hiiii. I mostly made this list for myself because I tend to lose track of what I'm reading. I will keep updating this list every time I find a new fanfic that I like, and I finally started adding more stuff ;)
𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝘁!
Batfamily x neglected!reader (I loveee angst)
HOLD ON TO REASON (or fall for the Illusion) -by @echo-exco
again &. again -by @acid-ixx
Your Other Family -by @dumpsterdiverinc
Undoing Fate -by @rizzanon
BURNT OUT -by @cupids-cruel
Fractured Wings -by @pomegranatelifethis
platonic!Batfam x neglected!gn!reader -by @gloopfruit (this one has no set title)
𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐃𝐔𝐄𝐓 -by @bloodinroses
EYES WITHOUT A FACE -by @dehydratedoverlord
“So much to do, so little RAM.” -by @cafeoa (kinda neglected)
Invisible Heart -by @pomegranatelifethis (this one made my chest hurt a little ngl)
Oh my God, Oh my God. Who wrote this? -by @luludeluluramblings (there are both SFW and NSFW versions) here's also her whole master list cuz she's an amazing writer and has many more bat family work!
Yan! Neglectful! Batfam x Replaced! Reincarnated! Time-loop! Crazy! Reader -by @candysparks (TW cause this one is horror/angst)(also has evil Yuri)
a loving family, an unpalatable desire (batfamily x under appreciated!batmom) (superfamily x batmom) -by @acid-ixx
don't romance the npc (batfam x npc isekai’d! reader) -by @acid-ixx
THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT -by @bnny0rgnz
girl with one eye -by @neellscapsule
“UNDER THE MASK.” -by @geniusgirlalert
No use for your apologies. -by @mareszawrites (i actually cried reading this omg)
Socialite!BatSis!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family -by @luludeluluramblings
Static On The Line (Batfam x batsis) -by @suigenerisisadiva
Yandere BatFam x other dimension Reader -by @sangunary
Long Gone -by @cosmicasteroid
My Heart -by @neellscapsule
; Coming Full Circle. -by @oddlylovingaddiction
the ballad of a bygone blight. -by @kenyummy
Why are you so obsessed with me?! -by @zippysmusings
𝔈𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 -by @stpatriziaofconstantinople
BATBOYS X READER (NOT PLATONIC)
In The Car ! tim drake x reader - by @dark-tulipss
dick grayson x loser!reader pt2 - by @doki-doki-imagines
All Ours Bernard and Tim x reader - by @dark-tulipss
dairy queen closes in 10 minutes tim drake x reader -by @shisuni
INVINCIBLE X READER (MOST ARE NSFW)
Yours Truly, Your Favorite Ex mark grayson x reader - by @elainewonderswriting
"I’ll Breed You Into Loyalty"Mark Grayson x Viltrumite!Fem!Reader - by @vinnyvamppp
Don’t fight it Viltrumite!fem reader x Mark Grayson - by @justevelynnnn
𝐁𝐅𝐅! 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 | accidentally sending him a lewd photo Marg Grayson x reader - by @sunaskura
Mark begging you not to break up with him Mark Grayson x reader by @ignominiousgirl
OBSESSED WITH HIS EX-WIFE Mark Grayson x reader pt2 -by @ymirxex
Mark Variants x reader - by @wooobuddyletsgetnasty
𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑴𝒆 𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 Mark Grayson variants x reader - by @wordsofwhimsy
"Kinda look familiar, I done caught amnesia" Mark Grayson variants x reader - by @crims0nsp4de
Best Friends Brother OC Mark Grayson older brother (young nolan) x reader - by @acheronlovely
midnight sun ! mark grayson x fem reader - by @junleb
Cunnilingus failure-ness Mark x reader - by @secretaccountlol
jerk. Omni-Man/Nolan Grayson x fem!assistant!reade - by @themonstertheybecame
Pink with Pollen Young Nolan OC whos Mark’s older brother pt2 - by @acheronlovely
Hit me as hard as you can Cecil Stedman/f! Reader - by @jnw1813
To Be Desired pt2 - by @vinnyvamppp
IN ANOTHER UNIVERSE (Reader x Mark¡Variants) - by @ymirxex
Equilibrium Mark Grayson/Invincible x Reader with Powers (part of invinciweek) -by @elainewonderswriting
Invinciweek! (actually here’s her entire masterlist because im not a gatekeeper)- by @elainewonderswriting
nolan grayson who’s big in every aspect - by @notmclovinn
She Threw Me—Then Kissed Me (Her entire masterlist here because it’s peak) - by @vinnyvamppp
A better fate, for all involved | Thragg/f! Grayson! Reader @/jnw1813
DUBIOUS CHICKEN AND POTATOS mark grayson x reader - @secretaccountlol
If any of the writers are uncomfortable or don't want their work on this list please let me know!
(Some of the writers couldn't be tagged due to mention limits)
Mohawk Mark: Don't know about you. No place would accept me. That's why I prefer not dying.
Y/n: What if they don't accept me either?
Mohawk Mark: Then come hang out with me. There's probably a bench at the entrance of hell. We'll smoke together.
Y/n: What if there's no bench at the entrance of hell?
Mohawk Mark: Then I'll be your bench. You can sit on me or something...besides, you know the ground in hell is probably hot. I can handle the contact better for you.
Y/n: ..what if your Viltrumite powers don't work there?
Mohawk Mark: Wha—damn it Y/n shut that mouth of yours or I'll bend you over right here.
Y/n: ...
Mohawk Mark: ...
Mohawk Mark: *Points somewhere in the sky* Damn it look over there! What the hell is that?!
Random but what do we think about all the mark variants going through no nut November and what eventually makes them crack (reader)?
FINALLY getting to this :) here we go
Sinister Mark
No Nut November is for idiots and simple minded people that are too ashamed to get their dicks wet like he does twice a day, every day. sometimes more if he's feeling extra worked up. when you told him about the ' challenge ' as a joke; he looked pissed that you would even suggest such a thing to him. his lips curled in a sneer, eyes squinted to a low glare that could melt ice.
what? you don't want to fuck him anymore? you think his dick ain't that good enough anymore? fuck that, he's got you in a head lock/ full nelson while fucking you. spitting in your ear about, here is what he thinks about your stupid human challenge.
Mohawk Mark.
He took that No Nut November as a challenge to heart. He wanted to prove he's superior enough to go through one month of no touching you or vice versa. A ruler such as himself, can do this easily. He sneered in your face when accepting the stupid idea.
what breaks him. . however? He can hear you touching yourself when he's sleeping next to you. The buzz of the vibrator you're using ain't that fucking quiet, and the sloppy pussy of yours wakes him from his dreams. he's got your ankles by your ears, clothes shredded off both your bodies. his first load spurts out extra thick and creamy, just how he likes to leave you filled.
Lens-less Mark.
Does not break. He's gone above and beyond to secure his place in the ' most badass man ' out there by beating this challenge. He's gone above and beyond, he has a cock cage that holds his swollen dick 24/7. Except when he pees, he's extra sensitive. Don't ask how he got it, he's into things that would make your wildest fantasies look like boring and comical. His balls are screaming at him to just touch you, just put the tip in at least for a second. But he endures the pain with a smile, because he knows when he'll cum after this month? It'll burn or sting, and it'll feel so fucking good.
Head Cap Mark.
breaks after a week. it got too boring for him. restrict him? of sex? please. besides, he's gotten tired of you eyeing his bulge in his costume everytime he puts it on. the sixe of it slightly grows larger, you swear, because of your neglect. you and your wandering eyes and doe eyed fucking stare when he talks is enough to shatter his walls.
he breaks when you brush against him. either by accident, like walking past, or you want to taunt him by sliding a hand down his arm when you talk to him. you and your stupid eyes are made to roll in the back of your skull when he has a thumb hooked into your ass while he plows you over the arm of your sofa.
Shiesty Mark
Fuck you and fuck off. He's fucking every single day of the month. If you're trying to egg him on with No Nut November? He'll go sleep with the pretty blonde down the hall with massive knockers and the too short skirt that lifts up at the smallest of breezes.
Omni- Mark.
Take this very seriously. He sleeps in another room to avoid even touching you. Completes almost the whole month of No Nut November until you're the one to actually whine and beg for sex. he makes you drop to your knees, hands pawing at his cape like a wounded puppy.
he fucks you to shut you the hell up when your whining gets too much on his nerves. he fucks you because you don't get on your knees for him enough.
Fully Masked Mark.
Breaks after half a day. you feel bad for even joking about the challenge, the look in his eyes makes your heart squeeze.
lil sweetie can't handle not touching you, smelling you, kissing you, licking you, biting you, tasting y---
take your clothes off. he needs to feel you again. so what if you two have already screwed three times already. he needs you again.
“ DRIVE WHO CRAZY? ” — M. Grayson variants
what’s he like in the bedroom?
info : smut & nsfw, nasty nasty shit idk what to tell you. AFAB reader
a / n : i actually need to be spit roasted by every single variant and main mark i’m sorry
SINISTER MARK
biting, scratching, is very condescending in bed. this one doesn’t leave marks to be possessive, as lovely as that thought is. nuh uh. he does it to match with you. he’s the one biting, you’re the one scratching.
he prefers cowgirl most of the time, but when he needs to let out his frustrations, he loves a good mating press and full nelson. definitely the kind to record you when you’re fucking—not as blackmail really, but because he likes going back and hearing the sounds you make. likes that he’s the one that makes you sound like that.
mirror sex. that’s it. that’s the sentence.
spit kink. it’s inevitable with this freak. he’ll put his fingers in your mouth just to see your drool, to feel your teeth on his skin.
MOHAWK MARK
he lovesss someone who’s able to bite back at him. you’re both mean in bed, he absolutely loves it.
missionary, cowgirl AND reverse cowgirl, 69. . . i could go on and on.
he’s all sloppy kisses and makeouts. will absolutely dry hump you and cum in his suit or pants. don’t ever believe him when he asks for a quickie, it will NEVER be quick.
‘just the tip??’ yeah, no. he’s lying through his teeth. this man cannot live without fully indulging himself in you. you’d think he hated you with the way he fucks you—he’s genuinely, and not so secretly, obsessed.
PUSSY EATER.
sloppy with it. can’t help but wanna live in between your legs for the rest of his life. spells out his name and a multitude of words on your clit whenever you’re close to cumming, would absolutely suffocate between your thighs if he could.
begs you to sit on his face constantly.
. . . tongue piercing. . . yum.
SHIESTY MARK
dirty talker 100%.
“c’mon, fuck me back. there you go, pretty. keep it up.”
doggy style, reverse cowgirl, prone bone.
he’s unfortunately an exhibitionist. heavy on eye contact, too, when he’s not wearing that fuck ass shiesty LOLL
loves to cover your mouth and tell you to listen, fucks into you harder to get his point across as he obsessed over the filthy sound of your cunt sucking him in.
lovesss to finger fuck you. don’t ask him why, he’s not gonna answer. but truthfully, just the thought of making your eyes roll back and to feel you cum around his fingers alone makes him impossibly hard. he’s a little embarrassed about it.
OMNI MARK
very quiet in bed. isn’t messy—no, he’s very precise. knows exactly what to do to make you fall apart. almost like he studies you, wants to know what makes you tick.
prone bone, mating press, missionary.
don’t ever let this man hit it raw. he won’t ever want to pull out if you do. but if you do. . . he shudders just from putting the tip in. tries to stay calm and collected, but the second he’s all the way down to the hilt, he swears he loses a little bit of his sanity.
cockwarming’s a big thing with you two. he doesn’t know how he even manages to control himself, but he manages. for a while, anyway.
every once in a while when he feels the need to let out his frustration, this man will put you in a headlock. just to hold you in place because he is definitely big on overstimulation just to hear you squeal. this is why prone bone’s so high on his list.
breeding kink. no i’m not elaborating.
Request: How Mark variants would react if you playfully bite him? Would they be angry or think it's sweet?
Mainstream is here
Lensless is here
Sinister is here
Viltrum is here
Mohawk Mark
Okay, it wouldn't make much difference if this happens before Mark's empire obsession or during it.
You and Mark had been dating for a while.
Mark had one "annoying" habit during affection and that would be biting.
Every time he hugged or kissed you, he had to bite you somewhere.
You could complain to him about it but nothing would change.
Mark would always have an explanation ready.
"Babe I can't do anything about intrusive thoughts", "It's not my fault you're so cute" and "You just taste so good I can't resist" would be his favorites.
One day you woke up and decided to bite back~
If this was Mark's way of expressing affection it would definitely work both ways.
You don't know it yet, but you've made a really big mistake.
That morning he woke up normally, tried to give you a good morning kiss, and got bitten :3
Revenge is a sweet
Mark would really enjoy this and he wouldn't hide it.
There's a good chance that... things will go spicy from here on out.
Mark enjoys it when you "fight back" even though it doesn't really matter.
summary: mark begins to change, but you smile through it and continue life like normal. this isnt your mark anymore
warnings: marks a bit of a p.o.s. in this :/, reader dies at the end, no happy ending
-
It started slow.
At first, Mark would only look at you a little too long before turning away. Not lovingly, but curiously. Like, a person trying to remember why they kept a photo of a place they no longer missed. You chalked it up to just stress. Maybe it was the aftermath of war? Maybe the weight of taking Earth for the Viltrumites alongside his father.
You should've known better.
You weren't stupid. You were just... in love.
He changed after his missions began to pile in. Not at all once, of course. He didn't just wake up one day with the mohawk and the harsh voice. It was more like watching a church rot behind it's stained glass. Everything outside seemed still perfectly fine, until you stepped too close. That's when the cracks revealed themselves.
You used to trace the curve of his smile with your fingertips. But, not this one. Not this smirk he wore now, jagged and dry. Not the one he gave when vaporizing rebels. Not the one he wore when barking orders at his soldiers. And most certainly not the one he wore when he looked at you like you were an old toy someone forgot to throw away. No, you used to trace his real smile. The one he wore in high school when he couldn't stop blushing after you kissed his cheek. The one he gave when sneaking out past his curfew. The one you fell in love with, before the sky turned red and Earth fell silent beneath his boots.
Smiles can be sharp, though, and Mark's had turned into a blade. You saw the signs, the little digs.
"You're still wearing that?" he snorted while walking past you in the palace one day.
"It's kinda cute how you're still pretending to matter in all of this."
"You're like a stray I forgot I fed once."
He always followed it up with a wink or a laugh. You just smiled weakly each time, pretending it was just a joke; pretending your heart wasn't just bruised from how hard he stopped meaning his words with love.
But you didn't leave, of course not! You were still holding out for something. For the Mark who used to pull you into his lap when he came home from his patrolling. For the Mark who said "I love you" first. For the boy, not the God.
"Why are you still looking at me like that?" He snapped one evening. You were both sat for a meal you had prepared for him. You slaved hours over a hot stove, hoping he would compliment you on your hard work that night. He didn't even finish his meal. You blinked in confusion, looking up from your plate. "Like what?"
"Like I've changed, like I'm the one broken." He shot back at you. Your face twisted in confusion as your lips parted to reply. He didn't wait for your answer, though. He slid his chair back from the table with a disgusted scoff and stormed off, disappearing somewhere into the palace he had claimed. You sat there in silence as you dropped your fork to your plate; your heart began to pound against your ribcage in... fear? Confusion? You weren't entirely sure... What did you do wrong?
Truthfully though, you missed him. You missed the Mark who used to love your cooking. The one who would help clean-up after dinner, then cuddle for hours on the couch. He used to ask how your day was, even if his was worse. He used to apologize after arguments, and never ever let you sleep angry. That Mark was long gone.
And yet, you stayed.
You kept cooking for him, kept waiting up for him, kept saying "I love you" even when he didn't say it back. You learned to smile through clenched teeth, and to kiss his cheek even when it felt like you were kissing stone. You made his bed, brought him warm food whenever he came back bloodied, and you would hold his shoulder even when he flinched away. You stayed, because that's what love does.
But it wasn't love anymore, it was attachment. You were his anchor, and he was a ship beginning to get impatient of being tethered any longer.
The night it happened, Mark came home late. He stank of blood and smoke. His boots tracked in ash and blood all over the marble flooring. His suit had become shredded at the hem. But yet, he was still grinning...
"There you are..." You said softly, pulling back the covers of your side of the bed, sinking into it. "I saved dinner, it's on the stove." Mark glanced you up and down, "What? More of your slop? Amazing! You know, I conquered three more continents today, but sure, let's pretend burnt rice matters!"
You swallowed thick saliva as your face fell in disappointment. "But, you said you liked it last time?" Mark stalked over to you, scoffing as you spoke. The sound made your heart sink to your stomach. You felt embarrassed. "Yeah, well... maybe I lied." He stated flatly, he shrugged as his head shook and his lips shrugged too.
You should've gotten up. You should've walked out. But instead you pulled the covers back from his side as well, and offered him a strained, saddened smile. He didn't answer. He just stared at you, hard. Then, he chuckled. Low, sharp, and mocking.
"You know what's so funny?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes roaming the room as if it was foreign land. He didn't often sleep here with you anymore. "I've killed entire regimes. I wiped them out with just a single blast. I've crushed rebellions! I've broken bones of heroes like they were twigs in my hand." His hands mimicking a twig snapping between his hands as he spoke, "I restructured this planet." He turned, looking at you now; his grin still in it's place.
"But yet, somehow... you're still here. Making soup, folding socks, asking me if I'm still okay!"
You tried to laugh, but it came out more of a scoff. "Because I care."
Mark leaned forward. His eyes felt like they were piercing into the back of your head.
"No," he said. "Because you don't get it."
His hands were on you before you could react. One clamped around your throat, calloused and cold. The other pinned your shoulder as your head slammed back into the pillow. You thrashed, confused. "Mark...?" His name came out more as a stutter, though.
"You held me back," he hissed, voice flat, as if he was explaining the weather. "You always have."
Your fingers scratched at his arms, your eyes wild. "I let you stay," he continued, "even when the others told me to toss you away. I said, 'No, let's see what they do! Let's see how they survive once the tide comes in.' And do you know what you did?"
He squeezed harder.
"You made me dinner."
Tears pooled in your eyes as your body convulsed, fighting to get him off of you. It was impossible, he was stronger than you, much stronger. You tried to speak, tried to scream, but only wet gasps slipped through. He leaned in closer, lips near your ear.
"You made me weak," he whispered. "I could be a God, and yet you keep trying to tuck me in at night."
But as your vision blurred, and your limbs fell limp, you realized you felt not panicked, not angry, but you felt acceptance. Acceptance that maybe you knew this would happen all along. That he maybe never fully loved you.
He let go just as the last breath left your lungs. Your body lay still, eyes wide, lips parted like maybe you still had something to say.
Mark stood, straightening himself up as he stepped out of the room, never looking back. You remained warm for only a few more minutes; just long enough for the last trace of love to fade.
I love your work!!! Can you do Daredevil!Reader x any Mark of your choosing 🙏 Feel free to ignore if it's not your thing
BLIND FAITH
pairing mohawk! mark grayson x (daredevil) gender neutral reader
you saw the man behind the monster. now the monster sees you everywhere—in the curve of a stranger's smile, in the defiance of his latest conquest. none of them are you. none of them ever will be. but he'll keep searching, keep destroying, because hope is the cruelest thing left inside him.
mark wasn’t always like this—wasn’t always chaos wrapped in leather and a smirk. once, he was just a kid wearing a seance dog hoodie and a nervous laugh, the kind who tripped over his own feet and blushed when girls talked to him. but then the powers hit at twelve, and everything twisted. his mom stopped looking at him like he was hers—just stared through him, like he was already something broken. his father’s training sessions stopped feeling like lessons and started feeling like punishments, fists and words landing just as hard. "viltrumites don’t hesitate." "weakness is a choice." and mark, exhausted and aching, started to believe him.
then came the betrayal. the blood. the guardians of the globe reduced to pulp, and mark—stupid, hopeful mark—thinking he could stop his own father. he nearly died trying. and for what? his mom didn’t hug him after. didn’t even look at him unless it was over the rim of a wine glass, her eyes hollow, like he was the one who’d ruined everything. so fine. if that’s what she saw, that’s what he’d be.
the piercings came first. then the mohawk, the sneer, the way he leaned into fights like they were the only thing that made sense. as invincible, he stopped pulling punches. let the villains choke on their own teeth. let the blood splatter. it was easier than caring.
then.
you showed up.
the first time he saw you—no, not saw, because you didn’t do that, did you?—you were standing at the front of the classroom, shoulders straight like you weren’t fazed by the whispers. "new student. blind. orphan." mark slouched lower in his seat, shoes propped on the desk, watching (because he could watch, and you couldn’t, and wasn’t that a joke?) as the teacher fumbled through introductions. you didn’t turn your head toward him, didn’t react to the way his fingers drummed impatiently against the desk, the way his smirk dared anyone to comment.
mark told himself he didn’t care.
(he was lying.)
because the truth was, he cared too much—about the way his mom’s hands shook when she poured another drink, about the way his teachers sighed like he was a lost cause, about the way the whole damn world had decided he was just something broken to be thrown away. he wasn’t stupid. he knew what they saw: a violent, unhinged kid playing at being a villain, all sharp edges and sharper teeth. fine. let them think that. it was easier than admitting how much it ached to be treated like a warning sign instead of a person.
and then there was you.
you didn’t look at him—not really. your gaze was unfocused, distant, but somehow more than anyone else’s. like you didn’t need eyes to peel him apart. when you sat near him, you didn’t flinch at the way his fingers drummed restless against the desk, didn’t tense when he scoffed at the teacher’s latest lecture about his attendance. you just… listened. like you were hearing the things he never said out loud.
it pissed him off.
because if you could see him—really see him—then what did that mean? that the anger, the recklessness, the cruelty wasn’t as convincing as he needed it to be? that you knew the truth—that under all the blood and bravado, he was still just some stupid kid who wanted his mom to look at him like he mattered?
and that was the most terrifying thing of all.
"you're gonna get expelled," you say one day, voice quiet but firm like it's a fact, not a warning. it's the third time this week you've ended up next to him—not by choice, but because every other seat in every class you share stays stubbornly empty. no one wants to risk sitting near mark grayson, not when a wrong glance might earn them broken fingers or a split lip. but you? you just slide into the empty chair like it means nothing, like the danger everyone else sees in him is just background noise.
the words land differently coming from you—no pity, no judgment, just that infuriating certainty like you already know how this ends. like you've mapped out every self-destructive choice he'll make before he even makes them.
mark snorts, kicking his feet up onto the desk between you, scuffing the surface with deliberate disrespect. "like i give a shit." he waits for the flinch, the nervous swallow, the way everyone else backs off when he gets like this. it never comes. instead, he catches the faintest twitch of your lips—not quite a smile, more like you're filing away another piece of him for later.
you just tilt your head, just slightly, like you're listening to something beneath his words. to the way his pulse jumps when you don't react like you're supposed to. "you should." simple. final. like you've already seen through the performance and found it lacking. like you know the angry, bleeding thing underneath better than he does.
he doesn't know why that pisses him off so much. maybe because you say it like you actually believe he's better than this. maybe because you're the only one stupid enough to still try, even after watching him break three noses this semester alone. or maybe it's because you keep showing up, day after day, taking that empty seat like some kind of fucked-up dare, like you're the only person in this whole goddamn school who isn't afraid of him.
it's not like he wants to care about you. but you're different in all the worst ways—standing your ground when he gets in your face, not even blinking when he curls his hands into fists. you don't cower. don't run. don't give him the satisfaction of watching you break like everyone else. you just exist, stubborn and unshakable, a constant itch he can't scratch away. a thorn lodged deep in his side that hurts more when he tries to pull it out.
and the worst part? you do it all without even looking at him. like he's not worth the effort of meeting his eyes, like you already know exactly what you'd see—the anger, the hurt, the stupid, desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, you'll be the one person who doesn't walk away.
(and isn't that pathetic? how badly he wants you to look at him, to see him and see if you'd still stay, just once, even though he knows you can't. even though he'd never admit it. even though he shoves the thought away every time it surfaces, disgusted with himself for caring.)
it claws at him sometimes, late at night when he's staring at his ceiling, replaying the way you tilt your head when he speaks—like you're hearing things no one else bothers to listen for. his mother used to look at him like that, back before the powers, before his father's betrayal turned her eyes glassy and distant. now when he tries to talk to her, she just stares through him, her mouth tight with something that isn't quite disappointment but isn't not that either.
(and then, stupidly, your face flickers in his mind. the way you never look away, even when you technically can't look at all.)
he hates it. hates how you see him clearer than his own mother ever did, with all her sight intact. hates how you stay planted in that seat next to him like some kind of fucked-up guardian angel, blind as a bat and twice as stubborn. most of all, he hates that he notices—that he remembers the exact angle of your shoulders when you're listening, the way your fingers tap patterns on the desk when you're thinking. like some part of him is keeping track, like it matters.
(and it shouldn't. it doesn't. except when it does, and that's the real problem.)
he finds out you're daredevil the way mark grayson learns most things—through blood and bad decisions. he's curled against a dumpster in some piss-stained alley, ribs cracked like eggshells, vision tunneling to black. the coppery taste of defeat sits heavy on his tongue when suddenly—there you are. no dramatic entrance, no cape fluttering in the wind. just the quiet scuff of boots on concrete and then your hands, firm and unshaking, pressing into the worst of the bleeding.
"you're an idiot," you mutter, voice all gravel and exasperation. your fingers work with clinical precision despite the chaos, tying off a makeshift tourniquet from what feels like your own sleeve.
"the hell are you doing here?" he slurs, words thick with blood and disbelief. the question comes out weaker than he'd like—no snarl left in it, just raw confusion.
"saving your life," you answer, simple as stating the weather. like this isn't the first time you've patched up some reckless hero in a dark alley. like he's worth the trouble.
mark's breath hitches (from the pain, obviously) because here's the thing—you shouldn't be able to do this. shouldn't be able to find pulse points in the dark or stitch wounds without seeing them. shouldn't be kneeling in filth for someone who treats you like shit during daylight hours. yet here you are, moving with that eerie certainty that always pissed him off in class.
things change after that. not all at once, not in ways anyone else would notice. he still leaves teeth on the pavement when he brawls, still smirks when bones crack under his fists. but sometimes—when some two-bit mugger is wheezing on the ground, when his knuckles hover inches from finishing the job—he hesitates. just for a second. just long enough to hear your voice in his head asking "was that really necessary?" in that tone that's not quite judgment but not not judgment either.
(he hates it. hates how you crawl under his skin without even trying. hates how your stupid moral compass lives in his head now, next to all the viltrumite crap his father drilled into him. most of all, he hates that part of him is starting to listen.)
you train together in abandoned warehouses where the air smells like rust and old sweat. you're fast—stupidly, infuriatingly fast for someone with no powers, all coiled muscle and calculated strikes. the first time you sweep his legs out from under him, he hits the concrete so hard his teeth rattle. for a second he just stares at the water-stained ceiling, breathless, before bursting into laughter.
"not bad, angel," he grins, rolling onto his side to smirk up at you.
you freeze mid-taunt, nose scrunching in that way he's come to recognize means you're processing. "shut up. and really? angel?"
"yeah, angel," he pushes up on one elbow, gesturing vaguely at his own battered body. "saved my dumb ass, didn't you? halo and wings and all that shit." the irony sits heavy between you—this lethal, bloodstained vigilante being called something so soft.
"you're an idiot," you say, but there's no heat in it. you extend a hand to help him up, callouses rough against his palm. "devil's more accurate."
he doesn't let go of your hand right away. "nah. devil wouldn't patch up my wounds after i do something stupid."
"i'm reconsidering that policy," you deadpan, but your mouth twitches. it's the closest you get to smiling at his jokes.
(for a moment, just a moment, he forgets about the blood on his hands, the weight of his father's legacy. there's just this—the two of you in your fucked-up little bubble where he almost feels like someone worth saving.)
his father comes back like a thunderclap, like the world ending in slow motion.
one second mark's standing there, heart jackhammering against his ribs, fists clenched so tight his nails draw blood. the next - agony. white-hot and all-consuming as omni-man's fist lands on his chest. he chokes on copper, vision graying at the edges, and thinks distantly that this is such a stupid way to die.
he doesn't even see you move.
but he hears it—the sickening crack of your ribs giving way, the wet gasp as his father's fist emerges from your stomach instead of his. your blood rains down hot on his face, mixing with his own.
"no—" he tries to scream, but it comes out a broken whisper. your knees hit the concrete, but your hands—your stupid, stubborn hands—are still gripping omni-man's wrist like you can somehow stop the inevitable.
(and mark realizes, with horrifying clarity, that you knew. you knew you couldn't win. you did it anyway.)
"no—!" mark chokes out again, voice cracking like dry bone, but it's too late. your blood is already pooling hot between his fingers, sticky and wrong, so much of it—too much.
you slump forward, lips parted around a final breath, blood smearing dark across your chin. and for the first time in years, mark feels something other than rage.
(it's fear. it's grief. it's loss—so vast it swallows him whole.)
your fingers twitch against his, weak but still clinging, still fighting even now. "...dumbass," you murmur, so soft he almost misses it. and then you're gone.
mark kills his father that day.
not for revenge. not for justice.
but because you believed he could be better.
(except he doesn't.)
because what's the point now? you were the only one who ever looked at him and saw something worth saving. his mother never did—just stared at him with those hollow, liquor-glazed eyes, flinching when he got too close. and now, every time she looks at him with that same disappointed, haunted look, all he sees is you. your face flickering behind his eyelids, your voice in his head asking "was that necessary?" until it drives him mad.
so he kills her too. not quietly. not mercifully. he does it with his hands, with her favorite bottle shattered across the floor, with her throat crushed between his fingers. he wants her to hurt. wants her to finally see him, really see him, before the light leaves her eyes.
(but she never does. and it's not enough. nothing ever is.)
earth falls next. it's easy, really. too easy. without you there to tilt your head in that particular way—chin dipped just slightly, like you're listening to the guilt he never voices—there's nothing holding him back. no quiet "mark." that always hit like a punch to the ribs. no careful fingers stitching his wounds while you mutter about his recklessness. just silence. endless, suffocating silence.
so he carves his way through cities like they're made of paper. through heroes who scream about justice and second chances—words that taste like ash now. through anyone stupid enough to stand in his way, their bones snapping like dry twigs under his hands. he paints the streets red and thinks, you'd hate this. thinks it with every shattered skyscraper, every pleading sob cut short.
(he does it anyway.)
because maybe—just maybe—if he makes enough noise, if he burns bright enough, you'll come back. you'll storm out of the shadows like you always did, all sharp tongue and sharper elbows, and knock some sense into him. you'll grab him by the collar, blood on your teeth from where he made you bite your tongue, and snarl "what the hell is wrong with you?" like you used to when he crossed lines.
(he'd let you. god, he'd let you break every bone in his body if it meant hearing your voice again.)
but the streets stay quiet. the blood keeps drying. and with every city that falls, the hope curdles into something uglier, something desperate. so he burns brighter. kills louder. waits for the day his destruction is finally enough to drag you back from whatever hell he sent you to.
(it never is. he never stops.)
and when he's done, when the planet bows beneath his boots, he starts collecting.
they never last long—these replacements with their audacity to look similar to you, with their sharp tongues and hollow imitations of your stubbornness. some fight him. some pretend to care. none of them see him the way you did. he discards them like broken toys when the illusion wears thin, but he always finds another. and another. and another.
(he knows it's pathetic. knows you'd hate it. but he can't stop.)
now, he stands among a sea of other marks—some bloodied, some grinning, all just as broken as he is. dimensions stretch endlessly around them, infinite worlds where maybe, maybe, you're still alive.
his fingers curl into fists.
this time, he won't let you die.
this time, he'll drag you back with him—kicking and screaming if he has to. he'll keep you safe. keep you his.
(and if you look at him with horror instead of warmth? if you flinch away instead of standing your ground? well. he'll just try again. and again. and again.)
oh look. another angst one-shot. surprise surprise. at this point, y'all should know what you're signing up for when you request something from me—i will find a way to make it hurt, even if you ask for fluff. (seriously though, if you want tooth-rotting sweetness, you gotta SPECIFY. i'm physically incapable of not turning things tragic.)
but can you blame me? mohawk mark just SCREAMS tragic backstory and messy emotions. the second i got to pick any mark variant for this, my brain went STRAIGHT to him. it's nostalgic too—pretty sure he was the first invincible variant i ever wrote when i started this blog forever ago. anyway, hope you enjoyed(?) this 2.8k word emotional gut punch.
