wah!

he's looking at you. his eyes keep flicking to you, toxic green from his phone's flashlight, and it makes your skin itch. UGHHH. you're creeped the. fuck. out.

you send a text to the manager about the lights, but it won't go through. you try to call—busy. duh.

"do you have the number for this place?" you ask, scrolling through the city app for outage reports. "for the manager, for jim, someone?"

"i sent in a report already."

you pause. that's not what you asked, but now your stomach is sinking and he's been staring at you for the past ten minutes and he's huge and capable and you're the only person who sees what's behind that smile—fuck, why did you let him in?

"okay," you say, playing it cool. "do you want a drink?"

"sure."

he follows you, and you feel dread gurgling in your belly. he laughs, asking if maybe you need to eat too. you're not in a joking mood, so you just swallow more lemonade.

but you stay in the kitchen until the lights come back on (closer to the knives), and when they do, he's flushed right up to his eyes, jittery. you lead him out, and he leaves with a sad note, saying you should do it again.

you pray that never happens. .

later, with the wifi back up, you check in with the building manager about the outage. there must have been work happening or something, and you're ready to chew him out for not telling you. you pull up the outage map before his message comes through—there were no outages in your city.

the louder sound over your labored breathing is the ping of your phone. the manager lets you know the breaker was destroyed. not all of them, just the ones on your floor. amateur, he texts about the asshole who messed it up, and dread floods through you again, stiffening your fingers. you drop your phone, press your back against a wall, try to breathe and can't, and think you're dying.

who could do something like that. . .

it couldn't be him, right?

there's a knock at your door. familiar. it brings packages and dropped apples and the news that your windshield was scraped and your clothes are done—and you can't move.

and he knocks again.

"i have food," he laughs a little. and you can't fucking move. not even to save yourself. "your tummy grumbled earlier, i made you some food."

you hate that your mind keeps leading you to that point. that he is indeed not your green-eyed guardian angel and some creep watching you and plotting on you and making it so that you have to exist near him and—

another knock—"your tummy grumbled earlier." you can't catch a breath. . .

first 48, that do they say? nice girls are the easiest victims, don't be a push over, don't got to a second location. nothing is helping you!

oh god. . . you don't want to find out what he can do. you should—

"hey, took you a second."

you should be careful with him. figure him out before you make a move that could land either one of you on papers. this is sensitive and you don't. . . know if you can stomach it. . .

"sorry about that. come in?"

You wind yourself at the kitchen table, seated across from Mark, caught between May’s judgmental toast-serving and Ben’s everlasting dad look. It's warm. It smells like coffee and eggs and the crisp citrus of freshly cut fruit. It’s nice.

And you're losing your mind.

Your hand is still tingling from when it stuck to your nightstand earlier. You had to shrug it off like you were battling off a ghost. Now you’re here, attempting to eat breakfast with your boyfriend like a regular person, but your body buzzes like it’s got additional code written into the marrow.

You reach for the orange juice. Your fingers twitch.

Don’t break the glass. Don’t break the glass. Don’t crack the-

“You gonna drink that,” Ben says unexpectedly, making you flinch so sharply you nearly drop it.

You laugh. “Yup. Uh-huh. That’s the plan. Totally in control of my motor functions, why do you ask.”

Mark raises an eyebrow across from you, but doesn’t say anything.

May lays a plate in front of him. “So. Mark. Since senior year, huh?”

He picks up his fork with a kind of forlorn certainty. “Yeah. It started with her threatening to hit me for talking during biology. It was love at first sight.”

You groan. “Why would you say that out loud.”

“She deserves context,” he adds with a piece of egg. “I deserve recognition for my emotional growth.”

May grins, but it’s the harsh, knowing sort. “You’ve been keeping this from us a while.”

You murmur, “I wasn’t keeping it. It was more of a... long-term rollout plan.”

“Three years,” Ben answers bluntly.

“We’re busy,” you murmur into your toast.

May bends over her cup. “With what, exactly?”

Mark points his fork. “She has like seventeen credits, works part-time, and watches nature documentaries at two a.m. for fun. It’s actually sort of intimidating.”

You flash him a glance. “You’re not supposed to roast me in front of my family.”

“I’m endearing myself to the judges.”

May hums. “So far, he’s succeeding.”

You gulp your juice, too fast, and nearly cough. The flavor smacks your tongue like a blow. You lay the glass down a touch too hard, just a little, and it produces a louder clink than it should.

Mark’s eyes flick to your hand. Just for a second.

You attempt to grin.

He doesn’t press it.

Yet.

Ben, meantime, sits back in his chair, cup in hand. “So. Why the secrecy? You thought we wouldn’t approve?”

“No,” you answer hastily. “It was... I don’t know. It was just ours. And then it kept being ours. And then suddenly it was three years later and we were very much lying by omission.”

Mark shrugs. “Honestly, I was just following her lead. She said wait, I waited. Like... a faithful, loving golden retriever.”

Ben grunts. “Golden retrievers don’t sneak around.”

“Golden retrievers don’t pass AP Calc either,” you add.

Mark points. “Let the record show, I passed.”

“With my notes,” you say.

“With my charisma.”

May cuts in before you can hurl your napkin at him. “Well, it’s out now. And despite the... wait, I’m glad. It’s good to see her happy.”

That makes you silent.

Because you are joyful.

But you’re also something else. Wired. Fragile. Like you’re one hard grasp away from snapping your fork in half.

Mark’s still eyeing you out of the corner of his eye.

You feel his foot poke yours under the table.

You nudge back, just slightly.

“So, Mark,” Ben says nonchalantly. “You treat her like she’s the best thing that ever happened to you?”

Mark doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. She is.”

You nearly choke on your fruit.

“Okay,” you respond, half a laugh. “That’s enough sincerity before ten a.m.”

“I’m just saying,” he says with a shrug. “You deserve to know.”

May’s observing you now, her grin a bit gentler. “We always knew you’d keep your heart close to the chest. But I’m happy he’s the one who has it.”

You go silent again.

Mark takes your hand beneath the table. Warm, steady.

He squeezes softly.

You squeeze back.

But your fingers are twitching. Still sensitive. Still too aware. You’re hyper-conscious of every point of touch. Every pulse. Every scrape of chair leg on floor sounds excessively loud. Every fragrance strikes too intensely. You feel like a balloon overfilled and tied shut too tight.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend you’re just weary. Just stressed.

Because something in you has altered.

And Mark doesn’t know.

And your aunt and uncle don’t know.

And sitting here in the kitchen, with sunshine on the table and eggs cooling on the plate, you suddenly realize

You’re not simply lying about your relationship anymore.

You’re lying about you.

The plates are mostly empty now.

Toast crumbs scatter the table like polite wreckage. The coffee’s been refilled twice, the fruit picked through, and May is humming as she rinses the frying pan at the sink. Ben’s halfway through the crossword, pen tapping rhythmically on the counter. Mark’s still across from you, lazily spinning a fork in his fingers.

And you... you're pretending everything’s fine.

You haven't moved much. Not because you're full. Because you’re afraid if you grip your utensils the wrong way, they’ll bend. Or snap. Or worse.

You fidget with your napkin instead. Something soft. Something safe.

And then, like fate’s just waiting for the tension to peak, the news comes on.

May’s small kitchen TV flickers to life in the corner. Background noise, usually. Something calm and distant while breakfast happens. But not today.

Today, the name hits your ears before the anchor even finishes her sentence.

“Invincible was spotted again last night above Midtown, engaging what looked like two rogue Flaxan warriors attempting to break through into Earth’s dimension.”

Your stomach drops.

The screen shows shaky phone footage, Invincible, blue and yellow and blood-streaked, slamming through a Flaxan like a baseball through a windshield. He’s fast. Brutal. And unmistakable.

The camera pans to show wreckage. People running. Civilians yelling.

Mark shifts beside you.

Mark interrupts the stillness, voice low but steady. “People always want someone to blame.”

May peeks over her shoulder. “Blame him? He’s the only reason half this city isn’t a crater.”

“They don’t care,” Mark answers. “It’s easier to fear power than to understand it.”

That lands odd.

You gaze at him.

He’s looking at the blank screen, mouth stiff, without blinking. Like he’s still seeing the conflict happen in real time.

Something in your belly twists.

Ben folds his newspaper. Leans forward. His hands are linked now, fingers intertwined. There’s something serious about his posture like he’s going to utter something he’s been sitting on for years.

He looks between the two of you. His niece. Your boyfriend. Two kids in their early twenties, thinking breakfast is just breakfast.

Then he says it.

That line.

“I’ve always believed one thing.”

His voice is steady. Not loud. But it fills the room like thunder regardless.

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening, and you don’t...”

He stares directly at you.

“Then it’s your fault when it does.”

You blink.

Your throat tightens. You don’t react.

You can’t.

He lets the words hang. No drama. No fanfare.

Just the truth.

“With great power,” he adds, softer now, “comes great responsibility.”

It smacks you like a blow to the chest.

You don’t breathe for a second.

Because he doesn’t know. He has no idea.

But he’s right.

You feel it in your bones. In your hands. In the way your whole body feels like it’s vibrating just beneath the surface. You don’t know what you’re becoming but you know it’s not nothing.

And suddenly, everything feels heavier. This room. This moment. The weight of what you might be able to do.

And the scary option of deciding not to do it.

You try to talk. “I mean... I’m just a college student. I can barely pass physics. I don’t think I’m competent to stop any catastrophes.”

Ben doesn’t laugh. He merely glances at you.

“You don’t have to be qualified,” he continues. “You just have to care.”

Mark adjusts slightly in his seat.

You sense him observing you. Not in a suspicious way, not yet, but near. Too close. His foot touches yours beneath the table again, grounding you.

But you’re still floating.

Your voice comes out softer than you intend it to. “Sometimes I wonder if power finds the wrong people.”

Ben raises his eyebrow. “You worried about Invincible?”

You hesitate.

Mark tenses, barely discernible.

“No,” you say. “Not really.”

Ben takes a drink of his coffee. “Then what are you worried about?”

You freeze.

Mark’s eyes are still on you. He doesn’t blink.

You swallow. “That... someone could have power and not even know what to do with it. That they might mess it up.”

Ben leans back. “Then they learn. Or they suffer the price for not learning.”

His words drop into your chest like bricks.

Mark eventually speaks, voice faint now. “It’s scary. Having power. Knowing others want something from you, even when they don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

You glance at him aggressively.

He catches your gaze for half a second before glancing away.

The air feels different. Thicker.

May attempts to cut through it, delicate and lovely. “Well. All I know is, if this Invincible kid’s trying his best out there, good for him. Not everyone can say the same.”

You nod absently. You’re hardly hearing her.

You’re watching the flash of a shadow on the wall. A reflection from the TV.

You think of your hands adhering to the faucet. The power in your fingers when you cracked a slice of bread by accident. The way your body understood how to land when you leaped off your house.

You think of the way your heart leaped when you saw Invincible on-screen not because he terrified you.

Because something in you whispered

You could do it too.

But what if you shouldn’t?

What if you’re not ready?

What if you never will be?

Ben’s words come back, circling in your thoughts now

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening, and you don’t… then it’s your fault when it does.”

You breathe in deep.

And realize...

You can’t sit motionless forever.

Mark squeezes your hand beneath the table as you clear the rest of the plates. “I’ve got class in, like, fifteen minutes,” he whispers. “But I’ll text you?”

You nod. “Of course.”

His eyes linger on yours a bit longer than they should.

You know he’s still thinking about the way you froze during the announcement.

You know he’s suspicious.

But he doesn’t press. He merely kisses your temple and gets his bag from where it’s resting against the wall. “Tell May she makes a killer omelet. And tell Ben I’ll return his newspaper. Probably.”

He gives you one last look before sliding out the front door.

And suddenly it’s just... silent.

Mark leaves for class with one more peek over his shoulder, and you offer him a faint wave like you're not vibrating out of your skin.

As soon as the door closes behind him, your body becomes motionless.

The air shifts.

The kitchen is too light, too heated. The eggs are cold on the plate, and May is humming gently as she rinses dishes, the water spraying in gentle, rhythmic spurts. Ben’s chair creaks as he leans back to finish the crossword, pen pounding on the table. It’s normal. Comfortable.

But you’re not.

You can’t sit still.

Can’t breathe well.

The strain within your chest is increasing, coiled like a spring, and the quiet just makes it worse. You murmur something about needing air, about wanting to clear your thoughts, and they don’t even flinch.

You slip out the back door.

Then you climb.

The side of the house shouldn’t feel this easy but it does. Your hands know where to go. Your feet stick when you don’t expect them to. The gutter moans quietly beneath your weight, but doesn’t shatter.

You crest the edge of the roof and swing a leg over, placing yourself on the angled shingles with your knees tucked under your arms. You sit there for a while, heart still hammering from everything, the morning, the news, Uncle Ben’s remarks.

‘With great power…’

You push your palm to your chest. You swear you can feel it buzzing under your ribs.

You’re not simply terrified.

You’re wired.

Every nerve feels like it’s had coffee and electricity for breakfast.

You peek across the street, apartment complexes, electricity wires, small lanes. And you wonder

Could you do it?

Really?

You stand.

The breeze sweeps your hair back. The street below looks so far away now. You rock on your heels, arms wide for balance, trying not to think about how easy you may fall.

But that’s not what terrifies you.

What terrifies you is that part of you wants to jump.

You flex your fingers and gaze down at your wrists. There’s a subtle, prickling heat just under the skin, like something waiting. You tighten your fists and murmur to yourself

“Okay. No pressure. Just... try not to faceplant into someone’s windshield.”

You aim.

Instinctively.

You don’t know how you know what you’re doing, but you do. You can feel the tightness in your forearm, the way your fingers want to lock into place a specific manner.

You close one eye, stretch your arm toward the chimney of the building across the alley, and

Thwip.

The sound is moist and abrupt, like silk ripping through the air.

A silvery-white thread bursts from your wrist and hits the brick. It sticks. Firm. Clean.

You gasp. “No freaking way.”

You tug. It holds.

Your heart is throbbing in your throat now. Your legs feel like they’re made of static. You glance at the web, then at your hands, then at the plummet to the earth below.

This is ridiculous.

This is risky.

This is exactly the type of thing you’d yell at someone else not to do.

But you were never going to walk away from this, were you?

You back up, breath frozen somewhere between your ribs, gaze focused on the web line stretching across the lane.

“Alright,” you mumble, partly to yourself, half to whatever strange new portion of your body made it happen. “Time to jump off a roof. Totally fine. People do that all the time in... cartoons.”

You take a couple steps ahead. Then a couple more. Then you’re running.

You dash straight toward the edge of the roof.

Your foot strikes the edge and you launch.

The wind rips past you suddenly. For half a second, you’re weightless. Flying.

Then the web draws tight.

Your arm yanks forward. Your body whips with it and suddenly you’re swinging.

Your legs flail. You scream, actually scream. It’s not cool. It’s not elegant. It’s half panic, part ecstasy, and your entire body is moving considerably quicker than your head.

You crash onto a fire escape.

Bounce off.

You clutch the web with both hands, dangling now, thirty feet from the ground and breathless, clinging by a thread of whatever you just produced.

You’re panting. Knees shaking.

But you’re laughing, too.

A high, exuberant, nearly insane laugh.

You’re alive.

You’re still up here.

“Okay!” you yell, voice breaking. “Not dead! Not dead!”

You swing one leg up, grab your foot against the edge of the building, and struggle upward, dragging yourself back onto a lower rooftop. You fall in a heap, gasping for air, arms shaking from the exertion.

You gaze up into the sky, still laughing, still surprised.

And then you look at your wrist again.

The skin there appears flushed, mildly heated, but not damaged. You stretch your fingers, and feel the same strain again like a second heartbeat inside your arm.

It’s you.

This power, it’s not from a machine. Not a serum. Not a weird event that left you shattered and radioactive.

It’s yours.

Part of your body now.

Maybe it always was.

You lie there, chest rising and falling, eyes wide, and murmur to the empty sky above

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

The wind doesn’t answer.

But in your thoughts, you hear it again:

“With great power comes great responsibility.”

You swallow hard.

And for the first time since this started... You comprehend what it genuinely means.

The next day, everything is louder.

The clink of the spoon in your cereal bowl. The sound of your pen tapping against your notebook. The hum of the fridge. It’s all sharper, like someone turned the world up a few notches and didn’t tell you.

You slept maybe four hours. Woke up tangled in blankets, your heart racing, flashes of rooftop swings still jolting through your mind like lightning.

You keep replaying the fall, the sound of your own scream, the terrifying thrill of not dying.

You should be resting.

But instead, you’re hunched over the kitchen table, staring at a newspaper like it’s going to explain how to live your life now.

May slides a mug of coffee next to your elbow. You don’t even flinch. She pauses.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You force a smile. “Yeah. Just...brain fog.”

She presses a hand to your forehead, mock-serious. “You’re not allowed to get sick. We’ve already met our household’s emotional crisis quota for the month.”

You grin weakly. “Copy that.”

She moves away, humming again.

You glance down at the paper.

You weren’t even planning to read it. You just needed something to look at. Something boring. Something human. The comics page. Maybe the crossword. Something that doesn’t ask you to stick to walls or leap off roofs.

Instead, your eyes catch on a bolded headline tucked in the corner of page seven

“$3,000 CASH PRIZE! Local Wrestling Event Seeking Challengers” NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY “Step in the ring and stay in for 3 minutes!” ONE NIGHT ONLY! CASH PRIZE GUARANTEED.

You blink.

Your heart skips.

You reread it.

Then again.

You glance at the prize money. Three thousand dollars. Right there in bold. No fine print. No strings. Just survive for three minutes in a cage with a guy called “The Pulverizer.”

Your first thought is ‘That’s sketchy as hell.’

Your second thought is ‘But I could win.’

And your third thought, the one that settles like warm static under your skin is

‘Mark’s birthday is coming up.’

He hasn’t mentioned it, not really. But you remember. You always remember. He plays it off like birthdays aren’t a big deal, but you know better. He’s not the type to expect gifts. He never asks for anything. But you were there the year Amber forgot completely. The year Nolan didn’t call. You remember the look on his face. He never said anything, but it lingered.

And now there’s this necklace you saw online. Dumb. Simple. Nothing super flashy just a little silver tag with the coordinates of where you first kissed engraved on it.

You’ve never had the money for it.

But you could.

Your hand tightens around the edge of the newspaper.

You think about what your body did yesterday. About the way your bones felt when you jumped. The way the wind tasted when you flew. You think about your hands, your reflexes, your web. The power humming under your skin even now.

Three minutes in a ring?

You could do it blindfolded.

You’re halfway through planning it before you realize.

A hoodie. Loose jeans. Something to cover your face, nothing dramatic. You don’t need attention. You just need the prize. Get in, stay standing, get out.

You tell yourself it’s harmless.

You tell yourself it’s smart.

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.

But under all of it...

You feel it again.

That need.

That pull.

The part of you that wants to test it. That wants to feel the adrenaline again. That wants to see just how far this goes.

And maybe, just maybe, you want to win.

Not for the necklace.

Not for Mark.

But for you.

You fold the paper slowly, set it aside, and whisper under your breath

“Three minutes. That’s nothing.”

You nearly don’t go.

You almost chicken out when you see the outside of the facility, a converted rec center with damaged signs and a banner duct-taped to the brick wall that proclaims "CAGE NIGHT" in a bold font.

You convince yourself you’ll simply scope it out.

Just watch.

But you brought your hoodie. And your gloves. And the mask you patched the night before out of a tattered beanie and an old red t-shirt.

And the small folded-up flier in your hoodie pocket has “$3,000 CASH” emblazoned in enormous strong letters, circled three times in red ink.

You can’t walk away now.

You head inside.

It’s louder than you thought. The bleachers are packed with rowdy, beer-sloshing males in football jerseys and cheap sunglasses. There’s a cloud in the air that smells like fried onions and old perspiration. The floor creaks under your boots as you check in with a teen at the fold-up table who doesn't even glance up from his phone.

You scrawl your name on the sign-in form.

Stage Name: The Human Spider.

It felt intelligent last night. Sciencey. Personal. A subtle little hint to what you are today.

Now, looking at it on the page, it feels stupid.

You’re escorted to the rear, a tiny hallway that might’ve previously been a supply closet, now full with tense males in tank tops stretching and moaning like they’re prepared for battle. You can hardly hear the announcer above the clamor of the crowd.

You take a breath.

This is for Mark. For his birthday. For the jewelry you couldn’t afford. The one with the small coordinates inscribed into the pendant, the place where you kissed him for the first time after school, right before it poured. He doesn’t even know you remember.

You do.

You remember everything.

You step into the hallway when they call your name.

The lights hit you first. Bright and unpleasant.

The music is booming. The floor sticky. The Pulverizer is already in the ring, throwing air punches and flashing his pecs at a bunch of people in the front row.

The announcer reaches over the ropes and swings a clipboard in the air. “And in this corner, we’ve got a last-minute sign-up... standing at what looks like... five-foot-something? Really? Okay. Give it up for... hmm... The Human Spider?”

You wince.

The crowd laughs.

“Wow,” the announcer says into the mike, dry as sandpaper. “That name sucks. What is this, a National Geographic tribute act?”

The crowd laughs harder.

Your cheeks burn under the mask.

You look down at your hands.

The announcer throws the clipboard behind him and shrugs. “Y’know what? Forget it. Let’s spice it up. Give it up for the one and only... SPIDER-WOMAN!”

The name hits like a cymbal crash.

People cheer.

You freeze.

That’s not what you wrote.

But it resonates around the gym, ringing in your ears, and suddenly it’s not a suggestion, it’s a branding.

You move, approaching the ring.

And the name walks with you.

The Pulverizer is constructed like a fridge and twice as mean-looking. He twists his neck as you climb between the ropes and snaps his knuckles like it’s intended to terrify you.

The ref mutters something about “three minutes or a pin.”

You nod absently.

Your heart is thumping. But it’s not fear.

It’s something different.

That pull in your arms.

That quiet vibration in your center.

You’re ready.

The bell rings.

He comes at you fast, a swinging punch aiming at your jaw.

You duck. Smooth.

He misses by a mile.

You turn, whirl behind him, and without thinking, put your foot into his back.

It’s hardly even a hard kick.

But he flies.

He slams against the ropes. Bounces off. Crashes to the mat like someone dropped a couch.

Silence.

Then, the audience erupts.

The ref appears startled.

The Pulverizer is knocked out.

Not moving.

The bell sounds again.

You won.

Backstage smells like dampness and crushed hopes.

The promoter’s office is merely a folding table with a cash box and a clipboard. He doesn’t glance up when you step in.

You’re still shaking. Not from terror. From energy. From the way your whole body feels like it just woke up for the first time.

“I won,” you say. “Three grand, right?”

The promoter nibbles on a toothpick. Shrugs. “You didn’t last three minutes.”

You blink. “What?”

“You knocked him out in forty-five seconds. That’s not what the fans paid to see.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

He tosses a single hundred-dollar cash onto the table. Doesn’t even glance at you.

“There. Take it or leave it.”

You gaze at it.

It’s not even crisp.

You take it.

You leave.

You’re halfway down the corridor when the yelling starts.

A door slams.

You hear the promoter shouting, someone stole from him. Took the lockbox.

Then you see him.

A guy in a gray hoodie.

Running.

Fast.

Lockbox tucked beneath one arm, eyes wild.

He establishes eye contact with you as he rushes by.

You could stop him.

You know it.

You could pin him to the wall with one hand.

You don’t move.

The promoter stumbles out seconds later, breathless and red-faced. “HEY! YOU-YOU SAW HIM! WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HIM?!”

You meet his gaze.

And say, “Not my problem.”

Then you stroll out into the night.

The air is chilly against your face. The wind tastes like metal and rain.

You open your palm and gaze at the hundred-dollar bill.

It feels heavier now.

And for the first time since you received your powers…

You feel little.

You’re almost home when the lights appear.

Not the normal cozy porch sort. Not the glimmer of passing headlights. These are brighter, colder, red and blue flashing against the black like alarms shouting into the sky.

You stop at the end of your street.

Crowd forming.

Voices mumbling.

Sirens still booming in the air, despite the patrol vehicles are already parked.

People stand on the street in slippers and bathrobes, arms folded close, heads turned toward the familiar tiny house at the corner. Your home.

And suddenly, you know.

You know.

You run.

You don’t ask. You don’t shout. You just run.

The mob swirls around you as you surge through. Someone grabs your arm,“Hey, kid, you can’t be here-” but you pull free and dart under the tape before anybody stops you.

Your steps slow as you move passed the cruiser.

You saw the car first.

The passenger door is still wide open. Headlights throwing lengthy shadows onto the pavement. The engine is off, but the keys are still in the ignition.

Then you notice the form on the ground.

A body.

Unmoving.

Covered in a white sheet.

But not all the way.

One hand sticks out, familiar and aged, fingers curved just slightly, like they were grasping for something.

You recognize the ring.

Your throat locks.

You walk closer, slowly, like your body’s fighting to refute what your eyes already know.

A police officer tries to stop you. “Miss, please don’t-”

You ignore him.

You don’t utter a thing.

You fall to your knees beside the body and look at the hand like it would move. Like this is all a misunderstanding and any second he’ll wake up and tell you to stop being theatrical.

But he doesn’t move.

And that sheet isn’t raised.

You notice his sneakers. His watch. The corner of his flannel shirt. The same one he was wearing when he made you coffee this morning.

And suddenly it strikes.

Not everything at once.

Not like a scream.

But like water rising in your chest, sluggish, choking.

Your breath hitches. Your shoulders tremble.

Your fingers press to your mouth like they’re trying to hold everything in.

You let out a sound you don’t identify. Guttural. Choked.

Your vision blurs, and suddenly you’re weeping so hard you can’t see. You hunch forward, forehead on your knees, body shaking like it’s trying to break apart.

You don’t know how long you sit like that.

In some time, May is there.

She kneels alongside you, not saying anything, simply drawing you into her arms. Her hands massage your hair, but even she’s shaking. Her breath stutters on your skull.

“He just, he tried to help,” she murmurs. “They said it was a mugging. That he said for them to stop. That he tried to do the right thing and-and then the man just-”

She can’t finish.

You don’t beg her to.

Because you already know.

You see it again in your mind, the man who rushed by you in the corridor.

Gray hoodie. Lockbox clasped to his chest. Eyes wild and terrified.

You stepped aside.

You informed the promoter “Not my problem.”

Now it is.

You stare back to Ben’s corpse. You want to reach for him. You want to take it back.

But you can’t.

He’s gone.

Because of you.

A deep, scorching fire grows in your gut, sadness entwined with something harsher. Anger.

At yourself.

At the man who pulled the gun.

At the version of you who walked away.

You wipe your face.

Stand up slowly, eyes burning, hands clutched firmly at your sides.

You’re not sobbing anymore.

Your jaw is locked. Shoulders squared. Your pulse pounds with purpose.

Because now you know what you’re going to do.

You’re going to find him.

You don’t care what it takes.

This isn’t about becoming a hero.

Not yet.

This is personal.

The world is ringing.

You can’t hear May weeping behind you.

You can’t hear the murmur of the neighbors, the cops attempting to gently take her back into the home, the paramedics speaking to each other.

All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and the sound of your feet hitting concrete.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You run.

Harder than you ever have before.

The wind slashes at your face, and your hoodie flares behind you as you speed down the street with no strategy. No direction. Just purpose. Just rage.

The night is harsh. Cold. The streetlights make everything gold and wrong. And down in your breast, underneath the shock and the sadness, lies something else

Heat.

Boiling.

Growing.

Your fingers twitch. Your knuckles hurt.

You hear the words again.

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening…”

Your teeth grind together. You don’t finish the statement in your brain. You can’t.

You see his face. The man in the hallway.

Gray hoodie. Lockbox clasped to his chest.

You stepped aside.

And now Ben’s dead.

You scale a building without thinking. One jump. Then another. Your fingertips touch brick and metal and your legs propel you upward like you’re weightless.

You spring onto the rooftop and sprint full-speed across the tarpaper and gravel, leaping between buildings, air burning in your lungs.

Below, you spot him.

The same man. Same hoodie. Moving through side alleys swiftly, scared, peering over his shoulder like the devil is behind him.

He’s right.

You follow.

He slips inside by a side entrance of a nearby warehouse. You land on the roof seconds later, staring down through a dirty skylight.

Dim lights flicker. It’s abandoned. Half-packed containers and piled shelves threw lengthy shadows across the cement floor. Puddles of rain pour from fractures in the ceiling. The walls are coated in graffiti and lost messages.

You creep down the side, quiet, hands adhering to the wall like magnets.

You drop to the floor without a sound.

Then, from deeper in the warehouse, a noise.

A door creaking. A mumbled curse.

You step forward.

Fast.

You grab him toward the back.

He turns barely in time, eyes wild.

Recognition shoots over his face like lightning.

"You-" he starts.

You don’t let him finish.

You move. Fast. You grab him by the jacket and slam him into a support beam with a crack. The sound echoes. Dust falls from the rafters.

"Why did you kill him?" you demand, your voice like gravel.

He struggles. "I didn’t-I didn’t mean to, I just-he surprised, me, dude! I didn’t know!"

"You shot him."

He’s shaking now. "It wasn’t supposed to go that way!"

He swings. A fist to your stomach. It barely connects. You slam him back again, harder. He gasps.

He stumbles free, pushing off the beam, and dashes for the stairway at the far side of the warehouse.

You chase him.

He scrambles up to the catwalk level, high above the floor, past rusted-out rails and an old dangling chain.

You follow.

You reach the top as he struggles along the platform, nearly tripping on a puddle of old rainwater gathered near the edge.

"Don’t come any closer!" he cries, drawing a little blade from his jacket, holding it out like a threat.

You stop.

Your breath is steady. Measured.

He’s panting.

"You don’t get to walk away from this," you say, quietly. “You killed someone. You killed my uncle.”

"It was an accident!"

"So was this.”

You lunge.

He slashes frantically. You dodge. Grab his wrist. Slam it against the railing. The knife falls.

He panics.

Backpedals.

And steps incorrect.

The railing creaks.

Then breaks.

He slips backward, falling into the corroded crack.

You reach out.

You grab him.

Your hand wraps around his wrist, firmly. His body jerks to a standstill, hanging twenty feet above the concrete floor.

He yells.

Your grasp slips slightly, his skin is slippery with perspiration and blood. You tighten.

“I’ve got you,” you gasp, breath shaking.

He glances up.

And you see his face again.

The fear.

The recognition.

"You could’ve stopped me earlier,” he says, voice shaking. “You-you let me go.”

You freeze.

Your stomach lowers.

And in that hesitation

Your fingers lose him.

He slides.

Falls.

You lunge too late.

CRACK.

The sound of his body hitting the hard floor is definitive.

Sickening.

You look.

You lookat the fractured figure below.

The silence.

The quiet.

Your hands quiver.

You back away from the railing. Stumble. Fall to your knees.

He’s dead.

You didn’t mean to murder him.

You wanted justice.

Closure.

Something.

But this?

This feels like neither.

You don’t know how you got there.

You’re perched on a rooftop someplace blocks away, high above the street. The wind rips through your hoodie like razors, and your body hurts from the pursuit, from the fall, from the guilt.

You’re curled into yourself, arms wrapped tight over your knees.

Your mask lays crumpled beside you.

In your palm is the hundred-dollar note the promoter gave you.

The paper’s moist now, smeared, discolored. You unfold it, gaze at the ink spilling onto your hand.

Then you rip it in half.

Then again.

You let the fragments disperse off the side of the building, fluttering down into the lane like dead leaves.

You sit in the dark, your breath short, your face sticky with dried perspiration and tears.

And for the first time since this began, you say it out loud.

"...It was my fault."

And you mean it.

The church is too silent.

Too still.

It’s one of those modest neighborhood chapels that smells like dust and wood polish and something slightly fragrant. Rows of pews border the central aisle. Candles glimmer softly at the altar. The organ is silent, but for the occasional murmur of aged pipes adapting to the heat.

You sit in the front row, hands folded in your lap, eyes distracted.

You can’t recall how you got here.

You recall the night. The fall. The sound. The way your hand slid.

But this?

This is fuzzy. It everything moved too fast. The coroner. The papers. The casket. The outfit you didn’t know still fit.

Ben is sleeping just a few feet away, locked within a pinewood box you had to help May pick out.

Because she couldn’t do it alone.

And neither could you.

You’ve scarcely uttered a word since that night.

The silence is easy.

May hasn’t asked where you were. What happened. She’s mourning, buried so deep in grief that she rarely eats, barely looks up. She clutches your hand when people speak to her, but never too firmly. Like she’s frightened of breaking you too.

Your eyes wander toward her now.

She’s seated next you, clothed in gray, slimmer somehow. Her face is pale, but her jaw is firm, composed in the manner only someone who’s gone through this before could manage.

She hasn’t cried today.

You have.

Not loudly.

Not noticeably.

But your hands won’t stop shaking.

You’ve had to sit on them the whole time simply to keep motionless.

The service goes on in a flurry of eulogies and silent songs. Someone reads a chapter from Psalms. Another neighbor adds something about Ben constantly volunteering to trim their grass, even in the heat. You hear the words, excellent man, amazing, kind, always had a tale to tell, and they all land like stones in your chest.

Because it’s all true.

And he’s gone.

Because of you.

Your eyes hurt again.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Not now.

You can’t weep again. Not here.

Not with everyone watching.

Not with him watching.

Because somewhere between the commencement of the ceremony and now, Mark Grayson sneaked into the back row.

You spotted him as you turned slightly, head down, arms wrapped tight across his chest, clad in black.

You haven’t seen him since the day before it all happened. Since the match. Since before.

You didn’t text him. You didn’t explain.

And still… he came.

Your stomach knots.

He captures your sight briefly.

Nods once.

You glance away.

The service concludes.

People rise in silent clumps. They converse in low tones. Some leave flowers at the coffin. Some embrace May. One woman, a friend of Ben’s from down the block, lays a hand on your shoulder gently.

You attempt to smile.

It doesn’t reach your eyes.

Eventually the church empties, sluggish as a tide pushing back. Only a few individuals remain now. May is chatting gently to the preacher.

And you’re still sitting in the same location, unable to move.

Then there’s a gentle shuffle of shoes approaching the pew behind you.

You glance up.

It’s Mark.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

He just sits down next you.

His suit’s a tad too small in the shoulders. His tie’s crooked. His hair’s still wet, probably raced here straight from class or a shift.

But he looks at you like he sees you.

Really sees you.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” he replies gently.

You shake your head. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Your throat tightens.

He stares down at your hands, still curled tight in your lap.

Then at your face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And he means it. All of it.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a minute. Then, a bit softer,“You okay?”

You nearly laugh.

It comes out strangled.

“Not really,” you say. “But thanks for asking.”

Another beat of quiet.

“He talked about you.”

Mark’s brow furrows. “Ben?”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “He liked you.”

Mark delivers a sorrowful smile. “I liked him too.”

You nod.

And suddenly, as if all at once, it breaks.

Your shoulders tremble. Your face twists. You cover your lips with your palm, but the sound still escapes, a breathless sob, piercing and abrupt and dreadful.

Mark moves without thinking.

He pulls you in.

His arms wrap around you like a shield, and you bury your face into his shoulder, shivering, breathing, trying to calm yourself, trying not to make a spectacle, but failing.

“I’m sorry,” you choke. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t,” he urges, his voice low in your ear. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I let him die.”

Mark stiffens slightly but doesn’t let go.

You didn’t intend to say that.

Not like that.

Not out loud.

You close your eyes.

Mark doesn't ask what you mean.

He just holds you closer.

You don’t deserve it.

But you’re thankful regardless.

The sun is low by the time you walk home.

You’re alone.

Mark offered to walk you, but you shook your head.

You needed the room.

You pass stores with their lights out. Apartment windows shining soft yellow. An aging couple strolling their dog. A group of teens giggling on someone’s porch.

Life carries on.

Even when yours doesn’t.

Even when something in you is gone.

You approach the corner where Ben was shot.

There’s chalk on the ground now. Someone sketched a heart. Wrote his name. Left a flower in a glass jar.

You squat beside it. Touch the chalk dust.

And then you do the one thing you haven’t done in days.

You whisper

“I’m sorry.”

The breeze blows gently.

No reply.

But something moves in your chest.

Not forgiveness.

Not peace.

Just… resolve.

Your room. Your silence. The beginning of anything fresh.

The home creaks in the calm.

May’s already sleeping, or at least pretending to be. You passed her room on the way up the stairs and noticed the gentle bulb glow beneath the door, the shadow of her sitting in the chair by the window. She doesn’t cry when she thinks you can hear.

You don’t weep either.

Not anymore.

There’s nothing left in you to spill.

You sit on your bed, legs crossed, looking at the closed closet door. Your funeral garments are balled in the hamper. The sleeves of Ben’s flannel droop off the side of your work chair. The one he used to wear when he prepared breakfast, even in summer. The one he was wearing when-

You squeeze your palms into your eyes.

Stop.

Focus.

You take a deep breath. Let it out gently.

Then you get up.

Open the closet.

Dig past the old pants, the half-broken Halloween costume from two years ago, the box of notebooks, till your palm brushes the little duffel bag you carried home two nights ago.

The one with your improvised wrestling costume still inside.

You pull it out and unzip it carefully.

The hoodie. The gloves. The mask. It smells like perspiration and dust and remorse.

You drop it on your bed.

And then, you stroll over to your workstation.

Pull open every drawer.

Scissors. Safety pins. Sewing kit. A set of iron-on patches you never used. A red turtleneck. Your old jogging sneakers. Fabric leftovers from May’s quilting bag. An old gymnastics leotard you outgrew but never threw away.

You put it all out in rows like evidence at a murder scene.

Then you sit.

And you begin.

The scissors aren’t sharp enough.

You cut nonetheless.

Your fingers hurt from keeping the cloth taut, but you keep going. The leotard becomes your foundation layer, red, form-fitting, functional. The turtleneck sleeves get sewed on with weak stitching. You strengthen the seams where you can.

You pull a sweatshirt sleeve inside out and start tracing the spider sign by hand.

It doesn’t come out perfect.

But you don’t care.

You sew it on.

You cut the red patches into jagged cuffs and stitch them on your forearms. They’re symbolic. They’re intended to be. They’re for Ben.

When you slide the mask over your face, a new one, red with black stitching around the eyes, you gaze into the mirror for a long time.

You don’t look like yourself.

Not really.

Your eyes are the only thing still visible, and even they feel like someone else’s.

You grab for the hoodie again, this time, not to wear it.

You put it over your lap. Fingers smooth the cloth carefully. Gently.

Ben gave you this sweatshirt years ago.

You were thirteen, soaking from a deluge, shivering in the car after going home from school in the rain. He didn’t even say anything. Just took it off and put it over you.

You never gave it back.

Now you cut a portion of it away, cautious, steady, and fold it into a patch.

You stitch it inside the wrist of your glove.

Close to your pulse.

You want it to be the last thing you touch every time you put it on.

It’s nearly 3 a.m. when you finally finish.

The outfit is rough. A patchwork of reclaimed cloth and irregular stitching. The mask moves slightly to one side. The spider on your chest is asymmetrical.

But it’s yours.

It’s not about cameras or fame.

It’s not for glory or fighting in rings.

It’s not even for revenge anymore.

It’s a promise.

You settle back in your work chair, still wearing it. The metropolis hums outside your window. You may hear the occasional honk, a dog barking someplace far off.

You flex your fingers within your gloves.

And murmur, “I’m ready.”

But you’re not.

Not really.

Not yet.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

Ben is standing in the kitchen in his flannel, flipping pancakes like he’s on a culinary show. The radio’s on. Something aged and comforting. You’re sitting at the counter, arms folded on the tile, yawning into your sleeve.

“You ever think about what you wanna be?” he asks, unprompted.

You raise an eyebrow. “In life?”

“No,” he smirks. “In a dream.”

You snort. “I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t set the smoke alarm off attempting to microwave rice.”

He smiles, pours more batter into the pan.

“I think you could be something really special,” he continues, not looking at you.

You blink. “Because I make good rice?”

“Because you care,” he adds. “You act tough. You’re funny. You’re clever. But deep down? You care. Even when you don’t want to.”

You gaze at him.

He flips a pancake with impeccable timing.

“I just hope,” he says, “that when it counts, when it really, really counts, you remember to use that. Whatever you do, wherever you end up... I just hope you choose to do the right thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Great, thanks, Yoda.”

He grins. “Hey, I’m older than Yoda.”

You toss a napkin at him.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You stand at your window now, the complete outfit clinging tight to your frame. The fabric tugs slightly at your elbows. The mask is down, yet your fingers tremble at your sides.

You open the window carefully.

The wind rushes in. Cold. Bracing.

You step onto the fire escape.

The city stretches out before you in a sparkling grid of movement and commotion.

You squat low.

Close your eyes.

Feel it.

That tug in your center.

The one that knows what you are today.

The one that instructs you to leap.

Ben isn’t here to witness this.

But you are.

And it means you have to try.

You rocket forth into the night.

The web fires before your brain fully instructs it to.

Thwip.

You swing.

Not perfectly.

You almost lose your grasp.

But you land hard on the next building over, gasping, heart pumping.

And then you laugh, breathless and half-crazy.

Because you’re alive.

Because he isn’t.

Because this is the only thing that makes sense now.

You glance out at the skyline.

You put the mask over your face.

And say it, quiet, not to the world.

To him.

“I promise, Ben.”

You leap again.

This time, you don’t fall.

The wind stings your eyes.

Your second swing is smoother than your first. Your third is almost graceful. You’re still getting the hang of it, how much pressure to use, how far to leap, how to twist your body midair so the landing doesn’t jar your knees but you’re improving fast.

Your body knows what it’s doing even when your brain doesn’t.

You land on a rooftop with a low thud, breathing hard, heart thudding against your ribs. The city stretches around you like a maze of light and steel. Cars crawl below. Horns echo. Steam rises from vents like phantom trails.

You’re wearing the suit. Your suit.

And you’re out here.

Doing something.

Finally.

The first hour is quiet. You perch on rooftops. Watch alleys. Follow sirens from a distance and stop short when you realize the cops have it handled.

You help a guy pick up a box of dropped produce. He thanks you like you’re a cosplayer.

It’s not glamorous.

But it feels right.

Then you hear it, a scream.

From somewhere below.

You don’t wait.

You drop from the roof and fire a web mid-fall. You swing around a corner, flip over a railing, and land in a narrow alley between two apartment buildings. A man’s got someone pinned against the wall, clutching a purse, shouting. The woman is struggling, kicking, trying to twist away.

Your feet hit the pavement hard.

“Hey,” you bark, voice lower, more serious than you expect. “Back off.”

The man turns.

Scoffs.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters. “Another costumed freak? What is this, comic con?”

You shoot a web.

It hits the purse and yanks it from his hand, sticking it to the opposite wall.

He startles. Turns back to you.

“I’m not in the mood,” you say.

He lunges.

You dodge easily.

It’s instinct now.

You sweep his legs with a fluid motion and drop him hard onto the pavement. He groans, tries to rise. You web his hands to the ground.

The woman runs, clutching the purse once it peels loose.

You wave faintly.

Then crouch beside the man, inspecting your own handiwork.

“Okay,” you mumble. “That went better than expected.”

Then, crash.

Something loud above you. A blur of motion.

You spring back just as a figure drops from the sky.

And lands.

Hard.

In front of you.

You stumble into a crouch, webbing ready in your wrist.

Then stop.

Because you recognize him.

Yellow and blue suit.

Black hair.

Big lenses. Sharp. jawline.

Invincible.

You’ve seen him on the news. You’ve watched him toss tanks, punch asteroids, argue with government mouthpieces and win.

And now he’s standing in front of you, slightly breathless, looking between you and the guy you just webbed to the floor.

“Oh,” he says.

He tilts his head.

“You already got him.”

You blink.

“...Yeah.”

He nods, eyebrows lifting. “Nice.”

You glance at the guy. “Thanks. He tried to do a whole ‘I’m the big bad guy’ thing. Didn’t go great for him.”

Invincible laughs.

It’s annoyingly charming.

“Seriously, though,” he says, crossing his arms. “Not bad. You’re new?”

You shrug. “Depends who’s asking.”

He smirks. “Guy who just flew in to stop a mugging that clearly didn’t need him.”

You huff a laugh. “You’re late, by the way.”

“Fashionably.”

You both stare at each other a second too long.

You fold your arms. “So, do you always land like that? Or was that just to show off?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, the superhero pose?”

“It was very dramatic. Big ‘I’m the main character’ energy.”

“I am the main character,” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes under the mask. “Wow. Humble too.”

Another beat.

He runs a hand through his hair. It flops back exactly how it was before. Like gravity loves him too much to interfere.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” he says.

“That’s kind of the point,” you reply.

He smiles. “Mysterious. I dig it.”

You pretend your stomach doesn’t flip.

He takes a breath, suddenly softer. Looks past you at the alley wall. Then up at the stars, like he’s thinking too hard.

“Honestly, I just needed to get out,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head.

“Rough day?”

He nods. Then shrugs. “Yeah. My girlfriend’s going through something. Heavy stuff. I think I made it worse. So I figured I’d... you know.”

“Fly halfway across the city and interrupt someone else’s win?”

He chuckles again. “Pretty much.”

You smile faintly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Girlfriend.

You should’ve guessed. Guys like him? They’re always taken.

Still, something about how he says it, soft, a little sad, makes your stomach twist differently.

You step closer to the edge of the alley and look out at the city.

“Sometimes getting out doesn’t help,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “But it’s all I could think to do.”

He glances back at you, expression unreadable.

“I’m trying,” he adds. “She’s important to me. I just... don’t always know how to help.”

You nod.

You know that feeling too well.

“Maybe she doesn’t need you to fix anything,” you say. “Maybe she just needs you to stay.”

He looks at you, really looks.

Like he’s trying to place something he doesn’t quite recognize.

You don’t let him.

You fire a web and swing up to the fire escape, crouching on the railing.

“Anyway,” you call down, “nice meeting you, Invincible.”

He blinks.

“Wait, what do I call you?”

You pause.

Think for a second.

Then smile behind the mask.

“Spider-Woman.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr

𑣲 variant!invincible I @slutoru1207

Multiple versions of Mark Grayson from different dimensions find the reader, each desperate to keep her because they lost their version of her. Now, they refuse to let her go.

𑣲 invincible!mark x reader x variants I @/slutoru1207

𑣲 mistaken devotion I @/slutoru1207

𑣲 i love you, but i need boundaries I @/slutoru1207

𑣲 i can feel it in my bones I @couldeatthatgirlforlunch

Being Invincible’s pet is cruel, but you manage to find comfort in it.

𑣲 fail safe I @invoncible

𑣲 bluff I @/invoncible

when mohawk mark doesn't find debbie at his childhood home, he goes after the next best thing: you. he thinks you're together in this world too, and when he realizes you're not... well, how could he possibly give up such a perfect opportunity?

𑣲 smut I @/invoncible

𑣲 running into invincible variants I @/invoncible

𑣲 keep away w/ invincible variants I @/invoncible

𑣲 mohawk!mark I @/invoncible

𑣲 viltrumite!mark I @/invoncible

𑣲 the only exception I @jks1uv

in every universe, mark grayson turns into his father and seals his destiny as a true viltrumite. what if things are different this time?

𑣲 u love me and i love you I @controld3vil

Mark accomplished what his father couldn’t – he conquered Earth. Accepting that wasn’t the hardest part; living with it wears you down.

𑣲 drabble I @halcyon-writings

𑣲 scenarios / bestfriend!reader I @radlovesfics

𑣲 third wheel trouble I @cherryyluvs

𑣲 starfire!reader I @/cherryyluvs

𑣲 streamer!reader pt2 I @/cherryyluvs

𑣲 don’t wake up my parents I @/cherryyluvs

𑣲 you’re all i think about I @/cherryyluvs

Mark becomes obsessed with you, stalking your social media, learning your routines and slowly inserting himself in your life.

𑣲 mark loves his best friend pt2 I @starzyangel

𑣲 a different kind of star I @acenanxious

𑣲 right there pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 I @/acenanxious

neighbor!reader x invincible variants

𑣲 shattered affections I @wordsofwhimsy

All surviving Variants have been brought to the Main Universe as a means to help defend and protect Earth.

𑣲 takeout mishap I @0bticeo

mark stumbles in, looking wrecked—bruised, bloody, barely holding himself up—but guess what? he still has a takeout bag. the paper’s stained red, but he just grins like an idiot and goes: "still hot." priorities.

𑣲 and they called it puppy love I @sqgeism

𑣲 a man’s greed I @/sqgeism

𑣲 snip it/sneak peak I @ay0nha

𑣲 one-shot I @swightops

"in every dimension, Mark Grayson falls for you, but not this one."

𑣲 superhero drabble I @rainydaygotham

𑣲 mark being down bad I @tiramissyoucake

𑣲 mohawk!mark I @/tiramissyoucake

𑣲 different roles!reader I @/tiramissyoucake

𑣲 reader!doesn’t know I @/tiramissyoucake

𑣲 drabble I @gojoidyll

𑣲 a girls first love and heartbreak (sister/daughter!reader) I @tamayakii

𑣲 mark grayson dating hcs I @angelltheninth

𑣲 wonder boy I @serensho

au in which mark is hercules in ancient greece! and he saves a sassy damsel who changes everything.

𑣲 invincible variants pt2 I @mirai-lunar

𑣲 healer!reader I @thegr33nc0met

𑣲 touch I @grimmsbride

mark grayson doesn’t give a damn what you can do, or how fear hurting him; he would touch you again and again no matter the consequences.

𑣲 invincible variants x reader I @mocharyc

𑣲 cockwarming I @asaarii

you'd been pissing him off all day and he couldn't figure out what he did wrong to deserve your bratty behavior. wearing all his favorite clothes but ignoring him, wearing his favorite scent but refusing to let him come near you, making plans but forgetting to include him—you knew exactly what you were doing. and now you were right where you wanted to be—under him, trembling, exposed.

"you’re so beautiful," he muttered, voice wrecked with want. "but you were so mean today."

his hands roamed possessively, spreading you open. his fingers dragged up your inner thigh, thumb teasing the slick mess leaking from your pussy. he groaned at the sight of it. "so wet already, love. all that attitude today just ‘cause you wanted me to fuck it outta you?" he chuckled lowly. "all you had to do was ask, sweet girl. you know i love to satisfy you."

you whimpered beneath him, fingers curling into his forearms. his cock pressed against your entrance, swollen head nudging just right to make your hips twitch.

"mark, baby, please," you whispered, glossy-eyed and desperate.

his gaze darkened, lips twitching into a smirk. "i don't know... i haven't forgotten how you misbehaved." he cooed, dragging the head of his cock through your folds—slow, teasing strokes that made you squirm. "even this feels like too much mercy for you..."

"i'm sorry!" you weren't. "i won't ignore you again!" you would, especially if it meant he’d take you like this.

he clicked his tongue, voice dipping lower. "mm."

you were close. so close. weeks of carefully planned sabotage; throwing out every last condom, doubling up on supplements behind his back, doing every last thing to rile him up. all you needed was for him to stop thinking and act.

"you mean it?"

you nodded vigorously, clawing at his arms. "mhm! i mean it, promise! pleeeease, mark—" your legs fastened around his waist, coaxing him forward.

he cursed as he leaned over to the side of the bed, practically yanking the side drawers open, rifling around for condoms. but you were pulling on his free hand and it was getting hard to think straight with your pretty whines.

"'m on the pill," you said hurriedly. you weren't. "just—just c'mere, please? i need you..."

"shh, i know." he smiled languidly over his shoulder, but his facade meant nothing to you; you could see the way his breathing grew uneven. "give me a second."

"no!" you cried, harshly tugging him back towards you, gripping his shoulders so tightly your nails left crescent-shaped dents in his skin, just the way he liked.

he stared down at you. if he didn't know the context, he'd confuse your urgency for something far more serious, like you were on the verge of dying or something.

"now, mark," you whispered. "i wanna feel you."

his cock throbbed hard against your entrance, already soaked with how ready you were. his sweet girl, soft and pliant and so fucking pretty when you begged. the way your eyes shimmered, your lips pouted just for him... he was gone a long time ago, but now he really couldn’t think straight.

but one thing was bugging him...

initially, mark was not worried about you catching on to his plans. you trusted him with all your heart! of course you wouldn't think twice if he bought the cheapest condoms that could possibly break... or if he took over meal prep, feeding you dishes and smoothies that were super healthy for you. he had to keep his future wife healthy, of course, for multiple reasons.

the viltrumite empire was coming for earth. he knew that well—it was his whole purpose. but you're soft, precious, and so annoyingly human in your fragility—you didn't deserve to be the enemy. he couldn't stand by and see you suffer by his people's hands, not when he loved you so.

so he decided knocking you up was for your benefit. to him, it was the obvious solution. both of you always talked about having a family anyway...

but your behavior lately was getting sloppy with desperation, and he was beginning to realize how cunning you truly were. you were insatiable, always conveniently forgetting to remind him of protection, and all those new wellness habits you adopted—what were they for, really? he was only turned on more by the thought of you sneaking around trying to get him to put a baby in you. you wanted him that bad? wanted him in the same way he wanted you?

strangely enough, the revelation didn't make him feel better. you wanted something more from him and instead of letting him do it right the first time, you tried to sneak and do it yourself? were you aware of how many times he wanted to throw you on the nearest surface and fuck his seed into you til it took? all the cum he wasted when it could've been spilling into you, properly, where it belonged?

he grunted with annoyance, life returning to his body when he slammed into you—one swift motion, burying himself to the hilt with a groan that ripped from his chest. your cunt stretched to take him, walls fluttering, gripping him so tight it made his eyes squeeze shut.

you gasped sharply, back arching off the warm mattress when you felt him prodding at your cervix. even in your ecstasy, you remembered to dig your heels into his back, pulling him close and deep and making sure he stayed there.

mark's eyes flitted down your body, restless with desire, and your gentle boyfriend vanished.

"you happy?" he muttered sharply, thrusting deep and fast. "you feeling me now?"

you couldn’t speak. couldn’t think. you were gone already, your nails clawing down his back, tears leaking from your lashes as he ruined you. every inch of him hit just right, every thrust punching a moan from your chest.

"mark—"

"shut up," he snapped, gripping your hips for better leverage to piston into you, completely lost with the blazing heat of your cunt swallowing his cock with every thrust of his hips. "you wanted this," he panted, thumb pressing to your clit hard enough to make you jolt. "wanted me to lose it, huh? wanted me to fuck you full and give you a baby?"

wait. "huh?" your eyes fluttered open.

he laughed, "don't act dumb, now. m'not mad. proud of you, actually—" he cut himself off, biting his tongue as his thoughts were consumed by his lower half.

your brain barely processed the words spilling from his mouth—all you could do was nod and preen under the fact that your plan worked. you were so far gone, so cockdrunk.

"my perfect girl," he hummed hoarsely, hips stuttering as your gummy heat tightened around him. "should've done this sooner. no one'll touch you, ever."

"i—"

"shh," he leaned back on his legs, scooping handfuls of your ass and fucked down into your fluttering walls like you were his personal fleshlight. "i’ll give you what we’ve both been wanting—" a pitiful whine tumbled off his lips as he continued to rant whatever filth came to his mind. "over 'nd over 'nd over again ‘til there’s no way you won’t get knocked up…"

mark’s palm spread across your lower stomach, pinning you down while his cock dragged deep, like he was memorizing every inch of you from the inside out.

you whined, warmth blooming in your core and gushing around him. he leaned closer, breath ghosting the shell of your ear as his hips rolled forward again, so deep you could hardly breathe.

"i'll make all of them strong," he gritted out. "but they’ll be soft and beautiful like you."

you could barely process what he was saying with the way his cock squished that spongy spot deep inside consistently, only picking up bits and pieces. "all of them?"

"oh, yeah. we're not stopping at one. they'll have to protect you,” he continued, a laugh on his lips. “every single one of them."

you clenched down on him involuntarily, biting your lip as your body trembled beneath the weight of his promise.

"does that please you, love?" he asked, almost amused, gaze flickering down to watch the way your body took him. "knowing you’ll never be alone again?"

he pulled back, just the tip inside, before slamming back in with a sharp grunt. your breath hitched, hands fisting in the sheets. "mm. you’ll be revered," he muttered, eyes burning. he wanted to make you wait for it, but even he was itching to abandon his gloating. "you're doing great work for the empire. they will honor you; i’ll honor you."

mark kissed your temple with chilling tenderness. "what a privilege it is to make you mine like this. you were made for me.” he shifted, grabbing your hips with both hands now, fucking you a little harder—still slow, still controlled, but sharper, like his restraint was slipping with every second.

"you’ll be so beautiful," he murmured drunkenly, almost to himself, "round and tired and soft… and i’ll take care of everything, love. you’ll stay in bed, right here, where i can keep you safe and full." his thumb circled your clit lazily, coaxing your pleasure from you.

you cried out, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach, and mark swallowed your moan with a lazy kiss. your legs tightened around his waist. your orgasm crept in slowly, curling from the base of your spine and tightening in your belly. your walls fluttered around him, hips trembling without control as he stayed buried deep.

"mark—" you whispered, your grip tight.

"i know." he hissed, every bone in his body focused on seeing you through. "come on, we got a few more rounds to go after this one, love."

your release cracked through you like lightning, pulsing waves of pleasure rippling through your body as your vision blanked. heavily breathing, you slumped against the mattress, gushing around his cock and soaking the sheets below.

feeling you milk him was it for mark—he groaned as he came hard, spilling buckets deep inside you, twitching with each thick rope of seed painting your walls. mark collapsed on top of you, nudging himself deeper despite the sensitivity to make sure you milk every drop, adamant on avoiding waste.

while he's focused on making the plan work, you’re busy being dizzy with ecstasy at the thought of succeeding in the first place. through the fog of his mind, mark watches your chest rise and fall, a ghost of a smile on your face, and he's wants to go again—he needs to go again, keep you stuffed and satiated. and how could he not feel that way when you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close to your clammy skin? he snuck an arm under your lower back and met you halfway, pulling you flush against him, still buried deep.

he'd let you catch your breath, bring you some water, and massage your tender limbs... because you weren't leaving the bed any time soon. now that you were on the same page, you both had some work to do 𖹭