Debrief: Eve bailed on Mark again and you can’t help the words that bubble out after.
Case Notes: everyone say thank you @splodencible for beta reading! I didn’t think this was angsty enough and she helped me out. 🙂↕️
You’re not the jealous type. You never really have been. Not when Mark got his first girlfriend in middle school and spent an entire week asking you what kind of candy she liked. Not when he made the varsity baseball team and suddenly had half the school orbiting him like he was the sun. Not even when he started dating Samantha Eve Wilkins, glowing and brilliant and everything you quietly suspected you could never compete with.
You told yourself you were happy for him. You practiced the smile in the mirror until it fit your face like a well-worn pair of shoes. Most days, it even felt true. Tonight is not one of those days, though.
The burger joint smells like grease, salt, and teenage nostalgia. The kind of place where the booths have cracked vinyl and the milkshake machine screams like a wounded animal every time someone orders vanilla.
Mark sits across from you, hunched over a basket of fries he hasn’t touched. His hair is still a little messy from his patrol as Invincible, soft waves flattened on one side. There’s a faint bruise blooming along his jaw, purple creeping under his golden skin. He keeps poking at a fry like it personally offended him.
You watch him for a moment, heart doing that familiar, treacherous squeeze before you approach with caution, “She cancel again?”
He shrugs. Too fast and causal. A performance you know all too well. You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s pretending everything is fine. He’s about as subtle as a marching band in a library.
“Yeah,” he says, forcing a small smile, “Something came up.”
Something always comes up with her when the two of them have plans, and you always end up with Mark to pick up the pieces.
You bite the inside of your cheek, tasting iron and all the built up frustration. Not at her, not really. At the situation. At the way he keeps showing up for someone who keeps leaving the door half-closed, and at the way you’re sitting right here, wide open. You’re always sitting right there.
“Well,” you say, grabbing a fry and pointing it at him like a tiny golden sword, “her loss. These fries are elite. Crispy, salty, borderline life-changing. She’s practically missing the eighth wonder of the world here.”
A ghost of a laugh escapes him. Small, but real, and making your heart do that stupid, traitorous flutter, “There is no way fries are comparable to the wonders of the world, Y/N.”
“You clearly haven’t had the right fries then.”You say with a grin, shoving the basket toward him.
He rolls his eyes, but he takes one. Then another. The tension in his shoulders loosens a notch, like a knot finally starting to untangle.
Victory. You’ll take it.
You lean back in the booth, watching him eat, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. This is your specialty. The emotional first aid. Bandaging invisible bruises with jokes and junk food. You’ve been doing it for years, after all.
Later, you’re both sitting on the hood of his car in the parking lot, the night wrapped around you like a dark blanket. Streetlights spill golden across the puddles on the asphalt. The air smells like spring rainfall.
Your shoulders touch. It’s such a small thing. But your body registers it like a lightning strike.
Mark tilts his head back, staring up at the sky, “You ever think about how weird everything is now?”
You glance at him, your head tilting a bit as you look at him, your gaze roaming over his stupid, perfect face, “Define weird.”
He gestures vaguely upward, and then towards himself, “Flying. Fighting aliens. Trying to keep my grades from tanking. Dating someone who can rearrange matter at the molecular level.”
You snort, gently pushing your shoulder into his, “Yeah, that last one would keep me up at night too.”
He huffs out a laugh, breath fogging faintly in the cool air. For a moment, there’s quiet. Comfortable and familiar. The kind of silence that only exists between people who have known each other since scraped knees and science fair disasters.
Then he speaks again, his voice soft as those brown puppy eyes stare blankly ahead, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Your heart stutters. Hard enough to hurt, as you try to ignore twinge. You keep your gaze fixed on the streetlight ahead, pretending your pulse isn’t doing gymnastics through your veins.
“You’d survive,” you say lightly, “You’re basically indestructible.”
“That’s not what I mean.” His voice is closer now, a deep hum settling in your ears and you risk a glance at him. He’s looking at you.
“You always know how to make things better,” he says, “Even when everything’s a mess.”
The words land softly, but they echo between your ribs, rippling like a dropped stone in deep water. Because this is the part that hurts the most.
You do know how to make things better. You know his favorite comfort food. You know the exact joke that will make him laugh when he’s spiraling. You know how he takes his coffee, how he cracks his knuckles when he’s nervous, how he gets quiet when he’s scared.
You know him, and you love him.
The realization sits in your chest, heavy and glowing. Because you know you don’t love him as just your best friend. You love him, in that deep, soul crushing way that makes you question your morality. What you would do protect him, how you would bend until you break to make sure his heart stays beating steady and unbroken.
You swallow. Your voice comes out significantly steadier than you feel, “That’s what best friends are for, dummy.”
You bump your shoulder into his again. He smiles, soft and grateful, the kind of smile that makes your chest ache in the sweetest, cruelest way.
Inside, your heart folds in on itself. Like a letter you’re not ready to send. Above you, the stars keep shining, indifferent and beautiful, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil you’re facing. And you sit there beside him, close enough to touch, wondering how someone can be so near and still feel just out of reach.
And… Jealousy is an ugly word. It’s bitter and small, and so not you. You’ve spent years convincing yourself it doesn’t belong to you. But sitting here under the hum of the streetlight, shoulder pressed to his, listening to him talk about a girl who keeps slipping through his fingers, you finally admit the truth curling in your chest.
You are jealous. Not of her powers, or her brilliance, or beauty. Of her proximity. Of the way she gets to hold his hand without thinking twice, of the way she gets the soft parts of him you’ve been carefully guarding for years.
Because she doesn’t see it, see him. Not the way you do. She misses the way he always gives the last fry to whoever he’s with, even when he’s starving. She misses how he rubs the back of his neck when he’s nervous, how he hums under his breath when he’s trying to concentrate, how he looks at the sky like he’s carrying the weight of the whole planet on his shoulders. She misses the quiet hero, the boy beneath the suit.
And God, you wish she knew what she had. Because you do. You’ve always known.
Your chest tightens until breathing feels like you’re dragging a bowling ball through wet cement. The words claw at your throat, sharp and desperate, and before you can shove them back down where they belong, they spill out, “I love you.”
“Yeah, I know I love—“
“No, Mark. I love you.”The confession lands between you like shattered glass and Mark freezes.
You feel it instantly, the way his body goes rigid beside yours, the way the easy warmth that’s always existed between you flickers and stutters. Panic floods your veins, hot and dizzying, but the dam is already broken. The truth keeps rushing out.
“I didn’t mean to,” you continue, voice trembling, hands gripping the edge of the hood like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, “I tried really hard not to, Mark. I told myself it was just friendship, that I was being dramatic, that it would pass.”
A shaky laugh escapes you, brittle as thin ice, “But it didn’t. It just kept getting bigger, and–and louder. Every time you smiled at me, every time you called me first when something went wrong, every time you showed up at my door looking like the world had chewed you up and I was the only place you felt safe. Me. Not her.”
Your vision blurs. You blink hard, but the tears come anyway, hot streams rolling down your cheeks.
“I know you love her,” you whisper, “I know that. And I swear I’ve tried to be happy for you. I am happy for you. But it hurts, Mark. It hurts watching you give your heart to someone who keeps dropping it, when I would hold it like it was the most precious thing in the universe. Not like it’s invincible.”
Mark’s head snaps up at that, hurt flashing across his face before he can hide it, not that you’re even really looking at him.
“That’s not fair,” he says, voice tight, defensive in a way you’ve rarely heard directed at you, “She’s not dropping it. She’s trying. You don’t know everything that’s going on with her.”
A hollow laugh slips out of you, sharp around the edges.
“I know enough, Mark.” You swipe at your cheeks, frustrated when more tears follow immediately after, “I know she cancels. I know she disappears. I know you sit there pretending it doesn’t bother you while you pick at cold fries and tell me it’s fine.”
His jaw clenches, shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for impact from the last place he has ever expected it, “She’s dealing with a lot,” he insists, “More than most people. You can’t just— just judge her like that.”
“I’m not judging her,” you shoot back, voice cracking despite your best effort, “I’m judging the way you keep getting hurt and acting like it doesn’t matter.”
Silence snaps between you, tense and humming. You take a shaky breath, forcing the words out before fear can swallow them again.
“You deserve someone who shows up, Mark. Every time. Not when it’s convenient for them, or when the world isn’t on fire. Every time. Big shit, small shit. All of it, Mark.”
“She does show up,” he says, quieter now, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His eyes flicker, uncertainty creeping in, but stubborn loyalty holding the line steady, “You just… don’t see it.”
Your shoulders sag, exhaustion washing over you in a heavy wave as you speak softly, “I see you, Mark.”
Silence swallows the parking lot. You finally turn to look at him, and the expression on his face makes your stomach drop.
It’s a mixture of everything you wouldn’t want it to be in this moment. Shock, confusion, guilt. Love nowhere to be found.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
The words are soft and gentle. Careful. Like he’s afraid anything louder might break you completely.
“I… I didn’t know,” he continues, running a hand through his hair, eyes darting anywhere but your face, “You’re my best friend. You mean everything to me, and I never wanted to hurt you or anything.”
Each sentence lands like a slow, steady bruise. He slides off the hood of the car, movements stiff, uncertain. The distance between you grows by a few inches, then a few more, until the warmth of his shoulder is gone entirely.
“I think… I should go,” he murmurs.
Another apology sits heavy in the air, unspoken but obvious. You nod, slipping off the hood as well, because speaking feels impossible now. Because if you open your mouth, you’re afraid the sound that comes out will be something broken and unrecognizable.
He hesitates for a second, like he wants to say more. Like he wishes there was a version of this night that didn’t end with both of you standing on opposite sides of an invisible fault line.
But there isn’t.
So he climbs into the car, starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot, red taillights shrinking into the darkness until they disappear completely.
And you’re left sitting under the streetlight alone, heart cracked wide open, finally empty of all the secrets… and possibly down one best friend.
Synopsis — you have recently relocated to the GDA headquarters, and subsequently, right into Invincible's arms. Will you be able to navigate love, sex and all the rest with a superhero, or will it prove all too much for your human heart?
Warnings/tags— 18+, smut, angstttt, i kinda dogged on cecil this whole fic but he's the man fr, masturbation, p in v sex (use protection!!)
Word count—3k words
Nomi's note— this was supposed to be a pervy coworker! mark x reader but then it spiralled into this beautiful mess. i hope you enjoy, and if you want to be added to my taglist, comment below!
Fucking Cecil wouldn’t leave him alone.
This was the third time this week he’d called Mark in to discuss “erratic behaviour.”
So what if Mark beat that man half to death?! He deserved it!
Not to mention that Mark had been working for this man for nearly 8 years without payment! He saved lives for a living, and this is what he got in return?!
It was getting redundant. Mark was no longer the naive little boy that needed coaching. He was 25, tired, and just trying to get through the day without some old man bitching in his ear.
He huffs, close to flying out of the room (door, not ceiling), when he hears heels clicking up to the door. He’s about to warn Cecil of the intruder when the man looks at him and waves him off.
“Come in.” Cecil says.
The doorknob twists and you walk in. You were in business wear, a pencil skirt, fitted blazer, the whole getup, and Mark can’t help but gulp. He didn't give two shits what Cecil or anyone else in the GDA wore, but he suddenly felt extremely underdressed in his skin tight suit in front of you.
You look at him and smile, then turn to Cecil, handing him some files and running him through the information. Mark tries to listen, really he does, but all he can hear is your heart beating in your chest.
The bum-dum, bum-dum, slowly ticking in his head like you’d set a bomb off and were waiting for it to explode.
Of course, you had no idea of your effect on the man. It was your first day working at the head office of the GDA, having been a supervisor at another division for a couple of years.
Cecil himself had requested your presence following some rebel attacks near headquarters. You had accepted, naturally, because you were smart and were making moves to the top, and knew if there was any way in, this would be it.
He’d requested a thorough report on the perpetrators and then told you to meet him so he could ask you a favour.
You hadn't expected that there would be company.
And you certainly hadn't expected what he would be asking of you.
When you are done briefing him, he nods, then turns to face the man that has been standing there for some time. He’s got his signature blue and yellow suit on, and even with the mask, you know exactly who he is.
“Invincible,” You address him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Mark's mouth dries at the sound of your voice. Smooth like honey, not a single tremble, nor a hint of uncertainty. It sticks to him, and like a fly, he's trapped.
You step forward and reach your hand out for him to shake. He stumbles for a second, then takes your soft hand in his, shaking it firmly, though it looks like he didn’t mean to.
“This is who you’ll be working with,” Cecil says, and you nod at him, and then look down at where Mark was still fixedly holding your hand.
“O-oh!,” he chuckles, letting it go, hand reaching behind his neck to scratch it bashfully. You shake your head, your warm smile never once fading. What a beautiful shade of red on your lips...
Mark shakes himself back to reality, turning to Cecil accusingly.
“Work with?! What the fuck, Cecil, I don’t need a babysitter!” The sudden change in his demeanour is shocking, but you’ve seen more surprising things. You try not to be offended since you knew what it was like to work under someone like Cecil. Ironfisted and unyielding.
Though not everyone could speak to their boss like that…
"That's all, Mark." Cecil says dismissively.
You feel him leave before you see it, with your hair ruffled, a sharp gust of wind hitting your face and in the blink of an eye, the man in the blue and yellow suit is gone.
Cecil sighs, and with a half-assed encouraging nod in your direction, teleports himself out of the room.
You’re left alone, smoothing out your hair as you try to make out what new path you were headed down.
・・・・・
Working with Mark consisted mostly of surveillance. Making sure he doesn't kill anyone, no matter how deserving he might deem them. His suit had a tracker attached to it, and the GDA's technology allowed you to have eyes on him practically everywhere.
Needless to say, it was not a particularly challenging nor stimulating job, but if it was what was required of you to gain Cecil's favour, then it was what you'd do.
It had been a couple of weeks, and you had seen Mark in person probably a handful of times since your first meeting. Still, in that time, you had noted a few things about him.
Firstly, he was half-alien. You knew that, of course. That he had Viltrumite blood coursing through his veins. But it had never really been something you fully grasped until you were in his close proximity. His strength was unlike any of the other hero's you had worked with. He seemed almost unaware of it.
Also, he was fast. Physically, certainly, but also quick to make a decision. To jump to conclusions. To come storming into the GDA because things didn't go quite to plan in the field.
He was swiftest in his guilt.
Lastly, his poker face was terrible. Mark Grayson couldn't keep a secret to save his life. He was all furrowed brows and rolled eyes, but you could tell he liked you. Maybe it was the dusty pink that would sweep over his face whenever he looked you in the eye.
Or the way he would trip over himself to help you with the smallest thing. Like when you dropped your pen in front of him. He surged forward, ready to deliver it to you, but you shook your head.
He was also very obedient. Perhaps only to you. He had no issue defying the GDA's orders, but the second you told Mark to do something, it got done.
So when you bent down in front of him to retrieve the pen yourself, it was no surprise to see the chub at the front of his suit rise as he tried, and failed, to conceal it.
You try to hide your smirk as you tuck that information away too.
・・・・・
Mark was complaining again. You roll your eyes but listen to him drone on and on about the villain and massive asshole he had to fight today.
"... made me crash into three buildings! three!" he continues, pacing back and forth in front of you.
"He sounds like a real fucker," you say, trying to comfort him.
"Thanks, he was!" He huffs.
"You should go rest," you suggest, seeing the dark circles around his eyes. There was a slump in his shoulders too, and a drag in his stride.
“We’ll call you if we need you.” He nods, and you decide to turn and occupy yourself with your daily report while he sees himself out. But nothing with Mark was ever simple.
Hearing footsteps approach, you decide to keep shuffling your papers, pretending to be busy. Maybe you were afraid of what you might do if you faced him. Maybe you wanted to help him relieve his stress.
Maybe you could put him to sleep.
Ignoring your thoughts, you continue mindlessly shuffling the papers in front of you. Gosh, you'd have to organise them all over again when he left.
He’s close enough now that his body heat was radiating to you. God, he ran hot. It was 41 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and he was emanating heat like a furnace.
Maybe that was just another component of his Alien physiology. You tuck it in, at the back of your mind, with all the rest of the facts that you've been cataloging about Mark Grayson.
"M'not tired," he drawls. "Can think of better things I'd rather do with my time."
“Careful, Mr Grayson,” You lilt, turning your head back to look at him.
“Mark.” He corrects, eyes unfocused as he stared at your lips.
“Mark,” you amend, licking your lip. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
You brush past him, and with that, he’s left watching the swish swish swishing of your hips as you leave the room.
Shit, he thinks. He wishes he could bite those lips for you.
・・・・・
Mark had tried, he really had, but it was impossible to scrub the image of your backside as you left the room. He was the strongest person in the country, maybe the world, but he never felt weaker than he had the few seconds your body brushed past his.
He thought of you everywhere. When he kicked some amateur villain to the ground. When he took some criminals into custody. In the sky, space, his house.
He thought of you late at night, when the weight of the day settled into his bones and the idea of you there with him, in his bed, made him feel lighter.
He especially thought of you when he grabbed his half-stiff cock.
You were driving him mad. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this crazy over anything.
All-consuming. That was the only way to describe you. Like ivy, you had spread your branches all over his heart.
・・・・・
Mark looked wrecked.
There had been some misinformation that led to a lot of people getting hurt. The GDA couldn’t have known, and neither could he.
“It’s not your fault–” you start.
“Yes, yes it is.” His voice cracks, and your heart breaks for him.
"Mark," you say softly. "You can't carry the weight of the world on your own."
And he was angry. Livid, truly. He used to be so hopeful, so optimistic. Even after his father had betrayed humanity and he had to prove himself to the world all over again.
Maybe time was really all it took. The day by day chipping away of his sanguine outlook on life. A little bit of him died every time he was too late, too slow, too him.
He only ever felt like he was disappointing everyone.
You’ve only known Mark for a few months, but you think you have a better understanding of him than most.
So when he tucks his neck into the crook of yours, you let him.
When he wraps his arms around your waist, you let him.
But when he moves his head back to look at your lipa from between his lashes, and when his kips brush yours, you turn your head.
“You aren’t in the right headspace.” You say.
He nods but keeps his arms tight around you.
And of course, you let him do that too.
. . . . . .
“Him and a few other heroes… medal awarding ceremony…” Cecil drones on.
"Sir..." you trail off. "Is that a good idea right now?"
It had only been a couple days since the incident at the city square, and Mark still looked like he was spiralling. He’d show up at your place at odd hours of the night, eyes rimmed red and voice all hoarse like he’d cried it away.
He needed time.
"The people need a win." Cecil states with a tone of finality. "Get Mark to that stage. That’s an order.”
A virtually improbable objective.
But you were nothing if not a defier of the odds.
It took some convincing, some batting of your lashes, and even some ‘innocent’ touches on his arms to get him to agree.
However, here you were now, 10 minutes to the ceremony, and Mark was nowhere to be seen.
Just as you were about to give up, you feel a blast of air as he zooms into the room.
You smooth your hair out, then take him in. You had to give him credit, because he sure could clean up well when he wanted to.
"Mark Grayson!" You exclaim, gasping sarcastically. "Are you wearing a suit?"
Objective achieved.
He smiles sheepishly, then says, grumbling mostly to himself; "I always wear a suit."
You laugh. "But they're not usually this dashing."
He chuckles, then walks up to you. You keep your eyes on your phone, keeping up with the updates being sent by the crew.
When you look up, he’s still looking at you up and down, and you feel your stomach twist.
You turn around, trying your best to hide your smile. “I’m not like you,” you start. “I don’t get to take liberties with my workplace.”
“What does that mean?” He laughs softly.
“It just means I have rules.” You say teasingly, walking over to the stage curtain.
“Mm. And what rules would those be?” He follows you to the curtain, crowding you against it.
“Well, first, don’t do anything stupid.” You turn around, hands coming up to smooth his tie. He inches closer.
“Not to mix work and pleasure.” His fingers graze yours.
“And chiefly, not to fuck my coworkers.” He nods, holding your hands now, but you can see the black in his eyes engulfing the brown. The heave in his breath. His slow blinking as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear.
You duck under his arm, smiling at the woozy look on his face.
“You’re on now.” You state, pushing him through the curtain and onto the stage.
Cheers and screams of “Invincible, invincibile, invincible!” erupt.
And the heat inside you grows just a little bit more.
・・・・・
You stood in front of a very agitated Cecil. Mark had done something wrong, but that was not surprising.
"Where's Mark?" He asks.
"He's at home right now, Sir." You respond.
"Well then go to his fucking house if you have to," Cecil raises his voice. "Mark has got to stay in line!" You nod, then march your way out of his office.
You were going to kill Mark Grayson.
"Mr Grayson?" You ask, hesitant. You have met Mark at many places, but never his house. The door had been open, probably because no one could be a threat to Mark, so you had twisted the doorknob and let yourself in.
"What'd I say about calling me that?" You hear his playful voice from behind you.
You turn, whipping your head around to face him.
He blinks at the sting of your hair on his face, having bent down to reach your height while he scrunches his nose to look at you.
"Mark."
"Cecil told me to come and tell you to stop meddling with NYC affairs. It's not your jurisdiction." You cross your arms around your chest, staring at him sternly. Him acting out of turn only made it seem like you couldn't do your job.
"Mmm..." He hums low. He grabs your waist, redirecting you until your back is to the counter, listening as you go on and on about what he had done wrong.
His hands feel large on your waist, and the blush on his face isn't from shyness, like it usually is, but from something...more primal.
He begins trailing his hands up, up, up until they're on the sides of your breasts. Your chest begins rising and falling, and you see his eyes following the movement.
"Everywhere is my jurisdiction," he states, claiming your lips with his own. His lips are soft and warm, just like the rest of him, and suddenly all your complaints feel trivial.
He spins you around, pushing you against the counter and you feel his hands pushing your skirt up.
It’s quiet for a second, and you are about to protest when he rips your tights, guiding his cock to your core and coating your panties with his pre-cum.
You’d fight him about them later, but right now you were too busy moaning at the feeling of his cockhead catching against your clit with every thrust.
Despite having intimate knowledge of his powers, you’re still surprised by how quick he flies you both to his bedroom.
You pause on the bed, and he watches you, searching for any signs of hesitance.
"It's... been a while." You admit. Focused on the career ladder, you haven't given much thought to relationships, other than the casual fling now and then. Even those were few and far between.
"That's fine," he whispers. "Me too."
Mark had never been as glad for his super hearing as he was when he could hear the smallest sounds you let out. God, you even breathed pretty.
You look at him from beneath your lashes when he settles in between your parted legs, and his warmth makes you shiver.
Mark didn’t fuck like he fought. He was gentle, watching your face when he nudged himself in. He was so attentive. The strongest man on earth, reduced to putty under your touch.
You feel yourself get wetter at the thought.
He was so vocal, too. Endless streams of–
"Been wanting to do this for so long..."
"Need to feel you..."
"Fuck, you're beautiful..."
You clench around him with each groan he lets into your ear. With each sweet whisper that falls from his lips.
And when you fall off the edge, moaning his name into his mouth, you know that he had you, and you had him.
a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
our turn pt1 pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 I @/sobbingscripter I F + A + S
request I @sanguineterrain I F
request I @thewritetofreespeech I F
hello, you I @earlgreylatte I F I Of course he would come to see you. You’re the reason he’s here, after all.
second chance at love pt2 pt3 pt4 I @tokoyamisstuff I A + F I ...in which another version of Mark invaded your world to claim something he once lost.
payback I @/tokoyamisstuff I A I In his timeline, Mohawk killed you for rejecting him - and now he seeks you out to do it again.
variant!invincible I @himik0-0 I A I Multiple versions of Mark Grayson from different dimensions find the reader, each desperate to keep her because they lost their version of her. Now, they refuse to let her go.
invincible!mark x reader x variants I @/himik0-0 I F
mistaken devotion I @/himik0-0 I C
i love you, but i need boundaries I @/himik0-0 I F
i can feel it in my bones I @couldeatthatgirlforlunch I H/C + S I Being Invincible’s pet is cruel, but you manage to find comfort in it.
fail safe I deactivated I F
bluff I deactivated I ~A I when mohawk mark doesn't find debbie at his childhood home, he goes after the next best thing: you. he thinks you're together in this world too, and when he realizes you're not... well, how could he possibly give up such a perfect opportunity?
smut I deactivated I S
running into invincible variants I deactivated I F
keep away w/ invincible variants I deactivated I A
mohawk!mark I deactivated I A
viltrumite!mark I deactivated I S
the only exception I @sugarhoneyylovee I F + A I in every universe, mark grayson turns into his father and seals his destiny as a true viltrumite. what if things are different this time?
u love me and i love you I @controld3vil I A I Mark accomplished what his father couldn’t – he conquered Earth. Accepting that wasn’t the hardest part; living with it wears you down.
drabble I @halcyon-writings I F
scenarios / bestfriend!reader I @radlovesfics I A + F
third wheel trouble I @cherryyluvs I F
starfire!reader I @/cherryyluvs I F
don’t wake up my parents I @/cherryyluvs I S
you’re all i think about I @/cherryyluvs I ~F I Mark becomes obsessed with you, stalking your social media, learning your routines and slowly inserting himself in your life.
mark loves his best friend pt2 I @starzyangel I F
streamer!reader pt2 I @/starzyangel I F
a different kind of star I @acenanxious I F
right there pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 I @/acenanxious I A + F + S I neighbor!reader x invincible variants
shattered affections I @wordsofwhimsy I ~S I All surviving Variants have been brought to the Main Universe as a means to help defend and protect Earth.
cut deep, kiss hard I @/wordsofwhimsy I S I Your dangerously unhinged not-boyfriend threatens to “take care” of the friends of yours that keep trying to pull you away from him, and you are having none of it. literally a crazy stand-off
if i was your girlfriend... I @/wordsofwhimsy I F I Mark just needs to be close to you dammit and he can’t stand that you’ll be that way with your girl friends but not him
takeout mishap I @0bticeo I F I mark stumbles in, looking wrecked—bruised, bloody, barely holding himself up—but guess what? he still has a takeout bag. the paper’s stained red, but he just grins like an idiot and goes: "still hot." priorities.
and they called it puppy love I @sqgeism I F
a man’s greed I @/sqgeism I F
snip it/sneak peak I @ay0nha I A
one-shot I @swightops I ~A I "in every dimension, Mark Grayson falls for you, but not this one."
superhero drabble I @rainydaygotham I F
mark being down bad I @tiramissyoucake I F
mohawk!mark I @/tiramissyoucake I S
different roles!reader I @/tiramissyoucake I F
reader!doesn’t know I @/tiramissyoucake I A
omnimark I @/tiramissyoucake I A
drabble I deactivated I H/C
a girls first love and heartbreak I @tamayakii I A
mark grayson dating hcs I @angelltheninth I F
wonder boy I @serensho I F I au in which mark is hercules in ancient greece! and he saves a sassy damsel who changes everything.
invincible variants pt2 I @mirai-lunar I ~A
healer!reader I @thegr33nc0met I S
touch I @grimmsbride I F I mark grayson doesn’t give a damn what you can do, or how fear hurting him; he would touch you again and again no matter the consequences.
invincible variants x reader I @mocharyc I A
cockwarming I @aaph3lion I S
lucky! lucky! lucky! I @/aaph3lion I F + ~S I hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend
doomsday arrives I @certifiedlovergirlsstuff I A
retro invincible/ goggles invincible I @stareiiez I F
you’re dead everywhere but here pt2 pt3 I @readingbunny44 I A + F
“a” 4 effort I @slutla I S I mark, smart, awkward, and far too soft-hearted, made the mistake of doing one too many assignments for you. a bully in heels, unhinged and relentless, you’ve taken a liking to him in the worst way possible.
batboys but they witness a stranger pull f!reader into a hug and claim to be her boyfriend pt2 pt3 I @damselneedssaving I F
for you I @lumineya I A I while you are protecting the world during the Invincible War you come across one of the Invincible Variants
midnight sun I @suprsnupi I S I going 0-4 on successful relationships, you decide to blame it on the hero life and swear off dating—but now the bff you haven’t seen in months is hot. oh, lament!
stuck writing from my phone for now so sorry for the crap
so we aaall know the trope of the variants all losing their version of reader & then immediately coming for them during the invincible wars but what about this
variant!mark who can’t even LOOK at reader during the war. he’s sick seeing them—like just that act alone is a betrayal of HIS you. the one he sees every time he closes his eyes. the one he talks to in his sleep. the one who’s photo he kisses every morning
variant!mark who is so devoted to you that no other version could ever compare. he doesn’t care how identical you look, how similar your personalities—he knows with every aching beat of his heart that it’s still not you
you are not replaceable, and will live on, untouched, beautiful, and alone on the dark hill in his mind, forever
⟢ synopsis. you’ve never wanted to fight mark grayson, but the universe has a way of twisting your arm, and now you're forced to reckon with it.
⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x reader, evil variant!mark grayson x reader (but not the way you think), serious injury, death, gore, violence, major angst, no happy endings here, oliver locks tf in.
⟢ wc: 5.6k+
⟢ author’s note. do not be fooled, this is a tragedy. there is no romance here.
You remember, vaguely, back when he still worked for Cecil and trained with the Guardians. When you were teammates, rookies with too much adrenaline and not enough experience. Mark Grayson used to ask you to spar like it was a game.
You always turned him down.
It was always him asking, too—never Cecil. Sometimes, Rex would try to coax you into it, just for fun, by placing bets with Bulletproof like it was a pay-per-view event. “Come on, just once,” he’d say, “I got twenty bucks on you getting tossed into a wall.”
It wasn’t like you’d stand much of a chance—or at least, that’s what you told yourself. You weren’t helpless, sure. You could fly, move faster than most. You had telekinesis, strength just barely above the average hero’s. You could throw a car without touching it and take a punch that would hospitalize most people. But you couldn’t split the sky open with a single blow. You couldn’t level a building by accident.
Mark could.
He was much stronger than you. You knew that. But he always swore you were the only one on the team he’d ever have a fair fight with.
You remember him saying it once, voice all boyish and sincere as he watched you hurl a semi-truck into a monster that crawled out of Hell with nothing but a wave of your arm. Or that time you tackled him midair to shield him from a laser blast—one that left you burned and stumbling, but still standing.
Back then, he was new to this. Sloppy. Hopeful. Moved like he was wearing his dad’s boots and still trying to grow into them.
Maybe back then, you could’ve taken him.
Maybe it would’ve been fair.
You’d always brushed off the sparring sessions he suggested, hiding your nerves behind a smirk. He’d flash that stupid grin, eyes too bright to take seriously, and you’d wave him off like it was nothing. “What, so I can lose in front of you? No thanks.”
You never said what you really meant: I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even want to know how to.
Looking back, it was kind of embarrassing how quickly you’d grown fond of the new superhero.
“Oh, c’mon,” he’d beg, hovering beside you in the sky, similar to some overeager golden retriever, “it’ll be fun! I’ll go easy on you.”
You remembered the way he’d grin when he said that, like he meant it. You remembered the way he used to chase after you mid-flight on your off days, shouting challenges through the wind when all you wanted was to fly in peace. You’d mentioned craving Caribbean food in the Caribbean once—offhand, totally casual—and next thing you knew, you were midair, scrolling your maps app while Mark kept pace beside you, claiming he just wanted to “smell the sea air or whatever.”
Yeah, right.
You knew better. He just liked being near you. (Or at least that’s what Eve told you later, when you brought it up and she rolled her eyes like you were the last person on Earth to get the hint.) And when it came time to carry the food back, he always helped without you asking.
He was kind like that. Earnest. The kind of guy who matched your pace, who never minded when you stopped flying to rest on a rooftop or circle over a new city just to take it all in. He kept you company. Slowed down for you.
But he also liked to annoy the hell out of you.
He had a talent for pushing your buttons—prodding, teasing, egging you on just enough to make you want to hit him. Not in the playful, shoulder-shove kind of way either. You’re talking a real punch. One that might actually break his nose.
He’d say stuff like, “What if you just threw stuff at me?”
You blinked at him, mid-hover. “Throw stuff at you?”
“Yeah. Like, I don’t know—trucks? Cars? Big, heavy stuff. No combat. Just toss things.”
You’d laughed. “No combat? Why? You think I’d beat you in a real fight?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Probably, yeah.”
And he meant it.
You were better at combat than Mark. Everyone knew it. He had raw power, sure, but he fought like he was still learning where his limbs ended. He was always a little too reckless, too eager to win fast, to fight them and leave, always charging in when he should’ve taken a second to think or hear out whoever he was fighting this time. He always let his opponent push him onto the back foot. Unfortunate because Mark only knew how to block with his face.
Which sucked, because he had a very pretty face.
“I don’t want to fight you, Mark.” You said it because it was true. Because even if it was just a playful team match, even if the stakes had only ever been bragging rights, you’d seen what he could do. Just a glimpse of it—enough to leave you rattled for days.
You didn’t want to feel helpless under him. You didn’t want to see him like that.
“Train with me,” he corrected you.
You arch a brow. “We already train together.”
“Spar with me, then.” He rolled his eyes, like you’re being deliberately difficult.
It made you laugh, escaped before you could stop it. It almost makes you cave. His voice, the slight pout in his tone, the way he gets when he wants you to meet him in the middle.
“What would I gain from this if we do?”
“You’d know my weaknesses.”
“I already do.”
“Fine. You’d know what to do in a fight with me. A real fight.”
That made you pause.
You glanced at him, really glanced, and saw the honesty in his eyes. It sobered you.
“If I ever try to fight you, Mark,” you murmured, “I must be the craziest person on the planet.”
And maybe that was the problem.
Somewhere, in the quiet corners of your mind, the part of you that didn’t speak often, you understood what he meant. You saw the logic. It wasn’t about wanting to fight. It was about being prepared for the possibility. That one day, something might happen—someone might twist his arm, or his mind, or the world might just break wrong—and you’d be the only one left to stop him.
Just like he was the only one who could stop his dad.
But it was Mark.
You couldn’t picture it. Couldn’t even begin to shape that version of reality in your head. A Viltrumite? Sure. Maybe. But not Mark. Not the one who flew slower just to stay beside you. Not the one who remembered where you liked your food from or made you laugh just to hear the sound.
A Viltrumite, sure. But never Mark.
It always surprised you that Cecil never forced the issue. That he never pulled you aside, never handed you a file full of fail-safes and protocols for some contingency plan. Never demanded you run a one-on-one simulation, just in case. Not even after Anissa.
Maybe he was too busy moulding Mark into a weapon. Focused on teaching him how to dodge the hit instead of what it would mean to land one. Maybe no one really wanted to imagine a world where Mark Grayson needed to be stopped.
But now?
Now you wish you’d said yes.
You wish you’d tested yourself. Learned his rhythms, his tempo, the way his shoulders moved before a strike. You wish you’d paid closer attention. Memorized every tell. Every blink. Every breath. Every violent twitch in his body.
Should’ve known what it’d feel like when one punch hit you for real.
When he hits you for real.
“Why won’t you fucking die?!”
The voice is his, but wrong.
It curdles in your ears: guttural, unhinged, warped by something deeper than rage.
You’re weightless—thrown midair like a ragdoll. For a single, surreal moment, there’s a strange comfort in it. Suspended high above the wreckage, the sun kisses your skin, and a breeze slips across your face.
Up here, the sky is still beautiful. A stretch of blue that hasn’t yet been stained by smoke or scorched by heat. Far enough from the screaming and all the noise. Far enough to forget what’s happening on the ground.
But you can’t breathe.
Your lungs seize, your eyes snap open, pupils blown wide as your body remembers the pain.
You barely register your own gasp before a blur of blue and black cuts through your vision. Fast and close.
Your body shudders violently. Instinct claws at your nerves as the blur sharpens.
He’s coming. Again.
Faster than before.
Faster than you can think.
Gravity slowly claws you back down. You’re dropping.
You don’t even get the chance to scream before two boots slam into your stomach.
Your body folds inwards with a crunch—sick, absolute. Something inside you gives way. Ribs, maybe. Or your will.
The air vanishes from your lungs.
And then you’re falling.
Plunging faster than you can think to pull yourself up again.
The wind whips past your ears, colder now, biting at torn fabric and skin. Your suit peels away in places, edges fused with blood and grime. It soaks through the fabric, your blood. It clings like glue.
You hit the ground like a meteor and concrete craters beneath you.
Your spine strikes first, a bolt of blinding white-hot pain rippling through every inch of you, from the tips of your ears to your toes. And then your body goes limp, twitching in the dust.
You heave; a short, broken breath. Once.
Twice.
Then blood rises up your throat like a tide. It fills your mouth, thick and choking. You cough, gag. Swallow a bit without meaning to. The taste is iron and fire and fear.
Your nose is shattered, and has been since the second time he hit you; it’s not getting any better—just a wet, twisted mess that sends pain knifing through your face with every shallow breath. Blood seeps from the split at the bridge of it, more of it rolls out to coat your lips. You try inhaling through it, and it’s like dragging air through broken glass.
Your vision pulses. Static edges. Fireflies at the corners of your eyes. The sunlight above you flickers like it’s behind dirty windows.
Everything burns.
You’re vaguely, bitterly grateful to discover that you can take a punch or two from a Viltrumite.
Even more grateful to realize he still gets frustrated when a fight drags on longer than he wants.
He’s always had a temper. That little crack in his armour. That flicker of impatience just before he stubbornly decides to end things.
Funny how that trait sticks. Across dimensions. Across versions.
Across Marks.
You try to move.
You know he’s coming again.
You fight to make sense of where you’ve landed—what part of the city this is, how far the damage might’ve spread. The world tilts wildly when you try to sit up. Every muscle screams. Every joint trembles under the weight of your own body.
Your fingers dig into dust and rubble. Arms shaking, elbows buckling when you roll over.
Somewhere past the ringing in your ears, a footstep echoes.
Not his. Too light. You freeze. Your body goes rigid with fear.
Then you see a child.
Shit.
A girl runs past, tripping over debris, breath coming in broken sobs. Your heart lurches.
She stumbles toward a crumbled wall, where a hand reaches out from a narrow crack in the broken concrete. A voice calls softly, a little desperately. She throws herself into someone’s arms, and the space swallows her whole. Hidden. Safe.
You meet someone’s eyes inside the dark. Just a flash. Then a whisper.
“Is she okay?”
“Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
However, your blood goes cold because you don’t hear him land. You feel it.
A tremor shocks the ground beneath you. Dust kicks up into your throat. Something inside you screams at you to run. But your legs won’t listen. Your body doesn’t move.
A shadow twists along the edge of the crater, slow and crawling, swallowing the light around it. You watch, frozen, as the figure nears, closer with every heartbeat, every rasping breath that burns your lungs. Your chest is caving in under the weight of fear, the panic a raw, wild thing clawing up your throat and getting stuck. You barely move.
Your instincts take over before your mind catches up—what little you can summon lurches to life, and a thin, violet barrier flares to life around you.
It glows dimly, trembling in the air like it’s afraid too.
Then, the first strike lands.
You flinch as a violent crack echoes through your shield. His fist hits it again, harder this time—shockwaves rippling outward, shaking the ground beneath your knees. You collapse backwards, knees buckling beneath you, your limbs no longer listening.
And now, you see him.
The colours of the suit are the same. Black and blue. Familiar. Too familiar. It’s his jawline, his mouth, the slight crookedness in his lips—only this time, there’s no smile at all. No warmth. Just something brutal and cold in the lines of his face. It’s haunting, how much he looks like your Mark.
His fists don’t hesitate. They don’t tremble. They don’t stop. He slams them again and again into the shield, and you know it’s not to knock you out. He’s trying to kill you.
Your vision blurs, not from the impact, but from the emotion cracking inside your chest. It’s like looking into a mirror, someone shattered and glued back together in all the wrong ways. His jaw clenches, tighter than you’ve ever seen on Mark. And he shouts and screams at you like rage has him by the throat.
His suit is covered in blood. Not just stained. Soaked. You know Mark bleeds more often than not and carries his wounds to prove it. This isn’t that. This isn’t his blood. These are other people’s. It drips from his fists. Smears across his shoulder. There’s a tacky smear along his jaw.
And then you notice the difference: his hair is tucked beneath a tight, blue cowl, pulled back out of reach. It’s smart, almost too smart. You’ve seen people grab Mark by the hair mid-fight, use it to throw him off balance. This version, this thing pretending to be him, has made sure that won’t happen. Even so, a few strands of inky black hair have broken free, fluttering in the wind, familiar enough to steal your breath.
It’s that hint of recognition that almost costs you everything.
His fist crashes into your barrier again, and this time, it shatters and you feel it crack down your spine.
There’s no time to think. You throw yourself upward with a burst of raw energy, launching into the air, limbs screaming in protest. You don’t look at him. You look past him toward the building where the civilians are hiding, where you felt their fear.
Get away from them. Get him away from them. That’s all that matters now.
You’re gasping, your lungs pulling in air like they’re drowning. Your hands are trembling so hard you can barely summon the force again. Your vision is swimming. Blood sticks to your side, to your lashes, to the inside of your mouth.
And you’re scared.
You barely make it a few feet into the air, just high enough to feel the wind stir through your hair, when he grabs you by the throat.
The momentum dies instantly.
His hand clamps around your neck like a vice, fingers cold and unyielding, and you’re yanked backward through the sky with brutal force. Your body jerks in the air, and you choke on a scream as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. A ragdoll. A thing.
You claw at his wrist, nails scraping, scrabbling, legs kicking beneath you, wild and useless, searching for something, anything, to find leverage. But there’s nothing. Your lungs seize, scream for air, and your chest caves in with the effort.
“M-mm…” It slips out, a little pathetic. A strangled, broken moan choked on blood and bile, laced with panic you can’t swallow down.
Tears finally break. They spill hot and fast over the curve of your cheeks, over the cuts already weeping there. You can’t stop crying—it hurts too much to cry, but your body doesn’t care. Everything is on fire. Your ribs ache where they’re cracked. Blood drips down your chin from your split lip. Your shoulder pulses where you hit the ground earlier. It all bleeds together in one screaming pulse of pain.
The variant grins. Wide. Delighted. His teeth are strangely white, and there’s something sickening in the shine of his eyes you can see through his goggles. He brings you closer, so close you can smell the blood caked beneath his collar. So close your lips brush the edge of his ear.
“Sorry, what was that?” he murmurs. His voice is casual, almost amused, like he’s not slowly squeezing the life out of you. Like he’s enjoying this.
You try to speak again. Try to push past the pressure in your throat, the blood in your mouth, the trembling of your jaw.
“Mmar—muh—”
He laughs. Laughs.
“Muh-muh—come on, you can do it. You know my name. Say it.” He’s mocking you, voice all sweetness and cruelty. His grip tightens just slightly, and it sends a new spike of agony ripping down your spine.
Your face crumples.
You’re sobbing now, really sobbing, even though it hurts. Even though every broken breath feels like it’s digging your grave faster. You collapse inward, deeper into his grip, your weight sagging against his hold as your feet dangle uselessly beneath you. Blood smears down your neck, thick and warm, mixing with the salt of your tears. It leaves tracks on your cheeks. You don’t think you’ve ever been this afraid.
He shakes you once, sharp and jarring.
A cry slips out of you, louder this time.
“Say it,” he demands again. “C’mon. At least beg a little.”
Your lips part. It hurts. But you do it.
“Mark—please. Please.”
He hums like he’s enjoying it, cocking his head.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Please, Mark. I don’t—I don’t wanna…”
Your voice breaks again. Trails off into something too small to hear. You meant to say die. But it catches in your throat, and you’re not even sure if that’s the truth.
Because you don’t want to die at his hands.
You don’t want to die looking at his face.
You don’t want to die thinking this is the last version of him you’ll ever see.
You squint through the blood stinging your eyes, searching—anything. A broken pipe, a shard of metal, a loose brick. Something you could use before he chooses to tear your head from your body or snap your neck like a twig. But your brain blanks. He could do anything to you. You’ve seen him do worse.
“Hm,” he hums, tilting his head like you’re a puzzle he already solved. He pushes you away, just slightly. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight—”
A jagged chunk of broken concrete comes hurtling through the air behind him. It slams into his back and crumbles instantly, like dirt hitting steel. It doesn’t hurt him, but it makes him falter. Just for a second.
It’s enough.
You land a shaky kick to his stomach. It barely moves him—he grunts, more annoyed than wounded—but it’s enough to loosen his grip on your throat. His hand slips, and you drop like dead weight, gasping as air stabs back into your lungs.
You’re in the air again before you hit the ground, desperate to put distance between him and the civilians hiding in the building nearby. You knew you wouldn’t get far. You just needed space.
But he’s faster.
His hand snatches your ankle mid-flight, yanking you down so hard the air tears from your lungs again. Panic hits like ice in your chest, he could rip your leg clean off. You brace for it. But it doesn’t happen. You’re more durable than you give yourself credit for.
He must realize that too because he pauses. And in that pause, a car slams into him from the side with a scream of twisted metal, sending him skidding across the air. The vehicle shatters around him like glass against a god.
You hover in the air, staggering, breath ragged. Run. You burst away. But it’s like he never left. A blur of movement, and he’s on you again. The wind trembles around you as he grabs the back of your suit, lifts, and throws.
You crash through a concrete wall like a bullet, debris exploding in every direction. The force slams you into the tiled floor of the building behind it, breaking the ground beneath you as you skid across it. Each bounce against the cracked floor sends more shards of pain ripping through your ribs, your spine—until your body then slams into another wall, cratering the surface.
Your ears ring.
You blink rapidly through the haze and spot them. Movement. Figures, crouched in the corner of the room. Wide eyes. Shaking hands. Trying to stay quiet. Shit, you need to get out of here.
Then you feel him.
“—You little shit.” His voice is right there. Hot. Furious. His goggles have broken, and you can see his eyes. You feel sick when he looks at you, and you realize he has the exact same eyes as the Mark you know.
Hands seize you, claws in your skin, and you flinch, scrambling weakly, but there’s no time. Icy fingers dig into your face like meat hooks, one thumb gouging dangerously close to your eye as he yanks your head forward and smashes it back against the wall.
Once.
Twice.
He does it again. And again.
Your skull slams into the concrete until the plaster splits—until the wall peels back like wet paper and your head strikes the raw metal beam embedded beneath it. The sound is sharp. Hollow. Like a bell rung for the dead. The metal dents and bends to the shape of your skull.
“Fight back,” he snarls, saliva spraying across your cheek. His grip tightens. “Fight back, coward.”
The building groans around you. Cracks crawl like veins across the walls. Dust sifts down from the ceiling like ash from a burning sky.
Still, you don’t move.
Because your hands, shaking and soaked in your own blood, remain limp next to you. Fingers splayed, twitching, and glowing with desperate violet light. Your force field is fragile now—no longer the confident, humming barrier you’ve conjured in countless fights. This one sputters. Fractures along the edges. It buzzes with instability, as if your own heartbeat is the only thing keeping it alive.
Through it, the civilians cower in the corner. A young girl sobs into her mother’s chest. An older man clutches his chest, gasping. Blood trickles down someone’s temple. One of them meets your eyes—just for a second.
They’re depending on you.
You’re the wall between them and a god gone mad.
Even as blood pours freely from your nose, leaks from your ears, and chokes your throat, you hold the shield.
And he sees it.
His gaze flicks from your face to the trembling light shielding the survivors. Then he turns. Slowly. The glow reflects in his eyes like a glint off polished glass.
He sees them. The people you’re breaking yourself to protect. The reason you’re not fighting him back.
“Oh,” he breathes, realization flooding his face like bile. “That’s what you’re doing.”
There’s no humour in it. No mockery. He stands up. Steps back just enough to leer down at you. Then he nudges your leg with his foot, light, almost lazy.
“Am I not worth your full attention?” he spits, voice low and venomous.
You manage to lift your head just slightly, breath rattling in your chest.
That’s when you see it—the sudden flick of movement. His leg tensing, rising, snapping downward.
The stomp hits your knee. Hard.
A flash of pain rips up your thigh. Your force field flickers. Cracks splinter across its surface.
He sees that too.
And then he lifts off the ground. Just slightly. Hovering. Charging his weight.
“No—” you croak.
But it’s already too late.
He comes down full force, heel slamming directly into the joint of your knee. You hear the wet pop before your body processes it.
“Wait—”
Crunch.
The sound is sickening—like splintering wood wrapped in muscle. Your femur caves, bone shearing beneath his strength.
You scream. It rips from your throat with raw, animalistic agony. A sound born from every nerve in your body, catching fire.
But he doesn’t stop.
He stomps again.
Your leg gives entirely. Another crunch—louder this time. Bone bursts through skin, blood pooling fast and dark across the tile. Flesh torn. Tendons snapped.
You try to crawl away, sobbing, your fingers scraping uselessly against rubble, but he pins you with a single hand, heavy and uncaring. Whimpers slip past your lips. Your body trembles. Tears return—hot, relentless.
Still… you hold the shield.
Or try to.
Your hands flutter now, weak and slow. The violet glow dims, sputters, and flickers. You feel it dying.
You let out a choked sob. “No— please—don’t—”
He doesn’t even look at you.
Just kicks your side and shoves you down to the floor with a dull, wet thud. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. You taste blood again. You bite your tongue to keep from blacking out. Your world is sideways.
He steps over your body, shadow stretching across the floor.
“You wanna play hero?” he says, voice thick with disdain. “Then try and stop me.”
The force field fails.
The whine that comes with it is soft. Pathetic. Like a dying heartbeat. The light vanishes.
And then he moves forward.
You hear it first. The civilians scream. A cacophony of fear and hopelessness, and panic. Feet scramble across the floor, slapping and slipping in the dust. Bodies scatter like bugs when a rock is lifted, rushing to corners that won’t save them.
You try to look away. But you can’t.
Tears stream down your bloodied face, your vision blurring, every nerve screaming.
“No—please—stop—”
You watch as he grabs one by the throat, fingers sinking into flesh with a sickening wet crunch, and slams them into the ground hard enough to collapse the tile and crater the concrete beneath.
Bone shatters. The body twitches once. Then doesn’t move again.
Another screams before she’s hurled across the room and hits a concrete column so hard her spine snaps with a sound like cracking ice. Blood sprays in a wide arc, painting the pillar in a bright red fan. What’s left of her folds in on itself like meat dropped from a rooftop.
A third runs. Tries, anyway.
They don’t make it two steps before the variant is on him, driving his fist into the back of their skull like a sledgehammer. The head doesn’t just break. It bursts. A wet, explosive noise followed by silence.
You cry again. All you can do is cry, helpless and shaking. Because you can’t do anything. Can’t crawl. Can’t protect them. Can’t stop it.
All you can do is lie there, twitching, crying, blood in your mouth and dust in your eyes, your own leg bent backwards beneath you like a snapped twig, ribs stabbing sharp into your lungs every time you breathe.
The room shakes. Then goes still.
The screams stop. The begging stops. Everything stops. Except you. You’re still breathing. Barely.
And he sees that.
The Mark who isn’t yours. Who wears his face but none of his soul.
He turns, eyes raking over the ruined bodies, the cracked walls, the crimson streaks painted across your cheeks and neck and chest.
Then he walks away.
He doesn’t even kill you.
He doesn’t even care enough to anymore.
He just leaves you here. A pile of meat and power and broken promises. Like you aren’t even worth finishing off.
The world sways. Tilts. Cracks. You’re not sure if it’s the building or your skull. Everything blurs at the edges, the colours too red, too dark. The air is too hot.
Your ears ring—sharp, high-pitched, like a scream still echoing inside your skull. You can’t tell if it’s someone else’s or your own.
The walls are split open like ruptured flesh. The ground is thick with dust and blood and the sickly stench of offal. Light flickers from a shattered fixture above—rapid, dizzying pulses that make your stomach lurch.
What’s left of your forcefield gutters across the floor like dying embers. Violet flickers catch the blood, the bone, the ruin. Cast soft light on glassy eyes staring up from broken faces.
Some of them look like they were trying to run. Some tried to hide. One looks like they were shielding another.
None of them made it.
You should move. Should crawl to the window. Should drag yourself somewhere someone might see you. Maybe he’ll see you. The real Mark. If he’s out there.
You don’t move. You can’t.
Your leg’s twisted beneath you, a grotesque knot of blood and shattered bone. One arm lies limp across your stomach, fingers twitching without purpose. You think something’s wrong with your ribs—sharp edges press against your insides every time you try to draw in a full breath. So you don’t.
The sun begins to sneak through the crumbled wall, golden light stretching over the carnage like a lie. It touches the broken bodies. The cooling blood. Your face.
And you lie there. Unmoving. Unseeing.
Because what’s the point?
Your hands are burned from your own force field. Still faintly glowing. Still trying.
You’re alone in the ruins of hope.
The concrete groans once more, something shifting far above. A soft cascade of dust falls like snow.
But otherwise—nothing.
No rescue. No sound. No light.
Just the stench of blood. The sting of smoke. And you, barely holding onto the thought of staying awake. Not because you want to. But because something in you still refuses to close your eyes.
Even now.
Even when there’s nothing left to save.
And help arrives too late; a sound, distant, frantic, pierces the silence.
Footsteps. Heavy. Rushed. A younger voice screaming, raw with something deeper than rage: “Die! Die! Die!”
Your heart clenches. That voice. You know it. That high, stubborn pitch. That little face, purple and wide-eyed and brave in a way only a child could be.
Oliver.
But then… silence again.
That silence terrifies you more than anything. He was here. You heard him. And now you don’t.
You start to cry again. Weak little sobs, more breath than sound. It hurts too much to make noise. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe your brain, desperate and failing, conjured him to spare you from dying alone.
Then at first, it’s just a crunch. Soft. Careful. The sound of wind shifting through broken glass. Your ears twitch—what’s left of your hearing, catching the shift in air, the gentle thud of shoes landing on broken tile.
Your ears twitch, catching it through the sharp ringing that’s made a home in your skull. Another crunch. The delicate movement against the air.
Approaching.
Your vision swims in red and static. But you see it—a blur of violet streaking in from the jagged hole in the wall. It flies crooked, clumsy, like it’s too fast for its own balance. It shouts your name.
Not your hero name.
Your real name.
The sound cracks through your chest. A sob tears up your throat.
He lands too hard. Hits the ground with a gust that kicks up glass and bloodstained dust. Then he’s on his knees beside you.
“Oliver?” you whisper, the name catching on something wet in your lungs. The word barely makes it out. A cough wracks through you, sharp and tearing. But it’s something.
Your eyes flicker toward him. He’s breathing hard. Shaking. His fists are covered in blood—not just his, you think dimly—and there’s a long scratch across his cheek that’s already scabbing over. His eyes go wide when he sees you. So wide they look like they might spill over.
“You… you shouldn’t be here,” you croak.
Oliver stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. His mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again, trembling.
“I should’ve been here sooner,” he says.
You try to breathe, but it’s shallow. The weight in your chest doesn’t budge.
He reaches out, but doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t know where he can.
“I saw him,” Oliver whispers, “I saw what he did. I thought you were holding him off—I thought—then I couldn’t see you anymore, and I—I stopped him. I got rid of him—”
His voice cuts off. He blinks too fast.
You try to move. Your fingers twitch, scraping weakly against the rubble. You don’t know if you’re reaching for him… or for the people you couldn’t save.
Oliver sees it. And he starts to cry.
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, urgently, scooting closer. “It’s okay. I’ve got you now. Just—just stay awake, alright? Stay with me. Please.”
He’s a child. Still a child. And he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t see this.
“You have to go,” you rasp, barely audible. “Mark... he’ll be looking for you.”
Oliver shakes his head. “Mark’s fine. You’re not. I’m getting you out of here. I’ll take you to Mom. You’ll be safe with her. She’ll know what to do.”
He says it like it’s a promise. Like it’s fact. But you know better. You feel it in your bones—what’s left of them. You’re not going to make it that far.
You close your eyes for a moment. Just a blink. Just to rest them.
You let the words settle into you like warmth in a cold room.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. break up, swearing, mark being a fucking dick (slightly ooc), mentions of depression, mark hurts you, heavy arguments, use of the word ‘hate’ (you can see where this is going)
𝐚/𝐧. frick you anon (ily don’t stop), why’d you send this ask in? :(
You remember the first time he looked at you like you were something soft. Like the world hadn’t chewed him up yet. Like he hadn’t already seen its insides, bleeding and brutal. His eyes were wide and brown and impossibly open, like a door you didn’t realize you were walking through until it closed behind you.
It was late—he was late, always—but you had waited anyway, curled up on the concrete steps outside his house in your oversized hoodie and mittens, tapping your foot to some song in your head to distract from the cold. He said he was at a group project meeting. It sounded fake, but you trusted him. You always trusted him.
He jogged up, breath fogging in the air, cheeks flushed from the night wind. He looked surprised to see you. “You waited for me?” he asked, like he hadn’t been the one to promise, “Just an hour, tops.”
And you laughed—so stupidly, stupidly in love. “Obviously,” you said, as if the answer could’ve been anything else.
As if your body didn’t already know what it meant to belong to him.
Before he became a ghost in your inbox, before the silence grew claws and wrapped around your throat, Mark had been good to you. Not perfect—never perfect—but good in the way that mattered, in the way you could build a life around.
He held your hand even when no one was looking. Tucked your hair behind your ear like it was instinct. You remember the way he’d fumble over his words when he was excited, how his cheeks flushed when he saw you across a room like he still couldn’t believe you were his. How he used to walk you home, even if it meant doubling back two neighborhoods. Just to make sure you got there safe. Just to have those last few minutes of quiet with you.
There were Sunday mornings when the world felt small enough to hold in your palm—his voice soft from sleep, your legs tangled beneath thin blankets, the smell of coffee you never drank but he always made, just in case you changed your mind. He’d sit on the couch in his old t-shirt, hair messy, face buried in some comic book you couldn’t name, and you’d watch him like you were afraid to blink.
He made you mixtapes, real ones—burned CDs with tracklists scrawled in sharpie and titles like “For the Coolest Person I Know (Don’t Roll Your Eyes).” Songs he thought you’d like. Songs that reminded him of you. Sometimes he’d get the lyrics wrong, but he’d sing them anyway, horribly off-key, like it didn’t matter if he sounded dumb as long as it made you laugh.
And he listened. Really listened. Back then, you could tell him about the weird dream you had or how your coworker was annoying you and he’d actually care. You’d talk for hours, about nothing and everything, until the sun dipped low and your voices were hoarse from too many words. He remembered little things. Your favorite brand of cereal. The way you hated the sound of styrofoam. How you always got cold after you cried, even if it wasn’t winter.
He used to kiss you like he thought it might save him. Like if he just held you close enough, long enough, he could outrun whatever waited on the other side of the sky.
But then the world crept in. Bit by bit, like water under a locked door. You didn’t notice it at first.
You excused the first time he forgot your birthday—he was fighting a villain halfway across the country. You got it. Really, you did. You said it was fine and meant it, even if you cried in the bathroom at work.
Then came the days he didn’t check in after disappearing mid-dinner. The lies got easier for him to tell. Easier for you to swallow. He wasn’t just a person anymore. He was someone. Someone the world needed more than you did. Or so you started to believe.
You told yourself you were lucky. Blessed, even. To love someone who mattered. To matter to someone who could move mountains and outrun lightning. But somewhere along the way, he stopped seeing you as part of his world, and more like a pit stop. A soft place to land when the mantle got heavy.
You used to be his secret. Then his comfort. Then his burden.
You remember the last time he touched you like he wanted to. It was almost accidental—his fingers brushing your wrist as he took the mug from your hand. There was no heat. No ache. No softness. Just contact. You looked at him, trying to find that old spark—the boy who used to look at you like you hung the damn stars—and all you saw was someone who’d already left.
It didn’t fall apart all at once. It never does. It was a thousand tiny breaks. A slow erosion of everything you thought you had. A fading. A flicker. A final, quiet extinguishing.
You used to think love was something you could hold together if you just tried hard enough.
But some people hand you broken things and blame you when they don’t work.
Of course you didn’t know he was Invincible.
No one did. He looked like a kid still trying to grow into his body. He winced when he laughed too hard and couldn’t cook for shit. There was no part of you that thought he was saving the world between algebra quizzes and late-night cartoons.
But he told you. Right before he left.
The first thing you notice is that he doesn’t look surprised to see you.
He opens the door like he was already waiting for this. For you. For the end.
Mark’s hair is unkempt. There’s a bruise healing on his jaw and a dried line of blood near his ear. He smells like the cold night air and smoke, you can smell it from the threshold of his room. You don’t ask what happened. You don’t care. Or maybe you do, but not in the same way you used to.
You step inside. Quiet. Slow.
His room is dark, save for the small desk lamp. Everything is half-unpacked, like he never really came back. Like his body is here, but the rest of him never made it down from orbit.
“I thought you were dead,” you say softly.
Mark flinches.
“You were just gone. For months, Mark. No messages. No explanation. Not even a goddamn voicemail.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor like it might split open and swallow him.
“I checked the news every day. I asked Eve, I asked your mom. Nobody knew where you went. Nobody knew if you were even coming back.”
You’re already crying and you didn’t notice until your voice cracks, until your chest hitches. You wipe your face roughly, like you’re angry for feeling this much.
“I—I couldn’t sleep,” you go on, choking it out. “I thought maybe—maybe you’d call, or come home, or—or say something. Anything. But you didn’t.”
Mark’s breathing is shallow. His fists are clenched. His voice is low when he finally says, “I didn’t know how.”
“That’s bullshit.”
He looks up.
“That’s bullshit, baby,” you say again, louder now, louder than you mean to. “You always know what to say to everyone else. To save everyone else. But when it’s me, suddenly you go silent?”
“I was trying to protect you,” he snaps, like it’s a reflex. A shield he throws up before the words can cut too deep.
You let out a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a laugh. “No. No, you don’t get to say that anymore. You don’t get to act like I’m some fragile thing you had to put on a shelf and forget about.”
Mark’s eyes are glassy now, too. Red-rimmed. Shining in the low light.
“I love you,” you say, the words breaking apart in your mouth. “I love you so fucking much, and you left me to grieve you like you died. You made me grieve you while you were still alive.”
He crosses the room in two strides, arms reaching, but you step back before he can touch you. Fingers grazing the wool of the your sweater— the one he gave you with its blue and yellow stripes.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please just don’t.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, shaking. “I thought—God, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought—”
“You didn’t think about me.”
There it is. The truth. And it lands like a thunderclap between you.
Mark stares at you like he’s watching something beautiful collapse.
“I don’t even recognize you anymore,” you whisper. “You used to be kind. You used to show up. Now you disappear and expect me to just keep… waiting.”
“I never stopped loving you.”
You close your eyes. The tears won’t stop coming. “Then why didn’t you come back for me?”
He doesn’t have an answer.
And maybe that’s the worst part. Because you wanted to hear something. Anything. A reason big enough to make this hurt mean something. But there’s just silence.
You move towards the door, out of the his room. The one you’d spend hours in just to be with him.
Those same big brown eyes you’d fallen in love with in home economics, staring right back.
You move toward the door with tears streaking down your cheeks, fingers trembling as you reach for the handle. You can barely see straight. The lump in your throat is thick enough to choke you.
“I don’t think I can stay anymore,” Your voice cracks on the last word, “not when I’m the only one who was still trying.”
You open the door.
But before you can take a single step, you feel his hand close around your arm.
Fast. Too fast.
Mark yanks you back—not roughly, not enough to hurt, but enough to stop you in your tracks. His grip is iron. Not human. And it makes you feel even smaller than you already do.
You whip around, tears flying. “Let go of me!”
He’s breathing hard. Face flushed. Eyes frantic. “No. No, we can’t—we can’t end it like this.”
“You don’t get to decide that!”
You try to pull free, but his fingers won’t budge. It’s like being caught in a bear trap. You shove him, slap at his chest with your free hand, tears falling hot and fast.
His grip tightens to the point you follow the hand that holds you, pinned. “Let go.”
“I still love you!” he shouts, voice shaking. “Please just—just talk to me, please—”
You hit him again, fighting against him. Weak punches to his chest. You don’t care if it hurts him. You want it to. Even though you know it won’t.
“You don’t get to do this!” you cry. “You don’t get to leave me, disappear for months, break me down to pieces—and then decide you love me when it’s too late!”
Mark’s face crumples. He tries to reach for your face, but you pull back as hard as you can from the unyielding grip and push it out through pursed lips, “Don’t touch me!”
“Please do–“
“You’re HORRIBLE,” you sob, voice cracking apart as you watch your wrist twist at an angle you know it shouldn’t. “You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I loved you. I trusted you. I waited and I waited and I WAITED, and you never come back!”
“I was trying to protect you—!” Crack. It burns, and it hurts in a different kind of way to what you feel in your chest. And you can’t help the wail that burns its way out of your mouth.
He drops your hand like it burned him, like he’s finally realising that maybe he’s the bad one. He hurt you, he was hurting you and he didn’t even realise it. And it fills a rage in you that burns wild. It fucking hurts, hurts so bad and you can’t express it in just one meeting of your eyes.
“No, you were protecting yourself! You were a coward, Mark! You were a COWARD, and I hate you for it!”
The words echo.
He looks like you shot him—he had the gun loaded and cocked all by himself. It’s like something inside him breaks right there. His arms fall to his sides, limp. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he looks as what he’s done for fucking once.
And finally, finally, you’re free.
You back away, shaking. Hand dangling at your side with fingers twisted unnaturally.
“I don’t want an apology,” you whisper. “I don’t want your love. I don’t even want you to look at me ever-fucking again.”
You pull open the door and this time—this time he doesn’t stop you.
You walk away. Sobbing. Trembling. Sick with the kind of grief that only comes when someone you love turns out to be the reason you’ll never be the same again.
Behind you, you can hear his knees hit the floor.
But you don’t turn around. Don’t even look back because if you met those big brown eyes you’d fallen for in home economics, you’d run back. You’d comfort him because that’s all you ever wanted to do.
You don’t save him.
Not this time.
The hallway of the house feels louder than it should.
And Mark kneels there alone, in the dark, finally crying by himself.
in which mark meets someone with viltrumite-like powers — and has an angel’s wings?
invincible x fem!reader
warnings: world-building, smut fluff, not canon-compliant at all
inspired by kali uchis’s angel & igual que un angel
wc: 2800
“We don’t know exactly where she came from… but we do know she fell from an extreme height in the sky, or even space, down to Earth.”
Mark examines the hospital bed as he glances at Cecil with suspicion. He crosses his arms, puffing his chest out as he peers closer through the glass. It’s unlike Cecil to joke, much less about something as ridiculous as this.
“Do you realize what you’re telling me right now? Some girl with angel wings fell out of the sky suddenly? Is this some sort of prank?”
Cecil sighs, looking at his feet as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“No, Mark. She fell in Chicago, and left a huge mess for us to clean up. But after everything that’s happened, who knows maybe she was sent here for a reason. God knows that the city needs something to believe in after all the destruction.”
Mark turns away from the glass, fidgeting as he looks at the ground.
“So why did you call me here? Is there some sort of problem with her?” Mark asks as he turns back to Cecil, sizing him up.
Their relationship was never a good one, but when Mark received a message that he needed his help with some sort of situation, he felt compelled to come to the Pentagon, despite their bad blood. There was some sort of unexplainable pull – a siren’s call urging him to listen for once to see what was happening. But maybe that gut feeling was wrong, since all Cecil had done so far was present to him some poor girl in a hospital gown hooked up to countless machines, her wings held tightly together with some sort of harness or tape so that they couldn’t take up too much space. They looked to be pretty big, a mixture of ivory and white but he couldn’t get too good of a look as she shifted in the cot.
“Well, we’ve been running some tests and found out some interesting information about whatever she might be. She’s incredibly strong, and if she wakes up on the wrong side of the bed could do some major damage, even more than when she fell. And –”
Mark scoffs, rolling his eyes. Cecil gives him a look before continuing, “Mark, we believe the powers she possesses aren’t that far off from your own, or even Atom Eve’s. She can make beams of pure light, heal herself, and even though she’s unconscious has some ability to sense and manipulate the emotions of those around her. Don’t ask how we found that out.”
Mark raises his eyebrows in confusion looking back toward the girl behind the glass.
“I see. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Well, the reason you turned out so…you is because of your mother and the fact that you got to experience humanity. So, show her how to be human.”
Mark stutters out, “Huh!? Do you want me to play house with her and show her the ropes of being normal? I’m the last person who could do that!”
Cecil rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “What I really want is for you to let her stay at your home for a bit, let her experience some normalcy. For all we know she could be here to take over Earth. Or because it’s some sort of punishment. Just let Debbie talk to her at least. She’s doing a pretty good job with Oliver so far.”
“You want me to let her stay with my family? No way–”
“I already spoke to Debbie and she said she doesn’t mind. Even though the girl has powers, she could’ve used them in far worse ways and hasn’t yet. She just crashed here, passed out upon impact and has been sleeping since. But we think she’ll wake up soon.”
As soon as Cecil finished speaking, Mark heard the sounds of the monitors behind the glass beeping rapidly. He watched as you woke up slowly, rubbing your eyes, stretching your arms, pushing against the restraints against your wings until you looked to your back in confusion. You examined your surroundings before landing on Mark and Cecil, walking towards the glass, tapping on it tentatively.
Mark looks you up and down as you stare back at him with curiosity. There’s definitely something otherworldly in the way you move, not to mention your looks. Such beautiful eyes, a shine in them that gleams as he finally makes eye contact with you. There’s a strange swirling in his stomach – but that was probably just your powers.
You tilt your head, eyeing Mark in his suit. The way his muscles ripple, material spread taut along the span of his shoulders and his sharp jawline visible – but you can’t see his eyes. You huff and turn away from the glass.
“Where’s Donald? He always spoke to me. You just stare and this one I’ve never met before,” You say as you conjure up a beam of light that cuts through the bindings holding your wings together.
“He’s busy. And you have someone new to talk to: Mark Grayson,” Cecil introduces, patting Mark on the back before opening up the door to your room, ushering Mark in. He bristled as the door slammed shut behind him, effectively trapping him and you together.
The air felt different suddenly. Electric. He watched in awe as you stretched and unfurled your wings a few feathers falling and landing gracefully. They seemed to somehow shimmer despite the sterile lighting and looked impossibly soft. He met your eyes seeing a vulnerability in your gaze that hadn’t been there before. But as soon as it appeared it faded away as you spoke.
“So they want you to be my babysitter? The customs of my people are not that different from yours. But you’re not completely human, are you Mark Grayson?” You asked your eyes never leaving him as you walked around him, examining him. You went to grab his goggles off of his face before he swatted you away.
“No, no I’m not. But I’m not going to treat you like a child. Cecil just wants me to… help you adjust to life here on Earth.”
“Oh.” You looked away from his eyes standing in front of him with your arms crossed. “I may have just awoken, but I know many things. Your kind– your father’s kind are the reason I’m here. But I…I can’t remember what exactly happened to my….” You trailed off, a hand coming to your face as you turned your back to him, wings filling his vision completely.
Mark wanted to reach out, to comfort you somehow but he didn’t know what to do. “I can guarantee you, that I am nothing like my father, or any Viltrumite,” he spat the word out in disgust.
You turned back around, conjuring a small beam of light that reached out to him, and he froze. Were you going to attack him? Instead, the light shaped into a hand-like shape, its fingers taking off his mask and goggles and placing them gently onto your cot. You waved the beam away as you walked towards him again, finally completely face to face with him. In the silence there was an understanding and again, that pulled towards you to let you do whatever you wanted with him, to him, and he felt frozen in place.
“A heart like yours has gone extinct among the Viltrumites, if it ever even existed in the first place. And my own I think is what caused me to be sent here. I won’t harm you Mark.”
In your luminous eyes he saw his own and relief washed over him. A heart like his? He wasn’t sure if whatever you were sensing was a result of your powers or just sweet talk. But he was definitely looking forward to learning more about you.
“You think you’re here because of Viltrumites?” he asked as he shifted under your gaze.
“I think so. Whatever my purpose is, it’s tied to you and this planet. But it’s as though a fog has been placed over my mind, I-I can’t completely remember. I do remember falling, sorry about that,” You played with the end of your hospital gown nervously. “But I feel it in my chest, in my soul that I’m in the right place.”
You smiled gingerly at him, something new in your eyes. Embarrassment, maybe from the fall and having been so close to him.
“Alright. If you’re going to live with me and my family there’s a few rules that need to be laid out.”
Mark wasn’t kidding when he said there were lots of rules for you to follow. Despite being under Cecil’s watchful eye regardless, Mark made sure to keep tabs on your whereabouts and what you were doing as much as he could. You spent a lot of time at his home, helping Debbie with dinner, watching and spending time with Oliver, becoming a role model and friend to him. You especially liked playing sports with him, and flying since he was so curious about your wings. They also fascinated Debbie, the only person you had let touch them, feeling a sense of comfortability only a mother could create. It was fleeting, but it was a sign that you were embracing this new life, something you explained to Mark after she had rubbed the space between them on a night when you were feeling homesick, not having left your bed all day.
In a way, you just fit into his home, his family so well, he couldn’t help as that pull towards you, grew into a sense of affection and fondness. And that feeling was tested one day when Mark went up against a particularly strong villain.
Mark really hadn’t expected the guy to be so strong. He was facing punch after punch, being beaten into the ground late at night when he looked towards the sky and saw… it had to be–
A blinding beam of light exploded, shattering nearby windows, the force pushing the attacker away. Somehow you had created a cell of light that he was now trapped in, hearing his shouts of pain and the sizzling of skin as he tried to get out.
“Mark! I saw what was happening and had to help–I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” You exclaimed as your hand hovered above the center of his forehead. His limbs and face tingled as he closed his eyes, succumbing to the feeling that began to roll over him in crashing waves of tenderness, softness. Your healing powers began to take effect as he felt himself finally able to sit up.
“T-Thank you, angel…” He coughed as he looked toward you, a vulnerability in your eyes that was reserved only for him.
You wrapped your arms around him tightly, melting into him as you scratched at the hairs near the nape of his neck. That felt good…
“I was so scared, Mark. Please–Please you have to let me and Oliver help you. Don’t ever go off on your own like this again!” You let go of him as you looked into his eyes, scolding him. Your gleaming eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight, eyes shining with tears. One fell, Mark carefully brushing it away as he cupped your face delicately.
“I’m sorry. Let’s go home, angel.”
Instead of staying in your own bed that night, you ended up in Mark’s, tending to his lingering aches and pains wearing one of his shirts that you cut the back off to make room for your wings. You began rubbing his back, relaxing him further before he moved to face you.
After what had happened, he knew he had to do something, to finally act on whatever it was lingering between you. You looked at him, as curious as the first time you met and tilted your head so cutely.
“Is something wrong, Mark? Was I too rough?”
He waved his hand away, dismissing what you had said.
“No, never angel. It’s just I was thinking and maybe I could…” He took a deep breath before taking your hand into his, “Maybe I could help you relax too? Could I touch your wings?”
You offered a coy smile, eyes downcast. You looked up into his eyes, watching as his face bloomed into a timid smile matching your own. You nodded, before saying, “I might need some help, you know,” You gestured to your–no, his shirt. You turned your back to him, crossing your arms as you moved to take it off, Mark rushing to help you.
“O-Oh yeah, of course.”
He helped you take it off carefully, the expanse of your back visible to him, wings unfurling and fluttering coquettishly. His hands hovered as he took in the sight before him. He could also see the soft curve of your breasts, but they became obscured as you crossed your arms.
“You can touch me. I trust you, Mark.”
He swallowed, before rubbing the space in between your wings watching as you rolled your neck. The skin there was soft, and he moved to touch where your wings protruded from your back. You shifted, a small noise of pleasure escaping from your mouth.
He continued, stroking the feathers of your wings as he felt you relax, slumping slightly. They were so soft, so delicate and yet he could feel the strong hard muscle lying underneath. He began to massage the space beneath where your wings came out from your back and you whimpered, wings fluttering and stretching out further. You moved to clasp a hand over your mouth in shame before Mark leaned into your back whispering against your ear, his voice seeming to deepen.
“It’s okay, baby. Let me hear you, angel. Can I keep touching you? Somewhere else, maybe?”
“Y-yes, please,” you whined quietly, music to his ears.
Mark reached around from behind you to cup your breasts, feeling their weight between his hands. You turned your head to the side, the sensation engulfing you as he began to place soft kisses against your neck. He rolled a nipple between his fingers, pinching it as he began to nip and suck against your neck. His rough hands felt so good against your silky skin and he breathed in your sweet smell.
“You like that, angel?”
You nodded, crying out in pleasure, already sensitive from his hands on your wings.
“Use your words, sweet girl.”
“Mmmm, I love it. Please Mark, please,” you begged, unsure of what you were even chasing as his lips met yours in a searing kiss. Your tongues melded together as you brought your hand to run through his hair, your other becoming entwined with one of his hands still playing with your chest. The kiss continued, as Mark trailed his hands lower, pulling away to look into your eyes, asking for permission. The hand in his hair left, guiding it to the heaven between your legs as you began to grind against his hand.
“Angel, you’re so wet.”
He lovingly caressed you, rubbing against your clit over your panties as he pulled you into another kiss, swallowing your moans. He rubbed faster, as your breathing became heavier, pleasure overwhelming your senses.
“Mark–!” you cried out as a final warning before complete bliss filled your senses, wings spreading as far as they could, the downy feathers glowing. The room was illuminated as you came down from your high, slouching into his embrace as you rested your head against his shoulder. He kissed your temple as you felt something warm and hard…and wet against your backside.
“Mark, did you…?” You looked into his tired eyes as he looked to the ceiling in embarrassment.
“I-I couldn’t help it!” He stuttered out as you shifted, your bodies moving against the bed until you were on top of him, straddling him.
Your eyes shimmered as you splayed your hands across his chest, kissing him sweetly. Whatever this was– at first it felt inevitable, inescapable. But now you knew that you two were meant to be, a connection, a binding of hearts that were meant to connect in one way or another. It just happened to be like this. He looked at you as you used your powers to convey this feeling, eyes softening even further if possible, as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, placing his hands on your hips and squeezing.
You laid on top of him, your wings creating a sort of cocoon around you both as you whispered into his ear as he had before your voice sultry and yet sweet, “It’s okay, baby. Now I get to return the favor.”
You two were in for a very, very, long night.
a/n: if you made it this far, thank you for reading! this is my longest fic to date and i hope you all enjoy it!! i'd love to maybe make this a series of sorts w/ supernatural reader so lmk what you'd like to see; i'm also going to begin working on that hercules!au but please send in requests and inspo, i'd love to hear your thoughts!!
