amazed at leon kennedy’s ability to look like the brother of every white girl he stands next to
i love the idea of there being a running joke in the dso that leon is the brother of every blonde girl he meets. but in another universe he would’ve been a great brother🥹 too bad his entire family died when he was a kid lol
also his camouflage abilities of being a girl-brother means that when he stands next to jill he becomes brunette (ex: death island)
okok, dropping my request for part 2 of the intox with dick, hmm ok, so dick out and drinking again, and he invites m!reader to join to “test a theory” R shows up ofc, and gets drunk, and flustered and kinda jealous when other people flirt with dick and he’s like “i want you to be mean to me, and only me” because well yea, and hmm dick is mean to him, but it’s good times and then um maybe some smut this time??? dont dont tbh i trust you
DRUNK IN LOVE ll
꒰ pairing. dick grayson x tipsy male reader ꒱
꒰ synopsis. dick invites you to drink with him again to prove a “theory” he has about you. who knew you’d walk right into it? ꒱
꒰ warnings. dry humping. ꒱
꒰ wc: 2.1k ꒱
꒰ database ꒱
The text comes in at 9:47 p.m.
“Out again. Come be my test subject.”
You stare at it for a full minute, heat creeping up your neck.
You already know what this means. It means loud music, sticky bar floors, Dick’s hand heavy and guiding at the small of your back. It means one drink turning into three because he keeps smiling at you like that and saying, “C’mon, you can handle it.”
It means you absolutely cannot handle it.
You still grab your jacket.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
The bar is glowing gold and blue when you walk in, and you spot him immediately.
Dick Grayson is unfair even in bad lighting.
He’s leaning against the counter, laughing at something the bartender says, sleeves pushed up, dark hair falling into his eyes just enough to make him look accidentally charming. A couple people are already hovering near him.
His eyes find you across the room. There it is—that grin. Slow. Knowing. “You came,” he says when you reach him, fingers hooking casually into your belt loop to tug you closer like it’s nothing. Like you don’t nearly short-circuit every time he does that.
“You said you needed a test subject,” you mumble.
He hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. I have a theory.”
“Oh?”
“That you’re the cutest lightweight in Blüdhaven.”
Your face immediately burns. “Dick—”
He laughs, ordering you a drink before you can protest. Something strong. Of course it is.
“I’m serious,” he says, watching you take your first sip. “Three drinks in and you get all soft and clingy. It’s science at this point.”
“I do not,” you argue—already feeling the warmth bloom in your chest. He just raises an eyebrow.
You last two drinks.
By the third, you’re leaning into him without realizing it, balance slightly off, thoughts pleasantly fuzzy. The music feels louder. The lights softer than before. His hand on your waist feels—great.
“You’re swaying,” he murmurs near your ear.
“I’m not,” you insist, immediately stumbling when someone bumps into you.
His hand tightens around you, steadying. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
You melt. He always says it like that. Calm. Confident. Like it’s obvious he’d catch you.
Someone suddenly slides up on Dick’s other side—bold smile, shameless. “Hey, haven’t seen you around before.”
You go still.
Dick glances at them, polite but relaxed. “I get around.”
You hate how smooth he sounds. They laugh, touching his arm. Your stomach twists. You know Dick flirts. You know he likes attention. It’s practically oxygen to him. But watching it up close while your head is spinning and your hand is half-curled in his shirt? It stings.
You sip your drink too fast.
“Whoa,” Dick says, plucking the glass from your hand. “Slow down, tiger.”
“I’m fine,” you mumble, glaring at absolutely nothing.
He studies you. Then he looks back at the person flirting with him. “Sorry. I’m busy tonight.”
“Oh?” they say.
Dick’s arm slides fully around your shoulders, tugging you in so your face presses against his chest. “With him.”
Your brain stops working. The other person retreats with an amused smile, and Dick looks down at you. “You okay?”
You shrug, but it comes out wobbly. “You like it.”
“Like what?”
“When people…” You gesture vaguely. “—touch you.”
He smirks slightly. “You jealous?”
Your mouth opens. You absolutely are and the alcohol strips away your ability to lie. “…maybe.”
His expression shifts. Softer. But still teasing. “That part of the theory too?” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he says, brushing his thumb under your chin and tilting your face up. “You get possessive when you’re drunk.”
You swallow.
“You’re cute about it though.”
Your heart is pounding way too hard. “I’m not cute,” you mutter, but you don’t pull away when he keeps his hand there. You don’t move when he nudges your knees apart slightly so he can stand between them while you’re perched on a barstool.
You’re so easy to guide. He knows it.
“That’s three drinks,” he says lightly. “You’re flushed. Pupils blown. Leaning into me like I’m a lifeline.”
“I just— don’t wanna fall,” you whisper.
He grins. “You wouldn’t.” His hand slides to your hip, steady but firm. “You trust me that much?”
You nod without thinking.
That makes something flicker in his eyes.
“See?” he murmurs. “Theory confirmed.”
“And what’s that?” you breathe.
“That you let me push you around when you’re tipsy.”
You shiver. You hate how right he is.
He nudges your thigh with his knee, testing. You wobble, immediately grabbing his shirt tighter. “Dick—” He laughs quietly.
“Relax. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
But he doesn’t stop touching you. Doesn’t stop guiding you. Steering you through the crowd when he decides it’s time to leave. His hand stays at your waist.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Outside, the cool air hits you and you sway again. He catches you instantly. “Lightweight,” he teases softly.
You pout up at him. “You made me drink.”
“You kept drinking.”
“Because you wanted me to.”
That makes him pause. You’re looking at him like he hung the moon. He exhales through a small smile. “You don’t have to do stuff just because I want you to, you know.”
You blink slowly. “I like it.”
His grip tightens slightly. “Like what?”
“When you…” You trail off, embarrassed now. “When you boss me around.”
Silence.
Then he laughs.
“God, you’re trouble.” He nudges your forehead with his. “C’mon. Let’s get you home before someone else tries flirting with me and you decide to fight them.”
“I would not,” you mumble, clinging to his arm.
“You absolutely would.”
And the whole walk back, he keeps you tucked close to his side—steadying you every time you stumble. Like you’re his.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
The car ride is quiet. Streetlights flash across Dick’s face as he drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily near the gearshift.
You’re slumped in the passenger seat, warm and thinking way too much. Your head tips toward him. “Hey.”
“Hm?” He doesn’t look over yet.
“Don’t let them flirt with you.”
Now he glances at you, one brow lifting. “Them?”
“At the bar,” you mumble, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Just ignore them.”
He smirks faintly. “You jealous again?”
Your jaw tightens. You’re tipsy enough that the filter’s gone. “I want you to be mean to me,” you blurt.
Silence.
The car slows at a red light.
“Excuse me?” he says, amused.
“You heard me,” you mutter, staring straight ahead. “Don’t be nice to them. Don’t flirt. If you’re gonna be mean, be mean to me. Only me.”
His expression shifts—curious now. Studying.
“That so?”
You nod stubbornly. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Because when he teases you, when he pushes you around a little, when he calls you cute and lightweight and helpless, it feels like attention.
It feels like you’re the only one he’s looking at. Because it’s yours.
You shrug instead. “Just… want it like that.”
The light turns green.
He hums thoughtfully. “You’re such a brat when you’re drunk.” But there’s something pleased in his voice.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
By the time you’re at his place, your legs are still unsteady. You stumble through the door, and he catches you again—hand firm around your arm. “Careful,” he says. “You’re useless tonight.”
You shiver. “See?” you mumble. “Like that.”
He shuts the door with his foot, steering you toward the couch. “Oh, I see,” he says lightly. “You don’t want me flirting with strangers. You want all my attention right here.”
He pushes you down onto the couch—not rough, but decisive. You bounce slightly against the cushions.
Your heart jumps.
He stands over you for a second. “You get so needy when you’re tipsy,” he murmurs.
You glare weakly up at him. “Shut up.” He leans down, hands braced on either side of you, boxing you in.
“Make me.”
Your breath catches. You hate how easy this is. How he just tilts his head and you’re melting.
“Look at you,” he continues, voice dropping just a little. “Couldn’t even walk straight without me holding you up.”
You don’t even think. You just surge forward.
Your hand fists in the front of his shirt and you pull him down into you, mouth crashing against his before he can finish whatever smug comment he was about to make.
He makes a surprised sound—half laugh, half grunt—before he stumbles, balance thrown off. “Mmph—”
“Easy—” he mutters against your lips.
And instead of collapsing fully on top of you, he slides one knee between your thighs for support. The pressure makes you gasp into his mouth. He groans in response.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling just enough to make his breath hitch. The kiss turns sloppy fast—open-mouthed and needy, the faint taste of alcohol still lingering between you. You’re the one who started it but he takes over.
He angles his head and deepens it, and you make a small, embarrassing sound in your throat. “Needy,” he breathes against your lips.
You whine softly. Your hands wander—sliding down his back, gripping at his shirt like you need something to anchor yourself. His knee presses more firmly between your thighs as he steadies himself, and you instinctively tilt your hips up, seeking friction without even realizing it.
You grind slowly, the movement makes him suck in a sharp breath. “Oh, you’re serious.” His breath grows heavier.
He makes a low sound—somewhere between a laugh and a groan—and suddenly you’re shifting, rolling, half wrestling on the couch cushions. He pins you for a second, then you shove at him, and he lets you flip him halfway before catching your waist and dragging you back down under him again.
“You’re gonna fall off the couch,” he mutters.
“Don’t care.”
Your legs hook around him instinctively when he leans back in. His knee stays planted between your thighs for leverage, keeping himself hovering instead of crushing you. The friction when you shift makes both of you inhale sharply. “God—” he breathes.
His forehead bumps yours, noses brushing, lips barely apart as you both try to catch your breath. It’s all hitched inhales and shaky laughs and little involuntary sounds every time one of you moves.
You don’t stop.
You can’t.
Your hands grip at his shoulders and you roll your hips again, slow at first—testing. The friction pulls a low sound from his throat, something warm and surprised.
“…you’re not done?” he murmurs.
You don’t speak. You press closer, legs tightening around him. He steadies himself, hands sliding down to your thighs, holding you in place like he’s anchoring you. You just move again.
This time he moves with you.
It’s not teasing anymore. Not entirely. His fingers flex against your legs, guiding the rhythm without fully taking over, like he’s letting you think you’re in control while matching every desperate shift of your hips. The couch creaks softly beneath you both. Your breathing turns ragged.
“Easy,” he mutters, though he’s the one pressing back now, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second as he exhales sharply. “You’re gonna—”
But he doesn’t sound like he wants to stop.
Instead of backing off, he presses down into you in return—controlled, measured at first. The friction makes you gasp. “Oh!”
Your head tips back against the couch cushion, mouth falling open as you grind up harder.
He watches you for half a second—flushed, breathing uneven, completely undone beneath him—and something in his expression changes. And then he starts moving with you again.
The sound that leaves you is loud and unfiltered. “Dick—” Your hands slide into his hair, tugging lightly.
“Thought you wanted me mean,” he says, voice rougher now. You can barely form words. You just cling to him, legs tightening around his waist as you keep grinding up into him again and again.
You answer by pulling him down into another messy kiss, swallowing the rest of his teasing. He kisses you back without hesitation, slower but heavier, like he’s savoring how worked up you are.
What about normal mark x male reader who is his childhood friend
Maybe friends to lovers
Like really from kids they were by each others side, great friends, then when Mark got his powers, Mark told him first, then when Nolan fights him, debbie and the reader are both by his side. The reader staying with him through Amber and Eve, even if he was a little jealous and maybe after the variants or conquest Mark finally realizes he's in love with his childhood friend
Mothers are the best wingman
Summary: Mark’s been your best friend long before either of you were born and it seems like your mothers have a plan for the two of you. Too bad you’re both too blind to notice.
Pairing: Mark Grayson x Male reader
Word Count: 4.4k
Tags/Warnings: canon-level violence, reader gets attacked, one sex joke, past Mark/Amber, established (later broken up) Mark/Eve, embarrassing mothers, reader is not a hero, one drunk scene
Your mother loved her photo albums, but she especially loved the one that was wrapped in a brown fabric with a white lace trim. It was the first photo album she ever bought; she tells the story often enough that it’s engraved in your mind.
“When I was ten, my brother had his first kid,” She’d smile, brushing against the lace. “I knew then that I wanted one, too. I bought this with my allowance money and hid it for a decade.” It was a pair, in truth. A brown with white trim and a white one with brown trim. She swore the white one was going to be for her secondborn born but then she met Debbie.
“We were college roommates,” Again, the story was engraved in you. “Ugh, hit it off there. I met your father and she met Nolan. Would you believe it, we got pregnant at the same time? And that’s when I knew,” She’d wave her hands before pointing at the white album, where, behind the yellowing plastic, was the name card.
Mark & (Y/n)
Below your names were both of your birthdays. Born six days apart, you were destined to be best friends, and even if you weren’t, you doubt your mothers wouldn’t have given you much of a choice otherwise.
She’d show everyone you brought home pictures from the albums. God forbid Mark also knew them, oh boy they were in for story after story. You remember when you first invited William over— the stupid gossip loved each and every picture— he even has pictures of his favorites in his camera roll.
Bath time, birthdays, graduation, vacations, your awkward braces phase, Nolan carrying the two of you on his shoulders, school plays, sleepovers, Halloween, your dad taking the two of you on a solo fishing trip, Christmas, beach trips, playing in the rain, and so much more. The album was stuffed to the absolute brim with pictures. There's an entire decade worth of pictures inside of it. She had to get a new one by the time you were nine, though. And it was still going. You cringed as she showed Eve yet another picture, remembering the day in painful detail.
“I’m so going to kill myself,” You tell him through gritted teeth, forced to smile and give a thumbs up.
“Me first,” He whispers back, an equally forced smile and a pained thumbs up. He has one arm around you, as do you, which isn’t the embarrassing part. The embarrassment comes from the fact that it’s your first day working at the Burger Mart together, and your mother and Debbie insisted she needed this picture for the scrapbook.
Your dad, to his credit, hides his laugh behind his baseball hat.
CLICK!
“Look at them,” Your mother cooed, showing Debbie the picture.
“They look so cute! I’m so proud of you two!”
“Oh my god, she’s crying,” You whisper.
“Should we run inside?” He snorts when you jab his side. Thankfully, your dad calls them back to the car and the two of you are allowed to actually work. It doesn’t take long for the shift lead to learn that you two should not be paired together and that making a soda isn’t a two-person job, despite your strong insistence.
Looking back, it’s crazy that working at that job together meant you’d been the first to find out about his powers. You remembered watching as he tossed the bag of trash too hard, the black plastic disappearing with no sign of coming down anytime soon.
Mark looks at you from his spot on the couch, giving you an awkwardly painful half smile that you share. It was the first time Eve was meeting any of you; you weren’t in Mark’s superhero circle and you never talked to her in high school. You think it was more awkward because your mother wasn’t meeting Eve as Mark’s hero partner but rather as his girlfriend.
No one’s ever told your mother about the heroes in her life, she doesn’t know about Nolan, Mark, and now Eve. She thinks Nolan had gotten killed; she thinks Omni-Man was a man she’d only ever seen once before his rampage. When it happened, she had no idea why you were so scared. Why you’d run down the street to Debbie’s to make sure she was okay, and why you’d spent the night for a week straight over there. You told her that Mark was going through something, you forgot what weird lie it was but she eventually let it drop.
Your mother flipping over a certain page has your eyes snapping to Mark and his find yours not a second later. You both know what that means— she wasn’t too fond of Eve. You’d assumed so, Mark too, it’s something that, after knowing your mother for a while you get clued into certain actions. But skipping over the page, that's pictures where you and Mark were watching the fireworks meant more than just her simply skipping the page.
“I think she still thinks you and Amber would be better,” You’d later admitted in the backyard, watching as your dad flipped burgers while your mother, Debbie, and Eve laid in the pool. It wasn’t one of those fancy in-ground pools— no it was one you’d gotten from Walmart with your first check because you just needed a pool. And fuck, it was coming back to bite you in the ass.
“Really?” His voice cracks and you hum, staring at Eve with barely hidden jealousy. You wondered if you were like her, that he’d look at you the same way. Looking at him, your shoulders slump when you see his blush— right, he’s into women. The sight of Eve in a bikini is enough to get him worked up.
“She’ll warm up to her,” You promise. “Eve’s nice.” You add because it’s hard to find something you don’t like about her. She’s nearly perfect.
“Yeah,” His eyes switch to you as he smiles. “She is. I’m glad you like her, too, y’know?”
Your eyebrows pinch at the confession. “You are?”
Mark nods. “You’re my best friend,” He laughs as if that wasn’t obvious. “I care about your opinion on things.”
“Yeah, but it’s your love life,” Mark shrugs, grabbing his soda and looks at Eve again. “I don’t really see why I matter in that…”
“If you don’t like someone, I don’t like them.” He explains and then his voice gets small. “Like when you told me that my dad was acting strange after my powers.” You’d caught them, while Mark was practicing and getting better at flying, that Nolan would switch emotions when he wasn’t looking. It caused a huge fight between the two of you. “I should’ve believed you.”
“You said you got over that,” You sigh. “It’s okay, I would’ve been hesitant too if you told me that my dad was acting weird.”
“Yeah, but your dad didn’t turn out to be an evil piece of—“
“Mark!” Eve giggles, her arms propped up on the edge of the pool. “Is it true that you used to play mermaids?” She asks, her head tilted and hair clinging to her skin in a way that makes it seem like it was done in some magazine to sell swimwear.
“Mom, auntie!” He whines, the blush rushing back to his face. “No, I didn’t!”
“His tail was blue and yellow,” Your mother grins and Eve snorts; nothing can convince her that he didn’t now. Seriously, your mother who was oblivious to the whole hero thing just so happens to guess the colors of his suit? She couldn’t be making that up. “Why don’t you boys get in the pool? Cool down before it’s time to eat?” Mark looks at you and you look away from Eve, shrugging ever so slightly.
“I want to finish up a report, but I’ll come down in a minute, yeah? It’s due in like three hours.”
“You always wait until the last minute,” Your dad chastises and you laugh an apology before slipping back into the house. From your room, you can see the backyard and you get a full view of Mark letting Eve climb onto his shoulders to play a game of chicken with Debbie and your mother. Looking away, you slump on your bed and run a hand down your face before turning back to your laptop.
Staring at your approval for a semester abroad, you wonder if distance would make these feelings go away. If you could just phase them away and just be happy for Mark instead of that stupid jealous feeling you get whenever he’s with his girlfriends.
—
Two months into living in London, it’s safe to say that going abroad was the wrong idea. Like so wrong, so incredibly wrong that you were ready to jump on a flight and leave your things behind in your flat. Now, London wasn’t bad. You enjoyed it the normal amount— spent the first week really doing the tourist things and now just tried to go to classes. But you missed home, you missed Mark and your parents, you missed your high school friends, and the food back home.
You hated seeing the news of Invincible taking yet another beating, hearing news about some earth-ending disaster he helped stop and not being able to be there. You hated that you knew he was hiding something, you can tell based on the way he texts, and how he looks when he calls you. Something is wrong with him and he’s not telling you and you’re not there to beat sense into him.
And then he finds the time to fly over, you seem to forget about it and enjoy him for the little time you have him for.
Some of your university friends were throwing a party at their flat and you happily went. You didn’t party in high school or during your first semester in college and now that there were no adults or friends to keep you in line, you’d gladly chug from the suspicious bottle. While you weren’t popular, there was definitely a crowd that knew you. You’re that transfer student from abroad staying with someone who’s in a decent number of friend groups.
They cheer as you show the empty bottle and you laugh, shaking your head and drifting off to the snacks table to find something to wash the nasty taste away. There are some good British snacks, you’d admit but you absolutely hate having to call chips crisps. It’s painful— so painful man.
Checking your phone, you don’t find many notifications. Just ones from the normal people, the regular group chats, and a spam text thrown into the mix. You’re about to pocket your phone when you start getting a call. Mark. Answering it, you find your way to a balcony and settle on a chair.
“Hey, Mark,”
“Are you busy— it sounds busy over there,” He inhales like he’s done something wrong.
“No, I’m just at a friend's party. But I’m not busy, what’s up?”
If you’d been on FaceTime, you would’ve seen the way he looked away, how he ran his hand through his hair and how he stared back at the phone as if you would climb through it. “Eve broke up with me,” He finally says. Leaning forward in your seat, you scratch your neck to hide your smile.
“Wha- what happened? I thought you two were good,” Mark sighs at the question, tossing himself back on his bed.
“We were fighting, like, a lot. She was upset because…” He trails off like he hadn’t meant to say that part. Because he hadn’t.
“Because?”
“Because,” He nods to himself, sitting up. “I’ve… I've been— I don’t even know. We were fighting over everything, it seems.” He huffs and you know he’s hiding something again. But fine, he’ll tell you when he’s ready, right? For now, you’ll focus on the breakup and ignore him blatantly lying to you.
“If you want,” You carefully say, looking back towards the party. “No one would notice you slipping into the party I’m at—“ The wind blows and suddenly Mark is in front of you, his phone in his hand. Laughing, you end the call and drag him inside. He lets you, taking the cup of unknown liquid you eagerly hand him. You introduce him to some of your friends who’re too drunk to question how he was there and he slowly gets into the rhythm of the party.
By the time it ends, he’s still sober. He learned the hard way that it takes a lot of alcohol to get him tipsy so he’s able to take you home when you’re stumbling over your feet.
“Gonna throw up,” You mumble as he carefully flies through the city. “Park the car.” He laughs but lands in an alleyway at your request, watching as you throw up into a trash can. Wiping your mouth, you start walking away but he grabs your hand and pulls you back to him.
Stumbling back to him, he steadies you. “Cars right here,” He jokes and you nod, wrapping your arms around his neck and laying your head on his shoulder. He lifts you up, carefully making sure you don’t move too much as he rises into the sky again.
“Mhmm, gonna ride you,” Mark pauses, his face turning red and stampers out a question only to find that you’d fallen asleep on him. Shaking his head, he flies you back to your flat and carefully tucks you in without your host family finding out. Taking a picture of you drooling, he laughs as he sends it to you before he leaves.
—
It’s the last day of you living in London, your flight leaves tomorrow so you’re making the last of your final full day. You snacks you’ll miss, some things for your friends and family before eventually just walking around. It’s late in the afternoon when you decide to turn around and head back to your flat, your legs are going to go numb soon and you’re a bit hungry.
As you turn around, you jump at the sight of Mark, well you guess Invincible since he’s in his suit.
He looks at you with a grin that makes you a little nervous. “Hey, Invincible,” You greet, pushing the headphones from your head down to your neck. “Everything alright?”
His head tilts in this robotic way and you take a step back, eyes narrowing. “I remember you,” He breathes and your eyes drift to his suit— it’s different. It’s a slight change but he has a symbol on his arm that wasn’t there before. Grabbing your phone, your thumb presses against his contact before Invincible grabs you. His grip is tight— impossibly tight and you shout as your wrist snaps. “Yeah,” He drags out as you fall to your knees, eyes wide as you stare at your bone popped out from your skin.
People around you scream and run; and he seems to soak it up for long enough that you grab your phone with your free hand; pressing the call button.
“You were one of my concubines in my empire,” His head tilts up as he continues to stare at you. “My favorite one.” Mark finally picks up, his voice unsteady. His voice is muffled by the headphones so you can’t make out what he’s saying, just his tone.
“Let me go,” You plead, trying to avoid staring at your blood when it’s gushing from your wrist. “Please.” Mark pauses on the other end and you hope he heard it. You hope that whoever this was with his body, his voice, and a nearly identical suit won’t kill you before he gets there.
“No.” His hand quickly moves from your wrist to your neck, tightening in a deathly grip that makes you choke. Holding his wrist, you try kicking him but he grabs your ankle, snapping your leg upward in one motion. Without air, you can’t scream as the pain ripples through your body. Closing your eyes, you try and breathe. Struggling to even get half an inhale inside your lungs. “You’re weak, fucking pathetic—“ You’re dropped to the ground and you shapely inhale.
With your good hand you prop yourself up and look at where the weird Invincible once stood. Instead, there’s no one there and you look to your left. The gates are bent inwards, broken in pieces and on the lawn, you can see Invincibles fighting. The fake one, is on the ground, covering his face as your Invincible bashes his head in. You’d forgotten that Mark changed his suit colors. You should have known, should’ve remembered it.
Someone helps you, an older woman in a pantsuit gently pulls you away from the fight, reassuring you that she’d called an ambulance. You nodded, hiccuping as you started crying. It’s still hard to breathe, it’s hard to do anything but focus on the pain. You can’t feel your hand or your leg, the blood is getting everywhere and you’re sure there weren’t black spots on the floor before.
“(Y/n)— hey, no, no,” There’s a black and blue suit in front of you and you lift your head as much as you can muster. “That’s good, keep your eyes open okay?” His suit is ripped, the goggles are cracked and you see his frantic eyes running across your body. “I’m gonna lift you and it’s gonna hurt, okay?” Nodding, he moves his hands underneath you and you shout as you’re lifted up. Your leg and hand sway with gravity, limp in the air and he apologizes. “Fuck, just— just stay awake, please.” He takes off in the air, flying as fast as his body could manage.
The last thing you remembered was the feeling of him crashing into something.
—
Mark listens to your heartbeat, his forehead pressed to the back of your hand to feel your warmth. Your other hand is in a cast, so is your leg but the doctors said that it should be healed soon enough thanks to the tech— he didn’t care for details, he just wants to know that you were going to live.
He should've been there, he should’ve known— somehow. He should’ve gotten there faster. First Eve and now you. And the worst part, he had to call your parents to explain.
The door opens and he expected it to be them but it wasn’t. “You can’t be here kid,” Cecil says and Mark’s not sure if he’s relieved or not.
“Those other Invincibles know about this place,” He shakes his head, not moving from your hand. “They could come here. Kill him to get at me,” He looks at you, an oxygen mask over your face, your neck bruised and his grip on your hand tightens a little. “He needs me.”
“We’re losing this, Mark. The world needs you.” He shakes his head, resting his forehead back against your palm as his eyes start to water again.
“You’ve got every superhero on the planet fighting for you, right now.”
“Mark… Oliver’s out there. Your mother is out there.”
“I said no!” Cecil sighs and leaves without a word. He sniffs, looking at you again. They’d washed the blood off, they’d gotten rid of the soiled clothes. You looked like you were asleep, peaceful. Your breathing was normal and he could hear you snoring like you always did when you were drained.
The doors open and he looks up, ready to yell at Cecil but instead he sees your mom and dad. He stands on instinct, eyes still glossy and sniffs.
“I’m so sorry,” He cries, watching as your mother rushes to your side, your dad close behind.
“My baby,” She cries, stroking your face. “Wha— what happened, Mark?” She looks at him before slowly looking at him. Her breath hitched and he hangs his head, ashamed.
“There’s alternate versions of me trying to take over the world,” He explains, trailing his eyes back to you. “One of them was in London and found him.”
“And you stopped him, right?” Your dad asks and Mark slowly nods. “Good. Go, we… we got him.” He wants to argue, he really does but instead he slowly nods again, grabbing his mask from the railing.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He promises and they nod.
Your mom grabs his hand and smiles up at him. “Be safe, Mark.”
—
When you wake up, Mark isn’t there and neither are your parents. The clock shows that it’s well past midnight and you groan, a sharp pain shooting up from your leg up to your back. The hospital monitor picks up and you blink, staring up the ceiling. Lifting your arm, you squint at the metal cast and wiggle your fingers. You didn’t think you’d be able to do that anymore. Sitting up, you carefully remove the blanket and look at the similar cast on your leg. It hurts to move, but you can move it.
The door opens and you see Eve.
“Hey,” She smiles, flying. Her leg is in the same cast as yours. That’s pretty neat. “Glad you’re awake, it was getting boring in my room.”
“Hey,” You smile back. “How long was I… sleeping?”
“Two weeks,” She inhales, sitting on a chair next to your bed. “Mark stops by everyday, your parents too. They’re in a hotel nearby, last I heard.”
Carefully, you actually look around the room. This isn’t like any hospital you’ve seen before. “Where am I?”
“Oh,” She slowly looks around the room. “This is the GDA, it has a hospital meant for heroes and sometimes their families.” She chuckled as she gestured to you. “Mark made them admit you.” She adds, now looking down. You smile, messing with the fabric of the bedsheet. “Do you want me to contact your parents? They won’t be able to get inside for another hour but at least they can know?”
You nod without hesitation. “Yes, please, thank you.” She nods and leaves the room. Two weeks, that’s a long time but then again you could’ve died. Holy shit, you could’ve died.
The door opens again and you expect to see Eve, but instead you’re crushed underneath Mark. He holds you as tightly as he can without hurting and you can feel the tears flowing from his eyes down to your neck. “Mark?” You look down at him, carefully wrapping your arms around him. The heart monitor speeds up again and you curse at it, trying to see if it’s connected to a wire you can remove.
“I thought you weren’t going to wake up,” He cries and you notice the bandages around his head.
“What happened to you?” He shakes his head at that, holding you tighter. Okay, he doesn’t want to talk about that right now. That’s fine. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” He sniffs. “I’m fine. Oh— shoot—“ He lifts up, wiping his face. “I’m probably crushing you, I’m sorry.”
You shake your head and carefully move to the side, creating a space for him to lay down. “I’m fine, Mark. Whatever doctors they have at this place are sick. I feel fine.” Catching the way his eyes dip down to your arm, you show off your cast. He nods, ghosting his fingers over the metal before his other hand curls into yours.
“I…” He breathes, slowly shaking his head. “I was so worried when you called me. Eve had just gotten attacked by one of me and then— and then you. God, I…” His eyes find yours and he closes his eyes. “I thought you were going to die.”
You shrug as if you hadn’t been terrified that night. “I’m fine now. Let’s focus on that,”
“Okay,” He nods and then looks around the room. “Did you… speak to Eve?”
“Not really,” You shrug. “She said she was happy I was awake, how long I was out, and then went to call my parents.” Mark nods again and starts messing with his shirt. You try to not look at his bruises on his face, just like he tries not to look at your fading ones on your neck. You look at his hand, watching as he pulls and tugs at the fabric.
“When we broke up,” He starts and you look up at him again. “Me and Eve, I mean. We broke up because… she thought I was bringing you into the relationship.”
“I don’t understand,” Mark squints as if the memories are so embarrassing he can’t bring them up again.
“She— I would bring you up, a lot. She said it was nearly every conversation and she was convinced that I was… in love with…you,” Carefully his eyes meet yours before they snap to that damned heart monitor. When his eyes find yours, you look away. “And I didn’t believe her until you called me. When I saw you, lying there, something snapped. I couldn’t lose you. I was so afraid.” Softly, he starts crying and you lean closer to him, wiping his tears away with your thumb. “When you were out, Cecil said that the world needed me and—“ He shakes his head, grabbing your hand. “It clicked that you were right there, my whole world.”
“Mark…” You trail.
“I love you, (Y/n).” He says before you can find something to say. “And not in the way we always say it. I love you, love you.”
“I love you, too.” Mark laughs, leaning down and kissing the top of your head. You were hoping for the lips, but that’s fine too. Thankfully, when he pulls away, he leans down and carefully kisses you. Holding his face, Mark crawls on top of you but you make him lay down in the spot next to you. “Am I heavy?” He laughs and you snort, shaking your head before opening your eyes.
“No, I just wanted you to be comfortable,” He hums, eyes on your lips before he crashes his lips back to yours.
The door opens and he pulls away, half expecting it to be Cecil or Eve, maybe even a doctor but no. It was far worse.
“Mom!” You both say, staring at your mother, your father and Debbie. Your father removes his baseball cap and covers his laugh while your mother and Debbie giggle. You fall back, covering your face and Mark rushes to his feet.
“We uh… we can explain,” He hurriedly says but your mother waves her hand, pushing him out of the way
“Mark, we been knew that you two would get together. Now move, my son is finally awake.”
With me hitting a writing block, I thought back to a childhood series I adored—The Hunger Games! This idea is simple, but was easy to write as you are lovers trying to survive the games, but is that really possible? Don't know what else to say, except, that I hope you enjoy!
FIGHT FOR ME
pairing: finnick odair x male reader
tags: you and finnick go back, friends to lovers, Annie doesn't exist in my realm, you're a fellow victor from district 10, district 10 specializes in livestock (so killing animals and providing meat to the capital), you are a man who is very calm, which pisses finnick the fuck out
The first time Finnick Odair saw you, he was still raw from the saltwater of his own Games—seventeen years old, paraded through the Capitol on his Victor’s Tour and sick of being beautiful for other people. He’d escaped a banquet by slipping onto a penthouse balcony, chest heaving with too-sweet air, when he noticed someone already leaning on the rail: you, District 10’s victor from three years prior, tuxedo unbuttoned and head tilted toward the constellations as if mapping a route home.
“Careful,” Finnick muttered, meaning the cameras inside.
You didn’t turn. “They’re all busy applauding themselves. We have five safe minutes.”
Something in the weary certainty of your voice cracked Finnick’s practiced charm. You offered him a silver flask—clear water, not liquor—then spoke of tides, ship knots, the glide of moonlight on coral. It was the first conversation since his crowning that hadn’t felt like being filleted. When he finally laughed—really laughed—you smiled and said, “I hoped that sound still existed.”
In the months that followed, your paths crossed whenever the Capitol trotted its trophies out: interviews, charity galas, private auctions none of the sponsors called by their real name. Finnick collected jewelry; you collected secrets—tiny acts of rebellion like pressing a note into his palm (“Meet me on the roof in seven minutes”) or blocking a Capitol lackey from drugging Finnick’s drink with a casual shoulder-bump. He started counting on the solid weight of you at his side, the unspoken code that if one disappeared, the other would go looking.
Affection snuck up on him in increments: the way his breath hitched when you ruffled his sea-damp hair during training sessions for new tributes; how jealousy burned when Capitol aristocrats laid greedy hands on your arm; the warm twist low in his stomach whenever you said his name without the purr everyone else used—just Finnick, bare and simple, like a real boy instead of a legend.
By the time he admitted, alone in his mentor’s quarters, “I love him,” the word felt too small for the tide inside his chest.
10 YEARS LATER
District 4—Victor’s Village, Sea-glass Lane
Your visits had become ritual: once every moon-cycle you traded cattle fields for Finnick’s weather-bleached porch, dropping your overnight pack beside the rope hammock and letting the salt wind unknot your shoulders. You told yourself it was friendship. Finnick told himself it was safer that way—love unnamed was love unexposed.
That bright autumn afternoon began like the others: gulls wheeling over the breakers, Mags humming in the kitchen, Finnick showing you how to splice line without fraying the fibers. You were teasing him—“Your knots look jealous of each other, so tight they can’t breathe”—when the Capitol emergency broadcast hijacked every screen in the house. The image of President Snow flickered across the living-room holopane.
Finnick’s laugh died. Your hands stilled, rope half-braided between you.
“As a reminder of the Capitol’s benevolence,” Snow drawled, eyes reptilian, “the Third Quarter Quell will draw its tributes from the existing pool of victors.”
Silence—vast, tidal—before Mags’ china teacup shattered in the next room.
Finnick’s stomach plummeted so violently he tasted copper. Not him. Anybody but him. He lurched to his feet, nearly tripping on the coil of rope, and reached for the remote with hands that suddenly wouldn’t obey. The holopane kept hissing—Snow listing dates, times, protocols—until Finnick found the power switch and cut the feed. The room plunged into hush broken only by surf, by the distant clang of a harbor bell, by Finnick’s pulse roaring in his ears.
You turned, expression almost peaceful. “It was inevitable.” You eased back onto the couch, folding one ankle over the other with that maddening calm he’d never managed to crack. “We always knew the Capitol wouldn’t let us die peacefully in old age.”
Finnick knelt before you, uncaring that his knees hit hardwood. “Stop. Don’t you dare put that resignation mask on. You fought harder than anyone I’ve ever seen—in your Games, in the years after, every time you kept another tribute from breaking.” His throat tightened. “You think none of that matters?”
“Finnick—”
“Stop.” Panic made his voice a brittle thing. “Don’t tell me you’re ready to go back into that place. Don’t tell me you’ll lie down because Snow snapped his fingers.”
Your calm ignited something furious inside him; he felt it flare through every scar the Capitol had ever kissed. “You think your death will satisfy him?” Finnick shook his head, curls whipping. “They’ll drag us both in anyway. They’ll kill us on screen. Don’t make it easy for them.”
“Finnick,” you repeated softly, brushing a strand of sea-tangle hair from his lashes. “I have no illusions. I’m twenty-six. I have been living on borrowed time since I won the games at thirteen. If dying keeps another child out of the Arena—”
“Don’t you dare dress suicide in charity.” Finnick's voice cracked; he forced iron into the next words. “Your life isn’t a bargaining chip. It’s mine, too—do you understand that? I’m in love with you. That means your heartbeat is mine.”
Shock flickered across your face—the confession he’d whispered only to empty walls now alive between you. It trembled there, fragile as a soap bubble, until you lifted a hand and rested your palm to his chest, over the tattoo of knots near his heart. Your thumb stroked once, twice, the way you smoothed rope before pulling it tight.
“Finnick Odair,” you murmured, voice turned rough, “I don’t deserve that kind of devotion.”
“Then fight until you do,” he fired back, desperate. “Fight for every stolen night like this. Fight because I can’t stand if you’re not beside me.”
The holopanel continued to drone outside—people celebrating that their young children wouldn't be reaped, the Capitol anthem swelling—but the two of you stood in a pocket of stillness. Finally you nodded, as if accepting command aboard a doomed vessel.
“Okay” you said. “I'll fight to stay alive, but that doesn't mean I won't protect you out there.”
“You’ll protect me?” Finnick echoed. “You realize how backwards that sounds?”
You arched a brow. “I’ve watched you cart more than one Career across the ground with a spear through your calf, Odair. Someone had better keep you from playing hero.”
For the first time since Snow’s card, a laugh—thin but real—broke from Finnick’s throat. It felt like breathing after surf had pinned him under. “Deal,” he whispered, resting his forehead to yours. “We protect each other. Always.”
You bumped noses, conspiratorial. “Always is a long voyage, sailor.”
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