Request: how about a sneak peak into Viltrumark mindset before he told his Kent the truth? Like, seeing what his plans and desires for him and his Kent were before they got faced with reality, yknow?
One Year
Viltrumite Mark X Kryptonian/Superwoman Reader
Context: Takes place within/is canon to my series Softer Than Steel. However, it is not necessary to understand.
w/c: 1.2k
He hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.
That was the first thought that lingered, persistent and unwelcome, as Markus stood just outside the apartment door.
Your apartment door. His apartment door.
One year.
A meaningless measure of time by Viltrumite standards. Barely a blink. Barely a fraction of what his life would stretch into.
And yet…
His hand hovered just short of the handle. Because inside your small home, he could hear you.
Not clearly, he wasn’t focusing enough for that, but the rhythm of your movement carried through the walls.
Light footsteps. The soft scrape of something being adjusted. The quiet hum you always fell into when you were concentrating on something
His jaw tightened.
This was never supposed to matter.
Earth wasn’t supposed to matter.
When he’d first arrived, everything had been simple.
Observe. Integrate. Prepare.
Just like his father.
The mission had been clear in a way that left no room for doubt. He knew what Earth was. What it would be. Another world brought under Viltrumite rule. Another stepping stone for the Empire.
The people here were fragile. Short-lived. Insignificant.
He had no reason to care about them.
He still didn’t.
Not really.
But you?
You were everything his mother used to praise about Earth. She’d stopped years ago, but Markus could still remember the stories she’d whisper to him as he fell asleep.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the memory back.
Inside, something shifted. A quiet thud, followed by your voice. Muffled and a little bit frustrated.
He frowned faintly.
You were trying to do something for him again.
The first time you’d done something like this, he hadn’t understood it.
You’d shown up at his door with a poorly wrapped box and a nervous smile, insisting it was “just something small.” He’d stared at it thinking it was a test.
But it wasn’t. It was just something simple. Useless.
He hadn’t known what to do with it. So he’d kept it. Still had it, actually. Tucked away somewhere he didn’t think about too often.
His fingers curled slightly at his side.
One year.
You were celebrating one year. A year since you met him. A year since you let him into your life. A year since he started wanting things he was never supposed to want.
It wasn’t the planet. He could admit that much, at least.
Earth itself held no value to him beyond its strategic importance. Its people were still weak. Still temporary. Still only for the purpose of keeping the Empire alive.
He could leave it behind without hesitation.
Without regret.
But you?
That was where things stopped being simple. Because he could picture it too easily.
You on Viltrum. Not hiding like you did here, but thriving. Living stronger, sharper, more untouchable than you’d ever been.
At his side.
It was always at his side.
His throat tightened.
He wasn’t supposed to think like that.
Viltrumite relationships weren’t built on… this.
It was built on the simple need of reproduction. Not the gentleness of which you treated him. Not the softness in which you showed him how to love.
And certainly not with the devotion you showed him.
His gaze dropped to the door.
You were still moving around inside. Your hum finding a much more listenable melody.
Markus swallowed.
His future unfolded in his mind whether he wanted it to or not.
Not Earth. It was never on Earth.
But something else. Something better.
You, standing beside him, not pretending to be fragile, to be something that needed to be protected, but as something equal. Someone who could withstand the weight of everything he was. Everything he would become.
You, looking at him the same way you did now, but stronger. Untouched by the limitations this planet forced on you.
You, with him, not for a year. Not for a fleeting moment in time. For as long as Viltrumites endured.
The thought settled deep in his chest.
He wanted that. He wanted you.
Not just like this. Not just in this small, temporary way you understood.
But fully. Completely. Permanently.
You would fight him. That part, he knew.
You were too stubborn not to. Too rooted in the idea of protecting people who couldn’t protect themselves. Too attached to a world that would never be able to stand beside you the way he could.
The way he would.
But you would come around. You had to.
Because once you saw it, once you understood what he was offering, you wouldn’t choose this place over him.
Inside, something clattered to the floor. Your voice followed, quieter this time. A soft groan of frustration. Then a small laugh.
Markus closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
That sound. It did something to him. Something he couldn’t categorize. But he knew he wanted to have it forever.
He pushed the door open.
“Markus?”
Your voice lit up immediately, soft and bright and completely unaware of the weight he carried in with him.
“You did all this?” he asked, quieter than he intended.
You smiled, a little shy, a little proud.
“It’s just something small,” you told him. “For us.”
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “For us.”
“It’s not a big deal,” you added quickly. “I just thought—”
He crossed the room before you could finish.
You barely had time to blink before his hand found your wrist, gentle but firm, grounding. His other hand came up to your cheek.
Careful, always careful with you.
“Markus.” you sighed with a smile, leaning in as your nose brushed his.
It was soft. It always was with you.
A simple press of your lips against his. Warm, familiar, safe. Always safe.
And almost instantly, all that tension he’d carried in with him, melted away, just for a moment, as he leaned into you. His grip shifted, hands settling more securely, pulling you closer.
You hummed softly against him, smiling into the kiss.
And that sound. It did something to him.
His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading just enough to hold you there. Wanting more. Needing more.
Markus stepped forward, and you gave way instinctively, pushing you against the edge of the counter. The kiss deepened as he tilted his head further into it.
His thumb brushed along your jaw, down your throat. You let out a small breath against him, and that was enough to make his grip tighten.
There it was again. That thought.
The same unrelenting thought of a future.
You pulled back to breathe and he followed instinctively, unwilling to let the space stay between you, his forehead brushing yours.
“Markus,” you laughed softly, a little breathless now. “Hey—”
“Mm,” he hummed, like he wasn’t entirely listening.
“Okay— Hey.” you huffed softly, pressing a hand to his chest to stop him before he could follow. “We are not skipping straight to that.”
Markus blinked at you, something almost confused flickering across his expression.
“Skipping?” he echoed.
You laughed again, shaking your head as you took his hand and pushed him back a step.
“Yes, skipping,” you repeated, amused. “I spent all day setting this up. You don’t get to ignore it.”
PAIR: Mark Grayson x Reader, Sinister! Mark x Reader, Mohawk! Mark x Reader, No Goggles! Mark x Reader, Viltrumite! Mark x Reader
SYNOPSIS: He finds you crying.
WARNINGS: mentions of violence, not too graphic though, emotionally constipated men
A/N : let me know if you guys liked these!! i love each variant in a different way mwhahah °ʚ(´꒳`)ɞ°
MAIN MARK
he's coming home, but it doesn't matter what from, because the moment he enters your place, the air feels thick, he calls out your name in a sing-song tone, hoping that will ease any tension.
he hears it then, a single shaky breath, and his eyebrows furrow. he rushes to your room to find you lying on your bed, curled up like something hurt, trying to sob quietly, make yourself smaller
rushing over, he panics. mark grayson is panicking because you look hurt, and he can't stand the sight of his partner hurt
"(Y/N)? Please tell me what's wrong, are you hurt?" he rasps in his voice, hands hovering over your body, looking at you like your entire body is a bruise
"I-I just tried to come back home and I tripped and skinned my knees, then I came home and ordered food and they messed it up, and then I tried to cook but it—" you're cut off by a sob racking through your body like thunder, every emotion is high and rehashing the horrible day makes you unable to stop
he gives you his puppy dog eyes before gently moving himself into the bed beside you caressing your face, and pressing his body agaisnt yours being careful to avoid grazing your knees
comfort, mark will always give you comfort he holds you close as your sobs die down to a sniffle
"I'm sorry your day was so bad... Let me help make it better, I'm gonna be right back." he gives you a small grin before pecking your forehead and speeding out of your place
he comes back 10 minutes later with a bowl of what looks like ice cream
"I got you gelato, it's from Italy, so it's the real deal." he bashfully hands you the bowl, and you flash him a smile, his ears tinge red
SINISTER MARK
this one is the most unstable; therefore, his responses can tend to vary depending on his mood, this man is devoted to you but he's not a lovesick fool
at first, he won't take you seriously, eyes watery, snot running, hair like a birds nest, he may even make fun of you because he doesn't think there's any real reason you have to be upset. he listens in rapture, a weird sense of pleasure he basks in while you sob, especially if you're crying over him, expect him to dryly laugh in your face if that's the case
"You're so cute when you cry, it's not like I'm ever letting you go."
"I-I Mark please," you'd beg, he'd stare at you with empty eyes, raking his fingers through your messy hair
now, if your tears are because of something someone did, like if someone, somehow, hurt you, he doesn't take kindly to someone hurting what's his, he'll lap at your tears while whispering how no one will ever touch you again, caressing your face, the person is already locked away, limbs cracked and bent wrong
"The dumbest vermin I've ever witnessed," he spat in their face before leaving them in the mess of their own bodily fluids
MOHAWK MARK
there's two versions of him in my head, one is more callous, and finds it hard to speak sweet things to you, the other does it easily because he loves big, gross and obsessively (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
this mark is unhinged but differently, his eyes shoot over to you crying, and at first he also wishes to laugh a little because c'mon they look so cute crying like that
that dies down quick when your fingers dig into your scalp, desperation clawing into your fingertips— seeping out like spilled water, he's suddenly worried, not used to the feeling, he'll charge towards you, gripping your shoulders like that'll bring you back here, to him in this moment
"Hey, hey, come on, talk to me, what's wrong?"
you're choking on your own spit, and he's getting increasingly more frustrated with your inability to talk. seeing you like this makes him feel wrong; he doesn't like it
"I just, I can't do this," you heave through your chest, he grabs your head and places it on his chest. you hear the thump in his chest, his heart beating just slightly above normal. for a second, he feels human
shakily, your fingers grasp at him instead, clawing their way into him, never hurting him—because that's nearly impossible for you, but you calm down. he lets out a sigh of relief, he's not always there with words, in fact, he sometimes says things that make it worse. so he resorts to letting you know he is there in this moment with you
NO GOGGLES
this one may be a little freak, but deep down he does care about you.....
you're crying— and he doesn't flinch at first, nor does he take the most pleasure out of it either. he is used to hurting people, and normally, he takes immense pleasure in it, especially if they manage to hurt him, but something about seeing your tear-stained cheeks mixed with your pout makes him feel almost... sad? it feels weird to say it out loud
"Don't be that way, c'mon... what happened?" he's already sighing and pulling you into his chest, relishing in the feeling of you weak in his arms; hearing your pulse run like a rabbit his voice honeyed over your ear
you murmur something about not feeling good enough, and he's genuinely confused, fingers tousled in your hair his voice comes out louder then he means to
"If I choose to have you by my side, trust me, you are enough." his voice comes matter-of-factly as he flashes you a grin, you jump a little at the volume but nod your head in agreement
VILTRUMITE MARK
he's most different from all of them; he doesn't hurt because he wants to, it's because he believes he needs to
so when he sees you, the one person he doesn't hurt, no—chooses not to hurt, cry? he isn't sure if he should be upset or not. years of Viltrumite missions have numbed him out to things such as human emotion, so then why does he feel... like something's off, he feels something wrong in the pit of his stomach, like his organs are suddenly heavier in his body
your weak form curled into the couch, shaking like the entire world is screaming at you, he twitches, subtle but there
he begins to make his way to you, smoothing out your hair, almost coaxing you to come out, but he doesn't speak
not yet
your head cranes up to him slowly, and you know something is off with him, you can tell, the subtle expressions, the little twitches, everything that no one else noticed
so when he silently holds your hand, you let him. a tear falls from your eyes and lands on his hand interlaced with yours, you watch his hand tense, just barely, like you'd stung him
"Why?" one word, one syllable, cuts through the air, his voice like a whisper in the apartment, hushing itself like everyone in the world could hear him
"i felt alone." one sentence, one feeling, yet lots of tears, mark feels something in his stomach turn, and his hand tightens again, just slightly
enough to notice
"I'm... not going anywhere," he eventually says after the long silence you two sit in, and you twitch, just barely, enough for him to notice "..so don't feel alone, not with me, never with me." he finishes
this is definitely one of the earlier times of your vulnerability with mark, so he's not as vocal as he would be in the future; nonetheless, you feel a hint of comfort in the sureness of his words. he doesn't say things like that if he doesn't mean it
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
Hello! Good morning/afternoon or evening wherever you are! Hope this isn’t a bother but I noticed that there isn’t any spider-man!Reader and viltrumite mark. I still can imagine spider-man making jokes, jabs and baiting villtrumites into traps if they get too close to rebels safe-hold, making children feel safe, constantly making trips to find food/supplies for others and being pain in the ass for viltrum empire to the point where viltrumite mark is sent to look for reader to forcibly join the empire or else. You know, just your friendly neighborhood spider man amidst the enslaved/ dystopian world.
FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SPIDERMAN! — ft. viltrumite!mark x spiderman!reader
cw: gn!reader, violence, mark hates reader, reader rage baiting mark 😭😭
a/n: live laugh love spiderman!reader🙏 not beta read
part 2
you’ve been a thorn in empire’s side since the viltrumite invasion. a permanent stain that couldn’t be washed away. with your heightened abilities, you quickly realized that despite not being able to take down a viltrumite, you could use your powers to help people.
and that’s exactly what you did.
patrolling rebellion safe holds and bunkers, swinging by to drop off supplies and necessary materials to survive… you were well known. and being well known was dangerous when the world as you know it was close to being completely destroyed.
your efforts did not go unnoticed. the viltrumite empire quickly caught on. you were disrupting their routine, messing with their plans. usually they’d deal with rebels with you easily, sending a viltrumite warrior to slaughter you on the spot.
that was the thing, though. they just. couldn’t. you baited them, fooled them long enough to get as many people to safety.
not many people could have the empire on their toes before they dropped dead. you could be… useful. to their cause.
so naturally, they sent mark. not to kill you, much to his dismay, but rather to get you to join the empire.
“give up. your tactics are useless; you will join and serve the viltrumite empire.” his voice was monotone, composed. but beneath it all was irritation.
“yeah? fat chance you got there, buddy.” you retort, your voice almost mocking as you swing from building to building.
“trust me, i have no interest in joining your-“ you quickly dodged a piece of rubble flying towards your head, “cult.”
mark grit his teeth, thoroughly irritated. being the zealot he was, hearing those blatantly disrespectful words set him off more than it should have.
you were quick, but not as quick as an adrenaline-filled viltrumite. just as you were about to shoot another web, he tackled you into the wall of a building, both hands wrapped around your neck. he dragged you against the floor, making it crumble beneath the two of you.
“i should kill you. but you deserve a fate worth than death.”
shit. you might be seriously fucked this time. your pulse raced, hands clawing at the ones around your neck.
“h-hey man, don’t you think you’re kind of overreacti-HNGH—“ his hands squeezed harder and you swore you saw the light for a second. the whites of your mask widened.
“silence, insect.” mark spat.
“well, technically-“ he didn’t let you finish, slamming your head into the ground hard.
holy shit.
in a desperate attempt to escape, you took advantage of him having no free hands and blinded him using a web, following up by pressing the sole of your foot against his chest and pushing him as hard as your body allowed.
mark let out a sharp grunt when his back hit the wall, smashing through it. you were able to temporarily disorient him before he tried to get up again.
quickly, two webs bound his wrists and ankles to the ground. he’d break through it eventually, though they bought you enough time to get away while helping a few civilians who were in the building to safety.
“better luck next time, eh?” you taunted, swinging away.
&&. " my friend's weird new roommate. " (au! sinister mark x gn!reader part two) || part one here !
warnings: 18+, mentions of death/killing, this is just regular life (death/taxes/going to college while being minimum wage), reader is a college student with the world’s worst friends, public sex, denial, drugs/alcohol mention, sex under the influence, piss mention at the end because a friend wanted it, reader is gender neutral but they have afab genitalia, etc.
summary: It’s been two months since your new roommate, a desperate request you made on facebook, moved in. Ever since then, the town you live in has become steadily engulfed into the black void that is Mark Grayson. People are going missing, bodies aren’t being found, and your “friends” still can’t help but come over to your house— but Mark wants to make certain that they never come back.
Two weeks after your friend asks you about his girlfriend, they find her bloated, waterlogged corpse on the lip of a lake three miles from your home. Naked as the day she was born, blue as the sky. You know this because her killer is the first to show this fact to you. Wearing the necklace that was missing from her body, leaned up against your doorframe, Mark Grayson waits for you to open the door just for the sake of showing you. Rejoicing in your reaction as you blinked away both sleep and the image of her drowned body now flash seared into the back of your eyeballs.
Everyday now, knowing you know and knowing there's nothing you will do to stop him, Mark relishes in that fact.
It seems like there is no day where you can escape from the fact that you have accepted a killer into your home. That you have not only accepted him but welcomed him into your arms and into the core of your being. You find missing person's posters everywhere around your home now. Scrunched up in the bin next to the toilet. Slapped onto the refrigerator. Snuck into your bag that you know you keep in your room, under your bed, where only you should be able to access it.
You don't ask how Mark does it. You know he won't give you an answer and you know that even if he did, it would be layered on top of seventeen other lies that have their own syrupy Mark honesty slathered overtop.
The one thing you can't forgive, however, is that even with all of Mark's brutality, even with all his destruction and poison, your friends still won't stop coming over to see him. Not you, not the person who was supposed to be their friend, but Mark. The one who is killing their brothers and their mothers and their lovers, not you, but him.
What you can't forgive is the fact that it's Mark you want, not them.
The wet slick of his cum over the expanse of your naked stomach. The unsatisfied knot of pleasure sitting between your thighs, one long drawn-out orgasm that Mark refuses to let you peak over. Watching with his void eyes as you dip your hand down and lap up every last drop of his release from your quivering, shaking fingers. "Good puppy." He calls you, saccharine sweet, against your temple. "You still have a little more left." Dragging his teeth across the rim of your ear. Refusing to release his death grip upon your hips. "Think you can clean me off too while you're at it?"
The phone calls are the worst part of it. All the sobbing and preening and fake sweetness in an attempt to win you over on letting them through your doors. You know it's not all a lie but something about being around Mark, absorbing his cruelty, hearing through his ears, you start picking up all the little pieces that are. "It'd be nice to get the chance to talk to you." (Talk to you. Lie.) "It's really hard, with everything going on." (Everything. Mark standing over you while you sleep. Doing nothing but staring. Doing everything but taking.) "Is it alright if I come over? Maybe we can share a drink? Help get our minds off of what's going on?" (We. You and Mark. Mark and you, you sitting at the kitchen counter. Mark sitting in the center. You in his horrible, terrible orbit.)
At world's end, your "friends" call together a party. Modelos and Bacardi and too much pizza for so much grief.
What they don't tell you is that they plan it on the day you work. That after a centuries long shift, you have to find street parking because they've filled your lot with three different cars and more e-bikes than you've ever seen around town. That when you finally crawl your way to your door, you have to physically shove the door open because they've packed the whole place so full even Mark has lost the urge to care about keeping people from leaving.
Yet, you still find him. In the swell of sweaty high bodies, you still find Mark.
Nestled there on your couch, surrounded by the welcoming envoy of blabbering drunk flies, legs splayed open, filling up as much space as he possibly can with his frame. As if he is waiting for you, waiting for you to walk through the crowd and take your rightful place upon his lap. Of course Mark knew you were working today. Of course he knew that you would have to wade through the dirt to get your way back to him. You know he knows because you can see it in his black eyes when he finally locks upon you and every pretense of his bullshit veneer drops from his cheeks.
You feel disgusting.
It's not just the sweat that has clung to you like a second skin from the work shift you just finished. Not just the sweat of all your "friends" friends that you've absorbed shoving your way through them. It's the filth of knowing you've made your whole way there to your living room, to your couch, just for him. Just to get to Mark.
"You think this is fucking funny?" Of course he does. Mark has some sinister comedy laced so deep into his nerves that everything he does, every person he kills, every drink he forces your friends to chug down, is poisoned with it. All their mess around you, discarded beer cans, strewn pieces of clothing from the heat of the four walls, it's all a result of Mark. The fact that you feel electricity running down your exhausted legs is all his fault. The fact that you feel it burn in your core as he laughs is all his fault.
"You didn't tell me you worked today." Mark smiles out and he doesn't even try to coat it in any kind of falseness. Of course he knew. He knew and he didn't mention it to any of them because he knew how little your "friends" cared to know. Wanted to test the waters, see just how far they would go. (It's what he always does. Asking questions. Knowing the answer. In another universe, it had to be his modus operandi. His villain catchphrase. "You actually thought--" "What chance do you---" "You really think---" Always a question. Always prying. That is Mark down to his very core. One big question.) "Were you hoping I'd invite you?"
"Get them out of here." You don't even particularly care that much about the mess. Not even that much about the fact that your friends are here mourning his victims. You care about the fact that they are touching him. Being infected by him. Charmed by him. You hate the fact that Mark is staring up at you and it feels like you are the only thing in this entire room beside him that he sees. That Mark is reaching over to you and you let him slowly drag you down onto his lap to straddle him.
Everything about him you hate.
Hate how cold his hands are. Hate how you shiver when he sets them down on your hips and you can feel them gently snaking under your work shirt. Hate how he's still fucking talking. Not to you, but to the others around you who are so drunk they can hardly see under their own half-shut eyes. Hate how you can feel how hard he is under you. The only warm part of him. Slowly rocking up against you, just barely, but just enough to let you know.
"What is this? This--- thing you want from me?" You'd been uncertain for days after that night. The way everything slotted back into nothingness. When you woke up that next day, not in each other's bed or with maybe a kiss or an acknowledgment, it was as if Mark was simply only there. Not as someone who wanted you, not as someone who loved you, Mark Grayson simply continued as he was. No titles, no claims. (Maybe you wanted to be claimed by him. Eaten by him. Devoured into his everything. Maybe you wanted Mark to kill you and forever be taken by his hands alone.) "We aren't friends, Mark. Whatever this is-- I don't know you." Yet here you were. Standing at the end of his bed. Waiting for him to invite you in, even as he continues to scroll on his phone, laid on his back, arm folded behind his head.
"Does it really matter?" Even against the blue light of his screen, his dark eyes never reflect anything back. Just a vacant lot of everything you'd never be able to decipher and the heavy weight of wanting to be the only thing that could ever matter to him. "If I know everything about you, about what you want, does it really matter what you call me?" You can feel his mattress strain beneath him as he settles onto his elbows. Mark's heavy frame filling up the space in the room. Lunging forward just enough to yank you all the way down into his arms.
He smells like bleach today. Bleach and your best friend's favorite laundry detergent. When you recoil back, all Mark does is wind his arms even tighter around you. Absorbs you into his flesh. Intertwines his legs in yours to keep you from escaping.
"The only one who needs to know that you are mine is you." There's no romance in his words. No heartwarming declaration of cosmic love or destined soulmateship. Mark has claimed you. The same way that the sun claims every planet around into its orbit. The same way oil pollutes the sea and submits all its life to its death. Mark Grayson, with his cold lips that lay his kisses across your shivering neck, with his hands that drive their weight down into the flesh of your back, has claimed you as his. Till death do you part, or till he does it himself. "Just seems right, doesn't it?" When you go limp in his arms, it feels like victory. “Aww… no more fight?”
“It’s a great party, ain’t it?” So loud. So busy. It’s everything you hated most in your home, but it’s the perfect distraction. Bodies on bodies, surrounded by more bodies to distract the other bodies. Mark barely misses a beat in rutting against you to pluck a joint off a nearby victim; inhaling deep for the simple sake of blowing it back into your face. When you cough, waving the acrid air away, Mark chuckles and you hate how it makes your heart skip a beat for just a moment too long. “Come on. Enjoy it a little.” He offers but even you can tell there’s not much in the way of choice in the matter. A second too long of not answering and Mark presses the joint against your lips and you can see it in his eyes. Command, down to his marrow. “Take a hit.”
So of course you do.
It’s the smallest little roach you have ever seen. Rolled up with as much love and care as a high schooler’s first and it hurts like hellfire coming out. Laced with something more than just flower. Oil, maybe, rosin hopefully. Everything from that moment on feels like bliss.
You learn just how little Mark cares about the world, all its boundaries and norms, once the weed in your lungs begins buzzing down to your limbs. The crowd is still there, intertwined in their conversations and debaucheries, but Mark doesn’t care. You think he must just be fucking around at first when he starts tugging at the belt of your work pants. Itchy fingers and maybe just a little bit of playfulness.
“Why don’t you grab another drink? You look like you need it.” Mark in his fifth conversation while he deftly slides your belt off and behind the living room couch. “The girl over there is checking you out. You should grab her number. Don’t be chickenshit.” Mark’s zipper completely undone. The strain of his cock against the slightest peek of his exposed boxers. “Go talk to someone else and mind your fucking business.” Mark’s biting response when one of your friend’s comes over with a drink while he’s face deep in your neck, making sure it carries through to his teeth and into your flesh.
It feels like paradise. Like being eaten alive. You and Mark on your living room couch, dry humping in a home full of victims and strangers. You try to be quiet at first. Caught up in shame and pathetic remorse but Mark refuses to let you bite your lips. He lets you bite his fingers instead, two thick ones shoved into your mouth and against your drooling tongue. “Don’t act shy now.” Mark hums out, his right hand busying itself with your work pants. The cool breeze against the sweat of your thighs as he yanks it off and somewhere in the room for someone else to trip over.
“Are you fucking crazy?” You try to say but the only word that comes out between his fingers and the moan he draws out of you by dragging his hand over your dripping clothed cunt is a harsh “fuck”. All it serves to do is entertain him further. Push your bounds just a little bit more. Pop his fingers out your lips and use both hands to turn you around in his lap until your back is pressed against his chest. The slow beat of his heart slamming against the curve of your spine. The slick of your arousal against his clothed cock, straining against his boxers.
“No one here gives a fuck about you.” Maybe it’d hurt if everything Mark was doing didn’t feel so good. The agonizingly slow rut of his leaking cock against your entrance. His hands diving under your shirt to pinch and pull at your hard nipples. “Not a single person here—fuck.” It feels better than anything to hear the sounds he makes when you move against him. The rough choke of a moan in his throat that comes out in laughter and airy chuckles. The way his hips jerk up when you dig your nails into his wrists to stop him from venturing down towards your underwear. (But you want it. More than anything. For him to fuck you raw in-front of everyone. To let them know that he’s yours and you are his. That they can’t have him the way you do.) But it doesn’t matter how hard you try to resist him. Mark’s hand dives into your underwear and you can feel through your lungs and through the little watching eyes in your haze the sound he makes. A deep, unforgiving groan when all three of his fingers plunge into your soaked cunt without even the slightest resistance.
“Just fuck me already, Mark.” All he wants to do is eat you whole. “Please.” It’s all he needs to hear. Not the confirmation, just the desperation. The pitiful, shameful, begging desperation. “Please, please—“ Mark laps up the wet sounds of your pleasure through the smoke and blasting speakers. The way you rise your hips to meet up against his knuckles, buried so deep in you that he can feel your clit pulsating against his palm. “I need you.” So close. So fucking close. “Just fucking ruin me.” He’s smiling in a way you’ve never seen him smiling before. This horrible, toothy thing that reaches up to his eyes. The first time— true and utter glee.
“Okay, puppy.” You yelp when he slides his boxers to the side and all you can feel is the heavy slap of his cock against your underwear. Arms locked around your waist. His cold, heavy head set into your shoulder. His heartbeat picking up, slapping wet against your vertebrae as he maneuvers himself around the soaked fabric. “Anything you want.” All it takes is one quick, slick motion, and you can feel Mark bury himself in you up to the hilt. Head hammered against your cervix. And more than anything, besides the whispers and the vacant laughter of “Shit, are they really fucking right now?” and “Holy fuck. Look at Mark go!” all you can feel is how desperately Mark is clinging to you. How deep he has fingers buried into your sides. How much teeth he has in your jugular. How fucking hard he is. How hard he still is when he begins slamming you down onto his lap, relishing in every little whimper and curse that falls out from your lips.
And still, it’s not enough for him. Mark wants louder. He wants you crying out his name. He wants every person in your home to know his name. To hear just how wet you are. Even as a few people begin shuffling out, hands to mouths, quiet gasps and giggles, Mark doesn’t relent. Even as you can see from the corner of your eye someone take their phone out and begin recording, Mark keeps going. Pinching at your begging clit to startle a cry from your lips. “Sorry puppy— little too hard?” Rubbing the ache away under his rough palm. Chuckling when someone remarks how fucking wet you are, how obscene the sound is. And when you try to cover your face, save yourself just that little bit of decorum, Mark wrenches your hands and cages them behind your back. Using them as the perfect anchor to keep slamming into your hole.
“Mark— Mark please, I-“ You don’t have any words for the pleasure or the shame or even the sight through your barely open eyes as those left in the room continue watching. Palming at their own groins. Some looking through their parted fingers. It’s the disgust that Mark is looking for, in those people who you call “friends”, the way they reel away when he looks up and smiles at them. Buried so fucking deep in you that he can feel your arousal slathered against his balls and thighs. “More, please I—I need more!” And yet, they still don’t run away when Mark barks at them to pass him another joint.
Mark fills his mouth up with smoke and the "more" is engulfing your lips to force it in your lungs. All you can see is stars and iPhone flashlights and the look in Mark’s eyes when he pulls away, lips wet with your saliva. A look that says, “You’re mine.” A kiss that says, “Let them watch. Let them know.” A void that says, “There isn’t a single other person in this room beside you that will live a month after I’m done fucking you.” It’s enough to make anyone fall in love.
You love him, you think.
Or maybe you just love the full feeling of him buried inside of him. Love the way he lets out a proud hoot when he can see his cock through your stomach. Straining against your flesh. “Fucking beautiful.” He groans out and you can feel it down to your shaking legs when he stuffs your face down into the couch and continues ramming into you. Barking at another of the few people left in your home “to get their shit together and get the fuck out—“ before you can reach your climax. Laughing when they run out with their tail between their legs. Laughing harder when you don’t so much as hear it over the grotesque sounds of Mark slamming his cock into you. All you can hear is him, all you can feel is him, all you can taste as you orgasm around his cock and he pulls it out just to shove it into your drooling, open mouth, is your own slick and his hot release as he buries it down your throat. Pinching your nose to keep every drop of it inside, releasing it only when you begin to turn blue. Watching over the bridge of his nose and the twitch of his half-stiff length as you cough and whimper, one hand clinging to his thigh, the other filling the emptiness he left behind with your fingers. Chasing that high as desperately as you possibly can.
Through your tearful eyes and the quiet of your home, empty, shared only by you and Mark, all you can see is how much more he wants from you. How starving he is. How much of you he is ready to continue chewing away at. And you let him. You sink down before him and swallow his length into your begging lips and something like a growl emanates from Mark’s lips. His claws burying themselves into your hair and against your scalp, pushing your head down to the hilt, nose buried in his pubes. Wrenching you back by your hair when all the alcohol has finally caught up to him and the only convenient spot to release it all is the open willing part of your lips. The vibrations of his deep laughter as the bitter liquid bobbed at your throat and dribbled down the side of your mouth, staining your ruined work shirt. Smiling even bigger when you lap up the last drops of piss from Mark’s head and go back to sucking him off. Hand clutching at his thigh, hand fingering yourself raw.
“Oh, your poor thing.” Mark coos and it feels like being kissed. “You really are something special, huh?”
writer's comments: wow! you made it to the end! did you enjoy it? did you feel truly "loved" by mark? thanks so much for reading if you made it all the way here! i unfortunately am full with sinister mark parasites and he drives me utterly insane-- so i hope you felt a percentage of that insanity with me! i have plans for a mohawk mark fic after this but please send requests if you have them! i love doing little hc posts or mini-stuff as well so be my guest. remember to smoke safely friends!
the word girl is used literally once, and nothing else is mentioned—so if you just want to ignore that, it’s chill.
tw: delusional variant, kidnapping, sort of Stockholm-ish, uhhhh the usual atp, basic short Drabble bs. The whole thing is a nerdy pun on comic retcons and the delusions of a broken man.
THIS IS NOT EVE SLANDER‼️ I LOVE HER, SHES JUST FOR PLOT IM SORRY
authors note: the crossed out pieces are your thought process that he’s “rewriting” if that makes sense. um i originally intended it to be full-mask, but idk if it still fits.
There might be another part sometimes after the miniseries. Or, well, whenever I feel the itch. Idk, I’m just vibing.
we need more nerdy Mark variants.
Mark knows what he’s doing is wrong.
He knows he shouldn’t have taken you from your universe, he knows that he definitely shouldn’t have kept you, and he knows that pretending everything’s normal was the worst thing to do.
He knows that.
But, having you in his arms again and feeling your heartbeat against his chest? With the soft lamp light reflecting off your hair, giving you this sweet angelic halo? the blankets pulled tightly around the both of you so tight you couldn’t wouldn’t want to leave his bed?
Sometimes it’s just….easy to forget how upsetting this could be, to just accept that what he did was wrong and stop giving it a second thought.
Sure what he did was wrong. Sure it made you….skittish. But you’ve come around! There’s no yelling, or hitting, or cursing.
Just shaking, and a few tears here and there. Honestly, they could even be tears of joy! Maybe you realized that you loved this version of Mark, and not the dumb best friend you had—who didn’t even make sure you were safe during the invasion! That Mark was too busy with Eve to care about the sweetheart you are.
This Mark would never do that to you. He’d tear down every building, burn every planet, and destroy every sun if it’d make you glance his way.
He’s not your Mark, of course!
He loves you. No version of him could love you like he does.
So, when Mark found you again, he figured it’d be easier to…retcon your “origin” and rewrite your home—with him, in his universe, in his arms.
Just as you’re meant to be.
“….and so, Seance Dog fought—please stop shaking, everything’s okay, curl up closer so you’ll be warmer. anyway, he fought this sorcerer and like reversed this curse—…oh, baby, ‘s alright. Shhh, sweetheart, it’s ok. I know. I know,” he cooed, brushing his fingers through your hair. He let out a soft hum, cradling you in his arms a little tighter.
He knew why you were shaky. Of course he did.
He wouldn’t admit it though. Never would. You just had to learn you were safe now.
No one would take you from him again. He’d make sure of it.
He made sure your Mark wouldn’t be able to find you—if that Mark could ever even see again.
He places a soft kiss to your brow, a barely there brush of his lips. He couldn’t deny the way his stomach flipped after he pet your hair—especially when your sniffles started to die down.
That’s his good pet girl.
“The plot gets confusing, I get it. They retconned a few things. But that’s ok! You have me to explain it to you.”
He wasn’t going to let go. Not now. Not when he had you again.
I have a request! Since im a sucker for Sinister, could i request as oneshot where we see how a "usual" fight/interaction between him and Absolute Superwoman is like?
Another Day
Sinister Mark X Kryptonian/Absolute Superwoman Reader
Context: Takes place within/is canon to my series Softer Than Steel. However, it is not necessary to understand and you can simply read it as a powered!reader.
w/c: 1.1k
a/n: So. I know I said I’d release requests in batches with the release of each new episode of S4. However. This one possessed me and I woke up with this written—
The fire had already spread too far by the time you arrived.
Flames clawed up the sides of three apartment buildings, orange and violent against the night sky. Smoke billowed thick and black, choking the air, and blotting out stars.
You didn’t hesitate as you threw yourself into the center of it.
Heat curled around your skin, harmless but suffocating in its intensity.
Around you people screamed. Some trapped in rooms, others trying to flee down stairwells already full of smoke.
You took a slow breath and exhaled.
A controlled, focused blast of freezing breath tore from your lungs, sweeping across the floors.
The blaze flickered as it was smothered, ice creeping along the edges of charred beams and shattered glass. Steam exploded outward where heat met cold, hissing like something alive.
A woman stumbled out of a doorway, clutching a child. You were there before she could fall, steadying her with your arms.
“It’s okay,” you said, softer now. “You’re safe.”
She nodded, dazed, and you guided her toward the waiting first responders.
Then you were gone again.
Up. Through collapsed floorboards. Into smoke so thick even you had trouble seeing through. So you listened instead, listening for heartbeats, breathing, the faint whimper of someone trying not to panic.
There.
A man pinned beneath a fallen beam.
You lifted it like it weighed nothing, as careful as you could make it. Trying to ignore the sound and smell of melting flesh as you picked him up.
Over and over. Room to room. Floor to floor.
By the time the last flame died under your breath, your chest felt tight.
You hovered above the street for a moment, watching as paramedics took over. As people cried and clung to each other and tried to piece themselves back together.
You turned to leave.
Back to the only place you could call a home. But you barely made it a block before you noticed it. A presence, the feeling of being watched.
You froze midair.
Slowly, you turned your head. And there he was.
Floating in the distance like he had all the time in the world.
Watching you.
Your stomach dropped.
Without thinking, you shot off in the opposite direction, faster than sound, faster than thought. The city blurred beneath you, lights streaking into meaningless lines as you tried to put distance, any distance, between you and him.
For a moment, you thought—
“You always run.”
His voice was right behind you. He matched your pace effortlessly, drifting alongside you like this was a casual stroll instead of a chase.
Invincible tilted his head, studying you with open fascination.
“It’s interesting,” he continued lightly, as if you were in the middle of a conversation. “You hear it all, don’t you?”
You didn’t respond. You just pushed faster.
He kept up.
“The screaming. The breaking. The way their bodies fail them so easily.” His eyes flicked downward toward the city. “All that noise.”
“Stop talking,” you snapped.
He smiled.
It wasn’t kind. It was anything but.
“I can’t hear it like you do,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “But I can imagine.” His gaze slid back to you. “It must be overwhelming.”
Your hands clenched into fists.
“Why are you here?” you demanded.
A soft hum of amusement left him. “You know why.”
“No,” you said sharply. “I don’t. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to hurt people just to—”
“To get your attention?” he finished for you.
He grinned. “Worked, didn’t it?”
Rage flared hot in your chest.
“You—” Your voice shook. “You caused that fire.”
“Of course I did.”
So simple. So casual. Like he was talking about a simple mistake.
Your vision burned.
“They were innocent—”
“They were tools,” he corrected, almost gently. “Fragile, breakable, but very, very useful.”
You stared at him. You didn’t understand. You couldn’t.
“How can you say that?” you whispered. “How can you—”
His expression shifted, something darker slipping through.
“Because they’re easy,” he said. “Insignificant.”
He drifted closer.
“And you,” he continued, voice lowering, “are not.”
Your breath hitched.
His eyes dragged over you. Admiring. Assessing.
“You feel it all,” he murmured. “Their pain. Their fear.”
A pause as he hummed. “I wonder…”
Your stomach twisted.
“What yours would look like.”
Something in you snapped and the impact cracked the air.
Your fist connected with his jaw, sending him hurtling backward through the sky.
He barely had time to react before you were on him again, striking again, faster, harder, each hit fueled by something raw and shaking in your chest.
“What is. Wrong. With you!?”you shouted, each word punctuated by another blow.
He caught your wrist mid-swing.
Effortless. Just like that.
“There you are,” he said softly. A smile on his face, but not the usual condescending one, it’s sharper.
He twisted, slamming you downward. The ground rushed up to meet you in a blur of asphalt and debris, the impact sending cracks spiderwebbing through the street.
Pain flared, but brief, manageable.
You shoved him off, scrambling to your feet.
He followed, slower, almost lazy.
“You fight so hard for them,” he mused. “For something so… insignificant.”
“They matter,” you shot back. “All of them
“They matter to you,” he corrected.
You lunged again.
He met you this time. But he wasn’t fighting to win.
He was playing.
You could feel it.
And It made your skin crawl.
“You’re exhausting yourself,” he noted, catching your arm again, leaning in just enough that you could feel his breath. “All this effort. All this pain you carry for them—”
“Stop it.”
“—and they’ll never understand it.”
“Let. Go.”
“Not like I do.”
Your vision flared red.
Heat built behind your eyes—
And you let go.
The blast of heat vision struck him point-blank, bright and blinding and angry. It sent him flying back, tearing through the air and slamming into the side of a distant building hard enough to crater it.
You didn’t wait.
You turned and ran.
You didn’t stop until you were home.
Until the door slammed shut behind you.
Your hands were shaking.
You stared at them.
Then at your arms.
Your skin.
You could still feel him.
You always could.
It felt like he stained your skin with ink. A stain that spreads and taints and corrupts.
You moved without thinking, stumbling into the bathroom. The faucet twisted on too hard, water rushing out in a steady stream as you braced your hands against the sink.
You scrubbed.
Your nails dragged across your skin, over and over, like you could erase the feeling, like you could tear away whatever disgusting feeling he’d left behind just by trying hard enough.
You continued to scrub until your skin burned.
Until your breath came in sharp, uneven pulls.
Until—
You stopped and turned the water off.
Sighing, you pushed off the sink basin. And it wasn’t long until you’d dressed yourself in overalls and headed outside.
Heading to the one person that you knew would make you feel as normal as possible.
SYNOPSIS:
in your world, nothing is particularly wrong; there are no superheroes, but you do get to mindlessly indulge in shows and books. in fact, you're a casual fan of the show invincible.
today, you’re perusing an old article about a haunted place when you stumble upon a house that's definitely out of the ordinary, and despite the absolute gloom that emits from the place, you can’t help but go in. what you don’t expect is encountering powers beyond that of your world. somehow, within the hour, your fate finds itself intertwining with that of mark grayson. but the real question is: can you save him?
WARNINGS: none for the prologue! read directory for series warning
A/N : silly little prologue for before the series starts, let me know what you think !! also if you want a taglist!
PROLOGUE
Your last year of university wasn’t the easiest, your heart pounding in your chest as you were set to graduate within the next week. You had made it finally, every ounce of your being was tired, exhaustion threatening to shut your lids. Eyes peeled open as you hunched over your laptop at the school's library, your fingers shaking from the caffeine coursing through your system.
But you somehow made time for the things you cared about most, and one of those was exploring haunted places; you never really knew where you developed such an affinity for things like this. Maybe it was the horror movies you watched in middle school, or maybe it was because of the scar on your back—you hurriedly shook your head as if expelling the memories from your brain.
Not the time to think about that.
You researched myths, relics, and ancient texts; it probably didn’t help that you minored in occult studies.
Today’s research consisted of finding a new location to check out. You were planning to travel before your graduation, a little gift, you thought, for making it this far.
As your eyes scanned the text in front of you, the computer screen flickered, and your eyelids snapped shut before opening again to convince yourself you weren’t hallucinating from the exhaustion. Letting out a sigh, you chalked it up to the sleepless night before your exams; double majoring wasn’t your sharpest idea, but you couldn’t stop yourself, especially when you were graciously offered the scholarship of a lifetime.
You had found a perfect place, scanning through forums online from the darkest corners of the internet proved to be a hassle, but one you were content with dealing with when it came to things like this. Nothing haunted could ever avoid your grasp; just before it slipped away, you’d grip onto any information on it like a vice, refusing to let it die in obscurity. All you needed was the book to pinpoint the location, and potentially the relics that were inside. You nearly drooled at the notion of it.
This specific place was in a town called Hornnewle. The aforementioned haunted building was said to be a place of rest for a fallen angel, years of dread and deaths associated with it labelled it as barred by the residents, which was right up your alley. The cherry on top was the fact that it was in a secluded place far away from where you were.
“Okay, I just need to travel to the town and find the book, it’s such a shame they don’t have it anywhere else…” You murmured to yourself, pouting at the extra labour, but it wasn’t real frustration. Instead, you felt a buzz travelling through your veins, your fingers drumming lightly on the keypad.
Not long after, you shut your computer and breathed out of your nose. You eyed the stickers on your laptop, the blue and yellow standing out. The Invincible sticker you’d acquired not too long ago stared back at you, in a stereotypical superhero pose, you shyly smiled at it as if you were looking at the real deal. Your face flushed as you realized you were in public, and smiling at a sticker on your laptop most definitely looked odd, so you quickly packed it into your backpack, silently cursing yourself for being socially inept.
You felt a chill run down your spine as you turned to leave, noting the hairs standing up on your arms. You ran a hand through your hair, wondering why today felt off.
In the end all you could do was try to omit it from your memory, you went home and bought tickets for the train to Hornnewle. This would be your mini vacation!
What a trip this will be, you thought, smiling to yourself.
