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Operation Everlight

Mark Grayson Masterlist

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On Christmas Eve, a simple mission turns into something bigger than saving the world.

Content; Christmas theme, fluff, friends, hero work, light angst, acts of kindness, best friends.

Pairing; Hero GN!Reader x Mark Grayson ft. New Guardians of The Globe and Cecil Stedman.

The idea had started as a quiet mockery aimed directly at Mark Grayson, Invincible, disguised as casual humor, the kind that hid itself behind neutrality and an almost irritating calm.

—“When you’re drunk,” you remarked casually, voice carried away by the wind, “you laugh like Santa Claus.”

—“I do not!”

Mark protested immediately, indignant, the words tumbling out of him a second too fast, exactly the way they always did when he felt called out.

The city stretched beneath you both in a patchwork of lights and rooftops as you flew together over the suburbs, dispatched on what Cecil had optimistically labeled a simple mission.

Your thighs and calves were wrapped securely around Mark’s waist, steady and controlled, like coiled serpents that knew exactly how much pressure to apply. In response, Mark kept his hands where he insisted they were needed, interlaced, forearms respectfully braced around your legs over your hero suit, careful not to cross any invisible lines.

—“Okay- maybe once,” he added quickly. “But that was one time. And I wasn’t that drunk.”

Your hands rested on his shoulders, firm and grounding, practical.

—“You’re literally holding onto me like I’m a backpack.”

—“You’re flying,” you replied evenly. “I’m adapting to the conditions.”

—“That’s not- That’s not what I meant.”

You tilted your head slightly, the city wind tugging at your suit, your tone maddeningly calm.

—“Then clarify.”

He groaned softly.

—“You always do that.”

—“Do what?”

—“Say things like that,” Mark said, exasperated but smiling despite himself. “All… neutral on purpose.”

You hummed, noncommittal.

—“I never said I wasn’t.”

That earned a startled laugh from him, short, breathy, unguarded.

—“…Okay, that one sounded a little like Santa,” he admitted, immediately following it with, “But only a little.”

You leaned in just enough for him to feel the shift in your weight.

—“Self-awareness.”

—“I hate that you’re right,” he said. “Like, all the time.”

Below, the suburbs were quiet, too quiet. Mark’s expression shifted, focus snapping back into place with that familiar earnest seriousness that defined him when it mattered.

—“Alright,” he said, tone more grounded now. “Cecil picked up something near the water tower. But… you good?”

—“I’m fine,” you answered simply. “You?”

He hesitated for half a second.

—“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I mean- I am now.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. His grip tightened just a fraction, instinctive rather than intentional.

You noticed. Of course you did.

But you didn’t comment.

Instead, you adjusted your hold, steady and reassuring, your voice carrying easily through the rush of air.

—“Then let’s finish this and get home.”

Mark nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips as he angled downward.

—“Yeah,” he said. “Together.”

The mission itself unfolded with far less resistance than either of you had anticipated.

Elephant Man emerged near the old water tower, massive and unbalanced, his trunk swinging defensively as he bellowed threats that echoed more loudly than his actual intent. Mark didn’t hesitate. With a sharp burst of speed, he closed the distance, fingers wrapping firmly around the villain’s trunk before Elephant Man could even react.

—“Hey!- Wait, hold on!-” Elephant Man shouted as Mark lifted him clean off the ground.

His limbs flailed uselessly in the air, thick arms windmilling as his feet kicked at nothing. Mark grimaced, adjusting his grip midair.

—“Okay, yeah- this is… this is happening,” he muttered. “You’re heavier than you look, man.”

You watched calmly, landing beside him for half a second before stepping forward and climbing onto Mark’s back with practiced ease. Your weight settled evenly, familiar, controlled. Mark barely faltered before setting off the ground.

—“Got you,” he said automatically, more to reassure himself than you.

Elephant Man groaned.

—“Look, we can talk about this, right? I mean, it’s the holidays- no need to ruin the season!”

—“Funny,” Mark replied, lifting higher. “Because robbing water infrastructure isn’t exactly festive.”

—“Hey! I was just borrowing it!”

You glanced at the struggling villain.

—“That’s not how borrowing works.”

With that, Mark pushed off again, the three of you continued lifting into the sky as Elephant Man continued his increasingly desperate attempts at negotiation.

—“I can change! I can do community service! I love kids!”

—“That’s not helping,” Mark said flatly.

As you flew over the suburbs, the scenery below shifted. The houses grew smaller, older. Streets less maintained. And in the open lots between buildings, children played.

They weren’t laughing loudly.

Some kicked around a makeshift soccer ball, paper and tape bound together into a fragile sphere. Others sat on cracked sidewalks, holding dolls stitched from scraps of cloth, their faces drawn in fading ink. Their coats were thin. Their toys were worn. Still, they played.

You turned your head slightly, watching them pass beneath you.

—“…They don’t have much,” you said quietly.

Mark followed your gaze, slowing just enough to really see.

—“Oh,” he murmured. “…Yeah.”

His grip tightened again around Elephant Man, which forced the villain to grunt.

—“They should be… doing better than this,” he added, voice lower now. “I mean- It’s Christmas.”

Elephant Man scoffed weakly.

—“Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t take their toys.”

Mark shot him a look.

—“You’re really not helping your case.”

You didn’t say anything else, but the image stayed with both of you as the prison came into view.

Mark descended at the entrance, releasing Elephant Man directly into the waiting containment unit. The villain barely had time to complain before the doors sealed shut.

—“Custody transfer complete,” Mark said into his comm. “Elephant Man secured.”

—“Copy that,” Cecil’s voice responded. “Good work. You’re clear to stand down.”

Mark exhaled, tension finally easing from his shoulders. Once you were airborne again, the silence between you felt heavier than before, but not uncomfortable.

As the Grayson household came into view, lights glowing warmly against the night sky, you spoke again.

—“About those kids,” you said. “We should do something.”

Mark nodded immediately, without hesitation.

—“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, we should.”

His voice carried something softer now. Determined.

—“…No one should feel forgotten. Especially not on Christmas.”

And together, you flew home.

But then, the idea hit you suddenly, sharp, electric, undeniable, fingers tightening on Mark’s shoulders.

—“…Mark,” you said.

—“Yeah?” he replied, already turning his head a fraction.

You stared ahead, but your voice carried a quiet certainty.

—“We could fix that.”

He blinked.

—“Fix… what?”

—“The kids,” you continued. “Not just them. All of them. Everywhere.”

There was a pause. Then Mark laughed once, short and disbelieving.

—“Okay, I love the confidence, but that’s- That’s a lot of kids.”

You finally looked at him.

—“You can fly around the planet in a couple of hours.”

He went quiet.

—“…Oh.”

Your tone remained calm, almost casual.

—“We bring toys. Warm clothes. Food if possible. We don’t replace Santa Claus,” you added dryly. “We become him.”

Mark’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

—“You’re saying,” he started slowly, “we- you and me- just… do Christmas. Globally.”

—“Yes.”

—“That’s-” he swallowed, eyes brightening despite himself. “That’s actually kind of amazing.”

—“And impossible without logistics,” you added. “So we ask Cecil.”

Mark winced.

—“Cecil’s gonna hate this.”

—“You say that every time.”

—“Yeah, but this time I mean it.”

The Pentagon briefing room was exactly as sterile and intimidating as ever.

Cecil Stedman leaned back in his chair, hands steepled.

—“So,” he said at last, “let me get this straight. You want to deliver Christmas presents… to every child on Earth.”

—“Yes,” you answered.

Mark nodded enthusiastically.

—“In one night.”

Cecil sighed. Deeply.

—“Do you have any idea how many children there are?”

—“Yes,” you replied. “Approximately two billion.”

Mark glanced at you.

—“…You didn’t tell me you did the math.”

—“I always do the math.”

Cecil pinched the bridge of his nose.

—“This is insane.”

—“But possible,” Mark countered quickly. “I mean- I can carry a lot. And they can help organize. And you have resources. Warehouses. Teleport tech-”

—“I am not teleporting Santa Claus,” Cecil cut in.

You tilted your head.

—“What about distribution hubs?”

Cecil paused.

—“…Keep talking.”

The discussion spiraled rapidly, and loudly.

—“The sacks need to be durable,” you said, pacing. “Lightweight, tear-resistant, insulated.”

Mark chimed in, gesturing wildly.

—“And not, like, itchy. What if a kid touches it?”

Yeah, a kid with a black, yellow and blue superhero suit with super strength, durability and speed.

Cecil noticed too, and raised an eyebrow.

—“You’re worried about the texture?”

—“Yes,” both of you answered at once.

You continued, unbothered.

—“Kevlar-weave base. Flexible polymer lining. Expandable interior space.”

Mark snapped his fingers.

—“Like a bag of holding!”

Cecil stared.

—“We don’t have those.”

—“…Yet,” Mark muttered.

—“And transport?” Cecil asked. “You can’t just scoop toys randomly.”

—“We sort by region,” you said. “Language-neutral toys first. Then culturally specific items.”

Mark pointed at you.

—“See? This is why they’re the brains.”

—“I thought you were the brains,” Cecil said dryly.

Mark shrugged.

—“I’m more like… the heart. And the carrying capacity.”

Cecil leaned back again, silent for a long moment.

Finally, he sighed.

—“…Fine.”

Mark’s head snapped up.

—“Wait- really?”

—“Yes,” Cecil said. “I’ll authorize resources. One night. No press. No cameras.”

You nodded.

—“Agreed.”

—“And if this goes wrong,” Cecil added, “I deny everything.”

Mark grinned.

—“Classic Christmas spirit.”

Later that night, the sky told a different story.

High above the clouds, Mark Grayson flew with effort etched into his posture, but not strain. Slung over his shoulder was the sack. Massive. Enormous. Absurdly oversized, triple the scale of anything that should reasonably exist. Something like Elephant Man but heavier, bigger.

—“Okay,” he huffed, adjusting his grip. “It’s- it’s heavier than a mountain.”

—“You’re doing fine,” you said calmly, seated securely against his back and patting it. “Your altitude is stable.”

—“I’m Santa now,” Mark muttered. “I can’t believe I’m Santa.”

—“You’re Invincible,” you corrected. “Santa has a beard.”

He laughed, full, bright, unmistakably himself, as he pushed forward, carrying hope stitched into fabric and intention.

Below them, the world waited.

And this time, it wouldn’t be forgotten.

The operation did not begin with whimsy.

It began with maps.

Cecil stood at the center of the Pentagon’s primary command room, holographic projections blooming outward in layers, population density, time zones, weather patterns, satellite trajectories. Around him, analysts moved with sharpened urgency, fingers flying over consoles.

—“Designation,” Cecil said, voice cutting cleanly through the noise. “Operation Everlight.”

Someone nodded, typing it in.

—“Objective,” he continued. “Zero omissions. No child left unaccounted for. I don’t care if they’re in the middle of a desert, a mountain range, or a floating village. If they exist, they’re on the list.”

A technician raised a hand.

—“Sir, coordinating this many heroes-”

—“We’re not coordinating,” Cecil interrupted. “We’re orchestrating.”

Screens shifted. Faces appeared. Heroes from every corner of the world and the New Guardians of The Globe answering the call.

—“Listen up,” Cecil said into the comms. “You’re receiving coordinates, supply caches, and deployment windows. Stick to them. This isn’t a fight. This is precision.”

Eve’s voice chimed in first.

—“I can fabricate on-site if supplies run low.”

—“Already accounted for,” Cecil replied. “You’ll be stationed in high-density zones.”

Dupli-Kate laughed lightly.

—“How many drop-offs?”

—“All of them,” Cecil said flatly.

A pause.

—“…Cool,” she answered.

Monster Girl’s feed flickered.

—“Troll form okay?”

—“Preferred,” Cecil said. “You’re our cold-climate and heavy-access specialist.”1

Samson cracked his knuckles on-screen.

—“Just point me at the heavy stuff.”

Robot appeared last, posture straight, green orbs sharp.

—“I will oversee synchronization between units. Delay margins must not exceed three seconds.”

Cecil glanced at him.

—“…You’re enjoying this.”

Robot didn’t deny it.

—“Efficiency has its comforts.”

The first window slid open without a sound, guided carefully by Shrinking Rae, no larger than a thumb, who waved once to her teammates before slipping inside the frame to unlatch it fully.

The room smelled faintly of dust and laundry soap. Two children slept on a mattress on the floor, blankets thin but carefully tucked. She set the gifts down slowly; warm coats, toys chosen with care, books in their language.

For a moment, she paused.

Watching them breathe.

Then she was gone.

It felt strange, almost intrusive, to pass through homes unseen. To exist in the quiet spaces meant only for families. But the thought dissolved quickly.

This was bigger than discomfort.

Outside, Eve hovered over a snow-dusted village, hands glowing softly pink as she reshaped raw matter into toys, bright, sturdy, perfect. She smiled to herself as she worked.

—“Okay,” she murmured, “that’s the last teddy bear… oh- wait, no, that kid wanted a dinosaur.”

The form shifted instantly.

Dupli-Kate appeared in a dozen places at once, copies of herself, now and army, laughing quietly as they slipped inside houses.

Monster Girl, in her troll form, trudged through deep snow, carrying crates under one arm while gently lifting Rex Splode so he could see over windows after melting the snow on their path.

Robot coordinated calmly from above, directing traffic, rerouting heroes when weather threatened delays.

—“Samson,” he said evenly, “redirect east. You’re needed.”

—“On it,” Samson replied, already hoisting a container the size of a truck. “...This beats punching aliens.”

Mark flew overhead, the enormous sack still slung across his shoulder, breathing hard but smiling.

—“I can’t feel my arms,” he said into the comm”

—“You’re maintaining altitude,” you replied calmly from below. “That’s sufficient.”

He laughed.

—“You’re the worst motivational speaker.”

—“And yet,” you said, slipping through another window, “you’re still flying.”

Across the world, windows opened. Gifts appeared. Laughter followed.

And for one night, just one, the world felt lighter.

The world grew quieter with every delivery.

Another window. Another room. Another careful placement of gifts beneath patched blankets and improvised trees. You moved like a shadow beside Mark, silent, precise, unseen. Sometimes he hovered outside while you slipped in; sometimes he held the window steady while you worked.

—“Okay,” he whispered once, peeking inside a small apartment. “That one almost woke up.”

—“They didn’t,” you replied calmly, adjusting a scarf around a toy’s neck. “You panicked.”

—“I did not panic,” he said, offended. “…I alertly reacted.”

You gave him a look.

—“Okay, I panicked.”

Snow dusted the rooftops as you moved from house to house. In one place, you left books. In another, shoes. In another, a simple wooden toy that had clearly been wished for very carefully.

The final stop came quietly.

A small home. One window. One child.

Mark hovered beside you, sack finally light, almost empty.

—“This is it,” he murmured. “Last one.”

You nodded. As he smiled.

—“Go.”

You slipped inside, placed the final gift, a simple wrapped box, then paused, just for a heartbeat, before retreating back into the cold night.

When you landed beside Mark on the roof, he exhaled deeply.

—“…We did it.”

—“Yes,” you said. “We did.”

Without thinking, you raised your hand. He mirrored you instantly.

Smack.

He grinned.

—“Best mission ever.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you broke into a run across the rooftops, boots crunching softly against the snow.

—“Hey!” Mark laughed, taking off after you. “No fair!”

You leapt without hesitation.

Mark reacted on instinct.

He caught your hands midair, momentum carrying you upward as he spun and threw you, gently, confidently, laughing as you soared.

—“Trust fall!” he shouted.

You arced through the snow-filled sky. Too elegantly, too acrobational.

Then he dove.

Fast. Precise. Like a bird of prey.

He caught you effortlessly as he put you on his back.

Snow fell around you as he adjusted his grip, careful, always careful.

His comm crackled.

—“Operation Everlight, status check,” Cecil’s voice cut in.

Mark cleared his throat.

—“Uh- deliveries complete. All accounted for.”

A pause.

—“…You were the last team to finish,” Cecil said. “Which means you didn’t rush. Good work.”

You could hear the rare approval beneath the words.

—“…Have a merry Christmas,” Cecil added.

The line went dead.

Mark smiled.

Together, you flew to his house.

The Grayson house slept beneath a soft blanket of snow. Lights were off. Curtains drawn. Peaceful.

You landed quietly on the roof, sitting side by side, legs dangling over the edge as the sky stretched endlessly above you.

Snowflakes drifted down, slow and gentle.

Mark leaned back on his hands.

—“I think this officially beats saving the planet.”

—“You like helping,” you said. “That's why you're a hero.”

He laughed softly.

—“…Yeah. I guess I am.”

Snow caught in his hair as he stared at you, smiling for exactly one second.

—“Merry christmas, Grayson."

—“Merry Christmas.”

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A Constant Signal

Rudolph Conners Masterlist

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Time slows within a secure medical room, where silence, machines, and unread pages coexist.

Content; angst, slow burn angst, melancholy, depression themes, mentions of serious injuries.

Pairing; Hero GN!Reader x Rudolph Conners

Depressive.

If the atmosphere could be distilled into a single word, that would be the one that clung most accurately to the sterile air of the room.

Nights, days, weeks had bled into one another since the battle. Since you had fought alongside Mark Grayson, Invincible, against his father, Omni-Man himself, brushing so close to death that the line between survival and oblivion had blurred beyond recognition. It was unfortunate that your healing factor, that faithful ally which had saved you countless times before, had failed to fully cloak you in its protection. The damage, this time, had already been done.

Your flesh had been scorched beyond repair, burned and ruined, accompanied by multiple catastrophic injuries along your know fractured spinal column. You were… in a coma. And if honesty prevailed, you were barely even that. You were present only in the most technical sense of the word.

Your body lay cocooned in layers upon layers of bandages, from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head. Your face, your scalp, everything was hidden beneath sterile white wrappings. The physicians, surgeons and every other type of medic available in The Pentagon waited. They hoped. Some prayed. All of them watched the monitors with restrained dread, silently asking whether your regenerative abilities would intervene once more. But no one could say for certain if this would be one of those times.

Nutrient fluids were fed into your system through tubes that pierced scorched flesh beneath thick dressings, sustaining a body that seemed unwilling, or unable, to respond.

And yet, there was one who did not relinquish hope.

Rudolph Conners.

Robot.

In his humanized form, orange hair carefully combed behind his ears, green eyes perpetually alert, white skin framed by a formal black suit, he was the singular constant at your side. The only one who refused to accept that this was where your story ended. Faith, if such a term could be applied to him, anchored itself stubbornly in his chest: the conviction that, sooner or later, you would rise from this misery with the same fierce resolve you had always possessed.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into something quieter, heavier. And Rudolph, like a devoted caretaker, never strayed far.

He had developed a routine. A precise one.

He bought you books, volumes he calculated you would enjoy based on your past conversations, your preferences, the patterns of your curiosity. He read them aloud in the private high-security medical wing of the Pentagon where you were housed, his voice filling the otherwise hollow room.

Your heart continued to beat. Your brain still emitted electrical signals. But you did not move. You barely breathed.

It frightened everyone.

And if he were honest, truly honest, it frightened him as well.

Rudolph’s voice resonated softly through the medical chamber, measured and controlled, his words wrapping the emptiness in a calm only he could manufacture. He sat beside your bed, posture straight but not rigid, holding the book open with deliberate care.

—“The Sea Song”, he read, turning a page with mechanical gentleness.

The faint rustle of paper accompanied his voice as he continued, though his mind wandered far from the narrative.

—“Chapter six,” he began, tone even, composed. “The wind blew with relentless force, dragging the waves toward the shore. Yet the sailors did not fear it. There was something in the ocean’s song that called to them, a promise of secrets buried beneath the depths.”

Beside him, you remained motionless, encased in bandages. The cardiac monitor emitted its steady, rhythmic beeping, registering your vitals without deviation. The sight unsettled him more than he allowed his expression to reveal.

For five long weeks, he had repeated this same ritual.

Read. Observe. Wait.

Sometimes, his voice seemed intended more for himself than for you, an anchor to keep his own resolve intact.

Every page he turned, every word he articulated, granted him a fragile sense of peace. As though continuing meant keeping you close. As though sound alone could bridge the distance between consciousness and silence. Not because you refused to answer, but because you could not.

Rudolph lowered the book slowly, green eyes studying the silhouette of your head beneath the wrappings. The bandages revealed nothing. No skin. No expression. No hint of the person he knew beneath.

Soft cold light traced the outline of your body, making you appear even more fragile than you were. And yet, he knew better. He had seen your strength firsthand, strength capable of defying inevitability.

But now?...

Now, all he could do was wait.

He raised his right hand to his temple, pressing lightly, as though pressure alone might reorganize the thoughts spiraling beneath his skull.

Logic dictated restraint. His mind was not built to indulge human emotion, not to entertain the ache tightening his chest. And yet, there it was. Persistent. Invasive.

Perhaps this was humanity, quietly integrating itself into systems never designed to accommodate it.

His gaze returned to you. Your breathing was shallow, nearly imperceptible. There was no sign, no twitch, no response, to suggest you were anywhere near waking.

And still, something within him insisted on persistence.

—“I will continue,” he murmured quietly, not reading now, simply speaking. “Even if the probability remains statistically insignificant.”

He reopened the book, resting it carefully on his lap.

—“The sea has always guarded its secrets,” he read aloud once more, voice slower now, almost reverent. “And those who dare to listen will always find more than they seek.”

His cadence softened, as if speaking through water rather than air. Each word carried an unfamiliar weight, lingering between the machines and the silence.

Time seemed suspended within the room.

No urgency. No movement. Only the stillness of a moment stretched into something infinite.

Rudolph paused again, closing the book with meticulous care. His attention shifted instinctively to the heart monitor.

The rhythm was unchanged.

Steady. Consistent.

He brought his hand back to his temple, gaze lowering to the floor as calculations ran silently through his mind. Then—

Something.

At the edge of his vision.

His head snapped up, eyes locking onto the bed.

Your body trembled.

Just barely. A small, involuntary movement—but undeniable.

Rudolph stood instantly, chair sliding back with a restrained scrape. He moved closer, hands hovering, uncertain for the first time in weeks.