❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞
❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞
Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶
•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•
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❤︎ summary: you wake up in an unfamiliar place—threadless, wingless, and wildly out of place in a world that forgot how to feel. the man who caught you (or spared you, or maybe neither) offers no comfort. only silence. and rules you don’t understand. but you’re built for love—even stripped of your status, even with your wings torn away—and despite everything, you hum. he watches. you talk. something shifts. and for once, the silence isn’t empty.
❤︎ contains: sfw. soft sci-fi. celestial grief. morally questionable men with capes. lonely mythologies. divine exile. cupid!reader. omni!mark. omni!invincible. slow-burn dynamics. sharp dialogue. soft power plays. emotional tension. thread metaphors. awkward domesticity. a glittery, homesick cupid in a strange house. and one emotionally repressed war criminal trying not to care.
❤︎ warnings: post-exile trauma. references to canonical war/genocide (vague). injury care. survivor’s guilt. isolation. identity confusion. mild body horror (wing loss). emotional withholding. unspoken grief. and the bone-deep ache of trying to be wanted when you were made only to serve.
❤︎ wc: 4868
prologue, part one
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i’m honestly so beyond touched by the response to this fic about a wingless cupid and a cosmic war criminal. the love it’s gotten?? unreal. my whole thread-glued heart is just… full. you’ve made this story feel less like a fall and more like a landing. thank you for every comment, like, and reblog—i’m storing them in a pink sparkly jar labeled “emotional fuel.” let’s keep tugging the string—chapter one starts now.
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You wake up face-down in luxury.
Specifically: half-smushed into a couch that feels engineered for spine alignment, interstellar meditation, or a villain’s downtime—not comfort.
Definitely not comfort.
The texture is weirdly sleek—velvet-synthetic.
Expensive.
The kind of couch that exists just to say “I’m expensive”—not to be sat on. Which, of course, you are.
…Badly.
You’re tangled in a heavy blanket that definitely wasn’t there before, limbs twisted like a limp marionette. Every joint aches. Your back screams.
You blink, eyes crusty. Then blink again.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
No ambient hum of threads. No divine frequency. No lace-sky breathing stories into the tips of your wings—
Oh.
Right.
No wings.
Just… nothing.
You inhale shakily, trying not to flinch at the echo of absence where they used to be.
That phantom pull still flickers beneath your skin, like your whole body expects to move differently and can’t understand why it doesn’t.
You sit up slowly, the blanket tangled around your knees slipping off with a whisper-soft sigh.
It’s heavy and warm and smells like something between ozone, steel, and—
Oh.
Him.
“Okay,” you murmur, voice raspy. “Either I survived, or I’m in a very bougie version of limbo.”
Your limbs ache. Everything aches. You’re bruised in places that aren’t even supposed to bruise. Your wings? Still gone. Still phantom. Still wrong.
And the worst part?
The air feels… hollow.
No threads.
No connections.
No one’s longing.
You’re utterly alone—again.
You shuffle upright and glance around, trying not to wobble.
The room is sleek, high-tech in a sterile, vaguely militaristic way. Walls smooth and silver-dark, faintly glowing interface panels here and there.
It’s clean. Cold. Lit with soft panels that glow a sterile blue.
A strange crystalline screen suspended midair flickers with symbols you don’t recognize.
There’s a table that sits low in the center of the room—glass, probably. It looks solid, but you eye it like it might judge you.
You’re not in a prison—not quite.
But you’re not safe either.
Still—your voice comes out bright. Croaky, but bright.
“Well, at least it’s not hell.”
You wobble to your feet and immediately trip over the corner of the blanket.
Stumble, flail, barely catch yourself on what might be a countertop… or a weapons locker. Hard to say.
You don’t recognize a single object in the space.
That doesn’t stop you from touching everything.
A metallic orb hums when you poke it.
Another panel flashes red. You press it again. It turns off.
“Definitely not a prison,” you say, chewing your lip. “Probably. Hopefully. …Possibly a villain’s lair. But like… a tasteful one?”
Your legs push you toward a shelf and there’s an object shaped like a tall, elegant hourglass—except filled with something that glows faintly purple.
Naturally, you poke it.
It purrs.
You yelp.
“H-hello?! Sorry! I didn’t mean—!”
Your voice slowly fades into silence.
You pick up something else. It’s smooth. Cylindrical. Heavy for its size.
“Hmm. Mug? Weapon? Mug and weapon? A murder mug? It feels like a murder mug,” you mumble, turning it over.
“Do they drink blood tea here?”
Then—something beeps. Very softly.
Your whole body tenses.
And then you feel it.
The weight of presence.
Not a string. Not love.
Gravity.
And danger.
You turn—and there he is.
The red-caped man from the field—towering in the doorway like a bad decision carved out of stone and anger.
He’s standing there.
Silent. Immense.
In red and white and black, all sharp lines and steady breath. His cape falls behind him like a curtain of blood. The goggles don’t show his eyes—but you feel the glare through them.
His jaw is set. His arms are crossed. His black goggles glint even in the low light. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t have to.
You go solid, still holding the probable mug-weapon.
Ah right—you can’t forget.
It’s still the guy who caught you. Or… confronted you. Or nearly vaporized you last night in a field of daisies.
You give a sheepish smile.
“Hi. Morning. Or, uh, whatever time it is on this… aggressively minimalist version of Earth!”
He tilts his head once. His voice is flat.
Unreadable.
“Don’t touch that.”
You freeze. “This? Oh, no, I wasn’t—I mean, I did. Technically. But only spiritually.”
He doesn’t respond.
You blink. Look at the object. Look back at him. Grin. “Okay. Cool. I won’t. Totally understand boundaries. Big believer in consent.”
He doesn’t react.
You clear your throat. Set the item down. Slowly.
“Although, in my defense, your whole interior design aesthetic is kinda yelling ‘please investigate me.’ So really, it’s—”
“Don’t touch anything,” he cuts in, firmer.
You offer him a sheepish thumbs-up. “Got it. Loud and scary clear.”
And then—because your instincts are garbage and you were literally created to poke things—you touch something else. A little blinking panel near the door.
His eyes narrow.
You drop your hand like it burned you. “Sorry!! Reflex! Very bad reflex!”
He stares.
You stare back, then give a very small, very awkward wave.
Another long pause.
He sighs—just barely. Turns away without a word and disappears down the hall.
You watch him go, blinking.
“…He seems nice.”
You sit back down with a wince, then mutter, “I should definitely touch more stuff.”
You do.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
It starts with silence.
Again.
But this time it’s not lonely silence—it’s awkward. Heavy. The kind that settles between two people who don’t know if they’re enemies, housemates, or a cosmic glitch in each other’s timelines.
You linger in the hallway.
Still sore. Still threadless. Still dressed like someone who got kicked out of Heaven and landed in a tech-noir villain’s den.
And still—despite every instinct screaming don’t—you follow him.
Of course you do.
Like a sparkly little space unwanted houseguest with opinions that has zero survival instincts and a tragic affection for ominous men in capes.
He doesn’t say you can’t follow him.
He just walks briskly through his own home—long hallways, seamless doors, touch-panel everything—while you trail behind, barefoot and blinking like a freshly-kicked cherub.
He ignores you.
You ignore his ignoring.
“That’s a cool cape,” you say conversationally, trying to keep up with his strides. “Is it, like, sentimental? Symbolic? Villain-chic? Oh—wait, are you emotionally attached to it?”
No answer.
You lean forward slightly, squinting. “Do you… wear it to bed?”
Still nothing.
You hum thoughtfully. “Is it fused to your soul? Is it detachable? Do you have different ones for different moods—like, casual cape, angry cape, emotional repression cape?”
He doesn’t respond.
You try again. “Can I touch it?”
He stops.
Just like that—halts mid-stride.
You freeze behind him, nearly bumping into his back. And blink up at him.
He turns his head slightly, the cape flaring just enough to ripple past your fingertips.
“Don’t.”
One word. No bite, no growl—just a warning. Like a storm saying this isn’t rain yet, but it could be.
You raise your hands slowly. “Right. Sorry. Cape off-limits. Got it. You’re very committed to the brand.”
He walks again.
You sigh—more dramatic than necessary—but keep following.
“What about the goggles?” you ask. “Do you sleep in those too? Are they like… mood-activated? They’re very intimidating. Very Darth-Vader-meets-heartbreak. No offense.”
He says nothing.
“Okay, so you’re clearly not a big talker,” you mutter. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two. Or ten.”
So you keep going, babbling just to fill the space.
Another hallway. Another panel. Another stretch of angular, too-clean walls and whisper-quiet footsteps.
It’s like walking through a museum designed by someone who’s never smiled—even once.
And somehow—somehow—you still manage to fill the silence.
“You know, in some dimensions, silence is considered a mating ritual,” you offer cheerfully.
He pauses.
You blink. “Wait, not that I’m saying this is that. I mean—it’s not, right? Unless it is—which, um, please clarify. Because if it is, I should probably brush my hair.”
He keeps walking.
You huff, trailing further behind now. Not because you’re tired—well, okay, maybe a little—but mostly because his energy is doing that don’t-get-close thing again.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
He doesn’t respond. Again.
You glance at one of the panels you pass. It blinks red as you near it.
Curious, you step closer.
He doesn’t stop you this time—but you hear it in his voice. That shift. That thread of something darker.
“You’re not allowed outside.”
You freeze. “What?”
“That panel’s locked. Security override in place.”
You blink, confused. “So I can’t leave?”
A beat.
“No.”
Your stomach twists.
You laugh. Light. Thin. “Oh. So I am in a prison.”
“It’s not a prison,” he says flatly.
You raise an eyebrow. “You just said I can’t leave.”
“It’s for your safety.”
“Isn’t that what all supervillains say?”
He turns around then—just slightly—and for the first time, you think maybe he’s trying not to say something. His jaw tightens. Not with anger. Not exactly.
With thought.
You don’t press. Not this time.
Instead, you look out the nearest window—tinted, probably bulletproof, overlooking a skyline that feels wrong. Choked. Smoky and sharp at the edges.
It’s beautiful in the way a burnt cathedral might be. And it feels lonely.
You press your hand to the glass.
Whisper-soft.
“I don’t belong here,” you murmur. Not to him. Not really to yourself, either.
Just… to the glass.
To the world beyond it.
He doesn’t answer.
But he watches you.
And that’s enough to make your heart thud somewhere in the hollowness of your chest.
You exhale. Curl your fingers into a mock-heart on the window.
“You should really consider getting some plants,” you say softly. “This place is screaming ‘emotionally constipated bachelor pad.’”
His reflection doesn’t flinch.
You sigh and turn away.
“I’m gonna go talk to the weird murder mug again.”
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Later—hours, maybe—you find yourself planted at the far end of what might be the dining area.
Or the command center. It’s hard to tell.
The table looks like it could initiate a planetary strike if you breathe on it wrong.
He sits across from you.
Still.
Still suited. Still silent.
He hasn’t taken the mask off. You haven’t seen his eyes.
But he gave you a name.
Not a real one, probably. But something.
“Invincible,” he said flatly when you asked, finally cracking under the sheer power of your pestering and your best please I’m charming let me know what to call you face.
You didn’t believe him at first.
“Seriously? That’s what you go by?”
He didn’t answer.
Just turned away and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like you’re worse than the other one.
Still—you took it. Grinned. Clutched it like it meant something.
“Okay, Invincible. Cool name. Bit dramatic. But I can work with that.”
He hasn’t asked for your name in return.
You gave it anyway.
Not your designation. Not the code the Realm used.
Just what you used to call yourself, back when you believed in tenderness.
He didn’t comment on it.
He just sat like he is now—spine too straight, hands steepled on the table, as if pretending not to regret every life choice that led to you invading his vaguely dystopian bachelor pad.
You kick your feet under the table.
He says nothing.
So you talk.
Because of course you do.
“Okay, so—fun story,” you begin brightly, draping your arms across the back of your seat. “Once, I accidentally matched a soulweaver with a carnivorous star-being. Didn’t realize their threads were laced with paradox elements. Their honeymoon destroyed a moon.”
You pause.
Grin.
“But they’re still together! Super toxic. Super cute. Kind of horrifying… I’m rooting for them.”
Nothing.
You glance at him.
He’s not looking at you—but his fingers tap once. Barely audible. A twitch in the rhythm.
You keep going.
“I once worked a case where the connection was so knotted it took seven cycles, two reincarnations, and one cosmic dog to unravel it. Not a metaphor. There was literally a dog. He was a thread guide. Very fluffy.”
Still nothing.
But you notice the shift.
The way his chin angles, almost imperceptibly.
Like he’s listening without wanting to. Like he’s filing away every word and pretending he’s not.
You lean forward. Prop your chin on your hand.
“Have you ever loved anyone?” you ask, soft. Just curious.
Invincible freezes.
Just for a second.
Then moves again—barely. Shrugs one shoulder. “Not relevant.”
“Oh, it’s totally relevant,” you say with a mock gasp. “It’s my entire job.”
“You don’t have a job,” he mutters.
“Excuse you,” you sniff. “I am temporarily unemployed. There’s a difference.”
He sighs—again, just barely. But it’s the kind that says if I fly into the sun right now, will she keep talking?
You smile, a little too brightly.
“It’s just—you’re fascinating,” you say, earnest now.
“You move like someone who’s always preparing for war. But there’s something in your hands. Like… you used to hold gentler things.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.
But his knuckles tighten—just slightly.
You catch it.
You don’t comment on it.
Instead, you hum softly, off-tune and aimless. Just enough to fill the space between your sentences.
“I used to hum like this when I was scared,” you say, staring at the ceiling. “Back when I thought being good meant being useful.”
A long beat.
Then—
“You’re not scared now?” he asks, voice flat.
You glance at him.
Smile.
“Terrified.”
And you mean it.
But it’s soft.
Like a confession wrapped in pink thread and handed over with shaking fingers.
Invincible doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t leave.
And that’s something.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
You’re sitting on the edge of the couch—the weird one that thinks it’s better than you—biting the inside of your cheek.
“I can do it myself,” you say.
Immediately lie.
“I’m very good at medical stuff. Definitely qualified. Certified in three realms, actually.”
Invincible doesn’t look convinced.
You don’t blame him.
Your last attempt at bandaging involved decorative knotting and something that suspiciously resembled a shoelace.
“You’re going to make it worse,” he says flatly.
You huff. “You say that like it’s a certainty.”
“It is.”
He crosses the room without waiting for permission, gloved hands already unsnapping some hidden compartment in the wall.
A panel folds out.
Inside: a compact but precise set of medical supplies.
Of course he has medical supplies.
Of course they’re alphabetized.
Of course the antiseptic glows ominously.
You fidget.
“I don’t like that bottle,” you murmur. “It’s judging me.”
He doesn’t respond. Just sets it down on the nearby table with quiet precision.
You swallow.
The silence stretches.
It’s heavier now. Less awkward. More… inevitable.
You wrap your arms around your knees, voice quieter.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
And still—he gestures.
“Turn around.”
Your pulse stumbles. You hesitate.
But then—you do.
Slowly.
You turn your back to him.
Pull the too-big shirt they gave you (his? something spare from the war room? it smells faintly of leather and ozone) off one shoulder. Then the other. Then lift the hem just enough for him to see.
It hurts.
Not just the movement—but the exposure.
It’s not romantic.
Because there’s nothing romantic about torn skin or lost wings.
Invincible doesn’t say anything. Not at first.
But you hear the pause.
The smallest catch in his breath.
Then—his gloved fingers at the edge of the old wrapping. Careful. Methodical.
The first touch makes you flinch.
He stops immediately.
Waits.
Doesn’t apologize—he never apologizes—but he doesn’t push either.
You exhale.
“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”
The bandages peel away slowly.
You wince.
Not because of the pain—but because you know what it must look like.
The bruising.
The way the skin puckers where the feathers once grew.
The scars trying to form over something that should have never been taken.
Invincible works in silence.
You hum.
It’s soft. Tuneless. The kind of sound you make when you don’t know what else to fill the quiet with.
“I used to help patch people up,” you say absently, voice thin. “Mostly broken hearts, but once I had to reattach a wing to a grief-angel. That was messy. Lots of glitter and wailing.”
Still, he says nothing.
But his hands move gently.
Like he’s trying not to break what’s already broken.
The antiseptic stings. You hiss.
He pauses.
You press your forehead to your knees.
“I’m okay,” you lie again.
A beat passes.
Then another.
Then—
“You’re not.”
You go still.
The words aren’t cruel. Not biting. Just… factual. Like a truth dropped onto the floor and left there.
You don’t reply.
But the humming dies in your throat.
His fingers return. Smoother now. Gliding over the worst of it. Wrapping clean gauze like it means something. Like there’s care in the motion, even if he doesn’t name it.
You close your eyes.
For a moment—you pretend it doesn’t hurt.
You pretend you’re not threadless and wrecked.
You pretend someone is holding you in a way that won’t leave more marks.
And he—this man with no real name, with a face hidden behind silence and sharpness—keeps wrapping your wounds like someone who doesn’t know why he hasn’t stopped yet.
When Invincible finishes, you don’t move right away.
Neither does he.
The air holds the shape of something unsaid.
And for the first time since you fell—
You don’t feel entirely alone.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
It starts with guilt.
Not big, thunderous guilt—the kind that screams or scars.
No, this is softer. Quieter.
The kind that curls under your ribs and pokes at you when it gets too silent.
The kind that sounds like: Invincible hasn’t killed me yet. I should… do something?
You’ve been here for… two sunrises now? Three?
Time is slippery here. Threadless days always are.
But one thing’s clear: for all his sharp edges and scowls, your new… roommate? captor? interdimensional roommate with possible emotional constipation?—he’s been letting you stay.
In his space. On his furniture. Breathing his air.
Rent-free.
The least you could do is say thank you.
So you decide to clean.
Which is dumb. Because you have no idea how any of this tech works.
But that doesn’t stop you.
You start small—folding the blanket you’ve been cocooning in. You even add a little flair.
Tug the corners into soft heart-shaped knots. Totally impractical. Definitely aesthetic.
You set it in the middle of the couch like a peace offering. Or a warning.
You hum to yourself as you tidy.
Not that there’s much to tidy—everything here is spotless, sterile, like a military catalog page come to life.
Still, you try.
Straighten a few panels. Dust off some gleaming surface with the edge of your sleeve.
Eventually, you find what might be a kitchen. Or a weapons bay disguised as a kitchen. Hard to say.
It has counters. It has drawers. One of them contains what you think are utensils. One of them contains a small orb that buzzes and tries to eat your finger.
You close that one. Quickly.
Cooking it is.
You find something vaguely bread-adjacent in a sealed container.
Something that might be butter. Something that definitely isn’t sugar but looks suspiciously like cosmic sand.
You try anyway.
You find heat. A panel that flares red when you touch it.
“Perfect,” you whisper. “Totally safe. I am definitely qualified for this.”
You burn the first attempt. Instantly. Black smoke hisses upward like a judgment.
You try again.
You nearly set the panel on fire.
You keep going.
Eventually, you manage to create… something!
Not good. Not edible. But warm and round-ish and not on fire.
You plate it. Add a flower from the weird glowing vase thing on the counter for presentation. Step back. Admire it.
It’s hideous.
But you made it.
So you carry it out carefully—just as the door hisses open.
And there he is.
Cape flowing. Expression unreadable.
Invincible freezes in the doorway, black goggles flicking from your smoke-streaked face to the kitchen behind you—now full of suspicious smells and one still-smoking dish.
You hold out the plate.
“I made a thank-you loaf,” you say brightly. “It’s mostly… not poison!”
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.
Then—
“Did you override my weapons lock?”
You blink. “What?”
He steps past you, into the kitchen. Taps a barely-visible panel near the wall. A soft click echoes.
Then a compartment slides open to reveal: missiles.
Actual missiles.
“Oh,” you say. “That explains the ticking.”
Invincible turns around slowly.
You grin, sheepish. “In my defense, your cabinet labeling system is deeply confusing.”
He doesn’t yell.
Which is somehow worse.
He just gives you the look.
That disappointed, stone-jawed, exhausted-by-your-whole-existence look.
Your grin falters.
“…I’ll go sit down.”
You do.
And you sulk.
You curl up in the corner of the couch and re-fold the blanket. Then re-fold it again.
You mutter something about interdimensional roommates being impossible to please.
You don’t even notice when he walks back in.
Not at first.
You only notice the pause.
The soft shift of air.
You glance up.
He’s standing at the edge of the room, holding something.
The blanket.
You must’ve left it in the kitchen, half-heartedly abandoned on a counter.
Invincible doesn’t say anything.
But he doesn’t throw it away either.
He folds it once. Carefully.
Sets it back on the couch.
Exactly where it was.
Knots and all.
You don’t say anything.
But your chest feels warmer.
He leaves again.
You smile to yourself.
Next time, you’ll try the cosmic rice.
(Probably a bad idea. But you’re nothing if not persistent.)
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Mark tells himself you’re just a problem he hasn’t solved yet.
That’s all.
Another anomaly dropped into his territory—another celestial error.
Something to monitor. To contain. Not to engage with.
Definitely not to understand.
He repeats this in his head more than once.
But he still notices things.
You hum when it’s too quiet.
Not on purpose.
Not like you’re trying to fill the space with meaning.
It’s unconscious—barely there. Just a low, tuneless sound you loop under your breath like you’re afraid silence might swallow you if you let it linger too long.
He hears it through the walls sometimes.
Not enough to be irritating. Just enough to be… present.
You clutch your weapon in your sleep.
Not always.
But most nights, when the lights dim and you think he’s stopped watching.
The bow—the one you won’t explain—is usually curled tight against your chest, one hand resting lightly on the grip.
Protective. Familiar.
Like it’s the only thing left that still feels like home.
You move in your sleep too. Restless. Whimpers low, barely audible.
Once, he found you curled into the narrowest corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.
The blanket had fallen. You hadn’t bothered to pick it up.
He hadn’t either.
But he covered you with a new one before leaving.
You never mentioned it.
You walk wrong.
It’s not… bad. Just different.
Like someone still getting used to gravity.
You don’t always trust your footing—sometimes you skip a step, sometimes you hesitate before a turn, like you expect the ground to shift under your feet.
You never ask for help.
But when something startles you—when you nearly drop something, or a panel glitches too loud, or the power flickers just a little too long—your hand twitches toward him before you even realize it.
Like a reflex. Like an instinct you haven’t unlearned.
Like you think he might catch you.
You talk too much.
About nothing. About everything.
Stories that make no sense—about thread-realms and starlight weddings and love gods who punch each other for fun.
Mark doesn’t believe half of it.
But he listens.
Every word.
Worse, he remembers them.
You describe things with your hands—like you can’t just say what you mean, you have to shape it.
Fingers dancing through the air, painting emotion he doesn’t know how to name.
When you laugh, your shoulders always rise first.
When you lie, you bite the inside of your cheek.
You sing off-key. Barely know it.
And you always pause—just for a second—before you smile.
That’s the one that gets him.
The hesitation.
Like you’re weighing whether it’s worth it.
Whether this moment deserves it.
Whether he does.
Mark doesn’t understand you.
And that should be easy.
It’s always been easy, not understanding people. Easier to flatten them. File them into categories: threat, resource, dead.
But you don’t stay in the box.
Don’t follow the rules.
You should be scared of him—he knows you are—but you don’t flinch when he walks past. You make eye contact. You wave. You hum.
You grin.
And he…
He notices.
Even when he doesn’t want to.
Especially then.
So he tells himself it’s strategy.
Just observation.
Just a glitch with glitter in your hair and too many stories in your throat.
That’s all.
That’s all.
But when he walks past the living room, and sees you curled asleep with your bow across your chest and your hands still half-reached toward something that isn’t there—
Mark slows.
Doesn’t stop.
But he slows.
And tells himself again—you’re just a problem.
Not a person.
Not someone.
Not his.
Not yet, not never.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
The apartment is unusually quiet.
Ever since you got here—there’s always something humming softly in the air. Mark doesn’t notice the silence at first.
He’s used to that. Prefers it.
But this is different.
It’s a small sound that finally breaks him out of his thoughts.
Soft. Barely there.
At first, Mark thinks the sound is static.
Just another nighttime glitch—a flicker in the power grid, maybe. A disturbance in the perimeter sensors.
Something small. Something easy.
But then he hears it again.
Soft. Fragile. Not mechanical.
Human.
He moves before thinking.
Quiet steps down the hallway. Past the control room. Around the corner where the lights are still dimmed to sleep-mode. His hand hovers over the doorframe.
You’re still asleep.
Sort of.
Your body’s curled inward on the couch—smaller than usual, shoulders tight, hands clenched in the blanket. Not the bow this time. Just the blanket.
But your face—
Your face is wet.
Tears carve tracks down your cheeks in silence.
Your lips move, but there’s no sound. Your breath catches on each inhale like it doesn’t know how to settle in your chest.
You don’t sob. Don’t cry out.
You just tremble.
Mark doesn’t move.
He should. He knows he should. Turn away. Walk off. Let you have your grief like you always have—alone, unspeaking, full of bright little lies and off-key humming.
But you’re not humming now.
You’re breaking.
And he—
He watches.
Not with judgment.
Not even with curiosity.
Just… quietly.
Like something in him knows this is sacred. Or familiar. Or both.
He takes a breath. Slow. Controlled.
Then turns away long enough to return with a glass of water.
He sets it down on the table near you. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.
Doesn’t ask.
When he glances back—
You’re still asleep.
But your hand moves. Barely.
Reaches toward the glass.
Or maybe toward something else.
Mark doesn’t stay to see if you find it.
But as he walks away, the sound of your breath steadying follows him.
Not whole.
Not healed.
But enough.
And for reasons he doesn’t name—
That’s worse than a scream.
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˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗
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You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room.
Surrounded by scraps of thread you found in one of the deep storage drawers Invincible didn’t think you’d find.
(He was wrong.)
One’s gold.
One’s red.
One’s a tangled mess of fraying blue that might actually be a shoelace.
You’re holding them all up like evidence.
Invincible’s standing over you. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Entire posture radiating why are you like this.
You grin up at him.
“Okay,” you begin, voice bright, “so this one represents soul-tied destinies—deep, ancient, violently passionate.” You wiggle the red one.
“This one is light-thread—super soft, fluttery, usually forms during meet-cutes or emotionally charged hand-touching.” The gold.
You hold up the blue.
“This one is chaos. I don’t know where it came from. Possibly cursed. Could be your vibe.”
He squints. “Are you seriously playing with string right now?”
“It’s not playing,” you gasp. “It’s education. I’m trying to teach you how threads work.”
“I don’t care how threads work.”
“You should! Not that you have one—rude—but if you did, yours would definitely be fire-forged, probably double-knotted, tangled six times over, emotionally scorched and fraying at the edges—oh, and extremely defensive.”
He blinks.
Then—“What does that even mean.”
You pause. Smile softly.
“It means you’re very repressed, babe.”
A beat.
He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you like you’ve grown another head. (Honestly, that would explain a lot, probably.)
You shrug. Flick the red string toward him. It hits his chest.
Invincible doesn’t catch it.
“Here. Pretend that’s your thread.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
“God, you’re no fun.”
He turns to leave.
You call after him, “You’d definitely be a reluctant soulmate.”
He freezes in the doorway.
Very quietly, without turning around, he says.
“There’s no such thing.”
You smile to yourself. Pick up the gold thread again. Loop it gently around your fingers.
“Not yet,” you murmur. “But they don’t always start that way.”
He doesn’t respond.
But he doesn’t walk away either.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st
More Posts from Alive-gh0st and Others
˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗
Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི
…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ….
FULL MASTERLIST + PLAYLIST
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ ⛨ summary: he’s supposed to be invincible. but every time mark grayson shows up bloodied and breathless, you’re the one putting him back together. you don’t have powers. you don’t wear a cape. but in his quietest moments, when the pain settles and the city goes silent—he never looks at you like you’re less. because with you, he isn’t saving the world. he’s just trying to be a person again.
⛨ contains: nsfw (18+). longform slow burn. civilian x hero dynamic. hurt/comfort. mutual pining. domestic intimacy. shirtless medical care. late-night phone calls. first aid as foreplay. hospital closets (eventual). soft!mark. snarky-but-kind!reader. emotional undressing before the literal one. tender dom vibes. smut that earns its place.
⛨ warnings: blood/injury (canon-typical). emotional baggage. strong language. healing trauma. eventual explicit sexual content w/ emotional depth. vulnerability. pining so intense it might combust your soul. a very tired mark trying not to fall in love (and failing miserably).
⛨ wc: TBD (multi-part).ᐟ.ᐟ
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: this is not just a fic. this is a bandage, a bruise, and a breath shared in the dark. also yes. there will be smut. eventually.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ prologue 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ chapter 1 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ chapter 2 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ chapter 3 ✍︎
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ chapter 4 ✍︎
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ chapter 5 ✍︎
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ chapter 6 ✍︎
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ chapter 7 ✍︎
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ chapter 8 ✍︎
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ chapter 9 ✍︎
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆
♬ prologue song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |
╰┈➤𓊈”Time for Heroes”—The Libertines𓊉
♬ chapter 1 song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |
╰┈➤ 𓊈”Thinkin Bout You”—Frank Ocean𓊉
♬ chapter 2 song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |
╰┈➤ 𓊈”Little Bit (feat. Lykke Li)”—Drake𓊉
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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st
Hello, Hello, Hello! I love the layout of your tumblr page! Absolutely stunning! I hope you’re doing well, darling! May I request something?
A Cupid reader x Omi-Mark Grayson. I would love to see the difference in personality. Maybe, Reader is excitingly telling Omi-Mark about all the couples, they’ve gotten together and Omi-Mark chuckles? Or perhaps, a simple Cupid Reader struck themselves with their own arrow and is yearning for Omi-Mark and he finally gives in? I would just love to see their contrast!
ପ(੭ ´ᵕ`)੭°• જ⁀➴
HELLO??? First of all—thank you for complimenting my layouts.ᐟ.ᐟ They take approximately 13 years off my lifespan because yes, I do all of it on my phone. With my fingers. Like a feral graphic design cryptid with a god complex.
Second—this ask appeared in my inbox like a glitter bomb full of rogue heartstrings.ᐟ.ᐟ and I am obsessed.
„Omni!Mark x Cupid!Reader”??? That concept is so deliciously insane (in the best way) it deserves its own zip code.
and YES you may request something.ᐟ.ᐟ I adore when people throw ideas my way—and let me bring them to life. Again „Omni!Mark x Cupid!Reader”??????? genius. iconic. a duality so sharp it could cut drywall.
Reader accidentally love-arrowing herself??? Omni-Mark being all stoic and meanwhile Cupid Reader is literally clutching her chest like “why is my heart doing jazz hands??”—oh i am so into this.
Also—love when people give lil extras about what they’re envisioning—it helps me build the vibe, moodboard, and maybe a shrine (casual). honored to take this on. BRB, channeling Cupid via caffeine and delusion.
Just a heads up—it might take a little time to write and post it because I’m currently buried under a small avalanche of fic drafts. But I will write it. Your idea lives rent-free in my heart now.
You’re stuck with me. 𝔁𝓸𝔁𝓸
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞
Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶
HAS OFFICIALLY LANDED FROM THE STARS!!!
•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•
SO SORRY for the wait—turns out Cupid wings don’t grow back overnight (tragic, I know). Between threading timelines and re-editing until my drafts cried for mercy, this one took a second. But! It’s finally stitched and sealed with divine ache and stardust.
IT’S FINALLY HERE!!! It’s soft. It’s sharp. It’s 4.4k+ words of grief-glittered lore, a bruised god, a wingless love-agent, emotional inertia, cracked hearts, and maybe—just maybe—a red string starting to twitch.
Huge love-arrow shoutout to @lycheee-jelly for planting this idea straight into my writer brain like a rogue dart to the soul (Cupid-style).
You have absurdly good taste and a terrifying understanding of duality. I owe you a field of wildflowers and an emotional support arrow.
Let me know what you think! I’ll be floating in a lace-threaded cloud of feelings (and probably dreaming up Chapter 1).
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
a/n: it’s happening. ”Hearts Don’t Miss” (Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader) is officially being written! our favorite grumpy viltrumite is about to get emotionally steamrolled by a love-coded chaos alien entity with wings, and honestly? he deserves it. and—plot twist—it might spiral into a multi-chapter series. accidentally. maybe. probably. I’m just saying… the red string is getting longer. stay tuned.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st
˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗
Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི
….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ…
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
⛨ summary: you’re here to teach, not manage a walking concussion with charm issues. but he keeps looking at you like you hung the stars—and asking questions like you owe him answers. it’s temporary. it’s professional. it’s absolutely not personal. right?
⛨ contains: sfw. slow tension. hospital-grade sarcasm. emotional constipation. accidental pining. reader being done™. mark being so not subtle. vending machine cameos. background bureaucracy.
⛨ warnings: mild language. cecil stedman. lingering looks. golden retriever energy. mild secondhand embarrassment. one scalpel-related flirtation if you squint.
⛨ wc: 2839
prologue, part one, part two
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a/n: honorable mention to donald for surviving government-grade stress, doing 99% of the admin work and getting 0% of the appreciation. chapter three is happening. probably. don’t look at me like that.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The hum of fluorescent lights should’ve blended into the background by now. So should the low thrum of activity—boots echoing against concrete, the shuffle of files, hushed conversations between medics and masked vigilantes. But somehow, everything still feels a little too loud.
Maybe it’s the migraine brewing behind your eyes. Maybe it’s the fact that he won’t stop staring at you.
You shift your weight, cross your arms, and resolutely pretend you don’t notice.
That Invincible is standing three feet to your left, burning a hole through the side of your head with an intensity that shouldn’t be allowed from someone who wears goggles.
You’ve been ignoring him for seven minutes and counting.
You’ve acknowledged literally everything else in this sterile, underground chaos bunker—someone called Sea Salt (you can’t be bothered to care enough to remember properly) pacing in the background, a superhero with a dislocated shoulder yelling about insurance coverage, the world’s most suspicious vending machine—but not him.
And still, he stares.
You exhale slowly. Sharply turn your head.
He flinches like you threw something at him.
“Can I help you?”
The words are flat, clipped. The tone you use when a patient insists they know better because they once watched half an episode of ’Grey’s Anatomy’.
Invincible stammers. Actually stammers, like he doesn’t know what to do now that you talked back.
Your brows lift. “You’ve been standing there like an underpaid mall cop—gaping at me like I’m the last donut at a police briefing. Do you mind?”
He fumbles for a reply. You regret asking immediately.
٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____
A few days earlier.
You were on your fourth cup of coffee and hour three of mid-insomnia spiraling when the email came in.
A subject line so vague it practically screamed delete me.
“URGENT: National Heroic Outreach Program — Personnel Request.”
It sounded like someone stitched together LinkedIn buzzwords with a glue stick and a dream.
You almost deleted it without opening. Fingers already moving to close the laptop.
And that’s when your eye caught the numbers.
A full contract breakdown, bolded in crisp font at the bottom of the message. Enough zeroes to make your exhausted brain glitch.
You squinted. Re-read. Laughed.
Then read it again.
Field medics, trauma therapists, stabilization specialists…
Working directly alongside sanctioned heroic units. Teaching them.
Short-term. High risk. Higher pay.
You were already muttering “absolutely not” as you clicked Reply.
٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____
And now here you are.
In the middle of a hidden operations center that smells faintly of iodine and military-grade deodorant, trying to keep your expression neutral while Invincible looks at you like you invented sunlight.
You narrow your eyes.
“Seriously man. What is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem,” he says almost too quickly. “I just…”
Didn’t think I’d ever hear you again—he wants to say, but the words die in his throat.
You groan like a middle-aged man.
“Fine, whatever—keep your staring fetish a secret. But you’re still in my space.”
And somehow, despite the sarcasm, despite the walls you’re already rebuilding brick by brick—he smiles. Like you just handed him a sunrise.
Weirdo.
The silence stretches.
Finally—finally—he stops staring. You can feel it.
Like the sun setting. Like freedom on the breeze. You don’t know what bliss tastes like, but you’re pretty sure it’s this exact moment.
Invincible turns his head. Doesn’t say a word. For the first time in almost ten minutes, you can breathe.
The air tastes clearer. Your shoulders lower half an inch. You feel like Eren Yeager looking out at the ocean, finally glimpsing the other side of the fence—finally, the taste of freedom.
You close your eyes, let your arms fall just a bit looser, and begin to reach for that fragile, sacred—
“So… what’s your name?”
You shut your eyes tighter. Channel the serenity of that dog meme you saw once—some old lab basking in the light like he’s ascended to a higher plane. That’s you now. Resigned to whatever curse has chosen to follow you. Accepting the inevitable.
“…Hello?” he tries again.
You breathe in. Deep. Steady. And swallow a curse.
“It’s not important,” you finally say, voice flat.
He blinks.
“Uh—it kinda is? We’re working together, technically. It’s basic team-building. Knowing names builds trust. It’s psychologically proven—like in war movies or HR seminars. I feel like not knowing your name makes it hard to build rapport. Or connection. Or, you know, that dramatic tension where I save your life and you cry over me in slow motion.”
He’s rambling now.
You open one eye. He’s serious. Or, worse—he thinks he’s funny.
You tune him out.
Just completely power down. Close your eyes again, channel the dog meme—serene, resigned, ascended. Accepting your fate as a woman destined to be cornered by a golden retriever in a super suit.
But of course—of course—luck hates you.
Footsteps echo behind you. Measured. Heavy. Government-issued.
Invincible’s voice finally stops.
You open your eyes slowly, carefully.
Cecil Stedman stands a few feet away, looking like someone who’s been awake for forty-seven hours and hates it less than he hates incompetence.
He looks at the hero. Then at you. He exhales like he regrets every decision that’s led to this moment.
“Invincible,” Cecil says, deadpan. “It’s not your job to harass new personnel.”
You smile. A flicker of victory warms your chest.
But it’s short-lived.
“And you—” Cecil turns to you, voice sharp and gravel as he states your full name and last name, “…stop ignoring people when they’re trying to learn from you.”
Invincible’s head snaps up.
Your smile dies on impact.
“…yes, sir.”
You hate him now. Fully. With your entire soul. You will refer to this man as Sea Salt until the day you retire, but only behind his back (you have bills to pay).
Cecil nods. Done with this interaction.
“You’re both assigned to Medical Rotation C for the next three hours. Report to briefings on time, don’t destroy anything, and for the love of god—try not to bleed on each other.”
He turns and walks away like he didn’t just detonate a small emotional warhead and bounce.
You blink slowly.
The superhero grins. Way too close to you.
Invincible repeats your name. Softly. Like he’s trying it on. Like he’s going to wrap it around a sentence any second just to hear it out loud again.
You don’t look at him.
You stare at a crack in the ground and plot how to fake your own death.
٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____
This is fine. Totally fine. No one has died yet.
Except maybe him. Internally. Repeatedly.
You’ve been working together for exactly twenty-three minutes and some change, and Mark is dangerously close to pulling a muscle from glancing at you too often.
It’s not subtle. He knows that. He’s just hoping you haven’t noticed yet.
Mark Grayson—Invincible, world-class puncher of bad guys and part-time public disaster—is on assignment. Medical rotation. One-on-one.
With you.
You haven’t said more than three words since you got here.
Okay—technically, it was four if you counted “Don’t touch that,” which he did. Emotionally. Spiritually. Like a prayer.
He glances sideways. Again. That’s… what? The fifteenth time?
You’re focused. Like laser-cut precision focused. You haven’t looked at him once since the briefing ended, and that alone is doing something catastrophic to his brain chemistry. Your sleeves are rolled up, fingers moving quickly as you sort through supplies and assess whatever half-broken med bay gear they shoved into this basement. And he—
Technically, he’s supposed to be learning. Technically.
He commits the angle of your jaw to memory. He might need to sketch it later. For science.
A cart wheel squeaks. He jumps.
Smooth. Reeeal smooth Mark.
Mark’s dropped the same tool twice. He’s reorganized the same three items five different ways. And when you leaned over earlier—just for a second—he forgot how to breathe.
He thinks he said something to you. Maybe. You didn’t respond.
You probably didn’t even hear him.
Which is fair. You’re working. This is work. He should be working too.
Instead, he’s cataloging every tiny thing about you like it’s the last time he’ll get to. The little crease between your brows when you concentrate. The way you tilt your head when you read a label. The way your lips move slightly when you mutter to yourself. It’s ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous. But it’s also—
He nearly knocks over a tray of syringes and freezes like a man in a minefield.
You just say, “Don’t,” without even looking up.
That’s it. One word. And he listens.
Like his soul has been stapled to your command.
He exhales slowly. Starts organizing gauze packets like they’re puzzle pieces and not the only thing keeping him from going absolutely feral with nervous energy.
You’re right there. You’re right there. And not in the middle of some catastrophic collapse or stopping someone’s bleeding from a stress wound. Just—here. Breathing the same recycled air. Wearing scrubs like they’re armor. Not looking at him.
Mark resists the urge to break something—anything—just to make you look at him.
He peeks again.
Yeah. Still perfect.
“Invincible.”
He startles.
You don’t even look at him. Just gesture vaguely at the scalpel in his hand. “That’s upside down.”
“…Right,” he mutters, flipping it. “Just testing you.”
“You failed.”
You don’t say it with heat. Not quite. But not nicely either.
He clears his throat and tries again, forcing himself to focus on literally anything that isn’t the fact that you’re within touching distance. That you smell like antiseptic and cheap gum. That you’re here, and for some reason—still kind of talking to him.
He wants to say something normal. Something clever. But everything that comes to mind sounds like it belongs in a YA novel or a fever dream.
Instead, he peeks at you again.
You don’t notice. Or maybe you do.
But you don’t look back.
And still—he grins.
Because this? Being close enough to reach, even if you never turn around?
It’s more than he thought he’d ever get.
It’s not enough.
Mark lied.
All that pretending—organizing, fixing, standing next to you for three and a half hours like it didn’t matter—like breathing the same air wasn’t scrambling his brain chemistry?
He thought it would be enough. Just this. Just being near you.
But now you’re packing up.
And suddenly, it’s not.
You toss a roll of gauze into your bag like it keyed your car in a past life. Peel off your gloves with the grace of someone absolutely done with today.
The neckline of your scrubs shifts when you move, collarbone catching the light, and he has to look away.
You’re leaving.
You’re actually leaving.
He thought he’d be okay with it. He’s not.
You stretch your neck like it’s stiff, roll your shoulders with a sigh, and Mark swears it’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.
Which is insane. It’s a shoulder roll.
But you’re doing it. And it’s happening five feet from him. And he doesn’t know when—or if—he’ll see you like this again.
Normal. Off guard. Not covered in ash and dust.
You zip your bag shut.
And that’s when panic hits him.
It spikes in his chest like a bad punch—jarring and immediate and almost embarrassing. Because if you walk out now, that’s it. You’ll vanish again. And he’ll be stuck wondering if he imagined all of this. You. The way you said his hero name like it was a dare.
His fingers twitch at his side.
He has no idea what he’s going to say.
He just knows he needs to say something before you’re gone.
٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____
You clear your throat. Loud enough to be polite. Dismissive enough to make a point.
“I’m done here.”
He blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”
You wait for him to move. He doesn’t.
You arch a brow. “Door’s behind you.”
Invincible stares at you like you’ve just committed a federal crime. “You’re—leaving?”
You frown. “Yes? That’s what normal people do when the job is finished.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns.
“I just—” The hero shifts, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “I figured we’d—maybe—uh, debrief?”
You blink.
He looks panicked now. “Not like a real debrief! I meant like… decompress? Debrief-light? Low-stakes post-mission rapport-building?”
You pause. Then snort. You can’t help it. It slips out before you can stop it.
He looks like he just won the lottery.
You sigh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “If this is your way of asking to walk me out—”
“Yes.”
“…I didn’t finish.”
“Still yes.”
You stare.
He fidgets. “Is that okay?”
You hesitate for a breath. Then roll your eyes. “Fine. But if you get weird again, I’m tasering you.”
Invincible grins. “I’ve survived worse.”
٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____
A few days later.
You look like shit.
Not in a poetic way. Not in a cool, morally-gray antiheroine way. Just in the deeply human, overworked, underpaid, sore-back, I-haven’t-slept-since-Tuesday kind of way.
The ER lights buzz too loud. The coffee machine’s broken again. There’s a spot on your scrubs that might be blood or ink or maybe just your will to live leaking out.
It’s a Tuesday. Maybe.
You’re half-asleep at the nurses’ station when Carla walks up with a folder. She chews her gum like it’s keeping her tethered to this plane of existence.
“Room 9’s yours.”
You blink up at her. “Seriously?”
Carla shrugs. “Guy’s already in there. Looks like he could pay off my student loans in one go, but what do I know. File’s clean. Probably just here to flirt or die. Those are the only two kinds we get.”
You sigh. Take the clipboard. Totally miss Carla’s knowing expression and lazily stroll down the hallway.
Your pen’s already clicking as you push through the long corridor, shoulder nudging the door open without thinking.
You flip through the back pages first—vitals, allergy list, something about minor lacerations. The usual.
The door clicks shut behind you as you scan the first page for the name.
“Mark Grayson…” you murmur, before finally looking up.
He’s already watching you.
Smile crooked. Sheepish. And oddly familiar.
You blink. Shake your head. Tap your pen once against the clipboard.
“…What can I do for you today?”
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Before the bunker. Before the clipboard. Just burnt coffee and bad timing.
The room smells of government-grade stress and poor decisions. Fluorescents hum overhead. Somewhere outside the door, someone’s arguing with a vending machine again.
Cecil Stedman doesn’t look up from the file in his hands.
Donald stands nearby, half-glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to call out his name and ruin his night any second now.
“I don’t need someone who wants to save the world,” Cecil mutters, flipping a page. “I need someone who knows how to keep it breathing long enough to do that.”
Donald doesn’t answer at first. Scrolls through his tablet with the dead-eyed speed of a man two cups past his caffeine limit.
Cecil drops the folder on the table.
“Her.”
Donald glances down. Sees your name. Frowns.
“She’s not exactly—uh, team-oriented.”
“Good.” Cecil leans back in his chair. “We don’t need another idealist who thinks CPR is optional. We need someone who’ll tell a cape to stop cauterizing wounds with laser vision.”
Donald shifts. “She’s got a record of pushing back on authority.”
“Yeah. So do I.” He picks up the file again, thumbs through it like he’s reading between the lines. “Field trauma specialist. Surgical certs. Five years ER, three years private contract, and one particularly colorful incident involving Invincible.”
Donald raises a brow. “You want her for the hero-medical crossover?”
“Yeah. Not full-time. Just this once.” He thumbs through the file again.
”She’s not exactly a fan of the spandex crowd.” Donald reminds him.
“Which is why she’s perfect.” Cecil taps the edge of the folder. “She doesn’t worship them. She knows how they break. And better—how to keep them from bleeding out on asphalt.”
Donald crosses his arms. “You really think she’ll say yes?”
Cecil shrugs. “Send the contract. Let the pay do the talking. If that doesn’t work… remind her how many heroes think gauze solves internal bleeding.”
A beat passes. Donald exhales slowly.
“We’re asking her to train them. Teach them medical response. Basics. Field aid without powers.”
“Exactly,” Cecil mutters, eyes back on the file. “We’ve got too many weapons and not enough medics. Time we taught the kids how to stop the bleeding before they cause it.”
“And you think she’ll go for it?”
“Temporary contract,” Cecil repeats simply. “Send the numbers. Dangle the autonomy. No long-term commitment, no spandex worship, just her and a bunch of capes learning how not to be idiots for a few hours.”
Donald nods once and turns to leave.
Cecil stays where he is, flipping back to the front of the file.
A photo clipped to the corner. Dark circles under your eyes. Expression flat. Hands gloved, steady.
Unimpressed with the world and clearly not afraid to let it know.
He smiles, just barely.
“Let’s hope she doesn’t kill anyone.”
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ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear
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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st
˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗
Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི
….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ... ﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
⛨ summary: you were in a surprisingly good mood, which should’ve been the first red flag. your coworkers weren’t being annoying, the coffee machine was actually working, and not a single patient had tried to self-diagnose off WebMD yet. the universe clearly saw that and went “hmm, too peaceful.” because hours later, the clinic was rubble, a child was almost lost, and you met invincible for the first time. and of course—you yelled at him.
⛨ contains: sfw. local clinic setting. first meeting with invincible. medical professional!reader. civilian chaos. reader being a bad bitch. immediate tension and banter. subtle foreshadowing of their future dynamic. fire/explosion sequence. hands-on first aid moments. mark being surprised-reader-ain’t-scared. small emotional undercurrent under sarcasm.
⛨ warnings: brief injury description (scrapes, blood). explosion/fire trauma. smoke inhalation. nurse carla. mild trauma response (panic, adrenaline). implied danger to a child (rescued safely). some profanity.
⛨ wc: 1093
prologue, part one, part two
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: reader has a license, a savior complex, and zero chill. mark shows up for five minutes and gets emotionally wrecked. enjoy the chaos.
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It’s a quiet Tuesday. The kind of quiet that should’ve tipped you off. The kind of quiet that doesn’t last.
Your shift starts at 8:00 AM sharp, and somehow, you’re early. The sun’s out, the sky’s obnoxiously blue, and someone brought donuts to the clinic—for no reason.
You even got your favorite one—the last one—which felt like a small miracle… until you realized the coffee was good.
Not just drinkable. Good. Fresh. Hot. Non-bitter. Suspicious.
You’d joked with Nurse Carla that the universe was trying to butter you up.
“You just wait,” she said, stirring her tea like some all-knowing, scrub-wearing oracle. “It’s always the good days that get you.”
You’d laughed.
Now you’re pretty sure she hexed you.
The clinic hums with calm, the low rhythm of patients being called back and phones ringing occasionally at the front desk. In room three, you patch up a skateboard accident. Room five brings in an elderly man who insists his blood pressure is fine—even as the cuff nearly bursts. You remain patient, calm, even friendly—somehow.
You’re not usually this chipper.
Maybe it’s the sunlight. Maybe it’s the donut.
Either way, you don’t realize you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop—
Until it does.
Loud. Violent. Apocalyptic.
The explosion shakes the floor beneath your feet.
It’s not real at first. Just a sound—an echoing blast that shatters windows and hurls you out of your good mood like a ragdoll. You slam your coffee on the counter (RIP—it was actually decent) and bolt toward the door before anyone can stop you.
Smoke is already curling above the skyline. Across the street, a building is on fire—its middle floors cracked open like a broken jaw. Glass rains down. People scream.
You don’t hesitate. You just move.
“Call 911!” you shout over your shoulder as your feet hit the pavement. Your heart kicks into overdrive. The calm is gone.
The illusion shattered.
“Evacuate the lobby!”
You don’t wait for acknowledgment. Your feet are already pounding pavement, shoes slipping slightly on the sidewalk as your mind flips into crisis mode.
You’re already halfway in before your brain catches up.
A woman collapses near the curb—shock. You steady her, get her seated, check her breathing. Alive.
You keep moving.
A teen stumbles out of the smoke, blood on his jeans. You direct him to sit, tear open your kit.
Tourniquet. Gauze. Stabilize. Move.
You don’t even notice when your stethoscope vanishes off your shoulders—just that your hands are moving and your brain’s already triaging in real time.
And then you see her.
A little girl—no older than nine—trapped beneath a chunk of concrete by the crosswalk. Her arm’s twisted at a bad angle. Blood smears her cheek. She’s trying to cry but doesn’t have the energy for more than a breathy whimper.
Before your brain can even catch up, your legs are already sprinting.
Someone grabs your arm—an older man with watery eyes and a voice wobbling from terror. “Don’t!” he begs. “That’s suicide! You’ll die trying to—”
“Move,” you snap, not bothering to look back. “Or piss yourself somewhere else.”
You don’t wait for a reply.
Your knees hit pavement. You’re beside the girl before the guy can finish a follow-up plea, hands already assessing her pulse, breath, injuries. You try to lift the debris. Nothing. It doesn’t budge. Your arms shake, muscles strain, lungs burning from smoke.
You try again.
Still nothing.
Panic rises sharp in your throat. The little girl’s eyes flutter—too pale, too quiet.
“Stay with me,” you whisper. “Hey. Look at me, alright? You’re gonna be okay.”
You lie. But your voice is steady.
For a horrible moment, you actually think this is it. That you’re about to die here, buried with this kid—and no one will know why you didn’t wait for backup.
The wind shifts.
Fast. Sharp. A blur of motion and force that sends your hair whipping around your face.
And then the weight’s gone.
You jerk backward, pull the girl free, and curl around her automatically—heart hammering like a drumline. You blink through the smoke and ash.
That’s when you see him.
Invincible.
In the flesh. Blue and yellow suit smeared with ash and blood, goggles cracked at one side. Kneeling beside you like some kind of comic book punchline—if comic books ever showed their heroes looking that tired.
“She’s okay,” you breathe, adjusting the girl in your arms, “but you’re not.”
He blinks like you just insulted him in four languages. “I’m—”
“Don’t say fine.” You eye him critically. “You’re favoring your left. Blood. Concussion-level pupils. You probably shouldn’t be standing, let alone flying.”
“…Are you a doctor?”
“Closer to nurse practitioner. Also not blind.”
You stand, legs shaky but functional. He watches you like he’s never been spoken to like that in his life.
“You should go,” you add, motioning to the kid in your arms. “She needs a hospital. Fast.”
He hesitates.
You frown. “What?”
“…Nothing. Just—” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re calm.”
You actually snort. “You mean I didn’t cry and fangirl? Tragic.”
“That’s not—”
“I’m not scared of you,” you say, quieter now. “If anything, you’re just another bleeding idiot who didn’t let someone check him out before playing hero.”
You’ve seen enough broken ribs and bad priorities to know most capes aren’t invincible where it counts.
His mouth opens. Closes. Still stunned.
You sigh and hand him the girl, a little softer now. ”Take her. That’s the only reason I’m not yelling more.”
He nods, carefully taking the child into his arms like she’s glass. Gives you one last look—
And he’s gone.
Wind howls. The air cracks.
And you’re left standing there, covered in soot and adrenaline, alone in the wreckage.
You don’t know he’ll remember your voice. The glare. The cracked joke.
But he will.
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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Somewhere, sometime after…
Nurse Carla sits in her living room, lit by the flicker of a dusty lamp and the glow of a muted rerun. A cat—large, black, and terrifyingly still—curls in her lap like it’s plotting something.
His name is Lucifer. You know this because she whispers it like a prayer when chattering about him.
She sips her tea. Doesn’t flinch when thunder cracks outside, even though it hasn’t rained in weeks.
On the table beside her: a newspaper folded open to an article about the explosion. A blurry shot of Invincible in flight.
Carla hums. Calm. Unbothered. All-knowing.
She sets the teacup down with a soft clink, leans back in her chair, and strokes Lucifer’s head.
“I told her,” she murmurs, half to herself, half to the void. “Never trust a Tuesday.”
She smiles.
Lucifer purrs.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: nurse carla is two steps from world domination. the cat knows things. be aware.
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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ With Love, @alive-gh0st
˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗
Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི
…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ….
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TAGLIST for ”Afterglow”—y’know, so no one misses a chapter drop or surprise lore reveal.
If that’s something you’d be into, drop a COMMENT or SCREAM into my inbox—submit your sins (gently).
I’ll summon you into the chaos! (but actually comment—not just like guys—I won’t include you in the taglist if you only like. i need the notification to stand out in the chaos that’s called my phone).
Be warned: I’ve never done one of these before, so this will be powered by vibes, trial and error, and a notes spreadsheet I’ll misplace within a week.
Let me know, lovers of chaos!
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ongoing taglist: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice @maki-ki @angelbelles @scarletdfox
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st
IVE STARTED READING YOUR BLOG RECENTLY AND I LOVE YOUR WRITINNNGG have you ever done fics for the variants? specifically shiesty mark hihi
OH MY GOD—thank you so much⭑!! That means the world, seriously. I’ve only recently started posting my fanfics here, so seeing this pop up?? Instant serotonin.
As for the variants… I haven’t written for them yet—but is ”Veil!Mark x Reader” a request or a challenge? Either way, I accept. Give me a few days to channel my inner Shakespeare (but, like, if he had wifi and better taste in men).
He’ll be yours soon. Probably unhinged. Definitely hot. ᯓ★
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❝Marked❞
Veil!Mark Grayson x Trouble!Reader
HAS FINALLY BEEN PUBLISHED!!!
•. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˚₊‧⟡꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ⟡‧₊˚ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.•
Sorry for the delay—I didn’t realize Tumblr had a word/space limit (tragic, truly), so I had to reformat and re-edit it six separate times just to make the post fit without exploding. If you saw it randomly vanish from your dash… yeah. That was me fighting for my life in the drafts.
BUT IT’S HERE!!!! It’s unhinged. It’s horny. It’s 8.4k+ words of chaos, obsession, tension, unhinged devotion, knife flirting, and emotional damage.
Huge shoutout to @hyunniestharr who requested this—you have excellent taste and probably dangerous dreams. I respect it.
Let me know what you think. I’ll be in the corner, recovering (and probably writing the next unhinged thing).
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: “Marked” (Veil!Mark Grayson x Trouble!Reader) writing has officially begun. i tried to be normal about this… but then Veil Mark showed up and whispered “you talk too much” and now we’re here. this one’s got tension, chaos, filthy restraint, and the kind of partnership that starts with bickering and ends with a broken bedframe (probably). no promises on how unhinged it’ll get. but it’s him. and reader. and they’re both too far gone. stay tuned.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st
❝Corruption Complete❞
Mark Grayson x Brainrot Girlfriend!Readerᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
𓊆ྀིfeat. Oliver & Debbie Grayson𓊇ྀི
˗ˏˋ 𓉘 Part 2 — ”Too Far Gone” 𓉝 ˎˊ˗
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
🦖 summary: mark’s trying to enjoy a quiet night at home. too bad his girlfriend has just discovered a new hyperfixation—and now oliver’s in on it. debbie joins next. mark’s officially outnumbered.
🦖 contains: sfw. modern brainrot. fandom jokes. long-suffering boyfriend!Mark. brainrot!reader. tiktok trends. group roasting. oliver is a smug little shit. debbie is thriving. mark just wants peace. comedic fluff, banter, affectionate roasting, domestic vibes. silly chaos.
🦖 wc: 722
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i wrote this instead of doing literally anything productive. it started as a joke and now it’s got lore. enjoy my descent. also, yes—i know, the title is 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂.
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It started innocently enough.
You were sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to your phone, tears streaming down your face as you watched an AI-generated TikTok video.
“Mark—Mark, look!” You shoved your phone in his face. It almost smacked him in the nose, but it’s fine. He’s literally [Title Card].
Moving on.
He squinted at the screen. “Is that… a cat in a firefighter uniform?”
“Yes! It’s so tragic and inspiring. The kitten was rescued from a fire, grew up to become a firefighter, and then died heroically saving a child. And—listen to this—it reunited with its grandma in the afterlife.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “You cried over an AI-generated cat video?”
“It’s not just a video, Mark. It’s art.”
➽─────────❥
The descent into chaos was swift.
A few days later, Oliver burst into the living room (nearly crashing into a wall), eyes wide with excitement.
“Have you seen the ‘Ballerina Cappuccina’ trend?!” he blurted, practically vibrating.
You gasped, sitting up. “Yes! The one with the cappuccino-headed ballerina pirouetting into the void?”
Oliver nodded vigorously. “It’s peak brainrot.”
Mark groaned from the kitchen. “Not you too, Oliver.”
“It’s a cultural movement, Mark.” Oliver said, deadpan.
Not even ten minutes later, real chaos began…..Debbie’s curiosity was piqued.
She entered the kitchen, holding her phone while pursing her lips.
“Kids, what’s this ‘Bombardino Crocodilo’ thing?”
You and Oliver made eye contact, then—without speaking—played the audio simultaneously: “FORZA BOMBA!”
Debbie blinked. Then looked at Mark—who didn’t even look up, just slumped lower against the cabinets like the universe was personally attacking him.
“Well, that’s… something.”
➽─────────❥
A quiet evening turned into a bonding session.
With Mark and Oliver out training because let’s be real—that boy needs some serious teaching, you and Debbie settled on the couch. She sipped her wine, a mischievous glint in her eye like she’s about to drop a bomb.
“You know,” Debbie says casually, “Nolan once gave me a whole tree instead of flowers.”
You blink, taking your eyes off the TV. “Like… an actual tree?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘Why bring a branch when I can bring the whole organism?’”
“I kept it,” she says. “Still in the backyard. Useless man, but decent taste in flora.”
You clutch your heart. “That’s the bar. If Mark doesn’t deliver a redwood to my house within 72 hours, we’re over.”
As if summoned Mark walks back into the house with snacks and an expression of pure betrayal. “I brought you chips.”
“Does the chip bag photosynthesize?” you ask sweetly.
➽─────────❥
The ‘Pass the Phone’ challenge ensued.
Feeling strangely inspired (which should’ve been a red flag), you declared: “Let’s do the ‘Pass the Phone’ challenge!”
Everyone agreed way too quickly.
You started the recording. “I’m passing the phone to someone who still doesn’t understand TikTok.”
Mark raised a brow, sighed like a man defeated, and took the phone. “I’m passing the phone to someone who’s been on TikTok for five minutes and already has a fan club.”
He passed it to Oliver.
The purple boy—who was just happy to be here—beamed straight up at the phone screen. “I’m passing the phone to someone who once received a tree as a romantic gesture!”
He hands it to Debbie, who only laughs.
“Guilty as charged.”
➽─────────❥
╒════════════════𝜗𝜚
ACTUAL QUOTES FROM THE EVENING:
➥ „I swear to god if you post that TikTok—”
➥ „Too late. It’s already at 40k views. You’re famous now, tragedy boy.”
➥ „You said you wouldn’t bring up Amber! And—why are people simping over my MUM!”
➥ „Because she’s a baddie, Mark.”
ꪆৎ════════════════╛
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
•∘˙○˚.⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨🐊୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ∘˙○˚.•
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Mark stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching his mom and little brother conspire with you over delusional fan theories and imaginary men.
“…I want in,” he said.
Everyone froze.
You blinked. “Wait, what?”
“I’m tired of fighting it. I need to understand the brainrot. Teach me your ways.”
Oliver threw his arms in the air. “HE’S CONVERTING.”
Debbie raised her wineglass. “To the dark side.”
You grinned, scooting over and patting the space beside you. “Welcome to hell, babe. First lesson—rank these fictional men based on how they would treat you.”
Mark sighed. “I already regret this.”
“You will,” you promised. “Now take this blanket. We’re about to watch a seven-part edit of Tim Cheese killing John Pork.”
“…and no, you can’t ask questions.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ With Love, @alive-gh0st
❝Always You❞
Mark Grayson x Childhood Friend!Reader ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི
-ˋˏ❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀ˎˊ-
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
❀ summary: you showed up uninvited, made his dad question all his life (and facial hair) choices, and never left. now you’re older, hotter, still annoying—and mark? very much in love. congrats.
❀ contains: sfw. childhood friends to lovers. slow-burn vibes. emotionally repressed!reader. soft!mark. reader has a difficult home life. light trauma but make it casual. fluff, banter and comedic tension. mark grayson being stupid-in-love.
❀ wc: 1899
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: first time posting just to feed y’all some mark grayson fluff.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You don’t remember exactly how you ended up in the Graysons’ house that first day.
You’d only just moved in next door, and your mom was already yelling about boxes. The man she was with—this week’s guy—smelled like beer, sweat, and no patience.
So you left.
Well… not really, but something along those lines.
You wandered down the sidewalk barefoot, dragging your backpack behind you, until you spotted a house that looked safe. Lived-in. Rich. You rang the doorbell like it owed you something.
Debbie Grayson opened the door, took one look at your face, and smiled. “Hi there, sweetheart. You okay?”
You didn’t answer. Just walked right past her like you belonged there.
Mark was on the floor with a comic book. He looked up, mouth half-open.
You pointed at his dad. “Is that mustache glued on, or is it a punishment?”
Nolan nearly dropped his coffee. Debbie choked on a laugh. Mark blinked, unsure whether to be offended or amazed.
You were five.
By the end of the day, you were sitting cross-legged on their carpet, eating cookies like you’d always been there. You told Nolan he “sounded like a guy on TV,” which earned another chuckle from Debbie and a long sigh from the man.
By the end of the week, you were staying over so often Debbie started keeping a toothbrush for you.
By the end of the month, you were helping Mark build Lego towers in his room—then immediately yelling at Nolan for knocking them over “on purpose.”
(He did. He 100% did. Nolan Grayson, Earth’s strongest man, had personal beef with a five-year-old and no shame about it.)
And before long, Mark couldn’t remember a life where you weren’t in it.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Being around you was chaos wrapped in kindness.
You’d stick your tongue out at Mark and Nolan the second Debbie turned her back, then curl into her side during movie nights like you were her own kid.
You terrified Nolan with the things you said—adult questions in a child’s voice, bold and unfiltered. Like asking, “If you flew into space too fast, would your brain explode?” Or, more memorably: “Do aliens poop?”
“Enough,” Nolan muttered one night after your fifth question. “You’re worse than a Pentagon interrogation.”
“But I’m cuter,” you argued, and Debbie nodded like that settled the matter.
You were nine when you figured out Omni-Man’s identity.
You’d been watching the news over cereal, Mark beside you, both in matching Grayson hand-me-downs.
With squinted eyes at the screen, you groaned in disbelief. “Seriously? That’s your dad’s disguise? I can recognize that ugly mustache from space.”
Mark froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Wait, what?”
“Dude, it’s so obvious.”
You didn’t even flinch when Nolan walked in seconds later, fully suited up but holding his slippers like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Morning,” you said sweetly. “Nice cape.”
Nolan grunted and turned on the coffee maker without a comment.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Debbie adored you. Nolan, surprisingly, respected you—maybe because you always challenged him without fear. And Mark? Mark had someone who understood him without even trying.
Your home life, though, was never something you talked about.
It wasn’t bad, not technically, but it didn’t feel like a home. The yelling never stopped. The guys came and went. You learned early not to ask questions, and that silence was safer.
So you stopped asking.
But one night—when you were eleven—you showed up at Mark’s window with bruises on your arms and dirt on your knees. You didn’t say anything. Just climbed inside and curled up next to him on the bed.
He didn’t say anything either.
He just pulled the blanket over you and let you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
After that, the Graysons stopped asking if you were coming over. It was just assumed.
That’s how it always was.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
By middle school, the two of you were inseparable. You walked to class together, bickered over who got to name the group projects, and ganged up on anyone who tried to mess with either of you.
One day, in the cafeteria, some eighth grader bumped into you hard enough to knock your tray.
“Watch it,” he sneered, clearly expecting you to back off.
You looked him dead in the eyes while tilting your head innocently. “Try that again and I’ll make sure you’re crapping Jell-O for a week.”
The kid blinked.
Mark stepped in beside you. “She means that in a… non-lethal way.”
“Do I?” you asked.
Mark turned to you, deadpan. “Can you not threaten to rearrange someone’s insides with pudding in front of the lunch monitors?”
You gave him a shrug. “No promises.”
People thought you’d grow apart in high school. That Mark would change. That you would change.
But you never gave him the chance to drift. You clung—stubbornly, fiercely—like you knew if you let go, something in you would unravel. And Mark never wanted to be anywhere else anyway.
High school didn’t change you much. If anything, you just got bolder.
Mark got taller. You got sharper. People asked if you were dating. You both said no.
But neither of you looked too convinced when you did.
You still wore his hoodies. He still shared his fries with you without asking. You stole his blankets. He carried an extra charger in his bag just in case you forgot yours.
He never forgot your birthday. You never missed a single one of his baseball games.
It wasn’t just friendship. Not really.
Not with the way you rolled your eyes at affection from anyone else but melted instantly when Mark laid his head on your shoulder.
Not when you’d fight with him one minute and be curled up against him the next, hoodie sleeves too long, fingers grazing his under the blanket.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Mark watched you far more than he should’ve.
He noticed the way your laugh cracked just a little when you were too tired.
The way you hugged too hard, like you were making sure someone stayed.
The way you’d stand between him and anyone who dared to mouth off—like you were the one with superpowers.
He didn’t need to know the exact moment he fell in love with you. For him—it was always there, he just hadn’t been smart enough to understand.
Maybe it was that one day when you were watching cartoons on the floor, and Mark was pretending not to stare at you. You turned to him, grinning, and said something dumb like, “You’d probably get beat up in a real fight.”
But your eyes were soft.
He smiled back, and thought, God, it’s always been you.
But he never told you. Not really.
Because every time he almost did, you’d turn away. Or laugh. Or call him something close enough to a slur and throw popcorn at his face.
Maybe that was your armor. Or maybe it was his fear.
Either way, the words never made it out.
So he held onto them in silence. Carried them like bruises from a fight—but these ones never quite healed. Let them bleed out slowly over the years through lingering glances, soft touches, and unspoken understanding.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
You were sixteen when he nearly told you.
It was late. You’d been watching horror movies with you curled up against him, almost half-asleep.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“Mm?”
“You know I—I really—uh, care about you, right?”
You cracked one eye open. “Mark, if this is your weird way of trying to tell me you love me, just do it.”
His breath hitched.
You snorted. “Relax. You’re too chicken to actually say it.”
“Am not.”
”Then say it.”
He paused.
You reached over, poked his cheek, and mumbled, “Didn’t think so.”
And then you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, blissfully unaware of how badly his heart was racing.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Even now, sitting in his room, you’re stretched across his bed with a random comic forgotten beside you, legs tangled in his blanket like you own the place.
(Because you kind of do—not that he’d give you the satisfaction of knowing that.)
Mark watches you from his desk chair, ’Seance Dog’ comic in hand, but he’s not reading a word.
“You’re staring again,” you mutter from his bed, cheek half-squished against his pillow, voice muffled and judgmental.
“I am not,” Mark lies—incredibly unconvincingly.
You glance over with one brow raised. “You always stare when you’re thinking something gross.”
“It’s not gross!”
“So it is something.”
“…Maybe.”
You sit up, stretching your arms overhead with a dramatic yawn. “If you’re about to tell me you’ve been in love with me since we were, like, eight, just say it. Don’t do the weird broody stare like you’re in some CW drama.”
Mark blinks. “I mean… okay, not since eight. But maybe since… twelve?”
You blink at him.
Then before he can overthink like always—you let out a long, theatrical sigh and flop back dramatically again. “Ugh. Finally.”
Mark startles. “Wait, what?”
“You heard me.” You shoot him a lopsided grin. “Do you know how annoying it is being the only one aware of the mutual pining in this room? I’ve been carrying this ship on my BACK.”
Mark’s mouth opens. Closes. “Wait—you like me?”
“I’m literally lying in your bed, wearing your hoodie, and insulting you in front of your anime figurines. What do you think?”
“…Okay, that’s fair.”
You pause. Then smirk. “So… now what?”
Mark thinks for a second, then shrugs. “I mean, I could kiss you, but I’m 99% sure you’d just roast me for it.”
You hum. “Depends. Are you going to do that thing where you hesitate awkwardly and make a weird-ass face?”
Mark throws a pillow at you.
You cackle, catching it midair. “I’m kidding, dumbass. Come here.”
And when he does—grinning like a total idiot, heart thudding like he’s about to leap off a building for the first time—you tug him forward by the collar of his hoodie and kiss him first.
It’s warm, a little clumsy, way too long overdue.
And when you pull back, breathless and smug, grinning against his mouth—whispering, “Took you long enough, Grayson.”
Mark laughs, his cheeks tinted pink.
His fingers are still in your hair.
And for the first time in years, his heart feels lighter than air.
Because he’s always been watching you.
But now, finally—you’re looking back at him the same way.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
-ˋˏ❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀ˎˊ-
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Later, as you both lay tangled in blankets and shared warmth, Mark breaks the silence.
“…Do you think my dad knew?”
The question lingers in the air, and your mind drifts back to the old days—the easier ones—before your eyes open.
You blink up at the ceiling. “That you’re in love with me? Yeah. He always knew.”
Mark groans. “Debbie probably has a betting pool going.”
“She does,” you say without hesitation. “Amber’s in on it too. I think William’s the bookie.”
Mark gapes at you. “Are you serious?”
You grin, smug. “Dead serious. I’m pretty sure I just made someone twenty bucks.”
Mark buries his face in the pillow. “God.”
Patting his back, mock-comfortingly, you snort under your breath. “Don’t worry. You’re still the last one to find out.”
“…That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
And somewhere in the house, Debbie smiles to herself in the kitchen, sipping her wine like she didn’t just win her own bet.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st
❝Marked❞
⋆｡˚✴︎⋆Veil!Mark Grayson x Trouble!Reader⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
•. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˚₊‧⟡꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ⟡‧₊˚ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.•
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
★ summary: he’s supposed to be your handler. a monitor. a leash. but mark grayson doesn’t follow orders—not when it comes to you. when they tried to reassign you, he rewrote the rules. now you’re stuck with him: veiled, violent, and watching you like he already owns you. you don’t play well with others. he doesn’t care. because underneath the blood, the missions, the slow obsession—he isn’t trying to control you. he’s trying to keep you. marked as his.
★ contains: nsfw (18+). enemies to feral co-dependents. handler x operative dynamic. forced partnership. obsession disguised as protection. surveillance with feelings. feral!mark. dangerous!reader. veil!mark. veil!invincible. slow burn to full meltdown. soft dom vibes. unhinged loyalty. post-mission patchups. emotional warfare disguised as flirting. “say that again and i’ll ruin you” energy. knifeplay (non-lethal, very hot). panty stealing. couch sex. praise kink. sacred-name usage. quiet confessions. dirty mouths, softer hearts. extremely earned smut.
★ warning: graphic violence. blood/injury. canon-typical trauma. stalking (narratively intentional, obsessive-not-malicious). emotional volatility. intense possessiveness. nsfw content (oral + penetrative sex). manipulation of power dynamics (non-abusive). toxic attachment themes. unhealthy coping. emotional depth. explicit devotion. mark being insane about you in every way.
★ wc: 8437
ᯓ★ requested by: @hyunniestharr (your idea haunted me. now it can haunt you, too)
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: this isn’t a love story—it’s a security breach with a heartbeat. a warning label on loyalty (also yes. he absolutely came untouched. twice.)
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The knife slid in easy.
Too easy, honestly—especially after chasing this bastard across rooftops, sewer grates, and at least two levels of transit. Your lungs still burned, your shoulder throbbed, and your mood? Absolutely shot to hell.
The blade found its mark between his ribs, sliding in with that soft, sickening give that muscle memory never forgot. The target gurgled—wet, startled, pathetic.
“God, you’re dramatic,” you muttered, yanking the blade out with a practiced twist.
It splattered red across your boots.
“I mean, if you were gonna be this squishy, you could’ve just surrendered ten blocks ago and saved me a goddamn headache.”
He dropped like a ragdoll, face-down into the filth-streaked alley and joined the others in the room that already smelled like copper and regret. The puddle beneath him spread slowly, sluggish in the midwinter air. You stood over the corpse with a scowl, sweat slicking down the back of your neck. The quiet buzz of adrenaline had barely started to fade.
“Stubborn little shit. Had to bleed like a faucet.”
Blood—most of it not yours—stuck to your gloves, smeared across your thigh where the asshole’s last desperate swing had caught you.
“Perfect,” you sighed, inspecting the ruined leg of your suit. “Because what I really needed today was another reason to explain why my laundry bill rivals a war crime.”
The sting of shallow wounds tugged at your nerves. But you didn’t flinch. You never did.
“You better have intel worth all this laundry,” you muttered before crouching and rifling through the dead man’s pockets—only pulling out a charred disk drive and a mangled transponder. Useless. Still, protocol said bring everything, so you stuffed it into your pouch and rose.
“Dumbass bled out for nothing,” you muttered. ”Bet his last thought was about that ugly-ass tattoo he was so proud of. Shame.”
You rolled your shoulder, muscles groaning in protest, and started trudging toward the exit.
The concrete was slick from the mess. You didn’t bother avoiding the blood trail. Let Forensics earn their paycheck.
“This is what I get for volunteering for ‘cleanup duty,’ huh?” you grumbled. “Next time I see Dispatch, I’m stabbing them with this knife. Gently. Lovingly. But repeatedly.”
Your comm crackled.
You froze. Then sighed. Of course.
Swiping the screen open mid-step, you expected a location ping or evac window. Maybe even a rare “good job” if someone up top was feeling generous. Instead, you got flagged.
PRIORITY. LEVEL SIX.
UNSCHEDULED MEETING. MANDATORY.
FILE ATTACHED.
“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s not ominous at all.”
The folder had your name stamped on it—but nothing else. No briefing, no subject tags, just a sealed file and an address string embedded in the encryption. You squinted at the coordinates.
Underground.
Of course.
You barked a humorless laugh. “Meeting in the bunker. Creepy as hell. Classic you, Command.”
Without even trying to clean up, you took a turn off the main street, ducking into a nondescript elevator shaft hidden behind a disused courier hub.
One retinal scan and two sarcastic clearance swipes later, you were riding down into the belly of the beast.
── .✦
The bunker hadn’t changed since the last time you broke into it. Still dusty, still freezing, still lit with that flickering LED buzz that made you want to file a complaint and commit arson at the same time. You moved through it like muscle memory: two lefts, a keypad, retinal scan. A hiss of doors unlocking.
No guards. No eyes on you.
Just one metal table, and a single paper folder sitting at its center like a damn horror prop.
“Oh, great,” you deadpanned. “We’re going analog. That’s never shady.”
You peeled your gloves off with your teeth, slapping them on the table before flipping the folder open.
“Really setting the mood,” you muttered. “All that budget, and they still print shit on recycled office supply.”
The folder wasn’t marked with anything obvious—just your designation and a date. No mission summary. No ops plan. Just bureaucratic psych jargon. Something about “disciplinary structure,” “high-risk autonomy,” “unstable behavioral metrics.” You rolled your eyes so hard your neck nearly cracked.
“Jesus,” you muttered. “Next thing they’ll say I’ve got commitment issues.”
Then—tucked at the very bottom—you saw it.
Reassignment. Oversight. Immediate effect.
You blinked.
And blinked again.
Your lips parted, half-laugh, half-scoff forming in your throat when—
The door hissed open behind you.
Footsteps. Heavy. Even. Slow.
You turned, instinctively reaching for your knife.
Then paused.
Because the man in the doorway?
Blue and yellow. No cape. No insignia. A form-fitting suit that clung to muscle and violence, with a strange veil that obscured his face like a curtain of secrecy—thin, sheer, barely hiding the line of his jaw.
His eyes glowed behind narrow goggles—calm, calculating.
You never heard him speak. Not really.
You’d seen him before—that’s for sure. Not clearly. Just flashes on rooftops. A distant signal you weren’t cleared to track. Everyone called him something different, if they talked about him at all. You never paid attention to other people anyway.
Until now.
He stepped inside like he owned the room—and maybe he did—and said nothing. Just looked at you. Sized you up.
He looked at you like he already knew how you fought. How you bled. Like he knew where to land a punch—or where it would really hurt.
You looked back.
What was his alias again… ?
You hated that it made you curious.
A beat lagged. Then two. No one said anything.
And then you looked back at the file, still open on the table. Read the fine print. The line that had made you scoff but hadn’t sunk in until now.
“Assigned to field partner. Behavioral reassessment ongoing. Expect prolonged oversight.”
You opened your mouth. Then shut it again.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
Invincible—or just Mark, depending on who was stupid or familiar enough to call him that—watched from the far end of the room.
Arms crossed loosely, leaning back against the wall like he didn’t have half a dozen other places to be. Like he wasn’t technically two hours behind on a recon run he’d already lied about completing.
But whatever.
You were here.
Pacing the concrete floor, muttering darkly under your breath, covered in blood that wasn’t yours. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. Currently ignoring him like he didn’t just walk in like gravity answered to his name.
Mark watched. Quiet. Still.
He liked watching you.
More than he should’ve. More than he’d ever admit out loud, even if someone held a railgun to his skull and promised painless disintegration.
Call it stalking, surveillance, an unhealthy attachment—he didn’t care. Not really.
It wasn’t just the way you moved—though that was part of it. You walked like you were daring the ground to talk back. You held tension like it was a weapon and he hadn’t been able to look away since the first time he saw you gut a guy without blinking.
Even now, you stalked around the empty room like you were half a second from breaking the table in two just because it dared to exist.
It made something in his chest tighten.
You didn’t know he’d been watching for a while. Not just today. Not even just this mission.
He checked in on you often. “Checked” was a generous word. It was bordering on surveillance. Okay, it was surveillance. He had a whole folder stashed away with flagged reports from your last five deployments. A few audio files. Maybe a grainy clip or two.
It wasn’t creepy. He wasn’t a creep.
He just needed to make sure you were okay.
(You kill people for a living.)
Still. He liked knowing where you were. So yeah. He watched. Checked in. Every day.
You were reckless. You didn’t follow orders. You acted on gut instinct, and half the time, it worked, which only made it worse. Because one day it wouldn’t work, and they’d send him in too late.
He’d seen the file before you did. Your reassignment.
They were going to put you under some no-name enforcer from another sector. Someone who thought “discipline” meant obedience and “partnership” meant paperwork.
So he said no.
Correction—he said: “If you send her to anyone else, I’ll break your fucking spine and write my resignation on the wall in your blood.”
Direct quote.
So now here he was. Assigned. Official. Watching you sulk around a room you clearly hated.
It should’ve been annoying. You hadn’t even acknowledged him properly yet. Just marched in, read your little file, stared at him for solid 6 seconds before muttering like the universe personally offended you.
He could name a dozen ways to silence you. He just didn’t want to.
He should’ve said something sooner.
But damn, you were beautiful when you were pissed.
Especially when it came with that cute little crease between your brows—like the universe had personally offended you.
Before you could actually spiral into something truly destructive—like ripping out the lights or kicking a chair through a wall (you’d done both before)—he finally decided to speak.
“Y’know,” Mark drawled finally, voice smooth, low, and way too amused, “for someone who just got a promotion, you complain like you got dumped via sticky note.”
You stopped mid-step.
Didn’t turn. Not yet.
He could see the tension coil in your spine like a loaded spring.
“You,” you said flatly. Like it was a diagnosis.
Even your voice sounded like a threat—like it could cut.
Mark’s grin sharpened under the veil.
“Me,” he confirmed.
A beat of silence.
Then, you turned to face him, arms crossed, blood still drying on your collar. “You’re my new ‘handler’?”
“I prefer ‘charming work husband’ but sure,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “Let’s go with that.”
No reaction.
(Okay. An eye twitch. That counted.)
He was delighted.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know,” Mark said, smile curling under his breath. “That’s the best part.”
He stepped forward, slow and unhurried, until he was just a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint smear of ash on your jaw. Close enough to catch the faint chemical tang of blood and steel clinging to you like armor.
Blood, smoke, and a faint scent of whatever damn soap you use to scrub crime off your skin—it drove him fucking insane.
“You’re pissed,” he observed lightly. “That’s cute.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Are you trying to get stabbed?”
“Debatable,” he said. “Depends where.”
Another twitch. His grin widened.
He didn’t mean to flirt—okay, he did. But not too much. Not yet. You were still dangerous, still vibrating with aftershock fury, and the last thing he needed was for you to go fully feral.
Not until you liked him more, at least.
“I’m not here to babysit you,” he said after a moment. “Not in the way you think.”
You arched a brow. “No?”
“I’m here because I’m the only one who knows what it’s like to do what you do and still not break.”
A beat.
“I don’t break,” you said evenly.
“No,” Mark agreed, his voice softer now. “But they’re afraid you might. And you know what they do to things they think are broken.”
That hit.
You didn’t reply. Just stared at him. Longer. Slower. More like a threat than a conversation.
He could live with that. For now.
“Look,” he said, stepping even closer now, “I didn’t come here to coddle you. I came because if someone’s gonna keep you from getting killed, it’s gonna be me. No leashes. No lectures. Just… you and me. Doing what we do best.”
You said nothing.
Mark waited.
Then, quietly, with something almost close to sincerity—he muttered his final words.
“You can hate it. But you won’t hate me.”
Your eyes darkened. But your silence wasn’t as sharp as it should’ve been.
And Mark smiled.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
The rain was coming down in sheets, hammering the rooftops like it had a personal grudge.
You gritted your teeth, one arm tucked tightly around Invincible’s waist as you half-dragged, half-guided him down the dim corridor. His weight leaned into you shamelessly—dead weight, if dead weight had a smug attitude and a pulse like a drum in your ribs.
You didn’t say a word.
Not when he groaned dramatically into your ear, not when he stumbled a little more on purpose, not when you almost slipped trying to keep his dumbass from kissing the floor.
“You can walk,” you muttered through clenched teeth.
“I could,” he agreed, tone so casual it made your blood pressure spike. “But then I’d miss this beautiful team-building moment.”
You didn’t bother answering. You just pulled him harder, jostling his bruised ribs enough to earn a soft grunt from behind the veil.
Good.
His suit was streaked in blood—most of it his, some probably yours, and none of it helped your growing migraine. You were soaked to the bone, adrenaline long gone, fury in its place. The blast that tore through the wall back there should’ve hit you.
He’d made sure it didn’t.
And now you were stuck playing support for the goddamn golden boy of masked arrogance.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you hissed, not looking at him.
“Do what?” His voice was pure innocence. “Save your life?”
You scoffed. “I had it handled.”
“You were standing in front of a literal antimatter core.”
“I was moving out of the way.”
“Sure you were.” He leaned in, shifting more of his weight onto you, his breath warm behind the thin fabric of your collar. “Besides, you look better in one piece.”
Your fingers tightened where they gripped his side, and you seriously considered dropping him face-first into the nearest wall.
You didn’t.
But it was a close thing.
By the time you reached the medbay—a low-lit, sterile chamber lined with supply cabinets and outdated tech—you were seething quietly. You kicked the door open with your boot and hauled him inside like a sack of problematic groceries.
“Bed. Now.”
Invincible opened his mouth—about to reply with some flirty comeback—but one sharp look from you made him retreat.
He moved—slowly, with all the theatrical flair of a dying star—and flopped onto the metal exam table with a groan that would’ve convinced any sane person he was about to flatline.
You weren’t convinced.
“You’re not dying,” you muttered, already rifling through cabinets.
“Didn’t say I was,” he mumbled, watching you over the edge of the table. “But if I do… can I haunt your apartment?”
You threw a roll of gauze at his face.
It hit him square in the goggles.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
You turned away before he could catch the twitch in your expression.
Because pain or not, the image of him stepping in front of that blast—of the way he threw you to the side like it was instinct—was burned into your memory. You were furious.
You were also, maybe, a little bit shaken.
Not that you’d ever admit it.
Not even to yourself.
You found the antiseptic, grabbed a few packs of gauze and tape, then returned to his side. You didn’t bother asking if he wanted your help. You didn’t wait for a nurse.
You’d stitched your own thigh shut in the back of a stolen van once. Wrapped a shattered wrist in duct tape and finished a mission. You weren’t squeamish.
His suit was torn apart—and underneath—muscle, blood, bruises. He was a mess, but he’d live. Unfortunately.
You dabbed antiseptic into the worst of it without mercy. He hissed.
“Don’t be a baby.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m tolerating this.”
His eyes caught yours—bright and unreadable under the goggles.
“You could’ve let me bleed out,” he said, voice lower now.
“I considered it.”
“Mm. That’s fair.”
You said nothing, focusing on a gash along his ribs. He didn’t flinch. But his gaze didn’t leave you.
“You’re pissed.”
You pressed harder.
“I told you I had it,” you said, quieter now. “You shouldn’t have stepped in.”
“I wasn’t going to let you get hurt.”
Your hands paused.
“I don’t need protecting.”
“I know.”
More silence.
Then, softer—closer, “But I like putting my hands on you. Even if it means getting thrown across a warehouse.”
You looked at him then. Really looked.
His veil was torn at the corner. Blood trickled from his temple, and his ribs looked like someone had caved them in with a wrecking ball. And for the first time, he wasn’t grinning. Not cocky. Not smug. Just—there. Honest.
You ignored the way your stomach twisted.
You ignored that it landed somewhere deep.
And worse—you hated that part of you was glad he did it.
Even if you’d never say it out loud.
So instead, you went back to cleaning him up. And he let you.
Touch lingering just a little longer than it needed to. His eyes stayed on you, quiet for once.
But of course, it couldn’t last.
“You know,” he said, voice low, teasing—dangerous, “if you keep touching me like that, I’m gonna pop a boner.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
The city sprawled beneath, a mosaic of lights flickering in the night. A hundred thousand lives in motion, none of them looking up.
The hum of distant traffic and the occasional siren were the only sounds accompanying the two figures perched on the ledge, threading through the darkness like familiar ghosts. While the rooftop offered a vantage point—both strategic and serene, if you let it be.
You rarely did.
This wasn’t your kind of quiet.
You didn’t like silence—not when it meant being left alone with your thoughts. Not when it reminded you that most of your work ended with blood on your hands and no one waiting for you when it was done.
You were good at what you did, but it came with solitude. That was the tradeoff. Had been, for a long time.
You sat with your knees drawn up, arms resting atop them, eyes scanning the horizon like something out there might change.
Invincible sat beside you—close enough that you could feel the heat of him even with the night air biting through your suit. He didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t even try to make himself useful. He was just there.
And strangely, that made it easier to breathe.
It wouldn’t last. It never did. But maybe tonight, it didn’t have to.
The surveillance gear nearby blinked and pulsed, quietly recording—but neither of you looked at it.
For once, it could wait.
“You ever think about what it’d be like to just… disappear?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out like breath. Like you hadn’t meant to say it, but couldn’t help yourself.
Invincible turned his head, veil fluttering slightly in the breeze. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I think I’d miss the chaos.”
A quiet chuckle escaped you. Dry. Amused. “Figures.”
Silence settled again—but not heavy. Not cold. Just… still. You rarely got stillness that didn’t come with tension coiled in your gut. This was different.
And that scared you more than it should have.
“You know,” he said after a beat, voice quieter now, almost careful, “we’ve been through a lot together… and I don’t even know your real name.”
You glanced at him, surprised—but not defensive. Not tonight.
You hesitated for half a second, then gave it to him. Just your name. Nothing fancy, no ceremony. Like offering up something small and fragile just to see what he’d do with it.
He nodded. A small, rare smile played at the edge of his mouth. “Mark.”
Simple as that. And somehow, it meant something.
The name felt strange coming from him. Not because it didn’t suit him—it did. More than you expected. But because no one ever shared real names with you unless they were bleeding out or trying to make peace before dying. It had weight. It had risk.
You tilted your head slightly. “Nice to meet you, Mark.”
His gaze lingered on you a second longer than necessary. You felt the heat of it, sharp and warm, brushing your cheek like a touch he hadn’t made. Then, low and easy, ”Likewise, sweetheart.”
Your heart hiccuped in your chest—and you hated that it did.
He’d called you worse. He’d called you better. But something about hearing him say it now—gentle, sincere—made your stomach twist in a way no battlefield ever had.
You looked away, pretending to study the skyline again—even though you hadn’t really been looking at it for a while.
You were thinking about the last time you sat this close to someone without bracing for betrayal.
You were thinking about how you always worked alone because it was safer that way.
You were thinking about how, for the first time in what felt like forever, being alone didn’t feel so absolute.
He wasn’t touching you. Wasn’t even looking at you anymore. But he was there. And that mattered more than you wanted it to.
The city lights shimmered below, reflecting off wet rooftops and glass towers like starlight that had forgotten its way home. And for one small, stolen moment, you didn’t feel like a weapon in waiting. You didn’t feel like the monster they kept on a leash.
You just felt… seen.
You didn’t say thank you.
But maybe you didn’t have to.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
Mark hadn’t meant to watch you.
Not like that.
Not in the beginning.
It started with a glitch in his comms. A rerouted signal. Someone else’s mission logs bleeding into his HUD. A red flag tagged with your designation, blinking across rooftops he wasn’t supposed to care about.
He should’ve ignored it.
He didn’t.
Instead, he paused mid-flight—just above Sector 4, the skyline burning behind him—and turned his attention to a grainy security feed from a busted drone two miles off-grid.
And there you were.
A blur of movement. Blood on your knuckles. Fire in your mouth.
He watched you take down five armed enforcers in less than a minute. Watched you move like violence was a second skin, like your bones had been carved to fit inside chaos.
He felt something shift in his chest.
It wasn’t lust—not at first. It wasn’t even admiration.
It was obsession—quiet, still, and cold.
It was yours.
── .✦
He told himself it was curiosity. A one-time thing. Professionals did that. Kept tabs. Cross-referenced reports.
But the next night, he checked again.
And the next.
And the next.
── .✦
You never noticed. Or if you did, you never said.
And god, that just made it worse.
── .✦
You drank your coffee black. No sugar. No milk. Always scalding.
He knew this because he’d watched you order it, three mornings in a row, from a corner shop you never paid for—just flashed a fake badge and walked off like you owned the world.
You untied your boots with your teeth sometimes—bit the laces, spat them out. It was feral.
You hummed under your breath when you cleaned your knives. Always the same tune. Off-key. He found it… endearing.
He memorized it.
── .✦
Mark knew your name before you even said it.
It was in your file—buried under layers of redacted bullshit, buried deeper than it had any right to be. But Mark had access. Mark was access.
He read it once, then never again.
He didn’t need to.
It was already carved somewhere behind his ribs.
── .✦
He knew your patrol schedule. Your blind spots. He knew which rooftops you liked. Which ones you avoided.
He knew you slept on your side, curled like you expected someone to stab you in your sleep.
He hated that.
He wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to sleep like that anymore. That he’d sleep beside you. That he would take first watch.
Every night. For the rest of your life.
── .✦
The first time he broke into your apartment, it wasn’t for anything weird.
Just to look.
Just to… be where you were when you weren’t there.
It was quiet. Small. Clean in some places, messy in others. Coffee cups on the counter. A half-assembled gun on the table. A pair of boots by the door.
Your scent clung to the air—warm, sharp, metallic, with the faintest sweetness underneath.
He stood in your living room for almost an hour.
Didn’t touch anything. Didn’t breathe too loud. Just existed in your space.
And then he left.
But he came back.
Again.
And again.
── .✦
Once, he barely made it out.
The click of your front door lock. The soft thud of your boots. He didn’t breathe until he was four rooftops away.
Heart racing. Hard. Excited. Terrified. Alive.
This wasn’t like how his father loved.
It wasn’t control.
It was gravity.
And you were the only thing keeping him from flying straight into the sun.
── .✦
Eventually, he started touching things.
Your mugs. Your books. Your hoodie.
Once, he sat on your couch and imagined you curled up beside him. Hair damp from a shower. Feet in his lap. Trusting him.
He got hard just thinking about it—and cursed himself for it.
But he didn’t stop.
── .✦
Then came the laundry.
Folded in a neat little basket by the window.
Fresh. Still warm. He touched a pair of panties—just brushed his fingers over the edge. Then brought them to his face.
He didn’t moan. Didn’t jerk off. Didn’t cross that line.
But he did smile, dark and private.
Murmured to himself, “Honestly? These feel way better than my veil.”
He left them exactly where they were.
Mostly.
Sometimes, he took one. Just one. Wore it like a badge under the suit—close to his skin. A reminder. A promise.
And then brought it back.
Washed. Pressed. Folded better than you ever did.
Because he wasn’t a monster.
He was just yours.
Even if you didn’t know it yet.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
The air was thick with smoke and the metallic scent of blood. Neither one of you saw it coming.
Not the punch, not the burst of kinetic force that ripped through the alley like thunder. Not the split-second shift in Invincible’s stance that changed everything from strategic to savage.
The mission had been simple: recon and retrieve.
Minimal force. Bring the target in alive.
No one said anything about bait.
No one said anything about them using you.
But the second the bastard dropped your name—the second that oily voice curled your real name like venom in the air—it all went to hell.
“You really think she’s worth it?” the target had sneered, blood leaking from his mouth, grin jagged where a tooth used to be. “All that power, and you’re playing guard dog to a broken bitch with a kill streak.”
You froze, not from shock—but calculation. How close was Invincible? How fast could you—
Too late.
You barely got a word out before Invincible was on him.
You didn’t even see the punch. Just the aftermath.
The target’s body hit the wall like a meteor. Cracked brick. Concrete dust in your lungs. Something crunched that definitely wasn’t supposed to.
And Invincible—Mark—wasn’t stopping.
Not with protocol screaming in your earpiece. Not with the command feed blinking red in your HUD. Not even when you grabbed his arm and shouted his name like it was the only thing you could do.
His fist was cocked back, trembling. Veins bulging under torn sleeves. Breathing like he’d just run through war.
“Mark,” you snapped again, sharper this time, like a blade.
His eyes—those glowing, untouchable things—locked on you.
You saw it hit him then.
Not guilt.
Something deeper.
Like the thought of someone using you, threatening you, daring to speak your name out loud—was worse than death.
“Alive,” you said, jaw tight. “We need him alive.”
It took everything in you not to flinch when he finally stepped back.
The target coughed blood, slumped in a crater.
── .✦
You didn’t speak the rest of the mission. Neither did he.
The silence between you buzzed louder than the comms.
And when the drop team arrived, you didn’t look at each other. Not once.
But you felt him watching.
Still burning.
Still ready to kill the next person who dared say your name like it wasn’t something sacred.
── .✦
You didn’t storm off.
You didn’t say a word when Command debriefed, when the team cleaned up the mess, when the target got dragged off in a body bag instead of a prisoner transport.
You just stood there, fists clenched at your sides, your shadow overlapping his as you waited for someone to say it.
They didn’t.
They didn’t have to.
You could feel the way they looked at you now—like you were collateral. A variable. The reason their best weapon nearly lost control.
Again.
── .✦
You could still hear it.
Your name.
Twisted in the mouth of someone who wasn’t supposed to know it. Someone who used it like a curse—like a weapon.
And it worked.
Invincible—no, Mark lost it. You watched it happen in real time.
Not calculated. Not clean. Just rage. Unchecked. Unleashed.
And it scared you—not because he was angry, but because it felt like it was for you.
Like he would’ve killed a man for the crime of knowing you existed. And worse…
Some ugly, buried part of you wanted to let him.
── .✦
You didn’t sleep that night.
You sat on your windowsill in silence, one leg propped up, eyes on the skyline you usually found comfort in. It didn’t work tonight.
Because a small part of you knew he was out there.
Watching. Hovering. Probably furious that you stopped him.
Probably furious you had to.
But you weren’t sorry. Not really.
You’d gotten where you were by staying sharp. Staying smart. Staying in control.
And tonight?
He wasn’t.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
Mark noticed how you didn’t look at him once.
Not when they ran your vitals. Not when they shoved the corpse into containment with a glare like it was his fault the bastard’s skull split open like overripe fruit.
He stood back—arms crossed, jaw tight behind the veil.
He didn’t say anything either.
Not when you passed by. Not when you shouldered past the medic—like you were afraid to stop moving. Like if you did, you’d shatter.
He hated that.
He hated that silence lived between you now, not comfort. Not tension. Not heat.
Just cold.
── .✦
He heard it on loop.
Your voice—sharp and panicked, calling his name like a lifeline.
Not “Invincible.” Not “hey.”
Just… Mark.
It made something in his chest twist.
Made his hands curl at his sides. He could still feel the way your fingers had dug into his wrist.
Not gently. Not soft. But grounding.
It was the only reason he didn’t finish the job.
He didn’t regret it.
But he hated the look you gave him after.
Like you didn’t know who he was anymore. Or maybe like you finally did.
── .✦
He didn’t go home.
He hovered three blocks from your apartment, high enough to be unseen, low enough to feel you through the walls.
He didn’t expect to see the light in your room flick on.
He didn’t expect to see you—barely out of your gear, face hard, eyes darker than he’d ever seen them—leaning out the window, staring dead into the dark.
He stayed still. Barely breathing.
You didn’t see him.
But maybe—just maybe—you knew he was there.
Because after a long moment, you whispered to the night.
“Next time you lose control like that… I’ll stop you harder.”
It wasn’t a threat.
It was a promise.
And fuck—he’d never wanted anything more.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
They were doing it quietly. Behind walls. Sealed files. Passive phrasing and polite lies.
“Operative instability,” they’d said. “Emotional volatility.” “Unpredictable attachment to assigned partner.”
They meant him.
They meant you.
They meant that moment in the alley when his fist should’ve stopped—and didn’t. When he saw red and acted like a man who didn’t care about consequence.
Because he didn’t.
Because someone said your name and laughed.
Because someone tried to make you a weakness.
Because someone forgot you were his.
── .✦
Mark stood in the center of the server room like a loaded weapon someone forgot to disarm—veil pushed halfway up, breathing like he was trying not to detonate.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.
The lights overhead buzzed, flickering under the strain of faulty wiring. Or maybe that was him. Hard to tell.
His voice, when it came, was quiet.
Deadly.
“Who signed off on this?”
No one answered.
Just the soft flick of fingers on tablet screens. The nervous shift of boots. Everyone pretending not to feel the pressure in the air—like something was about to crack.
Mark didn’t repeat himself.
He didn’t have to.
Because the next second, the console nearest him exploded. Shattered metal and sparks.
A handprint embedded in the wall behind it.
“You don’t get to move her,” he said, voice sharp as razors now. “You don’t get to touch her file. You don’t get to breathe near it.”
A senior director tried to speak. “Invincible—this decision came from—”
“Say that name again. Go ahead. Say it like it doesn’t mean something,” Mark interrupted. “Say that designation. I dare you.”
He took a step forward. The floor groaned under his boots. Not because of weight. But pressure. Because he wasn’t holding back anymore.
Because he was done playing soldier. Handler. Puppet on a leash.
He wasn’t Invincible here.
He was yours.
And they were trying to steal him from you.
They just didn’t know it yet.
The man tried again, slower this time. “You need to understand the optics. She’s compromised. She compromised you.”
Mark’s laugh was low. Joyless. A hollow thing cracked open in the dark.
“She didn’t compromise me,” he said.
“She saved me.”
He stepped in close.
Close enough that the lights flickered again.
“I was ready to kill a man for saying her name. And you think I’m going to let you erase her?”
The air pulsed. No one moved.
“Try it,” Mark whispered. “Try touching her file again. I will wipe your existence so clean no one will remember you were ever born.”
Silence.
Then, slowly, he leaned in. Veil brushing the shoulder of the man in charge. And in a voice made of smoke and control, he whispered his final words.
“She’s not the dangerous one… I am.”
── .✦
He left the room in ruin.
Half the lights were blown. Several systems fried. Three agents too shaken to speak. And when he disappeared from camera range, no one followed.
Because everyone knew where he was going.
Straight to you.
Because if they wanted to take you away—
They were going to have to kill him first.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
The window rattled before the door slammed open.
You were on your feet before your brain caught up—knife in hand, blade drawn, feet planted. No hesitation.
No fear.
And then you saw him.
Mark.
Standing in your apartment doorway like a storm that forgot where it was supposed to break.
Hair damp from the wind. Veil twisted, torn halfway up. Blood running in a thin, angry line down his throat—from the blade you were still holding to his neck.
You hadn’t even realized you’d moved that fast.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.
He just stepped closer.
Closer, until your knife dug deeper, a warning meant to halt.
But he didn’t stop.
Instead, he leaned in—slow, steady, unshakable—and rested his forehead against yours.
He was trembling.
Not from pain.
From relief. From rage still clinging to the edges of his breath. From the panic you hadn’t seen on him before—not like this.
You lowered the knife, slowly.
Confused.
“Mark—” you started, voice too soft.
But his hand was already reaching for yours. Gripping it—not hard, not desperate, but anchoring. Like you were the last solid thing in a world gone sideways.
You didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak.
You just led him to the couch, never letting go.
He dropped onto it like his knees gave out—but still kept hold of your wrist.
You started to pull back—maybe to grab water, a towel, anything—
But his hand caught yours again. Tighter this time. And when he whispered, it was raw and cracked.
“Don’t go. Please.”
You didn’t.
You sat beside him.
Quiet. Still. Warm.
And for the first time in days, he exhaled.
Like the war ended. Like he finally made it home.
Like you were it.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
After that, things shifted between you two.
Not drastic. Not loud. Just enough to feel it.
A new gravity.
You joked more. He smiled more.
The air felt less like a battleground. More like a fuse, waiting. The silences weren’t sharp anymore—they held something warmer, heavier.
And when he touched you—guiding you around a corner, brushing against your arm during recon—you didn’t pull away.
Not once.
He still called you ’sweetheart.’
But now? You didn’t roll your eyes.
You answered him back—with something that sat halfway between sarcasm and a dare.
And Mark…
He took it.
Every word. Every smirk. Every sharp little comment that should’ve meant nothing—but didn’t.
You didn’t know how much it was driving him insane.
Or maybe you did. Maybe you saw the way his jaw clenched when you called him lover boy under your breath. The way his breath hitched when your hand lingered on his thigh for just a second too long in the drop ship.
You played with fire.
And he let you.
For a while.
── .✦
Until one night—
You were both heading back from an op. Low stakes. No injuries. Just exhaustion in your bones and grit in your teeth.
You made a comment—half-flirt, half-threat, maybe something about handcuffs.
You weren’t even trying to tease him. Not really.
But then—
He stopped.
Suddenly, you were pinned.
Like gravity finally decided to snap its fingers.
Your spine hit the wall with a soft thud.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You just looked up at him.
Chin tilted. Breath steady. Like this wasn’t new. Like you weren’t caught off-guard—like your heart wasn’t hammering under your ribs like it was trying to tell on you.
Mark’s hand was beside your head, fingers curled against the concrete like he was keeping himself from touching you. His body was so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him—his chest rising and falling like every breath cost him.
His eyes dragged over your face—slow and dark and deliberate. From your mouth to your eyes, then back again.
“Say something smart now,” he murmured.
His voice was velvet laced with warning. And that was all the invitation you needed.
You didn’t smile—but the look in your eyes said enough.
“You always this worked up when someone flirts with you?” You tilted your head slightly, like it was an honest question.
“Or is it just me?”
Something flickered across his bare face—heat, restraint, hunger—and then disappeared again, smoothed out like it had never been there.
“It’s just you,” he said, voice lower now.
“Always you.”
You felt it then.
The slow shift. The quiet unraveling.
His knee brushed your leg—just barely—but it was enough to remind you he could close the space between you in half a second.
He didn’t.
You leaned in, just slightly. Testing him. Letting your lips part, gaze heavy as your voice dipped.
“You gonna kiss me, Mark?”
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
He tilted his head. Slowly. Deliberately.
The space between you collapsed inch by inch, your breath catching as his eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering like he was counting your heartbeats.
You leaned in, too.
Half a breath away.
The heat between your mouths? Maddening.
His lips barely parted—his hand flexed beside your face—and your eyes fluttered shut—
But he stepped back.
Just enough to break contact. Just enough to make it feel like a fucking cliff-drop.
You blinked—slow, disoriented, like a dream just dropped you.
And when your eyes met his again—steady, unreadable, calm as sin—he smiled.
“Not yet.”
His voice was silk. Smug. Dangerous.
“You like pushing? Good.” He stepped back fully, leaving your body cold where his heat had been. “Because now I’m going to push back.”
You stayed against the wall, breath shaky, throat tight, skin burning.
Mark turned and walked away like he hadn’t just wrecked the room with a look.
Like he didn’t know you were seconds away from grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back in.
And god, that’s exactly what he wanted.
Because now? He wasn’t going to touch you.
Not until you begged him to.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆
It didn’t happen after a mission. It wasn’t triggered by adrenaline, or blood, or fury.
It happened on a quiet night.
No danger. No drama. Just you. Him. Silence.
The kind that didn’t feel sharp or heavy, but warm. Dense with everything neither of you had been saying.
You were sitting too close on the couch. Again.
Shoulders brushing. Fingers almost touching. Breaths syncing like they were conspiring against you.
The TV was on, volume low—some movie you’d both ignored since minute five. You weren’t looking at the screen.
You were looking at him.
And he was already looking at you.
── .✦
It didn’t start like a mistake.
It started slow. Desperate, but slow. Like two people who’d spent too long circling each other finally crashing in the middle.
You didn’t know who kissed who first—maybe it didn’t matter.
One moment you were breathing each other in, and the next, your mouths crashed together like you’d been starved.
Mark kissed like he fought—focused, consuming, always a little cocky. But there was something different this time.
Something fragile under all that control.
His hands didn’t grope—they cradled. His body didn’t press to dominate—it folded into yours like it belonged there.
And you let him.
Because right now, you didn’t want to be dangerous.
You wanted to be wanted.
You barely registered how you ended up on your back—couch creaking beneath you, clothes stripped away like memories he didn’t need anymore. His hands roamed like he was trying to memorize, to prove something. Not just to you—to himself. His mouth trailed heat down your throat, his hand sliding under your shirt like it belonged there.
Like he belonged there.
“You know how long I’ve waited to do this?” he murmured against your skin. “How many nights I had to stop myself?”
You didn’t answer. You just pulled him closer.
He growled—actually growled—and you could feel how hard he was already, grinding against you like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies. Your clothes were in the way. Everything was in the way.
He kissed you harder.
Then slower. Then deeper. Like he had time to worship and ruin you all at once.
His mouth kissed down your stomach, slower than you expected. Watching you. Waiting. Not asking for permission. Just offering the space for you to stop him.
You didn’t.
You curled your fingers in his hair and impatiently pushed him lower.
When he finally got between your legs, he didn’t rush. No—Mark watched you. Settled between your thighs like he’d been dreaming of it. His hands curled around your knees, pressing them apart, and he groaned like the sight of you could end him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his thumb over the wet spot in your panties. “Look at you.”
You burned under his gaze.
“Say it,” you rasped. “Say what you’re thinking.”
Mark didn’t hesitate. “I’m thinking I’m never gonna stop doing this.”
Then—his mouth was on you.
He took his time. He devoured. But gently—like worship, not conquest.
Every movement of his tongue against your panties was deliberate, controlled, cruel in its patience. He hummed against your core like it gave him oxygen. You arched off the couch, hand flying to his hair, and he moaned into you like he liked it. Like you were feeding some part of him he kept locked away.
And below, as his mouth worked you over—he was grinding into the cushion beneath him. Slow. Needy. Unapologetic. Desperate.
You felt it. The tension. The line he was walking between control and chaos.
It snapped when you said his name. “Mark—”
He tore your panties in half. His eyes didn’t even blink.
His tongue worked you open with slow strokes, teasing flicks, and just when your breath caught—then he gave you more. His fingers joined in, sliding deep and curling with impossible precision, like he already knew what would ruin you.
And ruin you, he did.
You didn’t mean to gasp. Didn’t mean to arch your back or claw at his shoulders or chant his name like it meant something more. But you did.
You shattered under him—legs shaking, hands trembling, the world breaking open as pleasure crashed through you like a flood. You didn’t expect the way your body reacted—too much, too fast.
And when it happened—really happened—when everything clenched and poured out of you, when you heard yourself cry out his name like it was sacred—
Mark groaned against you, loud, eyes fluttering shut. His hips bucked one final time against the couch.
And just like that… he came. Hard. Without you even touching him.
You blinked, dazed.
Tried to say something snarky, maybe smug. But all you could do was stare at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling like you were still mid-fall.
He hovered over you now, flushed, panting, eyes blown wide. His expression was something you’d never seen before—half in awe, half in love, and still burning with want.
And then he kissed you.
You tasted yourself on his tongue—hot, sweet, raw—and it made your stomach twist in a way no one ever had. You moaned into the kiss without meaning to, fisting the front of his shirt as if letting go would send you spiraling again. He whispered into your mouth between kisses.
“Filthy little goddess,” he breathed. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Your hips rolled up against him, greedy now. Unspoken things passed between you—need, trust, maybe something scarier.
Then he was inside you. Slowly. Deeply. The stretch made your back arch, your breath catch, your hand reach for something—anything—to ground yourself. But he was already there.
Gripping your waist like you were breakable, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your throat as he filled you, inch by aching inch.
He cursed under his breath, voice ragged and worshipful. “God, you feel better than your panties ever did.”
You would’ve teased him. Called him insane. But you couldn’t. All you could do was whimper as he moved—slow, smooth, deep enough to bruise. He took his time. Let you feel every inch. Let you cling to him like he was the only thing that made sense.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned into your ear. “Made for this. For me.”
His thrusts started patient. Deep. His breath stuttering against your skin every time your body clenched around him. But he couldn’t hold back.
Not for long.
He gripped your hips and snapped into you—again and again—driving into you like he’d finally given up on pretending he could play it cool. You wrapped your legs around him. Let him have you. Let him ruin you.
And god, he did.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he panted. “You hear that? That’s you. That’s how wet you are for me.”
You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. He kissed you through it. Sloppy, possessive. Full of need. And when you came—tight and gasping—he whispered more, somewhere near your ear. Praise. Promises.
Worship disguised as filth.
And when it was over—when he shuddered inside you, spilling so much it left you dizzy, when he dropped his forehead to yours and held you like he’d never let go—
Silence. Just your breaths. Your heart. His weight against you. Real. Heavy. Home. Neither of you moved for a long moment. When you finally found your voice—raw and quiet—
“This doesn’t change anything,” you whispered, breathless. The words weren’t cold. Just scared. Just stubborn. Just you.
Mark didn’t argue. He just nodded. Kissed your collarbone.
“Sure, sweetheart.”
But between the way he held you, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way neither of you moved to let go—
Hadn’t it changed everything?
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
•. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˚₊‧⟡꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ⟡‧₊˚ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.•
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Months later…
The apartment was warm with the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a paused screen and the lazy sprawl of citylight bleeding through half-closed blinds.
The couch sagged under both your weights—you were curled into one side of the couch, socks mismatched, hoodie too big, legs draped across Mark’s lap.
There were pizza crusts on the coffee table. A half-finished soda on the floor.
It was perfect. Stupidly, quietly, mundanely perfect.
And it made you itchy in a way you didn’t hate.
Mark reached for another slice without looking, eyes on the screen. “You’re not even watching this, are you?”
“I am,” you said, then paused. “Well, I was. I just blacked out for a few episodes.”
He snorted. “We’ve been watching this for three weeks.”
You shrugged, chewing. “I was distracted.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “By what?”
You side-eyed him over the crust. “Mostly your thighs.”
That earned a grin. “That’s fair.”
You glanced at him—barefoot, scruffed, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed and never quite bothered to fix it—and smiled. Leaning back, you let your head drop against the cushion.
“Still can’t believe this is where we ended up.”
Mark didn’t look away from the screen. “What, the couch?”
“No. I mean… this,” you said, gesturing vaguely around the room. “Living together. Sharing pizza. Watching a show we’ve both pretended to like for five episodes.”
Mark didn’t answer. Just turned. Looked at you. Offended.
“You saying this is beneath you?”
You blinked. “What? No, I just—”
“You saying I’m not a good reward?”
You opened your mouth. “Mark—” But it was too late. He pounced.
“Mark—MARK—”
You shrieked—half-laughing, half-cursing—as your plate toppled, pizza slice flopping face-down on the carpet. Your back hit the cushions, his weight pressing down, hands braced beside your head. He was smirking. Infuriating.
You glared up at him, breathless.
“I dropped my pizza,” you hissed.
His grin widened. “You’re about to drop a lot more than that, sweetheart.”
“You’re an asshole,” you wheezed, pinned.
“You’re mine,” he said, nipping your jaw. “Big difference.”
And then he kissed you. Right there—on the couch, under the hum of a half-watched show and the sound of grease soaking into the rug.
You didn’t push him off. Didn’t want to.
Not when he kissed you like that. Not when you could still taste pepperoni on his mouth and feel his heartbeat against your ribs. Because this?
This was exactly where you wanted to end up.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st
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”You're not dead, but not alive either. You're just a ghost with a beating heart.” ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘writing my soul out like it’ll hit Mars’ Brightest, with ‘Beautiful Breakdown’ playing on loop (if you get the reference… KISS ME)
13 posts