You wont believe this but I'm back sorta

「 ✦ CONTRIBUTOR SPOTLIGHT ✦ 」

@sreppub always at the scene of the crime... (The crime being shirtless DC men.)

Invincible x Reader | ex!Mark Grayson

The zip ties were cutting into your wrists, which was, objectively, the least of your problems.

The bigger problem was the man in the tactical vest pacing in front of you, monologuing about leverage.

"—and once Invincible shows up, we make our demands. Simple as that." He snapped his fingers at one of his lackeys. "Someone get eyes on the sky."

You sighed through your nose.

This was the third time this month.

Third.

The first time had been some D-list villain called Phosphor who'd grabbed you outside a coffee shop, absolutely convinced that Mark Grayson would come crashing through the ceiling the moment he saw you in distress.

Mark had come, eventually. He'd been polite about it. A little awkward. He'd untied you, defeated Phosphor, and then stood there in full costume rubbing the back of his neck while you both pretended the last eight months hadn't happened.

The second time had been more embarrassing — a whole organization that had somehow gotten outdated intel. They'd had a whole operation. Matching uniforms. A slideshow. A slideshow that included a photo of you and Mark from junior prom.

And now this.

"He's going to be so annoyed," you muttered under your breath.

"What?" Tactical Vest Guy spun around.

"Nothing."

He narrowed his eyes. "You should be scared."

"I'm working on it."

The ceiling exploded inward, which was right on schedule, honestly. Dust and plaster rained down, and then there he was — a flash of color, jaw set in that way that meant he was trying to look intimidating and mostly succeeding.

Mark's eyes found you immediately. Something flickered across his face. Not relief, exactly. More like... exhausted resignation.

Yeah, you thought. Same.

"Let her go," he said, voice doing the hero thing — lower, steadier than his normal register.

Tactical Vest Guy pointed at him triumphantly. "Invincible. You came. Now here are our—"

"She's my ex-girlfriend."

A beat of silence.

Tactical Vest Guy blinked. "...What?"

"We broke up." Mark crossed his arms. "Eight months ago. We're not together."

The man looked at you. You gave him a small, confirmatory nod.

"I — but our intel said—"

"Your intel is wrong." Mark sounded tired. “We broke up because of the whole secret identity thing and the dying-constantly thing and the general superhero lifestyle thing. It was mutual. We're — we're fine, it's fine, but we are not together."

"We're fine," you echoed helpfully, because you were a good person.

Tactical Vest Guy looked between you both with the expression of a man whose entire plan had just dissolved. "But — the leverage—"

"There's no leverage." Mark uncrossed his arms. "I would still help her because she's a person in danger and that's literally my job, but it's not the same kind of leverage you think it is."

One of the lackeys in the back raised a tentative hand. "Do we... still do the thing?"

Mark hit him into a wall before he finished the sentence, and then the whole room devolved into the predictable chaos of a superhero fight — bodies flying, things breaking, the screech of metal. You mostly stayed still because you'd learned by now that the most useful thing you could do was not be in the way.

It was over in under two minutes.

Mark crouched down in front of you and snapped the zip ties with two fingers. "You okay?"

"Fine. Little numb in the hands."

"Sorry." He looked it. "You should — maybe tell people. That we broke up."

"I have been telling people Mark." You rubbed your wrists. "Word just travels slow in the supervillain community, apparently."

He almost smiled at that. Almost. "Right."

You both stood up, and there was a moment — the kind you'd gotten used to over the last eight months, where the familiarity of him was so close you could almost forget the reason you'd had that last conversation. Almost.

"I'll fly you home," he said. He always said that.

"You don't have to."

"I know." He always said that too.

You looked at the disaster of the room around you, the groaning henchmen, the cracked floor, the absolutely ruined drop ceiling.

"This is going to keep happening, isn't it," you said. It wasn't really a question.

Mark exhaled slowly. "Probably until someone updates the database, yeah."

"Great."

"Yeah."

He held out his hand — the automatic gesture of someone used to carrying you through the sky — and you took it, because you were practical, and also because the alternative was taking the stairs past a pile of unconscious men in tactical vests, and that felt worse somehow.

Outside, the city spread out below you, and the wind was cold, and Mark didn't say anything, and neither did you.

It was a very particular kind of quiet — not comfortable, not uncomfortable. Just real. The shape of something that had mattered, and still did, just differently.

"You should really update your emergency contacts," he quipped finally, when your building came into view.

"My emergency contacts are fine."

"They clearly are not —"

"Mark."

"Yeah."

"Thank you. For coming."

He was quiet for a second. "Always."

Which wasn't helping anything, but you let it sit there anyway, because some things were just true and didn't need fixing.

He set you down gently on your fire escape, like he always did, and then he was gone — a streak of red against the dark — and you stood there for a moment before going inside and putting the kettle on.

Next time, you were going to make a sign.

The fourth time, you were ready.

You had a laminated card in your wallet now. You'd made it yourself, on a Tuesday, while watching television and feeling very productive. It read, in clean bold letters:

I AM NOT INVINCIBLE'S GIRLFRIEND.

WE BROKE UP 9 MONTHS AGO.

HOLDING ME HOSTAGE WILL NOT WORK.

PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL VILLAIN NETWORK FOR UPDATED INTEL.

You were very proud of it.

Unfortunately, the man who grabbed you outside the grocery store — cape, no mask, very poor threat assessment — didn't give you time to reach your wallet before the bag went over your head.

So much for preparedness.

This one was different, you realized, when the bag came off.

The other times had been — not comfortable, exactly, but manageable. Theatrical. Men with plans and grudges and a fundamental misunderstanding of your relationship status. Scary in the abstract. Not scary in the immediate.

This felt immediate.

The room was industrial. No windows. The man sitting across from you wasn't monologuing. He wasn't pacing. He was just watching you with the kind of stillness that meant he'd done this before and didn't feel the need to perform about it.

"You're going to send a message," he stated.

"I'm not his girlfriend," you replied. Automatic at this point.

"I know." He folded his hands. "I don't need his girlfriend. I need his attention."

That was new.

Your stomach dropped in a way it hadn't during the other three times.

"He'll come regardless," the man continued. "He always does, for you. Girlfriend or not. Which tells me something useful."

You didn't say anything.

"All I need is for him to be distracted.” A small, unremarkable smile. "You're very good at distracting him."

Outside, somewhere in the city, a phone was ringing. Mark's phone. Or Cecil's. Or whoever it was that handled these things — the logistics of you being in danger, the alert systems, the satellite imaging. There was infrastructure around this by now, embarrassingly.

You thought about the laminated card in your wallet.

You thought about Mark's face in that last location, many months ago, doing the hero voice while clearly wanting to just be Mark about it.

You thought, for the first time, with genuine and uncomplicated feeling: I would really like to not be here right now.

The problem with being a distraction was that it worked.

Mark came through the wall — not the ceiling this time, the wall — which meant he was either getting more dramatic or he'd been in a hurry, and the fight that followed was faster and messier than the others. There were more of them than there'd seemed. The man with the stillness had backup.

You'd been moved twice already, shuffled between rooms while the sounds of impact echoed through the building, and you were in the middle of being moved a third time when the lackey holding your arm made the mistake of using you as a physical barrier between himself and six feet of extremely unhappy Viltrumite.

Mark stopped.

That half-second was all it took.

The lackey shoved you forward — not toward Mark, sideways — and you hit the corner of something metal and unforgiving, and the pain that spiked through your side was sharp enough to white out your vision for a second. You heard yourself make a sound you immediately wanted to take back.

Then the lackey was gone — you didn't see how, the white was still fading — and the floor was cold against your knees, and Mark was there.

"Hey." His hands found your face first, tilting it up. Still in the suit, still in the mask, but his voice had dropped the hero register entirely. Just Mark. Scared Mark. "Hey, look at me. Look at me."

"I'm looking," you groaned. Your voice came out steadier than you expected. "I'm fine."

"You made a sound—"

"I'm fine.” You moved to stand and the pain spiked again and you stopped moving. "Okay. Less fine than advertised."

Something crossed his face that he didn't bother hiding. He got an arm around you carefully, the kind of careful that felt almost worse than the injury — like he was aware of every inch of distance he was managing.

"I've got you," he stated softly. "Don't move."

"The guy—"

"Gone. All of them. It's done." His jaw was tight. "Just — just stay still."

You stayed still.

The building was quiet now. Dust settling. That particular aftermath silence that you'd gotten familiar with over a year of being with him and nine months of being without him. He was checking your side with careful hands, and you watched his face while he did it, the furrow between his brows, the way he wasn't looking at you because he was looking at the injury but his hands were shaking slightly.

Slightly.

Mark Grayson, who could punch through reinforced steel, whose hands did not shake when fighting, whose hands did not shake for basically anything.

"I'm really okay," you said quietly.

"You don't know that yet."

"I know my own body."

"You said you were fine and then couldn't stand up."

"That's a normal human experience, Mark."

He looked up at you then, and it was — it was a lot. His eyes were doing the thing they did sometimes when he forgot to manage his face, where everything he was thinking was just there, unedited.

"I can't—" He stopped.

"Can't what?"

He sat back on his heels, still on the floor with you, hands falling to his knees. He looked at the middle distance. The hero composure was just gone now. He looked exactly like himself — twenty, exhausted, unhappy in a very specific way.

"I can't keep doing this," he said.

Your chest did something complicated. "I know. I made a laminated card, I've been trying to—"

"That's not what I mean."

Quiet.

"This is the fourth time," he said. "And every time I get the alert, every time I see your name, I—" He pressed his mouth together. "It's not a work thing. The way I feel about it. It's not how I feel when anyone else needs help. I thought it would get easier and it keeps getting worse, and I don't—"

He stopped again. Looked at the floor.

"I don't know why we thought this would work," he stated softly. "The not being together."

Something loosened in your chest, slow and aching. Like something that had been held very tightly for nine months finally recognizing it could let go.

"Because of the lifestyle," you answered. Your own voice sounded strange to you. "The potential dying-constantly thing."

"I know."

"The secret identity thing. The way it was hard."

"I know." He finally looked at you. "Was it better? After. Was it better for you?"

The honest answer lived in your throat.

Nine months of technically being fine. Nine months of reading about his fights in the news and feeling your stomach clench. Nine months of almost texting him when something funny happened, when you saw something he would have liked, when you were scared, when you weren't scared and just wanted to hear his voice anyway.

Nine months of him showing up every time, every single time, with that expression he kept trying to put away.

"No," you said.

He exhaled — not relief exactly, more like someone putting down something heavy.

"It's not practical," he said. "My life isn't—"

"I know what your life is."

"You got hurt —"

"Because a man used me as a shield, Mark, not because we were dating. They grabbed me when we were broken up."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. The logic landing in real time.

"Being your girlfriend doesn't make this more dangerous," you stated gently. "It just means we stop pretending that nine months of this is somehow the easier choice."

He looked at you for a long moment. The dust was still settling. Your side ached. The fluorescent light overhead had been half-broken in the fight and was flickering slightly, which felt dramatic and appropriate.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it easier," he said finally. "The lifestyle thing. I wanted to. I thought about it a lot."

"I know." You had known, even at the time. That was the worst part. "I'm sorry I let us convince ourselves it was the reasonable decision."

"It seemed reasonable."

"It seemed responsible."

"Not the same thing, apparently."

"Apparently not."

He reached out — slow, giving you every chance to not — and took your hand. His thumb moved over your knuckles. That same careful touch.

"I still might die," he said. It came out almost gentle. Like he needed you to have it, the honest version.

"I know."

"It'll still be hard."

"Mark." You squeezed his hand. "I spent nine months not being with you. It was hard then too. At least this way I'd have a reason for it."

He made a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite not a laugh.

"That's a terrible reason to get back together," he replied with a snort.

"It's a real reason," you retorted. "I'll take real."

He looked down at your joined hands. Then up at your face. His expression had settled into something quieter and more certain than you'd seen in a long time.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

"Yeah." Something in him loosened. "Yeah, okay."

Outside, the city continued its evening. Somewhere an ambulance wailed. The light flickered. Your side still hurt.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, careful, and he adjusted to take the weight of it like it was the most natural thing — like nine months hadn't happened, like muscle memory was just there- loyal and patient, waiting.

"You're still flying me to the hospital," you replied.

"Obviously."

"And then we're getting food."

"Your side—"

"I will eat carefully, Mark."

He laughed then — real, quiet, the one that lived just for people he trusted. "Yeah. Okay. Food."

You sat on the floor of a wrecked industrial building while he called someone to deal with the cleanup, his hand still in yours, and you thought: this is the part they don't put in the headline. Not the fight, not the rescue. Just this. The ordinary gravity of two people finding their way back to the same place.

The fourth time was the last time, as it turned out.

Not because people stopped trying — they didn't, for a while. But because it stopped working as leverage the moment it stopped being a secret, the moment Mark Grayson was photographed outside your building in civilian clothes at seven in the morning, coffee in hand, looking like a man who had simply stopped pretending.

The villain community updated their databases, eventually.

Mark Grayson. You simply cannot fucking stand the guy. He's not your enemy — he's your best friend. And he's just so goddamn fine.

You cannot understand how a person can be that handsome. It should be illegal. It probably is, somewhere.

aka, Mark staying at your house after a tiring day of being Invincible.

-----•.°-----

author's note: i'm sleepy so i just want to cuddle with this man to sleep, even though it's hot as fuck in here.

tw: a little bit suggestuve at the end, nothing really explicit, though.

Missed you (part 1)

Fluff version

Mark Grayson x fem!reader

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: sickeningly sweet fluff!

Masterlist

Request here

The apartment was quiet except for the steady tapping of rain against the windows.

You sat curled up on the couch with a blanket over your legs, the soft glow of the TV flickering across the room even though you hadn’t really been watching it. It had become background noise weeks ago something to fill the silence while you waited.

Three months.

Three months since Mark had left Earth on a mission halfway across the galaxy. Three months of rushed calls that cut out from bad signals, worried nights spent staring at the ceiling, and mornings waking up instinctively reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

You missed him so badly it physically hurt sometimes.

And apparently, he felt the exact same way.

A sudden knock rattled the window beside the couch.

You jolted upright.

Another knock came gentler this time.

Your heart nearly stopped.

You threw the blanket aside and rushed to the window, fingers fumbling with the lock before sliding it open.

The second the glass lifted, Mark practically collapsed inside.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly.

He looked exhausted.

Not hurt exactly, but worn down in a way you’d never seen before. His suit was scuffed and torn in places, his hair messy from the rain, dark circles sitting beneath his eyes. But the moment he looked at you, something in his face softened completely.

Like finally seeing home.

Before you could even speak, Mark wrapped both arms around your waist and buried his face against your shoulder.

“Oh my god,” he whispered shakily. “I missed you so much.”

The force of the hug nearly knocked you backward, but you held onto him immediately, fingers sinking into the damp fabric of his suit.

“I missed you too,” you said quietly.

He made this tiny sound against your shoulder something halfway between a laugh and a relieved sigh.

Then he tightened his grip.

“You have no idea,” he mumbled. “No idea.”

You smiled softly and ran your fingers through the curls at the back of his hair. He practically melted.

That was the thing about Mark.

People saw Invincible. The hero. The strong one. The guy who could fly through buildings and survive battles in space.

But with you?

He was just Mark.

And right now Mark looked like he’d been holding himself together for months purely on the promise of coming home to you.

He tilted his head up suddenly, eyes searching yours almost nervously.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question came out so soft it nearly broke your heart.

You cupped his face immediately. “You never have to ask.”

The second you said it, he kissed you.

Not rushed.

Not desperate.

Just full of overwhelming affection.

Like he’d thought about this exact moment every single day he was gone.

His hands shook slightly where they rested against your waist, and he kissed you slowly, carefully, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he moved too fast.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Again,” he whispered.

You laughed quietly. “Again?”

“Please.”

You kissed him again, and this time he sighed into it so deeply your chest ached.

The tension in his shoulders started easing little by little beneath your hands.

“You’re warm,” he murmured against your lips.

“You flew through a rainstorm to get here.”

“I didn’t care.”

“I can tell.”

“I just wanted you.”

The honesty in his voice made your stomach twist.

Mark pulled you into another hug almost immediately after, arms circling you tightly while he pressed kisses all over your face. Your forehead. Your cheeks. Your temple.

“You’re real,” he muttered between kisses. “You’re actually here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“You don’t understand, space is awful.” He groaned dramatically into your shoulder. “Everything smells weird and everyone’s trying to kill each other and I swear I almost lost my mind.”

You laughed softly.

Mark groaned again, wrapping himself around you even tighter at the sound.

“There’s the laugh,” he mumbled happily. “I missed that too.”

“You missed everything.”

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No embarrassment.

Just yes.

You guided him toward the couch, but the second you sat down, Mark immediately followed, practically collapsing on top of you.

“Mark—”

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m being clingy.”

“You’re literally crushing me.”

“Sorry.”

He did not move.

You snorted.

After a moment he tilted his head up from where it rested against your chest, looking genuinely exhausted.

“Can you hold me?”

Your expression softened instantly.

“Come here.”

That was all it took.

Mark practically folded into you, arms wrapping tightly around your middle while you pulled the blanket over both of you. The second your fingers slipped into his hair again, he melted completely.

“There it is,” he whispered.

“There what is?”

“That.” His eyes drifted shut. “You playing with my hair.”

You smiled and continued gently combing your fingers through the damp hair.

Mark let out the softest sigh imaginable.

For several minutes neither of you spoke. The rain tapped softly against the windows while he stayed curled against you like he never wanted to leave again.

Eventually he pressed a sleepy kiss against your collarbone.

Then another.

You laughed quietly. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

“I noticed.”

“I missed doing this.”

His voice had gone soft and sleepy.

He looked up at you again, eyes warm despite how exhausted he clearly was.

“You know what got me through most of that mission?”

“What?”

“Thinking about this.”

You blinked. “Sitting on the couch?”

“Sitting on the couch with you,” he corrected immediately. “Big difference.”

Your chest tightened.

Mark reached up to hold your hand, intertwining your fingers carefully.

“Every time something went wrong, I’d just think…” He swallowed slightly. “I just have to make it home to her.”

The sincerity in his voice made your eyes sting a little.

“You did make it home.”

“Barely.” He buried his face into your neck again. “I thought I was gonna lose it by week six.”

“Week six?”

“I’m serious.” His grip tightened around you. “I need affection to survive.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Mhm.”

“And dramatic.”

“Very.”

“But you still love me.”

You smiled helplessly. “Unfortunately.”

Mark gasped softly and lifted his head again, staring at you with mock betrayal.

“Unfortunately?”

You barely got half a second to react before he attacked your face with kisses again.

“Take it back,” he mumbled between kisses.

“No—Mark”

“Take. It. Back.”

You laughed harder as he continued peppering kisses everywhere he could reach.

“Okay! Okay!” you squeaked. “I love you very fortunately.”

“That’s better.”

He settled back against you triumphantly.

A few quiet moments passed before he spoke again, voice quieter this time.

“Can I tell you something kinda embarrassing?”

“You’re currently using me as a human pillow. I think we’re past embarrassing.”

Mark huffed a laugh.

“When I got back to Earth’s atmosphere,” he admitted softly, “I almost cried.”

You blinked down at him.

“Because I knew I was close to home,” he continued. “Close to you.”

Your heart melted completely.

Mark noticed your expression immediately and groaned.

“No, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to cry.”

“I might.”

“That’s not fair,” he muttered. “You know I can’t handle when you get emotional.”

“You literally just admitted you almost cried thinking about me.”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I’m baby.”

You burst out laughing.

Mark grinned sleepily at the sound, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

The words seemed to hit him hard.

All the teasing faded from his expression instantly, replaced by something soft and aching.

“I’m glad too,” he whispered.

Then, quieter.

“You have no idea how much.”

He shifted closer somehow, despite already being practically attached to you.

“You know what I missed most?” he murmured.

“What?”

“This.”

“This” apparently meant being held, because he tucked himself even further into your arms and sighed happily the second you wrapped both arms around him again.

“I could stay here forever,” he mumbled.

“You need food. And probably sleep.”

“I need you more.”

Your face warmed immediately.

Mark smiled lazily without opening his eyes.

“See? I missed making you blush too.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

You did.

Entirely too much.

After another few minutes, you noticed his breathing getting slower.

“Mark?”

“Mhm?”

“You’re falling asleep.”

“No I’m not.”

He yawned immediately after saying it.

You laughed quietly and brushed your thumb across his cheek.

“Go to sleep.”

“But then I can’t kiss you.”

“You can kiss me tomorrow.”

Mark frowned slightly, clearly unhappy with this arrangement.

Then he tilted his head up one last time and pressed a lingering kiss against your lips.

Slow.

Sleepy.

Full of affection.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again.

“Promise you’ll still be here when I wake up?”

Your expression softened immediately.

“I promise.”

Only then did he finally relax completely.

Within minutes, he was asleep in your arms.

Still holding onto you tightly.

Like even in sleep he couldn’t stand the idea of letting you go again.

Outside, the rain continued softly against the windows.