chuckled deeply, his voice just a little raspy from sleepiness. There was a lull in the conversation, before you glanced at the floor and then back up at Rex.

"Do you...ever want this to be like...a thing? A real thing? Not just a sex and go."

“You want me to be honest or bullshit?”

"Honest, i can take it."

“I want more.”

Another lull in the conversation, your eyes softened and the arms you had wrapped around him loosened. "Really?" You whispered

“Yeah. Really. I really really want to be with you, publicly. I want to show you off, i want to tell everyone we’re something, i want to touch all on you in public.” He slyly smiled with his last declaration. “But…i just don’t want you to be so…alone. I mean i get it, you’re always all mysterious, stoic, badass but i kinda don’t like seeing you off by yourself while everyone mingles. It hurts.”

"Why does it hurt you?" You lightly scoffed.

“Because i care about you. A lot.”

You hummed in acknowledgment your heart begrudgingly softening for the man infront of you. You leaned forwards, your forehead against his. Your lips were almost touching and the silence that filled the night air was loud. "You wanna go public then?" You whispered against his lips.

Rex didn’t respond right away, he just smiled against your lips and leaned in to fill that small gap. The kiss was languid and tender, tongues gently mingling together before you pulled apart.

"So that's a yeah?" You laughed, gently nudging his shoulder.

“Duh.”

a/n: this fic was lowk a challenge to write. i tried not to make it stereotypical but who knows. forgive me if rex is ooc, he's kinda hard to write for lol. and i'm finally figuring out how i want to format my posts, i'm excited to be an aesthetic girly now even if the gradient text took me like two hours. thank you for all the love, comments, reblogs and notes are very much appreciated

animated dividers by @/cafekitsune

sparkle dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

[killerkaiju]

Imagine how insane it would be if weeks before the Variants show up, your Mark breaks up with you for your own protection because he believes it'll be the only way to keep you safe following the events of Anissa and Angstrom. You're heartbroken. You hate him for leaving you like this, you hate him for being Invincible and you hate him more than anyone because even as the world moves on around you both, as he tries to move on, you still love him so deeply you can't stomach to look at the news to see him getting hurt to protect earth. So you're stuck in your house mourning for a relationship you won't get back until the Variants show up looking for not only the destruction of this world but to also find an emotionally vulnerable and heartbroken version of you. Some would comfort you with intimacy because this version of your Mark would have never left you, some would take advantage of this to lure you away with them to their world when it was time to go back. In the end, whatever you chose to do, you still ended up with Mark or at least a version of him.

[tamayakii]

a girls first love and heartbreak.

just some headcanons of Grayson daughter!reader life that i've had stashed in my brain for a little bit. This was heavily indulgent i am so sorry. Warnings: angst, depictions of a child being injured (the child is reader aka you), surgery, hematoma draining, broken fingers. Reader has powers but is way weaker than mark and nolan, think Oliver levels. mark and reader get beat senseless together <3 use of yn: once ((i use interactivefics to change this)) notes: written all in one go, forgive any errors

You know the line "Every girls first love is her father"? Well that describes you and Nolan to a T. You admired him deeply, always crying whenever he had to go away or staying up super late just to get a kiss goodnight.

Of course.. the counterpart to that phrase is "every girls first heartbreak is her father" but I don't wanna get TOO ahead of myself here!

For the first years of your life, you were treated fairly- hell even spoiled. Until bullies had made you their target in grade school when you were seven, they were older kids, and you desperately wanted their approval as they were the cool kids group ((in your eyes))

They never hit you, but they might as well had anyways. Their words were the first peak that the world wasn't as nice as your parents had made it out to be. Debbie was the first to catch onto this issue, and asking Mark gave her no answers, but she had noticed all too late, and by the time other people noticed your change, you had been worn down.

Debbie told Nolan one night after dinner, at first Nolan didn't believe it. Surely there was no way you were being bullied, you would've said something. He's your protector. ((he's still learning the ways of earth and humans,, sigh))

When he went to go tuck you into bed, he found that you had done it yourself. Even turning off the lamp which you had always left on, it was a silent communication that you were waiting for a good-night kiss.

Debbie has only ever seen Nolan cry two times. Both were at the birth of his children but that night, she could've sworn that he was just about to let the tears fall. They talk more extensively that night, making a plan. Nolan would take you out on a father-daughter date at the zoo, and Debbie would talk to the school about the bullying after dropping Mark off for the day.

You were so happy that day, squealing as you feed a giraffe some leaves, Nolan hanging onto you so you don't get lifted by the animal. Spending extra time looking at the zebras, cringing at the monkies as you quickly walk by.

When you made it to the reptile section, you marveled the creatures, pointing through the bars at a large and odd crocodile.

"look daddy- look!! It's a croc-ah-dile!" You hold his large hand, looking back at him to make sure he's looking but he's focused on something else, eyebrows furrowed.

"daddy!!" You whine, grabbing onto his wrist now, suddenly feeling neglected but just as fast as that feeling came, dread took over. The hairs rise on the back of your neck, a zip of eletricity runs up your spine as your eyes widen.

Screams begin to erupt, and an explosions burns your skin, blowing your tiny body into the crocodile exhibit. Nolan was shocked by the explosion, more than anything, if anything a bit peeved.

He heard the classic cackle of the Queen Lizard, his eyes widening as his nostrils flared. He looked back towards the source of the sound, dust and debris still flying in the air, making a thick fog across the zoo, he flexed his fists, a horrid realizition hits him.

you're not beside him.

He looks around, stepping over bodies as he yells your name, his toes meet an edge, where the bars of the exhibit once stood, now bent out of shape. He squints through the fog,

You were struggling under someone- pawing at their large arms, wind pipe being crushed under their hands. Everytime you tried to squirm, he pushed you down deeper into the ground, creating a hole under the both of you- the pressure builds behind your eyes, broken fingers trying to claw at the thick skin,

"da-da-" the words die in your throat as blood bubbles out of your mouth in a pathetic attempt of a cough.

Warmth paints your face and the hands choking you weaken, behind the monster ((the large and odd crocodile who was actually just a large and reptile-skinned man)) stood your father, there were no emotions on his face,

your eyes trail down and widen at the sight of your own fathers hand pierced through the monster, looking back up at the face of the attacker, he spits blood up on you before finallly going limp, hanging on the first of your father.

Nolan quickly throws the body aside, kneeling down by your side, fear gripping his heart. You were hurt, and bad.

He took you to a place where he knew you would be taken care of, no questions asked.

The GDA medical ward.

All i'm thinking of he doesn't have the decency to use doors, crashing down through the roof, holding your frail body as you cough blood up, screaming- NO, bellowing- for help.

Cecil's quickly informed of the newly developing situation just across the building. He had no idea omni-man was at the same zoo that the Lizard League just attacked. ((thank you prince lizard, it was one of ideas.))

You were hanging on deaths door, emerengcy surgery was performed to remove a piece of rebar from your torso, set your fingers back, and drained the hematomas forming in your brain.

It's easy to say that you weren't the same for a long long time after that.

You went through intense therapy, provided by the GDA, and hell- even met Cecil whilst in the hospital bed, you didn't really understand what he did or who he was, but you trusted him because he reassured your parents that you had the best doctors avaliable.

Mark doesn't really understand what happened, only a year or two older than you. He just knows you got hurt and that made him sad, and angry.

Your grades dropped drastically after coming home from the hospital, still attending therapy every week, they eventually switched you to online schooling which helped and also didn't.

Nolan started to baby you even more, treating you like glass. If you were clingy before, you were even worse now. You'd wake up with night terrors, screaming in pure horror, unable to communicate that you saw your dads fist driven through the mosnter every time you closed your eyes.

After a couple years, you became aware of how much of a burden you felt you were becoming, you felt.. broken. Debbie finally pulled the plug on online schooling, putting you back in public school.

You still were recluse but you finally befriended some people who also related to your reclusivity.

Also, you were still clingy. You would cuddle into Nolans side during movie night, and if he wasn't there, then it was Debbie or Mark. Your poor brother, he was often embarrassed when he had to hold your hand in public, enforced by your father of course.

You actually got your powers the summer before Mark got his powers, dad started to pay attention to you heavily but you didn't mind, you bloomed under his care. Though he discovered one thing, you were evidiently.. weaker.

He could barely push you to work harder on your powers without you crumbling under his gaze, running to your mother with tears running down your cheeks.

Despite that, you did start to come out of your shell, Debbie was so happy to see that after almost a decade, you were finally coming back to her as her the sunny child she knew a long time ago.

Then Mark got his powers and he began heroing, and that made you want to be one too but despite the training and the suit that was made for you, you couldn't keep up with your father and mark, so you happily became your mommys girl again. Letting her shower you even more with affection, making up for all the years that you had ducked away from it.

The events of season 1 happen of course, so lets time skip to the angstier parts.

When you woke up that day, you didn't expect to wake up to your mother kicking your father out of the house, and him actually listening- only to go through the roof instead. Almost tripping down the stairs with how fast you are as you rush to your moms side, following her as she grabs her phone- desperately trying to call Mark.

"Mom what's going on?" You followed after her pacing, gasping with her as men in dark suits just appeared out of thin air, guns pointing up at the hole your father created. You hide behind your mom as another Donald comes into view, he calls out for the both of you, insisting that you go with him.

Within the hour you find yourself at the GDA, the place that had been starting to become increasing familiar. You followed your mother closely, grasping at the back of her shirt.

Donald gestures, letting your mother towards the doors first- they slide open, revealing a cacophony of scrambling agents, all furiously typing and running across the room.

Your head starts to feel fuzzy as you step in, a lump forms in your throat. Looking at the big screen, you realize that theyre trakcing your father, a bit of hope flickers, maybe he's okay? maybe-

"Nolan killed the guardians of the globe."

Those words stop any sounds from reaching you, chest getting tight as you turn towards your mother. Watching her slap Cecil, angry at him as she speaks more but it was like there was a stone wall blocking any noise.

The next minutes are a blur as you look back at the screen, not registering your mother grabbing hold of your hand, you watch as he goes back to the house, only to realize that it was swarming with GDA agents. The scenes bring bile up to your throat, slapping a hand across your mouth to keep you from blowing chow on the back of some poor persons head.

You can only watch in horror as the same man that would toss you into the air like you were three at thirteen desecrate your childhood home with blood and guts, the same home where you fell asleep in his arms, the same room that you would learn to walk in.. the same house you grew up in.

Debbie quickly draws you into her arms, shielding your from the screen but it was too late. The noise of an explosion coming from the speakers of the room is your welcoming back into the world of hearing. Hugging yourself as you cry in your moms arms, you didn't know who your father was anymore.

You think that was bad? Now imagine watching your father slice through Immortal, you thought was dead, with a swipe of his hand. your throat goes dry as the image of him doing the same thing to that lizard league villian, the warm blood that splatter across your face. "What about mom? what about y/n?!" Mark cries out,

"Mark.. your sister.. she may need some time but she will join us, and your mother? she's more like a.. pet to me"

For a few helpless minutes, you watch as your father throws Mark around like a ragdoll. You've stepped away from Debbie, heart pounding, watching as your brothers tracker flies farther and farther, with your father not far behind.

Seeing your brother crash through multiple buildings in Chicago, creating a path of destruction is what made you desperate to stop this, to save your brother.

The chaos of the room covers your escape, and your absence is only noticed when it's too late.

"Sir? Where's.." Donald's words trail off and finally, Debbie notices that you're gone.. and she doesn't know for how long, the horror and dread that grasps at her body makes her freeze, unable to cry or make a sound. Her daughter was gone.

By the time you make it to Chicago, you just barely make the sight of Mark being thrown high up in the air, your dad flying after him. You fly after them, body straining to keep up and eventually you do, tackling your fathers side and throwing him off balance.

"dad! Please, stop this!" You plead with him as you spin around in the orange sky, looking up at him as your tears frame your cheeks, "please you can still stop!"

His eyes are bloodshot as he stares down at you, for a moment with no emotions before a sliver of remorse flickers in his eyes. "oh my sweet girl-"

in the distance Mark scream, speeding at Nolans back with his fist out right.

your father grabs the back of your neck, turning you both around towards mark- All in one fluid motion. Effectively using you as a shield,

Marks fist stops mere inches from your face, the silence makes your ears ring.

"Let her go." Mark growls but it's miserable, the blood making his voice gurgle.

"Mark.. mark.." All you can do is whimper as you struggle in your dads hold, hands reaching back and sinking your nails into his wrist. A sigh comes from Nolan, a truly annoyed sigh.

"You made me do this."

Neither you or Mark have the time to react as your father uses you as a weapon, reeling back and throwing you against Mark, punching your back and sending you both flying.

Now he treated you both as punching bags, flying back n forth, easily being able to hit you both back n forth- as if driving in the point that he's stronger and faster.

"I was wrong to raise you both as humans, i should've prepared you better, taught you more. Your lives have been soft and painless, your both viltrumites in blood only." He holds you both up by your collars, Mark pants heavily and you can barely do so with your multiple broken ribs. "well, your true educations start, now."

At some point as he flies you both to the surface, sonic booms thundering behind him, you black out.

You wake up at the bottom of the ocean, the air leaving your lungs as he slams you both into the ocean floor- you grab at your throat, water sucking into your lungs as your father floated there as if it didn't affect him one bit.

Just as quickly you and your brother met the surface of the sea, you were grabbed and flown out. Coughing up water as you grip onto your fathers shoulder, fingers bunching up the fabric of his suit.

"dad- dad stop!!" You plead but its interrupted as another scream rips through your throat as the sight of your dad throwing Mark into a mountain, you plead and beg with him as he floats down to your brother.

"dad, dad! Daddy-" His grip on you tightens, his head snapping to you. You're only allowed a second of regret before he, too, throws you.

barely holding onto the light, you watch as Nolan punches Marks limp body, triggering a land slide and as you expect to be buried under the snow too- your dad picks you up mere seconsd before it blankets you.

He handles you like a disgruntled mother cat, holding you by the back of your shirt, as he searches for your brother in the snow. You did as well, heart squeezing with fear as each limb that pokes out isnt your brothers.

Eventually, Mark is found, and still he found the power to resist your father.

"I'm ready when you are."

He uses your body once again as a weapon, seing you and Mark flying into another mountain range. You hear how marks ribs crack under your weight,

You roll off of your brother, grasping onto the earth, murmuring gentle cries for your mother. You yelp as your dad lands at the feet of you two, shaking the mountain with his power. You throw your hands up in surrendur, or.. at least the non-broken one. you give. You wave your metaphorical white flag.

His sights set on Mark, and all you can do is helplessly watch as your father beats your brother into a pulp as he screams at him. The crater deepening with each punch, soon Mark becomes unrecognizable- your sobs turn animalistic, your unable to move your broken legs, the words your father uses breaks your heart more- as if it could be. You were nothing to him. just a pawn in his long drawn out game,

After awhile, Nolan stops before dropping to Marks side, laying inbetween you and Mark, breathing deeply as he composes himself. As he stands back up, you prepare for more, you realize that your brother will die before your eyes.

"Why did you make me do this?!" Nolan screams, "You are fighting so you can watch everyone around you die! Think mark," his words make you flinch, his voice ragged- "you will outlast every fragile insignicant being on this planet, you'll live to see this planet crumble to dust and blow away!"

You start to quietly sob again, watching as Mark doesn't stand back up this time,

"Everything and everyone you know will be gone! What will you have after 500 years?!"

"you, dad." Mark manages to murmur, "i'd still have you." Mark gurgles in pain, eyes swollen shut- "Dad?"

You watch as your father winces in pain, fighting with himself as he looks at the blood on his hands.. the blood of his children.

Then he's gone.

Silence is all that surronds you and for awhile, you wait for your dad to return, thinking he was climbing in altitude solely to finsih you both off with one spectacular punch.

Execpt he doesn't.

With pain sobs and whimpers, you manage to shuffle closer to mark, reaching out with your good hand to wipe his tears away. He lets out a wet cough,

"Marky.." You whisper, teeth gritting as you try to fight the next sob, " it's okay.. i'm right here.." your voice is raw from the screams, you lay your head on his chest tenderly, arm draping across his waist, as him trying to be his shield.

Eventually you both lose conciousness but as your eyes flutter shut for what you believe is the last time, you swear you feel a hand grasp your shoulder.

You wake up again in the hospital, body aching as the bright lights sting your eyes. As you try to look away, you catch glimpse of Mark who was also in a bed besides you, but the stinging pain in your neck makes you cry out.

"Shh, shh!" Your mother reaches out for you, "don't talk.. You're safe." She watches as you reach out for Mark, arm shaking as tears fill your eyes.

"It's okay, sweetie, he's okay." She presses her lips to your forehead as you start to cry, she gathers your outreached hand in hers, interlocking your fingers as she comforts you.

You look at your mom, through bruised eyesockets, your lips wobble as the tears sting your cheek.

It's like a decade had never passed, and you were still seven, stuck in the GDA hospital.

holy fuck i dont know where this came from. I might write some fluffier headcanons, but i had to to get the angst out of my system.

Let me know if you want more, like my idea on readers relationship with Cecil since she met him when she was seven and she go ther powers first. ehe lol maybe some tabbo old man stuff I DUNNO THO let me know

[angelltheninth]

Mark Grayson Sees You Get Hurt

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Reader

Tags: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, soothing kisses, teammates, injury, superheroes

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Mark has more than enough angst, but there could always be more!

"Hang on, we're almost there! Hey! Don't... don't close your eyes! Keep looking at me!" Mark's voice was drowned out by the constant pressure and ringing in your ears. The sound was all around you, together with the fading sounds of a fight dying down.

There was a flash of white, more voices all around you, Mark yelling, screaming your name, his worried, masked face before your eyes. You hoped that you gave him a smile as you touched his cheek. Mark's hand pressed against yours. It was bloody. Both your hands were. It was your blood, you knew it was, you could feel it running from your mouth, and somewhere around your stomach area.

A second later after realizing that you passed out, Mark's voice staying in your head, calling out to you.

You felt the warmth of his hand next, holding yours, but you were a little cold too. Groggy and disoriented you opened your eyes, seeing Mark pressing a worried hand against his head, the other was holding your hand. "Mark?"

Mark's eyes snapped up, red with tears, blame written all over his face. "You're awake." His voice sounded so small, so fragile, like it might break if more pressure was applied. "You had a fever after they finished patching you up but your healing factor seems to have kicked in. But... they told me... they told me if you lost anymore blood... that if I was too late bringing you here..."

"But you weren't late. You got me here in time, I knew you would." You smiled at him.

"No you didn't!" He banged his fist against the wall, cracking the surface. "You didn't know! I didn't know! I can't know! I can't- I can't-!" With both hands Mark hid his face from you as drop after drop of tears fell down despite it. "I almost lost you, and it was all my fault."

"It wasn't! We're heroes, Mark, we risk our lives so others can live safely, we knew what we were signing up for." You couldn't exactly yell over him, you were still too weak to. But you didn't want to fight either. Not over something like this. Slowly you took one of Mark's shaking hands in yours, feeling the cracked, rough skin.

Mark finally met your eyes again. "I never signed up for losing you."

"And you won't." You pulled Mark in for a slow, chaste kiss. He moved along, taking a seat next to you on the bed, careful not to interfere with the medical tubes or put any pressure on your injured body.

[ay0nha]

Putting my feelers out there….

Just watched the latest Invincible episode and I have a fic idea….

I was thinking a sort of anti hero (maybe reformed through Cecil style) that invincible can’t stand/gets under his skin but enemies to lovers style

The vibes are like reader has very much grown up on the streets knows how things work kind of in the Titan kind of way but because of that reader is morally grey which bugs mark but then it’s like they find mutual ground etc etc

But something happens where mark gets protective and it’s kind of eye opening the soft spot for reader (which reader gets prickly about because they’re not used to someone caring about them let alone “golden boy” mark) and maybe an unorthodox friendship/mutual understanding happens (aka mark maybe not holding back his physical strength. Because ballistic mark….brrrrrr)

Obviously with plot references to current season/things happening etc etc

If there’s some interest I’ll get started right away 🫡🫡 I’m just projecting and enjoying the idea of flawed super heroes

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤUGLY LOVEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Mark Grayson x Fem Reader Part 2

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : You Didn't Love Him. You Couldn't. No Matter How Much You Try. And Yet You Didn't Leave. It's Toxic. It's Bad. But It's All You Have...

☆⁠ WARNINGS : Explicit sexual content (consensual but emotionally heavy), emotional distress during intimacy, crying during sex, guilt, toxic relationship dynamics, unhealthy love. This is not a happy love story.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

"I don’t love him."

You say it easily. Like it’s not a big deal. Like it’s just a fact.

You were too honest with your friends.

Maybe because you knew they wouldn’t judge you. Maybe because you wanted someone to tell you that what you were doing was fucked up.

Maybe because you just wanted to say it out loud.

Your friends looked at you.

"You mean like… you’re falling out of love?" one of them asked hesitantly.

You huffed a dry laugh. "No, because I was never in love."

They exchanged glances, unsure what to say.

"I can’t stand the sight of him sometimes," you continued, feeling your own words sink like stones in your chest. "I mean, he’s cute, I guess. But everything else? Nah."

One of your friends frowned. "Then why are you still with him?"

You don’t answer right away.

Because you don’t want to.

Because you don’t want to say "because no one else will love me like that."

Because you need it.

"He’s obsessed with me," you say instead, voice dry. "Might as well let him be."

Another laugh. Another joke. The conversation moves on.

But then—

A shadow.

A flicker of movement in the corner of your eye.

Your stomach dropped.

Slowly, you turned—

And there he was.

Mark.

Standing just a few feet away, looking right at you.

For a second, everything froze.

You stared at him. He stared at you.

He had heard. He had to have heard. You were so sure of it, your heart hammering in your chest, a sick knot forming in your stomach.

And then—

He smiled.

Like he hadn’t just heard you rip him apart.

Like nothing had happened.

"Hey, babe!"

Then he walked up to you, all smiles and warmth, hands casually in his pockets. His dumb jacket was unzipped, his hair still a mess from whatever bullshit he had been doing.

You were shaking.

Because there was no way he hadn’t heard.

But he was already kissing your cheek, leaning in close, like nothing was wrong.

"Sorry I’m late," he said, pulling out the chair next to you. "Got caught up with something."

You stared at him.

Nothing in his face gave him away.

Maybe… maybe he hadn’t heard.

Maybe—

"So, what were you guys talking about?" he asked, grinning, grabbing the menu.

Your throat felt tight.

One of your friends cleared their throat. "Uh, just… school stuff."

Mark nodded, seemingly unbothered. Then he turned to you, eyes bright, warm. "You ready to go? I made reservations."

And before you could react, before you could even breathe, he took your hand and pulled you out of your seat.

Took you out the door.

Took you on your fucking date.

Like nothing had happened.

Like you hadn’t just ripped his heart out and stomped on it.

You sat stiffly in the car, eyes flicking to him, trying to gauge anything.

Had he really not heard? Had he somehow walked up after—

No. No way. He have super hearing.

So why?

Why was he acting like this?

You opened your mouth—

Then closed it.

Because for once, you had no idea what to say.

You should’ve ended it.

You tried to end it.

It was late. Mark was in your room, lying on your bed like he always did, scrolling through his phone, waiting for you to come sit with him.

You stood near the door, gripping the hem of your shirt so tightly your fingers ached.

This wasn’t healthy. For either of you.

He was a good person. You weren’t.

You weren’t going to magically wake up one day and love him.

You took a deep breath. "Mark."

He turned immediately.

And then—

That smile.

That fucking smile.

Eyes wide. Face bright.

Like you had just said the most wonderful thing in the world.

"Yeah?" he asked, hopeful.

You hesitated.

The words sat on the tip of your tongue—I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t love you. I never have.

But you couldn’t say them.

Because he was looking at you like that.

Like you were the center of his universe. Like there was no world without you in it.

That was all it took.

Your throat closed.

Your heart sank.

And instead of saying what you needed to say, you just smiled.

"Never mind," you muttered.

Mark grinned, opening his arms for you. "C’mere."

And you went. Because it was easier to just let him hold you.

It started the way it always did.

Mark touched you like you were his.

Because in his mind, you were.

His hands, warm and careful, traced over your skin with something close to reverence. Like you were something precious, delicate—something he didn’t deserve but was grateful to have anyway.

His lips were soft as they pressed against your neck, down to your shoulder, lingering, inhaling deeply, like he wanted to memorize you.

"You're beautiful," he whispered against your skin.

You stiffened.

Because you weren’t.

Not in the way he saw you. Not in the way that mattered.

But Mark never saw the truth.

Or maybe he did, and he just refused to acknowledge it.

You let him undress you slowly. Let his hands roam, let his mouth worship. You didn’t push him away, didn’t roll your eyes, didn’t sneer at him like you wanted to.

You just let him.

He hovered over you, his breath shaky, pupils blown wide as he looked at you like you had hung the stars in the sky.

You swallowed, your throat dry. You shouldn’t be doing this.

You didn’t love him.

You never would.

But you had already given so much of yourself to this stupid relationship, so what was one more thing?

So you smiled, because that’s what you were supposed to do.

Mark’s breath hitched, and his lips were on yours again. His touch was desperate but restrained, like he wanted more but was afraid to take too much.

"It’s okay," you murmured, and that was all he needed.

The weight of him pressed down against you, warm, solid, real. His skin against yours, his hands mapping out every inch of you like he needed to memorize you, like this was the only proof he had that you were his.

And then—

Pain.

A sharp, tearing ache as he pushed inside you, slow, careful, almost reverent. Mark was shaking, his forehead pressed against yours, whispering apologies against your skin.

"You okay?" His voice was strained, breathless. "I—fuck, I can stop—"

You shook your head. "No. Just… keep going."

Mark groaned softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. He moved slowly, like he wanted to savor every second, like this was something holy to him.

It wasn’t holy to you.

It was just another thing you had given away.

But to him, this was love.

For him this was enough.

And so in the dim light of his bedroom, with his body pressed against yours, you pretended.

Pretended you wanted this.

Pretended you could love him.

Maybe if you acted well enough, you could convince yourself.

Maybe if you closed your eyes, you could imagine someone else.

But then—

"I love you."

Your eyes snapped open.

And it hit like a slap.

Mark was inside you, forehead pressed against yours, hands gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go.

His eyes—God, his eyes.

They were soft, devoted, desperate.

Like he would burn the entire world down just to make you love him back.

And that’s when it happened.

The dam broke.

Your chest tightened, your stomach twisted, and before you could stop it—

You started crying.

Not quiet, delicate tears.

But ugly, broken sobs.

Mark froze immediately. "Hey, hey— what’s wrong?" His voice was pure panic, hands cupping your face, eyes wide. "Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head violently, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

Because no, Mark hadn’t hurt you.

You had hurt yourself.

You had hurt him.

And now there was no taking it back.

Mark kissed the tears off your cheeks, his hands running soothingly down your sides, whispering, "It’s okay, it’s okay, I love you, I love you so much," over and over again like some kind of prayer.

And that just made it worse.

Because he meant it.

Because he would always mean it.

Even when he shouldn’t.

Even when you didn’t deserve it.

You curled into him, pressing your face against his chest, letting his arms wrap around you, letting his warmth swallow you whole.

And for the first time—

You didn’t push him away.

Because you were tired.

Tired of fighting him.

Tired of fighting yourself.

So you stayed.

And Mark held you like you meant it.

Like you would never leave.

You sat there, wrapped in the sheets, knees pulled to your chest.

You weren’t crying anymore.

But the tears still lingered, drying on your skin, the occasional sniffle betraying the fact that you had completely fallen apart just moments ago.

Mark was moving around the room.

Not chaotically, not frantically—just with purpose.

Like making sure you were okay was the most important thing in the world.

You watched from the corner of your eye as he grabbed his shirt from the floor and pulled it over your shoulders before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. His touch was so gentle—as if he was afraid you might break.

Then, he left the room.

You heard the sink running. A cabinet opening. Footsteps.

He came back with a glass of water.

"Here, drink something," he said softly, kneeling in front of you.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for the glass.

Didn’t even look at him.

Mark hesitated, then gently took your hand and placed the cup in it, his fingers lingering over yours before he pulled away.

"You should drink," he urged again.

So you did.

Not because you wanted to.

But because you knew he wouldn’t stop worrying unless you did.

You took a few sips, enough to satisfy him, and set the glass on the nightstand.

Mark smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear before standing up again. "I’ll be right back, okay? Just… just sit tight."

You stayed curled up under the sheets, staring at the wall, deep in thought.

Because this was it.

You had crossed the final line.

It was your first time.

It was his first time.

And yet, all you could feel was emptiness.

Not because it had been bad.

It hadn’t.

Mark had been perfect. So careful. So gentle. So impossibly sweet.

And that just made it so much worse.

You had nothing to give him. No love. No devotion. Not even the barest hint of affection.

You had just let him have you.

And in return, he had given you everything.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

But it was too late now.

You swallowed hard, tightening the sheets around your shoulders as Mark returned, holding a small plate of food.

"I made you something," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling as if nothing was wrong. As if he hadn’t just given himself to someone who didn’t love him back.

You glanced at the plate.

A simple sandwich.

Your throat tightened.

Because of course he would do something like this.

Of course he would take care of you.

Even when you didn’t deserve it.

"You should eat," Mark encouraged, nudging the plate closer to you.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

You couldn't even look at him in the eyes.

You just sat there, curled up in the sheets, sinking further into yourself.

Mark’s smile faltered slightly.

"...Was it bad?" he asked suddenly, hesitantly.

Your eyes snapped to him.

He looked so unsure, like the thought had just crossed his mind, like maybe you had regretted it.

Which you had.

Just not for the reasons he thought.

You forced yourself to shake your head. "No. It wasn’t bad."

Mark studied your face for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingers against your cheek.

"You’re still shaking," he murmured.

You hadn’t even realized.

Before you could respond, he was already moving—pulling the sheets tighter around you, rubbing slow circles against your back, trying to soothe you.

"It’s okay," he whispered. "You’re okay."

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t react.

Just let him love you.

Because you had no idea what else to do.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 1. Part 3.

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[mocharyc]

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 9✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

Heated tensions turn raw...

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Fractures in the Multiverse‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 6k+ [Part 9] ☆ TW: angst/fluff ☆ Author's Note: I'm so confused... I write stories and read other. Seeing chapters being more popular than others enrages me; authors are always changing important things or storylines just to appeal to consumption?! Ugh, burh I'm stupid and sad, so angst chap coming up.

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The cave pulsed with an unnatural, emerald luminescence, the portal's sickly glow casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the damp, jagged walls like phantoms.

Moisture dripped from stalactites overhead, each droplet catching the eerie light before shattering against the stone floor, their rhythm a discordant counterpoint to the low hum of dimensional energy that vibrated through bone.

Sinister Mark's laughter—deep, guttural, and triumphant—echoed through the cavern, bouncing off wet stone surfaces until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

He stood with defiant arrogance, holding Y/N possessively against his chest, his powerful arms wrapped around her like living restraints.

The tattered remnants of his yellow and black suit hung from his muscular frame in strategic shreds, barely preserving modesty while flaunting evidence of what had transpired. Where fabric had been torn away, glimpses of Y/N's flushed skin beneath told a story more damning than words.

"Too late, boys~" he purred, each syllable dripping with venomous satisfaction. His black eyes gleamed predatory and victorious.

"As you can see, she's made her choice."

Y/N's heart hammered violently against her ribcage, the sound deafening in her own ears. Heat spread across her cheeks and down her neck in crimson waves, a visceral mixture of lingering passion and crushing humiliation.

She couldn't bear to meet the eyes of the variants who had searched for her—couldn't face their judgment, their hurt, their rage. Instead, she buried her face against Sinister's neck, inhaling his scent of leather, blood, and something uniquely him.

Mohawk Mark was the first to break the suffocating silence. His entire body convulsed with barely contained fury—veins bulging at his temples like blue ropes beneath his skin, the distinctive blue and black of his suit seeming to vibrate with his rage.

His mohawk bristled as though electrified, adding inches to his already imposing height. When he moved, it was with explosive violence, muscles coiling beneath his suit like springs wound too tight.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" The words tore from his throat with such force that spittle flew from his lips, glistening in the emerald light.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles white beneath his gloves. "We agreed! We fucking agreed she wasn't going to be—" The words choked off, as if the magnitude of Sinister's betrayal had physically strangled him.

Behind him, the other variants formed a semicircle of frozen fury and shock, each face—so similar yet distinctly different—displaying its own shade of devastation and rage.

Omni Mark stepped forward, his movement smooth and controlled, a stark contrast to Mohawk's explosive anger. His red and gray suit absorbed the portal's light, making him appear like a shadow given form. Unlike the others, his face remained eerily composed, but a muscle twitched almost imperceptibly at his jaw—the only outward sign of the calculated violence brewing beneath his calm exterior. His eyes, partially hidden behind dark lenses, assessed the situation with precision.

"Put. Her. Down." Each word fell from his lips like a shard of ice, precise and deadly. Though his voice was quiet, it cut through the tension with razor-sharpness that made even Sinister's smile falter for a fraction of a second.

Viltrumite Mark stood slightly apart from the others, his pristine white suit gleaming unnaturally in the portal's glow. The imperial symbol on his chest seemed to pulse with its own light, casting strange patterns across his face.

Out of all the variants now, he appeared the most composed, but his eyes—cold and commanding—burned with a mixture of concern and barely contained fury.

"Y/N," he called, his voice gentler than the others, though no less intense. "Are you harmed? Did he force you?" The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that made Y/N's stomach twist into knots.

Sinister chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Y/N's body where they remained intimately joined. The subtle movement drew a small, involuntary gasp from her lips—a sound that seemed to echo through the cavern, condemning her more effectively than any confession.

"Force her?" Sinister's mouth curved into a predatory smile, teeth gleaming white against his shadowed face. "Why don't you ask her yourself? Tell them, dove. Tell them how you begged for it."

Y/N's head snapped up, mortification washing over her in a scalding wave. "I—I didn't—" she stammered, her voice small and fragile in the vast, echoing space. But the words died on her lips as she met the hurt and fury warring across the variants' faces.

Phantom Mark moved forward, his fully masked face hiding his expression, but his body language spoke volumes. His shoulders hunched as if bearing a physical weight, hands trembling slightly at his sides. "Y/N," he said, his voice raw with emotion even through the mask's filter. "We searched for you. We tortured Angstrom until he opened the portal. We thought you were in danger."

Each word struck Y/N like a physical blow. Behind Phantom, she could see Emperor Mark's regal bearing, his posture rigid with disdain as he assessed the scene. Beside him, No-Mask Mark's unmasked face displayed every emotion with painful clarity—hurt, betrayal, disappointment cycling across features so familiar yet uniquely his own.

From the back of the group, Prisoner Mark gave a harsh bark of laughter, the sound grating against the stone walls. The scarred tissue of his burned face caught the light in strange ways, making his sneer appear even more grotesque. "Should've known," he muttered, his voice like gravel. "Always the same, no matter the universe. Never faithful, never true."

Y/N flinched as if slapped. "That's not—I'm not—" she tried to defend herself, but what could she say? What explanation could possibly justify being caught in such an intimate embrace with Sinister while the others had fought and bled to find her?

"ENOUGH!" Mohawk Mark's voice cracked like thunder, cutting through her stammered defense. Blue energy crackled around his clenched fists, casting his rage-contorted face in eerie azure light. "Get your filthy hands off her, Sinister, or I swear I'll—"

"You'll what?" Sinister's voice was silk over steel, deadly in its softness. He shifted Y/N slightly in his arms, causing her to gasp again as she felt him still inside her. Heat flooded her cheeks anew as she realized the others could see—could hear—the evidence of their coupling. "Attack me while I'm holding her? Risk harming the very woman you claim to care so much about?"

The cave fell silent again, the air thick with unspoken threats and barely contained violence. Y/N could feel Sinister's heart beating against her chest, steady and strong, while her own thrummed like a hummingbird's wings. Every sense seemed heightened by adrenaline and shame—the musky scent of their coupling hanging in the damp air, the heat of his skin against hers, the metallic taste of fear on her tongue.

Omni Mark hadn't moved, hadn't raised his voice, but something in his stillness was more terrifying than Mohawk's explosive rage. His gaze hadn't left Y/N's face, those familiar-yet-strange eyes boring into her as if trying to read her very soul. When he spoke again, her name was a gentle command on his lips.

"Y/N," he said softly. "Come here."

Sinister's arms tightened possessively around her, powerful muscles flexing beneath torn fabric. "She's not going anywhere," he growled, all traces of playfulness gone from his voice. His tone dropped to something darker, more primal. "She's mine now."

"She belongs to no one," Viltrumite Mark interjected, his authoritative tone echoing off the stone walls. He took another step forward, white suit gleaming like a beacon in the darkness. "Least of all you, Sinister."

Y/N found her voice at last, forcing herself to meet the gazes of the men who had, in their own ways, fought to find her. "Please," she whispered, the single word cracking with emotion. "Just... give me a moment."

To her surprise, she felt Sinister's grip loosen slightly. She placed her palms against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her fingertips. "Let me down," she requested quietly, her eyes meeting his. Something flickered across his face—an emotion too complex to name, too brief to analyze.

"Don't do this, sweetheart," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. There was something in his voice she'd never heard before—a vulnerability that cut through his usual arrogance. "You know what's happening between us is real. You felt it too."

The unexpected softness in his tone sent a pang through her chest. She needed to stand on her own, to face this impossible situation with whatever dignity she could salvage.

"Please," she repeated, more firmly this time.

With a barely audible sigh, Sinister slowly, almost reluctantly, lifted her off his length, the wet muscle sliding against her entrance until finally he pulled free, his softened length thumping softly against his thigh. The wet sound of their bodies separating seemed deafening in the tense silence of the cave, drawing a visible wince from several of the variants.

He then lowered her to the ground. As their bodies separated, Y/N had to bite back a gasp at the sudden emptiness, the evidence of their passion trickling down her inner thighs. She quickly pulled the remnants of her suit together, trying to cover herself as best she could. Sinister kept his cape around her, tightening it around her shoulders to keep her covered.

The moment her feet touched the cold stone floor, Mohawk Mark lunged forward again, only to be restrained by Viltrumite Mark's iron grip on his shoulder.

"Not now," Viltrumite Mark hissed, his white-gloved hand a stark contrast against the blue and black of Mohawk's suit. "Not here."

Y/N stood on shaky legs, acutely aware of every pair of eyes fixed upon her. The weight of their collective gaze was almost crushing—some filled with hurt, others with rage, one with possessive triumph, all with a hunger that made her skin prickle with awareness. She felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her tattered clothing—laid bare emotionally, every vulnerability on display.

"I..." she began, but what could she possibly say? How could she explain something she barely understood herself? The intensity, the connection she'd felt with Sinister in those desperate moments—was it real, or merely a product of adrenaline and fear and need?

Phantom Mark stepped forward, his masked face tilted slightly as if in concern. "Are you hurt?" The simple question held layers of meaning, and Y/N felt a rush of gratitude for his understated compassion.

"No," she answered truthfully, finding her voice at last. "I'm not hurt."

"Then it's true?" Mohawk Mark's voice was raw, scraped thin by emotion. "You wanted this? Wanted him?" He spat the last word like poison, his gaze darting to Sinister with naked hatred.

Sinister remained unnaturally still, his yellow and black suit torn but his posture defiant, almost regal in its arrogance. He watched the exchange with hooded eyes, his satisfaction at the discord he'd sown evident in the slight curl of his lips.

Y/N took a deep breath, steadying herself. "What happened between us was... complicated." She chose her words carefully, acutely aware of the thin ice she was treading. "I was confused, scared... alone." 

"You weren't alone!" Mohawk Mark exploded, breaking free of Viltrumite Mark's restraining grip. "We were coming for you! We tore Angstrom apart to find you!"

"I didn't know that!" Y/N shot back, surprise at her own vehemence momentarily overriding her embarrassment. "I thought I was stranded here! I thought—" She broke off, the enormity of the situation crashing down on her anew.

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the lingering heat of passion still thrumming through her veins. She felt torn between worlds—between the variants who had searched for her, who had worried for her, and the one who had claimed her so thoroughly.

Omni Mark's voice broke the silence, calm and measured but with an underlying current of steel. "We're leaving. All of us." His gaze swept over the assembled variants, lingering significantly on Sinister. "We have unfinished business with Angstrom."

Sinister's lip curled into a sneer. "By all means," he drawled, gesturing toward the portal with mock courtesy. "Don't let me keep you."

"You're coming too," Viltrumite Mark stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Unless you want to be trapped in this dimension forever."

A flicker of calculation passed over Sinister's face before his features settled back into smug confidence. "As entertaining as this little pocket dimension has been," he said, his gaze sliding meaningfully to Y/N, "I suppose all good things must come to an end."

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks again, but before she could respond, Omni Mark was beside her. With surprisingly gentle hands, he wrapped his cape around her shoulders, covering her torn suit. His touch was light, almost tender—a stark contrast to the cold fury still evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Let's go," he said softly, his eyes holding hers for a moment before he glanced back at the others. "The portal won't stay stable forever."

As if on cue, the edges of the swirling vortex flickered, casting jagged shadows across the cave walls. The emerald light pulsed once, twice, a warning of its impending collapse.

Y/N stepped toward it, but a hand on her arm stopped her. She turned to find Sinister Mark standing close—too close—his eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"This isn't over," he murmured, his voice for her ears alone. "What we shared? That was real, Y/N. More real than anything these pale imitations could offer you." His gaze flicked dismissively toward the other variants before returning to her face. "Remember that when they try to make you forget."

Before she could respond, Mohawk Mark was there, physically inserting himself between them. "Back off," he snarled, nose to nose with Sinister. "You've done enough damage."

Sinister's laugh was soft and knowing. "Have I?" he asked, eyes still locked on Y/N over Mohawk's shoulder. "Or have I merely shown her what she truly wants?"

Mohawk's fist shot out with blinding speed, but Sinister was faster, catching it mid-swing with casual ease. The impact created a small shockwave that stirred the dust around them. "Careful now," he warned, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself in front of her, would you?"

The tension between them was a living thing, coiling and snapping in the space between their bodies. Y/N could almost taste the violence brewing, metallic and sharp on her tongue.

"Stop it," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. "Both of you. This isn't helping."

To her surprise, Mohawk immediately backed down, though his eyes still burned with barely contained rage. Sinister released his fist with a mocking little pat.

"After you," Sinister gestured toward the portal, his smile all teeth and challenge.

One by one, they stepped through the swirling vortex—Phantom Mark first, then Emperor and No-Mask Mark, followed by Prisoner Mark with his perpetual scowl. Viltrumite Mark hesitated, looking back at Y/N with an unreadable expression before disappearing into the emerald light.

Omni Mark guided Y/N forward with a gentle hand at the small of her back. The contact was minimal yet somehow anchoring, his presence steady and reassuring amid the chaos. As they approached the portal, Y/N felt a strange reluctance, as if crossing this threshold would force her to face realities she wasn't ready to confront.

"It'll be alright," Omni Mark murmured, seeming to sense her hesitation. His red and gray suit gleamed in the pulsing light, his expression unexpectedly gentle. "We'll figure this out. Together."

Y/N nodded, gathering her courage. She stepped into the portal, feeling the strange, electric sensation wash over her skin. The last thing she saw before the alien world dissolved around her was Mohawk Mark and Sinister Mark locked in a silent battle of wills, neither willing to turn their back on the other.

Then the world twisted, stretched, compressed, and she was falling through emerald infinity, Omni Mark's solid presence beside her the only anchor in the void.

As the portal whisked them back to the Main Universe, Y/N couldn't help but wonder: What would happen now? What would she return to? And more importantly—how could she face eight variations of the same man, all of whom now looked at her differently—some with hurt, others with betrayal, one with possessive triumph, and all with a hunger that threatened to consume her whole?

The multiverse had fractured around her, and she was caught in the cracks—pulled in too many directions at once. And somewhere deep inside, past the confusion and shame and uncertainty, a tiny voice whispered a truth she wasn't ready to acknowledge: she had enjoyed every moment of her time with Sinister Mark, and part of her—a wild, reckless part she barely recognized—longed for more.(Greedy ahh🧟‍♀️)

As the emerald light engulfed her completely, she closed her eyes against that dangerous truth and surrendered to the portal's pull, letting it carry her back to face whatever waited on the other side.

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The portal spat them out into Angstrom's laboratory with a violent surge of emerald energy, scorching the air with the acrid scent of dimensional displacement. Y/N stumbled forward, her vision swimming with ghostly afterimages, the world tilting dangerously beneath her feet. Where the alien cave had been primal and raw, Angstrom's base assaulted her senses with clinical sterility—recycled air that tasted like metal shavings against her tongue, harsh lights that burned her retinas after the dim cavern.

Lensless Mark stood frozen at the control panel, his fingers suspended over bloodied keys. Crimson droplets fell with rhythmic precision onto the console below, each one leaving a perfect circle of accusation. The mask that framed his face without the characteristic goggles made his expression more visible—his eyes widened fractionally as the group materialized, pupils contracting to pinpoints when they locked onto Y/N's disheveled form.

"Fuck, you actually found her," he said, a smile tugging his lips despite the brutality evident in his surroundings.

Around him lay the aftermath of systematic destruction—security drones dismantled with surgical precision, their components arranged in almost artistic patterns across the floor. Circuitry still occasionally sparked with dying electricity, brief flashes that illuminated the darker corners of the chamber.

The reinforced interrogation chair at the center stood as testament to their methods—metal warped from superhuman force, restraints torn clean from their moorings, trailing like severed arteries. Dark splatter patterns decorated the walls and floor. Angstrom's recent suffering painted in biological abstracts that would make a forensic analyst weep.

Mohawk Mark shouldered his way through the group, a rolling wave of barely contained violence. His face transformed with each step—veins pulsing beneath his skin like living things seeking escape, jaw muscles bulging as if trying to crack through bone, eyes so bloodshot they appeared to be bleeding from within.

"You fucking piece of—" The words dissolved into something primal, something that predated language altogether, as he lunged toward Sinister Mark who just walked through.

Viltrumite Mark's arm shot out with precision, catching Mohawk across the chest before he could complete his charge. "Not here," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of imperial decree.

The pristine white of his suit remained untouched by the surrounding carnage, as if blood itself feared to stain such perfection. A single muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of the emotions raging beneath his composed exterior.

Y/N couldn't tear her gaze from Sinister as he materialized last, walking through peacefully despite Mohawk's comment, the portal closing behind him with a sound like reality tearing.

His yellow and black suit hung from his powerful frame in calculated shreds, the fabric somehow enhancing rather than diminishing his presence. He'd recovered his signature black lenses from somewhere, the opaque darkness hiding his eyes while doing nothing to mask the triumphant curl of his lips. Most jarring was the deliberate display of his exposed manhood—a trophy of conquest, a calculated provocation that sent fresh heat rushing to Y/N's cheeks.

Her body's traitorous response was immediate—memory flooding her with sense impressions of his skin against hers, his weight, his scent, the way he had filled her so completely.

She clutched Omni Mark's cape tighter around herself, suddenly hyperaware of how the fabric caught against the tender places where Sinister's passion had marked her.

Omni Mark's arm remained steady around her waist, his calm presence a stark contrast to the chaos erupting around them. Unlike the others, his face remained a mask of perfect composure, only his eyes behind those dark lenses betraying the storm within—possessive rage tempered by genuine concern, calculating intelligence shadowed by something deeper, something almost tender when his gaze fell on her.

"You need to rest," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. His fingers tightened slightly at her waist, steadying her when her legs threatened to give way.

Phantom Mark stepped toward Sinister, movements fluid and deliberate. He tore a piece of fabric from a fallen drone's banner and thrust it toward him. "Cover yourself," he ordered, voice distorted through his mask yet vibrating with barely contained violence. "Or I remove it permanently."

Sinister's laugh echoed off the metal walls, a sound like broken glass being ground underfoot. "Jealous?" he taunted, making no move to cover himself. "Or afraid she'll make comparisons none of you will survive?"

Mohawk Mark's control shattered like thin ice beneath a hammer blow. He broke free of Viltrumite's restraint with an explosive surge of strength, launching himself across the room with a bestial roar that seemed to vibrate the very molecules of the air. His body collided with Sinister's with force enough to dent the reinforced metal wall. The impact knocked Sinister's head back with a crack that should have been fatal to any normal being, blood spraying in a fine crimson mist from his split lip.

Yet even as rivulets of scarlet traveled down his chin, staining the yellow of his suit dark orange, Sinister's smile only widened, revealing teeth smeared red.

"There he is," Sinister purred, voice thick with blood yet somehow more alive because of it. "The animal hiding behind the hero. Show her what you really are, Mohawk. Show her the monster that got your Y/N killed."

The words struck with precision, finding Mohawk's deepest wound and twisting. His fist connected with Sinister's jaw—not in blind rage but with calculated force meant to shatter bone. The sound reverberated through the chamber like a gunshot. Sinister's head snapped sideways, but instead of breaking, he absorbed the blow with unnatural resilience, his equal strength matching Mohawk's fury.

"ENOUGH!" Viltrumite Mark's voice cracked like thunder, the air itself seeming to compress under the sound. He moved with impossible speed, one hand clamping around Mohawk's throat while the other seized Sinister's shoulder with force that would have pulverized normal bone. "One more word," he hissed at Sinister, his composed façade finally fracturing to reveal something ancient and terrible beneath, "and I tear out your tongue."

Sinister's only response was to spit a mouthful of blood directly at Viltrumite's immaculate white suit. The scarlet droplets bloomed like grotesque flowers against the pristine fabric, each one a declaration of war.

Y/N's legs finally surrendered beneath the weight of exhaustion and trauma. She swayed dangerously, the sterile room spinning around her in nauseating circles. Omni Mark's grip tightened instantly, his support unwavering.

Unlike the others whose emotions exploded outward in violence, Omni's rage burned cold and precise. His face remained eerily composed, but his eyes behind those black lenses contained universes of complex emotion—calculating intelligence overlaying a possessive fury that bordered on madness, genuine concern that seemed almost foreign on features so similar to Sinister's, and beneath it all, a depth of feeling that made her breath catch.

"You need to clean up and rest," he murmured again, his voice a velvet rumble against her ear. The gentleness of his touch contrasted so starkly with the violence saturating the air that it nearly broke her.

Y/N nodded weakly, suddenly desperate to escape the suffocating testosterone, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the lingering musk of sex still clinging to her skin. "I need to shower," she whispered, the simple request utterly inadequate against the magnitude of what had happened.

Lensless Mark jerked his blood-spattered chin toward a corridor branching from the main chamber. "Quarters down there. Showers too." His voice carried a strange duality—childlike enthusiasm wrapped around sadistic knowledge, his eyes never leaving her face as if memorizing her dishevelment. Unlike when they'd first met, when he'd tried to kill her seeing only a ghost of his lost love, now his gaze held something more complex—a reluctant recognition of her as someone distinct, someone real.

Phantom Mark stepped forward, his masked form interposing itself between Y/N and the others. "I'll show her," he said, the modulator in his mask unable to disguise the protective edge in his voice. His shoulders formed a living barrier, his stance a silent promise of violence should anyone object.

Emperor Mark, who had been observing the unfolding drama with regal detachment, finally spoke. His imperial sigil caught the harsh light as he moved, casting knife-edged shadows across his face. "And leave her alone with another variant?" His lip curled with aristocratic disdain. "Haven't we learned that lesson already?"

Phantom's hands curled into fists at his sides, tension radiating from him in almost visible waves. "Unlike some," he replied, cold fury evident even through the mask's filter, "I remember what honor means."

Before the situation could escalate further, Prisoner Mark spat on the floor with deliberate aim, the glob landing with perfect precision near Sinister's bare foot. The scarred tissue of his face pulled tight across his skull as he sneered, burn tissue twisting into a grotesque parody of expression. His eyes, set deep in pockets of scar tissue, gleamed with malevolent intelligence.

"Honor? With these animals?" He gestured at Sinister with contempt, flakes of dead skin drifting from his movement like macabre confetti. "We ripped Angstrom apart piece by fucking piece to find her, and he was busy ripping apart something else entirely."

The crude comment sent another wave of shame washing over Y/N. She pulled away from Omni Mark's supportive arm, drawing whatever shreds of dignity remained around her like armor. The cape felt suddenly heavy, burdened with too many implications.

"I don't need an escort," she stated, voice stronger than she felt. "Just tell me where to go."

No-Mask Mark stepped forward, his exposed face—so like Mark's yet hollowed from within by grief—meeting her gaze directly. Where the others wore variations of masks with lenses to hide themselves, his naked features revealed everything—the raw pain, the longing for something irretrievably lost, the flicker of hope her existence had rekindled.

"Third door on the left," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. "The facilities are basic, but private."

Gratitude washed through her. "Thank you," she whispered, the simple courtesy a lifeline amid the chaos.

As she turned to leave, Sinister's voice slithered after her, wet with blood yet still dripping with smug satisfaction. "Running away so soon, dove? Don't you want to tell them how good it felt?" He finally reached for the scrap of fabric Phantom had offered, wrapping it around his exposed member with deliberate slowness, his movements a mockery of modesty.

"How you screamed my name when you came?"

The silence that followed was absolute, heavy with the promise of violence. Y/N couldn't bear to turn around, couldn't face the expressions that would be carved into faces so similar yet so different. Instead, she moved forward on unsteady legs, clutching Omni Mark's cape around her like a shield.

Behind her, she heard a sickening crunch followed by a wet gurgle. She didn't look back to see which variant had landed the blow, didn't pause to witness the fresh spray of crimson. She simply kept walking, one foot in front of the other, until the corridor swallowed her and the sounds of conflict faded into muted echoes.

The hallway stretched before her, utilitarian and cold. Overhead lights buzzed with intermittent electricity, casting her shadow in broken fragments against the metal floor. Each step sent painful reminders through her body—muscles used in ways both violent and intimate, skin still bearing the ghost of Sinister's grip, the core of her aching with a confusion of shame and lingering pleasure.

The door marked 'Q-3' slid open at her approach with a pneumatic hiss that reminded her of a predator's exhalation. Inside, a spartan room greeted her—narrow bed with military corners, metal desk bolted to the floor, a single chair that would offer no comfort. A doorway to the side revealed glimpses of a compact bathroom. It wasn't luxury, but it was sanctuary—a momentary respite from the storm of masculine rage and desire swirling outside.

Y/N let Omni Mark's cape fall to the floor, the heavy fabric pooling around her feet like spilled blood. She stared down at herself—at the tattered remnants of her suit, at the purpling marks forming on her skin where Sinister's fingers had dug into her flesh, at the dried evidence of their coupling still visible on her inner thighs. The sight sent fresh waves of conflicting emotion crashing through her—shame and lingering arousal battling for dominance, confusion and a terrible clarity warring in her mind.

She moved to the bathroom on unsteady legs, unable to bear her own skin a moment longer. The light flickered on automatically, harsh and unforgiving, revealing her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. A stranger stared back—hair wild and tangled, eyes huge and haunted in her pale face, lips swollen from brutal kisses. Whisker burn reddened her neck and chest, mapping the trail of Sinister's mouth across her body like a crimson road map of their shared depravity.

Y/N turned away from her reflection, unable to face the evidence of what she'd become—or perhaps, more terrifyingly, what she'd always been beneath the surface. The shower sputtered to life with reluctant obedience, lukewarm water at best, but she stepped under the spray without complaint. She watched as the physical reminders of Sinister washed away, swirling down the drain in pale rivulets tinged with pink where his rough handling had broken skin.

As steam rose around her, Y/N finally surrendered to the storm inside her. A sob tore from her throat, the sound bouncing off the tile walls before being swallowed by the running water. It was followed by another, and another, until she was on her knees in the shower stall, arms wrapped around herself as if she might physically hold the broken pieces together.

Outside in the corridor, Phantom Mark had followed and stood silent sentinel, his masked face betraying nothing of the anguish within. He heard each sob through the thin walls, each one cutting deeper than any physical wound. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. He had failed her—they all had. But while the others fought over her like wolves over prey, he would stand guard, offering what little protection he could in a world gone mad.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Chaos had erupted. Mohawk Mark had Sinister pinned against the wall, one hand at his throat while the other formed a fist streaming with his own blood—evidence of knuckles split open from repeated impact against Sinister's unyielding form. Despite the ferocity of the assault, Sinister remained largely intact, his enhanced durability matching Mohawk's rage. His face showed signs of the battle—split lip, darkening bruise along his jaw, a trickle of blood from his nostril—but his smile remained, a deliberate provocation.

"Is this..." Sinister taunted, voice thick with contempt despite Mohawk's crushing grip on his throat, "...the best...you can do?"

Mohawk screamed—a primal sound of pure rage—and slammed his fist into Sinister's face again. Though the blow would have collapsed the skull of a normal human, Sinister merely took it, his head snapping back before returning to position, that infuriating smile still in place.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Mohawk roared, spittle flying from his lips as he drew back for another blow. "I'LL FUCKING TEAR YOU APART!"

Viltrumite Mark moved with blinding speed, wrapping his arms around Mohawk from behind in a restraining bear hug. "Enough!" he commanded, muscles straining as he struggled to contain Mohawk's berserk strength. "This solves nothing!"

"LET ME GO!" Mohawk thrashed in Viltrumite's grip, head thrown back in animal fury. "HE TOUCHED HER! HE PUT HIS FUCKING HANDS ON HER!"

"And killing him will change that?" Emperor Mark asked coldly from where he stood, arms crossed over his chest, eyes calculating. "Will it erase what happened? Will it make her choose you instead?"

Mohawk's struggles slowed, his breathing ragged as Emperor's words penetrated his rage. "She was mine," he whispered, voice breaking. "In my world, she was always mine."

"She's not your Y/N," No-Mask Mark said quietly, his unmasked features twisted with a pain that echoed Mohawk's own. "None of them were ever ours. Not really."

Prisoner Mark laughed bitterly, the sound scraping like metal on stone. He ran a hand over his burned scalp, flakes of dead skin drifting to the floor. "Keep telling yourself that," he muttered. "Keep pretending we're not all just trying to replace what we've lost."

Sinister, still pinned to the wall but no longer being actively beaten, managed to grin through blood-stained teeth. "At least I'm honest," he said, voice rich with satisfaction. "I wanted her. I took her. No pretending she's someone else."

Omni Mark, who had been eerily silent throughout the exchange, finally moved. With deliberate slowness, he approached Sinister, his steps measured, his face a mask of calm that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes—they burned with something ancient and terrible, a controlled fury that made even Mohawk's berserker rage seem childish in comparison.

"Do you love her?" Omni asked, voice so quiet it forced everyone to still their breathing to hear him.

Sinister stared back, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his cracked lenses. Blood touched the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak, then thought better of it, settling for a mocking half-shrug instead.

Omni nodded as if the non-answer confirmed something. "I thought not."

Without warning, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Sinister's throat where Mohawk's had been moments before. With surgical precision, he began to squeeze, watching dispassionately as Sinister's breathing became labored.

"You took something precious," Omni continued conversationally as if they were discussing the weather rather than committing murder. "Something irreplaceable. Not from us—from her." His fingers tightened incrementally, the tendons in his forearm standing out like cables beneath his skin. "Her trust. Her sense of safety. Her ability to choose freely."

For the first time, Sinister's smugness faltered. His hands gripped Omni's wrist, genuine effort showing as he fought against the only variant whose strength truly matched his own. Behind his cracked lenses, something flashed in his eyes—not fear, exactly, but perhaps the first glimmer of respect.

"I should kill you for that alone," Omni mused, his voice still terrifyingly calm. "But death would be too merciful." With a soft grunt he released his grip, stepping back as Sinister sagged slightly, his breathing harsh but controlled.

"We need him," Lensless Mark pointed out. Blood spattered his face in an almost artistic pattern, his eyes wide and gleaming with dangerous curiosity. "At least until we figure out how to navigate the multiverse without Angstrom."

"Speaking of," Viltrumite Mark interjected, finally releasing his hold on Mohawk, who stood trembling with suppressed rage but no longer actively violent. "We have unfinished business with our portal-creating friend."

Emperor Mark's lip curled with disdain as he gazed down at Sinister's somewhat disheveled form. "Get him cleaned up," he ordered, as if commanding royal servants rather than dangerous interdimensional variants of himself. "And for god's sake, find him pants that stay closed."

No-Mask Mark moved reluctantly to help Sinister to his feet, his unmasked face a study in conflicted disgust. "Come on," he muttered, hauling Sinister's arm over his shoulder. "Let's get you patched up before we deal with Angstrom."

Sinister's laugh was dark and knowing as he allowed himself to be supported. "Such... gentlemen," he mocked, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "No wonder... she preferred... a real man."

Mohawk lunged forward again with a snarl, but Viltrumite was faster, stepping between them with arms outstretched. "Enough," he commanded, voice laced with deadly promise. "Save your strength for what matters."

"And what exactly matters?" Prisoner Mark asked bitterly, his scarred face contorted in a sneer. "Getting home to worlds we've already destroyed? Finding new dimensions to ruin? Fighting over a woman who isn't ours to claim?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implications none of them wanted to face. They stood frozen in tableau—bloody and broken and lost, versions of the same man twisted by grief and rage and power, united only by their shared obsession with a woman who carried the face of their greatest loss.

Omni Mark broke the tension, his voice cutting through the weighted silence. "What matters is what comes next," he stated simply, his natural authority drawing all eyes to him. "And to determine that, we need information only Angstrom has."

Emperor Mark nodded in agreement, his regal bearing reasserting itself as he moved toward the corridor leading to Angstrom's holding cell. "To Angstrom, then," he declared.

"And afterward..." His gaze swept over the assembled variants, lingering on each face. "Afterward, we decide what we truly want—and what we're willing to sacrifice to get it."

As they moved toward Angstrom's cell, the air between them vibrated with unspoken threats and fragile alliances.

They walked like warlords entering enemy territory—cautious, alert, bound by circumstance rather than trust. But the true battlefield wasn't against Angstrom or any external force. It was the emotional chasm between them, charged with jealousy, possession, grief, and desire. And at the center of that battlefield stood Y/N—catalyst, prize, and potential destroyer of their fragile equilibrium.

In her shower, as lukewarm water washed away the physical evidence of her encounter with Sinister, Y/N finally stopped crying. She rose to her feet, legs still trembling but stronger now, and turned off the water with a decisive twist. Her reflection in the small mirror was clearer now—still battered, still haunted, but somehow more her own.

She was no longer just a human experimented on by the GDA, no longer just manufactured Viltrumite muscle and bone. She was a woman with choices—terrible, difficult choices, perhaps, but hers to make nonetheless. And as she toweled her body dry, wincing at the tender spots where Sinister's passion had left its mark, Y/N made her first real choice since being thrust into this interdimensional nightmare.

She would not be their prize. She would not be their redemption. She would not be the ghost of women long dead, wearing her face and carrying her name.

She would be Y/N—survivor, fighter, and architect of her own fate.

With newfound resolve hardening inside her like crystal, she began to prepare herself to face the variants again. In Angstrom's holding cell, revelations awaited that would shatter everything she thought she knew about herself, about the variants, and about the precarious threads binding the multiverse together.

The game was changing. The players were wounded, dangerous, and desperate.

And Y/N was no longer just a piece on the board—she was a player with her own moves to make.

–––––––––––––––

Dang, I'm tired... (っ- ‸ - ς)

Hope yall are getting 8 hours of sleep, every night <3

The next chapter is going to be heavy fluff and lots of kissing.

Final: Part 10!!

[tellingtell5]

Stand by me. 《Invincible, Mark Grayson 》

A short story about the multiple Invincibles, a bunch of Mark Graysons.

I don't know what this is, I just know I had it in my head and needed to write it down.

¿part 2?

Mark Grayson x oc!fmale

Smut bellow the cutt, MDNI, be warned. Unprotected sex

She could definitely die like this and go happy.

Every nerve in her body was burning, pleasure coiling and tightening low in her belly as she rocked her hips back, pressing against him just to feel the way his breath stuttered. He was holding her close, one thick arm wrapped snug around her throat, but not tight—just enough to remind her who was behind her.

She loved that.

Olive bit her lower lip hard, swallowing the moan that threatened to slip out. She was slick with sweat, her hair a mess against the pillow, body trembling and slick from how long they'd been at it. She'd lost track of time. Hours, maybe. Maybe days. She didn’t care. If she went out like this—pinned, ruined, blissed-out of her mind—she’d go with a smile.

Normally, she was the one in control. She liked it that way—liked teasing him, keeping him on edge, giving just enough to drive him crazy and then pulling back with a smirk. But today? She hadn’t needed to lift a finger.

Mark was obsessed with the way she writhed for him.

"Liv..." he groaned against her ear, the gravel in his voice sending shivers straight down her spine. "You keep doing that, I’m not gonna last."

She smirked against the pillow. He’d been saying that for hours. And yet—he was still holding on. Still torturing himself to make it last longer. Maybe it was Viltrumite stamina. Or maybe he just liked giving her everything.

She shifted just slightly, dragging her nails down his forearm, letting her voice drip with teasing. "Then don’t."

A rough noise rumbled from his chest. She felt it before she heard it—then suddenly, all his weight came down on her. His chest pressed tight to her back, his thighs heavy over hers, hips flush.

Crushed. Owned. Trapped.

Her breath hitched. It wasn’t painful—far from it. She could take it. She was strong. But the sheer force of him pressed against her like he could split her in two. She whimpered, not from fear, but from the heat it sent spiraling through her. The idea that he could crush her if he wanted to—that if she didn’t have powers, maybe he would’ve—sent a dangerous thrill racing through her.

Mark moved, slowly, deliberately, grinding against her just right, and her body betrayed her with a high, helpless sound.

“You okay?” he asked against her neck, voice thick with tension, trying to hold back again.

But she didn’t answer with words—just clenched around him, hard. His reaction was immediate. A ragged gasp. A tremble. He faltered, losing rhythm for the first time all night.

"Shit—Liv..."

She turned her head enough to catch his eye. "You like that?" she whispered. "Poor baby... You’ve been trying so hard."

Mark let out a wrecked laugh, somewhere between adoration and frustration. “You’re evil.”

“Mhm,” she hummed, pressing back again. “And you love it.”

His hand slipped between her thighs—because of course it did—and she nearly came undone again right there. He knew exactly what to do with her now. Which spots made her cry out. Which ones made her knees give out. Which ones made her legs tremble.

Her fingers curled into the sheets as her release slammed into her again, sudden and electric, her back arching involuntarily. She didn’t even have the strength to curse. Behind her, Mark was cursing plenty. Still holding back. Still not letting himself go.

He hadn’t even finished when her body gave out beneath him, boneless and soaking in the afterglow, a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips.

And then... bzzz.

Mark growled when his phone vibrated. The sound was shrill, sharp, unwelcome.

"Fuck. Seriously?"

He shifted, and Olive groaned in protest under his weight. She was still pinned beneath him, breathing hard, limbs loose and useless.

"Don’t move," she murmured. "You’re heavy. It’s nice."

He glanced down at her, half-scowling, half in awe. "You’re insane."

Mark let out a frustrated growl, releasing his hold on Olive’s throat just enough to steady himself, his other hand shooting out blindly to silence the damn thing.

"Alright," he exhaled, voice wrecked, "where were w—"

Olive was completely limp against the bed, her body sprawled out like she had turned to liquid. Her chest rose and fell in slow, heavy breaths, her face turned into the pillow, eyes closed, sated.

Mark frowned. "Did you seriously just—"

She hummed lazily, stretching out like a cat, her smug little smile hidden against the sheets. "Mmm… you should answer that. Could be important."

Mark scowled. "But I didn’t even finish”

"That’s what you get for showing off."

The teasing lilt in her voice sent a violent shudder through him, making his entire body tense because fuck, he was still inside her, and he was still aching for relief.

His jaw clenched. "Liv—"

"You had plenty of chances, big guy."

Her smug, satisfied tone was too much. He knew she was right. He had been so focused on making it last, on keeping control, that now she had completely undone him, and she knew it.

Mark let out a low, suffering groan, reluctantly pulling out of her, gritting his teeth at the loss of warmth.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, grabbing his phone with all the irritation in the world. "This better be the fucking end of the worl—"

It was indeed the end of the fucking world.

Despite his protests, Olive had gone with him to deal with the disaster unfolding worldwide. She and Mark had split up after realizing multiple alarms were going off at once. Even if it wasn’t the best idea, they had agreed to cover more ground by handling different locations.

A mohawked head emerged from the rubble, cursing at the sky. Olive hovered above, waiting for him to get up. The prison was already in ruins when she arrived, and the moment she saw the maniac in that all-too-familiar suit, she didn’t hesitate—she slammed a punch straight into his spine, sending him flying.

In the blink of an eye, she found herself grabbed by the throat, dragged across the ground, carving a trench into the asphalt from the sheer force of the impact.

She lifted her hands, clasped them together into a fist, and started hammering down on his forearms, ripping pained grunts from her attacker.

"Let me go, asshole."

Then suddenly, everything stopped. The debris and dust froze in the air. And she locked eyes with a stunned face.

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw Mark.

But this wasn’t Mark.

It couldn’t be him.

"Olive?"

His face twisted in shock, like he hadn’t expected this.

"That fucking nerd was right—you’re alive."

He took a step toward her, radiating danger, hesitation flickering in his gaze. As she debated what to do, her eyes drifted to the mangled bodies he had left in his wake. She repeated to herself over and over that this wasn’t her boyfriend. This wasn’t the man she loved with every fiber of her being. This was just a copy, a failed attempt to replicate him.

With that thought, she punched him square in the face, sending him flying.

The mohawked Mark started laughing like a maniac, kneeling on the ground, gripping his head with both hands, muttering to himself.

"Shit, I know he said she’d be here, but I didn’t expect—"

He cut himself off when he saw Olive staring down at him. Power radiated off her, and a shiver ran down his spine. God, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to drop to his knees and do whatever this Liv asked of him.

"Who the fuck are you?"

She grabbed the fabric of his suit, lifting him nearly off the ground. Mohawk Invincible didn’t resist. He went slack in her grip, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He had missed her so much that, suddenly, all this destruction started making sense.

"I’m Invinc—"

“I know who you’re pretending to be.”

She reinforced her words with a punch straight to the face. The impact made him turn his head, spitting out blood. This shouldn't be turning him on as much as it was... right?

“Now tell me the truth.”

He grabbed her hands, caressing them gently despite the pain she had just inflicted. Olive recoiled in disgust at the look of satisfaction on his face. Shit, it was the same expression Mark wore when…

“God, it turns me on so much that you have powers in this reality, Liv.”

There it was—confirmation. She hit him again, this time letting go so the force of the blow sent him flying away from her. What the hell was happening? She replayed his words. In this reality. Was she really beating the shit out of Mark?

“Ohohoho. You’ve always liked it rough, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

He was staggering to his feet, wearing that same infuriating smirk she had once loved but now only wanted to punch off his face.

“You’re a fucking ass—”

She choked on her words when a hand wrapped around her ankle, yanking her off balance and spinning her through the air like a hammer. With a swift flick of his wrist, he hurled her away, sending her crashing into one of the few remaining watchtowers. Fuck, that hurt.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a figure hovering above the battlefield, fighting against the fake Mark. As her vision steadied, she focused on the source of her pain.

Omni-Man.

She swallowed hard, trying to dissolve the fear knotting in her throat. He was arguing with the mohawked Mark. She struggled to her feet, disoriented. With a single leap, she shot into the sky, fist extended, aiming straight for Nolan's jaw. But he moved at the last second, and she shot past his face. Her breath hitched in her throat because that wasn’t Mark’s father.

Jesus, another fucking Invincible.

“You almost killed her, dumbass,” Mohawk Mark scolded the Omni-Man lookalike, while Olive could only stare at them in shock.

“Swearing doesn’t make you cooler, just so you know.”

He remained impassive, arms crossed over a much broader chest than her Mark’s. Taking him down was going to be way harder than dealing with the pervert.

“I didn’t realize it was Olive. I just saw her beating the crap out of you.”

“I was letting her, for your information.”

“Bullshit.”

She stepped between them, cutting off their pointless conversation, weighing her options for getting out of this completely insane situation alive. And to think, less than an hour ago, she had been having one of the best org—

“Liv, sweetheart. Even if you have powers in this reality, I could break you if I wanted to. But lucky for you, there are so many things I want to do to you first. Like trying that position you were too scared of because you thought I’d crush you. Or maybe that other one wher—”

She hit him again, this time darting after his flying body to strike him over and over, playing ping-pong with his limp form. She pressed her palms against either side of his head, ready to crush his skull—but a hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her away with brute force.

She was dragged through the sky, far from the other Mark.

“Tell me, did he hurt you?”

His face was cold, calculating, but a flicker of concern shone in his eyes. He reached out to touch her cheek, but she slapped his hand away. Using his brief confusion, she grabbed his shoulders and shot toward the ground at full speed.

The impact shattered the concrete, creating a crater beneath them. Before he could react, Olive climbed to her feet and planted a boot on his throat, pressing down hard.

“Tell me, Mark. Did that hurt?”

His face twisted with fury as he struggled beneath her. How the hell is he this strong? This makes no sense.

She pressed harder, cutting off his air—but a sudden impact sent her flying. Expecting to see the perverted Mohawk Mark, she was instead met with yet another Mark. This one looked much more like hers, though his mask lacked goggles and his suit was still yellow.

“Finally, a fight worth having, Liv.”

With a wicked grin, he slammed her through the prison walls, dragging her through them with such force that the entire structure crumbled around them.

For the first time since this nightmare began, fear clawed at her skin. She needed to break free; her ribs were snapping under the pressure. She had fought with Mark before, but never against him. And she had no idea just how much each version of him was holding back.

When he reached for her throat, she whipped her head back and smashed it against his skull. He let go, and Olive tumbled across the rubble. She stayed on the ground for a moment, trying to catch her breath, searching for strength she didn’t have. Bracing herself on her hands, she lifted her upper body, just in time to see the goggle-less Mark approaching her.

“You always seemed so weak to me.”

He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her up so their faces were inches apart. She screamed in pain, which only seemed to amuse him further.

“If you couldn’t keep up with me, why did you start dating me?”

He lifted her higher before slamming her into the ground. He was about to repeat the motion when another Mark tackled him away.

“Don’t touch her, asshole.”

Even through the ringing in her ears, she heard the sickening sound of a fist connecting with flesh.

She was dizzy again, the metallic taste of blood making her gag. Blinking rapidly, she saw a Mark who looked exactly like hers. Identical. When he knocked his alternate self unconscious, he flew straight to her.

“Liv, are you okay?”

Before he could touch her, she swung her leg, kicking him in the jaw and sending him flying.

Gasping for breath, Olive watched him pick himself up, confusion etched across his face. Her heart clenched, terrified she had just hurt her Mark. She shot toward him, grabbing him by the collar just like she had with the mohawked one.

“Liv, it’s me.”

His voice was hoarse, likely from all the blood he was swallowing.

“How do I know that’s true?”

He let out a tired scoff.

“If we hadn’t been interrupted, I would have given you the best afternoon of your life.”

Her eyes welled with tears, and she crushed him in a hug, whispering apologies over and over. Mark's arms wrapped around her, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping the world together.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through this alone. I wanted to get here sooner, but they’re everywhere and—”

She silenced him by cupping his face, repeating again and again that it wasn’t his fault.

“How touching.”

Several Invincibles hovered above them, watching with varying expressions. Olive’s mind raced, searching for a way out. But most of all, she couldn’t stop wondering—how the hell could they all be so different?

“Liv, seriously? You’re choosing this loser?”

She stood up with Mark at her side, their backs pressed together, preparing for the fight ahead. Her fingers brushed against his, and he gripped her hand tightly, refusing to let go.

“What do you want?”

“To ruin your fucking life, dumbass.” Mohawk Mark was definitely the talkative one. Olive made a mental note of it.

“I just want to take Liv and Mom home. I miss them.”

The Mark who spoke wore a dark mask, his face completely covered. She knew he wasn’t from her reality, but his voice—the sorrow in it—crushed her heart.

"You're such a crybaby."

The two of them started fighting among themselves. They didn’t look like a team—hell, they didn’t even look like a group. Olive’s mind raced, trying to come up with a solution, but she needed time.

"Why this dimension? What’s so special about it?"

"You." One of the Marks, dressed in full Viltrumite gear, spoke over the others, silencing them.

"Me? You’d destroy an entire world for one person?"

Another Mark scoffed, this one wearing a mask that didn’t quite fit his face.

"You’re not just anyone. You’re Olive."

"The one who always cared about us," the one who looked like Omni-Man added.

"In any dimension," continued the one without glasses.

"No matter what we did," finished the one with the mohawk.

Oh, God. Olive felt sick. This was all her fault.

"Looks like you have a type." That last comment came from her Mark. He wanted to laugh, but humor had completely abandoned him.

"The one who brought us here told us to destroy this dimension. As a reward, we’d find you—alive."

Something finally clicked in Olive’s mind. She squeezed Mark’s hand, as if warning him of what she was about to do. He glanced over his shoulder at her and gave a subtle nod.

"Mark?"

They all turned at the same time, speaking his name in unison. A shiver ran down her spine.

"Who am I supposed to stay with once you’ve destroyed the world?"

A chorus of "With me" erupted all at once, and the Invincibles glanced at each other. Their stances shifted, preparing for a fight—not against Olive, but against one another.

"Obviously, she’s staying with me. There’s a ton of filthy things we haven’t tried yet. And come on, she’s got super strength." The mohawked Mark was the first to speak. Of course he was.

"You’re disgusting. She’ll be with me. We have duties to fulfill for the Empire."

"You’re talking about her like she’s a damn toy." The masked Mark’s voice rose above the others. "She’ll be with me. I’ll protect her. Her and Debbie."

"You’re such a fucking weakling."

Olive took advantage of their rising tension, slipping out of the circle they’d formed above her. She grabbed Mark’s hand, pulling him along as he struggled to process what he was hearing. Without hesitation, Olive took off into the sky, and Mark followed closely behind.

"This should buy us some time while we figure out how to take down a bunch of versions of you."

Mark felt awful. His brain spun in circles. He loved Olive more than anything—they had always been together. He couldn’t imagine life without her. But he thought about what all those other Invincibles had done just to have her back.

Would he do the same?

If he lost Olive, would he go mad with grief? Would he do anything to have her by his side again?

He gripped her hand tighter as they flew away and gave it a small squeeze.

"Olive?"

She hummed in response.

"I love you too."

Her heart did a somersault in her chest. She felt whole… but a sliver of fear ran through her. Did that mean he would also destroy an entire world just to have her back?

She stared at their intertwined hands and tried not to think about it too much.

Meanwhile—

"Where the hell are they?!"

"You fucking idiots. They played us."

And then, a blood-curdling scream from one of the Invincibles:

"OLIVEEEEE!"

[serensho]

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧ ୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧ ୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

she

in which you and mark have drifted apart...but that doesn't mean he's left your life for good.

warnings: SMUT, coochie eating, angst, surprisingly soft/fluffy, variant!mark, kind of creepy vibes but not too much imo, not canon compliant, fem!reader

wc: 2766

inspired by tyler the creator's she, sycamore tree by kali uchis

a/n: ayy doing something different by having my note at the beginning; thank you sm for the love on my last two posts! i hope you all love this one and reblog, like, reply, request, etc!! this could be imagined with any mark variant imo, but let me know who you think fits this best! also it is pretty light despite its inspo, and i hope you all like it! i had fun writing it and getting out of my comfort zone. enjoy

You and Mark Grayson have lost touch.

 It wasn’t surprising at first. Having grown up with him and watching his transformation from ordinary high schooler to superhero from only a few doors down– it seemed only natural that he would act differently, make new friends and find new hobbies. 

The two of you drifted apart as he began fighting crime, talking to girls, and the friendship that was once so strong between you fizzled out. There wasn’t any animosity– at least you tried not to harbor any– but it was only natural that a sense of bitterness began to fester as he stopped trying. 

He stopped coming over late at night after a fight with a petty villain, stopped walking you home, simply stopped. And you tried to reach out to him, to let him know you would always be there but he found comfort elsewhere. Which was fine. He was following a different path, one that was extraordinary compared to your ordinary experience going to the nearby college sometimes crossing paths with William and Amber. 

Last you heard she and Mark had broken up and he was now with Atom Eve. But a lot had been happening to Mark recently with the arrival of different versions of him wreaking havoc on Earth, and his subsequent fight with some sort of super strong hero from a completely different planet. You couldn’t help but worry for him, worry for Debbie and his little brother, Oliver. 

You still cared despite the loss of contact and that was what prompted you to try to write a text to him, hoping that his number hadn’t changed. However, it sat in your messages, too scared to send it. You stewed over it, reread it probably a hundred times, before giving up on it. Weeks passed by and you hadn’t read or watched anything in the news about Invincible, deeming that that was probably a good thing. 

Which was why when you saw him waiting on the sidewalk in front of your house after dark one night was so weird. At least you were pretty sure it was him. Deciding to investigate further, you padded downstairs from your bedroom to the front door, slipping on a pair of shoes and walking outside, turning on the flashlight of your phone while approaching the pavement. Only to find that Mark– whoever had been waiting outside had left without a trace. You called out into the night, looking around before going inside, but you couldn’t shake the feeling as though something, someone had been watching you. You walked back upstairs and decided to try to relax, pamper yourself for tonight to rid yourself of the sensation.

From far above in the sky, Mark held a hand over his mouth as he chuckled. Your cute chirp and frightened look on your face excited him. Back in his home universe, you hadn’t been so close to him– it was a wonder why this world’s Mark hadn’t taken advantage of your proximity but after days of observation, weeks, Mark realized that you two weren’t together, weren’t even friends. That was something he would be sure to remedy. But he couldn’t rush it no, that would be too suspicious. He tapped his chin in thought as he flew to your bedroom window. Your light was still on, blinds open to let the moonlight in, and he quickly flew to hide behind a nearby tree as you approached the window– only to open it to let the cool night air flow into your room. He could hear your sweet humming and watched as you sat down on your bed to brush your hair. He imagined running his hands through it, brushing it himself, pulling it– but it got so much better when you began undressing right before his very eyes. 

You hummed along to a soft tune as you applied velvety lotion along your body, massaging your thighs, hips, before moving up to your chest. You plopped down on your bed again, putting some on your arms before redressing into a silky pajama set and turning your lights off. 

Mark was hoping for you to do more. To touch yourself, rub and pinch your nipples, play with your clit until he could hear you mewling and crying out in pleasure– but he supposed he would have to be the one to pull those sweet sounds from you instead.

In the days that followed Mark began to slowly insert himself back into your life. He began leaving signs, walking throughout your house leaving doors and windows open so he could watch you later that day. He followed you around as you drove to work, college, to the grocery store–meanwhile you had been noticing these things, realizing that you hadn’t left your bedroom window open all day…Had you? 

Mark continued to stay hidden, biding his time for the perfect moment to approach you but he wanted to learn more about you in this world, and found himself falling for you all over again. As luck would have it, that perfect moment arose the same day this world’s Invincible made headlines after having been in a particularly nasty fight with another villain. 

You paced your room, contemplating sending that text to Mark. It certainly couldn’t hurt, could it? It was simple and to the point–Saw what happened, hope you’re doing alright. I’m always here if you need to talk. You took a deep breath as you collapsed onto your bed afterwards, the night hours becoming later as you tried to distract yourself in anticipation of a response. You were reading a book as your phone suddenly buzzed, the screen lighting. Your heart jumped as you scrambled to grab it, the message reading, I’m alright. Just been dealing with a lot, hope you’re okay, too. 

Well, at least it was something. A sense of relief washed over you–quickly being followed with panic as a knock came from your window. You got up and opened it, only to see–

“Mark!? Holy shit, how are you–what are you doing here right now?�� You gasped as he hovered into your room and landed.

Something was up…you had just seen him fighting for his life on television and now he was wearing a new suit and visiting your bedroom after so many years?

“I had to see you,” he said as he looked you up and down. God, you looked even better up close.

“I thought you were hurt? How did you heal so fast?” you shook your head as you grabbed his arm, assessing him for injuries. None. You turned him around, seeing there wasn’t even a rip in this new suit. But he looked different in it, somehow. More muscular, like he filled it out more but maybe it was just the difference seeing him in person and on a screen. Your hands trailed along his body as you grabbed both of his hands in yours. Realizing what you were doing, checking him out and gawking, you dropped them as you turned around and cleared your throat, embarrassed. 

“It’s my powers. I’m good as new, now,” he said as he stretched, missing your soft hands on his body already. 

You frowned as you turned back to face him. “Mark, what are you doing in my room? We haven’t spoken in years. I mean, just because I sent you that text doesn’t mean I was expecting you to visit or–or that we can suddenly go back to what we used to be.”

Mark walked toward you as you backed away from him. Seriously, what was up with him? 

Noticing your apprehension he began taking off the face piece of his suit, grabbing your hands. “I’ve missed you. And that text…” he trailed off. What the fuck could he say that wouldn’t alert you to the fact that he wasn’t your Mark? “I–I realized that I wanna make up for the time we’ve lost together. It’s you I should’ve been giving my time and attention to, not anything else,” he reasoned, looking into your eyes deeply. 

You looked down to your hands, intertwined in his. You shook your head, thoughts running wild. You had harbored a crush on him when you two were friends. But he was with Eve, was he not? This all seemed to be some sort of dream, a fantasy. 

You sighed before meeting his longing gaze. “Mark, you have a girlfriend. I’m not some sort of boyfriend-stealer. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling right now, but you need to stop. It isn’t fair.”

His brows raised as he scowled. “I don’t care about her, we’re done. Her, those other girls, they were just distractions, I thought that I wanted them but my judgment was clouded. Now, I see what’s been in front of me this whole time,” he pulled you closer to him, still holding hands. He rubbed comforting circles as you looked at his face, carefully examining his features. 

His body was definitely more muscular in person– but his face was the same Mark you had been missing, yearning for. He seemed aged somehow, eyes sad but still holding that same depth you remembered. Which was what prompted you to lean into him, breaking your hands apart to rest one on his chest as you looked up at him. 

Everything was falling into place, perfectly.

“Mark, I’ll be honest, I don’t know what to think right now. Maybe this is stupid, but I…I believe you.”

You could feel his heartbeat quicken, from your touch or words you were unsure, as his hand which had been rubbing those comforting circles, stilled, tightening before releasing entirely. 

Mark’s eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he murmured, his voice huskier now, lower. There was something dangerous, electric, in the way he spoke, as though he was holding back.

Your chest tightened as you leaned in closer, your lips just inches from his. “I missed you too,” you whispered, barely audible, feeling the weight of everything you hadn’t said in years. It all came crashing down now, in this moment—every longing glance, every unspoken word. 

Without thinking, you rose up on your toes, closing the gap between you, your lips brushing his in the lightest of touches. For a second, you hesitated, your heart pounding in your ears as you pulled back just enough to see his face, wondering if you’d gone too far.

But Mark’s reaction was immediate. His hand slid up, cradling the back of your neck, pulling you in for a deeper kiss. This time, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. His lips crashed against yours with a kind of desperation, like he’d been starving for this for as long as you had. The kiss was firm, claiming, his other hand slipping down to rest on your waist, fingers curling possessively around your side.

You gasped against his mouth as his body pressed closer, his heat enveloping you. Every touch, every sensation felt amplified—the brush of his lips, the way his hand tugged lightly at your hair as he kissed you harder. Your fingers dug into his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath, and you could feel the tension in his body, something tight and wanting, waiting to be released.

“Mark…” you breathed, breaking the kiss for a moment as you leaned your forehead against his, your lips swollen and tingling from the intensity of it all. His eyes were clouded with desire as he stared down at you, his thumb brushing gently over your bottom lip.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he muttered, his voice rough with need. “I’m not letting you go this time.”

You shivered at the possessiveness in his tone, your body responding in ways you couldn’t control. His hands slid down your waist, pulling you against him, and you could feel the hardness of his body pressed firmly against yours. The air between you felt thick with desire, each breath you took seemed to pull you closer.

The line between wanting and restraint blurred as his lips found your neck, leaving slow, heated kisses along your skin, each one sending a shock of pleasure through you. You couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped your lips as he nipped lightly at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his hands roaming lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hips.

Your pulse quickened, your body arching instinctively against him as his hands found the hem of your shirt, teasingly sliding beneath the fabric to touch your bare skin. His touch was warm, firm, but careful, like he was savoring every second of this moment. He helped you out of your top as he took in the sight of your breasts. 

You moved to cover yourself before Mark grabbed you bridal style, placing you on your bed as he quickly rid himself of the rest of his suit, completely bare before you. 

“Don’t be shy, baby. Lemme show you how much I want you,” he said as he climbed on top of you, pulling you into a long kiss. While your lips were locked, his hands came down to palm your breasts, pinching and pulling at your nipples. Mark pulled away from you, moving lower, sucking and kissing as he fondled one of your tits, bringing the other between his warm, wet mouth as he began suckling. 

You arched your back in pleasure as you brought a hand to pull at his hair as you moaned. 

“Oh, Mark–Please!”

He pulled away from you and tilted his head coyly. “Tell me what you want,” he said in a low tone as he moved his mouth to your other breast, giving it the same treatment. “I-I don’t know I want–want more,” you whimpered as the hand that was in his hair came to grab at the pillow under your head.

Mark stopped his efforts on your chest and moved lower, using both hands to spread your legs as he appraised the heat between your thighs. “Poor thing. She’s begging for some attention, you know that?” 

Mark’s strong arms kept your legs apart as you squirmed under his touch. He placed light kisses along your inner thighs before he brought his mouth against your clit and sucked. Hard. You cried out in bliss as Mark continued licking, and sucking, swallowing your essence as you writhed under his touch. 

Mark's tongue worked expertly, flicking against your sensitive clit with a rhythm that made your body tense and shiver with every stroke. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you firmly in place as you bucked against him, lost in the overwhelming pleasure.

Your fingers gripped the sheets, your head falling back as the intense sensation built inside you, a fire spreading through your core. "M-Mark..." you gasped, your voice trembling as his mouth moved faster, the wet sounds of his tongue sending electric jolts through your body. He moaned against you, the vibrations sending you even closer to the edge.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, his hand slid up, teasing your entrance with his fingers before thrusting them inside, curling just right. The sudden fullness made you cry out louder, your hips lifting off the bed as the pleasure crested. His tongue and fingers worked in perfect harmony, pushing you higher, deeper, until the pressure inside you finally broke.

You shattered, waves of ecstasy crashing over you as your body shook uncontrollably. Your cries echoed through the room, your thighs trembling around his head as he continued, drawing out every last bit of your orgasm until you were spent, breathless, and completely undone.

Slowly, he pulled away, kissing your inner thighs tenderly as you tried to catch your breath, your body still trembling from the aftershocks. Mark looked up at you, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he crawled back up to hover over you.

"That," he murmured, brushing a stray hair from your face, "was only the beginning." But the intensity of his gaze softened as he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, leaving you breathless all over again.

You registered the sound of your phone buzzing, but with Mark on top of you, loving you, the edges of your mind fuzzy and melting, you willfully ignored it. 

For now, you were his, and the world outside didn’t matter anymore. Mark was different–but did it really matter to you all that much if it gave you the chance to be his? 

tags: @weeb-simp-11