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Invincible Season 3 - Blog Posts
Man of War - Radiohead
Invincible season 3 finale
no blood version ⬇️
i think the fandom should start calling him mark gayson
ִֶָ࣪☾. | Sinister.
ᥫ᭡. Part two! (Part 1 here)
Tags: canon-typical violence, pwp (porn with plot), cunnilingus, oral sex (f receiving), interrupted sex, sinister mark is his own warning.
Silently, you read on your soft, large bed. The one that you’d told Mark to get you after he had kindly snapped the last one’s framework in half.
Afterwards, you’d tried to convince him to sleep on the pull-out couch downstairs. Unfortunately, he had thought you were making a less-than-clever joke.
Even with the window closed shut and the curtains drawn, you could still hear the destruction and the screams of agony from outside; and it was creating a serious detriment to your train of thought. You can’t focus if you’re rudely interrupted by a cry or a pained scream after reading a single sentence.
You let out an annoyed groan when you hear a goddamn gun go off, and decide to take matters in your own hands. Or rather, dump them on Mark.
You place your bookmark with little cats on it in the page you’ve stopped, a paw extending to point to the last sentence you read. Then, you hop off the bed to draw open the curtains and open the window. You don’t bother to direct your gaze downwards, where the murder and destruction occurs.
“Mark!” You call out loudly. You wait for a few seconds, keeping an eye on the sky as you wait. Your expression warps to a more annoyed the longer he takes. “Maaaark!”
Amidst the polluted sky, you see something like a sonic boom approach from far away. When he’s a couple hundred meters close, he steadily slows down, angling his feet forward to slow himself further. Till finally, he’s face level with you.
“Yes?” He says with a grin.
“What took you so long? I’ve been waiting here forever.”
He sighs, “Baby, I was in Rome. You know how far away that is?” You roll your eyes, “Pretty damn far away.”
He leans in through the window and plants a kiss, “If you want, I can take you with me right now.” He says musically.
You shake your head and smirk, “Lovely offer, but no.” Then, a frown takes place on your lips, leading you back to the reason you called him, “Mark, I can’t pay attention. I'm trying to read that stupid book, but I can't.” You gesture to your ears, “Everything is so loud.”
In that exact moment, an explosion goes off. Mark genuinely thinks about it for a moment, offering a solution, “So, do you want to live somewhere more remote?”
“No. I don’t want to live in a wasteland.”
“So do you want me to kill everyone here?”
“But then who will I talk to?” You complain.
He sighs, “Can’t you just deal with it?” You frown, and he eats up his words, “Okay. Fine, fine.” You can practically see him roll his eyes, even with his ridiculous goggles. “But I want pasta for dinner.”
You pout, “That’s what we had last night!”
He grins, “But not from Italy.”
He gives you a last, parting kiss, and then darts away. You nearly tip over at the force of it, then wipe your lips with a groan. You close the window and shut the curtains.
For a few, particularly annoying moments. There’s nothing but annoying loud noise. You try to keep your mind off of it by plugging in your headphones and listening to the songs you’ve saved.
You walk over to the bookcase in the room, pristine and untouched. After the fiasco a few nights ago, you refused him when he wanted to put it back in its original spot in the living room. Instead, you decided on keeping the nook close to your heart, and you. In the bedroom.
You run your fingers across the rows of books. By the time you find that same, slightly tampered with book, the noise has dispelled, leaving you in a comforting silence. You hum along to the song as you open the book.
The book that you are fairly sure that you hadn’t possessed before your fight. You don’t know what had compelled you to look for a book you didn’t own that night. But somehow, you knew you needed that book, and you knew it was just within your reach.
For some strange reason, the man that had opened a portal to your dimension –Angstrom Levy– was not keen on grabbing your Mark by the scruff and chucking him to a lovely reality he can ruin for his own enrichment. Or, that’s what you thought the idiot’s thought process was. Who the fuck knows what he’s thinking, really.
The book is on how dimensions work, how people that can open realities do that, and most importantly, how people who can’t inherently create a hole in the fabric of reality, learn how to.
Interesting stuff.
On the armchair near the bookcase, your legs are pulled to you and you drape a blanket over your lap. You take a sip of your warm cup of tea and set it down on the small coffee table next to you.
You open to where you stopped, and begin to read.
You have read this book more than a few times over the last couple days since you discovered it’s existence. During that time, you’ve found it’s less been a long read, and more a tough read. You’re trying your best to wrap your head around the idea before you even begin to attempt it. Because you only really get one chance. One chance to get rid of your Mark. And if you fail? Well, then you can kiss kicking Mark’s ass out of this reality goodbye.
The entire late afternoon, you spend it in your reading nook, repeating over and over what you have to do to open a portal to a different reality.
When seven o’ clock strikes, you hear the familiar click of the front door. And before you could even lift your face to see, you’re met face-to-face with Mark.
He sees the book you’re reading, “I see you’re making good use of your time.” He kisses your cheek, “I’ll take a quick shower and meet you downstairs. I won’t take too long.” You suppose the last part was meant to be a threat.
***
At the dinner table, you twirl your fork around the spaghetti, then push the spikes of it into a meatball, before putting it in your mouth. As you chew, you hum pleasantly.
He watches your expression with a keen eye, a grin on his lips at his triumph. “See? I told you it wouldn’t be cold. You just like to complain.”
You swallow. “It’s a little cold.” You don’t want him to think he did an amazing job and get too full himself.
He throws his hands up and furrows his eyebrows at you, “No! It isn’t!” You just shrug.
The rest of the dinner continues to be a series of cutlery clinking with each other as you silently eat. Per usual, Mark’s face is screwed up into a frown.
“So,” He tries to start, “How’s the book you were reading going along?” You look at him with an eyebrow raised, and he groans, “The one with the angsty guy.”
You sigh and correct him, “Angstrom.” You take a sip of wine, it’s painfully good. “And I already told you, I can’t open a portal. It’s impossible. You have to be born with it.”
You fall into yet another uncomfortable silence. And the cycle continues with Mark trying to speak up, “Well, what about those other books you were reading? The one with the dragons and princesses and whatever.”
Each time, you respond as curtly as physically possible, and the dinner ends with you throwing the dishes in the garbage. Because who does dishes at the end of the world, anyway?
Without needing to be told, you hop on the marble counter and let Mark slip between your legs. He holds your hips as gently as possible (for him, anyway) as he kisses your lips. But as the kisses become more heated, his grip on you tightens, and you repress an annoyed sigh. He’s such a goddamned brute it’s almost aggravating.
He picks you up by the back of your thigh without cutting off the kiss, a show of his strength. You wrap your arms around his neck and let him kiss you on the table where you were eating at. You let him suck at your lips against the living room couch, and you let him mark your neck against the stairs, before finally carrying you up into the bedroom.
Along the way, there is a mess of a trail of clothes. He throws you onto the bed and takes his underwear and pants down in one go. He kicks them away and crawls to you, planting kisses down your neck.
“You’re so fucking…” He grabs your waist tightly, “bitchy without even trying.” He bites the column of your neck harshly, then again on the other side. You yelp both times. “You know how goddamn annoying you are?”
He’s taking his frustrations out on dinner, and every dinner, on you. And you won’t have that. You slap his back, he shudders, “Either do it right or get off of me.” You grit.
He just groans, “God, I hope that leaves a mark.” He kisses down your body. Starting from the middle of your chest, to your stomach, all the way down to your pelvis. With how impatient he is, it doesn’t take long before he plants a wet kiss directly on your folds. Your thighs instinctively cage his head. He snickers.
“Oh…” He chuckles breathily against your cunt, making your spine shiver. “Missed this fucking cunt.”
You don’t, or rather can’t, comment on how it’s only been two days since the two of you last had sex, because he decides to put his face directly into your pussy, licking at it. His mouth finds your clit, and latches on it, sucking.
You immediately grip his dark hair, moaning. Your breath turns ragged as he leaves your clit a sensitive, puffy mess. “D-Don’t tease.” You grumble, but it sounds more like a whimper.
He licks a stripe along your folds in response, “Baby, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, ‘cause this is my pussy. You fucking got that?” He licks along your folds insistently, making you squirm.
When you don’t reply, he slaps your hip, “You got that?” and you nod immediately, amusing him. As a reward, he slips a finger inside your wet core, and your breath is caught in your throat.
Without bothering to let you get used to the feeling, he starts to slip it in and out. The lewd squelching sounds please him, and he returns his attention back to your clit.
“M-Mark–” You barely say, your leg jerking, “Wait–”
He takes that as an invitation to slip a second finger inside of you, making you gasp. He crooks them, trying to find your most sensitive spot, and he catches it when you scream.
Determined to make you cum, each thrust of his fingers lands on your g-spot. Your head thrashed against the pillow, and your body jerks, trying to get away from him. But you’re pretty sure you’d cry if he did.
He takes turns sucking on your clit, and marking your inner thighs. Every movement and jerk makes you flex, and he grips your thigh, “Stay fucking still, yeah?”
You try, but it’s asking the impossible. Mark goes down on you again, eating at your pussy with renewed fervor. Curse viltrumite stamina. Or bless it.
You feel the feeling in your stomach boil over, and you barely have time to warn him before he makes you come with a scream. You cry, and your cum lands on his mouth, making a mess, and he eagerly laps up your release. You breathe quickly, your thighs squeezing around him so hard his skull might bash in if he wasn’t superhuman.
Eventually, you come down. Though your breath still comes in sharp inhales as you try to calm yourself. You realize it’s impossible with Mark still in between your legs. You try to push him off you as he licks at your inner thigh, “Mark—” You whine, “Enough. Stop. It hurts.”
With one last lick, he finally gets up from between your legs. His tongue darts from his lips to clean them of your release. He crawls on top of you and kisses beneath your jaw, his hands going to feel your body up and down.
“Well it’s about to hurt a lot more. Because you’re such a sweetheart, and you’ll let me finish inside of you.” He squeezes your waist, “Won’t you?”
Your cunt automatically pulses like a sleeper agent, and you feel the waves of arousal come back to you in an instant. Yes, the fuck. You are a goddamned sweetheart. The sweetest, even.
You can’t help yourself from wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him, which he responds to with a pleasant moan. He grabs the side of your head and sucks at your lips, like he’s trying to eat them. But you don’t care. You want to have him. And you want him right now.
His tongue slips between your kiss-bitten lips, and you feel his hardness push against your inner thigh. So close, yet so completely far away.
“Mark.” You moan, “Mhm?” he says back, and you take a second to lay back down, looking up at his sickly sweet puppy eyes. Pretty eyes that are clouded over with lust.
You let out a sound that’s like a whine. “Please? Now?” He chases after you like a puppy, immediately connects your lips again.
“Yea, mmm, fuck. Yeah, okay.”
He rubs his cock against your inner thigh, and it barely grazes your core, making you whine. You’ll die if you don’t get to have him inside of you right now. You wrap your legs around the small of his back, letting him know.
He continues to kiss you like he’s starved, practically trying to melt your lips into each other as he humps your inner thigh.
You feel sweat cling to your skin and Mark’s breathing becomes more frequent.
He sits up on his haunches and strokes the underside of his cock, his eyes rolling back atthe pleasure. You swallow, enraptured by his display as he pumps his dick right in front of you. “You want this?”
You look into his eyes with as much desperation as you’re trying to convey: yes. Oh my god, yes.
He looks down at you with half-lidded eyes, and he brings your thighs around his hips. You help him without hesitation. Your body racks with nerves and anticipation as you eye his dick. Excitement bubbles up in your core.
Just as you think he’s about to slam into you as roughly as he always does, he’s suddenly snapped out of his lusty haze, his face becoming more alert as he glances around the room. He quickly turns his head up to look at the window. Wordlessly, he jumps out of bed with speed and peels back the curtains.
You know better than to even call out his name, so you lift the covers up to your chest and try to see what he’s seeing, sitting up.
From the exact opposite side of the room, there’s a crackle, and an otherworldly sound fills the room as a bright green portal opens up. Instantly, it casts the room in its unrealistic, brilliant green.
It continues to swirl in on itself, as it had done that fateful night.
Mark looks at you, as if you’d done that, and you snort, “Yeah cause i’d have enough concentration to warp reality while we have sex.”
He groans, not at all pleased with the turn of events. “Well, if you’re soo concentrated, close it back up again.”
“And what the hell makes you think I can do that?”
While the two of you bicker, a figure emerges from the portal, and your eyes flit to it on instinct. Meanwhile, Invincible’s instinct is to pull back his fist, ready to kill.
Your jaw falls open as what emerges from the portal is not like anything you’ve seen. It’s a man, with a large, gross-looking head. He wears an inelaborate suit with a dramatic red cape. You turn your head and frown in distaste.
You’ve always associated Mark with being some kind of freak accident, but this guy clearly takes the cake for being a mutant abnormality.
“Invincible.” He declares, and in your opinion, ridiculously. “I have a proposal.”
So it seems that’s what mutants say instead of ‘Hello.’ these days.
You squint your eyes at the man. He seems familiar, but at the same time not at all so.
“Angstrom?” You say, before Invincible almost punches through his guts with a yell.
Instead, he catches himself and merely shoves him to the wall opposite, creating a crater. He looks back at you, “This guy?” He asks incredulously. You can only nod.
“Thank you for your hospitality, I'm sure you’re known for it.” Angstrom groans after being struck.
“What are you doing here?” You ask against your better judgement.
“Well, I wanted to give you guys some privacy so you can finish up.” He looks to Invincible, “But I don’t have all day for you to get off, too. And it’s as they say, ladies first, anyway.”
You could not believe what your ears had just heard and what information your brain just relayed to you. You’re pretty sure your vagina just shriveled up and died right there.
It’s only then that you notice Mark stands with his dick hanging. Just like that. Just…like… that.
Perhaps it is just a way of life that you will never understand men.
Angstrom relays to invincible the deal that had slipped out of your mouth the night of your fight. To no one’s surprise, he instantly agrees. And faster than you can blink, he changes into his black and yellow suit.
The man with brains for a head goes through the portal without further delay, confident Invincible will follow anyway.
Invincible floats in front of the portal, looking back at you with his usual, cocky grin. You must look like a fish out of water.
“This probably won’t take longer than a few days, you know?”
You nod, not sure what to say.
“And it’s what we want, to expand the empire.”
You nod again, wordlessly.
Satisfied, he flies through the portal, and it closes up behind him without delay. Instantly, the room is free of the portal’s glimmering green glow, and it’s shrouded in the complete darkness it was in.
Seems that mutants don’t say hello, or goodbye.
You get off the bed sluggishly and put on your underwear and your shirt. You go to your small reading nook that was only made recently. The book Angstrom had given you is still laid on top of your thin blanket. You take it, and drop it into the trash can.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
a/n: sorry to edge, next part will have p in v, yay.
Tagged: @onlybatsyy
sinister mark art pack!
request my art here
brushes i used on csp:
milk carton brush
paint (yes thats the name)
fresh salmon
sona brush
What I got from the invincible war was that every Mark is caked up, basically
— Otherworldly Differences
mark grayson x saiyan! reader
• fic type: oneshot & fluff
• summary: crash landing on such a feeble planet wasn't on your to-do list. although this being whose nearly as strong a you confronts you, so you decide to humor him.
• word count: 5.8k
• warnings: mild canon typical violence, threat of violence, blood
• a/n: As you can see I got really carried away. 🧍♀️I like DBZ and I like Invincible, so why not combine the two!! Also I've just started watching invincible so sorry if he's ooc.
A shrill, wailing sound yanks you from unconsciousness, vibrating through your skull like an alarm gone haywire. You groan, forcing your heavy eyelids open, and are immediately greeted by the acrid stench of burning metal and scorched earth.
Smoke billows around you, thick and suffocating, curling from the shattered remains of your ship—a twisted hunk of alien steel embedded deep in the cracked pavement.
Your head pounds in protest, a dull, throbbing ache pulsing behind your temples. You press a hand to your forehead, then glance down at yourself.
Dust clings to your skin, mingling with smudges of soot and dried blood. Your armor, now riddled with scorch marks and gashes, groans as you shift.
Damn. That landing must’ve been rough.
Muffled shouts rise above the ringing in your ears. Blinking away the haze, you finally take in your surroundings.
Small, weak-looking creatures encircle the crash site, clad in identical dark uniforms. They hold strange little metal sticks, aiming them at you like they actually expect them to do something.
“Put your hands where we can see them!”
“Step away from the wreckage!”
“You’re under arrest!”
You arch a brow, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. They think they can arrest me? That’s adorable.
With a groan, you push yourself upright, rolling your shoulders. A shower of debris crumbles from your armor, scattering across the crater floor. Your hair, wild and voluminous as ever, whips around your face as you stretch.
"Where in the name of Vegeta am I?" you mutter, voice thick with irritation.
The humans stiffen. Their fingers tighten around their weapons, eyes flickering between you and the destruction left in your wake.
The boldest of the bunch—a man with gritted teeth and an unfortunate mustache—steps forward, barrel trained directly at your chest.
“I said put your hands up!” he barks.
You tilt your head, gaze flicking over him with mild amusement. “Do you know who you’re speaking to?”
Apparently, he doesn’t. None of them do. Because instead of answering, they just keep shouting, their voices a frantic mess of demands and threats.
You sigh, rubbing your temple. This is exhausting. If they refuse to answer your questions, perhaps a demonstration is in order.
Your eyes scan the wreckage, landing on the nearest object of interest—a large, boxy vehicle with shattered windows and blaring alarms.
Without hesitation, you grab it by the undercarriage, lift it effortlessly over your head, and hurl it toward a nearby building.
Glass explodes outward as the car crashes through the structure, embedding itself halfway into the second floor. The ground trembles from the impact, sending fresh cracks spiderwebbing across the pavement.
That gets their attention.
“Holy Shit!”
“She’s a freaking alien!”
“No shit,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “Now, which one of you is in charge?”
Before anyone can respond, a gust of wind nearly knocks you back. A shadow streaks across the sky, descending at high speed.
You turn just in time to see a figure land in front of you, kicking up dust upon impact.
An array of yellow, blue and back filled your vision, toned muscles flexing between the tight material of a suit.
You recognize the stance immediately. A fighter. Interesting.
“You must be the problem everyone’s freaking out about,” he says, arms crossed. His tone isn’t immediately hostile—more wary than anything.
You grin, rolling your shoulders. “Depends. You here to challenge me?”
The guy blinks, visibly thrown off. “Uh, not exactly.”
You frown. “Shame. I was hoping someone here would be worth my time.”
Despite yourself, you’re intrigued. He’s strong—you can sense it. Not nearly Saiyan strong, of course, but there’s something different about him. Something… familiar.
He studies you just as intently, gaze flicking between your tattered armor, your battle-worn knuckles, and—most notably—the towering mass of thick hair atop your head.
His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, but he hesitates.
“I’m Invincible,” he offers instead.
You snort. “Bit cocky, don’t you think?”
He sighs. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
A beat of silence. Neither of you moves.
Then, cautiously, he gestures toward the chaos surrounding you. “Look, I don’t want to fight you.”
“That makes one of us,” you say, cracking your knuckles.
Mark exhales through his nose, clearly trying to be patient. “Seriously, can we just… talk?” He gestures at the wreckage, the police, the frightened civilians peeking from behind cover.
“You’re obviously not from around here, and you seem kinda… lost?”
You bristle at the implication. You are not lost. Saiyans do not get lost.
But.
Well.
You don’t exactly know where you are, and it’s slightly concerning that your ship is currently a pile of molten scrap metal.
“…Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your hands into the tattered remains of your belt. “But if this is a trap, I’m breaking every bone in your body.”
Mark exhales in relief, though the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Noted,” he mutters. Then, more amused than he probably should be: “You always this dramatic?”
You smirk. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
His lips twitch, as if suppressing a laugh. Instead, he just shakes his head and gestures for you to follow.
You crack your neck, glance at the still-stunned humans, and grin.
Let’s see where this goes.
••••
You hate this place.
It smells like sterilization and fear, the kind of artificially clean air that makes your skin itch.
The walls are a cold, metallic gray, pulsing with dim overhead lights. The whole facility hums with electricity, the kind that suggests they have restraints for things stronger than humans.
And the way they’re looking at you? Like you’re a specimen in a cage? You really, really don’t like that.
You sit in a metal chair bolted to the floor, arms crossed, one leg bouncing slightly as you stare at the wrinkled man in front of you.
His name is Cecil. You’ve already decided you don’t like him.
For the past ten minutes, he’s been droning on, asking questions about your species, your ship, your intentions—like you owe him answers.
You’ve made a game of not responding, watching his patience wear thin.
“You’re really not gonna talk?” he asks, finally, voice dry as dust.
You smirk. “Why would I answer to someone who can’t even fly?”
Cecil’s face twitches. Across the room, Mark—Invincible, as he insists on being called—snorts.
He tries to smother his laugh, pressing his lips together, but you see the amusement flickering in his eyes.
Cecil doesn’t react beyond a slow exhale through his nose. He’s good at this, you’ll give him that. A lesser man would’ve cracked by now.
“I’ll be honest,” he continues. “You’re not our first alien visitor, and you probably won’t be our last. But if you’re planning to cause problems—”
You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table, flashing him a slow, sharp grin. “I am the problem,” you say, voice dripping with amusement.
“And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
The silence that follows is delicious.
Mark shifts slightly. You don’t need to look at him to feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his body tenses like he’s preparing for you to lash out again.
You’re not going to—yet—but the fact that he thinks you might is amusing.
Cecil just sighs and rubs his temple. “Get her out of my sight.”
You stand, stretching with a dramatic groan.
“Finally. This room smells like weakness.”
One of the armed guards by the door stiffens at that, knuckles whitening on his weapon. You give him a slow, pointed grin before turning away.
Mark steps beside you, shaking his head. “You’re so charming,” he mutters, voice laced with dry amusement.
You flash him a smirk. “I try.”
He gestures toward the exit. “Come on, oh mighty warrior. Let’s get you some fresh air before you pick a fight with the janitor.”
••••
Mark insists you need to learn about Earth.
Assimilate, he says. Blend in.
You think it’s ridiculous. Why should you have to adapt to them? You are superior in every way—stronger, faster, smarter. If anything, they should be learning from you.
But… well. You suppose humoring Mark is preferable to rotting away in that dreadful government facility.
So when he insists on introducing you to “the best thing Earth has to offer,” you allow yourself to be dragged along, arms crossed and skepticism at full capacity.
Which is how you find yourself sitting in a place called Mama Luigi’s Pizza.
The walls are plastered with photographs of grinning humans holding enormous, greasy slices of something that looks like food but definitely doesn’t smell like anything worth eating.
The air is thick with the scent of melted cheese and sizzling dough, mingling with the faint tang of tomato sauce.
Mark places a box in front of you with a dramatic flourish. “Alright, first lesson in being an Earthling, food.”
You narrow your eyes at the offering. The circular dish is sliced into uneven triangles, topped with bubbling golden cheese and a thin layer of something red.
You poke it with a finger. It squishes slightly. “What is this?”
Mark sighs like he was expecting this reaction. “It’s pizza. Just try it.”
You glance at him, then back at the pizza. It doesn’t smell awful, but it looks so… soft.
Your diet consists of meat cooked over an open flame, raw energy rations, and the occasional alien delicacy that most species wouldn’t dare touch.
This? This just looks like melted goo on soggy bread.
“Do humans consume nothing of nutritional value?” you ask, lifting one of the slices and examining it like it might try to escape. “How does this pathetic excuse for sustenance fuel you?”
Mark groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not always about nutrition. Sometimes it's about taste.”
You snort. “Taste is secondary to power.”
“Okay, Y/n,” Mark deadpans. “Just take a bite.”
You sniff it warily, then, with great reluctance, sink your teeth into the gooey mess.
The moment the flavors hit your tongue, your brain short-circuits.
Salty, savory cheese. Rich, tangy sauce. The warm, crispy-yet-doughy crust. Your taste buds—so accustomed to the harsh, metallic tang of survival rations—practically explode.
You don’t mean to make a noise, but something between a hum and a low growl of approval rumbles in your throat.
Your grip on the slice tightens, fingers flexing instinctively.
Mark watches with interest as your pupils dilate. “...Well?” he prompts, smirking.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you devour the rest of the slice in two bites, grab another, and tear into it like a starving beast.
Mark blinks. “Oh. Oh wow.”
The next few minutes are a blur. The pizza—this godly, divine creation—is disappearing at an alarming rate.
You don’t pace yourself.
You don’t breathe.
You just consume.
Mark leans back in his chair, watching in a mixture of horror and awe. “Uh, you do know you’re supposed to chew, right?”
You ignore him, grabbing another slice, cheese stretching between your fingers.
Mark’s brows shoot up. “Are you—oh my god, are you actually growling?”
You pause mid-bite, realizing that yes, you are growling—a low, territorial rumble vibrating from your chest. Your muscles are coiled, posture slightly hunched as if guarding your prize.
You force yourself to relax, clearing your throat. “Instinct,” you say, voice muffled around your mouthful. “Saiyan biology.”
Mark stares at you.
Then at the emptying box.
Then back at you.
“That’s terrifying.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, completely unbothered. “It is efficient.”
Mark gestures to the now nearly empty pizza box. “That was supposed to be for both of us.”
You glance at the single, lonely slice remaining in the box, then at Mark. Then back at the slice.
You grab it.
“HEY!”
You take an exaggerated bite, chewing slowly, making direct eye contact with him as you do.
Mark groans, slumping back in his seat. “I cannot believe I just witnessed a Saiyan discovering pizza.”
You swallow and grin. “Alright.” You gesture to the crumbs and grease-stained box. “This planet might have some value after all.”
••••
Mark insists you need to learn human customs if you're going to stay on Earth.
You think human customs are stupid.
“Just try to blend in,” Mark says as he leads you down a crowded city street, his voice already laced with exhaustion. “No throwing cars, no threatening people, and for the love of God, no fighting the barista.”
You scoff, ruffling your hair in annoyance. “If this barista dares disrespect me, they’ll have earned the beating.”
Mark sighs. “I’m begging you to be normal for five minutes.”
You don’t dignify that with a response.
The place Mark drags you to is small and cramped, filled with the scent of something bitter and the low hum of human chatter. Coffee shop, he calls it. You call it a waste of time.
The line moves painfully slow. You tap your foot impatiently, arms crossed, eyes scanning the ridiculous menu full of nonsense words like macchiato and venti.
“These names are stupid.”
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have to understand them. Just order something.”
Finally, you reach the front. A young man stands behind the counter, looking more exhausted than Mark. His uniform is wrinkled, his expression blank.
He sighs. “What can I get you?”
You lift your chin. “Your strongest drink.”
The barista barely reacts. “Do you want that hot or iced?”
You narrow your eyes. “Is there a difference?”
Mark nudges your side. “Just say hot.”
You roll your eyes. “Hot, then.”
The barista punches something into his register. “Name for the order?”
You blink. “Why do you need my name?”
“It’s so we can call it when your drink is ready.”
You frown. “You mean I have to wait?”
The barista, clearly dead inside, just blinks at you. “Yes?”
You lean forward slightly. “Do you know who I am?”
Mark audibly groans.
The barista, now vaguely alarmed, glances at Mark for guidance. Mark shoots him an apologetic look before turning to you, voice dangerously close to pleading. “Just give him your name and be cool.”
You stare at the barista. The barista stares back. Then, slowly, you smirk. “Fine. My name is Y/N the Warmonger.”
Mark visibly deflates.
The barista, now beyond caring, just types something into the register. “That’ll be $4.75.”
You blink. “That will be what?”
“Four dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Mark pulls out a small green rectangle and hands it over before you can start breaking things. “I got it.”
You watch as the barista takes the rectangle, swipes it through a strange machine, and hands it back.
You lean over, voice low. “Did he just steal from you?”
Mark drags a hand down his face. “That’s how money works.”
“Money is a scam.”
Mark gestures for you to step aside as the next customer moves forward. “Welcome to capitalism.”
You huff, tapping your fingers against the counter as you wait. “How long does this process take?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
Mark shrugs. “How busy they are.”
You look around. There are only three other people waiting. “This is pathetic.”
“Do you have to say everything you think out loud?”
“Yes, I do.”
Mark stares at you for a long moment, then sighs. “Just… stand here and don’t start a fight.”
You scoff, crossing your arms. “I won’t start a fight.”
Mark looks at you like he doesn’t believe you at all.
Minutes pass. The baristas move at a snail’s pace, making drinks with far more effort than seems necessary.
Your patience—what little exists—wears thin.
Finally, someone calls, “Y/N the Warmonger?”
You smirk, stepping forward. “Ah, finally.”
The barista places a small cup on the counter.
You eye it. “That’s it?”
Mark claps a hand over his face. “Please don’t—”
You grab the cup and inspect it. It’s small—far smaller than you expected. And it’s hot, heat seeping through the flimsy material. You narrow your eyes at the tiny opening in the lid. “This is ridiculous.”
Mark nudges your arm. “Just take a sip.”
You do.
And immediately gag.
Mark snorts. “Not a fan?”
You shove the cup back at him, wiping your tongue on your sleeve. “It tastes like burnt dirt.”
“That’s coffee.”
“Why do humans drink this?”
Mark shrugs, taking a sip of his own drink. “Some of us like suffering.”
You glare at the cup. “This explains so much.”
Mark is laughing now, shaking his head. “Okay, maybe coffee isn’t your thing.”
You sneer at the cup as if it personally offended you. “I will destroy this establishment.”
Mark grabs your arm. “We are leaving.”
••••
Mark should’ve known better than to mention Halloween in passing.
The moment the words leave his mouth, you stop walking, whip around, and grab his shoulders so fast he barely has time to react.
"Wait, wait, wait—" Your grip tightens, eyes burning with intensity. "So you’re telling me there’s a day—a whole day—where I can wear anything I want, and people just… give me things?"
Mark blinks, looking mildly concerned for his well-being. "Uh… yeah? That’s… basically Halloween."
Your expression is deadly serious. "This is the best planet in the universe."
Mark sighs, prying your fingers off his shoulders. "You really don’t need to be this dramatic."
You scoff, crossing your arms. "I absolutely do. This is groundbreaking information, Mark. Do you understand how insane this sounds? Where I’m from, if you want something, you take it—or you beat someone into the ground until they hand it over."
"Yeah, we call that robbery," Mark mutters.
You ignore him. "But this? This is a sanctioned event?"
He shrugs. "Pretty much. Kids dress up, go door to door, and get candy."
Your head tilts. "Candy?"
Mark pauses, realizing something horrifying. "Wait. You’ve never had candy before?"
You raise a brow. "Should I have?"
Mark grabs you hand, a new found conviction stirring his heart. "Okay, new plan. We are absolutely fixing this."
The next thing you know, you’re standing in the middle of a store filled with costumes.
Mark drags you through the aisles, dodging plastic skeletons, fake cobwebs, and a disturbing number of severed limbs. You pick up a dismembered hand, inspecting it with mild curiosity.
"Humans celebrate death?" you ask, turning it over in your palm.
Mark huffs a laugh. "Kinda. Halloween’s all about spooky stuff. Ghosts, monsters, horror movies—"
"Horror movies?" you echo, dropping the fake hand.
"Yeah, it's filled with things that's supposed to be scary—like, creepy stories, jump scares, murder-y villains—"
Your eyes light up. "You have a murder holiday?"
Mark sighs, rubbing his temple. "That’s not—never mind. Just pick out a costume."
You survey the wall of options, eyes scanning the bizarre selection.
"What’s a ‘sexy nurse’?"
Mark chokes, face growing warmer. "Not that one!"
You grin, baring sharp canines. "Ohhh, so it's not just a murder holiday."
Mark groans, dragging you toward another aisle. "We’re not doing this."
After an obnoxiously long debate (and Mark vetoing several of your more violent ideas), you finally settle on something appropriately intimidating.
A black cape, sleek armor, and a terrifying mask with glowing red eyes.
Mark squints at the tag. "Darth Vader?"
You tilt your head. "This man—he was a warrior, yes?"
"Uh… kinda?" Mark hesitates. "More like an evil space dictator."
You grin. "So, a king."
Mark sighs. "I feel like I should stop you, but… honestly? You’re weirdly perfect for this."
You flick the cape over your shoulder, nodding in approval. "Yes. Lord Vader is ready to conquer this...Halloween."
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please don’t start referring to yourself in the third person."
You smirk, already deep in character. "Lord Vader does as he pleases."
Mark groans.
Hours later, you’re stalking the streets with a plastic skull bucket (Mark refused to let you carry an actual skull), and your energy is through the roof.
"Look at them, Mark!" You gesture wildly at the groups of costumed children. "They fear me!"
"They don’t," Mark corrects. "They think you’re cosplaying."
You scoff. "They should fear me."
"That's called fear mongering."
You ignore him, marching up to a door and pounding on it like you’re issuing a challenge.
A kindly old woman answers, beaming. "Oh, what a lovely costume! And who are you supposed to be, dear?"
You puff out your chest. "I am Lord Vader! Kneel before me, mortal!"
Mark, standing behind you, mutters, "I can't do this."
The woman chuckles, unbothered, and drops a handful of candy into your bucket. "Well, Lord Vader, enjoy your treats!"
You stare down at the loot. Then at Mark. Then back at the candy.
Your voice drops to a whisper. "It worked."
Mark claps a hand on your shoulder, smiling lightly at the child like wonder in your expression. "Welcome to Halloween."
••••
Mark fascinates you.
You don’t know when it happened, or how, but somewhere between the endless sparring matches, the insufferable Earth lessons, and the way he constantly calls you out on your arrogance, you started… caring.
It’s infuriating.
He’s not a Saiyan. He’s soft. Idealistic.
Sentimental in a way that would get him killed on any real battlefield. Yet, he doesn’t break. No matter how many times he's knocked down, he always gets back up.
He’s stubborn. Stupidly determined. And worse—so much worse—he’s kind.
And every time he smiles at you, your stomach does this weird thing that you refuse to acknowledge.
You blame it on Earth’s atmosphere.
You’re sitting on the edge of a rooftop, the city sprawled out beneath you, golden from the streetlights. It’s late—too late—but neither of you seems particularly eager to leave.
Mark leans back on his hands, staring up at the stars. “Y’know, I used to think I was strong.”
You snort, swinging your legs over the ledge. “Used to?”
He gives you a sideways glance. “Yeah, and then I met you.”
You smirk. “Ah. A humbling experience, I’m sure.”
Mark groans. “I hate that you’re so smug about it.”
“But I earned the right to be smug,” you counter, grinning. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor. You should thank me for showing you how weak you are.”
Mark scoffs. “Oh yeah, thanks so much, Your Highness. I love getting my ass kicked on a regular basis.”
You shrug. “You should. It builds character.”
Mark huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “You love messing with me, don’t you?”
You tilt your head. “Of course.”
“Why?”
You blink. The question catches you off guard.
Mark watches you expectantly, but there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you—less irritated, more curious.
You feel a strange warmth creeping up your neck.
You click your tongue. “Because you react.”
His brows furrow. “What?”
You wave a hand at him. “Most beings—weaklings—would just fear me, but you? You get angry. You argue. You fight back.” You smirk. “It’s entertaining.”
Mark shakes his head, exasperated but smiling. “You are so weird.”
You huff, crossing your arms. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He leans back again, gaze shifting to the sky. “It’s not.”
Something in your chest tightens.
You don’t like the feeling.
The next time you spar, it’s different.
You’ve fought Mark dozens of times now, and it’s usually predictable. You win. He loses. He gets slightly better each time, but the outcome never really changes.
Except… today, he lasts longer.
His movements are sharper, more controlled. His dodges are precise. His counters actually make you work.
You grin, blood pumping, excitement thrumming under your skin.
“Finally,” you breathe, dodging a punch by a hair. “I was starting to think you’d never improve.”
Mark exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, well, I’ve had a very aggressive training partner.”
You smirk, throwing a kick that he barely manages to block. “And look at you now! Almost respectable.”
“Almost?”
You grin. “Let’s see if you can prove me wrong.”
He lunges again, and for the first time, you let yourself enjoy it—not just the fight, but him. The way he moves. The way he refuses to back down. The way he looks at you, like he’s actually enjoying himself too.
And then he smiles.
Not a smirk, not a cocky grin, but a real smile. Bright. Genuine.
And something in your stomach flips.
You stumble.
Not much—barely a misstep—but enough. Mark seizes the opportunity, slamming into you with enough force to send you skidding backward.
You catch yourself before you hit the ground, flipping midair and landing in a crouch. Your heart is pounding—not from the fight, but from the fact that you hesitated.
You never hesitate.
Mark grins, slightly out of breath. “Hey, did I actually get you just now?”
Your fingers twitch. You force your expression back to neutral. “No.”
Mark raises a brow. “Are you sure?”
You glare. “Absolutely.”
He smirks. “You totally hesitated.”
You stand up, rolling your shoulders. “You wish.”
Mark chuckles. “Oh, I know I did.”
You hate that he’s right.
You hate that you let him be right.
And most of all…
You hate that your stomach does that thing again.
••••
You don’t care about Earth.
That’s what you’ve told yourself, over and over again, ever since you crash-landed on this ridiculous planet full of weaklings. You don’t care about its people, its customs, or its foolish attachment to peace.
But then someone hurts Mark.
And suddenly, none of that matters.
It happens fast.
One moment, you’re watching him trade blows with some costumed idiot—some third-rate, no-name waste of oxygen who dares to think they can beat him.
And then—
Mark hesitates. Just for a second.
And in that second, the bastard slams a fist straight into his ribs with enough force to send him crashing through a building.
Your vision goes red.
Your usual smugness—your sharp, teasing quips—vanish. There's no room for anything but pure, feral rage.
You don’t think.
You react.
The air around you crackles as you launch yourself forward, faster than the fool can process. One second, they’re standing there, smug over landing a hit on Mark—
The next, you have them by the throat.
Their eyes widen, hands clawing at yours, feet kicking uselessly in the air. You squeeze, just enough to make them panic.
“You think you’re strong?” Your voice is low, almost a growl, vibrating with barely restrained fury. “You think you can just touch him?”
They make a choked noise, eyes bulging. You hate looking at them. This weak, insignificant thing that had the audacity to harm what’s yours.
Your grip tightens. The building behind you trembles from the sheer force of your energy surging outward. Hair flickering between its normal color and golden for a split second.
Mark coughs somewhere in the rubble. "Y/N—"
Your head snaps toward the sound. He’s trying to push himself up, one arm wrapped around his ribs, blood smeared across his cheek.
He’s looking at you now, eyes wide, expression torn between disbelief and something else—something softer.
You don’t like it.
You scowl, then turn back to your prey. You could end this fight right now. Just a little more pressure, and they’d be nothing but a crumpled mess of bone and flesh.
But Mark—damn him—is still watching.
And for some stupid reason, you care about what he sees.
With a growl, you throw the bastard across the street. Their body smashes through a lamppost before skidding to a limp halt. You don’t bother checking if they get up. If they know what’s good for them, they won’t.
The moment they’re gone, you stalk over to Mark, who is still gawking at you.
“Did you just—”
"Shut up," you snap, grabbing his wrist and yanking him to his feet.
He stumbles slightly, and you automatically shift to steady him, one hand gripping his forearm.
He’s warm under your fingers, his breath still uneven from the fight. His eyes lock onto yours, searching.
Your jaw tightens. "If you die, I’ll be very pissed off."
Mark blinks, then—despite the blood on his lip, despite the bruises already blooming across his skin—he grins.
“You care about me,” he says, tone dripping with amusement.
Your eye twitches.
"You care about me," he repeats, sing-song, like he’s delighted about it.
You shove him, hard enough to make him stumble back. "I will end you."
Mark just laughs, wiping blood from his mouth. "Yeah, sure. Right after you finish avenging my honor."
You hate him. You hate that he’s right. You hate that you let yourself care.
And most of all—
You hate the way your stomach flips when he looks at you like that.
••••
It’s late—too late for anyone else to be awake—but you don’t sleep much. Not like humans do.
So you sit alone on the edge of his rooftop, arms resting on your knees, staring up at the sky. The stars above are bright tonight, scattered across the inky black like shattered glass.
They stretch endlessly, far beyond Earth, far beyond this tiny planet with its weak gravity and fragile people.
Somewhere out there, a long time ago, there was a place you should have called home.
But Planet Vegeta is gone.
You don’t remember it. You were too young when it was destroyed, sent away before the blast could reach you. By the time you were old enough to ask questions, there was nothing left to return to—just empty space where your people once stood.
You should be used to it by now.
But some nights—like this one—your chest feels hollow.
The soft thud of footsteps behind you barely registers. You already know who it is.
Mark drops down beside you, not saying anything at first, just watching the sky with you.
The silence stretches between you, comfortable in a way you wouldn’t have expected months ago.
Then, quietly, he asks, “You ever think about going back?”
You exhale slowly, gaze never leaving the stars. “Not really an option.”
Mark tilts his head. “Why not?”
Your fingers clench slightly. “Because there’s nothing to go back to.”
His expression shifts. "Oh."
You don’t like the pity in his voice. You shoot him a sharp glance. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t lose my planet—I never had it to begin with.”
Mark studies you, his expression unreadable. "Still. That’s… a lot."
You scoff. "I manage."
Silence.
Then, softly—“Then maybe Earth is your home now.”
Your head snaps toward him, expecting mockery, but there’s none. No teasing, no sarcasm—just sincerity. Just Mark.
He looks at you like it’s an obvious answer, like it doesn’t matter that you’re not human, that you don’t belong here.
For the first time, you don’t scoff.
“…Maybe.”
••••
Mark is fidgeting.
You’ve been watching him shift awkwardly in place for the past two minutes, and you can’t decide whether you’re more entertained or secondhand embarrassed.
His hands keep clenching at his sides, like he can’t decide if he wants to put them in his pockets, cross his arms, or just gesture wildly. He rubs the back of his neck so much that you’re convinced he might actually rub his skin raw. And the way he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot?
Pathetic. Yet...cute.
Your brow arches. “Are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna stand there looking constipated?”
Mark flinches like you just punched him in the gut. “I—I have something I need to tell you.”
You cross your arms, tilting your head, unimpressed. “Clearly.”
He takes a deep breath, like that might somehow help him, then lets it out in a rush of air that makes him seem even more stressed.
His shoulders are too tense, his expression too strained, and his heartbeat—oh, his heartbeat is practically hammering through his chest. Is he nervous?
He’s never like this during fights. Even when he’s getting thrown through buildings, he usually keeps his cool, and pushing through with sheer stubbornness. But right now?
Mark looks like he might actually pass out.
“So, uh…” He drags a hand down his face, sighing. “I think I—no, I know I—uh—”
Your smirk widens. You can’t help it. “Spit it out, Invincible.”
That seems to make it worse. He groans, eyes squeezing shut, head tilting back like he’s begging the universe for patience.
Then, he just blurts it out.
“I like you, okay? A lot. A lot more than normal, And I know you probably think I’m beneath you, but—”
You don’t think.
You act.
Before he can finish whatever self-deprecating nonsense he was about to say, you grab the front of his suit and yank him forward, crashing your lips against his.
It’s instinct. It’s reaction. It’s the only thing you can do when faced with something that makes your chest feel tight.
For a second, he freezes.
Then, he melts into it.
His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and he’s so still. You realize he’s holding his breath, and maybe you are too. The world around you fades into nothing, like the only thing anchoring you to reality is the heat of his mouth against yours.
And then it’s over.
You pull back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, letting go of his shirt like it just burned you. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your face—damn it, why does your face feel hot?
You clench your fists, resisting the urge to cover your mouth, your brain screaming at you for what you just did.
Mark just… stares.
His mouth is slightly open, his eyebrows raised, his lips still parted like he’s still processing what just happened. There’s a deep flush creeping up his neck, painting his ears red, but—he’s not speaking.
Oh, universe.
Why isn’t he speaking?
Panic creeps up your spine like a slow-burning fire. You shouldn’t have done that. What if you—what if he—
“…You kissed me.” His voice is dazed, barely more than a whisper, and that’s when you snap.
You stiffen, looking anywhere but at him. “You were—talking too much.”
Slowly—too slowly—something shifts in his expression. The stunned silence fades, melting into something smug. His lips curl at the edges, the flush on his cheeks still present but no longer uncertain. It’s a look of pure, unfiltered victory.
His voice is annoyingly triumphant. “You like me.”
Your entire body locks up.
“No,” you say immediately.
Mark steps closer. “You so do.”
“I don’t,” you insist, but the way you’re backing up is not helping your case.
Mark follows, his confidence growing with every second. “You totally do. Oh my god.” He drags a hand down his face, but it’s not exasperation—it’s exhilaration. “I knew it.”
“You don’t know anything,” you mutter, face burning.
He grins. “You are so cute right now.”
Your hands clench into fists. “I will end you.”
“Oh, sure,” he teases. “But not before I kiss you again.”
You whip around so fast your hair nearly smacks him in the face. “I hate you.”
He has the audacity to laugh. A full, bright, obnoxiously victorious laugh.
“No, you don’t.”
Your mouth opens—probably to snap something back—but Mark just leans in, smirking.
“If it makes you feel better,” he muses, “I really enjoyed it.”
You go completely still, face burning impossibly warmer.
Mark grins wider, “And I know you enjoyed it too.”
Your eye twitches.
He laughs again, and you hate how much you don’t hate the sound of it.
invincible yuri for class
Invincible Ups the Ante
*Spoiler free thoughts on Invincible S3 premiere*
2/7/25
Invincible has always thrived on emotional conflict and subverting expectations, but the season three premiere ups the ante as Mark faces off against his greatest villain yet - Cecil Stedman. I did not expect to finish the second episode of the season with my heart in my throat and being sick to my stomach. The first two episodes of the season pay off a lot of emotional stakes that were set up in season two, and seeing Mark at odds with Cecil might be my favorite conflict of the entire series, not counting season one’s end fight.
After killing Angstrom Levy, Mark enters season three with a desperate need to maintain responsibility and a higher standard for himself. He’s chronically training so he can be better, so what happened to Levy doesn’t happen again. Cecil is determined to save the world, but he isn’t determined to save himself. While Mark is desperate to preserve his morals, Cecil is more concerned about the end goal of safety, safety for humanity and for the world. However, he fails to recognize that if his efforts do pay off, the world may be safe, but it might not be worth living in. Cecil makes some decisions at the end of episode two that he may learn to regret as the season progresses. Cecil knows that he’s trying to save the world, but he no longer recognizes why he’s trying to save it.
Mark has a barrage of problems, and none of them have an easy answer. What is he going to do when the Viltrimites come back? How will he operate now that there’s bad blood between him and Cecil? Should he feel guilty about killing the man who tried to kill his family? Can evil individuals be reformed? These questions of morality tend to be the center conflict of the show, while the heart will always be the family aspect. Mark has his brother and mom to look after, and the Guardians might be the most nuclear family on telivision.
We should be very excited to see where this season takes us.
Rick Stepp (irresponsibleink@gmail.com)
at this point I’m convinced that Cecil just wants trouble for the earth
Major spoilers for the season finale
Reviving conquest— I know that Cecil wants to know more about the viltrum empire and such but I know for a fact that this is the stupidest thing I’ve seen Cecil do
Sure he’s got hundreds of bombs attached to an underground bunker with conquest in it but are forgetting that the strongest weapon they had didn’t even put a scratch on Omniman
Sure they’ve had time to prepare for the rest of the empire but What the Fuck is a few bombs going to do to one of the strongest viltrumites in universe
They need to make a rexplode special after season 3
I knew that it was coming yet I was screaming for it to not come true
I think I can name five pair of characters that can absolutely fit this scene
This is what I call friendship
awww they're friends ^_^
i haven’t read the comics, so i don’t know how this is going to end or if i’m missing important context, but i kinda prefer for Debbie to be with Paul rather than Nolan
this season finale was really good. the animation was great, the voice acting was amazing and even Eve got a cool moment where she did something other than pink walls
even the sideplots with rex/rae, robot/amanda and the debbie/paul scenes were cute
More Mark and Eve because I love them sm
How are we feeling, Mark Nation?
Cecil.
Caybe? Or.. Caybe not?
Somebody has to hear me out on Cecil X Donald.
Coworkers to lovers. Amnesia trope (sort of). And the ANGST? Oh, the angst would be crazy.
Like what do you MEAN you keep having to watch your partner die, and then you have to wipe his memory again and again? What do you MEAN he's not going to remember what you meant to him when he comes back, but he's going to fall for you again and again? What do you MEAN you have to decide whether to try again, knowing how it will end, or deny your heart and do the job? What do you MEAN-
“I wanted to save the world, or maybe that’s what I just told myself…”
Hiya! I want to get into the habit of posting on Tumblr more, so here’s to breaking that shell. (I haven’t really used tumblr since I was like 14 on my og account🥲 I’m way more active on insta now.)
This is my Invincible OC, Stella Stone.
I was writing a fic with her X Conquest and Cecil.
(Here’s the first sketch I did of her. When I made her character sheet, I wanted it in the Invincible art style. I will never do that again 🤣. If I draw her, it will be in my art style.)
I finished watching Invincible and I got this theory that there's a gay Mark in my head.
I find this concept interesting, because the Viltrumite are made to PROCREATE and take over the world. Imagine Mark's father finding out that Mark is in love with A MAN.
Maybe that's why William is dead in this universe. 👀
rex thoughts i just had to get out of my head. gn! reader. kinda suggestive.
rex sloan who's awfully romantic.
rex sloan who can't keep his hands off of you — his hands are calloused yet his touch is gentle but firm, slipping underneath your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin, his lips against yours are insatiable.
biting down on your bottom lip, he breathes heavily at the small sound you let out at the action, his grip on your waist tightening as he lays you down on the bed, his hold on you not faltering in the slightest — his lip don't leave yours, as if the mere action of pulling away is going to hurt him.
and when he slips his tongue in your mouth, you're done for. you can taste the wine you two had shared earlier, that he had so proudly announced to you — he had stolen from immortal.
he presses his body against yours, his hands roaming up and down your body, not leaving a single inch untouched.
rex sloan who slowly trails kisses down your neck, he takes his time. each kiss leaving you burning up with a desire only he can fulfill.
your head is fuzzy and you barely register him tenderly brushing your hair away from your covered eye, tucking the strands behind your ear after pressing a kiss to them, the action almost reverent.
you send him a slightly surprised look, the difference between his earlier desperate, needy actions and this sweet tender gesture is definitely not good for your heart.
"what?" he tries to sound cocky and confident like his usual self but you don't miss the slight quiver in his voice.
rex sloan who gently cups your jaw in his warm hand, eyes sparkling with something you've never seen before, the intensity of his gaze burns your skin and leaves behind a flush, matching his own.
"wanna see both your eyes, pretty." he whispers, looking right into your eyes.
he flashes you his signature charming grin, although you can't help but notice how his eyes are filled with a certain fondness — a sincerity that makes your chest tighten.
rex sloan who, for the first time in his life, is ready to strip away all the walls he built to protect himself and is ready to bare his heart and soul to you.
rex sloan who's scared shitless, he's never been this open — he's never done this before, but he trusts you.
rex sloan who decides to give you his heart because you trust him — trust he's changed, that he's trying his best.
rex sloan who will never forgive himself if he disappoints you.
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