#evil mark grayson

I honestly do not think you could have anything like a healthy relationship with Sinister Mark. Either, you are his pet that he tortures and owns, not loves. Or you are just as strong as him, or stronger, and you are both monsters. 

That, or its one of those situations where you are stronger than him, chill, and keep him in check like someone with a muzzled dog. All “he don't bite” after Mark just ripped someone in half. 

I think this version of Mark would struggle to outright love somebody. Being so morbid also means you have some disconnect with your emotions, especially healthy ones. 

It might just start out as possession and obsession. He would see you and decide you are interesting, his property. Or you are someone strong enough to be his rival, or to pose a challenge, so he wouldn't leave you alone. 

Maybe, it can evolve into love, but it would still be a very twisted and uncomfortable version of love.  

Sinister Mark is the type of guy who would hurt you, sometimes on accident, sometimes not. If things don't go his way, it wouldn't be beyond him to harm you, or try. 

If you are someone stronger than him, then he would still try, since trying to overpower you is something that intrigues him.  

I couldn't see sinister Mark being soft and caring the same way normal Mark is. He might have his moments where he just wants to be held or would even kiss you and pet your hair. But they are rare and far between. Especially after the whole stranded situation. 

If he survives the whole invincible war arc, and comes back to you in some way, then he would be even more cracked than you are used too. 

I don't really think a guy like him can go to therapy, so the closest he can get is you, and major part of him doesn't want to appear weak in front of you, which results in him being even more unpredictable. 

If you are stronger then him, or just as strong as him anyways, you might need to actually beat some sense into him. You can't get him to be like normal Mark, never, but you can at least get him to calm down a little and listen. 

This is also just a headcanon I have for all versions of Mark, but I think one of the greatest ways to calm him is to pull him against your chest so he can listen to your heartbeat. 

I don't believe that Viltrumites purr like I do kryptonians. And I don't think the heart has any special meaning amongst their people. I just think Mark likes to know you are alive and has memorized how your heart sounds. 

Did you guys know some people have a kink for heart beats? Yeah. I think this Mark has that, and not just yours. I can see him being a lil freak, ripping peoples beating hearts out because it gets him hot and bothered. 

Sinister mark would use murder and cannibalism as foreplay. If you eat people too, then he's panting and running (flying?) in circles like an excited puppy. He would try to lick your mouth and face, to lap up all the blood and gore mixed with your spit. 

Lord have mercy if you have a healing factor that can keep up with him. I think Mark would go crazy, dopey wild and feral smile on his face as he almost starts salivating. 

If it hurts too much, then he's sure there's some kinda drugs that will keep you comfortable so he can take chunks out of you, but keep you aware through it. 

If you have neither of these, I still think this Marks treats your blood and other bodily fluids like ambrosia. Imagine just cutting your finger so he can lick and suck at it when he's behaved himself.  

It just ends up pavloving him to be extra sensitive to the smell of your blood. Like, he would end up able to pick your blood out of hundreds of samples because he's just printed it onto his brain. 

There’s twenty-five of you, technically. Twenty-five variants of you, scattered across the multiverse — same face, same voice, different trauma responses. Some cry when Mark chokes them and others beg. One of them calls him “Master” without being told to, and he hates that one the most. But you?

You don't crawl, you grin at him from your knees. You talk back and you bite when he tells you to open. That’s why you're the only one allowed to sit on his throne when he's not using it, the only one he pulls into his lap mid-meeting, while his generals pretend not to notice the slow grind of his hips behind your back.

Right now, he’s lounging, one leg thrown over the armrest, fingers dragging lazily along the seam of his costume's bottoms, watching the lesser versions of you try to charm him like desperate strays. His Mohawk’s still dripping from battle. There’s blood dried in the crease of his jaw. He hasn’t looked at you once, but you know he’s waiting for you to snap.

And when you do, when you push the others aside and strut barefoot across the obsidian floor like you own it, Mark’s mouth curls slow and cruel. “Finally. Took you long enough.” His voice rings out, skin practically taut with excitement. The throne room smells like iron and sweat. The others are still lingering, some pressed to the obsidian pillars like sad little ornaments, others whispering to each other, desperate to be noticed. Mark ignores them, but you don’t.

Your smirk is slow and venomous, eyes flicking their way like you know he’s only seconds from snapping. That’s part of why you lean just a bit too far into his space, arms draped over the back of his throne, your breath ghosting along the edge of his jaw. He doesn't look at you. He looks at them. "Get out."

His voice isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. It rips through the air like a blade nonetheless. "But—" one of them starts, a variant with a softer voice and stars in his eyes. "I said—out. You know how I get when I’m eating. And this one's my fucking favorite." His very delivery and gaze sends him gasping. They vanish, one by one. Out of fear. Out of jealousy. Out of shame. But you're still there, smiling.

"Someone’s cranky," you say. Mark finally turns to you — eyes widening, teeth bared. "Someone’s starving." He grabs you by the back of your neck, rough but reverent, and drags you into his lap like you weigh nothing. Suddenly… you’re flipped.

Not to ride him. No. He bends you forward over the high armrest of the throne—back arched obscenely, chest pinned to the cold metal, legs dangling in the air—and holds you there with one hand braced at the base of your spine. "Look at that," he mutters, yanking your pants down just enough. "Hole’s already twitching. Like it knows who owns it."

You moan—breathless and undignified. Mark chuckles, rutting against your ass once, twice. He teases the head of his cock against you, just enough to make you clench and whine.

“Pathetic,” he hums, but there’s pride in it. “So much better than the rest of you. They beg. You behave.”

He thrusts, without much give as it pops through the ring of muscle.

You scream, half folded over, toes barely touching the floor. The throne groans under the impact, but Mark doesn’t stop. He fucks you like he’s marking his territory, grip locked around your waist like a vice, breath ragged and hot against your back. The stretch is obscene—your hole tight and quivering as Mark pushes in, inch by inch, until your breath catches in your throat and your thighs go numb. You feel every vein on his cock like it’s carved to fuck you specifically, pressure building in your gut like a coil snapping with every cruel grind. There’s no mercy in the way he sets the rhythm —brutal and addictive— each thrust punching the air from your lungs. Slick drips down your thighs, pooling beneath you as your body goes lax, surrendering to the drag and fill, the perfect press of him inside you, again and again and again.

"You feel that?" he growls. "That stretch? That’s your god breaking you open. Gonna keep you like this, pretty and wrecked, where you belong." He adjusts — lifts one leg, props your knee over the throne arm, spreading you wider, deeper. The new angle has you sobbing, stars bursting behind your eyes. You can’t stop the sounds falling from your mouth, open-mouthed moans slurred into nonsense, gasps that turn into high, keening whines every time he hits that devastating spot. You’re flushed all the way down your chest, trembling, vision swimming. Every muscle clenches helplessly, like your body’s trying to milk him dry. Your cock bounces untouched against your stomach, leaking in thick, messy strings, each drop smearing between you as your hips grind back instinctively, chasing more, always more.

Somewhere behind you, you hear a quiet gasp.

One of the variants, a version of you, still watching. You open your mouth to warn Mark—too late. Without even pausing his thrusts, he snaps his fingers. A brutal shockwave slams the man against the far wall.

“Didn’t I say I was eating?” Mark hisses. “If you’re gonna stay, you watch in silence. Or I make you hold his ankles and see how long you last.” You moan at that—and shamelessly so.

“Oh? You like the idea?” Mark laughs. “Of course you do. Fucking whore.” He flips you again—this time upside down across his lap, head dangling over one knee, legs still spread. Gravity makes you drip.

He shoves back in. You choke on a moan, eyes rolling, teeth bared against your wrist. And Mark? He just groans, low but reverent. “Goddamn. You take me so fucking good it should be illegal.”

He doesn’t stop. Even after he spills the first time—hips jerking, buried to the base with your name rasped like a warning—Mark keeps going, fucking you through it, chasing the ruin he lives for. You’re bent half off the throne’s edge now, face wet with drool, eyes glossy, hole fluttering like it’s starved.

His cock drags through you in deep, mean strokes, one hand tangled in your hair, the other smeared across your ass, fingertips spreading slick.

"Fuck," he groans. "Listen to yourself. Sloppy little hole won't even let me go. You gonna keep me locked in all night, baby?"

You try to answer—to say yes or please or anything, but all that comes out is a whimper. You hear the exaggerated mockery of a sound made by him echoing from behind.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought." He bites your shoulder hard enough to make your legs shake. “You like this. Being opened up like a book. Every goddamn page soaked in me.”

Then he pulls out—slow, just to watch it stretch and leak.

But he doesn’t give you a break. Oh no. Mark shifts—scoots forward on the throne seat, spreading his legs wide, cock still glistening, pulls you back into his lap with your wrists pinned behind you, and starts bucking up into you with brutal precision.

You're straddling him now, fully seated, thighs shaking, his hands holding your wrists behind your back so your chest is thrust forward — vulnerable, trembling, owned.

"That's it," he hisses, mouth at your throat. "Ride it. C'mon. Show me how you make my cock disappear. Bounce on it like you need it."

You do. Desperately. The pace turns filthy, wet slaps, sharp thrusts, your breath broken into high, gasping moans as you move in sync, riding him like you were made for it. He pants praises into your neck, fisting his hand in your hair to keep your face tilted toward his.

“Look at you. So fucking perfect. My favorite hole in the multiverse. Every other version of you’s a pale, whining imitation—but you?” He sucks a mark onto your neck. “You were built to worship this cock.” You don’t even know where you end and he begins anymore—not with how deep he is, not with how your body’s locked onto his like gravity. His cum is still hot inside you, mixing with your own slick, your thighs shaking, hole spasming around the overstimulation and begging for more. Every time you try to lift your hips, he pulls you back down, impaling you with a snarl like he’s mad at you for even trying to let him go. You’re not riding him anymore—you’re being kept there, used, adored, ruined like a holy vessel meant only to be filled by him. When you come to, you’re in his lap, knuckles pale as you grip the thrones headrest. He licks sweat from your collarbone, hips stuttering against yours, and laughs into your neck when you sob. “You feel it? That stretch? That’s me rearranging your insides. Gonna pump you so full you drip for hours. Let the whole fucking empire see who this hole belongs to.”

You can feel him twitching inside you again, rhythm getting erratic—and you know he’s close, know it’s about to happen again. But you don’t notice the air shift. You don't hear the footsteps behind you, or the way the temperature dips, or the soft, unsteady breaths returning to the room. You only notice when hands begin to touch you.

One ghosting across your spine. Another dragging lazy circles along your sternum. Fingers thread through your hair from behind. Lips brush your temple, your shoulder, your mouth. Whispered moans and praises—your own voice, different, warmer, sadder, hungrier—fill your ears.

“Can’t stay away from him either, huh?” one voice says, breath hot against your cheek.

Mark stiffens, his eyes narrowing, yet he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop them. He lets it happen and that’s how you know you own him too.

Even when hands are sliding down his chest, nails raking lightly across his thighs, tongues lapping at the sweat on his jaw, even when he’s being worshipped like a king by half a dozen other versions of you, his gaze never leaves yours.

"You feel that?" he whispers, voice raw, eyes locked on your face. "They want me. But I only come for you." And he does. Again.

With a groan so guttural it sounds like a mangled cry, he drags you down, burying himself to the root, and spills inside you with a loud, shaking, and claiming groan that seems to echo, almost pornographic, almost submissive itself.

You clench around him, helpless, ruined, as the other hands caress you both like a sacred offering. Fingers slide down your back—soft, trembling with need. Another pair trace your chest, teasing your nipples until you whimper, twitching in Mark’s lap. A third hand cups your throat with gentle pressure, tilting your head back so lips can press slow kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You barely notice how many touches there are now—hands, mouths, heat and want surrounding you from every side, but none of it breaks the spell between you and Mark. He’s still inside you, buried deep, arms around your waist, gaze locked to yours like he’ll never blink again. “Let them worship,” he murmurs. “But this cock stays yours.”

~~~~ You’re boneless in his lap now, barely breathing right—head lolling against his shoulder, your thighs sticky with slick and sweat, chest rising slow and shallow. Mark’s arms are wrapped around you tight, one hand petting your hair, the other resting possessively across your stomach, thumb brushing idly across the mess he made inside you. He’s not hard anymore—but he’s still deep, cock resting soft and wet inside your twitching hole, refusing to pull out.

“You did so good,” he murmurs into your ear, tone turning sweet in that terrifying way only he can manage. “Took it like you wanted to be ruined in front of them. Like you liked showing off.”

Then, without even looking, he speaks louder, smug and deliberate. “Hope the rest of you had fun. All that moaning, all that tongue, all that desperate fucking effort—” he laughs, slow and mean, “—and guess what?” He tilts your face up, kisses your dazed mouth, and hums.

“Still not you.” He shifts slightly, and you let out a soft, spent whimper—too sensitive to move, too full to care. “This is the part you don’t get,” Mark says, his eyes flicking toward the others sprawled across the floor like discarded toys. “You can touch me. You can even make me come.”

He cups your jaw gently, all too fond of you, and whispers just for you. “But only he makes me stay.” A/N: DID WE EAT? (I was transcended to another reality over this request, thank you, anon.) I’m trying to make my male readers feel more inclusive, TRUST, every man in the universe wants you. 🪄

veilincible - he was basically beaten into submission to join the viltrum empire from the fight with omniman in season 1 ep 8

femvincible - like any other evil mark variant except she's a woman