#implied violence

based on this pic

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The bathroom light is too bright.

It hums faintly overhead, flickering just enough to make your reflection feel…off. You don’t look like yourself. Not really.

Your fingers hover near your cheek before pressing—lightly at first, then with more pressure, like you’re trying to test if it still hurts.

It does.

You suck in a breath through your teeth, pulling your hand back quickly, like you’ve been burned. The skin there is already darkening, blooming into something you won’t be able to hide in a few hours. Your lip is split—just enough to sting every time you press it together.

“It wasn’t that bad,” you murmur to yourself, voice rough and quiet in the empty apartment.

The words sound wrong out loud.

You reach for your phone on the counter, hesitating as your thumb hovers over the screen. There’s a moment—just one—where you consider something else entirely.

Calling your boyfriend.

Apologizing.

Maybe if you just explained—maybe if you hadn’t pushed so much, if you’d just listened—

Your stomach twists.

You set the phone down. Pick it back up. Set it down again.

This is your fault.

…Isn’t it?

A shaky breath leaves you as you press your palms against the counter, staring at your reflection like it might give you an answer.

It doesn’t.

The silence stretches.

Then—

You grab your phone and scroll.

Past contacts you don’t trust. Past names that don’t feel safe. Past numbers that wouldn’t pick up this early anyway.

Your finger stops.

You stare at it for a long second.

“…He won’t answer,” you whisper, like saying it might make it easier.

You hit call anyway.

It rings once.

Twice.

Three times—

“Hello?”

His voice is groggy. Sleep-heavy. Confused.

“…Hey,” you manage, and your throat tightens immediately.

There’s a pause on the other end. You hear the shift—fabric, movement, something like a bed creaking.

“Hey—? What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer right away.

You can’t.

“Hey,” he says again, sharper this time, more awake. “Are you okay?”

“I—” Your voice cracks. You swallow hard. “Can you come over?”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

“…Right now?”

You nod instinctively before remembering he can’t see you. “Yeah. I just—I need—”

“I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead.

—

You barely have time to move from the bathroom before there’s a knock—too fast, too soon.

Your heart jumps.

You open the door.

And there he is.

Mark Grayson stands there in a t-shirt and sweats, hair a mess like he didn’t bother fixing it, chest rising a little too quickly for someone who supposedly just woke up.

His eyes land on you.

And stop.

The shift is immediate.

It’s subtle at first—just a tightening in his expression, his brows pulling together slightly.

Then his gaze sharpens.

Tracks.

Your cheek. Your lip. The way you’re holding yourself.

“…What happened?”

You look away.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I just—”

“That’s not nothing.”

His voice is firmer now. Not loud—but there’s weight behind it.

You shrug, trying to make it look smaller than it is. “It was just an argument, it got a little—out of hand. It’s fine now.”

“Out of hand.”

He repeats it like he’s testing the words. Like they don’t sit right in his mouth.

You force a small laugh. “Yeah. It’s—it’s really not a big deal, I just—”

“Who did this?”

Your stomach drops.

“Mark, it’s—”

“Who.”

The word is sharper now. Edged.

You hesitate.

Because you know him.

You know what he can do.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping a little closer, like that might ground him. “It’s okay. Really. I probably just—said something I shouldn’t have and—”

His jaw tightens.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It kind of does,” you try, a little more urgently now. “I mean, I shouldn’t have—”

“That doesn’t matter,” he repeats, more firmly this time.

Silence stretches between you.

You can feel it—the tension building under his skin, the way he’s holding himself back.

“…It wasn’t the first time,” you admit quietly.

You don’t know why you say it.

Maybe because the look on his face makes it hard not to.

Maybe because part of you wants someone to know.

His expression stills completely.

“…What?”

You swallow. “I just—didn’t think it was that serious, you know? And I thought if I just—handled it better, it wouldn’t—”

“Stop.”

The word cuts through your sentence.

You freeze.

His hands curl slightly at his sides, fingers flexing like he’s trying to keep them still.

“Where does he live?”

Your heart stutters. “Mark—”

“Where does he live?”

There’s something in his voice now that wasn’t there before.

Something…final.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say quickly. “It’s fine, really, I just needed someone to talk to, I didn’t mean for you to—”

“You should’ve told me sooner.”

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Your breath catches.

“Mark—”

“Address.”

You hesitate.

And that’s all it takes.

“…Please,” you add, softer this time. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Then his gaze flicks just briefly to your bruised cheek.

“…I’ll handle it.”

Before you can say anything else, he’s gone.

The window rattles slightly in his wake.

—

He finds him faster than expected.

Of course he does.

People like that aren’t careful.

They don’t think they have to be.

Mark Grayson doesn’t bother knocking.

He doesn’t make a scene, either.

Just waits.

Watches.

And when the guy steps outside—alone, distracted, phone in hand—

Mark moves.

It’s quick.

Disorienting.

One second he’s there, the next he’s not—pulled into an alley a few blocks away before he can even process what’s happening.

“What the—what the hell—?!”

The guy stumbles, panic setting in immediately as he tries to regain his footing.

Mark doesn’t let him.

Pins him back—firm, unyielding.

“Hey—hey, wait, man, I don’t know what you—”

“You do.”

His voice is calm.

Too calm.

The guy’s breathing turns uneven. “Look, if this is about—about earlier, I—I didn’t mean—”

“You hit them.”

It’s not a question.

“I—I didn’t—it wasn’t like that—”

“You hit them.”

“I said I was sorry!” he blurts, panic rising, hands shaking. “I called them, I told them I—look, I love them, okay? I didn’t mean to, it just—it got out of hand, I swear it won’t happen again—”

Mark watches him.

Listens.

Waits.

“…It already happened more than once.”

The guy falters.

That’s all the answer he needs.

“Please,” he tries again, more desperate now. “Please, man, I’ll fix it, I’ll do whatever, just—just let me go, okay? I won’t go near them again, I swear, I’ll—”

Mark tilts his head slightly.

Studies him.

Measures.

Then—

“…No.”

The word is quiet.

Certain.

The guy’s face drains of color.

Mark steps forward.

—

When you hear the window again, you flinch.

You hadn’t even realized how long it had been.

You turn.

And he’s there.

For a split second, relief hits you.

Then—

You see him.

There’s something…off.

Not obvious, not at first glance but there’s a stiffness to the way he stands, a faint darkening along the fabric of his clothes that wasn’t there before.

And in his hands

A plastic bag.

Another one.

“…Mark?”

Your voice comes out smaller than you intend.

His expression softens immediately when he looks at you.

“Hey.”

Like nothing’s wrong.

Like he didn’t just disappear for who knows how long.

“What—” You swallow. “What happened?”

There’s a pause.

Just a second.

Then—

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Your stomach drops.

“…What does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he sets the bags down carefully on the counter.

“I grabbed some stuff,” he says instead. “Ice packs. Bandages. Uh—” He pulls out a pack of mini sodas and snacks, setting it beside them. “And…these.”

A small, slightly crumpled stuffed animal follows.

You stare at it.

Then back at him.

“…Mark.”

“I’m gonna clean up first, okay?”

He says it gently. Like he’s asking.

But he’s already moving toward the bathroom.

You don’t stop him.

—

By the time he comes back he looks…normal again.

Cleaner.

Like whatever you saw before wasn’t real.

He kneels in front of you, opening the first aid kit with careful hands.

“Sit still,” he murmurs.

You do.

Of course you do.

His touch is careful. Gentle in a way that doesn’t match the tension still lingering in the room.

He presses a cold pack lightly against your cheek, watching your reaction.

“…Tell me if it hurts.”

“It already does,” you try to joke wekly.

He doesn’t smile.

“That’s not funny.”

You fall quiet.

“…He said he was sorry,” you admit after a moment, staring at your hands. “He said he didnt mean it.”

Mark’s hands pause for just a second.

Then continue.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

“…Did you talk to him”

A beat.

“…Something like that.”

You swallow.

“…Mark what did you do?”

He finally looks up at you.

There’s something in his eyes you don’t recognize.

Not angr.

Not really.

Something steadier.

“Hes not going to hurt you again.”

It’s not reassurance.

It’s a statement.

Your chest tightens.

“…Okay,” you say slowly.

Because you don’t know what else to say.

He softens a little at that.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, standing and holding out a hand. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You hesitate.

Then take it.

—

The movie plays quietly in the background, something you’re not really paying attention to.

You’re curled up under the blankets, the stuffed animal tucked awkwardly against your side.

Mark sits beside you close, but not suffocating.

Present.

His arm rests lightly around your shoulders, careful of the bruises, fingers absently tracing slow, grounding patterns against your arm.

“You should get some sleep” he says after a while.

You shake your head slightly. “Don’t think I can.”

“…That’s okay.”

Silence settles again.

Its quieter now.

Safer.

And somehow

Not.

“…Mark?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitate.

“…Thank you. For coming.”

His hand stills for a moment.

Then resumes.

“…You don’t have to thank me.”

Another pause.

“You should’ve called me sooner.”

His voice is softer this time.

Almost gentle.

You nod, even though you’re not sure if you agree.

Your eyes drift shut eventually exhaustion pulling you under.

And Mark stays.

Watching.

Listening.

Making sure you breathe evenly.

Making sure youre still there.

Long after the movie ends.

Long after the sun starts to rise.

And somewhere in the back of your min

You can’t shake the feeling that nothing about this is over.

That it’s only just begun.

--

( this is based off what actually happened in a few of the comic panels of invincible with some slight changes and it's inspired off of when Amber and Mark broke up and amber called him so she could help her deal with her abusive boyfriend who was hitting her. so in this universe, reader would be taking the place of amber)

(here is my proof:)

“They think holiness is something they can touch.”

“I won’t let them burden you with their hunger.”

That’s when you realize the horrifying truth: he doesn’t believe he’s controlling you. He believes he’s protecting a sacred object from contamination.

After that conversation, the compound grows even quieter. Entire rows of seats sit empty during sermons. Followers avoid looking at you directly. Some make protective signs when you pass, as though your presence has become part of the religion itself.

And the cult leader? He becomes calmer than ever.

During his next sermon, he smiles warmly at the congregation and says only one thing that makes your blood run cold.

“Love is not possession. Love is guardianship.”

Hundreds of followers bow their heads in perfect unison.

Then he looks directly at you.

“And guardianship requires sacrifice.”

In that moment, surrounded by people who suddenly seem less like a congregation and more like a single living organism, you understand the real horror.

He has spent months teaching them that protecting you is a sacred duty.

And now they’re all waiting to learn what he wants protected from.

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