#invincible fanfic

[supermenz]

fighting the hating the boyfriend final boss(es)

summary: Meeting the parents is always stressing. It especially is so when your dad's Batman, and your mom is what many would consider a terrorist cult leader, while his dad is an alien come to conquer Earth and his mom is... weirdly normal. (Or: four times you meet each other's parents individually, and the one time they all meet.)

pairing(s): mark grayson x al ghul!batsis!reader, batsis!reader x platonic batfamily, batsis!reader x platonic al ghul family

word count: 14.8k

warnings: i imagined them to be around 20-ish?, swearing, a smidge of spoilers from the comics but nothing too detailed, au of the two-parter linked down below (it can be read without reading that first, but if you want to understand reader's backstory you'd need to do that), enstablished relationship, suggestive maybe, making out, mark is kinda a sugar baby, oliver is a baby because i say so, nolan and debbie are still together for the same reason (debbie pls take him back), implied suicide, mention of hell and torture, conner kent is mentioned as reader's ex, other than that lots of fluff and banter!!

author's note: i know this batsis sounds cheesy in comparison to the one of the that girl is corrupt-verse, but let me explain: yes, they're the same person, but she's grown since then and has found her peace. also, this is just a funny AU, so don't worry, her and conner don't break up in the original fic!! as always, beta-read by my wonderful @lechelovestoyap <3 dividers from @uzmacchiato!

au of ⮕ that girl is corrupt | could you raise her to love me, maybe?

— one. 

“He’s late.” 

“I know he is.” 

“I didn’t expect him to be.” 

It’s twelve fifty-five. Mark was supposed to be here twenty-five minutes ago, and your father’s not amused. You raise an eyebrow, highly doubting his words. “You didn’t? Really?”

He taps his fingers on the table. “Meeting your girlfriend’s father is an important thing, if you value the relationship. I didn’t think he had it in him to show up late — not after all the psychological warfare you surely subjected him into.”

You roll your eyes, moving around the appetizers on your plate. The place is nice– because of course Bruce Wayne would choose nothing but the best restaurant to publicly humiliate his daughter’s boyfriend. It’s a rooftop restaurant that only makes boujee Italian dishes, where a reservation would take you months to get without the name Wayne attached to it, and while normally you’d love to eat here, you’d rather do so without the looming threat of your father reducing Mark’s ego to smithereens. “Evidently so, it wasn’t enough.”

You’re pretty sure that you reminded him of this lunch so many times that he must’ve dreamed about you — and not nice dreams where you’re nice to him and fulfill all his fantasies, but those ugly ones where you turn into a seven-headed demon and yell at him to be on time for once. The fact that all your brothers are sitting at a nearby table with horrendous wigs and fake mustaches is not helping. 

You even dressed up — which you never do. Sure, you’re always stylish, and a picture of you in a bad outfit would probably sell for thousands in gossip magazines, but this time you put in the work. Nice black dress. Silver Rolex. Pearl earrings that belonged to your grandmother in hope of softening Bruce up. 

Generally, the nice dress should’ve served as an incentive for Mark to show up and for your father to see him seriously. Now, it looks like you’re compensating for your chronically late boyfriend. 

You’re looking at your phone screen and setting it back down face-down on the table every five minutes. Dick and Jason have been cackling about something — no doubt Mark getting his ass handed to him somewhere around the world — for the last three minutes, and you swear you’re about to throw a salad knife at them.

God, the salad knife. You even taught Mark cutlery etiquette just for this. Will he ever need to know the difference between the fork used for the first course and the one for the main? Probably not, but anything to placate your father’s dislike for him. 

“You act like you’re never late,” you grumble to Bruce. He pokes at your shoulder, “That’s because I never am.” 

Finally. Some words you can throw back at him. Crossing your arms, you say, “Ah, you aren’t? Well, what about mine and Cass’ Christmas recital? We were doing Swan Lake, Father, and we were the leads. Then there were about a dozen council meetings at school– talking about the only ones you showed up at, by the way. Then it was Tim’s birthday last year, and Clark’s birthday, and Selina’s birthday, and my graduation, and Barry and Iris’ baby shower–”

“Fine, fine,” your father hisses, squinting at his watch. “But he better be here in the next ten minutes, because I’m not waiting for him then, and you shouldn’t either.” he lowers his voice, “I thought you were done for good with alien hybrids and supes after breaking up with Conner. Between the two of them, I’m not sure which one I despise the least.” 

You deadpan. “I could say so much worse about all your ex girlfriends, but for the sake of public appearances, I’ll leave it at that.” the simple fact that your mother’s in a terrorist cult should make him ashamed of trying to give you relationship advice. 

Finally, Mark Grayson graces the entrance doors. Like you had kindly asked him — which in your world means threatened without a sharp object in your reach — he’s wearing that light blue Ralph Lauren polo you got him for Valentine’s Day, and those Levis jeans that aren’t baggy but not even skinny that make him look like someone who can actually dress himself up nicely.

Thank God– so he knows how to listen when he wants to. You told him a thousand times to wear something casual, but not too shabby so as to let your father think he didn’t care about meeting him — guess setting the clothes out on his bed helped. His hair is brushed back as usual, his smile nervous as the waiter brings him over to your table, and in his hand is a bouquet made out of colorful tulips. He gives you a crooked smile, one that says, I’m sorry, I love you, please don’t hate me, I swear there was an alien invasion I had to stop before coming here. 

“Hi,” he whispers, bowing down to leave a kiss on your cheek. You glare at him, tapping your bicep as your father rises from his seat, hand extended. Mark tries to smile at him, but it comes out as an anxious wince instead when they shake hands. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Wayne– sorry for the delay, there was… traffic downtown. I’m sure you’d understand.” he holds the flowers out. “I also brought you flowers.” 

Bruce blinks, eyebrow twitching. Your brothers are staring over their menus, not even bothering to hide their spying, while the waiter waiting for their order looks at them with the eyes of someone who wishes they didn’t pay him enough to deal with such buffoonery. In the end, the playboy facade of your father always prevails, and he gives Mark a polite, tight smile. “The pleasure is all mine,” it clearly isn’t, judging by the grip he’s got on his hand, “try to be on time next time, will you? Counting traffic and all.” 

You take a deep breath. If you want to get out of this lunch with your honor still intact — and with a boyfriend still — you can’t keep giving Mark the cold shoulder. Once you’re out of here, you’ll berate him all you want — but as long as you’re here, you’ll have to look positive towards him. Even nice, perhaps. But only if he behaves well. 

As Mark takes a seat beside you, your father settles the flower on the empty seat beside him. They slump like they know this is going to be a disaster. 

Nervous, your boyfriend looks between you and your dad, still glaring at each other, then at the barely touched appetizers in the middle of the table. Then, of course, at the table right beside yours, where your brothers are pretending to be very interested in their menus. “Uh…” he lets out a nervous laugh, “I– I hope my timing didn’t ruin your first impression of me.” 

Your father’s first impression of him was doomed ever since Omni-Man appeared on national television and destroyed half of Chicago by beating him to a bloody pulp, but you won’t be the one to tell him that. Bruce finally drags his gaze out of yours and offers him a dubious look. “That’s the last thing I’m worried about.” 

Mark pales. Right. He’s probably more worried about the whole Viltrumite thing, as well as his daughter’s preference for half aliens. “Right. Of course. Well–”

“Can I get your order?” The waitress has a polite smile on her face and is clearly unaware of the tension at the table when she rounds it, notepad in hand. Your father doesn’t even hesitate, “I’ll take today’s special.” 

You’ve been here enough times to know your favorite dish without looking at the menu. “I’ll take the cacio e pepe.” 

Mark scrambles for the menu. You sigh, finally uncrossing your arms and placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “Take the lasagna. You’ll love it.” He nods and stutters out to the very amused waitress, “I’ll pick the lasagna then.” 

Before the woman can go, Bruce stops her. “Oh, one last thing,” he points to the table full of gossips beside yours, “tell security that Mr Wayne wants them out.” 

“Awe, c’mon!” Dick whines, his mustache standing crooked over his top lip. “Things were just starting to get good!” the waitress smartly decides not to linger and disappears in the kitchen. You can already see the headlines: WAYNE FAMILY TERRORISES RESTAURANT PERSONNEL OVER LUNCH WITH DAUGHTER’S BOYFRIEND. Oh, Vicki’s going to have a field day with this. 

Bruce manages to drag out every single one of your brothers in something that is very close to being the most embarrassing five minutes of your life, in which you make sure to brief Mark again on keeping his best behavior. “No mention of your father. Straighten up your shoulders. Don’t make him smell your fear.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, “Wait, he can smell fear?”

You blink. “Don’t doubt that for even a second. And don’t let him make you nervous — it’s how he guesses whether you’re serious about me or not.”

He pouts, hand coming up over yours. “I may be nervous, but I am serious about you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that — tell him.” 

Lowly, he laughs, pressing a soft kiss on your cheek — it’s best to stick to that as far as your father’s in a mile radius. “Thanks for the advice, babe– what would I ever do without you?” he noses at your temple, “Also, have I told you how ravishing you look?”

Despite everything — the fact that you should be mad at him for being late, the looming threat of your father’s disapproval and your brothers’ constant mingling — you find yourself letting out a hint of a chuckle. “Ravishing?” you muse, “God, Mr Grayson, have you gone back to your studies or what?”

He frowns. “Hey, I don’t need to go back to studying to know a new word to compliment my beautiful, stunning girlfriend, okay?” 

You tap his jaw, “If flattery could get you somewhere with my father, beloved, it would get you everywhere.” A sigh escapes your lips, “A shame he got so flattered up over the years that by now he’s immune to that.” 

Mark pats your hand. “I’m sure we’ll find another way to soften him up.” 

Having been together for almost a year now, you should’ve known that he was being way too optimistic. 

As you had expected, Bruce is ruthless. He asks countless questions circling what for him is the real problem — Mark’s father, of course — and whenever he makes jokes, they are passive-aggressive, with no real intention of easing the tension up. He asks why he left college, how fast his brother actually grows, how the two of you met, if he had heard of you before, if he has a job– common father stuff, if it wasn’t for the fact that he asks every question like it’s the one that could finally grant him the death penalty. You’ve got to pat yourself on the back, though, because your boyfriend replies like a champ every time, which means the psychological warfare training camp worked on him. Somehow. 

It doesn’t seem like it’s working in softening your father, though, because with every answer, his eyebrows crease more and more. With how it’s going, you’d bet he’ll look like he aged twenty years once you get out of here, and soon enough, he doesn’t even try to hide asking about Nolan anymore. 

You get it, okay? Common Bat concern or whatever it is for him. But this was supposed to be lunch to officially meet your boyfriend, not to collect intel on the aliens that Clark doesn’t really like. 

“So,” Bruce starts again, “how does your father plan to… atone for his actions?”

Your hand tightens around your fork, and Mark discreetly places his palm over your thigh, caressing your skin over the dress. It’s reassuring, but you bitterly think that you should be the one comforting him and not the other way around, because your father is blaming him for something he hasn’t done. He doesn’t say it, but he clearly thinks that he and Omni-Man can’t be much more different. 

Mark, bless his soul, just sits there and takes it for your sake, because were he to fight back Bruce would never let him live that down. “Well, he joined the Coalition of Planets a while ago, he’s gotten back to strictly protecting the Earth and has the intention of fighting against Viltr–”

“Just what is wrong with you?”

While Mark freezes, Bruce nearly drops his fork, because you’re giving him the same look your mom uses whenever she wants to kill him — which is more often than anyone would imagine. For a moment he wonders if you’ll take the fish knife and just stab him right now out of annoyance, but he’s quickly reassured when you don’t make a move for it. “You in the first place should know how hard it is to be judged by your parent’s actions — and whether you believe it or not, everyone at this table has risked dying at least once because someone saw their father in them.”

You’ve lost count of how many times you and Damian have been blamed for Bruce’s actions, and even if your little brother took the brunt of the hit thanks to Morgan Ducard, your father is the last man who should be making questions about parentage. “You have no right to ask him such questions, because yeah, you’re my dad, but you’re just getting to know Mark. And if you’re more interested in getting to know his father and trying to understand if he’s got the intention to destroy the planet, then pick up your goddamn phone and call Nolan Grayson, not his son Mark.” 

Under their bewildered looks, you get up from your seat and smooth your dress down. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” your heels click on the pavement as you cross the room, only to disappear behind the women’s restroom door. Great. Now it’s just Mark and your dad’s glare towards him. 

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves down. Clearly, he’s torn between his worry about you dating yet another stupidly overpowered alien and your happiness. “I’m sorry, Mark, but– you understand, right? After all the things your kind has done to humans, I can’t help but question your intentions towards my daughter.”

Mark can feel the uneasiness creep up on him — he wasn’t exactly comfortable earlier, but at least your father wasn’t comparing him to genocidal maniacs. “With all due respect, Mr Wayne, but I am not like the other Viltrumites, and I have no intention to hurt your daughter in any way.”

Your father sighs tiredly — the sigh of a man whose children continue to mess around with aliens to the point that he fears who are going to be your parents-in-law one day. He holds up his index finger, “Give me one reason why I should trust you with my daughter. One, and I’ll make sure to get to know you before I compare you to your father next time.” 

“Well, first of all, I love her very much,” he could write paragraphs on that — and he actually does, when he’s off-planet and only has his notes app as a means of entertainment. “And I’d never do anything to hurt her in any way, and–” he lowers his voice, “well, it’s kinda embarrassing to admit this to one of the first vigilantes, but… I’ve seen so many horrendous things in the last few years of my life that without even knowing it, she reminds me of why I do what I do, and why I need to keep on going.” 

Bruce doesn’t show particular appreciation, but raises an eyebrow at last — and, for once, not in doubt, but in curiosity. “And, yeah, sometimes things get shitty– um, sorry about that– but then I think that it’s all for her safety and it’s like everything settles back to place. I don’t even think she knows how one smile from her is enough to turn my days around.” 

This time, your father positively perks up, eyes widened the littlest bit. He pauses for a moment, speechless, then: “She smiles when she’s with you?” 

It’s not that you’re completely emotionless, it’s just that it’s hard to get a smile out of you. In all the years you’ve been with him, Bruce has seen you smile only a handful of times, and they were all mostly with Damian. Mark stares at him like he’s crazy. “Uh… she does?” It sounds more like a question, but it’s just because he doesn’t know if he said something he wasn’t supposed to.

Bruce takes a deep breath. Okay, okay. He already got over Starfire a long time ago, he managed to get over Conner twice already — once as Tim’s best friend, twice as your boyfriend — and one day, he’ll probably have to get over Jon being a constant in Damian’s life, too. How bad can another alien in the family be, as long as he makes you happy? “And how much?”

Mark is now looking at him as if he just grew another head. “Dunno — I don’t count how many times she smiles in a day.” a shrug, “Often, I’d guess.” 

You come back from the restroom, and suddenly, Bruce is very aware of how you instinctively lean towards your boyfriend, and how his arm immediately wraps around your shoulders, thumb caressing the bare skin there as if he’s done it already a million times. And then he looks at how you’re still wrinkling your nose at him in annoyance, and thinks about how you looked so at ease when he came back from kicking your brothers out of the restaurant. 

In the end, for once in his life and yet again for his children, Bruce Wayne relents. When Mark excuses himself to go to the bathroom, he nudges you with his elbow. “You chose a nice one,” he admits despite himself. “Well done.” 

— two. 

“Remind me when we can leave again?”

“As soon as the event’s done, Mark.” 

He pouts — he’s been doing that a lot in the past two hours, and it probably has to do with the suit he’s wearing. Mark has never been one for dressing up, but even if he was, you’re pretty sure that Dick’s suit is fitting him a little too right — not that you’d ever dare to complain about that. 

Now, it’s not that Mark doesn’t have nice suits: he just doesn’t have the expensive kind people use once for events and then let rot in the dresser out of sheer money squandering. So, as your father gave you little to no warning for this event, your boyfriend is stuck wearing one of the other Grayson’s suits, as between all your brothers he’s the most similar one to him in measurements. Unfortunately, Dick has all his suits tailored, so Mark’s biceps are just a little too snug under the shirt’s sleeves, and he’s adjusted his tie at least a hundred times since you got here. 

Bruce is somewhere in the Gotham sewage system looking for Killer Croc, hence why you’re here: no matter how hard Mark tried to convince him that he could’ve handled it for him, your father still insists on the no Metas in Gotham rule — and the fact that he’s more like an alien rather than a human with powers doesn’t really work in his favor. 

So now you and Mark are in an expensive-looking ballroom with high ceilings and marble floors, where the tables with food are more than the chairs to take a seat on. Crystal chandeliers shimmer over your heads and the guests are too busy sharing polite conversations to notice the way everyone is clearly judging everyone else. 

“How do you and your brothers handle this?” your boyfriend mutters, thumb rubbing circles over your waist. “This feels like high school all over again. They can’t possibly really think that they’re all friends.” 

You shrug, resting your cheek on his shoulder and taking a sip from your champagne glass. “It’s for charity, beloved. Handle just a few more hours, please.”

“Hours?!” he whisper-yells, quietening down when you shush him. “Yes, a few hours. It’s for a good cause. The species at risk of extinction will forever be grateful for your help.” 

He stares off into the distance, “Then how is it that the only brother of yours present tonight is the one that dislikes me the most?” 

Damian stands at the other end of the hall, with his arms crossed and a murderous look set on your boyfriend like he isn’t getting coddled left and right by all women present. His cheeks are red from all the pinches they’ve been giving him, and his hair is a bit more mussed than it was when you left the Manor — estimating all the pats on the head he got would be nearly impossible. 

You shrug. “He believes in the cause. The others are helping B.” 

“Well, I could’ve helped, too.” Mark shakes his head in sorrow, “He’s here to keep an eye on me because he hates me.” 

“He doesn’t hate you,” you counter, “he just feels deeply doubtful about you and our relationship because he got my father’s paranoia and is completely sure that you want to conquer the world alongside Viltrumites or something.” 

Your boyfriend blinks. “Ah, I got it. So he despises me.” 

“Stop being so dramatic.” You roll your eyes and down the last drops of your champagne, then push the empty glass to his chest. “Listen, Romeo, there’s an open bar in the name of all species leaning towards extinction. Would you be so kind as to get me another drink while I go save Damian?” 

He takes your glass without a word and moves for the crowded bar, then disappears between high-society pricks and whatnot. Across the room, you share a pointed look with Damian, one that says Will you behave, or am I going to leave you to your own defenses?, and you still start to cross the hall even if he removes his eyes from you in what clearly means I will not bend, just because he’s your little brother and you love him very much. 

A hand on your shoulder stops you on your tracks. “Do you have a special interest in alien hybrids or is your new intended just a coincidence?”

Your shoulders slump. You take a deep breath to calm down, because you don’t even need to turn around to know whose voice this is. “Talia,” you greet calmly, turning around. “What a surprise.” 

“Talia?” she raises a brow in disdain. She’s wearing an emerald satin dress, scarily similar to your deep blue one, and she’s got a hand over her hip like you’re the problematic one between the two of you. “Again with that first name madness? I am your mother, sweetling. Refer to me as such.” 

Your eye twitches. “Will it get you to leave earlier?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “We’ll see.” 

You shake her hand off your shoulder, “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Talia pouts in that manner that almost makes her look like a normal mother and not an assassin trained to lie and pretend. “Your father got to meet your new partner, didn’t he? It’s not fair that I didn’t meet him.”

You deadpan. “First of all, he’s not exactly new– we’ve been dating for almost a year. Second, the last time I had you come over to meet a boyfriend you put liquid Kryptonite in his drink, and then tried to cut him in half with a magic sword.” 

She rolls her eyes, “Well, he survived, didn’t he?”

“Mother.” you both turn to look at Damian, poking his head from behind your hip. “What are you doing here?” He's hugging your legs, playing the part of the shy kid for all to see, but you both know better — you’ve seen him hide butter knives from the buffet table in his sleeves once, and you don’t doubt that he’d be able to do that again. 

Talia purses her lips. “I fear your father may have had a bad influence on you two — all you ask is what do you want and what are you doing here, but what about a nice, good evening, Mother, we are so happy to see you again?” she scoffs, “Your father has poisoned you with his American ill-manneredness. I thought he was better than that.”

“I know you preferred the champagne, but they were taking forever to bring the new bottle out from the back, so I just got you a piña colada–” Mark stops in his tracks right behind you, drinks still in his hands, blinking at your mother like she’s a ghost come to take him back to hell. With the subtlety of an overweight hippo in a ceramic store, he leans towards your ear and whispers, “You have a sister?!”

Both you and Damian look at him like he just lost all the esteem you had in his regards — which already wasn’t much to start with. You sigh, hissing, “She’s our mother,” 

Mark’s eyes widen, and she looks at Talia, then at you, then at her, then back at you. “Your father is a cradle robber?!” 

Your mother raises a judging eyebrow in his way as you elbow him on the ribs. Talia does not show her years, all thanks to all those dips in the Lazarus Pit over the years — as it slows aging with use — and the entire team of dermatologists that your grandfather kidnapped just for her as soon as she turned thirty. “He’s not. She looks young, but she’s fort–”

“Not a day over thirty,” she interrupts with a tight-lipped smile. 

You pucker your lips. “Whatever. Anyway, trust me, she was old enough when she had us.” Reluctantly, you pull Mark forward by his arm, “Mark, this is Talia Al Ghul — my mother. Mother, this is Mark Grayson — my… intended, as you’d say.” 

Talia extends a hand, “A pleasure to finally meet you.” you slap Mark’s arm away before he can shake it, and grab your mother’s wrist to rip a skin-like sticker on her palm. “No DNA scans for you tonight, Talia,” you hiss. “You didn’t even try to hide it.”

Mark would argue that he didn’t notice, but something tells him that it’s not the right move when your brother already thinks he’s the stupidest thing that ever happened to the whole planet. Your mother shrugs. “Trying didn’t hurt. He was falling for it– it’s not my fault your friends all have very interesting biologies, but such disappointing grey matter.” 

Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow, “What’s that mean?”

You deadpan, “Stop running your mouth, you’re just proving her point.”  

“Our lineage is doomed,” Damian grimly mutters. You glare at him, “Says the guy who has accepted bullying from old women all night.” 

“Feel free to come by the League’s headquarters whenever you want,” your mother cuts in, looking at Mark with a fake sweet smile, “we’d be happy to have you.” 

“Thanks,” he replies, not totally convinced. “Um– League for what?” 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she reassures him, then looks at the watch on her wrist. “Oh, would you look at that– your grandfather is waiting for me with Croc a few stores below Gotham’s streets. Are you in the mood for a nice family reunion?”

“No,” you and Damian reply immediately. She sighs, “A shame. Well, I have to go now.” 

Before turning on her heel, she sends a pointed look at you. “If his lineage wasn’t what it is, I’d probably tell you that he’s not good enough for you. But,” she scrolls her shoulders, “we could always use resources such as his muscles. As long as he’s… containable.” 

She disappears in the crowd of socialists soon after, and Mark is left gaping at you and Damian. “I don’t know why, but I always figured your mother was… dead, I guess.”

You side-eye him, “Never told you she was.”

“I know,” he mutters, “is she always this weird?”

“She’s not weird,” Damian corrects him, “she’s sophisticated. For the likes of you, anyway.” 

You slap him on the back of his head, then turn to Mark. “She’s a terrorist.”

“She prefers highly-skilled assassin,” your brother grumbles.

You roll your eyes, “The League she was talking about? League of Assassins. The grandfather she mentioned is Ra’s al Ghul — the Demon’s Head. He started the whole operation and trained both me and Damian for a time.” 

For a moment, Mark just stares at the both of you in disbelief. Then, barely containing the tone of his voice, he asks, “Your grandfather is fucking Ra’s al Ghul?”

Your grandfather isn’t really known to the grand public with his real name, but to anyone who has fought against the men of the League at least once and, mostly, to the Government, it might as well be as known as the benefits of drinking water. Innocently, you blink. “You didn’t know? I figured Cecil would have told you that.” 

Frantically, he looks to where your mother disappeared, “We let a world-scale terrorist get away just like that?”

Damian scoffs in scorn. “Didn’t you hear her, dim-wit? She said they’re working with Croc. I’m sure father will handle it just fine.” 

A loud BOOM! resounds from under your feet, and the shaking of the ground nearly makes you topple down; the crystal chandeliers rattle as the music stops, and everyone starts screaming. Holding both you and your brother steady, Mark eyes the latter, “He’s handling it just fine, is he?” 

Refusing to let him win the argument, the boy tsks. “Mishaps happen.” 

Rolling his eyes in fake annoyance, your boyfriend kisses your temple and ruffles Damian’s hair even if he protests. “Get everyone out, okay? I’ll go check in on them — make sure the city’s foundations aren’t about to collapse.” 

“Try not to be too vincible while doing so,” your brother grunts out. 

— three. 

“I still can’t believe we’re here.”

Mark is giggling into the bed sheets like a teenage girl, his chin propped up on his palms as he sways his feet back and forth in the air while looking at you get ready. You huff a laugh out, “Mind helping me tie this bikini or should I do it all by myself?” 

He jumps up before you can even finish the sentence, and immediately moves his hands to grab the loose strings of your top. His initial excitement slowly dies down when his hands fumble uselessly against the back of your neck, “Wait– I can’t figure this thing out. Why are there four strings?”

“You wrap two at the front in a bow,” you explain, still holding your hair up, “and the other around your neck. Wanna try one on?” 

He finally finishes up the back bow, and uses the other untied strings as an excuse to wrap his arms around your front, chin poking your shoulder. “I’ll pass.” He plays with the purple strings for a moment just to get a better peek at your boobs right under his eyes, then finishes the second bow and affectionately rubs his cheek against yours. “It suits you so well, though. It’s like staring at the sun– if I look a little too long my eyes will burn.” 

You hum, reaching for the waist bead chain you had left on the suite’s table, “Wow, looks like we have a charmer.” He pulls your back flat against his chest again and kisses the bare skin of your shoulder, nosing the hollow of your neck. “You’re aware that this is, like, the best birthday ever, right?”

“I am,” you reply, pleased, kissing the corner of his mouth. His hands rest over your belly button as he gets some more snuggles out of you, and you pat his forearm condescendingly. “Come on, tiger, you got enough cuddles last night. William and Rick are already waiting for us down at the beach.” 

Getting Mark a vacation for his birthday was an idea you’d come up with after seeing how ragged he ran himself in the last few months; the only question that remained was where to take him. Then he’d brought you on a double date to meet his best friend William and his boyfriend, Rick, and the machinations to make this vacation happen began. 

At first you wanted to make it simple — ask him where he wanted to go, who he wanted to go with and just book the tickets and hotel for him. Then William chimed in and said that he probably would’ve liked a surprise better, and scrapped your idea of a mountain resort for a tropical destination instead, suggesting Aruba and saying something about Mark always wanting to relax on a beach. Then he added that maybe, just to enrich the gift even more, he and Rick could’ve come too — and really, what a monster would you have been to let them pay for their own tickets when you’ve got access to all your father’s money?

(You know that William probably just had you bring him and his boyfriend to a destination they already want to see, but honestly, as long as Mark’s happy, you don’t really care.) 

Mark grumbles, rubbing his forehead on your neck, “That’s the only thing I have anything to say about. Inviting William and Rick, babe? We could’ve spent all this time by ourselves. Alone. In here, or possibly in the private jacuzzi on the balcony.” 

You peck his temple, “We’ll have time for that! But now your best friend is waiting for us down at the beach, and he’s begging for those scuba diving lessons we booked.” 

Your boyfriend sighs. “He’s such a leech.” 

Pinching his hand with no real malice, you snort. “He’s your best friend. Give him some credit.” 

Later on, he’s happy to find out that you packed a pair of swimming trunks matching your bikini — at least they will make the whole beach with the lovebirds experience less dreadful. He’s been so used to being William and Rick’s third wheel that sometimes he forgets he doesn’t have to be that anymore. 

Once he’s done in the bathroom, Mark comes out to the living room again, finding you sitting on the plush armchair, a sarong tied to your waist and sunglasses pulled over your hair. You look up from your phone at him, an eyebrow raised, “Can we go now?”

He’s the one to worry about the beach bags, of course, because being on vacation doesn’t mean he doesn’t have powers anymore. William whoops when he finally sees the two of you approaching hand in hand the sunbeds he already picked out this morning. “Thought you’d never get here!” he exclaims, hands over his hips as he glares at Mark settling the bags down. Then he turns to you, pointing to his best friend in an accusing manner, “Is this guy bothering you?”

“Not yet,” you assure him.

“Ha, ha, ha,” your boyfriend grits out, straightening out two towels on the sunbeds. “go on. Talk about me like I’m not here, and like it’s not thanks to me that you’re here, dude.” 

You and William share a look, then he snorts and goes back to berate Mark. “Well, it’s not thanks to you. She booked the vacation.”

“Technically, this is his birthday present,” you reply. 

“Technicalities, technicalities,” William waves you off. “So, are we going scuba diving or not?”

Lunch follows the one hour scuba session, and the four of you find yourselves sitting on a table of the beach bar, sunglasses pulled over your eyes, hair still damp with saltwater. William hums while sipping his drink, then clinks his glass with Mark’s. “Now, this is the kind of life you dream about! No monsters, no alien invasions — just us, the clear water and everything included.”

Rick presses his hands together as if in prayer, then bows his head ridiculously towards you. “All hail, the Waynes’ credit card,”

“Cards, Rick, cards,” you correct, amused. 

“One last question– if you hadn’t booked this vacation, what would you have gotten Mark?” William asks, by now far too invested in finding out just what your money’s length goes to. You shrug. “Oh, you know, normal stuff. A car, or that one figurine of Science Dog that he insists has been retired from the market.” 

Both Mark and William gasp. At the same time the latter shrieks, “He could’ve gotten a car?!” your boyfriend, bless him, screams, “I could’ve gotten the Limited Edition Groundhog Day Celebration Action Figure made exclusively for ten buyers?!” 

His best friend stares at him, deadpanning, like he’s got a ghost in front of him and not the guy he grew up alongside for all these years. “Bro. You could’ve gotten a car.” 

“Who cares?!” by now, Mark’s hysterical, looking at you with big puppy eyes as you sip your drink. “I’ll have to buy a car anyway, someday — but the Limited Edition Groundhog Day Celebration Action Figure made exclusively for ten buyers? That’s something I’ll never get to buy in my life.” he intertwines his hands and looks at you with all the hope a praying man holds for deity. “Can we still get it?” 

Flabbergasted, William stutters. “I’m more worried about the fact that you know that figure’s name by memory than the fact you just scrapped a car for Science Dog.” Rick nods. “How is it that it’s limited edition if it already was intended for just ten buyers?” 

You’d already ordered it long before getting on the plane to come here, but having Mark being so clueless about all of this is just too funny to pass up. Twirling the ice cubes in your glass with the straw, you look at him, as serious as ever. “Why would I? You’ve already got your birthday present.” 

He looks positively crestfallen, and drops his forehead on your elbow like he’s begging — which, to be fair, he kinda is. “I’ll be the best boyfriend there is — please! I’ll hold your bags for you, always. I won’t complain anymore when you ask me for back massages.” he lowers his voice, making sure only you can hear. “I’ll eat you out for, like, a month straight.” 

You deadpan. “You act like you don’t already do these things — aside from complaining. You do that a lot.” sighing, you hold your hand out and say the magic words. “Get me my phone.” 

He squeals, scrambling for your beaded bag slung across the back of his seat, and William shakes his head. “The two of you are unbelievable.” 

Mark’s already too focused on kissing every inch of your face as you scroll through your phone to respond. When you show him that the figure’s already bought and is set to arrive the day you come back from this trip, his eyes well up with tears — actual, serious tears he’s about to shed over what everyone else will just call a toy. “I could actually marry you on the spot.” 

“Make sure not to sign any prenup before doing that,” William snorts. 

You shush him and press a kiss over Mark’s salty, damp cheek — already stained with tears like the man he is. He takes a body shattering beating without a single peep, but a rare action figure? That’s a different story. “You’re such a nerd,” you tease, affectionately scratching his jaw with your nails. “It’s a wonder how you and Tim manage not to get along.” 

The vacation is everything you’d hoped it would be. You have time to detox from Gotham’s air and take a break from Batgirl, all with the great, wonderful excuse of your boyfriend’s birthday. It also gives you a reason to wear all the bikinis you’d impulsively bought last year after sales at your usual boutique, and of course lets you stare at Mark’s physique all you want without any single remorse. 

Whenever he notices your staring, he just smirks and then teases, “Wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer.” 

The expanse of his back is even more enticing now that it’s tanned and shiny from his latest dive. You don’t even remember how much you spent on this trip, but you know for sure that it was money well spent. “I’ve got the real thing right in front of me,” you reply easily, shifting to lie on your stomach to tan your back. “No reason to downgrade it to a picture. Not to mention, in your case I fear that a picture would last less.” 

He doesn’t reply and you’re not looking at him, so you don’t see his reaction — but judging at how he slumps in the sunbed right next to yours not a whole minute later, you’d guess he didn’t enjoy the joke. “You know how your brain inevitably makes you think sad things when you’re having fun because you can’t ever really have nice things?” he sulks. 

“Go on,” you hum, used to his antics by now.

“You guys… you’re basically immortal, right? With the whole Lazarus Pit thing, I mean.” Ah. You know where this is going.  

“My grandfather’s lived for more than eight-hundred years with the Pit, and he’s become a psycho. Do you want me to live a thousand years and become a psycho?” 

He’s silent for a moment, thinking. “I’d rather you don’t. But… it’d be better than not having you at all. Would you get mad at me?” When you don’t respond, he specifies, “For resurrecting you, I mean.” 

Softly, you sigh. “Don’t ask me that, Mark.”

He fiddles with his bathsuit’s strings. “I’m just wondering. You can’t blame me for that.” 

You let a few minutes pass — you have to think about it. “Nothing in this world is given for free, beloved,” you say in the end. “I’ve been dead for… four, maybe five hours last time — before Ra’s dropped me in the Pit. And I vaguely remember dying, but I do remember Hell.” 

Slowly, Mark perks up. “You’ve been to Hell, too?” 

Letting out a dry laugh, you shake your head and drop your forehead on your arm. “Not on a work trip like you were. I got tortured by demons for everything I did, Mark. That was my punishment, and the worst thing is that I knew that I deserved it.”

He blinks. “Sometimes I feel like you leave out too many details from your life.” 

“Some things are better not said.” 

He snorts even if he clearly isn’t amused. “So. Do I have permission to resuscitate you or not? I’d never be able to go on knowing you’re down in Hell getting tortured.”

“it’s not as simple as that,” you pop open the sunscreen bottle, putting some onto your arms, “You don’t take everything and give nothing. Every time you get put into the Pit and come back, you become different. Your soul's getting more and more corrupted. Usually, a period of madness follows every use of the Pit. It’s not nice, Mark. When I came back from mine, nobody would even look at me the same anymore.” 

“Better than nothing, no?” you stare at him, gaping, then ask, “Did you just hear what I said?”

Mark winces. “How many years will it take for you to become a psycho, anyway? It’s better to have you be a little weird than not have you at all.”

You scoff. “Why are we even speculating about my death?” 

“Because it already happened once.”

“Yeah. By my own accord, if I remember that correctly.” 

He grimaces, “Don’t say it like that.” 

“It’s what happened, beloved.” a shrug, “I’ll die again, one day — hopefully by natural causes — and you’ll have to either get over it or accept that if you make me come back, I may never be the same.” 

One of his hands reaches for the sunscreen bottle, taking it and pouring some into his palm. “You’d rather stay in Hell than be with me for a few more centuries?” 

“I’m just saying I’d rather die than become like my grandfather.” In some hidden part of you, you still love Ra’s — because to you he wasn’t the horrible man everyone knows; he’s cherished you all your life, and growing up he was the closest thing you had to a father. You two have more things in common that you’d rather admit, and that genuinely scares you, because while to you he’s always been just grandfather — a great warrior and leader — he’s some people’s worst nightmare. Mass-murderer, eco-terrorist and all of that.

You don’t know if you’ve atoned for your sins, or if when you die you’ll go back to Hell. You can just hope all the good deeds you’ve done in the last few years, combined with Bruce insisting on regular attendances to mass despite none of you actually believing in God, will get you at least out of the torturing range down below. 

Mark massages the sunscreen over your back, quiet for once. “The thought of living thousands of years and seeing everyone I love die,” he mumbles, grim, “it keeps me up at night.” 

“Don’t think about what you’ll have in a thousand years,” you reply, calmly. “Think about what you have now, and what you want to do tomorrow. You’re closer to your thirties than you are to your thousands, and you’ll be for a long time.” 

He’s quieter for the rest of the day, but in a soft way rather than a melancholic one — like he’s savoring the moment and not thinking about when it will end. Later that night, when your skin’s still warm from the sun and Mark’s hair is still frazzled with saltwater, you’re sitting on a booth at the same beach bar from earlier, watching William and Rick as they play whatever alcoholic game the bar had to offer. 

Your head’s resting on his shoulder, pareu now tied over your chest as he traces patterns on the skin of your arm. “Want to join them?” he asks, gently nudging your temple with his chin. You shake your head, shuffling closer. “I’m fine where I am.” 

Chuckling, he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah, you’re right. I feel like I could stay here forever.” you take his hand in yours and play with his fingers, utterly serene. You’re always so stressed about everything usually happening in your lives that seeing you so calm soothes him, too, by default. 

When the music gets a little too loud and there’s more drunk people than sober ones on the dancefloor, Mark tugs you up to stand. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.” 

You hold onto his arm affectionately as you reach the shore and start strolling alongside it without a care in the world, humming to the distant music’s sound and watching the faraway lights of the resorts. “We should do this more often,” you suggest quietly. 

Your boyfriend laughs. “We would if it didn’t always feel like the world crumbles every time we take some time for ourselves.” 

You huff out a laugh. “You’re right. I really want to see what destroyed Gotham for the umpteenth time when we come back to our lives.”

He stops, the water reaching his soles, and takes your hands in his. He brings them to his mouth and presses soft kisses to your digits, humming, “Wouldn’t it be nice not to constantly feel the weight of the world on our backs?” 

“It would,” you agree, slumping on his chest. You kiss the corner of his mouth once, twice, then laugh a little when his fingers pinch your hip, then rest there. “Although I think that’d be much easier for me to do, rather than you, Invincible.” 

He noses the apple of your cheek. “We could get out of the loop for a while,” he suggests, tempting. “Dunno… I could find a way to get you to that moon outpost the GDA doesn’t use anymore. I bet we’d have fun there.”

“What about Alsimna, then?”

At the mention of your pet alligator, Mark bursts out laughing. “Sometimes I think you love that thing more than me.” 

“I don’t,” you assure him, patting his chest. “But if I were to choose… let’s say it would be a tough choice.” 

He scoffs, then dives for your mouth. “You’re lucky I love you despite your weird preferences.” 

His hands on your waist are warm, and they caress the entire surface of your back as your lips mould over his, a relieved groan leaving him. One of your hands reaches for his nape, and you play with the short hairs there as your noses bump. The two of you depart slowly at the same time for the same reason, and sighing, he presses his forehead against yours. “What is it, dad?”

Nolan Grayson is standing above you, wearing khaki pants and a button up. In his defense, he has made his breathing particularly loud for both of your instincts to kick in and hear him come. “Hi,” he says awkwardly. “You, uh… you must be Mark’s girlfriend.”

“I am,” you reply cooly, “you’re Mr Grayson, I presume.” presume my ass. His face was all over the news a few years ago as he beat your boyfriend to a pulp. 

His feet touch the ground as the two of you move to shake hands. “Ah… yes, yes. I’d figured Mark would’ve told you something about me.” His voice has an edge to it, one that says, do you know who I am and what I did? And if you do, are you scared of me?

You press your lips together. “I heard. Fortunately, I come from a family where a kill count like yours isn’t something that weird to have.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He looks over to Mark, who’s still got an arm wrapped around your waist, almost as if asking, where exactly did you find this one? “And… do I happen to know them?”

Your reply is a shrug. “My grandfather, probably. My father has never been on that side of the family business and my mother’s… not that weird.” an assassin for hire and a man who threatens the entire population over global warming are two very different levels of crazy. 

“Ah. I understand.” he totally doesn’t, but he isn’t there to meet you. He moves his attention toward his son, “A kaiju’s destroying Long Island. Cecil still doesn’t want me back in the costume, but Superman’s off planet, and while Hawkman’s at it… he’s doing a real shitty job.” 

Mark’s shoulders slump, and sadly, he looks over at you. “We should’ve gone for the moon when we had time for it, babe.” 

You pat his back reassuringly, “Go save the world, hero. Me and the resort will still be here when you come back from it.”

He pecks your temple. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll be back before you know it, promise.” 

Nolan smiles, a little embarrassed. “So, who’s your grandfather?” he asks, like Long Island isn’t waiting for him to drag your boyfriend there. Placidly, you reply, “Ra’s al Ghul.” 

Slowly, he blinks. Then, recognition hits. “Ah.” 

Mark sighs. “Okay, dad– c’mon, let’s go.” 

He leaps up in the air, soon followed by the man. He waves his hand at you from the sky, “Don’t cry too much, okay? I’ll be back soon!” 

Raising an amused brow, you put a fist over your hip, “Mark.” 

Confused, he pauses mid-air and turns. “What?”

“You’re still in your bathing suit. You might want to change.” 

He looks down at his clothes — a funnily stereotypical Hawaiian, unbuttoned t-shirt and the same purple briefs matching with your bikini he put on this morning. “Oh.” 

— four. 

loml💞😍🌸: Hi. When are you coming over? The cookies turned out decent by the way. Mark G: hi babe, sorry i forgot to tell you i couldn't come over :( mom and dad are on a date and i'll have to watch oliver for the night Mark G: you could come over tho ;))) loml💞😍🌸: Your brother will literally be there.  Mark G: who cares💔 he's a baby he'll be down in like five minutes loml💞😍🌸: The last time you said that he cried as soon as we got out of his room. Mark G: okay MAYBE he's a little dramatic but he loves you a lot. not as much as i do tho 👁️👅👁️ Mark G: so you coming over or nah?

“I still don’t think this is a great idea.”

“Why not? You’re a natural, babe, just look at how he’s snuggling up to you!” 

You’re starting to think that Damian was right about your boyfriend being your archnemesis, because you think you just got cheated out of your dear night off, usually spent at your very comfortable, very silent apartment, for a night at the Grayson’s house playing babysitter full time. In your arms, Oliver — Mark’s very little, very purple alien baby brother — coos and reaches for the strands of your hair falling over your shoulder, chomping on them like they’re one of his toys. 

You like Oliver, you really do. He reminds you of your own brother when he was little, just like all babies do, but he’s hyperactive, and Mark knows he’s not going to lie down in five minutes — hence why he abandoned him with the likes of you with the pretense of cooking dinner. “For my beautiful guest,” he had swooned, bowing down to your height with puckered lips and a spatula in his hand, waiting for a kiss. Oliver had the right inkling to promptly headbutt him in the teeth. 

The cookies you had spent all afternoon making and still turned out a little burnt sit on the counter in one of Alfred’s topperwares, waiting for dinner to be finished before being tasted. You still have some doubts on whether they’re edible or not, but Mark’s survived worse than a couple of bad cookies. He’ll be fine, you’re sure. 

Mark’s busy over the stove, wearing a kiss the cook apron that he insists is his father’s, and he’s cooking premade hamburgers like they’re some kind of michelin star worthy meal. Technically, he just has to cook the meat and slap it into a bun. Practically, he’s making a show out of it, cooking onions and whatnot to add into it. 

Oliver is babbling something you’re not sure about, playing with the loose strings of your — Mark’s — hoodie while sitting on the counter in front of you. He looks as far from falling asleep as one can be, but you’re surprised to find yourself actually not minding it; he’s a lively kid who smothers you with wet kisses every time he sees you, and the thought of him growing up so fast actually makes you sad. 

“How long is he going to stay a baby, again?” You ask Mark as he turns the burgers over the pan. He shrugs, “Dunno. He’s been a baby for a while now, but dad says that by next week he’ll probably be a toddler already.” 

You pout at Oliver, and he giggles and grips your nose in his hand. “Stay a baby, Oliver, stay a baby. You don’t need to become an adult. The adult world is made of taxes and agony, and the teenage world is made of drama and mood swings, and the prepubescent world is made of pimples and mean kids. Never grow up, it’s not worth it.” 

He blinks at you like he gets your train of thought, then decides to blow a raspberry in your face. You grimace half-heartedly, “See? It won’t be socially acceptable to do that to me anymore once you grow up. Stay a baby and I’ll let this slide.” 

He grips your jaw and brings your face closer to his, taking a bite out of your cheek, babbling very eloquently, “Bay-bee.” 

Surprised, you blink. “What was that?”

He points at you, “Bay-bee.” then turns to point at Mark, “Bee-luh-wud.”

You blink. Mark turns to stare at his brother, stunned. “I think he may be starting to spend a little too much time with us,” you muse, and that’s kinda true — he’s basically monopolised your guest room from all the times your boyfriend had to bring him around after one of his parents’ spontaneous dates. He’s now picked up on the names you use for each other, you guess. 

“Bay-bee.” he repeats, slobbering all over your face. Mark gasps indignantly, “Hey, that’s my girlfriend, you heathen! Stay away!” he sends playful slaps his way, not actually hitting him, and Oliver squeals in delight, throwing himself in your arms. You giggle and give in to the fun, running away from your boyfriend as he threatens the very serious measure of tickles and cuddles. “Go, go!” the baby gurgles in your arms, sticking his tongue out at his brother behind your back. 

(You often wonder just how sentient of a baby Oliver actually is. Guess you’ll find out only when he grows up, which may as well be next month.) 

Soon, Mark catches up to the both of you, and you squeal as his arms circle your waist and lift both you and his brother up to drag you back in the kitchen. “My prisoners!” he bellows, with a fake deep voice. “I’m ready to fatten you two up well to be my own dinner!” 

The hamburgers could be worse — the buns are a little burned from when he followed you around the house, but it’s still better than what you usually come up with over the stove. Oliver plays with his mashed potatoes on the high chair, babbling and squealing, and all of this feels almost domestic. 

You’ve never had this — a normal childhood, with a little brother on the high chair with your mother trying to feed him while your father coaxed you into eating your vegetables. You and Damian instead got intense training from day one, and were more used to the taste of your own blood rather than a meal a little burnt, but made with love. 

You’re happy that yours was not a normal childhood, because you really don’t want anyone else to experience it. You look at Oliver, drawing faces on his plate, and think about Damian at his age, offering you a bottle with poisoned water given to him by your mother to see if you’d fall for it. If you had to go through that so that no one else would experience it, then so be it; you just wish Damian got to be raised by your father, in a softer environment that maybe would’ve let him become an actual kid instead of a miniature sized adult. 

“–ou even listening to me?”

Mark’s hand engulfing yours on top of the table startles you out of your thoughts. You remove your eyes from Oliver to look at him, blinking. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Amused, your boyfriend sends a raised eyebrow your way. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You sigh, “Nothing,” you insist, glancing at his brother. “It’s just that he’s really cute. Reminds me of my brother.” 

At first, Mark jokes, “Damian was once a baby as cute as Oliver? Impossible. I bet he was born with that frown on his face.” When you let out a small chuckle, his expression changes, like something has just clicked in his brain. He sends a side eye to Oliver, still babbling to his mashed potatoes, then looks back at you, eyes softer as his hand tightens around yours. 

“You, uh… ever thought about having one?” With me, the hopeful subtext reads.

He expects you to jump out of your seat and start yelling at him — like any other sane girl your age would do — but he’s surprised when you just start moving around the french fries on your plate. This might just be the closest thing you’ve ever come to nervousness, he thinks. “I’m not sure I’d be a good mother,” you mumble, “I mean… better not be one rather than being one like mine, y’know?”

You move your hand up to take a napkin and wipe at Oliver’s face, “But then again sometimes I feel selfish, because I’d like one of my own. Is that a stupid thing? I know it probably is.” 

His shoulder slump, face pulling into a sad frown. “Don’t talk about yourself like that,” he whispers, “you’re not like your mother. You’re kind and absolutely nothing like Talia. Oliver doesn’t even know how to pronounce your name and yet he’s crazy about you.” 

The laugh that comes out of you is a rather bitter one. “Yeah, maybe that’s why he’s crazy about me — because he’s still not conscious enough to fully comprehend how I was raised.” 

“Babe.” Mark calls out, serious. “You literally grew up in an assassin training camp. If he could understand, he’d be thrilled.” He gives you a crooked smile, “Besides, I think you’d make a great mother. You’re already one to Damian, in some way — the guy literally worships you. You do realise that you’re probably more of a mom to him than your actual one, right?”

You shrug. “Well, that’s what happens when your brother’s almost ten years younger than you and your mother is emotionally and physically unavailable.” 

A few moments of silence pass, broken only by Oliver’s babbling. Then, just to ease the tension but also because you truly believe it, you say, “I think you’d make a decent father, too.” 

A frown, “Decent? I’d make a spectacular father.” 

You hum, “Right, right. Our hypothetical kid will have an emotionally repressed mother and a father that feels way too much.”

He tuts, “A father that takes them flying. Do you know how many points that gets you for the Dad of the Year Award? A thousand, at least.” he intertwines his fingers with yours and drags your hand up to his lips, pressing them against the back of it. “And you’re not emotionally repressed. A little unstable? Probably. But do not undermine yourself just because of how you were raised, okay? You’re smart– I know you’d be able to parent well enough.” 

You can’t help a little laugh from escaping you. “If you say so, beloved… but just so you know, we’re not having a kid anytime soon.” 

He pales. “God, don’t even joke about that,” 

You play with Oliver on the couch while his brother cleans up in the kitchen, then pick a movie that seems PG enough for him. When Mark comes back from the kitchen, he bows down from the back of the couch to press a kiss on both your heads, then grimaces at the TV. “The Bee Movie– really, babe?” 

You frown. “What’s wrong with it?”

You find out what’s wrong with The Bee Movie soon enough, but thankfully, Oliver doesn’t take long to fall asleep after dinner. He’s now cuddled up on your chest, breathing softly, and Mark caresses the soft tufts of hair on his head with a gentle hand. “I’ll go take him up to his room,” he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss on your lips, “and then I’ll come back for you,” 

Now, making out with your boyfriend on his family’s couch with his little brother sleeping upstairs isn’t probably the smartest thing you could do, but believe it or not, sometimes you have urges, too. And seeing Mark being so good with a baby is, against all you’d like to enjoy instead, way too hot. 

You’re giggling into each other’s mouths like teenagers, noses bumping and hands on the back of the other’s head, and at some point he moves to peck the tip of your nose. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he asks, his palms moving to your hips to drag you in his lap.

Settling over his thighs, you hum, smile on your lips, eyes darting to his then to his pink cheeks, the little mole on his temple, his mouth– everything your pupils can scan. “You might have mentioned it once or twice before, yes,” you muse, already preparing to dive back in. But just when you’re about to stick your tongue down his throat again, you hear a rattle from the door — someone turning the handle without any luck, as Mark had locked it as soon as you entered the house earlier. 

Startled, the two of you turn to look at the front door. “Robber?” he whispers, lips still hovering over the corner of your mouth. Then you hear the jingling of keys, and you swear you’ve never moved to stand up again so fast in your entire life. 

By the time Debbie Grayson opens the door, she finds the two of you suspiciously put together, sitting straight on the couch with the weird movie from earlier still playing. “Hi, mom,” Mark manages, voice strained, “I, uh… didn’t expect you to be back so soon.” His arm’s slung over your shoulders with flaunted propriety, as if to say, we weren’t absolutely about to engage in some good and nice pre-marital coitus, priest. That superspeed of his surely comes in handy when you need to look presentable again in less than ten seconds.

She sighs. “Your father got called away for an emergency — a kaiju’s trying to destroy Los Angeles, apparently.” she looks tired, and you can’t tell if it’s from the late hour or the fact that it’s probably the umpteenth time one of their dates has been interrupted by an emergency. But then she notices you, and her face lights up. “Is she who I think she is?” she asks her son– excited, maybe? You can’t really tell. Your mother didn’t look that happy to meet Mark, if not for the prospect of getting some Viltrumite DNA in the League’s labs. 

A bit awkward, Mark pats your shoulder. “Oh, yeah, she is. Mom, this is my girlfriend. Babe, this is my mom.” 

You get up to properly shake her hand, trying to give her a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Grayson.” 

“Oh, please,” she gushes, eyes wide and an unremovable grin on her face. “Call me Debbie. I’ve heard so much about you that I might as well know you already.” 

You stutter. “Oh, um… yes, sorry.” a bit uncomfortable, you shift your weight from one foot to another. “Uh… I was just about to go.”

She waves her hand up in the air, “Nonsense! Please, feel free to stay. Would you like anything to drink?” 

She quickly moves to the kitchen, dropping her purse on the couch. Mark groans, “Mom, you make it sound like I’m a horrible host who never offers anything,” 

Debbie raises an eyebrow. “Well, you never offer anything to William,”

“He’s been my friend long enough that he can fend for himself!” he gets up from the couch, too, and gently lays a hand over your waist for comfort. Too busy staring at him, you don’t notice his mom reaching for your radioactive treats. “Ooh, cookies?”

Before you can yell at her not to touch them because you're pretty sure they’re more cancerogenous than most processed foods, she’s taken a bite out of one of them. Her grimace is instantaneous, but then she looks at the unfamiliar tupperware they were stored in, and probably figures that her son wouldn’t randomly start cooking sweets when he never even tried to. Chewing painfully, she looks at you, “Um… you made these?”

“I did,” you say apologetically. 

Her swallow sounds like regret. “Oh, well… that was nice of you, honey. Just… make sure the oven’s set to the right temperature next time. And try to put in more sugar than salt. Other than that, they’re awesome!” as she moves to the sink — no doubt to wash her mouth with soap after the disgusting food roulette she just became a victim to — Mark puts his hand in the back pocket of your jeans, pinching the skin through the fabric

You yelp, then glare at him. He leans his head down to whisper, “I thought you said they came out decent,” 

“Decent doesn’t mean good. It means passable.” 

“Are you saying that you wanted to murder me with hazard cookies, and just tried to kill my mom?” he blinks, “Wait, when you said I would’ve been a decent father, did you mean that I would’ve just been okay at it?”

You shrug. “To be fair, the cookies were made for you and your stomach of iron.” you pat his chest, “As for the father thing– don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get better… sooner or later.” 

Before your boyfriend can rebut anything, Debbie turns back to look at you, her eyebrows in a barely contained frown as she no doubt is still recovering from that bite she took out of the cookie. “So– um, what do you do for work?”

Sitting down for a mug of tea on the counter, you soon find out that Mark apparently forgot to tell his mother who you’re the daughter of — which is quite literally the first and sometimes only thing everyone knows about you — and that you’d been dating for a little over a year now. Apparently, he has been talking nonstop about you since much before that, and she just thought you’d been together for two years or so. 

Debbie is a kind woman — funny, even. It’s weird to see someone’s mom being so normal and making tea, because the thing your mom specialized in was trying to kill you. Sipping her ginger tea, she smiles honestly, “I think I sold a house or two to associates of Wayne Enterprises. Wonderful people — I’ve never heard a bad word of Bruce Wayne from those working with him.” Another sip of her tea, and she turns a bit more nosey, “I didn’t know he was married, though.”

“Oh. Well…” you wince a little, “he and my mother are, let’s say… separated. They never had a wedding, but are actually still married.”

Curiously, Debbie raises an eyebrow, “How so?”

You shrug, “In our culture, the consensus of the woman is enough for two people to be considered married.” 

The woman’s eyes widen, and she carefully sets her mug down. Then she stares at Mark, sitting beside you without a care in the world, looking as calm as ever. “Oh. That’s, uh… that’s peculiar. I– where’s your mother from, exactly?” 

“Somewhere in the Mid East. When my grandfather moved to Tibet, they didn’t really have a name for the region he came from yet — probably Persia.” That actually was more or less eight hundred years ago, but you can’t really say that to poor Mrs Grayson. Her husband actually being a couple thousand years old must already be enough for her. “But don’t worry. Even if the only participating party is the woman, a ceremony is usually still needed.” sometimes. You’re not sure it’s actually needed, but she’s looking at you like you’re going to trap Mark in something, and she needs reassurance. 

“It’s okay, mom,” her son assures, arm slung over your shoulder. “Those are, like, old traditions her family doesn’t follow anymore.” he knows very well that he’s lying, and he doesn’t look remorseful — not one single bit. Pointedly, he looks at you, as if to say please back me up or she’s going to freak out. “Right?”

You avoid his eyes, and unconvinced, you say, “Riiight.” Who's going to tell him that more than twenty years later after their supposed wedding, your mother still insists on the fact that she and your father are married?

Debbie takes a relieved breath. Reassured, she claps her hands as if to wake herself up from the stupor she had fallen in, “Wonderful! So, when are your parents up for dinner?” 

— + one. 

“Parents doesn’t mean the whole family,” 

“Too bad for you that father has moved the meeting to the Manor, then, because we’re not going away.” 

Tapping your foot on the pavement in irritation, you glare down at Damian. “You sure have a lot to say for someone so little.” 

He growls. “Who’re you calling little? I’m the same size as you were at my age!” 

Unconvinced, you rest a hand over your hip. “No. I was definitely taller.” 

Now almost thirteen, Damian still has to properly meet the famous miracle called growth spurt that Bruce has been telling him about ever since he was nine and tall as a park bush. You pinch his cheek a little meanly, “Does Dami Boo Boo want his mommy? I’ll have to call a wambulance if things escalate.” 

Your brother seethes. “Call mommy– let’s see how she deals with you picking on me.” 

“Kids,” Talia hums from the armrest, scrolling through a photo album, “behave.” 

“Look at her,” you gesture towards her, sharing a look with Damian, “more than fourty years–”

“Thirty,” she immediately corrects. 

You take a deep sigh, “Thirty years in the League of Assassins and suddenly she’s here playing house in Father’s home. Where was this trad family instinct when we came to live here, Talia?!”

“For you, and for tonight, it’s mom,” she tuts, turning a page on the album. She looks like the exotic version of a typical high society housewife, somehow, green qipao and all. “Don’t you want this dinner to go well? I figured my astonishing presence was indispensable for an adequate result.” 

Again, you and Damian share an unconvinced look. Then, “Who even invited you?”

She raises an eyebrow, staring at you two over her album. “I had figured Deborah Grayson did so when she asked you when your parents were available for dinner.” 

Your eye twitches. “You have bugs in the Graysons’ house?”

“Don’t bother trying to remove them, or else I’ll just add more. Besides, even if I didn’t, it was your father who invited me.” she gasps at the sight of one picture, “Oh, look at how delightful the two of you look here– it’s almost like you weren’t trying to kill each other all the time!”

“I wonder whose fault is that,” you grumble before moving to see the picture. It’s one of those photos that look vintage but actually isn’t — this is just your grandfather and his obsession for old cameras. You’re standing side by side in your old training clothes — which meant black iga bakamas and white compression shirts — and while it doesn’t look like you’re trying to kill each other, it does look like you at least attempted to. 

You’re both staring at the other — glaring, daring them to try to hit again. You’ve got a bloody nose while Damian, always the more unfortunate one, has a black eye and a livid cheek. The image is turned all the more funny by the fact that he can’t be older than five in it. “You brought grandfather’s albums,” your brother says, displeased. 

“Actually, your grandfather brought them,” she says it like she’s announcing the weather — like your cult leader grandfather is just an old guy who likes fishing and watching football and not a world infamous eco-terrorist. “He’s down in the Cave, talking to your father.” 

You and Damian share a look, and for once, you agree on one thing: nobody’s getting out of the Manor alive or whole tonight, especially not you two. 

Not too long after, Ra’s himself enters the library, with Jason and Dick in tow. “We’re keeping an eye on him,” the former explains at your raised brow. For an eight-hundred-something years old demon, your grandfather looks like a weirdly normal, abnormally rich grandpa — green turtleneck, black suit trousers, the works. They’ve put in effort to look as less assassin-like as possible, it seems, because you’ve never seen your grandfather dress so normal in your entire life. Even when he’s got no battles to fight, he’s usually in his armour, either because he’s very proud of it or because he’s got no intention to have anyone ever think he could be an easy target. 

You groan. “You, too, grandfather? What, did we leave Ubu back in Nanda Parbat? At this point, he had the grounds to be invited, too.” 

He doesn’t even blink. “Ubu is waiting for me in a hotel downtown. I brought you a bowl of my shorbat al-adas.”

You pause, then re-evaluate. “…Okay. You can stay.” Alfred never got the recipe quite right, anyway. 

Said butler, bless his soul, peeks his head through the door opening. “The Graysons ought to arrive at any moment now, if you’d care to take a seat in the dining room.” 

WIth great disappointment, you find out that he must’ve been into this conspiracy, too, because the seats across the dinner table are the right number for all of you. You shake your head, exasperated. “You guys understand that Mark’s parents were supposed to meet just Bruce, right? I didn’t tell them to prepare for a whole family reunion.” 

“Technically, they were prepared for me, too.” Talia huffs. 

You deadpan. “I told them you weren’t coming.” 

The look she sends you matches yours. “You sure have a lot of faith in me, huh?” 

You could tell her for the thousandth time all the reasons why, but it’s not a good idea to fight with your mother just minutes before she’s supposed to meet your boyfriend’s parents and you want everyone to make a good impression. So you just sigh, take out your phone and text Mark. 

Hey. I know this is sudden, but my mother’s here as well. Ra’s too. And all the others. 

After he reads it, there’s a pause you quickly recognise as pure panic. 

i thought it was going to be just us and our parents?? i know that we’re bringing oliver too but DAYUM  like do you want me to make it out alive or not

“Fool,” Damian hisses, peeking at your screen. You slap him on the side of his head and lecture, “Quiet.” 

You’ll be fine. Hopefully. 

A moment of silence. 

Viltrumites are not allergic to Kryptonite, right? Because the al Ghuls have so much of it that they sell it to Lex Luthor. Just wondering. 

Three dots appear on the screen. 

dad says he’s never tasted it, but we shouldn’t have any problems with it mom made her casserole but i’m not sure it’s going to be enough at this point 

Well, someone better tell Nolan Grayson that Kryptonite isn’t for eating, but you won’t be the one to do that. Anyway, it’s good to hear. 

“Not a single mention of the League,” you tell your mother and grandfather in the spare minutes you have before the Graysons come around. “I don’t want to hear anything about world domination and partial annihilation of the Earth’s population. Make a joke about the Chicago incident, and you’re out of here. Got it?”

Talia rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.” 

Ra’s huffs. “I should feel free to express myself however I want with your in-laws. Isn’t that what your generation keeps blabbering about these last few years? Expressing yourselves without judgment?”

“That doesn’t apply to terrorists,” Tim utters. You point to him. “What he said.” 

The doorbell rings. Alfred speeds off the stairs to greet the Graysons, and you give a last nasty glare to Ra’s and Talia. “One sentence phrased badly, and you’re out of here for the rest of your lives.” 

Oliver is the first one to slip through the front door, swinging past Alfred and crashing on your legs. “Hiii!” he shrieks, grinning up at you. The kid grows at an astonishing pace, going from being barely a toddler to a five-year-old in just a little over three months. You smile at him, picking him up by his armpits, “Hi, buddy, how’s it going?”

He settles over your hip, gripping the collar of your jumper as Debbie, Nolan and Mark cross the threshold, all greeted by Alfred. “I learned how to write your name yesterday. Wanna see?”

You wave at the Graysons while nodding at Oliver, “Sure, bud. How about some dinner first?”

Debbie holds up a pan. “I made my casserole.” 

Alfred takes it without hesitation. “Thank you, Mrs Grayson, there was no need.” 

“It’s Debbie, please,” she waves him off, “can I call you Alfred?”

The latter blinks, unfazed. “Sure.” 

“I brought pastries from Paris!” Mark adds from behind his father. The glare he sends to Oliver isn’t subtle at all. “And you, little homewrecker– what did you bring?” 

He seems to think about it for a while. Then the poor kid turns to you, eyes watery, stuttering, “I– I didn’t know I had to bring something…” his grip on your jumper tightens, “are you going to kick me out?” 

“Of course not!” you assure him, sending a nasty glance at his brother. “Don’t worry, Oliver, Mark’s just being mean.”

Oliver, in all his purple glory, sticks his tongue out at him. “Bleeh! Rat!” 

The box of French patisserie is quickly left to Alfred’s care as Mark lunges for Oliver. “You little–!”

Nolan puts an arm in front of him, blocking his attack. “No fighting,” he chastises. 

Your father finally comes down the stairs, Talia following close behind. Your brothers all hide behind the railing, not actually invisible and very loud, while your grandfather just stands at the top of the steps like some conqueror to his new city. By now, it’s clear to everyone that the only one approaching this dinner with actual peaceful intentions is Alfred. 

Bruce’s smile tightens when he sees Nolan — clearly, he hasn’t forgotten the footage of him in Chicago, nor will he ever be able to do that. “Bruce Wayne– pleased to meet you.”

He shakes hands with both Nolan and Debbie before doing so with Mark, all under your mother’s inquisitive stare. By looking at them, you’d think the detective was her. Oliver pokes your jaw, then whispers in your ear, “Your mom’s really pretty.” 

At the same time, Talia leans in to affirm to Bruce, “That kid is purple,” like he hasn’t got eyes to see for himself. “I noticed,” he deadpans. 

“Oliver takes his skin tone from his mother’s lineage,” Nolan quickly explains, “it should fade over time.” 

Your mother stares at him up and down, and God, is it funny to see Omni-Man — mass-murderer, thousand-year-old Viltrumite, ex aspirant conqueror of Earth — cower the littlest bit under her gaze. She’s scary when she’s judgy, but he should’ve seen her during your upbringing. It is true that mothers always get softer after their second kid. Bruce pats her shoulder, trying to ease the tension up. “Forgive her– this is Talia. She’s, uh…”

“Mrs Wayne,” she introduces, and the only thing keeping you from slapping your face is the fact that you’re still holding Oliver in your arms. Genuinely, your father should get started on the divorce proceedings, because she cannot keep dragging this marriage thing for the rest of their lives. It’s really getting too complicated to explain to people. She doesn’t move to shake their hands, and instead continues to stare at them like they’re a really ugly painting in an art exhibit. 

Uncomfortable, Mark moves to stay behind you. You cough loudly, then propose, “Why don’t we all sit down at the dinner table? The food’s already set.” 

The dinner goes as bad as one would’ve expected. 

It was doomed from the start, honestly, even without putting in the equation both your sets of parents’ backgrounds, when Oliver sat beside you. Then Mark sat on the other side, making any seats beside you unavailable, immediately causing Damian’s utter indignation. And rather than just voice out his complaints, he ìtook the seat on Oliver’s left and started stealing things from his plate whenever he wasn’t looking — or worse, adding vegetables to it, causing the kid’s frustration and confusion because I just finished the peas and now there’s more!

Ra’s and Nolan get weirdly along with one another — one mass-murderer to another, you guess. Bruce never quite lets them finish a conversation, probably scared of what the possible outcome would be, and even if you highly doubt that the Graysons know of his nightlife, the tension in the air never really leaves. 

Your brothers taunt Mark every chance they get. Dick makes so many jokes about them sharing the same surname that at some point you lose count. Jason takes one look at him, tells him that he looks scrawny, then goes back to his potatoes. Tim impromptu quizzes him on comics you didn’t even know existed, and suddenly you discover that Science Dog’s topics are very far from the talking dog comedy you thought it was. Every once in a while, Damian glares at him with the same blazing heat of a thousand burning suns, and you catch him trying to poison his water when Mark’s off to the bathroom. 

The only one who seems to be having a good time is Debbie, of course — the only one at this table without any criminal records. 

She compliments Alfred on the food. Shares anecdotes about her boys to your mother, who, despite initial doubts, seems to like her just enough. She asks your father how the company’s new campaign is doing. Questions your brothers on what they do in their lives without a single ounce of judgement in her eyes. 

Then Talia takes out the family album right before the dessert, and suddenly half the table’s crowded behind her with their phones out to take pictures for blackmail. Alfred snatches a photo of you at three in a war ceremonial dress so fast your mother almost doesn’t notice. Mark snaps a picture of you in a bowl cut and says that if you have a kid, their hair won’t be spared from the same suffering you both have been subjected to as children. Bruce nearly cries when a picture of you holding newborn Damian shows up. 

But, hey, at least no one’s trying to kill anyone like the last time. And when Debbie takes out her phone and starts showing you pictures of Mark as a baby, butt naked and running around their yard, you think that this could be going much, much worse. 

In the end, you still get out to the balcony to get a breather, and are immediately joined by Damian. He’s quiet for a few moments, then mutters, “He’s not a complete idiot, compared to the last one.” 

Amused, you raise an eyebrow at him. “You mean that he didn’t even flinch whenever you put rat poison in his food?” 

He shrugs. “This one has a purple brother and often shows murderous intent, but somehow, he’s still far more acceptable.” 

Smirking, you nudge him a little. “Is it because his mom said you’re really cute?”

Suddenly, he’s avoiding eye contact and his face is all red. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” 

Later on, you say goodbye to Mark with a kiss on his cheek and a pat to his shoulder. “Good work today, soldier,” you hum, “let’s see if next time goes as well.”

He pales. “Next time?” he whispers, “I don’t know how many times more I can handle your mother asking me about my future plans for the planet while your grandfather tries to bribe me into being a part of some weird experiment.” 

The Graysons leave the Manor with warm smiles and firm handshakes. You take a deep sigh when the door closes, then turn to Alfred with the most serious expression he’s ever seen. “The next family reunion better not be until my funeral.” 

Meanwhile, on the ride back home, Debbie Grayson scrolls her phone as she chuckles. “Did you know there’s people out there speculating that Bruce Wayne is Batman? It’s crazy, really, the guy looks like he barely has any time for himself, let alone for a whole vigilante secret life.” 

Mark and Nolan share a panicked look in the rearview mirror, then the former laughs nervously. “Yeah,” your boyfriend agrees, “how crazy would that be?”

reader: I don't have a type

also her type:

taglist: @heartfully10 @victoria1676 @lillycore @ddeliajo @emberswithers

also omg i just realised i forgot about cass 💔 she's above this tomfoolery anyway

[digitald0rk]

OVERSTIMULATING YOUR ALIEN BOYFRIEND !

pairing — mark grayson x gn!reader.

synopsis — what the title says 👅 stumbled upon this on twt and immediately thought of mark grayson. [ the link is porn btw so yeah fair warning ]

warnings — uhh porn with no plot :p

a/n — first post really nervous, i don't really write nsfw a lot so yeah mb if this is bad :( i just really had to get it out there LMFAO. i need him so bad it's actually insane. mark grayson get out my head challenge : impossible!

thinking about mark grayson being a good boy for you <3

jerking him off after a particularly stressful mission, his small moans turning into full blown whimpers and whines as he tries not to blow his load right then and there because he's a good boy, he knows better.

"baby please, please"

please just let him cum already! why are you being so mean to him, he's your sweet boy isn't he? :(

and when you give him the permission he'd been aching for, begging for, he blabbers small thank you's over and over in his whiny voice as he reaches that sweet relief, painting your hand in his sticky hot release.

he breathes heavily, eyes fluttering shut, practically panting as he tries to calm down from that intense orgasm- wait wait no, don't touch him there he's still all sensitive!

he groans, his eyes snapping open when he feels the familiar rhythm of your hand stroking his pretty cock :( he lets out embarrassingly loud noises, he can't do this again! but god it feels so good he can't help himself from bucking his hips up into your ruthless hand, wanting more.

"i can't, oh god i- i can't!" he whimpers, his body seemingly moving on it's own to chase that release again despite his words.

praise him, coo at him and he's all putty in your hands in an instant, willing to give you whatever you want, even if it renders him to an overstimulated pathetic mess, anything for his sweetheart.

his back arches off the bed, leaning into your touch, eyes all glossy as he loses himself in the pleasure you give him. another loud groan of your name rips from the back of his throat as he cums again.

he nearly cries when you don't stop jerking him off, are you trying to milk him dry? mindless babbles and sounds leave his pretty mouth as you use his previous load as lube, gently kissing his tears like you aren't the one overstimulating him.

he squirms and twitches under your touch, giving up on controlling his noises. the pleasure he feels bordering on painful but it only adds to the bliss, it feels so good he swears he sees stars, the only thing on his mind is you.

and when you pinch his nipples and tease them with your tongue, he knows he's done for.

his tears don't stop and neither do his moans of your name, just like your hand against his cock. he makes an effort to not scream your name when he cums for the third time in the span of such a short time by biting down on his bottom lip, he bites down so hard it draws blood. the muscles on his abdomen clenching and unclenching and you swear you've never seen a sight so beautiful.

your boyfriend looks so good like this, it's actually downright unfair how pretty he looks all blissed out like this.

the strongest man on the planet all pliant and needy under you is sure an ego boost.

and absolutely none of that helps with your own growing arousal.

his body writhes harder when you kiss him, everything feels so intense, even the kiss. with his brain turned almost all to mush he tries to sloppily kiss you back, all tongue and teeth accompanied by his soft whimpers which make you giggle.

and normally he'd laugh with you too if he wasn't all flushed and sweaty and acting like a dog in heat. his eyes still glossy as his chest heaves with the uneven breaths he takes.

and to no one's surprise he's still somewhat hard, viltrumite genes do wonders to your libido it seems.

"can you give me another one mark?" my god are you fucking crazy?! let him breathe!

but how can he deny his baby? especially when you look at him like that, but he's not even sure he can cum anymore and-

"please?" you bat your eyelashes at him.

and yeah, he's a goner.

it's gonna be a long night.

© digitald0rk 2025. please do not steal my work, thank u. interactions, like and reblogs are highly appreciated. tysm for reading and i hope you have a good day / night >:3 want more? click here ★

[sunaskura]

𝐁𝐅𝐅! 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 who, with his newly developed super hearing can totally hear his best friend touching herself from the house next door !

warnings: MDNI, afab/fem! reader, mentions of porn, masturbation, im so sorry this is rlly dirty

it's been exactly 14 minutes and 53 seconds since you began to touch yourself. you're watching porn - the overexaggerated moans coming from the speakers of your phone almost entirely blocking out the sounds of your own pleasure. you're gasping - each delve of your fingers into your entrance eliciting another sweet cry.

you were home alone for the weekend. obviously. and you were definitely taking advantage of it. what you didn't really consider is your childhood best friend who lived just next door - who also, conveniently, just recently developed superhuman abilities - could hear every micromovement you made: the rustling of your covers, the clicking sounds of your slick rubbing over your clit, the quiet moans you let out.

every. single. detail.

now mark knew what he should have done is put his headphones on and turn the sound up to max. he most definitely should not have stilled his own breathing to focus on each little shuttering gasps you let out. he absolutely should not be fisting his cock and matching the pace of your quickening fingers. but pre-powers mark could have only dreamed of his new abilities allowing him to hear his hot best friend watching porn to get herself off - and he definitely was not going to let the opportunity slip through his grasp.

he was in sync with you: groaning and squeezing the base of his length whenever you curled your fingers - his thumb teasing his weeping slit with every flick of your finger against your clit.

he could hear the clapping sounds of skin meeting skin coming from your phone and he squeezed his eyes shut - imaging the fat of your ass bouncing with every thrust of his into your needy pussy.

he didn't know how he was even lasting as long as he was - the thought of his hand being your welcoming cunt all while getting to listen to you make yourself squirm and cry... it was all too much. it must've been his viltrumite stamina that allowed him to hold off until you came.

when you do come, your voice overtakes the noise of the video playing and he can clearly hear the exact moment your walls flutter around your fingers upon meeting your climax.

he came immediately after, picturing you taking all of his cum while his aching cock dumped more and more of his load all over his taut stomach. his muscles flexed under the heat of his fresh load and he let out a long satisfying groan.

[pluvoia]

“LOWERED INHIBITIONS.”

in which, MARK GRAYSON gets hit with an aphrodisiac and runs to the only person on his mind; you. ‧₊˚✩彡 includes: mark grayson x bestfriend!reader, fem!reader, mature content (17+), tension, lowkey situationship w/ best friend labels, pwp, piv, dry humping, premature ejaculation, cumming in boxers (markus u loser lmfao), unprotected sex, dirty-talk, obsessive behavior, breeding kink, aphrodisiac, cream-pie, 4.7k words. ‧₊˚✩彡 kinktober masterlist.

YOUR PHONE was vibrating; again. harsh, singular notes echoing and buzzing through your room, stealing you from the comfort and ignorance provided by sleep. worming its way through your thick comforters, the ring-tone frayed dangerously on your last strings of patience-- finally defeating you as you sighed, deeply, reaching for your cell-phone. the only person contacting you at such an ungodly hour would be your best friend; his texts scurrying off against the digital fibres of your screen frantically, as if he was word vomiting with his finger-tips.

blinking regretfully at your screen, the harsh lighting from your phone was blinding in contrast to the familiar darkness of your room; mark's name dashed across your screen and you think vaguely, i should have never let this man's notifications by-pass do not disturb.

a series of texts, spanning just under an hour, glow tauntingly against the shadows of your face.

---

'hi i am coming back rn' - 12:56 am

'dude i hate space some weird alien thing like... spat in my face bro' - 12:58 am

'i tjink it thought i was being rude when i looked disgusted but tbf who DOES THAT?? who spits in a strangers face' - 12:58 am

'cs that dude did it AGAIN like sorry i am not familair w ur customs ya dick' - 12:59 am

'anyways i thinkn im fine im grossed out sure but i feel fine so wtv' - 1:01 am

'my finger tips r tingly......... like weirdly tingly..................' - 1:27 am

'ok so a little bit more of me is tingly now. not a fan, would not recommend.' - 1:36 am

'i feel so weird can i come over ik ur prolly asleep bu t ur bed is better than mine n i think i js need to sleep this off' - 1:40 am

'u can say no tho duh' - 1:40 am

'i take that back, sorry. you cant say no.' - 1:42 am

'im coming.' - 1:44 am

'fuck' - 1:45 am

---

another sigh ripped itself from your lungs, and your phone met the plush of a pillow as you discarded it haphazardly from your grip. mark could be a stubborn boy sometimes, eager in his actions-- often doing before thinking. rolling onto your side to get what little rest you'd acquire for the rest of the night (you and mark had never truly been able to sleep whenever someone hosted a sleep-over; giggling wildly into the lazy hours of the night, time slipped through your fingers like sand with him. easily, and as natural as remembering to breathe); a thought wiggled its way into the depths of your mind, and you smiled ever so slightly as your eyelids grew heavy.

you were sure this was just another time where mark was acting before thinking.

✩✩✩

the act of subtlety had never been mark's strong suit-- a fact you were sorely reminded of as the sound of your window being slid open screeched throughout your bedroom. the noise was jarring, loud; as if the inanimate object itself was yelling, mark is here!

gripping your window-sill with an odd sort of clumsiness and disorganization, mark crawled through your window heavily. it creaked underneath your best friend's weight, wood splintering softly in his wake-- as if this was some sort of unpracticed affair; the bulkiness of it all caused one of your eyebrows to quirk upwards as you sat up in your bed. "mark?" you questioned, rubbing your fist to your sleep-rimmed eyes in an attempt to shoo away exhaustion.

mark swallowed; he stood silently for a moment, his labored breathing the only sound reverberating through your bedroom, before he ran a hand through his hair.

(a nervous tick he had adopted from his father; odd.)

"hey," he said hoarsely, your name following the greeting lightly. the way he sounded, the way he recited your name-- it was almost as if he wanted to say more. like there was more on his mind he was unable to utter; because his mouth clamped shut into a thin line.

"are.. you hurt?" you asked eventually, because good lord, why was mark acting so odd? "you said your finger-tips were ... uh, tingly. and then you followed with the rest of you was feeling tingly too..." your voice trailed off, your unnecessary rambling a cheap effort at lightening the mood.

the boy shook his head, before peeling off his costume's cowl. "no--! no, not hurt," he reassured, faint traces of the mark you knew bleeding through the intense air of the room. "sorry." mark apologized meekly. his dimples popped ever so slightly as you watched him chew on his bottom lip-- the fat going practically raw and bloody underneath the inhumanely sharp canines mark housed.

one of your arms reached side-ways to flick on your bed-side lamp, soft yellows and oranges illuminating your bedroom. when the light reached your best friend, your eyebrows furrowed. mark's cheeks were flushed a romantic shade of red, and his brow-bone glistened underneath a sheen layer of sweat; black locks clung to his forehead, and, had you have been able to see it-- his pupils would have been blown unnaturally large. "mark," you rasped out, motioning for him to come closer, "what's wrong?"

the tips of mark's ears now started to burn the same shade as the rest of his face, his pulse spiking as he slowly approached you. your carpet crunched softly underneath the weight of his boots, and mark took post near the end of your bed. sitting, he rested his elbows on his knees, and held his pretty little head in his hands. "i.. uh, i don't know-- nothing's wrong."

"you don't look like nothing is wrong." you commented, your patience for the boy running thin as he dodged your question again.

there was silence in your room for what felt like an eternity; you stared expectantly at your best friend, and he bore holes into your wall as he stared straight ahead-- still, avoiding your question.

he sighed, suddenly, before mark's hands met the neck-line of his hero costume. using little to no strength, you watched him rip the fabric, tearing it down the center of his abdomen. the tear stopped right at his belly-button, and he began to shrug off the uniform hastily. between the ruffling of your bedsheets at his movement and the sound of fabric being torn from his body (mark was so dramatic), you had almost missed the words that fell so plainly from his lips.

almost.

"it hurts." mark had mumbled simply.

your head tilted, eyes squinting. despite having heard him perfectly fine the first time, you still questioned the meaning behind his words. "what?" you gaped, your irises tracing the faint flex of his biceps as he peeled his arms from the sleeves of his hero costume. "what hurts? i thought you said you weren't injured--"

mark cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically rasp. desperation. "i'm not injured," he countered, as if that explained everything-- why he had been so eager all of a sudden to show up to your house.

"you're really fuckin' confusing me right now, mark," you sighed, dragging your hands up and down your face. "how can--"

mark cut you off again; except, this time, it was not with words. he stood from your bed, turning to face you. taking barely two strides had left him only a few feet away from your figure; he exhaled shakily, before gesturing downwards, "it hurts."

eyes following his motion, you felt suddenly stupid for not spotting the terribly large boner mark was sporting. in his defense-- even from overtop the sturdy fabric of his costume, it looked painful. resting along his lower stomach, you watched it pulse and jump, seemingly defiant of mark. "oh." you squeaked out, feeling something bloom desperately within your core.

"i-i can go," mark offered, stuttering nervously. "i just-- it went from like, zero to a hundred so fast--! one second i was fine, the next i was tingly, and then..." his voice trailed off, and hot burning shame crawled up the back of mark's neck. "i didn't know what to do. you- you were the only thing on my mind, suddenly and--" mark cut himself off, shutting his mouth into a thin line. the next time he spoke, it barely came out as a whisper. "i don't mean to make you uncomfortable, i know we're just friends," he mumbled sweetly, "but... if you aren't completely and utterly repulsed by me at this point, then i'd really.. uh, appreciate your help."

his confession, along with the compassion that oozed from his soul-- despite the less than ideal situation he caught himself in-- caused something to flutter to life within your ribs. it practically knocked the wind from your lungs, and the ambition (greed, hunger, restlessness) in your voice had even caught you off guard. "i can help you." the sensation of your panties dampening and clinging to the outline of your cunt unmistakable-- eyes darting down to his erection, your clit pulsed. "that's what.. best friends are for anyways, right?"

at your enthusiasm, mark seemed to flush an even deeper shade of pink— his tongue darting out to wet the plump of his lips. “are- are you sure?” he questioned, fingers playing the rip in his costume. “i kinda jus’ showed up without… asking if it was okay, you don’t have to feel obligated to help me if you don’t want to,”

“mark.” you broke his rambling quietly, swinging your legs out from underneath your comforter; the cool air that circulated your bedroom raising goosebumps along the fat of your newly exposed thighs.

the boy whispered your name back, an echo of his deepest, most riveting emotions terribly clear in his voice.

“i told you,” you started, curling a finger towards him to motion him closer to you— like expected, (like a good boy), mark obeyed wordlessly. “this is what best friends are for.”

your desire to aid mark certainly— was not out of the blue.

the both of you had been inseparable since early childhood; your bond growing suffocatingly strong day by day. wherever you went, mark followed blindly under the guise of friendship; but you both knew it was something stronger. something always there, lurking underneath the mask of comfortable touches, lingering glances, and joint souls. a singular night, years ago, you and mark had been fourteen; underneath the expanse of washington’s starry sky, your lips had slotted against his in a blind fury of affection. wrapped up in teenage innocence, mark had kissed you back with the same intensity, like he’d never get the chance again. despite this, you and him agreed to remain friends; the fear of change, fear of losing this friendship outweighing the complicated, uncharted waters of love.

the refusal, however, to make anything official didn’t stop your feelings from intensifying tenfold upon your later teenage years— mark’s, too, undying. instead, they bloomed into palms that groped far more than best friends should, and petty arguments that— instead of ending in a fit of giggles— ceased with his lips crashing ceremoniously onto yours.

nevertheless, you were now facing a line the both of you had not crossed before. as mark stood in front of you, his fingers fiddling with the rip of his hero costume, there was uncertainty and blurred lines. sweat beaded at his temples, and you could tell his self-restraint was wearing thin. mostly, though, through the uncharted fogs of intimacy-- there was lust.

"sit." you whispered, patting the bed beside you. mark did as you told, swallowing thickly. the heat radiating from his body was nothing like you had felt before-- as warm as mark usually ran, this was something entirely different. you leaned towards the boy, tilting your head slightly, to begin pressing kisses to his neck.

mark's breath caught, and his chest stuttered. there was a thick, heady need slowly blooming from his core-- and your touches, as light and teasing and beginning as they were-- were not enough. despite this, his chin moved upwards, allowing you better access to the skin on his throat. mark said your name; it was low, like a warning. "you're being so sweet," he groaned lightly.

you smiled against his pulse-point, before sucking on the flushed skin. "you say that like it's a bad thing."

"normally, it's not," mark shivered. "but i- i'm not normal right now."

that got your attention-- peeling yourself from his neck, your lips were plump and lazily coated in your saliva from your kisses. "what do you mean?"

"i told you," mark glanced down at his hands in his lap, which were busy slowly grazing the edges of the outline of his cock. "that stupid alien thing got it- it's powder all over me."

"so?" you questioned, not understanding how the two things connected.

mark flushed impossibly deeper, and you really looked at him.

he was panting, chest heaving up and down. his fingers kept twitching against his throbbing dick, and-- well, he was a mere two seconds away from drooling on you. "...you think the alien thing was an aphrodisiac?"

shamefully, mark nodded-- answering your question. "i-i've never been this hard in my life!" he exasperated, thumbs dipping into the fabric of his ripped costume, the need to yank it lower becoming all-consuming.

leaning forward again, your lips ghosted mark's jaw with ease. "okay," you whispered, vibrations sending shivers down your best friend's spine, "how do you want me to help you if i'm not allowed to be sweet?"

the sound of fabric ripping echoed through-out your bedroom again, and glancing downwards, what remained of mark's costume was dangling lifelessly from his knees. "i want," mark started, voice wavering, "i want you to let me use you."

"use me?"

mark nodded. taking advantage of your position so close to him, you felt a sturdy palm grasp the side of your face; he tilted your head, big brown irises meeting your own. "this isn't what i envisioned for our first time," the boy confessed, his breath fanning across your lips erotically. "i wanted to take my time with you."

your stomach flipped and swirled at his confession, arousal pooling thickly within your cunt. "you've thought about fucking me before?" you question; despite knowing the answer is yes (only because you cannot count the times you've fucked yourself to sleep to the thought of mark-- painfully aware the feeling is mutual), you want to hear him say it.

"no-- i've thought about making love to you," mark hums, eyelashes fluttering against your cheek due to proximity. "it feels almost.. uh, disappointing i'm not going to be doing that to you right now."

mark stood, suddenly, kicking off the remainder of his costume and discarding it aimlessly on your bedroom floor. hovering over you, he leaned forward, pressing you onto your back on the mattress.

your faces came tantalizingly close again, only now mark was lingering a few inches above you. "i don't think this will be disappointing," you express, bottom lip getting caught in between your teeth as you watch mark lick his own slooowly.

"it won't," he confirms, closing the gap between the both of you. your lips touch and the contact almost feels electric-- charged with anticipation and carnality. "and i'll make it up to you another time if it is." he mutters in between kisses, lips heavy and greedy as his mouth slots against yours. "i just-- i need you so bad, baby."

you hum, too wrapped up in the feeling of his lips on yours to pull away and speak. you toss your arms around his neck, pulling mark impossibly closer to you, and you feel him grind against your clothed pussy.

he moans whorishly at the action; every bump, every ridge, every vein of his cock more sensitive than he's ever felt in his life. the sound bleeds into your mouth, and you take the chance to stick your tongue straight down his throat. mark's hands take post on either side of your head, and he leans onto his forearms to steady himself above you-- his hips unrelenting in their movements against yours.

back and forth, over and over and over again.

the only thing separating the both of you now is mark's boxers (an embarrassingly large and crude wet spot forming where the tip of his dick rests) and your pajama shorts and panties. unhappy with this, your counter-part sticks a hand down your shorts to peel them off of your legs-- pausing his rutting until the shorts are off your frame, only to continue with a renewed hunger against your panties. "fuck," mark curses.

it's odd, hearing your best-friend curse; no, scratch that-- it's arousing hearing mark grayson curse. the swear falls from his lips, born out of impetuosity. the sound shoots straight to your pussy, and you can't help but moan.

in return, you hear mark gasp; your own sound spurring an entirely different version of the boy you love to life. he continues to hump, grind, and fuck you over-top your undergarments-- his swollen tip caressing your clit deliciously with every thrusts of his hips.

the both of you aren't even kissing anymore-- just breathing heavily, too entranced in the ecstasy of dry-humping to care about being close to each other in any other way.

"o-oh fuck," mark stutters suddenly, face falling immediately into the crook of your neck.

your eyebrows knit together momentarily, before you feel mark's entire body go rigid. "are you--?"

he nods, and a moan rips itself from his throat, almost as confirmation to what you suspected. it isn't long before the damp spot on his boxers becomes soaked-- his cum seeping through at an alarming rate. it falls in globs onto your panties, and in any other situation-- you'd be laughing.

but a good fifteen seconds have passed and-- mark is still cumming. his cock twitches underneath his underwear and he still, impossibly so, is leaking like a faucet. the worst part of it though, you realize, is that his dick is still painfully hard-- mark's orgasm having little to no aid on his arousal.

when he finally peels himself from the privacy of your neck, watery brown eyes meet yours. he opens his mouth, and you think the boy is going to apologize-- because that is a very mark grayson thing to do-- but all he asks is: "can you take me without prep?"

having caught you off-guard, you falter momentarily.

mark swallows, sucks his teeth, and then speaks again-- not waiting for you to answer his proposed question. "actually, i don't really care," he muses, his palms going to rest on your waist, "you will."

"mark--" you begin, watching him shrug off his ruined boxers easily. they fall to the floor, and you feel panic wash over you; to say mark is well-endowed would be an understatement. his cock glistens underneath the lighting from your bed-side lamp, and no amount of ambient lighting makes it look any less daunting than it is. it's not the width that's the issue-- it's the length. "holy shit, no--! i'll need something--" you try.

mark cuts you off by flipping you onto your side and pushing you further onto the bed. crawling to you, he settles in between your legs, straddling one of your thighs. the other he's got hoisted up on his shoulder by your ankle. "shh," he hushes, pressing a chaste kiss to your calf by turning his head, before using a finger to hook into your panties and pull them to the side. mark hisses, watching your cunt practically sparkle with slick. "look at how wet you are-- it'll be good, m'promise," he hums, aligning himself with your entrance.

the burn of his cock stretching you out follows not too long after his reassurances-- pain erupting from your cunt in a delightful way. mark falters, and you can see some of the boy you love resurface in this pussy-drunk, aphrodisiac infected version of mark grayson. "i know, i'm sorry," he coos. it's useless though-- as mark continues to push into you, inch by inch. "it'll feel good soon, baby, just-- haah-- let me get it in all the way."

when he bottoms out, it almost feels like mark is in your lungs. he's deeper than you thought was possible, and the way his face scrunches up suggests that he, too, feels euphoric.

without warning, his hips start to move-- his cock gliding in and out of your weeping cunt with ease. you cry out, your own hips rocking to both somehow meet his pace and thrash away from it. "ooh shit mark," you gasp, head lolling to the side.

mark only huffs in response, continuing to rock in and out of you desperately. "god-- needed this pussy s'bad," he groaned, tilting his head again to connect with your lower leg. you feel his lips begin to litter open-mouthed kisses to your ankle, the tip of his cock nudging your g-spot repeatedly.

there isn't much you can do back, in such a crude position, but you try to match your best friend's pace regardless. without thought, you shove a hand underneath your tank-top-- fingers instantly connecting to your stiffened nipples to roll them back and forth. the added stimulation has your back arching, and mark moans at the sight.

"that's right," he encourages between breathy moans, hips bucking wildly against your body-- the sound of your thigh meeting his v-line creating obscene noises that reverberate through your bedroom. "feels s'good, doesn't it? g-god, you're all i've been t-thinking about since that stupid shit got into my s-system," mark whines, bottoming out inside you once again, only to push his hips deeper-- grinding and reaching places inside your pussy you didn't even know existed. "like, all at once; it was just you: your face, y-your scent, your-- fuck!-- your perfect tits n' cunt,"

mark's mindless babbling only causes your pussy to clench around his fat cock harder-- squelching and pulsating pornographically. "y-yeah?" you manage to ask, eyes rolling into the back of your skull as he begins to thrust again.

"yeah." mark confirms this with zero hesitation, sweat beginning to drip down his brow-bone and onto the bridge of his nose as he fucks you deeper. "all i could think about while fuckin' cecil was rambling on and on about shit i- i don't even care about," he groaned, head tilting backwards in pure bliss. "'c'mon invincible, didn't you get the reports on the possible foreign allyship colony in-- no, you old fuck, i don't care about that--!" mark's mockery of his boss causes you to laugh-- although it's cut short when the boy impales you on his dick again. "in fact, the only thing i-i've cared about in the past--ohh-- hour is filling my best friend up with my cum."

that causes your eyes to shoot open, and you can't conceal your shock. "w-what?" you sputter, although the way your cunt strangles mark's cock is evidence that you're not as opposed to that idea as you may seem.

"i- i can't help it, i need it," mark whines, his dick throbbing against your walls. "needed you to be wrapped around my cock, n' you let me have that," he begins, "n' now i need to stuff this pretty pussy with my cum so you'll be leakin' me for days." every thrust of his hips now is pointed-- purposeful.

your jaw goes slack, and against your better judgement, you don't argue with him; in fact, you're nodding wordlessly along to his chatter, cunt aching now with the need to be filled. your moans fill your room harmoniously with mark's.

"shiiit," mark groans, brows furrowing, before suddenly pulling out of you. you whine at the loss of him, immediately missing being full, before you feel the boy yank you towards the head of your bed. naturally, you roll onto your back from your side.

mark grabs the leg of yours he had been straddling, bringing it to his second shoulder so now both of your legs dangle near his head. leaning forward, he grasps onto your bed-frame, while aligning himself up with you again.

your back arches violently off of the pillows as mark fucks into you again, this time, not giving you time to adjust to his size. "fuck," he curses, eyes rolling into the back of his skull, "i d-don't know how i didn't immediately bend you over the second i got into your room-- shiit--! i needed this so bad,"

"too busy being nice." you groan softly, and through squinted eyes, you can see the corner of mark's lips tilt upwards.

his grip tightens on your headboard, knuckles going white at the intensity in which he's grasped onto it with. "fuuuck, it doesn't matter now, though, huh?" you shake your head, moaning desperately, and mark grins. "that's right, pretty girl, it- it doesn't. all it means is-- is that i've gotta' make up for lost time."

thrust after thrust, you suddenly feel a hot coil in your stomach begin to form. "mark," you gasp out, fingers tangling themselves in the sheets of your bed as your orgasm approaches quickly.

"oh," mark cries out, terribly in tune with your body as his own hips begin to twitch-- the loss of rhythm in his thrusts apparent as he chases his own high. "wan' you to cum all over this cock, baby," he whispers, fingers digging into your headboard. "and- and i'm going to-- haaah-- fill this cunt up with my cum, breed this sweet fuckin' pussy,"

at his words, and the idea of being filled to the brim with your best friend flooding your mind-- your cunt begins to spasm uncontrollably. "i- i'm cumming," you sob, back arching and hips twisting away (unsuccessfully) from mark's incessant thrusting.

"ooh, fuck--! yes, yesyesyes, cum all over me, that's r-right sweetheart, shit," mark follows suit not long after-- his cock pulsing and spilling his seed into your pussy at an alarming rate. he's groaning, swearing, gasping at the sensation of your cunt greedily sucking up his cum, and he rides out his high by fucking it deeper into you. "fuck-- can't waste any of this cum, right? if- if you wanna be bred, you have to take all of it," mark rambles, hips rocking into yours.

your legs tingle from where they rest on mark's shoulders-- the sensation almost enough to distract you from the heavy weight that still rests snuggly in your cunt.

almost.

through thick lashes, you glance downwards at where you and mark are still connected; although he's catching his breath, you feel mark's cock twitch to life within you again. "mark," you warn hoarsely, voice destroyed from being fucked.

mark swallows, a guilty sort of look painted across his expression. "m'sorry," he apologizes, before he retracts his cock from your cunt-- only to slam it back into you again.

you gasp at the action, toes curling and hips thrashing. "i- i can't--" you try, but mark interrupts you.

"i know," he coos, still thrusting in and out of you now, his pace quickening rapidly. "but- but i jus' need to cum again," mark argues, face scrunching at the sensation of your pussy gripping onto him-- your body's way of saying you need him to stay inside of you without words. "just one more time, okay? m-make sure-- oh fuck-- make sure this cunt is stuffed to the brim."

you nod wordlessly, chin tilting backwards as delirium washes over your body-- far too cock-drunk to tell mark you know he's lying; to tell him you know he won't be able to stop cumming inside of you, spilling into your most sacred part, bind himself to you. to tell him you know the aphrodisiac won't wear off for another few hours, that this is far better than him taking it slow with you, that you wouldn't want to be anywhere but underneath him for the rest of your life.

all you say, instead, is through gritted teeth-- as he bottoms out again, harshly, punishing your g-spot. "t-that's okay," you slur, nails dragging down mark's lower stomach, "this is what best friends are for."

PLUVOiA 25’ ® - masterlist

loren's thots: this was more plot than porn im sorry </3 it lowk feels too intimate for kinktober too like damn...... idk i think some of the appeal is the tension between reader and mark but idk u tell me. in any case i hv other mark works if this one doesnt tickle ur fancy, but i hope it does!! it tickles mine tho i lowk need this man to knock me tf up!

loren's tags: --!

@soggywhore  @inlovewithpsychos @battlebaesworld @amoreselli @68saturnism @stellacherryfairy @kryptonkiss @sixtoads @luckysalbum @unseenzombieprototype @thekentfiles @unclearblur @blv3rd @cassiecasluciluce@k4sey1st@needy-self-ship-jjba@solarsunset222 @clarknsun @crushcunt @navyhaze

[aaph3lion]

ft: mainstream!mark and variants (mohawk, viltrum, omni, sheisty, sinister) (invincible) reader: fem wc: 2604 summary: hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend? cw: canon typical violence, foul language, and the variants are kinda sorta freaky in this requested by: @sophsthebest

this was so fun to write lowk and I would've been done faster if not for the blood moon event in dbd so err yeah I'm going to go die in a hole now

edit: so i quit writing invincible but here's a partial part two

Life is strange, really. 

One moment, you’re helping refold shirts because some people don’t even have the decency to put stuff back to where they found it, and the next, an international warning tells you to stay inside because there are evil variants of your boyfriend now roaming the Earth with unclear intentions.

You share a look with your coworker, who looks just as off-put by the information, her fingers curling around her phone as her brow dips. Just as her lips part to speak, the first building falls. It’s only a few blocks away, and the ground beneath your feet trembles at its sudden collapse.

You hear the screams of those out on the street, internally debating whether or not to follow suit until a notification from Mark lights up your screen, the ridiculous nickname you’d set when you were twelve a small comfort to your racing heart.

MarkyWarky: please tell me you’re okay

You: i’m fine

You: i’m just scared mark 

You: why are there so many versions of you anyway…

MarkyWarky: i wish i could tell you

MarkyWarky: just stay put alright im otw

The message does little to soothe, and you can’t help but stare at your screen with nothing but apprehension. Your coworker is quick to seize you by the arm when the sound of collapsing buildings and wailing cars draws closer, ushering you into the break room with the floor manager as though the small, unwindowed room would protect you from the raw strength of a Viltrumite.

“Holy shit, we’re gonna die…We’re actually going to die…” The floor manager, Kasandra, curls into herself with tears already welled in her eyes as she chokes back a sob. No one says anything, unable to face the grim reality at steak when debris begins to crumble around you. You all huddle into the furthest corner as your hope in Mark begins to wane.

Small pieces of rubble hit your head as you tuck your head tightly into Kasandra’s shaking shoulder, the lights overhead flickering violently when the ceiling begins to cave in on itself. There’s no use holding back the tears now and you can’t hide your anguished cries, unheard over the collapsing infrastructure.

This is it, you think, mentally saying your goodbyes to everyone you’ve grown to love. Amber. Eve. William. Mark—oh, Mark. The annoying boy next door who grew to be your first love. 

Sparks flare as the light above you finally collapses, but you don’t feel a throbbing pain in your head or death’s cold embrace, instead, you find yourself wrapped in a familiar pair of arms, still clinging to an almost catatonic Kasandra while your coworker grips the forearm wrapped around the three of you.

“I’ve got you,” a voice in your ear says, and you can feel the tears begin to well once more, though, this time out of relief. Mark is quick to shoot from the rubble, hold unwavering before he sets the three of you down and urges you to run to safety.

Your two coworkers are quick to flee, but you stupidly linger, worry etched onto your features at the sight of Mark’s beaten face and tattered suit. In the distance, you can see Eve facing valiantly against a variant, the odd cloth mask adorned on his face his most defining trait. She pants, her palms facing outward to just barely raise a shield against his erratic punches.

Mark pulls your attention back to him, face pinched as his thumb traces your lower lip in an attempt to ground both you and himself. His lips are soft against your forehead for a brief moment before he pulls back, staring at you through his cracked goggles with an emotion you can’t quite place. 

“I love you,” you whisper, stroking his bruised cheek softly.

“I love you too. But, you need to go. Now. I’ll check on you soon, promise.”

So, you run as fast as your legs can carry you, doing your best to ignore the ruins and corpses that seem to block every turn.

You don’t get far.

A shadow overhead blocks the sun—its presence so oppressive and commandeering that it freezes you in place.

“Another survivor?” 

You can’t bring yourself to turn despite the way your heart lurches at the familiarity of the voice. Your breath hitches when the shadow lowers—whatever twisted version of Mark this is drawing ever closer like a lion to its prey.

“I thought those other two were the last of them, but what’s one more?” The voice is cold, almost clinical, very unlike the warmth that radiated off of your Mark. A glove is quick to find purchase on your throat, and you glance down to see the red rubber shining beneath the sun.

Blood coats the hand, tinting the glove an even darker shade of red than what you’d first surmised. You try not to think about the warmth of it as his grip grows tighter, making it harder to breathe, but not enough to kill, like he’s messing with you in some cruel, twisted way.

“You’re this dimension’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” His lips press against the shell of your ear, jerking your body to face the fight between Mark and the clothed one from before alongside Eve, who reaches out to you weakly before eventually crashing against the side of one of the buildings. Your Mark wheezes, clutching at his chest when the cloth-masked variant throws him into a nearby building by the hair. “Pathetic.”

The sound barrier tears as another Mark enters the fray, his mohawk wild and unkempt in the wind as he grins at the sight of battle, though there’s no amusement behind his smile. “Who the hell do you think you are running off like that?” For a moment, his wild eyes slip to where you and your captor reside, a flicker of…something flashing through his before it fizzles away. “Keeping hostages alive? Didn’t peg you for the cruel type.”

You barely register the click of the Invincible’s tongue over the roaring beat of your heart, his thumb remaining stationary over your pulse point; a warning. He could snap your neck at any given moment, and you don’t know what’s stopping him, but you’re grateful for whatever’s causing him to hesitate.

“Come on, just put her out of her misery already,” the mohawked Mark goads with a small shrug as he pulls his fist back to punch your Mark into the concrete when the cloth-masked variant throws him in his direction. Cracks split beneath your feet at the sheer force, the ground almost giving way, but all you can do is watch as your Mark slowly gets up from the crater his body had formed. 

He locks eyes with you, something snapping inside of him at the sight of the variant clad in a suit nearly identical to Omni-Man’s wrapping his hand around your throat.

“[Name]!” He calls out, bursting free from the grasp of the two other Marks with a renewed sense of vigor. 

Time seems to freeze the moment your name leaves his bloodied lips, the Mark holding you hostage too stunned to react when your Mark’s fist collides with his jaw hard enough to send him three blocks away. It isn’t long until you’re swept into Mark’s arms, the hold both protective and possessive as he glares at the other two, his chest heaving with each labored breath he struggles to take.

“No fuckin’ way.” The mohawked variant blinks slowly, his lips pulling into a mix of a grimace and a smirk. “That’s unfair on so many levels.” He turns to the Mark in a cloth mask who seems to share the same sentiment, mumbling under his breath about how unfair it is that this version of him gets the hot babe.

Omni-Man Mark merely scoffs when he floats back, his suit still pristine as though he’d never been thrown at all while he crosses his arms over his chest, scrutinizing the way you tremble in this version of him’s hold. You aren’t the best friend he’d killed mercilessly back in his dimension. Here, you were a woman—his woman. And he’d be damned if he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone.

A best friend and a wife. Who would’ve thought?

While he’d never seen the other, male, version of you in a romantic light, his heart stirs at the thought of taking this version of you for himself. It’s not like it’ll take much to kill this Mark; he’s already as good as dead anyway—

“Is everything alright here?” Clad in white and silver, yet another version of Mark descends from the sky like some sort of disgraced angel. 

“Ugh, why are you here?” Mohawk Mark rolls his eyes obnoxiously, his gaze only briefly flickering to the new variant.

“Angstrom sent me to see if you all were sticking to the plan, which clearly you aren’t.”

“Aww, the lil’Viltrum baby can’t do anything without a mission? How sad!” He bats his lashes dramatically before sneering. “What are you gonna do next, bark? Who gives a shit about the plan? You’re acting as if you weren’t gonna kill him after anyway!” 

The Mark in the Viltrum uniform chooses not to dignify him with a response.

Unbothered by his counterpart’s nonchalance, the mohawked Mark sets his sights back on you, spreading his arms wide as if to welcome you in with a hug. “Hey, [Name], it’s just me. Just Mark. Your best friend, remember? We used to play CoD and shit when your parents were out.”

Viltrum Mark’s brows furrow at the familiar name, steady gaze finally paying you mind as you try to sink further into the Mark of this dimension’s arms. You’re a lot…softer than he recalls you being, your form far less filled out; almost feminine. But, that couldn’t be right, right? How cruel would it be for this version of him to have the perfect mate whilst he, while grateful for your prior companionship, was stuck with nothing more than a best friend? One that he’d ultimately killed for resisting.

Surely, his brain is playing tricks on him.

Then he hears it—they all hear it.

The small terrified whimper you let out, the sound almost heavenly as you try to curl into Mark like your life depends on it. Which you suppose it does at this very moment.

A collective groan settles across all the present variations of Mark, all differing levels of arousal. They can practically taste the fear emanating off of you, stalking closer like a pack of deranged wolves.

Disgust pulls at Mark’s lips at the look in their eyes, his arms trembling around you as the last line of defense between you and these monstrous versions of him. “What the hell are you guys on about?” He seethes, only to be met by a suffocating silence.

Viltrum Mark appears in front of you before you and Mark can process his presence, tearing you out of your boyfriend’s arms despite your screaming protests. His grip is firm, but it’s the underlying softness in it that has you trembling with both fear and confusion. One of his hands finds your chin, stroking the contour of your jaw while his thumb gently presses down on your lower lip in a similar fashion that your Mark had done earlier.

“You’re [Name].” His face twists with perplexion as he speaks. “But, you’re so soft.” You feel his other hand fall from your arm, settling on your hip as if to prove a point. He squeezes and prods the fat, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt to feel the soft skin underneath, his fingers splaying against your stomach while his nose buries itself in your neck. “You’d be a great mother.”

No.

No.

No.

This can’t be happening—

You’re pulled into another set of arms. These ones leaner yet more possessive than the Viltrum Mark’s. But not yours.

“Jesus what the fuck is wrong with you.” Mohawk Mark’s voice rasps mockingly above you, his arm curling around you and dangerously close to your breasts. You know he feels your heart stop, snorting cruelly as he pulls you flush against him. His gloved hand tilts your chin up to him cruelly, relishing in the way tears well in your eyes.

“P-Please…” You weakly claw at his wrist despite knowing how useless it is in comparison to his innate strength.

Holy fuck, he could get used to the sound of that.

Man, why couldn’t you be a girl in his world too? Oh, the things he would do to you. How he would ruin you. He wonders if you’re similar to his [Name], the [Name] who trusted him to do the right thing only to die trying to stop what’s already been done. Do you play the same sport as your male counterpart? Enjoy the same food? Ah, whatever, you’re still his, no matter his relation to you. Best friend or otherwise.

“Get away from her you fucking freak!” Your Mark’s garbled voice reaches your ears, his fist colliding with the side of the mohawked variant’s head, sending him careening into the white-clad Viltrumite. Mark doesn’t even get the chance to look over you before he shoots into the air with you in his hold, tucking your head into his shoulder as he whispers calming words into the crown of your head. “I’ve got you, baby,” he echoes his prior sentiment, flying as fast as he can with the cloth-mask and Omni-Man wannabe hot on his tail.

A familiar red glove catches Mark’s leg, snapping it easily. Mark screams, his teeth grinding as he pivots his other leg directly into the variant’s face, no doubt breaking his nose before he crashes into the cloth-masked Mark, who yells obscenities as the two of them crash into the city below.

Finally, silence settles between the two of you. Heavy with confusion. Heavy with fear.

“What the hell was that…” You cling to him, trembling like a newborn fawn in his hold.

“I—I don’t know.” He buries his nose in your neck as he lowers into a desolate field miles away from any civilization, breathing in your comforting scent beneath the smell of iron and ash that seem to cling to your skin while he settles against a tree. The field is peaceful; untouched by the destruction that plagues the rest of the world.

“...What about Eve and the others?” You hesitate, palms hovering over his broken leg to do your best to put the limb back together. The bone melds back together grotesquely, it's disgusting snap a sound you think you’ll never get used to.

“Eve slipped away before things got ugly. I’m not too sure about the others…” He lets out a low hiss, his fingers digging into the ground when his skin gets pulled tautly back into place. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I won’t let them get to you, not as long as I’m still breathing, alright?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, collapsing into his chest as you try not to think about everything you’ve lost in such a short amount of time. He kisses your forehead gently, leaning back against the tree for only a moment of respite.

“Aww, what a cute sight.” A patronizing voice overhead has both of you snapping your heads to the sound. Clad in yellow and black with a billowing cape behind him, this version of Mark sneers, his gaze looking between you and Mark. His brows raise beneath his mask, lips forming something akin to a sadistic grin. “Well, well, well. You’re looking a bit different here, aren’t you, [Name]?”

Shit.

©asarii 2025 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site or run my works through ai

[dangerousstrawberryshark]

Part two

Imagine being Thragg’s only male consort? You were plucked from the ruins of mall and hauled into the bowls of a large alien spaceship. You were tested and probed, needles injected that made your blood boil and the searing pain. Once they were finished experimenting, you were escorted to a plain, white room. The guy with the red, cybernetic eye informed you of your new position.

Imagine being Thragg’s only male consort? You laid on the massive bed motionless, twiddling your thumbs and staring at the ceiling. This Grand Regent hasn’t shown up, but the cybernetic eye guy said he was busy breeding the other consorts. He’ll eventually come. You questioned why you were even here and what use you had—cybernetic eye guy responded with “all is ours, even your body will be put to use.”

Imagine being Thragg’s only male consort? Having waited for a couple of days, he finally arrived. Your body moved upright to see the hydraulic door open. Thragg walked in and approached you. He was colossus, standing at 6’6. His frame was a wall of rippling and hardened muscles with broad shoulders that showed his utter strength and dominance. His form-fitted crimson and grey suit hugged every nook and cranky. His hair was jet-black and cropped buzzcut, his mustache thick. You could feel his dark, obsidian eyes bore into you—examining you. You were in for it.

Imagine being Thragg’s only male consort? You were pressed underneath Thragg’s heavily muscular body, his mustache tickling your neck as he littered your neck with bites and marks. He pulled his massive dick out before thrusting into your tight ass, his hips snapping forward—slamming deeper into your depths. He fucked you like an unrelenting machine, delivering deep plunges that created pleasure inside you. Your moans mixed with the Grand Regent’s low, primal groans, snarling as his pace became more savage.

Imagine being Thragg’s only male consort? You were out of it. Moans tore from your throat, your eyes rolled back as you let yourself be ravaged by the Viltrumite. Your cock throbbed against between your bodies, smearing precum as it nearing the edge. Thragg’s heavy balls slapped against your ass, his dick continuing to drag in and out of your gaping hole. He shifted positions and put you into a mating press—like he did with the other consorts.

Imagine being Thragg’s only male consort? The new position sent shockwaves through your body. You clawed at the white sheets, screaming and tightening around Thragg’s massive dick as ropes of cum squirted from your slit. Thragg wasn’t far behind as he continued his deep thrusts, lodging himself deep inside your ass. With a roar and buried to a hilt, the Grand Regent cock pulsed hot, thick cum—filling you to the brim. Viltrumites must cum a lot as he continued to unload rope after rope.

Imagine being Thragg’s only male consort? You lay spent, your body quivering and air knocked out of your lungs. Your hole ached as thick globs of cum gushed out once Thragg pulled out. Your hole tightened around nothing, gaping as it begged to be filled again. The Grand regent fixed himself and informed you that he’ll come back.

And come back he did. You were barred from wearing clothing as Thragg wanted full access to you and your body. He fucked you almost every other day. You were littered with marks and cum leaking out your hole, a testament to Thragg and his capabilities. Unknowingly to you and Thragg himself, you were becoming his favorite consort.

The other consorts were just means to expand the ranks of the viltrumites. It’s unfortunate you can’t bear his offsprings, but that could be arranged. Thragg hasn’t claimed any heirs to his lineage.

Authors note: writing this at 5 in the morning so some of this might not make sense. I really need to fix my sleep schedule.

TAGLIST: @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr @cruelwormcurse @songmgi @qi-rong-husband @roryroro @nightyknightowo @mwttw-lsk

[bruisedboys]

mark grayson x fem!reader ✦ cw for light suggestive content at the end!

thinking about mark grayson being soooo down bad for you and him being constantly at your beck and call. he’s casually dominant, but also an absolute pathetic loser for you and will do literally anything you ask in a heartbeat !

you’re out grocery shopping and mark is pushing the cart and grabbing everything off the shelves for you. all you have to do is list off what you need and mark takes care of it. he literally does not let you lift a finger, not even to push the cart or bag the items when you’re done, and of course he pays for everything before you can even try

mark is obsessed with doing things for you, with making your life easier in any way he possibly can cause he loves you and you deserve it (not to mention, it stirs something fiery in his gut when you say ‘thank you’ all sweet and kind and give him this look like he hung the moon). no matter how busy he is, he’ll always make time to do things for you. he’ll cut your fruit in the mornings, he’ll brush your hair after you shower, he’ll even squeeze the toothpaste onto your toothbrush for you before you brush your teeth. he’ll take your makeup off for you if you’re too tired, and when you’re lying in bed half asleep and you’ve forgotten to take off your jewellery, he’ll do it for you without missing a beat. he’s sure anyone else would find his need to make himself your hero overbearing, but you don’t, ‘cause you’re his angel!

he also quickly develops a habit of manhandling you… but you don’t complain, in fact you seem to like it almost as much as he does, so he doesn’t stop! you could be sitting on the sofa with him watching tv, and without much warning, he’ll just grab you by the hips and pull you easily into his lap (he just wants you close! and you never tell him no; how could you?). if you’re cooking together and you’re standing in the way of the drawer he needs to open, rather than asking you to move, mark will just take your hip in his big warm hand and carefully move you to the side, quickly grab what he needs, and then move you back to where you were with a kiss pressed to your shoulder and a murmured, “sorry, baby.”

when you’re out in public, mark has always got a hand on your lower back or his fingers laced with yours, steering you through the crowds easily — he’s super careful to not let you get bumped by anyone or step on a bit of uneven pavement, tugging you one way or the other if needed, and of course he always walks on the side nearest to the road. he’ll even carry you (and fly you home) if you’re tired or if your feet get sore!

you could be at home alone and missing him while he’s out fulfilling his hero duties, but literally all you have to do is text him “I miss you” or “I need you” and mark is ditching whatever he’s doing and flying to see you in record time. you are his priority above anything else. he finds it hard enough to be away from you so often, he can’t bear to think of you alone and missing him or needing something from him. he’ll appear at your window in a matter of minutes, ripping his mask off, his mouth already halfway open to ask what you need from him. you’ve literally got him wrapped around your finger and he can’t bring himself to care how pathetic it seems!

mark always always prioritises you over himself — he always lets you pick the movie, always lets you choose where to eat, always puts your happiness and safety above his own. during sex, he prioritises your pleasure over his own every time, knowing exactly what you like and what you need and giving it to you before worrying or even thinking about what he wants. if you want him on his knees he’ll literally drop down in a heartbeat! he feels it’s his life’s duty to give you whatever you want, whenever you want. mark would literally do anything for you and he’s not afraid to show it <3

[markeater]

The Ones That Belong to Me

Sinister Mark x F!Reader

Synopsis: After fulfilling his part of the deal with Angstrom, he moved on to the main clause of the agreement. What he truly wanted to possess. Still the differences between universes could be quite strange.

!!Warnings: Reader is married to Main Mark and has children with him, reader is pregnant. I've aged the characters further than in the original for the sake of the story. Sinister Mark is opportunistic and terrifying, but the writing is actually quite safe, ust squint a little and you'll see that Sinister Mark is a warning, he's the kind of person who can experience longing intensel, a little smut!!

A.n: I can't even imagine this with the other variants. Especially with Viltrumite and Maskless Mark…both would probably go insane. Especially Viltrumite Mark lol. Btw I accidentally shared this text four days ago…and someone saw it. Unfortunately, I had to silence that person—may they rest in peace…😔 (bribed them into silence) Normally, I barely used em dashes but I wanted to try out a new style.

!!Words Count 3k!!

He was moving at a speed that tore through the sound barrier. Learning where that idiot version of himself lived had been quite easy. The annoying part was finding out he was married. To what belonged to him. To you. With a scowl on his face, he sliced straight through the left wing of the plane in front of him. He kept going as if the roar of destruction he'd caused didn't exist at all. Of course, even while making a deal with Angstrom—someone whose very existence he could barely tolerate—he had known you would be different in this universe. He had expected you to be his partner in this version as well, not stuck in some long marriage arranged the moment you came of age. "Hah, married? Seems my little domestic fantasy is stronger in this universe." A smirk followed the mockery in his voice.

He loved you in a way that would make him sick to his stomach. He had never denied it—neither to you nor to himself. Besides, he wasn't going to legitimize something that already belonged to him with some stupid pieces of paper. Ridiculous. He landed in front of the house he was certain was the address he'd been given, touching down fast. He had come down at the door with such smooth speed that not the slightest sound betrayed his arrival.

Before reaching for the door, he cast a brief glance at the house. It was a large, beautiful place—detached, decorated in dark and green tones. The front yard stretched wide to the sides, reaching all the way toward the backyard. "Nice house for playing family." The amusement in his voice dripped from his lips like poison as he turned the handle of the outer door and slipped inside with ease. "Ah…stupid and overly confident too." The fact that the door stood there with so little precaution was almost funny; apparently, this version believed he could protect you from everything. When he stepped inside, a heavy scent of lavender filled his senses.

With the daytime sun pouring inside, the house felt surprisingly calm and comfortable. The ivory-colored wall at the entrance continued into the living room that greeted him right away. There wasn't much in the entryway—just a shoe rack, a coat closet and a few umbrellas carelessly stuffed into a box.

Sinister Mark looked around the living room as he walked in, his hands swinging lazily at his sides. It was quite spacious—farther ahead stretched a long hallway, with doors on the right opening into other rooms, while on the left there was a cozy, characterful kitchen connected to the living room.He wandered around the room for a bit. The fact that there wasn't even a single photo of the two of you was irritating. He clicked his tongue. "Whatever."

He reached for the first door that caught his eye on the right, but just as he was about to step inside, the door beside it flew open with force.

"Dad's here!" A little boy ran toward him with great excitement and wrapped his arms around his leg. He couldn't have been more than five…maybe not even that. Mark struggled to process what was happening. His brows knit slightly. The thing clinging to him…was that your child? He didn't even reach out to touch the kid. Even with the mask, the surprise on his face was obvious. The little boy looked up at Mark with shining eyes—eyes he wasn't used to seeing. "You promised we'd have baked pasta night today, Dad."

Mark let out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. What was wrong with him? Of course you would have a child—you had been married to his idiot version for quite some time. Pulling himself together a little, he offered a small smile to the boy who looked exactly like him. Then he bent down and slid his hands under the child's arms to lift the kid who was still clinging to his leg.

He wasn't even sure what to call the boy—maybe he should ask…but before he could lift the kid who was eagerly waiting to be picked up, another small figure burst out of the room the boy had come from. For a second, his focus shifted to whoever had come out—then, the next second, the son he had just picked up had his head jerked to the side with a loud "Ah!" The one who had just landed a quick punch to the boy's face was a little girl who reminded him of himself as well. Her hair was braided in a fishtail style, and if it weren't for her furrowed brows, she would have had the face of an angel. Suddenly, she shrieked—sharp enough to make Mark flinch. "How many times do I have to tell you not to dump your requests on Dad when he gets home, Dean!"

"Dadddddd she hit me againn!" the boy,whose name he had just learned was Dean,cried with trembling voice and teary eyes. While holding his bruised cheek, he clung to Mark's arm with his other hand. "You shouldn't do that," Mark said as he finally lifted Dean into his arms, hardly believing the situation he'd found himself in. Were the kids twins? They looked so much alike that he couldn't even spot any difference that suggested an age gap.

Holding his son in his arms felt strange. He was such a fragile little thing. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, his hand went without thought to Dean's reddened cheek. He studied the damage with a careful look, she had hit him quite hard. It really was…odd to imagine his son being on the receiving end of his daughter's force. She seemed to realize her momentary anger had passed and offered a small apology. After throwing Mark some strange glances for a moment, she said, "You promised your new costume would be blue!" She tugged on his cape. Mark looked at the girl who was pulling at his cape while his hand still rested on Dean's cheek. God… she was so stubborn. Who did she get that from?

"Eh some surprises don'f hurt anyone." His usual smirk had finally settled back onto his face. He wasn't even sure what to call the girl —what was her name? The real question was…where were you? Pulling his hand away from Dean, he patted the cheek of his pouting daughter and stroked her hair. Strange. Even through the glove, it felt soft.

He hadn't felt this since your death. Even now, if he wanted to go searching for you all over the house, he still couldn't shake the impact of the reality that these were his children. He had never even imagined having kids with you—but here they were, inexplicably looking entirely like him. He watched with curiosity as Dean stroked the fabric of his mask in his lap—perhaps there were similarities in their characters, who knew? In time, he would learn. He looked at the love the children gave him with a ravenous hunger, even though their real father was out somewhere, thinking they were safe. The thought made him chuckle. He bent his knees slightly and scooped his daughter into his other arm. Carrying both kids in his arms, a feeling of happiness rose within him—one he would normally mock, but couldn't deny now.

He stepped into the room the children had come from earlier. It was a colorful space, filled with a large round table in the center and plenty of paints. Even the walls were covered in drawings. As Mark set the kids down, one of the drawings on the wall caught his eye—a family portrait. You, the children and that awful version of him. They stood hand in hand, wearing awkward, shaky smiles. Even if he hadn't killed you, it was an image he would never have been able to obtain…

"Alright kids," he said, turning to the children who were sitting on the floor, continuing their unfinished drawings. "Where's your dear mother?"

"Mommy said she's taking a bath, Dad." Dean didn't even bother to lift his head. Mark satisfied with the answer, glanced once more over the table from his shoulder before turning to the door. Both kids were sitting there, carefully trying to draw his bright yellow costume on paper with their crayons. The smile on his face faded. Without looking any longer, he left the room. Nothing in this house truly belonged to him—but at the same time, it did. Messy…and warm.

In the quiet house, it was easy to follow the sound of running water. He climbed the stairs step by step from where the upper level began near the kitchen. At the very start, he opened the bathroom door that greeted him and stepped inside. "Mark?" That voice. As it came from behind the door, his eyes quickly searched for the source—almost desperately. You were sitting in the bathtub, hair wet, looking toward the door. Toward him. With those alive, vibrant eyes of yours. Not the dead ones. No—these had their own living tones. You parted your lips, but only a breath came out. Tilting your head, you watched him curiously. "You came home early…did something happen?" A faint, worried smile played across your face.

Sinister Mark just stood there. Right now, you were real. The voice he heard was real. Not like the ones he used to hear…no, his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. He took a step or two forward sideways, then stopped again. Pressing his lips together, he clenched his gloved fists, the slight creak echoing as you watched. "I know…you told me I should never attempt these things without you. Is this for that?" His clenched hands relaxed, and without thinking, he walked toward you. Toward the nakedness he hadn't seen in years. While you were babbling, he had already kneeled beside the bathtub. "I just wanted to relax…you know, being with the twins wears me out too much."

His hands went to your hair, stroking it gently. "I can't be mad at you for this." Under his touch, you leaned even further back into the bathtub. You were look so beautiful, so safe under the soapy water. He had to consciously keep his hands from trembling. "Then why did you come home early, handsome?" you teased, giving a playful grin. He watched how the corners of your lips creased slightly with that smile—a sight he wasn't used to. You loved him, but you never smiled like that. Not after what he'd done. Had he learned again, would it always be the same? Would life grow dim in your eyes like that grin, would it fade toward him? That soul, which had never had a chance to crush him, would it retreat back into its shell again…

He swallowed. His adam's apple moved as he shifted slightly. "I missed you." The confession hung between you—but even heavier in his heart. He wondered how you'd react, watching your eyes look at him with a hint of surprise, the smile on your face fading slightly. He didn't want it to fade completely. Slowly, his hand moved to stroke your cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, Mark." Suddenly, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. Your embrace caught him off guard—his hand was still suspended in the air where your face had been. He clenched his teeth. He gently buried his head against your wet shoulder. "God, you're wet." His hands settled on your back, returning your hug. You giggled at his mild complaint, and he inhaled it. Like a starving animal savoring the way your body shivered with your laugh. You were alive, warm, happy. More than he expected. It was so comforting. It was funny to think—this peace…yet the entire damn house was soaked in it. That unfamiliar happiness, that peace that was almost allergic to his soul…it was everywhere. Surrounding him. When you felt his grip tighten, you responded in kind. "Yes, big man, now you need to stop coming to my feet like a kicked puppy every time you're unhappy. I don't want the kids to pick that up either." You said it in a playful tone as you patted his back.

One of his eyebrows twitched beneath the mask, his face buried in your shoulder slowly shifting toward your jugular. His breath gently brushed against your skin as he murmured, "A kicked puppy? I'm not like that, Y/n." you only let out a teasing little hum. God, you were so sarcastic woman…he could get used to. He pressed a sharp, longing kiss along jugular in your neck. Then another. His hands slid down your back toward your tailbone, and he felt your breath hitch for a moment. Your body, fuller and rounder than he remembered, hadn't fully recovered after giving birth to the twins. Though your breast, pressed against him in the hug, had regained some of its former fullness. He didn't mind—it just felt unusual. When his hands ghosted lower to your rear, you pushed back at him playfully. The sudden motion caught him off guard. "Mark, you idiot! Didn't I say no sex while I was pregnant?* All the fun seemed to drain as you quickly climbed out of the foamy bath. Before he could process your words, your belly came into view—swollen, marked with stretch lines. Wet, you stepped past him, and he looked down at the now empty foamy water. His wrists rested against the edge of the tub, hands dangling forward. He muttered in disbelief, "God…she was pregnant." Despite the shock on his face, a deep anger flared inside him. Against your husband—no against his own version. Damn it…that useless piece of trash. How lucky and insatiable. He would've decorated the floor with his own hands where he first found you. Turning his head over your shoulder, he watched you dry your wet hair. His eyes slid back to your hips and rear. After lingering there for a moment, he shifted focus to your belly, even though he couldn't see it fully from behind. "You've gotten even plumper every day," he said, trying not to sound too weird while letting his thoughts slip. You glanced at his grin over your shoulder. So today was a playful day, how nice. "I wonder whose fault this is?" You set aside the small towel in your hand, grabbed a bigger one from the rack, and wrapped your body in it. "If you hadn't ripped the damn condom during sex, I'd be living in peace right now. Not eating that cursed jam with the egg all at once."

Jam and eggs together? Mark couldn't hold back a laugh—god, pregnancy cravings were so strange. He quickly rose to his feet and strode toward you, wrapping his arms around you from behind. His hands slid over your swollen belly while his eyes followed every movement. Gently caressing you over the towel, he turned his face even closer to yours. "Pregnancy suits you," he murmured, his breath brushing your ear. "Give me a kiss, beautiful woman." Chuckling, you tilted your head to meet his grinning lips. Today he was acting pretty weird. But you didn't think much of it—you remembered how even just Mark breathing used to make you snap, thanks to your hormones. This had to be because of the hormones. He captured your lips quickly, his hands stroking your belly as he drew in your breath. Your tongues danced together inside your mouths. God, your moans…it was like he could take even more from you, he pressed his head further into you. His hands slid beneath your belly. With a slight lift of your stomach, you moaned against his lips. That was enough for him. After pulling back just enough to let you breathe, your lips met again. He devoured you hungrily, and with a swift motion, escaped from your towel. The towel fell to your feet as Mark turned you around and pressed your back against the door. As gently as he could. You paused the kiss for a moment. "God, Mark you're such a trickster," you said. Ignoring your words entirely, he bit and pulled off his gloves. Tossing them aside without care, his fingers found your opening shamelessly. Both of you went breathless—Mark even more so from excitement. He was on the edge of losing control. With your plump form, he wanted to consume you completely. Damn the baby…it was the only thing standing between him and claiming what was his. Just two motions, and Mark's fingers were coated in your fluids. "God, look at you…you're literally dripping."

You whimpered with a hint of embarrassment. "Because of the bath!" Chuckling at your words, he pulled you into another kiss. "Yes, yes I'm sure that's the reason, my little beautiful wife." He couldn't get enough of your lips. He wanted to taste as much as he could with his tongue, to slide his teeth as far as possible. And he did—gently nibbling just enough to tease your lips. You moaned right against his mouth. "Mark! Be gentle! I'm carrying two lives here!" You scolded him, tapping his hand on your shoulder, and in response, he pressed his fingers against your walls. You moaned with pleasure. It was the most delightful sound in his ears. Chuckling as he lightly licked the faint blood that had appeared on your lips without bleeding, he said, "I can't help it… you're just too beautiful." With two fingers moving inside you, you could barely stay standing, propped up just by his presence. You were delicate, fragile… maybe pregnancy wasn't such a bad thing after all. Especially knowing he could see you like this for nine months…yet, from the corners of his mind, hatred and jealousy toward your Mark flared up once more. I'll ruin his brain and…then he whispered, "After the one in your belly comes out, I'll bury another one inside you, my love."

Later, after he made you cum twice with his fingers and fucked your thighs, you would have had a few words about his “new” costume—telling him how the yellow actually suited him, etc—then he would go off to do a task he needed to do, which involved killing the real Mark. I was pretty lazy and ate up half the scenario. Nothing was left for you. By!