Ren :)

In which Zim disappears for a decade.

This looks like such garbage, but this has been sitting in my head for a month and I needed it OUT OF ME!!!!

what's more romantic than the smell of cigarettes and rotting garbage under the moonlight? ♥

Invincible’s special healing treatment | Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: Your healing powers—marketed as “Revitalizers”—made you a vital asset to both heroes and civilians. They erased fatigue, sealed wounds, boosted strength, and mended broken bodies like magic. Everyone loved them. Especially Mark Grayson.

That is, until he found out the secret ingredient behind your power was… your spit.

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive Content, Heavy Making Out, sort of Spit Kink? (subtle), there’s some grinding at the end but nothing explicit.

Tags: Reader Has Healing Powers, humor?, Fluff, mutual pining, and Mark being totally whipped.

w.c: 7k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language, so there may be some mistakes here and there. This was a draft I started ages ago and finally decided to finish. It was supposed to be kinkier than it turned out—I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote the first draft back in January... I was probably just horny or something. I guess I couldn’t live up to the expectations of past me. I don’t even like it that much but I wanted to get rid of it already!!! (And yes, I still owe you pt. 2 of ‘Now nothing’s the same’, but please accept this as compensation.) Hope you enjoy it!

It starts when Mark’s nose scrunches in disgust as he stares at the small plastic cup in his hand, the truth of its contents finally dawning on him.

“Oh my god, stop being such a baby,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you monitor his vitals on the med-bay screen. “You’ve been drinking this for months and never complained before.”

“Yeah—when I didn’t know it had your spit in it!” he snaps, pushing the cup away like it personally offended him. His face twists into a grimace, torn between horror and betrayal. “This is disgusting. Someone should’ve told me! I have a right to know what I’m putting in my body!”

You cross your arms, irritation prickling under your skin. “It’s just a bit of saliva, Mark. And it’s mixed with, like, 80% water. You literally can’t taste it.”

He pouts, eyebrows knitting together stubbornly. “Still…”

“You know what?” you snap, cheeks flushing—partly from anger, partly from embarrassment. It isn’t your fault your healing powers work this way. “Fine. Don’t drink it. Enjoy waiting a month for your ribs to heal naturally. I’ll let Cecil know you’re benched until further notice.”

Before he can protest, you snatch the cup from his hand and down it yourself, locking eyes with him in a silent challenge. It tastes exactly like water. No big deal. Mark is being ridiculous. When you finish, you set the cup down with a shrug, feeling refreshed and perfectly fine.

“There,” you say curtly, grabbing your things along with the report of his vitals. “Now suffer alone.”

“Wait, wait—!” Mark jerks forward, wincing as his injuries protest the sudden movement. “You can’t just leave! I—I need to heal fast! I can’t be sidelined for a month!”

“Oooh,” you drawl, mocking. “Well, that was the last one left. Too bad, Invincible—oh, wait. Guess you’re not so invincible right now, huh? Stuck in a hospital bed, bruised up, with broken bones…”

You shrug, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you turn for the door again. 

Mark’s face falls. “Wait. You’re joking. There’s no more?” 

“Nope,” you say, popping the p, watching as his eyes widen in panic. “I came here to make more stock for Cecil. Felt bad for you, so I whipped up one on the spot—but hey, you didn’t even want it, Grayson.” 

“Wait, Y/N—” he scrambles, voice turning desperate. “C’mon, I’m sorry, okay? I need that Revitalizer! I need to keep training! Please? Please?” 

You pause at the door, glancing over your shoulder with a slow, unimpressed stare. 

“So now you want my spit—the one that was ‘disgusting’ literally ten seconds ago?” You arch a brow. “Yeah, no. Have fun with the crutches. Later, Grayson.” 

Mark’s desperation instantly shifts to irritation. “Hey! You can’t just leave! This is your job! So do your job, Y/N, or—or else!”

You stop again, a brow twitching. “Or else… what, exactly?” 

Mark fumbles, his bravado faltering. “Or else I… I dunno—I’ll tell Cecil to fire you or something?” 

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Oh, sure. Because firing me, the guy who keeps all his damn heroes—including you—on the field, is such a brilliant idea.” 

Mark crosses his arms, smirking like he’s found a loophole. “Well, you’re not exactly keeping me on the field now, are you? And by the way, I’m his best guy. Cecil’s not gonna be happy you’re refusing to heal his best guy.”

You press your lips into a thin line, irritation bubbling in your chest as Mark’s cocky, self-assured smirk grates on your last nerve. He was already pushing it, eating up time you didn’t have, and now he was really pissing you off. 

But there was no more stock left. Making a new batch would take at least ten more minutes—minutes you couldn’t spare. What could you do?

Then a dark, petty idea slithers into your mind.

“Fine,” you mutter, shutting the door and stepping back into the room. “If you insist.” 

With swift strides, you move toward him, grabbing his face between your hands, fingers pressing into his cheeks just enough to squish them together. His smug expression falters, confusion flickering across his face—just as you lean in and kiss him. Full on the mouth. Tongue and all. 

Mark makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, his whole body jerking as your tongue slips past his parted lips, brushing against his demandingly. You don’t give him a chance to react, to pull away, to breathe—you just press in deeper, holding him still, making sure he gets a direct dose of your healing power. 

Because, yes, your saliva contains the ability to heal. That’s why you dilute it in water—so heroes can take it without things getting… weird. It works. It’s enough, and really, Cecil would never ask for more from you.

But this—this direct contact, exchanging spit with Mark, making sure he’s drinking it straight from your mouth instead of a diluted version—is the raw, unfiltered version of your power. The kind that knits bone and flesh back together in seconds.

And if Mark was that desperate for it, then here. Take it. 

His breath hitches, throat bobbing as he instinctively swallows the saliva between your entwined tongues. Under your fingers, you feel the swollen bruises on his face smooth out, the lingering pain vanishing in an instant. Only then do you finally break the kiss, a faint line of spit still connecting you both before it snaps. 

“There. Happy?” you pull away completely, scowling as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “You’re dismissed. Go home.” 

“W-what?” Mark’s mouth opens, then closes. A flush creeps up his neck. “I—you—what the…?” 

You look away, your own face heating up. “This is the last time I’m doing this. Don’t tell anyone—” your voice drops to a dangerous whisper “—or I’ll kill you.”

And with that, you turn on your heel and walk out, leaving a spluttering, red-faced Mark behind.

The second time it happens is while you’re both on the field.

Mark is in the air, fighting off the bad guys. You’re on the ground, checking on injured civilians and offering help. 

You’re not really paying attention to what Invincible or the other heroes are doing. Your focus is entirely on offering assistance, stabilizing wounds, and evacuating as many people as you can from the area. You don’t worry. You never worry. Not when it comes to them—and especially not when it comes to Mark Grayson.

The boy’s basically a force of nature wrapped in a spandex suit. Inexperienced, sure. A little reckless at times, yeah. But strong, strong. The kind of strength that makes his skin impenetrable, his body durable, and his raw power overwhelming.  The kind of strength that makes you believe, really believe, in corny hero names like invincible.

That’s why you’re so surprised when he suddenly comes crashing down from the sky, his body slamming into the asphalt like a meteor, carving a trail of shattered pavement before slamming through the side of a building. Concrete buckles. Steel bends. The whole structure groans under the impact.

One second passes. Then two. Three. Ten.

And he doesn’t get up.

Panic grips you, and you’re already sprinting before you realize it.

“Invincible?!” you call, voice cutting through the air as you swipe the dust from your face and enter through the whole he made. “Shit—Invincible?” 

The building creaks ominously around you, but you push forward until—

A low groan echoes from the rubble.

There, buried in a mess of rubble and twisted metal, lies Mark.

Your eyes narrow, instincts kicking in as you assess his condition with clinical precision while carefully making your way over. He’s in bad shape—bruises swelling across his face, blood smearing his skin, breaths ragged and uneven, and one of his arms is bent at an angle it definitely shouldn’t be.

The sight twists something sharp and awful in your chest, but you bury the feeling beneath your professional mask. You can’t afford to panic.

“Invincible?” you mutter, kneeling beside him and brushing debris off his chest and shoulders. No answer. Just a weak, pained sound—barely more than a groan. “Mark?” you try again, softer now, a hand slipping behind his head to lift it gently. He lets out another weak noise, eyes fluttering, but there’s no real awareness behind them.

No, you realize quickly, the Revitalizer won’t cut it. Not for this. Not fast enough. Mark’s breathing is shallow and quickening—too quick, too sharp. Collapsed lung, maybe. Add that to the concussion and the internal injuries you’re certain he’s hiding under the surface. The diluted solution of your power works on minor injuries and fractures, but this is beyond that.

You pause, weighing your options, the conflict mounting in your chest. Outside, the battle still rages—the heroes definitely need Mark’s help if the panic and screams are anything to go by.

Which means this calls for a direct transfer. Maximum potency. And you know exactly what that means.

Your jaw clenches.

“Goddammit, Grayson,” you whisper to his barely-conscious form, already making the decision. “People need you out there.”

The building groans and creaks ominously above you, dust raining from the ceiling. But you pay no mind, heart hammering.

One hand slides behind his neck, the other tilts his chin up. “Sorry for this,” you mutter, even though you doubt he can hear you. Your gaze flickers briefly to his lips, the sudden thought making your stomach churn. “Trust me, man, I don’t want this more than you do. So when you wake up… no hard feelings, okay?”

And then, without another second of hesitation, you’re sealing your mouth over his. Your tongue pushes past his lips, shoving the raw, undiluted potency of your power straight into him. It’s messy, desperate, laced with the taste of blood and grit. Mark jolts under you, a weak groan trapped between your mouths—but you don’t stop. You count the seconds in your head, focusing on the transfer, making sure he gets enough. Enough to mend everything.

Then you feel it—the sharp, deep breath he takes as his lung reinflates. His ribs shifting under your palm, bones snapping back into place. His arm realigning itself with a sickening crack.

Then, the soft gasp you swallow when his consciousness starts to return.

Mark makes a confused noise, his tongue brushing against yours, clumsy and startled. You freeze, heat rushing to your cheeks in a mix of embarrassment and shock, and pull back immediately.

“Y/N...?” Mark’s voice is hoarse, and it makes your skin burn. “What... did you just—?”

You glance away, quickly wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to hide the flush creeping up your neck. “Can you stand?”

Mark blinks, still dazed but healed, already flexing his newly-mended arm. “I… yeah. Yeah, I think—”

“Good,” you snap, grabbing his arm and hauling him upright. “Then move.”

But Mark just stands there, staring down at himself—then at you—then back at himself. And then, with a breathless laugh, he beams.

“Oh-ho-ho, I feel amazing!” he exclaims. “I feel great! Like, better than great!”

To prove it, he hovers a foot off the ground, spinning in a gleeful pirouette like a complete idiot. You fold your arms, glaring at him as he flexes his muscles and stretches, putting on a ridiculous display of his newfound energy.

Then the building groans again—a low, warning sound that cracks through the air.

Mark halts mid-spin, looking up at the ceiling. “That... doesn’t sound good.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you mutter, eyeing the unstable column just behind him. “We better go before—”

You don’t get to finish.

The ceiling gives out with a thunderous crack, and before your brain can catch up, Mark’s arms are around your waist, yanking you off the ground. Your eyes squeeze shut instinctively, arms wrapping tight around his neck as he blasts up through the collapsing hole he made when he crashed through earlier.

The world whips past you in a blur, and when you blink again, you’re outside. The building is falling behind you, collapsing in on itself, sending up a cloud of dust and debris that engulfs the area.

You both land a safe distance away, unscathed, while the building continues its dramatic descent.

“Aw, shit,” Mark mutters, pouting as he stares at the wreckage. “I did that?”

You hum, shooting him a side glance. “You’re lucky I evacuated that thing before it came down.”

Mark turns to look at you, his pout deepening like a sulky kid. But this time there’s a shift. He’s... uncomfortably close. Closer than you realized. You can feel his breath against your cheek, the rise and fall of his chest syncing with yours. That’s when you realize—his hands are still curled loosely around your waist. And your arms are still looped around his shoulders.

Both of you seem to notice at the same time.

Mark drops his arms like he’s been burned, quickly turning away to scratch the back of his neck and coughing into his hand. You shift your weight, eyes darting anywhere but him.

“Well—” his voice cracks, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks for, uh. The whole. You know. The thing with the—” he makes a vague gesture toward his mouth.

“Sure,” you reply, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. “Anytime.”

A mutual, full-body cringe.

The moment is mercifully shattered by Immortal calling out to Mark, urging him to get back in the fight.

Mark jolts like he’s been electrocuted. “Right! Yeah. Duty calls. Gotta—” he gestures weakly toward the fight, already floating backward. “So, uh. Thanks. Again. For the—”

“Go,” you interrupt, already turning toward a group of civilians still trapped in the area.

He throws you a final awkward half-wave, then rockets away—but not fast enough to hide the way his ears burn crimson. You watch him fly away, cheeks heating up, too.

The third time it happens, Mark isn’t bleeding, broken, or even remotely in danger.

No—he’s bored, crashing into your workspace at the GDA’s hospital wing, apparently done with his hero duties for the day—and, shockingly, with catching up with his college classes too. How he manages both, you have no clue. But here he is, picking up and poking around your things like a kid in a candy store.

“What does—”

“I swear to god,” you cut in sharply, patience already fraying, “if you ask one more time what anything in this lab does, I’ll gut you, Grayson.”

Mark pouts, carefully placing a large syringe back where he found it. “You’re no fun.”

“This isn’t a damn playground,” you mutter, returning your focus to the screen in front of you. “Now, unless you’ve got a severed limb or third-degree burns, get out.”

Mark flops into the nearest chair with a groan, legs sprawling like a petulant teenager. “Okay, fine. I’m here for, uh… a headache.”

“Oh no, how tragic,” you don’t even glance at him. “Take a pill.”

There’s silence.

An unnaturally long silence.

Long enough that you sigh and finally drag your gaze from the screen to find Mark staring at you with the most pathetic puppy-dog eyes you’ve ever seen.

“What,” you ask flatly.

Mark fidgets under your stare. “I just—” he sighs. “They take forever to kick in, okay?”

“So?” you arch a brow. “Suck it up, Invinci-boy. I’ve seen you take a hell of a lot more and never flinch once.”

“Yeah, but—” he glances away, wincing while pressing his fingers to his temple exaggeratedly. “This is a migraine. Like, brain-melting pain. Totally screwing with my focus.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flickering in your gaze. But as he keeps avoiding your eyes, fidgeting awkwardly, wincing every time he shifts—one hand pressed to his temple—you finally sigh and lean back in your chair.

“Fine,” you mutter.

Mark straightens up immediately, his eyes wide with surprise, cheeks flushing a faint pink. “Really?”

You blink at the sudden change in energy, head tilting. “Yeah…?” you say slowly, reaching into your desk drawer. Inside are several little Revitalizer cups—80% water, 20% your saliva. You grab one and set it in front of him with a soft thud. “Here. Thank me later. Cecil’s weirdly strict about the inventory—he hates wasting these on stupid things like a damn headache.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn back to your computer, resuming the work you’d been organizing before Mark decided to drop in unannounced.

Silence falls again—long, lingering, and just awkward enough to pull your attention back.

You turn to him, exhausted. “What now.”

Mark’s expression sours into a pout, his shoulders slumping as he stares down at the little cup, as if it’s the most disappointing thing he’s ever seen.

He sighs, closing his eyes before weakly reaching for the cup. “Nothing. It’s—nothing.”

Mark pops the lid off, staring at the clear liquid with exaggerated contemplation before drinking it all in one gulp. You watch silently, noting the way his throat moves as he swallows. Finally, Mark exhales, setting the empty cup on the desk.

Then he blinks, licking his lips with a curious hum. “Huh. Now that I’m really paying attention... it really does taste like nothing.”

“It tastes like water,” you point out distractedly, returning to your task.

“And water tastes like nothing,” Mark grumbles. He puts a hand to his chin, like he’s suddenly contemplating life’s biggest mysteries. “But it’s weird… did you know your spit has a taste?”

Your fingers freeze on the keyboard. Slowly, you turn your chair to face him fully. “Huh?”

“Yeah!” Mark springs up, suddenly animated, twirling the empty cup between his fingers. “It’s got this...I dunno, this flavor. Kinda—I can’t describe it.”

In all your years working with the GDA, through countless medical exams and power analyses, never—not once—has anyone mentioned your saliva having a flavor.

Your brows knit together in confusion. “You mean... like how everyone’s spit tastes?”

“No, no way,” Mark insists, shaking his head vigorously. “This is different. It’s like—” he waves his hands around, struggling to articulate. “Sort of... sweet? But not too much. More like—a feeling. But also a taste? And it lingers. You really can’t tell? It’s your spit after all.”

You tilt your head, gaze drifting in thought. “Not really.” Then your eyes narrow. “Can you taste your own spit? I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, fair,” he admits with a shrug, though his cheeks are now dusted with a light flush. He glances back at you, this time with a different kind of glint in his eye. “Hey—so. This thing—” he shakes the empty cup, “—hasn’t really worked yet.”

“It’s been, like, fifteen seconds—”

“The other method was instant.”

You glare. He looks away like he finds the ceiling lights particularly fascinating.

“The other method?” you repeat slowly, raising an eyebrow. “You want me to kiss your migraine goodbye or something?”

Mark chokes on air, spluttering. “No, no, I didn't say that! I just want, uh, I want—I just want to know what your spit tastes like!”

A long beat.

“For science!” he rushes to add, flustered beyond salvation. “I wouldn’t want to kiss you! I mean, ew, eugh, no, I—that’s—I don’t—”

You hum thoughtfully, tuning out the rest of his babbling. The scientific implications are intriguing. Flavor? In your saliva? That’s a whole new variable. Could you isolate whatever this is? If there’s something in the taste that links to your power’s effectiveness, maybe you can concentrate it, increase the strength of each Revitalizer beyond the current 20% dilution. If Mark’s being honest about all this… it could be groundbreaking.

“—and kissing dudes? Not my thing! Not that there’s anything wrong with that! I just—”

“Alright,” you cut in sharply, standing up from your side of the desk. “C’mere.”

Mark’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “Hmm?”

“Come here,” you repeat, already grabbing a notepad. “You’re going to describe this supposed ‘flavor’ in exact detail.”

Mark’s mouth hangs open, eyes wide in disbelief, and for the first time in the last five minutes—he’s finally silent.

“Wait—so you’re saying—does this mean we’re…?”

You roll your eyes. “What do you think, Grayson? Unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind.”

Mark scrambles to his feet so fast he almost knocks over his chair. “No! I mean—yeah, I want to,” he says, and you catch the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he adds, weaker, “for science.”

“For science,” you echo with a slow nod, watching him as he rounds the desk with nervous, rigid movements. “Then I need you to be very attentive, okay, Mark?”

“Sure,” he says quickly, voice lower now, eyes flicking over your face before landing—and staying—on your lips. “Super. Attentive. So... how exactly do we—”

You reach for his chin, thumb pressing lightly on his lower lip. “Shh.”

He goes still, sucking in a sharp breath.

Then you guide him in, sliding your hand to the back of his head as you draw him into a kiss. Mark comes willingly, lips already parted. The moment your mouths meet—warm, tentative, tongues brushing in a slick, electric glide—it sends a jolt through you both. A quiet groan rumbles from deep in his throat as his body melts into yours, tension giving way to something softer, needier. You take a single step back from the force of it, your breath catching, but neither of you pulls away.

You move slowly, letting your tongue sweep languidly against his, the taste of him mingling with your own as saliva slicks between your mouths. As the seconds pass, Mark’s movements grow more eager, his confidence rising with the heat between you. Then, without warning, he licks and sucks on your tongue in a way that makes your whole body shiver, goosebumps scattering across your skin.

“Mmh,” you groan softly into the kiss, one hand drifting to his chest—his firm, toned, distractingly solid chest—and you try to pull back just enough to catch your breath.

But Mark whines, his grip tightening, pulling you back in.

“Mmph?!” you mutter, muffled and breathless. 

His hands, which had been awkwardly hanging by his sides, finally move, fingers sliding up to your hips. His touch is hesitant at first, then turns urgent, twitching with anticipation. Your heart pounds in your chest, lungs burning from the lack of air, as his lips move hungrily against yours. His grip tightens, drawing you impossibly closer, until you feel every inch of him pressed against you—the steady beat of his heart syncing with your own.

Hell, you can even feel the bob of his throat as he drinks from you.

When you finally wrench your mouth free, a glistening thread of saliva connects you for one obscene second before it snaps. Mark chases after your lips like a man starved, but you press a cautious hand against his mouth.

“Grayson,” you pant, “that’s enough. I need—data.”

Mark blinks, dazed. “Huh?”

“The flavor,” you remind him, voice rougher than you’d intended. “The point was to, y’know, describe it.”

His pupils are blown wide, lips parted and panting. He looks confused for a second—then realization dawns across his face.

“Right! Right. It’s, uh—” his tongue darts out, licking his swollen lips. “Definitely... sweet. But like, honey-sweet? Only—more subtle. I think—” he clears his throat, voice rough, “I think I might need... further testing. For accuracy.”

“Accuracy,” you repeat flatly, raising a brow.

At this point, you seriously doubt he came here out of curiosity about the taste of your spit, or that he gave a damn about the ‘science’, or that he ever had a migraine to begin with. That realization makes your cheeks burn hot, your heart thudding harder.

Still, you pull him closer, noses brushing. “Well,” you murmur, “it can’t be helped, then. We do need to be extra accurate. So pay attention, yeah?”

His breath hitches, forehead resting against yours as his fingers flex on your hips. “Yeah…” he breathes. “I’ll be super attent—”

You cut him off with another kiss.

Science demands repeat trials, after all.

It keeps happening as the weeks go by, for reasons you can’t quite understand.

If Mark’s seriously injured, it’s become your go-to method—because, really, the world can’t afford to have its strongest hero benched for weeks just waiting to heal. If he’s just feeling sore or tired, it’s your method too—because otherwise, he’ll whine and mope and follow you around all day. And if he says he just needs an energy boost, claiming your powers make him feel like he could fly to another universe and back, then yeah, it’s your method again—because he won’t stop asking until you finally snap and kiss him just to shut him up.

But this time, it’s not Mark who’s critically injured.

It’s Rex.

Somehow, he survived a bullet to the head, severe blood loss, and an amputated hand. And even now, after all the surgeries and treatments, still confined to a hospital bed, he has the nerve to act cocky and cheerful.

“C’moooon,” Rex groans the second you step into his room to check his vitals. “You’re my only hope here, Y/N. I can’t take another day in this prison—I’ve read every magazine Eve brought me twice, and I’m dying of boredom.”

“No,” you reply, not even glancing up from his chart. “You know Cecil—”

“Cecil doesn’t let you waste your powers like this because it’s ‘pointless,’ because he’s got it all covered, blah blah blah,” Rex mocks, rolling his bloodshot eyes. “I just don’t get why we have a healer hero who’s not actually healing me, y’know?”

“You are healed,” you mutter, irritation seeping into your voice. “You just need to stay in bed, rest, and let it be.”

Rex glares. “That’s not being healed. That’s the boring process of healing!” Then he squints at you, brows scrunched. “Why are you even here if you’re not gonna do your job?”

You scoff and drop the clipboard onto the end of the bed with a thud, fully turning to glare at him. “For your information, the only reason you’re still alive is because my Revitalizers kept your dumbass brain together while they rebuilt your skull.”

“Oh, those little cups?” Rex shrugs, unimpressed. “Yeah, they’re fine, but we both know there’s a way faster method to get me out of here.”

You press your lips into a tight line, brow twitching as he gives you a pointed look, waggling his eyebrows obnoxiously.

“No.”

He sighs dramatically. “C’moooon, Y/N. It’s not like I want to do it either, but if—”

You don’t hear the door slide open as you continue glaring at him.

“—a kiss is all it takes to fix me up, then get over here, baby,” Rex puckers his lips, closes his eyes, and starts making exaggerated smooching noises. “One little magical mouth-to-mouth and we’re both outta here. C’mon, lemme taste some of that miracle spit, mmh?”

You open your mouth to go off on Rex, but another voice cuts in, sharp and disbelieving.

“What.”

You whip your head around, glare softening instantly as your eyes land on Mark. He’s standing at the doorway in his civilian clothes, wide-eyed and frozen.

“Oh, hey Mark!” you say quickly, snatching the clipboard from Rex’s bed as you move to leave. “Came to visit Rex? Good luck—he’s extra insufferable today.”

“Hey!” Rex shouts, trying to prop himself up, waving his good arm like a flag of protest. “Don’t bail yet! What about our special healing session?”

You scoff, eyes still fixed forward. “Didn’t promise anything, asshole. Bye now.”

Mark doesn’t move. He stares at you, then at Rex, then back at you again with a look of wide-eyed panic and something suspiciously like betrayal. Just as you reach for the door, he suddenly jumps forward, blocking your path.

“Wait—!” his voice cracks, just slightly. “Do you—do you do that a lot?”

You blink, thrown. “Do what?”

Mark pouts, hesitating for a second before glancing over at Rex, who’s watching the scene unfold with curious eyes. Mark scowls, jaw tense, then puts both hands on your shoulders and pulls you close, not taking his eyes off Rex.

“You know…” he mutters, voice low and pointed, “that.”

Your still confused, baffled expression only makes Mark deflate. He sighs, looking away shyly, his cheeks turning pink, though his face is still tinged with a touch of disappointment.

“You know…” he mumbles again, quieter this time. “The  ‘special treatment.’ I didn’t know it was… Rex, too. I thought I was the only one you kisse—mmph!?”

Mark is swiftly silenced when you slap a hand over his mouth with an echoing clap, panic rising in your chest as it hits you halfway through what he’s talking about. But by then, it’s too late. You know it’s too late.

Five seconds of pure silence drag on.

Then, behind you, Rex gasps dramatically. “No way…” he whispers, eyes widening with dawning comprehension. And then, louder, “No way!”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god…”

“Dr. Y/N!” Rex clutches his chest in mock outrage, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Kissing your patients? That’s highly unprofessional! What would Cecil say if he knew? You know he hates wasting your power like that.”

“Oh my god,” you groan again, dragging your hands down your face, trying to hide from the embarrassment.

You whip around to glare at Mark, who shrinks under the intensity of your glare. But whatever you were about to say dies in your throat as Rex’s obnoxious cackling rings through the room, making your last nerve snap.

“So you are into special treatment, huh?” Rex laughs, eyes squeezed shut in amusement. “You were all high and mighty, denying it to me earlier. Well, look at you now!” Then he pauses, blinking in confusion, tilting his head. “Wait wait wait—so why does Invincible get the premium package, but I’m stuck with the watered-down version? That’s some bullshit favoritism! I don’t wanna be stuck here any longer! Hey! Do your job!”

Your jaw clenches. In one fluid motion, you throw the door open, grab Mark by the collar, and turn back to Rex with your most dangerous glare.

“Your treatment is called shutting the hell up.”

And with that, you drag Mark out of the room, slamming the door behind you with a resounding bang.

It’s silent at first—just the pounding of your heart and the flush burning across your cheeks. Embarrassment, dread, and the terrifying thought of Cecil ever finding out. You flinch just imagining the long, agonizing lecture he’d have locked and loaded if Rex opened his mouth. You have to make sure he doesn’t. And oh, you can think of several ways to ensure Rex’s silence—each more creatively painful than the last, all of them tempting—

“I’m sorry,” Mark says softly, cutting through your dark thoughts. “I didn’t—I didn’t realize there were... others.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and damn it all, when he looks up with those wounded puppy-dog eyes, your anger dissolves into mist.

You cup his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Mark. There are no ‘others.’” Your thumb brushes his cheekbone. “You seriously think I go around swapping spit with every hero who gets a paper cut?”

He winces. “No...”

“You think I’d kiss Rex of all people?”

His nose scrunches. “No.”

“Think that—” you pause, suddenly aware of the barely-there space between you. Of how your breaths mingle, how he’s leaning in without realizing it. Drawn to you like instinct. Like gravity. The next words come out softer than you mean them to. “That I’d do this with anyone but you?”

Mark’s eyes widen. His lips part—whether to answer or ask for clarification, you’ll never know, because you choose that moment to shut him up the only way that ever really works.

Closing the distance and kissing him.

Your lips crash together, deep and intense and hungry. His tongue meets yours halfway, practiced and eager, moving against your mouth in the way he’s learned you like. His arms wrap around you, hands slipping down your back, pulling you in closer, pressing you tight until there’s nothing left between you—not air, not space, not thought.

Your heart stutters and then races, excitement surging through your veins, raw and electric, leaving you lightheaded and weightless.

You hum into his mouth, slow and content, before finally pulling away—only to place one last, lingering peck to his lips.

Mark grins at you, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, that familiar giddiness and energy radiating from him—just like always when he feels the effect of your power. You can’t help but grin back, your chest warming at his boyish enthusiasm, before letting your forehead drop against his shoulder with a dramatic groan.

“Cecil’s gonna skin me alive if Rex blabs about this,” you mumble into the crook of Mark’s neck, feeling him shiver at your breath against his skin. “That little bastard’s definitely gonna hold this over me...”

Mark stays quiet for a long moment, his hands rubbing comforting circles on your back. His warmth and steady presence grounds you, but you can feel the slight tension in him—the guilt he’s trying to hide, stretching the silence longer than it should.

Then—

“What if...” he starts, hesitates, then tries again, voice low and unsure. “What if we just... dated?”

You blink, pulling back just enough to study his face. He’s red. Like, really red. Avoiding your gaze like it physically hurts him to meet your eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows, clearly nervous.

“I mean,” he rushes to explain, “Cecil can’t exactly lecture you about healing kisses if they’re just... regular boyfriend kisses, right?” He nods to himself, clearly pleased with this flawless logic. “Totally normal couple behavior. He can’t be mad if your power just happens to work that way…”

You stare at him for a few seconds, the weight of his words slowly sinking in. You notice the way his lips pout slightly, the hopeful look in his eyes, and how his fingers twitch lightly where they rest on your waist.

“Is this your subtle way of asking me out by pretending it’s not a big deal?” you ask, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Mark Grayson—oh, my hero, swooping in to do the favor of dating me so my boss doesn’t scold me for kissing one of his heroes an unnecessary number of times, just because he whines and cries like a total baby when I don’t?”

“Hey!” he protests, though there’s a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It was justified! I was—y’know, in severe pain and everything…”

“Oh yeah?” you tease, tilting your head. “Like that time you said you needed extra energy and a good luck kiss before your Mars mission? Was that also you being in pain?”

“Well—that—I did get lucky from that, okay?” he stammers, cheeks flaring red. “And we succeeded, didn’t we? Thanks to your power enhancing my power.”

You can’t help but laugh, and soon he’s joining in, the sound warm and bright as you stay wrapped in each other’s arms. His laughter does funny things to your heartbeat, sends warmth blooming across your cheeks.

Then he sobers, his expression turning uncharacteristically shy. “So... is that a yes? To the... dating thing? Or…”

You smile softens, fingers brushing along his cheekbone with tenderness. “Well,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his lips, “we did skip a couple of steps, didn’t we?”

He huffs a breath of laughter, relaxing a bit. “Yeah… I guess we did.”

“Then why are you even asking, Grayson?” you murmur, lips brushing just barely against his as you lean in. His breath catches. “Of course I’ll date you.”

The kiss that follows is sweeter than any before it—slow and certain, filled with promises rather than excuses. Mark sighs into it, his arms tightening around you as if to say mine, finally mine.

You smile into the kiss, kissing him back with just as much eagerness, heart full, lips willing. You weren’t going anywhere.

It happens late at night, when Mark’s bruised, battered, and still trembling after a draining fight with Angstrom. The man hurt his mother, his little brother, and left him stranded in some godforsaken alternate universe. Mark’s body is shaky, yet he’s profoundly grateful to be back, grateful that your healing powers pulled his family together in minutes as soon as you learned of it. Grateful that you’re here now, with him tonight, wrapped in his arms, sharing a bed, and sharing kisses, because there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

His kisses are desperate things—raw, needy, equal parts gratitude and desire, as if he’s trying to imprint the feel of you beneath his hands into his memory in case the universe decides to be cruel again.

“You know,” you murmur against his mouth when he pauses to breathe, “sometimes I think you like my powers more than me.”

Mark nips at your lower lip hard enough to draw a gasp, his hands sliding down your sides with possessive certainty.

“Course not,” he growls against your skin, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through you. His knee slots between yours as he rolls you gently onto your back. “I like you because it’s you.” His teeth graze your jaw, sending a shudder down your spine. “Because you’re stubborn.” A soft kiss to your pulse point. “And brilliant,” he adds, as his hands mold to the curve of your waist, fingers slipping beneath your shirt like he’s desperate for more contact. “And you taste like warmth.”

You hum, rolling your tongue against his in a slow, deliberate movement, a tease that leaves his breath hitched and ragged. The slick slide of your mouths against each other fills the quiet room, punctuated by Mark’s low, guttural groan when you suck gently on his tongue. His hips buck instinctively, pinning you deeper into the mattress. His body is warm and heavy and grounding. His hands roam, bolder now—urgent with the need to feel you, have you, anchor himself to you after almost losing everything.

And you let him.

Because you need it too.

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” you whisper, breath hitching as you rock your hips up, seeking the delicious friction of his body against yours. A soft moan escapes his lips in response. “Even if you didn’t… like me back or whatever. I’d still let you have me. Give you anything you needed.”

Mark’s head snaps up.

“But I do like you,” he says, like it physically hurts him to think you’d believe otherwise. His hand slides down, purposeful and shaking just slightly, squeezing the growing bulge in your jeans. He swallows your gasp in a hungry kiss, lips messy and desperate. “Shit—I love you. I love you so much.”

The second the words escape him, Mark freezes. His whole body stiffens, eyes going wide with panic, like he hadn’t meant to say it at all. Like the confession yanked itself out of him before he could stop it. He pulls back, breath catching, lips parted  like he’s about to take it back or apologize—

But you just laugh softly, even as your heart slams against your ribs.

“I love you too, Grayson,” you murmur, pulling him back down by his collar, lips brushing lightly against his. “So don’t go getting yourself trapped in some alternate wasteland again, okay? You scared the shit out of me.”

Mark’s entire body sags with relief, the tension melting from his shoulders as he nuzzles into your touch like a starved man.

“Okay,” he says with a breathless laugh. “I’ll try. I mean—I’d really rather not be stuck in a version of reality where I’m not with you. Or where you don’t exist. That’d suck.”

You huff, amused and affectionate. “Then be more careful next time.” And before he gets a chance to reply, you seal your lips over his.

Mark groans against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours as you tug him flush against you.

“Yeah,” he breathes between kisses, his voice rough with longing, his hips rolling against yours in a way that makes your vision blur. “Yeah, I’ll—mmph—be real careful next—”

The rest of his promise dissolves into the hungry press of lips and the slick slide of tongues—but the way his fingers lace through yours, squeezing like he’s afraid to let go, says everything he can’t put into words.

Then, of course, Mark ruins the moment.

He pulls back with a breathless chuckle, eyes locking with yours—dark, dilated, cheeks flushed, forehead damp with sweat, and chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Hey so—” he rolls his hips deliberately against yours, drawing twin groans as denim strains between you. “The way you keep kissing me like that?” Another teasing grind. “Think I might have enough energy to last all night and morning.” His lips brush your earlobe. “What d’you say, baby?”

You stare at him, heat blooming across your cheeks like fire—but you can’t help the smirk that creeps in.

“Well,” you say, playing along easily, “I don’t exactly have anything better to do the next couple days… Might as well give the world’s strongest hero all the healing treatment he needs.”

Mark’s answering kiss is filthy—all tongue and teeth and saliva, like he’s trying to drink every last drop of your power straight from the source.

Then he pulls back just enough to pant, “God, I love your powers.”

You grin cheekily. “Yeah, yeah. Just remember who they belong to.”

He huffs a laugh—and before you can say anything else, he steals another kiss. There’s nothing patient about the way Mark moves—like he’s got something to prove, and you’re the only one he wants to prove it to.

No matter—you’re happy to let him.

A/N: Oof, I know... I didn’t really know where I was going with this either. I swear this was supposed to be worse—like, a lot kinkier, definitely 18+—but here we are. Thank you for reading!

when ure apparently the only social person in your friend group

AI defenders will make it seem as if art is this gatekept pastime that only the most elite can partake in and they’re making it possible for the “normies” to create meanwhile one of the most memorable pieces of recent art I’ve ever seen is “My son’s drawing of safe”

he'd begrudgingly agree that he has taste in music

songs referenced: 1, 2, 3, 4

do not repost, reblog only

twitter | ig | commissions | prints | ko-fi 

AUTUMN - THE SMILE

a reuniun between a prince and a knight, filled with laughter, giggles and tears. you should've seen it coming.

☆. contains: prince!satoru gojo x gn!knight!reader; fluff; angst :D; just a tad bit of violence toward the reader but they can take it (right?); knight!suguru makes an appearance as always, talk of shoko and her childhood

☆. word count: 6k

☆. note: got very real in the end. it'll pass, though. surely. tagging my beloveds too bc i want to. @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat & @elusivemoon & @staryukis

+ here are the masterlist, the previous part & the soundtrack

it's autumn.

the yellow and red leaves paint the town in their warm colors. the people are wearing matching scarves, some already mittens too. the wind can be unforgiving during this time of year - it hides itself behind the last few drops of sunlight and reemerges the second a cloud appears.

it is sunny today, though. a few clouds here and there but not doesn't scare anybody. the town is as bustling as ever. and the prince is out on his daily walk again. he loves being outside, the castle makes him feel so restricted, so caged in. outside - whether it's the shadowy woods or the lively town, he feels free, even if it's a mere moment. he loves taking in the sun - he isn't wearing his blindfold again, aware of the hard fact that he'll get a sickening headache after, but he just can't help it. he wants to see the world around him without the silly restriction his eyes beg for him to wear. he wants to see the leaves, the vines growing on the houses, the river flowing along with the fish in it, the townsfolk. he knows the people, he loves the people; the old lady selling flowers on the corner, the blacksmith with one eye, the doctor, who taught shoko everything she knows, the kids playing ball, the cats nudging themselves against his calves. he loves it. and the people love him, too.

sure, there are many, who'd like to see him dead but those are just power-hungry dogs and the prince knows that. he loves his people and they love him. whenever he comes out, he always plays with the kids. always. he plays ball with them, he plays house with them, he even planned a tea party for them once. he always visits the flower shop lady to look and smells the flowers, even when they're the exact same ones from the day before. he always buys some, insisting that he pays when the lady says otherwise. he buys loads and loads – some for his own room, some for his mom, some for the dining room and some for suguru and shoko. they always roll their eyes at that but the prince knows they appreciate the gesture; he's seen shoko admire them on the balcony of her room, observing every single petal in detail and he has seen suguru smelling them, when he thinks the prince isn't looking. suguru's nose is sensitive, so the prince takes his time picking out the ones with a smell that won't make his nose scrunch up.

suguru walks with him often, but not today. his knight duties called – the king's guard specifically requested him. 'how fancy' the prince said with a grin, earning a punch to his shoulder. he's proud of his friend, though, always. suguru makes an excellent knight and he couldn't be happier to have his best friend with him at all times (at most times).

he likes to visit the blacksmith, too. and every single time he begs, begs, to try out the job. he wants to get his hands dirty, he wants to try new things. he gets excited; it's freeing. a few times, when the prince is alone, the blacksmith allows the boy to help him.

the doctor is someone he also visits regularly. just to check up on her and to talk about shoko – he is insistent on knowing everything about her childhood but she herself won't tell him all that much. he always brings the doctor freshly brewed coffee from the tavern across the street. from her, he has learned that shoko had a rather tough childhood. well, he did know that much. he did learn that the doctor took in shoko when she was just eight; gave her a warm house and a bed and made her into an apprentice. shoko never budged an eye at the blood and the screams, which threw the doctor off a bit but she supposed it's from the life on the streets.

he has also learned that shoko had a friend, who was ready to do anything for her and for others for that's sake. with a deep sigh, she confessed that she regretted not taking in the other kid. shoko was more quiet, more well-behaved in a sense but the other kid – they kept getting into fights with the knights of the castle. "i kept scolding them over it. but no, they just kept going. later i learned that all of those beatings and slashings were for other kids." her head hanged low as she spoke. "they kept taking the blame for the younger kids, so that they wouldn't get hurt. stole food, so that they wouldn't starve. i didn't know that."

the prince nodded along, surprised to hear about this noble kid. his age, too. "where are they now?" he asked in a whisper, a little scared of the answer.

"they left. around the time they were twelve, i think. shoko was miserable. brought me and her flowers and bread; the most polite troubled kid i ever saw." she sighed."i was stupid."

the prince never mentions all that he knows to shoko; of course, he wants to know more but if she needs time to tell it to him herself – so be it. he offered her a room at the castle after he and suguru made her patch him up after a little accident. it's funny really, one of the prince's fondest memories.

though, the prince can't lie about being very fascinated the mysterious kid, who left town. why did they leave in the first place? why take the blame? who is this person? where are they now?

it's an old conversation that popped into his head as he's making his way to see the very same doctor today. why today? a cold breeze makes a shiver run down his spine and he looks up at the sun. it's so bright. fuck, he's definitely gonna get that headache. a group of kids run by him, laughter filling the street. he thinks about how there are no street kids now – he made sure of that. his father wasn't a fan of his idea of lowering the taxes and building a house for the alleged troubled kids. he hired some people that take care of them and that's another place he'll visit later today. he loves the kids so much and he just wants them to have a good life in his town. he won't be like his father — he will be better.

a warm smell of pastries suddenly floods his nose and he hums – it's thursday today. it's when they bake the biggest batch of goodies. his mouth is already salivating just thinking about it. he'll have to bring some to his friends too. as he's reaching his destination, a familiar glint of armor catches his eye. it's you. standing before the doctor's house, looking up at her with what can only be described as hope, as she's pointing toward the castle with a small smile. you give her a small nod and go for a hand shake for good measure but the doctor grabs your hand with both of hers and holds it to her heart. she tells you something that makes your lip quiver just a bit, just a litte. nodding again, you bow your head and bid your goodbye. the doctor is left standing at her door, watching you walk toward the flower shop.

the prince is stopped in his tracks, only managing to stare at you from a distance. he hasn't seen you since your little meet-cute. not for his lack of trying, though. oh no, he's been all over town, trying to find his little knight but to no avail — gone like the summery wind.

but now. here you are.

you make your way to the flower lady, greeting her with another bow of your head. so polite. the woman just beams at you and the prince feels his own lips twitch into a smile. you two engage in conversation that he cannot hear but once in his life, he doesn't want to interrupt. the flower lady says something that makes your head fall before she bursts into loud laughter, something teasing he thinks. it's like she knows you, why else would she be so comfortable with a new knight in town? he catches a faint, the faintest, little smirk playing on your lips and his knees are ready to give out.

after the short conversation with the woman, you make your way through the town with the prince tailing you. he watches you take in the people, the kids, the houses. the familiarity of it all. many of the older people seem to recognize you, bowing their heads as you pass by them.

reaching the stream that runs through the town, you lean against railing and tilt your head toward the sun. you bask in it. the light warms your skin, accentuating the scar across your eye. it looks cool. you have the same cuirass on from the months before, the little specks of rust still there. he looks at your hands, the bandages covering your fingers and the back of your hand. he's so curious about them. how'd you fight? how'd you protect? who'd you save? where have you been? it's eating him alive, he just wants to fucking ask you about the—

"you do that often, your highness?"

hm?

you address him without turning your head and it makes the prince jump a little. you knew he was here? he looks behind him just make sure you are, in fact, talking to h—

"yes, i'm talking to you."

"wha— how'd you know i was here?" his voice is a pitch higher than usual, genuinely surprised by having your attention on him.

"well, you're bound to spot the royal idiot standing with his mouth wide open in the middle of the street, your highness." you tease.

"i was not standing in the middle of the street! i am perfectly on the side, i don't know what you're talking about." he takes a step toward you, so– so eager to finally have you here with him.

"that's what you took from that sentence?" your fist raised in front of your lips, surpressing a grin.

the prince is more observant than you'd think. his fingers twitch by his side, eager to remove your hand and let your smile shine.

"i haven't seen you around."

"oh, were you looking for me, your highness?" it's supposed to be another tease but it doesn't fall through becaus—

"yes." the prince deadpans. humming, you try to brush off his straigh-forwardness.

"missed me, your highness?" you decide to give it another go.

"yes." and it doesn't work. you feel heat crawling up your neck, so you raise a hand to massage it. to hide it from the prince's keen eyes.

...

"you're ridiculous. don't you have other people to play around with?"

"oh, tons and tons. but they're not you." he leans toward you, tilting his head, boring his pretty blue eyes into yours – he really does look like a puppy like this. you've never seen one, you've only met teeth-baring wolves in the woods. you don't know what to do with him.

"has anyone mentioned, you have a terrible staring problem, your highness?" you retort.

"i just can't help it. and, anyway, i'm trying to figure out whether this is a dream or not."

"why would this be a dream, your highness?"

"i was momentarily convinced that our whole little date was a dream after i woke up, too, actually. but thank god, suguru was there to tell me that you did, in fact, save me. and, and you – yes, you – kindly refused the money and even told me to go and buy myself a new outfit." it's so off-putting how matter of fact it sounds. like he really thought it was a dream. you wonder, whether that's a good or a bad thing.

"well, did you?"

"i did. it matches your eyes. if i had known my little knight was in town, i wouldn've worn it." he sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes before setting his gaze on the river below.

another breeze bristles through the two of you, rustling the prince's hair. the desire to fix it is weirdly strong, you push it aside. a cloud appears and moves in front of the beaming sun, casting a shadow upon you.

"i'm not your knight, your highness. nor am i little." straightening your back, you try to remind him of that. it's hard, he doesn't really take you seriously like that. it irks you.

"yeah– yeah." he brushes it off with ease. no harm done. the cloud moves a little and a few sun beams drop down onto the prince, leaving you behind into the shadows for a moment before lighting you up again.

"by the way, can you stop doing that?"

"doing what, your highness?" you inquire with a raised brow.

"that. exactly that."

"that what? use your words, your highness. you're a big boy, i know you can do it." it's funny to tease him. the honored prince.

he turns to you, his lips pursed. "your highness."

"your highness?" you push.

"you know exactly what i'm talking about and i need you to stop it."

"why would i, your highness?" of course, you know what he's talking about. he was crying about it the last time you saw each other. his name.

"because, because, because," he pushes himself off the railing, fully turning his body to you. "i want you to call me by my name."

"i won't, your highness." it's a statement. you won't budge. you won't.

"but why? i need you to say my name." his shoulders fall as he looks at you. like a puppy.

"why are you so hell-bent on that? i cannot do that, your highness. it's wrong."

"it's less wrong than calling me an 'idiot' every two seconds?" that — is a good point. you won't tell him that.

"what do you think will happen if you say it, hm? there's nobody here; nobody to shame you for it and even if somebody tried – i'd protect you." the last part tugs the corners of his mouth up, nailing them there, showing off his pearly whites.

"what do you think will happen if i say it, hm?" you shoot back.

his parted lips close. "other than world peace and an end to the famine? i just get to hear it, simple as that."

he's doing it again. kind of trying to claw inside your ribcage. thankfully you're wearing armor; you won't let it happen. you can't. it's crazy, how much his sincerity irks you. and his jokes. and his smile. and his eyes. and the way he won't leave you alone. and the way he keeps bugging you about the name. you won't, though. you will not.

"i can drop the 'your highness', if that'll make you leave me alone."

"yes!" he does a little celebratory movement with his fist and the urge to punch him is back. "that's a start. we're getting somewhere now." flashing you a smirk, he leans back onto the railing.

"we're not getting anywhere, stupid."

the prince smiles to himself as you two have another moment of silence. you're both looking at the same two fish in the river, swimming in circles with each other.

while you're distracted with the river, the prince decides to take another good look at you up close. his eyes scan you from head to toe. another glance at the scar – it's deep and it's old. your eyes look a bit tired, but the prince convinces himself that the little glint in them is because of him. there's an almost healed cut in your bottom lip. there's another scar on your neck. he looks over your cuirass, wondering how heavy it is. your sword hanging from its scabbard. how heavy would that be.

"what happened?" he asks, pointing to your bandaged fingers that you keep fiddling with.

"fought a bear."

...

"what?! you can't just casually say you fought a fucking bear and then just stoically look in the distance?" he's ready to bounce off the walls, three words filling his adrenaline gauge immediately.

"nothing special about it."

it's taking you everything to hold back your laughter.

"wha— what the fuck do you mean 'it's nothing special'? you fought a bear?!"

he's unbelievably naive, actually, because does he seriously think you fought a bear and got away with some scratches on your fingers and nothing else? he's deluded. just for you.

"how big was it? was it mad? did you kill its babies? oh, i hope you didn't kill its babies, that's so bad. wait, did you kill it? why'd you fight it in the first place? c'mon, please tell me. please."

it all comes out in one breath and he looks like he's about to pass out.

"well, i was sent for it actually."

"you were sent for it?"

you hum in agreement.

"a few days after being in town, the flowershop lady sought me out with a problem of hers. the knights of the castle didn't take her seriously, that's why she had to turn to me."

the prince nods, already hooked to your story. he knows the older knights, his father's knights, can be assholes.

"she told me – a bear, like a really, really big one at that, had visited the town on a quiet night. and that it'd stolen some of the flowers from her stand."

he nods again, albeit faintly this time.

"so i went to find it. for her. took me days, the journey was rough." you sigh deeply before glancing at him, almost stopping your false little story because of his confused expression. he's cute. no, he isn't. "t'was an easy fight, though. you know how good i am with the sword. i returned with its head just yesterday. that's why you haven't seen me around."

he looks at you blankly, like a kid, who's parents are trying to convince him that santa claus is indeed real.

"i'm just fucking with you, my liege. i didn't fight a fucking bear, s—" you bite your lip to stop the word from falling from your lip and for your sake, the prince doesn't seem to notice.

"that's so not funny, you know. i really thought you went and fought a bear." he dangles from the railing, sporting a jutted out bottom lip and big doe eyes. poor boy.

you just can't stop the small smile that spreads across your face.

"you thought i fought a bear and got away with a few bandages! it's your own fault, really. you're too naive."

his own lips begin to mirror yours. "so mean. i'm just being positive, okay."

"yeah, okay."

it's a second. where it's all quiet – just you and him, looking at each other and smiling. it's weird. and so good at the same time. you don't know what to do with yourself. he bumps his shoulder into yours before leaning back down. he stays close, an inch between you and you fight the urge to pull away. you're scared. not used to this. it was just a fleeting touch and he doesn't seem that affected. (he is). your eyes flick from the river to the fish to the flowers by the water and to the sky above you. you don't know what to do with yourself.

suddenly high-pitched giggles erupt from somewhere behind you, catching your attention. three little girls in their little pastel dresses, they all have flowers behind their ears. the prince turns around and takes the world's biggest bow possible, making the girls titter once more.

"well, hello to my very favourite girls." he's wearing that sickeningly sweet smile again. he kneels down and beckons them closer. all of their eyes flick over to you and the need to step away is killing you. but as if noticing your uneasiness, the prince tugs on your hand, pulling you down with him. he sends you a reassuring smile and motions for the girls again. this time, they don't hesitate.

one of the girls reminds you of shoko. it's a bit uncanny, really. brown hair and big brown eyes. and she even stares at you the same way, just like she did when you were small; with a sense of curiosity instead of the usual distain you were used to. you try to give her a cautious smile, so afraid she'll be frightened by your sharp teeth, by the scars.

she beams.

the little girl flashes you a grin as if she's ready to compete against the sun or the young prince beside you. her little eyes shine, her little hand reaches out. "can i touch it?"

"touch it?"

"th-the scar." she nods. she's excited?

"oh."

the prince is quietly observing you from the corner of his eye while braiding one of the other girls' hair. the girls taught him that. he's very good at it, too. the third little lady is talking his ear off about the next tea-party they're having. he loves them.

"uhm, you can. yeah." clearing your throat, you lean a little closer to her. the small hand stretches out, her fingers ghost over the long bump across your eye.

"does it hurt?"

you shake your head. not anymore.

"cool." she takes a step back, still looking at you.

the prince swears there are stars in your eyes, and he's determined to make them stay there.

"do you want a flower, too?" one of the other girls asks. she has on a purple dress and she has the biggest bundle of flowers in her hands. there are reds, there are blues, yellows and pinks. it's such a colorful bouquet, you wonder where she found them all.

"i– sure."

"i think..." the prince's hand reaches for the flower, his fingertips ghosting over yours. "this..." he raises it next to your ear. "should go here. what'd you think girls?" they excitedly nod their heads. "yes! yes!"

and to top it off, he whispers a 'be good' to you.

a grumble, is what escapes your tight throat but the quiet giggles that emit from the girls help it relax. the prince's nimble hand pushes a hair behind your ear and places the flower aside it.

"would you look at that, hm?" there's a teasing lilt in there somewhere, you're sure of it. you just can't hear it right now. surely. his eyes are glued to you, making your lips purse. the heat is back, back on its way up your spine and to your neck. this is so silly.

'so pretty' is what one of the girls whispers, followed by a small 'yeah'.

your eyes flick over to them, still waiting for them to just run off but they're there. admiring the knight with the flower behind their ear alongside their prince. the heat is now clawing its way up your neck and onto your face; the warm tint on your cheeks makes the prince coo. that's enough.

standing up, you glare at the prince, who simply cannot put away his smile. switching to the girls, you merely lean over them. "run along now." it was supposed to sound harsh, demanding, but once again you're greeted with their warm smiles and giggles. they wave to their prince and they wave to you before running off.

a tug on your bandaged hand makes you jump. "are you coming to the party?" it's the mini-shoko. tugging on your arm like when you were young.

your eyebrows raise – you don't know the answer to her simple question. it should be a no, but how can you say that to her? you just want her to smile, to keep smiling.

an arms slings over your shoulder, making you glance at the hand and then at the face. he's so close like this.

"they're coming!"

"really?" her eyes have doubled in size, genuinely excited and ready for another knight to attend the party.

"i promise!" he sticks out his pinky and waits for her to do the same. they link them together with mirrored smiles before she, too, runs off. the prince turns his head and your noses almost brush together, making your eyes widen.

"it looks good."

"fuck off." shoving him off of your shoulder, you give him a firm punch against his chest, loud laughter rumbling through it. god, he's annoying.

settling back to your spot resting against the railing and closing your eyes, you take another moment to enjoy the sun. you can feel his eyes on you; it's impossible not to.

"stop staring."

"i can't."

you slightly open one of your eyes and peer at him. his leaning on the thing, cheek mushed against the palm of his hand, eyes set on you. he looks beautiful.

"why don't you wear the blindfold?"

"i don't like it."

"how come?"

"i wanna see the world."

"and you don't with it?"

"yes and no." he rubs his eyes before closing them and mirroring your pose – head turned up to the blue sky. "yes, i technically see everything and no, in a sense that i want to look at people and i want them to look at me. i want to connect with them. with the world. with you." he tilts his head toward you, peeking at you. you shy away from his gaze, scoffing under your nose.

"i heard it gives you headaches?"

"it's worth it."

he means it. you hum.

"it's gonna rain soon." you say it more to yourself than to him.

"no, it won't." he opens his eyes and stares at the clouds slowly drifting in wind above him.

"yes, it will."

"what, you a psychic all of a sudden?"

pointing behind him, you gesture to the way darker clouds now moving in the town's way.

"oh..."

idiot.

"you sure you can be outside when it happens?"

"hm?"

"i heard that little boys like you get washed away in the rain. 'm jus' looking out for you." your eyes are glued to the other side of the river in a stoic manner, whilst the prince gapes at you like the fish in the water.

"i— am not a little boy."

oh, and his voice cracks.

...

his cheeks flush but it's worth it because the next thing he hears is like the sweetest melody in the world – you laugh. you actually laugh.

"right... not a little boy but a pretty little princess instead." and you can't help it, another chuckle bubbling up your throat.

he's in awe. the sun peeks from the grey clouds and soaks you in it's golden light. his knight.

"i—..." and he can't contain his own laughter. "okay, first of all – i'd make a gorgeous princess, for all you know!"

"oh, i don't doubt that." you scoff.

the prince takes a step from the railing and spins himself around, hands outstretched holding his imagenary gown, he bends his knees and bows his head like a true princess.

"the girls have taught you well, i see." your hand rises again to hide your foreign expression; rough, scarred fingers covering the softest grin. "you really are ridiculous..."

"just for you." his voice is always so confident, like he really means it. for you. but he isn't. he isn't for you – you seem to be forgetting that. mistakes like that tend to get punished.

he does another twirl but his feet can't keep up with him and he stumbles backward, a moment away from falling when cold fingers wrap around his wrist, steadying him.

"i don't understand how you're so good with a sword when you can't even stand up without the danger of cracking your skull open."

"you think i'm good with the sword?" he beams.

"that's not— that's... i mean, you're good for a person, who has been training for the most of his life, yeah."

it's the best compliment; you trying to conceal it under some fake little comment won't stop him from him writing it down in his little journal later.

his wrist is still caught in your palm and he doesn't plan on letting you go – swiveling his hand to properly grasp onto yours. it doesn't burn. with a smile he pulls you down the small hill, down toward the river.

"hey!"

your little complaint falls onto his deaf ears; he's determined to keep you with him. forever and ever.

the dark figure staring at you from the distance is hidden by the sound of the prince's addicting laughter. you've let yourself go for a minute and you're about to be punished for it. are you ready?

he drags you right to the calm stream, never letting go of your hand. it feels right. your hand in his. he bends down, you with him, to see what he's up to - only to be splashed right in the face.

"wha— you little fuck."

giggles emit from his throat as he takes a step back, watching you dip your hands into the water. "come here, boy."

it's so easy to forget with him. to forget everything. that you're not supposed to be acting like this. playing like children. especially with the prince. you're not supposed to be laughing. having fun. you're not supposed to.

you splash him back, child-like laughter falling from your lips with ease. it's your fault.

this little chase goes on for a couple of minutes before the prince takes another stumble, bringing you down onto the grassy bed with a thud!

this time – your noses really do bump together, an immediate flush spreading across your face. your armor is heavy on his chest but he doesn't mind. doesn't mind when it comes to you. when you try to get up, his fingers latch onto the metal, gently pressing down on your waist.

his blue eyes gaze up at you but you don't really know what is it that swims in them. you're not acquainted with stuff like this. you don't know what the fuck this man is thinking about right now, but you do know that this is inappropriate. you shouldn't be doing this.

"this is stupid." you try to push yourself up again.

"stay."

you glare at him, gauging the meaning behind his word. is he joking?

"stay." he whispers.

your eyes flick down to his lips. his flick down to yours.

his heart jumps in his chest when you don't push away a third time. he does sense a small scolding ahead though. and he's right because your lips part, curving just the right way—

he knows what you're about to say. what you're gonna start your sentence with. it's coming. he can almost hear it. the smooth 's' on the tip of your tongue—

"boy!"

...

your eyes widen and your lips sow themselves shut in the blink of an eye, forcing the prince watch you swallow his name; push it deep down – as far as it could possibly go. never to be seen again. the weight of your armor lifts from his chest, but another kind remains heavy on his heart.

"boy!" the same voice calls. the prince doesn't need to look to know, who it is. a big figure looms over the two of you, ontop the very hill you spent the last thirty minutes on. even though the man's voice is directed at the prince, his eyes are set on you. scrambling to your feet, your head falls into a shameful bow before the king's guard.

how dare you?

it takes no time to close the distance between him and you. the sheer size of the man hides the prince behind him. from you.

the prince's mouth opens – ready to defend his knigh—

a slap!

the man's back of the hand meets your cheek, jolting you, awakening some well-hidden memories deep in your body. your eyes shoot up to face your foe. you know this man. his eyes are cold; cold as the sudden autumn wind, a wind you know will give you a fever and nail you to your bed. your cheek throbs – a dark pink pool of shame; pure shame and digust of oneself.

"a thieving child dressed as a warrior? hah, this isn't the time to play house."

how dare you?

a sharp intake of breath and the prince is hurling towards you but a strong hand keeps him in place.

"don't." suguru. his arm drapes over the prince's chest, holding him back.

slap!

on the same side. the pink tint rapidly turning into a deep red one.

how dare you?

the prince thrashes in suguru's grasp. a raindrop falls onto his forehead, dripping down by his eyebrow, hiding his already watery eyes – 'a sensitive boy' his mother always said.

the heavy brash rain washes away the light that had been shining in your eyes, turning them back into a pair off dull ones; the beating heart behind your ribs rattling in its cage. stupid.

"never did have any respect for your superiors, did ya? you oughta kneel before your prince. and beg for his forgivess."

"no!" the prince barks.

a tch!

his heavy fist lands against your worn back, stumbling you forward. he doesn't need to tell you twice. you don't wanna hear it twice. with a throbbing red cheek you step before the prince and slowly fall down to your knee, into the mud. where you belong. you reach for the prince's hand, raising it to your face.

"forgive me, my prince."

after what seemed like entirnity, your eyes meet. it's not you. it can't be. chapped lips graze the back of his hand, trembling in your hold while you keep your cold gaze on him. the flower behind your ear has wilted, laying limp, just about ready to fall and sink deep into the ground.

the knife in his chest turns and he can't breathe. another tear brimms in his eye, spilling over the plump of his cheek and blending together with the rain soaking his shirt. it hurts.

"why don't you accompany the prince inside, his father is expecting him." the man orders the dark haired knight.

suguru doesn't look any better than the two of you; his lips indefinitely turned downward, guilt seeping from the hands holding his best friend. he knows he can't do anything for you and he's sure you know it too, it doesn't take away the god awful feeling, though. he feels the prince turning more into a puddle by the second, his grasp on him faltering.

he tugs him a step back, the prince's hand slipping from yours.

"please."

it's only for your ears, yet you don't know what he's asking for. you stand with a head held up high, the cold raindrops easing the burning in your cheek (but not in your chest). you watch them saunter away, watch the prince glance behind him exactly three times. three times too much because he just doesn't get it. he doesn't understand that this is it.

this won't happen again; it cannot happen again. he's just a boy — a boy, who wants to play house, knowing there won't be a punishment for his fun. a mere slap against his fingers that he'll respond to with a frown but nothing more. but a knight? playing house? it's absurd, laughable even. it is disgraceful.

who do you think you are?

who are you to touch the prince with your dirty hand? who are you to stain him with your tainted touch? how dare you muddy their little doll? their precious prince? you're some foul creature seen on the street; an agressive dog, ready to chew up the prince. he's not for you to touch, to have — he's theirs. he is everything and you are nothing.

and in the end — you're not even a real knight.

Harry is eight and spending the time he isn’t locked up in his cupboard, or doing house chores, or running away from Dudley and his gang, at the nearby park. He sits on the swing and idly watches the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen.

His name is Malcom, his hair is light brown and his eyes are the prettiest blue Harry’s ever seen.

But— but boys aren’t supposed to be pretty. Boys aren’t supposed to think other boys are pretty, so he makes himself smaller in his worn out jumper and never approaches him again.

Harry is eleven when his life turns upside down and a gangly freckled kid sits next to him on the Hogwarts Express. He looks into his blue eyes and marvels at the bright red of his hair. He wants to reach out and clean the bit of dirt off his nose, but that would be getting too close to another boy, and he couldn’t afford that, could he?

Not when he could imagine tracing all the freckles scattered across his cheeks.

Harry is fourteen when Cedric Diggory falls from the sky and offers him help getting up after using his first Portkey. His hand is big and as calloused as he’d expect a Quidditch player’s to be. He doesn’t like dwelling on the thought of how nice he’d found it.

He asks Cho Chang to the Yule Ball and she rejects him because Cedric Diggory had been quicker. He ends up spending the night on a chair intently looking at the way Cedric’s hand curls around Cho’s waist. He was jealous of him, right?

He tells Sirius about the Yule Ball and he raises an eyebrow at the way Harry describes Cedric’s robes and styled hair but can barely remember the colour of Cho’s dress.

Harry is fifteen when Cho Chang finally agrees to go on a date with him. It happens after they kiss and Harry is eager, he should be, right? The kiss had felt wet and not particularly pleasant and his chest felt a lot warmer as he watched the way Ron laughed when he described it than it had felt when his lips had collided with Cho’s.

The date doesn’t go well, maybe Harry just doesn’t get women.

Sirius says it’s ridiculous, but he doesn’t miss the odd look he and Remus give each other.

Harry is sixteen when he dreams of red hair and freckled skin and in order to escape it he decides to stay up at night and stare at Draco Malfoy’s dot on the Marauder’s Map.

It doesn’t do him good.

He decides the bright red infesting his dreams must be Ginny’s, because he doesn’t know any other red-haired girl. Even though she wears it long and when he dreams it’s short and spiky. And the freckles on her cheeks are not as numerous as the ones he marvels at after falling asleep.

He decides it has to be Ginny, and the thought of it can occupy his mind long enough to make him forget the weird pang and slight sick in his stomach each time he catches Ron snogging Lavender.

When Ginny runs up to him after winning the Quidditch up, he kisses her, because that’s what he’d been dreaming about, right? Hands tangled in red hair and freckled cheeks centimetres from his face, but it feels all wrong.

Ron nods at him and it all feels wrong.

Sirius is not here anymore for Harry to consult, so instead he takes Ginny outside their common room and, on the Hogwarts grounds, opens his heart to her.

She understands.

Harry is seventeen when he has to die and he still hasn’t made sense of the feelings in his chest or why, no matter how much he tried, girls felt so wrong.

It’s not at the forefront of his mind, it’s not even close because the only thing he can think about is the warm bodies laying lifeless in the Great Hall.

But, as he approaches his death, he does spare a thought for the uneasiness he had felt when Hermione kissed Ron, and the discomfort every kiss he’d given before had provided him. He hadn’t lived in full, not even close.

A flash of green light approaches and he finds it silly, how his last thought is of red hair and freckles.

Harry is eighteen when he attends his first Weasley family dinner after the war. The grief is heavy and Fred’s chair is empty but Percy is back home and it does bring at least a shard of comfort to Mrs Weasley. He isn’t alone, Oliver Wood hangs from his arm.

He is eighteen and Percy Weasley introduces Oliver Wood as his boyfriend.

Harry blinks at them and something in his head just clicks.

Harry is twenty when he finally musters the courage to walk into a Gay Bar. He had to Confund the door keeper because he didn’t own an ID, the Dursleys had never bothered giving it to him, given he even had one.

It’s a Muggle place and he feels like the odd one out, terribly dressed down and completely clueless.

He ends up ordering a beer and sitting by the bar.

It’s not until his third visit that a stranger approaches him. He has red hair but his pupils are a soft hazel and his skin isn’t freckled at all. Harry thinks that if he shuts his eyes close, maybe, he could pretend.

His name is Lucas, his lips taste vaguely like strawberries and the kiss doesn’t make Harry want to turn his insides inside out. He smiles and the rush of adrenaline in his veins as Lucas nibs on his bottom lip feels both terrifying and terribly right.

Harry is twenty-three when the cat gets out of the bag.

It’s not because he wanted it, really, but sharing a flat with his best mates could be inconvenient, at times.

He flushed and urges his date to get dressed as he tries to avoid Ron and Hermione’s shocked looks. Their hands are clasped together and Harry has learnt to live with the uncomfortable twist of his stomach by now.

They come off it quickly, though. Ron laughs and pats Harry on the back, says everything is much more clear now.

Harry is twenty-five when he makes his best-man speech at Ron and Hermione’s wedding.

He chokes on his words both because he was never that good at public speaking and because each time he looked at the way Ron’s arm curled around Hermione’s shoulder his throat went a bit drier.

He drinks his glass of champagne in one go and relishes in the burn before fetching Gabriel, his date for the night.

Gabriel stood out like a sour note next to his exes: his hair were a dusty blonde. Harry had thought there would be way too many redheads at the wedding anyways.

Harry is thirty-one when Ron jokes he will never settle down if he keeps on changing men at the same rate he changes his pants, but Harry doesn’t care.

Ron looks thoroughly annoyed and Hermione coughs, worried and almost resigned eyes looking up at her husband.

Harry is thirty-three when Ron shows up at his place with a suitcase and bashfully tells him Hermione wants to file for a divorce.

He just nods and lets Ron in.

Harry is thirty-five when Ron brings back a bottle of expensive Firewhisky and decides they should celebrate the Cannons’ new victory streak on their own.

He hadn’t heard of the Cannons winning anything, recently, but he shrugs it off because it’s not really his thing anyways, Ron would know.

He is thirty-five and Ron, red-haired, freckled and now face flushed sits way too close for comport and traces his lips with a pinky.

He stands up abruptly and loudly declares it’s time for bed. Ron looks quite annoyed, but it will pass.

It must have been his imagination.

Harry is thirty-seven when his best mate breaks down crying in front of him and confesses his feelings through agonising sobs.

He keeps apologising and a tug at his hand breaks Harry out of his stupor. He was sure it must have been a dream, but Ron was real and crying and trembling.

He leans down wordlessly and, finally— sparks.

He is thirty-seven and this is the first time he’s ever felt so alive.

Harry is forty-two when Hagrid walks him down the aisle.

It’s clumsy and messy because they’re both trying not to cry, Harry being much better at it than the half-giant.

He catches a glimpse of Hermione, beaming at him from the front with a knowing smile.

He is forty-two and he is in front of Ron, in white robes. The voices around them nothing but white noise and then Ron leans down and all he can see is— red. Red hair and freckles.

I went on Veneer’s wiki page and-

Me after reading this: *sigh* I’m gonna write an angst oneshot-

Also this:

They were based on them-