#goggles mark

Sinister Mark / Capevincible

- You are his moon in a sky perpetually painted in blood. The only thing he does not destroy. He moves through the world like a blade cutting through flesh, carving out civilizations with the efficiency of a butcher, and yet, when he looks at you, there is something like reverence in his eyes. His love is not gentle; it is a possession, a claiming, a cruel kind of worship. He touches you with the same hands that have torn bodies apart, and the contrast is almost poetic—his violence does not reach you, but it is there, always simmering beneath his skin.

- When he kisses you, it is not an act of love but of conquest. His lips press against yours with the force of a war drum, his teeth scrape, his tongue invades. He wants you breathless, drowning in him, a willing offering on the altar of his dominion. There is no hesitation in his touch, no uncertainty. He owns you, and you do not resist, because resistance is meaningless. He is Capevincible. He could rip apart the cosmos itself if it dared to keep you from him.

- The nights are a battlefield. Sheets twisted like bodies in the aftermath of war, your throat hoarse from gasping his name, from the unbearable weight of his body pressing into yours, pinning you down as if he fears you might vanish into the ether. He does not love with tenderness—he loves with hunger, with ruin. There is no act between you that does not leave its mark, no moment of intimacy that does not feel like surviving something primal. And yet, you cannot imagine belonging to anyone else.

- He whispers terrible things against your skin in the dark, the same way he speaks before executing his enemies. His breath is hot, his voice like the edge of a blade, telling you how beautiful you look when you break, how you are the only thing he will never destroy. And you believe him, because even monsters can have their treasures, their obsessions. You are the one thing he will not lose, and that means he will kill for you, destroy for you, burn entire worlds if you so much as shiver.

- There is a moment, sometimes, when you wonder what you have become. You were once human, once fragile, once bound by mortal morality. But now you sit beside a god of carnage, watching the universe bend to his will. You no longer flinch at the screams, no longer care for the lives snuffed out like candles in a storm. He has made you his Queen, and a Queen does not weep for the conquered. You were beautiful before, but now? Now, you are terrifying.

- And perhaps, that is why he loves you. Because in the end, you are not just his lover—you are his legacy. When the stars finally collapse under the weight of his brutality, when there is nothing left but blood and ruin, he knows you will still be there, standing beside him, unshaken. Because you are his, and there is no fate more absolute than that.

Mohawk Mark / Movincihawk

- He is laughter in the midst of carnage, grinning wide as his fists tear through bodies like they are made of paper. He does not kill with duty, nor with hatred. He kills because it is fun. And you? You are the only thing he keeps intact. His beautiful little trophy, the only thing he does not mock, the only thing he does not break. He calls you gorgeous like it’s an insult, mine like it’s a death sentence. And it is. No one touches what belongs to him and lives.

- He does not worship you—no, that is not his way. But he adores you in his own twisted fashion, in the way he pulls you into his lap as blood pools around his feet, in the way he tilts your chin up to kiss you even as his hands are still warm from crushing a skull. He loves you the way a wildfire loves a forest—devouring, consuming, leaving nothing untouched. You burn under his attention, and you love every second of it.

- The bed is not a sanctuary; it is just another battlefield. He is relentless, insatiable, merciless in his desire for you. His strength is overwhelming, his need all-consuming. He does not ask permission—he takes, he claims, he leaves bruises like war paint on your skin. And you let him, because there is no greater thrill than surrendering to a force that could end you, yet chooses to keep you instead.

- He talks while he fucks you, taunting, teasing, mocking. What, can’t take it? And here I thought you were my little Queen. Pathetic. But his grip tightens when you moan, his breath stutters when you rake your nails down his back. He wants you, needs you, in a way he will never admit. So instead, he laughs, bites at your throat, leaves marks that scream to the world that you belong to him.

- There is no peace with him, no soft moments of love and tenderness. There is only the thrill, the rush, the violence of passion that never fades. He does not say I love you. He says you’re mine. And it means the same thing.

- One day, when the universe is nothing but dust beneath your feet, he will still be laughing, still be reveling in destruction. And you will be beside him, his Queen, his equal in this glorious, endless reign of chaos. Because love, for Movincihawk, is not a chain—it is a fire. And he will burn for you forever.

No Goggles Mark / Nogogglesible

- He is arrogance incarnate, a god among insects, untouchable, invincible. And yet, you have touched him. You have brought him to his knees, not with force, but with something far more dangerous—desire. He is cruel to everyone, but with you, it is different. He does not kill you. He does not mock you like the others. Instead, he craves you, like a dragon hoarding treasure, like a king unwilling to share his throne.

- He is insufferable, cocky, and childish in his amusement, always grinning, always talking, always taunting. But when he touches you, all that arrogance melts into something sharper, hungrier. He does not like to be denied, does not like to be challenged. And you? You challenge him. You push back. You make him work for your affection, and it drives him insane.

- The way he takes you is almost playful—almost. He grins as he pins you down, as he makes you beg, as he ruins you. Is that all you’ve got? he teases, even as he’s shaking, even as his hands tremble against your skin. He is obsessed with making you fall apart beneath him, with proving that even the Queen of Invincible is his to break.

- But the moment someone else so much as looks at you? That arrogance vanishes, replaced by something much darker. He is a nightmare when jealous, a force of pure annihilation. He will kill without hesitation, will make sure the universe knows that you are his and his alone.

- He likes to watch you after, basking in his victory, stroking your skin like a dragon hoarding gold. He tells you you’re beautiful in the same breath that he tells you how easily he could break you. And yet, he never does. Because he is already broken for you.

- In the end, the universe will crumble, the stars will die, and he will still be here, grinning, mocking, loving you in his own twisted way. Because he is Nogogglesible. And you? You are the only thing he has ever truly wanted.

Prisoner Mark / Prisonincible

- He is not the Mark you once knew. That Mark—the hesitant boy with wide eyes and too much hope—died long ago. What stands before you now is a man sharpened into a blade, honed by violence, stripped of mercy. He is not kind. He does not pretend to be. The world tried to break him, so he broke it first. And yet, despite all his cruelty, all his rage, you are the one thing he cannot hurt. He holds you with hands that have wrung the life from countless enemies, hands that have tortured, ripped, shattered. But when they touch you, they are careful. Reverent. As if you are the last beautiful thing in a world of ruin.

- He doesn’t ask for your love. He takes it. The way he takes everything else. His kisses are bruising, possessive, his grip unrelenting. You feel his strength in every touch, in every whispered threat against your throat—Mine. Mine. Mine. He is not gentle. He is not soft. He does not worship you; he claims you. And you let him, because what else is there? He has remade the world in his image, and you are the only thing that remains untouched. Untouched, but not unmarked. He ensures that.

- The bed is a battlefield, a place where he does not have to hold back, where the rage that simmers beneath his skin finds its release in you. He grips your wrists too tight, drags his teeth along your skin, leaves bruises that bloom like violets against your flesh. He loves the sight of them. Proof of his claim. Proof that even the Queen of Invincible belongs to him.

- He whispers terrible things when he is inside you—promises, threats, dark admissions. If anyone ever touched you, I’d rip their spine out through their mouth. His lips are at your ear, his breath hot, his voice raw. He does not speak of love. He speaks of possession. And you don’t need to hear the words to know what he feels. His love is in the way he would burn the world for you. In the way he already has.

- And when it is over, when the sweat cools on your skin, when the bruises begin to fade, he holds you. Tightly. Desperately. As if letting go would shatter him completely. His lips press against your temple, his breath ragged. There are no apologies. No guilt. There is only the silence, the aftermath, the unspoken truth that neither of you will ever leave. You are bound to him, by blood, by war, by something darker than love.

- And in the end, you do not want to leave. Because if he is a monster, then you are his Queen. And monsters do not weep for the fallen. They stand among the ruins and rule.

Sheisty Mark / Hoodvincible

- He is chaos given form. A force of destruction wrapped in arrogance, in crude words and bloody knuckles. He does not fight for duty, does not conquer for power. He does it because he can. Because he enjoys it. Because he looks at the world and sees something to break. And yet, when he looks at you, it is different. He does not see something to destroy. He sees something to keep.

- His love is reckless, feral, unyielding. He grabs your chin when he kisses you, bites at your lower lip, pulls at your hair like he is daring you to fight back. He wants you to. He wants the challenge, the game. But you never win. You can’t. He is stronger, faster, crueler. He does not let you have the upper hand. Not in the fight. Not in bed. Not ever.

- He fucks like he fights—wild, unpredictable, merciless. He throws you down and drags you back up, leaves scratches down your thighs, bruises on your hips. His voice is raw with laughter, with dark amusement. You’re still breathing? Damn. I must be getting soft. But his hands tell a different story. They shake when they touch you, as if the thought of losing you makes something inside him unravel.

- He hates how much he needs you. Hates the way his body betrays him when you sigh his name, the way his chest tightens when you smile. He is cruel to everyone else, but with you, there is something else beneath the mockery, beneath the swearing and the sneers. Something fragile. And that terrifies him. So he covers it with arrogance, with insults, with violence. But you see through it.

- When the world is quiet, when the battles are over, when his body is slick with sweat and exhaustion, he does not let you leave his arms. He holds you with a grip that is too tight, too desperate. Don’t fucking go anywhere, he mumbles into your skin, voice slurred with sleep. And he will never say it, never admit it, but you know what it means. Stay. Stay. Stay.

- And so you do. Because you are his, and he is yours, and there is no world where you would ever choose anything else.

Bald Mark / Capvincible

- He is a nightmare wearing a smirk. He does not kill out of duty, or necessity. He kills because he enjoys it. Because he loves the way people scream, the way their bones crack beneath his fists. He is the worst kind of monster—the kind that does not believe he is one. And you? You are his one exception. His one indulgence. His one weakness.

- He touches you with the same hands that have torn men apart, but with care. Not because he is gentle, but because he wants to savor it. To take his time. To draw out every moment, every sound, every shudder of your breath. He likes when you squirm beneath him. When you beg, when you break. Not out of cruelty—no, this is love. Love, for him, is the act of unmaking you piece by piece, then putting you back together just to do it all over again.

- He makes you beg. Not because he needs to hear it, but because he wants you to admit the truth. That you need him. That you want him. That you are his. He drags it out, teasing, taunting, watching your resolve crack like fragile glass. Say it, he purrs against your throat, breath hot, hands relentless. Say you belong to me. And you do. Of course, you do.

- He whispers against your skin as he takes you apart—dark promises, wicked threats. You’d look so pretty covered in blood, sweetheart. Maybe next time, I’ll let you have a little fun with me. He means it. You know he does. He would kill for you. He already has.

- When it is over, he watches you. Eyes dark, unreadable. There is something terrifying about the way he looks at you—like a lion watching its mate, possessive, protective, utterly devoted. You own him as much as he owns you, and he knows it.

- And so, when he kisses you again, slow and deep, it is not a claim. It is a vow. No matter what happens, no matter who dares to stand in his way, he will never lose you. And if the universe tries to take you from him, well—he will simply have to burn it all down.

Goggles Mark / Gogglesvincible

- He is stillness—a predator that does not need to snarl, a killer that does not need to raise his voice. Where others rage, he is quiet. Where others lose themselves in the thrill of bloodshed, he remains composed. There is no excess in him, no wasted movement, no unnecessary cruelty. When he kills, it is efficient. When he destroys, it is deliberate. And when he looks at you, it is with that same terrible focus.

- His love is calculated, methodical. He does not indulge in theatrics. He does not waste words on affection. Instead, he watches you, memorizes you, understands every detail—what makes you shiver, what makes you whimper, what makes you beg. When he touches you, it is with the same precision with which he tears the world apart. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He knows exactly how to unravel you, and he does. Slowly. Mercilessly.

- He does not speak of love, but he shows it in the way he possesses you. His fingers trace the marks he leaves behind, his lips linger over the bruises, his grip tightens when another dares to look at you too long. They are insignificant, he murmurs, voice calm, deadly. They don’t matter. But I will kill them anyway. And he does.

- In bed, he is merciless. He does not give without taking. He does not allow you to simply exist beneath him—you must surrender, you must earn every touch, every moment, every gasp of air. He denies you what you crave until you are shaking, pleading. Until you forget your own name and can only sob his. He listens to your every breath, your every sound, adjusting, fine-tuning, perfecting the torment he inflicts. And when he finally gives you what you need, it is overwhelming.

- He does not rest after. He remains awake, watching, waiting. He traces patterns over your skin, his expression unreadable. You ask him what he’s thinking, and he only tilts his head, gaze unwavering. Nothing. A lie. Everything.

- And when you sleep, he remains at your side, a silent sentinel, guarding the only thing in the universe he has ever allowed himself to keep.

Viltrum Mark / Viltrumincible

- He was raised with purpose. Raised to be strong, to be ruthless. To conquer, to rule, to win. There is no hesitation in him, no doubt. He knows what must be done, and he does it. Earth belongs to the Viltrum Empire. You belong to him. There is no question, no argument, no alternative. You are his Queen, his consort, his everything.

- And yet… there are moments. Small, quiet moments. A flicker of something behind his eyes when you say his name softly. A hesitation in his grip when his hands are rough against your skin. A sigh, barely audible, when he allows himself to rest against you. A part of him still remembers the boy he was before he chose power over love. Before he became this. He does not speak of it. He will not speak of it. But you see it all the same.

- When he takes you, it is with the force of a conqueror. His hands do not ask—they demand. His kisses are not gentle—they are devouring. He does not let you hide from him, does not let you breathe without his permission. You are mine, he growls against your throat, his body pressed against yours, unyielding, overwhelming. He does not need to hear you say it. He already knows.

- He does not tolerate weakness. Not in himself, not in you. If you dare to challenge him, if you dare to push, he meets you with force—pinning you down, forcing obedience from your lips, making you submit with teeth and tongue and hands that refuse to let go. And yet, there is a thrill in it. In the way he wants you to fight, to resist, just so he can remind you who you belong to.

- When it is over, he does not move. His arms remain around you, his breath warm against your shoulder. He does not speak, does not soften. But his grip tightens, just for a moment. As if he is afraid. As if he knows that, despite everything, you are still the only thing he cannot afford to lose.

- And so, he does not lose you. He will not. If the Viltrum Empire demanded it, if his father ordered it, if the entire universe conspired against him—he would burn it all before he let you go.

Omni-Mark / Omnivincible

- He is cold. Detached. The world means nothing to him. His past means nothing to him. Even his own name is an afterthought. He does not care for nostalgia, does not waste time on regret. He has seen too much, lost too much. Love is a weakness, attachment a liability. And yet—you.

- You are the one thing he cannot ignore. The one thing he cannot abandon. He tells himself it is not love. He tells himself it is possession, a claim, a consequence of habit. But even he is not so deluded. He needs you. And that terrifies him.

- He does not speak of his feelings. He does not tell you he loves you. Instead, he shows it in the way he keeps you close. In the way he stands at your side, unwavering, even when it would be easier to let you fall. In the way he touches you—not with passion, not with desperation, but with certainty. As if you are the only thing in existence that he will allow himself to have.

- When he fucks you, it is methodical. Efficient. Every movement is controlled, every touch calculated. And yet, there are moments—brief, fleeting, almost imperceptible—where the control slips. A sharp breath, a tremor in his hands, a growl that is just a little too raw. He buries them quickly, forces them down, but you notice. And it is in those moments that you understand—he is afraid of how much he feels.

- After, he does not speak. He does not hold you. He does not linger. He watches. As if waiting for something. As if expecting you to vanish. And when you do not, when you remain at his side, when you reach for him with hands that are too warm, too soft, too human—he exhales. A slow, quiet thing. As if he has been holding his breath for years.

You couldn’t hang out at school very much, because you were in different grades. But you would sit together at lunch, and during recess you would play ‘superhero’ and William would play ‘Damsel in Distress’ lmao

Despite neither of you having powers, you were both convinced that someday you would be the “bestest, most strongest super hero pair ever in the history of the world” -as recounted by Debbie

Around 14, you noticed that sometimes your hands would brush together, and you’d stop breathing for a moment. Or he’d laugh at a joke you made, and you’d think about the way his eyes crinkled for days on end. And you’d realized you had a tiny, itty bitty little crush on your best friend

You wondered for a while if it was one-sided, but one day while you were hanging out with both Mark and William, the pair kept acting suspiciously

“Sooooo y/n, have you ever had a boyfriend before? Are you into younger guys? Cuz I know a great pick on the Market”

William received a small jab to the ribs by Mark, nevertheless persisted-

“See what I did there? Mark-et?”

“Will!!” Mark gritted out sideways, desperately trying to hide the conversation from you (and failing). It was adorable really, he was such the dork.

“Ugh, You know I hate being called Will”

“It’s true Mark, I’ve heard him say that before” you chimed in, having caught on to William’s game.

“Well maybe I’ll call him what he deserves, especially if he doesn’t shut the hell up about private conversations, ya know?” The last few words were gritted through sandpaper and then stabbed at William.

-But it didn’t matter, you were 90% sure that this meant Mark had told William about feelings! For you! You finished your vague taunting of Mark with the biggest grin on your face- by the time he had successfully moved the conversation on, your cheeks were sore

-but before you could act on your newfound discovery, you started Highschool. And freshman year was really rough. Especially without Mark.

-at lunchtime it really hit you how alone you were. How had you invested so much of your friendship towards the neighborhood dork and his sassy friend? Damn! Sitting alone every fucking day sucks ass.

-afterschool is better. Sometimes, it’s hard to connect with Mark. Your lives feel so different now, since he’s still not in Highschool yet, but you both make the effort, and it feels like the only relationship in your life (other than your parents) where you feel genuine care and attention

-actually, you start doing homework together. This dimension’s Mark isn’t just a dork, he’s also a HUGE nerd, and so doing Highschool homework is light work for him. Specifically science!

-one afternoon while munching on sliced apples-which Mark’s mom prepared for you guys- you confide in him how lonely you feel during the school day, and how most of your friends in your classes don’t really care about you.

“I wish things could be like how they were when we were kids” Cruch. Juicy apple dribbles down your chin a little. “I mean, when we thought we were gonna be superheros? And we wore towels like capes- and we ran from driveway to driveway?”

-your fond smile entrances him. Damn, he has such a huge crush on you. Yeah, of course he remembers those days. It kills him that the year had been so hard for you. That he can’t be there for you during the day. Because he should be. He’s your best friend!! And maybe he wants to be more than that, but even if you never reciprocate those feelings, he will always be there for you!! If only there was something he could do… he asks,

“Didn’t we have superhero names? Wasn’t I like,, indestructible or something like that?”

Invincible. It was Invincible, it is invincible, it will be Invincible. But he’s gotta sound ~nonchalant~. He can’t be caught caring too much about kid stuff in front of his year-older hot best frien-

“You were [titlecard], dummy.”

Oh you were so perfect. You remembered! Of course you did! You’re such a dork! But in a cool way, the coolest dork, you continued-

“and I was ‘Unstoppable’. And our catch phrase was ‘an unstoppable force meets-“

“-an immovable object’.” He joined in. God, weren’t you both just perfect together? Such dorks!! He thought you were perfect, even if you didn’t invite him to the Sadie-Hawkins dance. Which you didn’t, by the way. He noticed. You probably thought he wouldn’t notice but he did.

-he understands; I mean, not only was he a year younger than you, he was also quite literally a grade-A nerd. But that’s okay- he’ll find a way to make sure you achieve your dreams of being the greatest superheros in the world! And then you’ll be partners for real, and he can make sure you never feel so alone..

-the science behind the idea was easy really. it was the equipment that was difficult to figure out. He couldn’t get his hands on a syringe, so he has to skip it, and slowly bleed out his arm manually- with a knife. Why? Because he was gonna make you into a superhero

-see; he knew his dad was Omni-man, and therefore one day he was gonna inherit his dad’s super incredible powers. From there, becoming a superhero would surely be a piece of cake! The difficulty was how to get YOU to be a superhero with him

-you didn’t have any powers, and he had met your dad many times- nice guy, definitely not harboring any secret super-human abilities. That meant you needed to “have greatness thrust upon you” (he would certainly like to thrust anything upon you)

-he figures that he can somehow take his own DNA, and create a mimicry that will attach to your system. Then, you’ll get his powers at the same time as him!

-it’s bloody, it’s messy, it hurts, there’s many failed attempts, but it’s all worth it for you!!

-he works on the perfect solution for years, and by then you’re a junior in Highschool and you’ve sort of moved on from the whole superhero dream. After all, now that William and Mark are in Highschool with you, your loneliness epidemic has seriously subsided. You don’t have as much need for fantasies anymore. Your reality is enough for you now. But it’s not enough for Mark. He doesn’t forget. And he slowly starts slipping you the concoction.

“Hey Mark! I saved you a seat. Did your mom make that punch again?” You scootch over on the long blue cafeteria table, making room for your friend to sit down.

“Yes yes, here’s your bottle. You know sometimes I wonder if the only reason you sit with me at lunch is for the punch,” He teases as he tosses the small red water bottle as you.

“You’re on to me,” you glint as you catch it with ease, latching down onto the well-chewed nib and sucking in- it was almost lewd if Mark allowed himself to think it. “I mean what does she put in this stuff? It’s too fucking good.”

His blood, He muses. Or at least a tiny amount of it, rearranged into a compound that is meant to seal his viltrimite genetics on top of your human ones. Very specific to you. Took him years to figure it out. Literal blood, metaphorical sweat, and literal tears. Oh and also Gatorade, Minute Maid lemonade, and mango juice- to mask the copper taste. Although apparently you liked it. And that thought rang through Mark’s brain late at night. That you liked the taste of him.

-And you liked it so much, you asked for it everyday. It hurt his soul a little to have to give the credit to his mom, even though he was the one making it. but you would know something was up if he told the truth. and besides, you’ll know the truth someday- and then he’ll finally get his praise. You’ll be soo grateful he did all that work for you. He was sure that you’d make the best superhero duo- and hopefully, finally maybe more.

“Oh god, you better not be talking about juice again. ” William butted in and sat down at the table, earning some chortles from the two of you. “Let’s talk about how I’m going to survive this geometry class instead.”

The world was perfect with just the three of you. It made sense. But it wouldn’t soon.

—-

-when Mark got his powers after his seventeenth birthday, you got yours at the same time. And then everything changed. You were going to go to college, but now you have powers? Like- pretty insanely fucking powerful powers?? Where the hell did this come from?? What the fuck triggered this? You hadn’t recently fallen into a nuclear vat of acid that you were aware of. What do you do? Who do you tell?

-you dont get the chance to answer your own questions, Mark is knocking at your WINDOW later that afternoon.

“Holy Shit! Mark! You’re fucking flying!!”

“Yes! Isn’t it great? Can you fly too? Fuck, did it work? Please tell me it worked”

“Did what work? And get in the room for the love of-! The whole neighborhood is going to see you!”

He has to come clean, and he does, he tells you everything.

“Eww, that punch had BLOOD in it? That’s disgusting Mark why wouldn’t you tell me that? I drank that shit for MONTHS”

“I know, I know. But I wasn’t sure it was gonna work and I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” Not completely a lie. “…and also… I didn’t want you to say no.” Ah, poor Mark Grayson, you were such a weakness for him.

“Shit Mark. That’s… that’s kinda fucked up.”

“I know, but- this way you get what you always wanted! Come on, don’t blame me for that”

“..Mark.. I mean, I guess I get it? Like yes, I mean- I know we used to dream about this stuff when we were kids.. and I can’t lie. I am pretty stoked about getting to fucking fly, and I never have to worry about a paper cut again but.. “ you chortle out your disbelief, and it only grows-

“but shit Mark!. why wouldn’t you just tell me? I would have drank the blood juice if I knew what it was!! You let me plan for college and everything for months! And now I don’t even know if I want to… I mean, you let me take the SAT AND the ACT!! Knowing damn well I was gonna be a superhero!! I made plans, good plans! Plans I was excited about! This changes everything Mark.. ..why the FUCK wouldn’t you let me decide if I wanted to do this??”

“I know I know, I’m sorry. I really am. And you can still do all that stuff if you want! College and everything, I mean. I just.. I just really wanted to give you this. I REALLY wanted our childhood dreams to come true because.. I know it’s selfish but, MY dream couldn’t be complete without you by my side. You’re the other half of my future, y/n. You always have been.”

-And at that you’re quiet for a little bit, except for the pounding of your heartbeat in your head. Then-

“What are you saying, Mark?”

-He breathes deep, then-

“I’m saying I’ve had a crush on you since we were thirteen. I mean I was thirteen and you were fourteen. But since then. And if you don’t feel the same that’s fine and we can just be friends but I wanted to let you know because I’ve been waiting to tell you for years and I never-“

-But his ramblings are smothered by desperate lips. And after just a brief, stiff moment, he melts into your touch. It’s his first kiss, you know? He’s awkward but adoring. And you realize you’ve been a fool for not begging for this earlier. It was cliché, but you liked that. And if the stiffness in his pants were any indication, Mark did too.

“Wait..” you pull away, “how did you know you would get powers? What’s so special about your DNA?”

“Oh, uh- my dad is OmniMan”

“Mark, wHA-“!!!

—

-so you start the superhero gig. Neither of you were great at first, but after a little experience with some low-level-criminals, and with coaching from fucking OmniMan- you start to get the hang of things.

-at first Mark’s dad seemed very hesitant about you. Sometimes you got the feeling he didn’t want you there at all, but eventually he got used to your presence, and accepted that you were a permanent fixture on the side of his son. This didn’t mean he was thrilled to have you, but a quiet- and almost remorseful- acceptance draped itself over his countenance.

-especially when you start getting better than Mark

-remember how this dimension’s Mark is a huge nerd? With the intelligence to mutate genetic code with nothing but a kitchen knife and a Highschool lab set at the ripe age of 13? Well all that awesomeness has to balance out somehow, and unfortunately it means that when it comes to the physical strength of his powers, Mark is simply not as capable as other versions of himself.

-he’s still an incredibly powerful superhero, but he doesn’t stand a chance against most high-ranking villains. And he especially doesn’t stand a chance against his dad.

-now you know why his dad didn’t want you around. The destruction wrought through the earth is cataclysmic, but your focus is only on your poor bloody and bruised Mark Grayson.

-He’s weaker than he’s meant to be. Still one of the most durable people on the planet, but not enough for the rage of his father. He’s hurting, badly. And you don’t think he will survive much longer. You can’t sit idly by and watch, when Cecil told you what was happening, you flew as fast as you could to lunge at the ex-hero!

-you’re stronger than Mark but you’re still untrained. Omniman catches you and does not hesitate to break your leg.

-you cry out, but the monster simply throws your body to the concrete ground of the skyscraper rooftop. You try to get up, but the pain is so much.

“Y/N! Get out of here!!” Mark cries out to you in bloody rasps.

“See how weak humans are? Even with some viltrimite DNA, she’s still not even half of what we are. What we are supposed to be. You think you care about her? You think you can save her? She’ll be dead in a matter of years. We are going to live millennia without her, son. You think you need her? Think you can’t live without her? You’re going to have to.”

-And with that Mark’s father puts his boot on your head- intent on crushing your skull.

-You cry out in throbbing pain, if it weren’t for Mark’s DNA bolstering your cranium, your brains would already be jelly.

But seeing you in pain pushed Mark to a breaking point. Weakness be damned, he won’t see you hurt.

“I won’t live without her, dad.”

So, bloody, broken, dying, and fucking pissed, Mark throws himself at his father, sending them flying off at a thousand miles per hour.

-your vision is hazy, you fall unconscious for a few minutes, but force yourself back. But it’s already too late. Omniman has killed his son some million miles away. Your best friend. Your partner. Maybe the love of your life.

-you search for hours, and eventually find his body laid out at the top of Mt. Everest. The snow catches the red leaking out of him. He’s been fucking flattened on the white rocky cliff side. Some bits of him jut out- bones, intestines, and bits of torn clothing. You can’t even hold him in your arms. You can’t even cradle him in your fucking arms- that’s how brutally OmniMan mauled him.

-at first your only response is rage. To find OmniMan and make him hurt. To lash out all your dumb fucking superpowers on someone. Someone to blame. But the coward was gone. Apparently killing his son convinced him to leave Earth. Good fucking riddance. But that meant that now you were left with no one to share these unfathomable powers with. You attend Mark’s funeral. It’s closed casket.

-he was too weak. He cared so much. Maybe about you. Maybe you made him weak. Could you blame yourself for this ? You could try. And with no Mark around to stop you, you quickly fell into an unfeeling abyss.

—

-For a while you take up the mantle. Not of OmniMan- fuck that guy. No. You take up the mantle of Invincible. You don his suit, and with his powers you quickly become the world’s number one superhero, and the leader of the guardians.

-much to Cecil’s joy (if he has any left), you are completely dedicated to the job. You stop living with your family, you haven’t seen them in ages. They didn’t know about the powers, or Mark, or anything, and why should they? Just to see their perfect little girl become a killing machine? To see her dreams of college slip away? You left without saying goodbye. That part of you is gone. You’re Invincible now, and that’s all.

-it’s slowly killing you. You don’t engage with the other guardians outside of trainings and missions. You hardly ever take off the suit. You’re not mean, but you’re cold. You get stronger everyday. You don’t really care.

-people start seeing you as a role model, though. They don’t know how fucked up you are. Kids wear your suit on Halloween, and your insignia is on balloons, and somehow you become the poster child of being a good person

-and it pisses you the fuck off

-because you weren’t a good person. You let Mark die. You should have saved him. He gave you literal fucking powers and you still couldn’t save him. He was the good person, he was supposed to be the face behind this mask. You were only supposed to be reminding people of him by wearing this suit. But now.. people had forgotten all about him. He didn’t even exist anymore. And you had.. you had taken his place. You had taken what was rightfully his.

-and something snapped. Since the world forgot about him. Since you couldn’t do anything right by him.

-you decided to remind people who you were Not

-sulfur, smoke, sirens, and chicken. That’s what it smelled like, you thought. Everywhere you went. Sulfur, smoke, sirens, and chicken. And it was red. Everywhere. Red. Until it was gray, and then black.

-you still wore the suit. Even though you hated how it now maimed the legacy of your best friend. What “invincible” had become. You couldn’t bring yourself to take it off. It was what he left you- the suit- the powers. And you had decided to take it all. To its fullest advantage. It was like- keeping him close, you know?

-And finally, when the world gets boring, Angstrom Levy steps into frame.

“I understand you have an attachment to a late Mark Grayson?”

“Don’t say his name”

“Ah- of course. Can’t say I really understand your fondness for the boy, but I can respect it. I’m willing to offer you-“

-His throat pulses rhythmically in your hand. You’ve caught him by surprise in less than a heartbeat. Whoever this fucker is, you decide you don’t care to hear the rest of his story

-You hoist him into the air, but suddenly the ground beneath you gives way. You fall through the dirt, and land.. in the air? What the hell? Ah shit.. portals? Seriously? You gotta fight a portal guy? Whatever, you haven’t had anything better to do for months now.

“As I was saying, I have a proposition for you-“

“Not interested” and you lunge at him again, but this time the portal appears right in front of him, and shoots you back out some 16 feet away. Fucking hell.

“I ADMIRE YOUR STRENGTH AND SKILLS!! IN RETURN FOR DESTROYING A PLANET, I WOULD GRANT YOU-“ he’s yelling so you can hear him from the 16 feet. Doesn’t he know you have super hearing? This guy is a real idiot. Once you get your bearings, you fly towards him again.

A portal appears, but this time you know to feint left. You come from behind and pin his hands behind his back, hoping to subdue his portal-making abilities. You wrap your free arm around his neck in a chokehold.

“I said I wasn’t interested” you languish in his ear. Your voice is sweet sweet poison.

“Yes, you’ll do nicely. Very strong.” But you’re bored again now. And as you crush his windpipe-

“Mark Grayson!!” He rasps out- “you’ll have Mark Grayson again!!”

-You let go, you ask questions, you demand proof, he complies, and eventually a bargain is struck.

-You’ll destroy another Earth, alongside other variants (you learn you are one of many variants), and then for your troubles you will get to take home one of the many, many, alive Mark Graysons. Any of your choosing.

“Do we ever get to be partners? Superhero partners? In any universe?”

“Well I’m not sure about heroes..”

“Do we get to be partners? In.. whatever the hell we do? Does he really survive his dad in so many universes?”

“He does.” Unfortunately- Langstrum thinks.

“Then if he’s alive in that alternate dimension, isn’t he happy there? Don’t we get to be happy together?”

“Oh y/n.. you really don’t understand, do you?”

“What”

“In all those other dimensions.. you’re the one who dies.”

..oh.

-You guess that makes sense.

How unfortunate you had to live in this one.

“So.. he will be happy to see me?”

“I’m absolutely certain.”

————

Today is the day. The day you go through all the horrors again, and then you’ll get to see your boy. It’s like, going back in time, you think. In order to get back to those good beginnings, you’ll have to rewind through the last few years of horrific devastation. A price to pay.

A portal appears before you, and with only a moment of hesitation, you step through.

The sun is bright, brighter than it’s been in a long time. The air is warm, and the breeze carries the sounds of life. You.. missed this, you guess. It was nice. Life could be like this again. It was going to be.

Phasing through their own portals, your heart hitches just a little as the other variants appear. In a circle above Mark’s old house, you study their faces. And in turn, notice them noticing you.

“Woahhh who brought the girl?” A variant with no mask laughs.

“Woah, im a chick in another universe? Shit, why couldn’t I have been born a chick in my own universe? Then I could touch my tits whenever I wanted.” A mohawked version roared. Well you knew who were weren’t taking home.

“Focus on the mission. We’ve all been given locations to destroy, there’s no need to delay with introductions” a white-clad figure spoke with certainty. You recognized the clothes as Viltrimite uniform. Disgusting, you thought. But not as disgusting as-

“I concur. Those who survive will have earned their introductions. We are wasting time” a variant in a suit very reminiscent of Omniman’s speaks.

“I can’t imagine a universe in which I would ever wear that emblem” you couldn’t help yourself, but how could a Mark Grayson allow himself to wear that Omni shit? How different had their lives been?

OmniMark seems taken aback, but only for a moment.

“You have no idea what brought me to this moment here today.” You felt his power burning into you, but you didn’t care, you could match it- hell, you’d been waiting to match it for years.

“You know what brought me here today? The need to put something in its place. You want that to be you?” You rise to meet him, you can feel the atoms vibrating around you with power- damn you wanna punch this fucker.

“Well well, kitty’s got claws~” Mohawk pipes up.

“Hey sweetheart! you could put me in my place~” No-Goggles rises to Mohawk’s game. Fucking imbeciles.

“Enough. The mission is clear, we’ve all agreed to its terms. You don’t want to look at each other? Fine. Go destroy opposite corners of the world, but first go.” The true viltrimite reprimands you both like children. But you’re too busy maintaining the fire between your eyes and the Omni-variant.

You can feel the gazes of all the variants. Your teammates in destroying the world. A part of you hates each and every one. Knowing that they’re all technically Mark, but all capable of so much more cruelty than yours ever was.

but a part of you also languishes in it. You’ve been missing Mark so much for so long, and now all of a sudden here you were- surrounded by him! So many different versions. You almost want to fling yourself into their arms, and promise your love. Forever and ever. To each one. Well, except one.

“I have no interest in delaying our mission any further by entertaining this petty display of anger. Either you uphold your end of the bargain or you don’t. Your decision will not influence me.” The arrogant, self-proud Omni-prick belittles you.

-‘your decision will not influence me’ my ass

-But just as you wind up to punch this fucker’s teeth out, your arm is stopped by a Mark with a mask like fabric covering his face-

“Not yet.”

A fully masked invincible put his hand on the shoulder of the Omni-variant, “we all have a reason for being here. We can’t lose this opportunity.”

he’s right. You shouldn’t waste your breath on this lesser Mark. You need to focus on why you’re really here.

The black and yellow variant adds, “we can kill each other later” with a smile that was too pleasant to be joking.

The final variant to engage wears two viltrimite emblems on either side of his shoulders. He breaks the tension with an air of refinement, unquestioned power, and a tad bit of condescension- “time to go, then. Meet back here when you’ve done as told.”

So they start off, ready to bleed all corners of the world. But you are reluctant to break eye contact with the Omni-scum. There is too much fire, and the rage of the past years fuels your contempt. Refuses to let you back down. But just as the fully masked variant pulls at the shoulder of Omni-dick and turns him away from you, the Mark with a mask of fabric pulls at your arm and- and it feels like Mark.

It really feels like Mark.

And you let him turn you from the rage. From the fire that had been burning inside you since he died.

The wind catches the fabric on his face. It toys with your imagination- billowing in ways which catch the variant’s features before obscuring them again. The dancing obfuscation allows you to pretend that this really is your Mark. His face is the one you’ve memorized.

You can’t see behind his goggles, but you can imagine his eyes recognizing you. The way the variant doesn’t move- you can tell he really is studying you. Letting you stare. Staring back. It’s not even longing, it’s.. understanding. That you had both lost your counterparts. That you were Invincible, simultaneously. And your heart swells at the recognition- finally not being so goddamn alone.

But then he flies off.

And you are realize you are alone in the sky.

You’re meant to be destroying Melbourne, Australia. But there’s enough Invincibles to get the job done. You’ve assigned yourself a different mission: pick a Mark Grayson to keep.

In order to do that, you need to study your options. This decision will last forever, you know? Don’t want to be too hasty.

Who should you follow?

You didn’t pay attention who went which direction, though you remember Angstrom announcing all the locations. Whoops, maybe you’re a little rusty. No matter. You decide to start by taking a little devastation down memory lane.

——

-The prison.

-What was the name of this prison again? It had been so long since it had been operational. You could still recall which cells belonged to which prisoners- and the way you won each of their battles- and- oh dammit not him.

-Mohawk was making quick work of the prison. You considered simply skipping him for the next destination, but alas, he had spotted you-

“Hey hey hey!! Guess you couldn’t stay away from the sexiest variant, could ya?”

“You’re about to be flattened” you reply coolly.

-and he was. A giant rhinoceros guy with a bigger-than-a-rhinoceros-hammer was charging at him. And he was too distracted to notice, just standing on the ground like a fucking idiot. Your Mark was always smarter about strategy than this. Why lose high-ground advantage when you can literally fly?

But just as the hammer fell down upon the imbecile, Mohawk shot out a hand to stop the thing- and it did. Stop, I mean. He stopped it with one fucking hand, while posing at you. The way a frat guy poses against a door. With the arm up? And the smarmy smile? Shit.. this guy was an asshole, but he was also a lot stronger than your Mark. Mental Note: don’t underestimate this guy.

“Enjoying the show?” His grin was so big it could reach Texas. He didn’t stop-

“I don’t get stage fright, go ahead and watch.” He teased, bulging out some muscles playfully. You couldn’t tell if he was honestly flirting or if he was making fun of you.

-The rhino raised his hammer again, preparing to squash the Mohawk properly this time. But this did not deter the asshole-

“Although if you helped out, we could ditch this place and get to know each other a little better~”

-you were unconsciously drifting closer and closer to the variant. He couldn’t see the rising blush under your mask, but you suspected that somehow he knew. Or, he was such a confident little prick that it didn’t matter. Which you didn’t doubt. You couldn’t help it, this Mark was arrogant, but he could certainly put his money where his mouth is.

“Actually, I am here to know you better” You reply. And for just a second you see his eyes light up with some almost psychotic excitement, before the hammer falls again.

-this time, he wasn’t prepared to stop it with his hand, but he maintains it with his shoulder swiftly. You study the dirt beneath his feet- the blow does not move him.

“Really? You know I’ve always had a kink for fucking a clone. Wanted to feel how good at sex I was from the other perspective!”

“I’m not a clon-“

-but he’s too busy punching the hammer 20 feet in the air, flying up to grab it by its handle, and slamming it down on the head of its previous owner. Blood, bones, and brain matter squelch out. A giant golden horn falls dejectedly beside it.

“Come on, don’t let me have all the fun. Let’s fuck up some more prisoners, and then we’ll fuck each other.”

-there is something you like about this invincible. He is.. so different from your Mark. But he’s the kind of bad-boy that appeals to your fucked-up side. He’s fun, and fucking powerful. Maybe this is what you need. Maybe you can’t replace the kind-hearted nerd you lost years ago, but you can gain a sexy arrogant rebel prick that resembles him.

Or maybe, you could find something better.

“I can’t stay, I’ve got a mission to finish.”

“Aww what? Can’t play hooky for a little longer?”

“Survive. maybe I’ll see you again.”

And you were off to the next location.

——

The Colorado Camp Grounds.

When you were kids, you would go to camp with Mark in Colorado every summer. It was a huge trek to get there, but your mom was adamant that you had to go to this camp because it was tradition because this was the camp she went to when she was a kid. And she always let you bring Mark because you didn’t have any siblings, and she thought it would help you ‘be normal.’

It did not.

William always threw a fit cuz we wasn’t invited. You had to explain to him every year that it was your mom’s fault cuz she only let you bring one friend.

How simple things had been.

When you got there, you realized it was empty- of course- it wasn’t summer. But as you wandered around, you could still see the crowds of children. The smell of sunscreen. The sound of the forest and tennis shoes on dirt. Also, the wind suddenly whizzing behind you-

“I came here too, when I was a kid.”

You turn around to find the bumblebee-variant. Although with the power and violence radiating off him, he seemed more like a hornet now. Something about his presence rattled you. A Sinister gleam threatening his eyes. You rise to him, a few feet off the ground,

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to destroy the place.” He tilts his head, wondering how you’ll respond. It’s a challenge to defy him- to admit you’re too weak to let go of these memories.

“Sure. But we came to destroy everywhere. Why here?”

He smiles at you, one of those smiles that makes it clear he thinks you’re stupid.

“Why not here? It’s our mission to destroy everything, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but-“

“Honestly I was really hoping for some campers so I could-“

“Answer the question”

“Are you gonna stand in my way?”

At this you bristle. You’re not trying to battle anybody, you’re trying to get to know them- but you can’t afford to be caught off guard. You have to be ready for a fight. As you saw with Mohawk, these guys are a lot tougher than you expected.

“No.”

“That’s too bad, I almost thought you had some conviction.”

Okay, fuck this guy.

“I’ve already destroyed this place once.” You say flatly. It’s true. You did. And you did it technically for the man in front of you.

And he looks at you, and reaches toward your face. You don’t know why, but you let him. He caresses your cheek so delicately, until suddenly-

your neck is craned forward as he painfully cups your jaw- squishing your cheeks carelessly cruel with his fingers. He brings your face right up to his, centimeters away- and whispers,

“So did I.”

Kinda hot, kinda scary. But Fuck this, you were powerful too.

So you mirrored him. To remind him you were invincible too. You had earned that fucking title. And you were just as fucked up as him.

As you palmed his jaw with your hand, and pinched his cheeks with your thumb and fingers so tight you almost broke skin- you realized you couldn’t crane his neck forward without slamming his face into yours.

But you were never a quitter.

So, locked in a painful face-embrace, you yanked him into a kiss. Because fuck this guy, that’s why. And because you had travelled through dimensions to kiss Mark Grayson again, so you were gonna fucking do that.

Even if it was a fucked up version.

And just as his free hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and the moment almost turns sweet- he bites your fucking lip. copper flavor. Motherfucker.

So you catch his lip in your teeth, and then push him away. Hard. Really hard. Shoved him careening into a big-ass tree a few feet away. The one with the tire swing. Fucking Ripped the skin from his lip.

Because you could be cruel, too. And for some reason you really wanted to prove that to this Mark. So for good measure-

“I got my first kiss here, you know” You breathe it out, seductively. “When I was in 4th grade. We all played Spin the Bottle. Cliché huh?”

Mark had taken a moment to recover from the slam, probably because of the kiss. But now that he was looking at you again- your blood mingling with his as it dribbled down his chin- you were starting to lose confidence. His eyes trained on you-

“You taste like her.”

Um, ew. Did this guy eat people? From his unnerving presence you wouldn’t put it past him. But you had something to prove,

“When the bottle landed on me, I saw it was Toby Fichte who had spun it.”

“I remember this.”

“Lucky me, Toby was the cutest boy at camp.”

“You’re not-“

“He was a much better kisser than you.”

“You’re not me.”

“I’m better than you.”

A dangerous smile grew on his bloody teeth “Careful.”

You should be careful. You were playing with fire. You realized you shouldn’t be giving hints that you weren’t Mark Grayson. You need a distraction,

“You destroyed this place in your dimension?”

He looks at you, an emotion you can’t place hiding in the recesses of his face. “I did.”

“What did you start with?”

“Cabin 4.”

You smiled. “Why?”

He smiled back, eyes knowing- and never leaving yours- “Because that’s where she kissed him.”

You paused, as his eyes bore into yours. Breath heaving- and you knew it wasn’t from the shove. He was crazed, for something. For you? He’s gotten up now and slowly floats toward you. The way a big cat stalks up to its prey. You need to act fast,

“Save it for last, this time.”

One last threatening glint in his eye, and he zipped off to destroy the campgrounds, as hastily as he could, so he could take his time with Cabin 4. The sounds of wood crunching and splintering resounded all around you. Cabins, trees, hammocks. Good. You couldn’t stand the memories.

You zipped off too, to continue your mission.

——

Guardians HQ

You never were invited into Guardians HQ before Omni-man decimated the world. Still in training, you didn’t rank high enough to be on the team.

But after he destroyed the planet- as well as the guardians- you practically lived there.

Once you became Cecil’s favorite hero, you couldn’t stop imaging how Mark would’ve looked in that hall- living his dream, surrounded by his teammates- his birthright.

So looking at it now, it was almost a vision come true.

Invincible was standing proudly in the middle of the hall, surrounded by the guardians. Although of course it was- bloodier than you envisioned it.

No-goggles stood proudly covered in blood, while the guardians around him lay dead- torn around the room.

“Aww, I really shouldn’t have killed you all so fast. I was looking forward to torturing you.”

But your focus was on Dark Wing- always sneaking around the edges, that one.

“You haven’t killed all of us yet” Dark Wing seethes, and you realize his plan as he lunges for the unsuspecting variant.

His cape pulls taut as you grab the back of it, and as it digs into his neck from the tension, you throw him backwards into the wall he just jumped from- killing him instantly.

“Heyyyy” No-Goggles whines, “He was mine to finish off.”

“He would have been the death of you. You’re welcome.” Your tone is flat but accusing. You try to keep it even but realize your emotion at almost seeing another Mark Grayson killed.

“You don’t think I could have ended that guy? I was just toying with him.”

“I know that. But so did he.”

No-goggles gives you a questioning look, pursing his lips and raising an eyebrow- just like your Mark used to do when thinking. You loved seeing his eyes. So expressive. Although there was also a glimmer of cruelty, of darkness which-

“You’re saying he would have trapped me in his- ah, dark dimension, or whatever.”

What an idiot.

A handsome idiot.

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I would have found a way out of there.” He crosses his arms with a smug look on his face. Were all the variants this arrogant? You guess anyone who agrees to destroy the earth twice probably has some issues you’ll have to look past.

“Were you planning on killing Dark Wing?” You ask.

“Obvvvvvviosuly.” He says, drawling for effect. He was having fun with this.

“Then you would have stranded yourself as soon as you killed him.”

He breathed in for some retort, but he was left speechless. You continued-

“You should be more careful about these kinds of inter-dimensional powers. You might be strong, but that’s useless if left without anything to punch.”

You advise him. The way you used to when you were still in-training with your Mark.

“Hmm.. noted.” And something shifted- although you weren’t sure what. But he didn’t seem to notice-

He smiled. “Got anymore tips? You can use me as a practice dummy.”

Um what.

“How fitting- you being a dummy.” You retorted, trying to revert the conversation less.. masochistic.

“Aww come on. These guys didn’t put up nearly enough of a fight. I didn’t come all the way to another dimension for a few scratches. I’ll let you get in 5 hits for free.”

“Are you.. challenging me to fight?” You honestly weren’t sure.

“We can fight if you want.”

What the hell was up with this guy?

“Uh- no. That’s not what I’m proposing-“

“Aww you’re so adorable. But you’re kind of a wimp.”

Rage, again. Bubbling up inside of you- “You better fucking-“

“Haha woah! You’re really easy to rile up!”

“You- ugh, you’re just looking for a fight, huh?”

“I’d take one, sure. Especially against someone so strategic, makes it more like a game, ya know?”

“Because you- you get some perverted pleasure from pain.”

“You’d like it too” a wicked grin finds its way on his otherwise cavalier expression, “I’m sure you would- no version of me wouldn’t.”

Hah! What a laugh. You can’t help but think of your Mark asking for some kinky pain-shit. HAH! This idiot- a giggle escapes you as you tease,

“Listen, pervert!” A big grin clapped on your face, “MY Mark was way too sweet to have ever asked me for-“

“Your Mark?”

Ah shit. You’re saying too much again.

“Oh, you’re not-“

“Im Invincible. End of story.”

“Hmm~” something darker lights up his eyes as he rakes them up and down your body. But the smile never leaves his face, “prettiest Invincible I ever saw- and you should know I think pretty highly of myself.”

What a little shit.

“You know who you kind of remind me of?” He sing-songs with putrid delight. “My old girlfriend named y/-“

He hurls through the air as you deck him square in the nose. When he CRACKS with the wall on the opposite side, red starts to dribble from his nose.

But he pops back up like a fuckin daisy-

“Again! Again! Shit y/n, you were never like this before!”

“Shut up!” You seethe, and fly at him to crack your knuckles on his cheek- right where the jaw meets the ear. CRACK!

You don’t know why him knowing who you are affects you the way it does. Maybe it’s because that version of you is dead. Or maybe you’re just not really ready to come to terms with the reality of your life. Your name- it makes it all too real. You’re not ready. Not yet.

From a few feet away, crawling out of a the newly-formed crevice on the wall to your left-

“Haheh- what a- what a woman.” He’s stumbling towards you, ready for more. “What’s that, 2? I promised 10 free hits? Shit baby.. keep em coming.”

“5. You promised 5 free hits.”

“I’ll give you 5 more” so much blood in his teeth.

“I’d kill you before we made it to 10.”

“Promise you’ll finish ‘em all even after I’m dead? All 10? Pretty please?” Lovesick and deranged, he’s still wobbling towards you.

“You- you want me to kill you?” Incredulous and a bit alarmed; you can’t help but take a step back. His eyes flick to your retreated foot-

Wrong move.

“Don’t fucking pretend you don’t want this. I’m sure- I’m sure this is what you came for? Right y/n darling? You came to this shitty planet looking for me. Well I’m here. And im ready to take whatever you can give. All you can give. And I promise to cherish it. Like I should have cherished it before you.. before you left.”

Died. Before you died. Shit, you were not prepared for this. You need time. You need to get out of here- but this invincible- this Mark won’t let you leave easily.

You weren’t prepared for Mark to want you more than you wanted him. Although you guess it made sense. Your Mark had been pretty.. doting with you as well. You hadn’t considered what he might have become if you had been the one to die instead.

But No-Goggles leaves you no time to think- he lunges at you! Wrapping you in a bear hug which pins your arms to your sides. He lets the momentum throw you both into the wall behind you, and your legs part to accompany his body.

His lips find yours as you struggle against the compromising position. But as you struggle, you notice the friction turning him on. As you kick, jab, and bite him- well, the same result.

Through breaths, he sings in your ear- a cruel taunt-

“I know who you are~”

Your blood runs cold. You shouldn’t have told him. You should have been more careful. He choruses-

“And I’m never letting you escape again~”

And you almost wanted him to make good on his promise. To be his again. Forever.

But you had to get out. You needed time to think and he was refusing you that. So, you decided to give him what he wanted.

You grind on him a little to distract him (and because it was delicious). As he moaned, you wriggled your arm out of his grip, winded up your elbow, and smacked him off your face. Hard.

He went down unconscious. You couldn’t help but gingerly check for a pulse- He was alive. And would be awake again soon. That means you only have a few hours before he would be after you again. You wanted time, but it didn’t seem you were going to get any.

You need to move on to the next target.

——

You needed to get away from these memories for a while. It was making you irrational. You had to remind yourself that none of these guys were your Mark.

But you couldn’t help it. You missed him so much. And they all were Mark. Even if not quite the right one.

But who cares? Maybe you weren’t the same person that loved that dorky nerd. Maybe you had grown into something darker.. shit, what if that dorky Mark wouldn’t even recognize you now? Would he hate you? He was so good and you’d done such awful things..

Shit. Now was not the time to have a mental break. You’d kept strong for all these years- you could NOT have a crisis in the middle of this. Not here. This was your chance at being happy again.

You needed space.

So you started flying up.

Like a rocket. Not stopping when you hit the stratosphere. Burning up a little but not caring.

Until you’re in the stars. And it’s quiet. And it’s calm.

And it’s beautiful.

Sometimes you thought about leaving Earth. If Angstrom hadn’t arrived, you might have. You might have gotten bored with the planet. Left the few survivors to rebuild or die. Maybe allowed yourself to be happy again on some distant planet. The way Omni-man did when he came to your planet. Just, reinvented himself- fucking lied to everyone- and had a good time. Until he didn’t.

Man fuck that guy.

There are grunting noises around you. In space. Is there no peace anywhere?

Turning around, you gotta scan every angle before you spot some figures in the distance.

If you were miles above Washington, then they were miles above Oregon. What a wonder super-vision and a clear horizon will do, huh?

You really couldn’t make out who it was. But considering the circumstances, it was probably a variant, and you should probably go talk to them. For the mission. Your mission.

Remember what you’re doing here.

You try to perk yourself up. Maybe this Mark will be the one. The perfect fit. Your forever fix.

But as you speed towards them, you start to make out the red and white blur. You’ve got to be fucking shitting me right now.

He’s fighting some- space crab thing. His suit is torn, and his breath is panting, so apparently it’s pretty strong. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward like his dear old dad.

You could leave him for dead, but you decide there is a more enjoyable option.

You shoot yourself at Space Crab, flinging yourself through frictionless space as you gain more and more momentum. Pushing your knuckles out in front of you like fucking Superman, you collide with the chest of the crab-in-space at a supersonic pace.

Your body slices through the incredibly-thick shell of the crab, but at the expense of your knuckles. Fuck you were NOT expecting the fucking space crab to be so fucking durable.

Your knuckles were bleeding. And at least 4 fingers had been disjointed by the collision. It hurt like hell, but you’d heal within a few minutes. What you were really concerned about was the variant behind you seeing your injury.

You did not want to be seen as weak. Not to anyone, but especially not to him. So you continue flying. You had slowed considerably after going through the crab, but you didn’t completely stop! So you just pick the pace back up and zip the fuck out of there, at the speed of light.

Problem solved.

Now you’re somewhere over the Antarctic. Fine, no one should be here. You can take a fucking breather alone and no one can-

“You’re ignoring your mission.” Came a voice from behind you.

Fuckkkkkkk. Whipping your head around, it’s none other than Omni-Mark.

“You followed me?” You accuse him.

“You couldn’t tell? You should be more aware than that.”

This fucking-

“Must have been the vacuum of space” You retort.

You stop flying and turn towards him, hoping to catch him off guard, but he’s relentless-

“You’re ignoring your mission.”

“I have my own mission.”

At this he raises a brow, “with Angstrom?”

You remember to hide your knuckles behind your back. You sneer back- “No. not with Angstrom.”

At this he crosses his arms. If he could get more stiff; you’re sure he would. But alas, he can’t. He’s already. Too. Stiff. Poor guy. Must be the stick up his ass.

“I cannot allow you to disregard your mission.” He dictates, looking down at you.

“Didn’t I just help you? Can’t you just say ‘thanks for saving my ass against a giant space crab’ and let me go? It’s the least you could do.”

“The least I could do?” He challenges.

“Yes.” Fuck. youuu.

“My OmniMan emblem- that’s the source of this insolence?” He chides like a father to a child- and that ticks you off sooo much. But before you can act on it-

“Fine. If you must know, I killed my father because I knew I could do the job better than him. I realized he was being insincere in his position as a guardian, and so I trained to take up his mantle. When he instructed me to help him prepare Earth for the empire, I refused. And instead I killed him. But that didn’t stop the empire from coming.

“There was 20 of them, not all of them as strong as me, but strong enough to overpower me. I fought against them for a long time, but eventually they found my weaknesses. I submitted to their rule to save what I could of Earth. I knew Earth would be better off if I was its designated Viltrimite ruler. I could be as merciful as they’d let me.

“They promised to leave me as ruler, so long as I completed their test. They brought my mother and my wife- my weaknesses. They told me to kill one, but I refused to pick. They tossed a coin. I was instructed to kill her. To kill my wife. To prove my allegiance. To prove my strength. She begged me to do it, for the good of humanity. She smiled at me as I crushed her windpipe.”

you couldn’t help but feel that his wife- his weakness- was you. Your hand flew to your mouth to cover a gasp.

“Your knuckle has been injured.”

“Yes.” Was all you could say, but your eyes searched his for more- for understanding.

“I’m only telling you this because I have struck a deal with Angstrom. When we complete our mission, he will give me my wife back. If you do not fulfill your end of the bargain, my contract could be null. So you understand-“

He got right in your face. Backing up would show cowardice so you remain where you are- centimeters from him. He hooks his finger under your chin, forcing your eyes to his. He commands-

“You will complete your mission, now.”

Chills ran up your body. But you couldn’t show your reaction to him. Wouldn’t.

“He’s lying, you know.” You challenge. And you know this to be true- since his wife is you. And you certainly didn’t agree to go with this guy. He was probably your least-likely pick. Or at least he was. Maybe he was growing on you. Or maybe you were never this guy’s wife to begin with.

“Maybe.” He replies. “But I’ve taken on the risk.”

“Your wife- what was her name?”

He hesitates- the first crack in his cold demeanor. He really wasn’t lying about his devotion.

“Y/n.” He breathes. And you can tell it’s difficult for him. But it’s difficult for you too. It’s been so long since you’ve heard the name from his lips with such- sincerity. Tenderness.

Maybe you had judged too harshly at first. Maybe this could be your Mark.

“my hands still hurt form when I punched that crab for you.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you going to thank me for my help?”

He backs away, leaving you open to the cold of space again. It’s nothing you can’t handle, but you had been enjoying the warmth.

“I had the situation under control. I knew the Crab’s hard exterior was the fool’s route to victory. You wasted your energy and weakened your best weapons in the process.”

Okay damn. Maybe not.

“Go to Melbourne. Or there will be consequences.”

And he was gone. And you were left in the emptiness of space.

—-

But you didn’t go to Melbourne.

Instead, you went to finish another job you had delayed: destroying the Guardians in their entirety.

The Teen Team HQ

Oh, you remembered Teen Teem. For those short months while you and Mark trained, you would show up at battles you saw on the news- and accidentally screw over those teenage heroes.

Mark was certain that by demonstrating your guys’ skills in front of the team, that they would certainly ask you to join. This didn’t happen though. You both were too inexperienced to do anything other than make things more difficult for the budding heroes.

But this didn’t stop Mark! He was certain getting on the team was the first stepping stone to achieving your dreams of becoming the world’s Number 1 Crime Fighting Duo.

You were never invited to the facility, but you snuck in once. Mark convinced you to follow Dupli-Kate after a battle at Hillview Park. She led you right to the top-secret base.

“Bet you I’ll make it in first!” He had whispered.

“You’re on, Grayson.” You challenged.

“Invincible!” He chided, “Call me [titlecard]!”

Of course, neither of you got in. As soon as you two tried to surpass the threshold, alarms blared, and Cecil appeared to give you a very stern talking to.

You giggle at the memory. You can’t help but feel a little giddy that those happy times were possible again- soon.

And, of course; you’re excited to see the inside of the facility this time.

But, it seemed Mark really had beat you to it.

“You’re all weaker than I expected. I was hoping for a challenge.” A variant with prominent Goggles hovered in the middle of the room.

“You- little asshole.” Hey! You recognized Rex-Splode! He was the explosions guy. Aww, he used to be one of your role models. Until you killed him, of course.

“You think you can sacrifice yourself to save your friends? You realize after I kill you, I’m just going to find them too.” Goggles taunts him.

You realize the decimated room was rather lacking in teens. So he had sent the rest of his team away, huh? How noble.

“Well maybe I just wanted it to be you and me, asshole.” Rex struggles to continue standing.

“Aww how nice. Too bad she’s here then-“ and Goggle points right at you, where you were watching from outside the broken doorway. Your stomach drops- not having expected the attention. But you recover and step through the threshold, standing at full potential.

“Ah damnit. I’ve got to fight two of you assholes?”

He uses that word a lot, you muse.

“No.” You state, “I’m only here to watch.”

“Shouldn’t you be completing your own mission?” Goggles was rather curt with you. If he had any connection with y/n, he certainly didn’t recognize her as you. Good.

“I’m here to watch.” You state again, more biting this time.

“Ah shit, is this some kind of fucked-up clone relationship thing? Whaddaya call that? Self -love?” Rex heaves out his joke, and winces at the pain it causes in his lungs.

“I don’t need a babysitter. Finish your fucking mission or we’re gonna have a problem.” Goggles seethes at you. This prick.

“Hmm, maybe more like self-hate.” Rex adds.

“No.” You repeat. You don’t know why you’re being so stubborn. But dammit today has not been easy and you are not the kind of person to be bossed around. At all. “I’m here to watch.”

“I’m not going to say it again. Fuck off to Australia!” The variant roars at you.

“Make me.”

And as soon as you say it, you’re in the air, being bulldozed backwards through walls and then pushed through night sky. The not-so-secret facility grows smaller in the distance. The variant has pinned your arms to your sides, and is pushing you backwards towards- what you can only assume is - Australia.

“What the hell are you doing?” You yell. You have to- you’re going so fast that the wind whizzing in your ears blocks out sound even for the super-of-hearing.

“I’m making sure you fulfill your end of the bargain.” He roars back.

“Why do you give so much of a fuck if I’m following the mission?”

He just glares at you in response. Your inner ear hurts from the disorientation. Shit, this guy was fast.

But you were strong. So somewhere over the Pacific, you wind up your knees to your chest, and kick him hard. As you break free from his hold, you hover in front of him.

He goes to lunge at you again, but you put your hands up in defense-

“Alright! I’ll go to Australia. Just tell me one thing-“

“You swear?”

“I swear” You try to to placate him.

He crosses his arms, and pouts a little. “What?”

“What was your deal? With Angstrom?”

He narrows his eyes at you, suspicious. “Why do you want to know?”

“That’s why you want me to go to Australia so bad, right? Because if I don’t, I could nullify the deal, or whatever.” You watch him closely, looking for any confirmation, And you won’t get what you want?”

A clenching of his fingertips confirmed that you were right- you recognized it as one of Mark’s tells.

He deflects, “Why are you asking this?”

“What’s in it for you? What do you get in the bargain?” You demanded. A sneaking suspicion writhed itself in your gut, which you were afraid to confirm. But you had to.

He sighs-

“did you have a y/n in your universe?”

Shit.

He continues, “well I did in mine. And I want her back. Happy?”

Happy? Maybe? Overjoyed? Terrified? And royally pissed at Angstrom?

“I’ll be happy when this is over.” Is all you manage to say. Then, quieter, “I’ll complete my mission now.”

He pauses, looking at you strangely, like he’s working out a puzzle.

But you don’t give him time to solve it. “I’m going now.” And as you start to fly away- “oh! And Mark?”

You look back at him, and his breath hitches. You smile a little- that signature little smile of yours~

“Thanks for telling me.”

And with that you zoom off.

—

Melbourne is in ruins.

Fires rage, rubble is all that remains of any form of civilization, and even the screams have already begun dying out.

Someone has completed your mission for you.

“Where have you been?”

You turn in the air to see the monochrome figure of the Viltrimite variant hovering a few feet away from you- you really needed to stop letting these guys sneak up on you. Especially these Viltrimite types.

“You didn’t need to do this.” You keep your tone even- “I had it under control, and even if I hadn’t I would not have accepted your help” You spat.

You didn’t like Viltrimites. You hadn’t had much experience with them; the only real Viltrimites you had ever interacted with were OmniMan and Anissa. After the coward OmniMan killed the love of your life, you never saw him again. When Anissa came, she was too late to conquer the planet; you had already destroyed it.

So to see this variant of your beloved Mark sporting the insignia which was responsible for his death? Absolutely Abhorrent.

The entire mindset of the Viltrimites is fucked up. It’s pretty cultish if you think about it. I mean what kind of a dumbass motherfucker do you have to be to buy into-

“I know who you are.”

Shit!

How the fuck does he know? Is he talking about what you think he’s talking about? You hadn’t even talked to the guy how could he have- what do you do? Why’s he staring at you like that?

“What?” Is all you manage to choke out.

“I know who you are. You’re my y/n.”

My y/n?

Shit, how many of these variants did Angstrom promise you to?? It couldn’t be.. all of them; could it?

“I did this for you.” He speaks.

And he gestures around himself, slowly, gracefully. His eyes never leaving yours.

You look around. The devastation. The mission.

“Why?” You ask.

“I was waiting for you. You should have been here sooner, but were obviously delayed. I decided the completion of your mission would be the optimal use of my time. Consider it a.. gesture of my unwavering affection.”

You swallow. Hard. Something about the hungry look in his eye unnerves you. Like his composure is all a facade he is barely restraining. But there is also something.. pleading in his gaze.

“Your.. affection?” You question, dumbly- you know the answer. You fear it nonetheless.

“For you.”

Fuck. You did not want the Viltrimite version of your dead boyfriend to be your forever beaux. But the utter longing in his eyes assure you he won’t be easy to get rid of- not by a long shot.

Still, you try-

“I’m not interested. I have no fondness for Viltrimites” you sneer at him. You try to.

“You enjoy the splendors of our powers but lack the conviction of our culture…” he pauses for a moment, in thought. Then, “You’re a hypocrite. But it’s a malady I’m prepared to attend to.” He is all caressing authority and cold devotion.

“Attend to it somewhere else- I’m not fucking interested” you sneer at him.

“You will be happy with me.” He is inching closer to you, arms extended.

“I won’t.” You defy, slowly backing up.

“You will! I know you will.”

“I won’t!” You cry out, but he has been smart. Hovering slightly above you, he’s been backing you closer and closer to the ground. Damn, if your Mark could see you now- he’d certainly critique you for losing your high-ground advantage.

“But you will. I know you will.” You’re getting very close to the ground now.

“You can’t know that!” You throw back at him.

“I do. Because she was happy too!”

Shit. His version of you. Was she happy with him? It didn’t matter. You couldn’t be.

“I’m not her!” Your voice is more pleading than you intended- you shouldn’t be allowing him to dominate the space between you, but you couldn’t help it. The day had been so taxing on you.

“You are her. Your voice is hers, your breath is hers, your eyes are hers, your face-” And he’s reaching for your mask.

you try to back away out of his range- but you hit ground where you wish there was escape. His fingers slip under the fabric, and before you know it, you are bare-faced for the world.

The wind is cool on your fresh skin; the fires are warm.

“Your face is hers” he confirms, breathlessly. Lovingly. Relieved.

You look up at him. You can see his eyes, his lips, his nose, his cheeks. You can see Mark Grayson.

“I haven’t taken my mask off in years” you confess.

He smiles, still gripping your mask in one hand.

“You won’t have to put it on ever again” he coos.

“That sounds.. nice” tears form in your eyes, “but also- awful.”

“Aww, darling~” and he comes to sit next to you in the sand; he cradles your head with two strong arms, and babies you the way someone might console a lost kitten, “you’re not going to be anyone else now except for y/n. My y/n.”

“No- no you don’t understand,” but your protestations are weak, “I’m not her anymore. I’m- I’m Invincible now. It’s what I have to do for- for you. I mean, not you, but for Mark. My Mark-“

He coos at you as you say those words- ‘My Mark.’

Oh, your Mark. The ultimate betrayal. Here you were in the arms of a Viltrimite version of him, taking off the suit which linked you to him, and abusing the powers you have thanks to him.

And it makes you want to cry.

You do a little. Allow yourself this small concession after being strong for so long. And Mark is there to hold you together. Oh God, he’s here.

Except he’s not very comforting.

He’s certainly trying, but he’s not very good at it.

He’s stiff. He’s eager- too eager. His embrace is too forged. It’s cage-like and cold. It presses in too hard, and in the wrong places.

You rub your eyes. You need to get a hold of yourself- you try to take back control of the conversation-

“How did you know it was me?”

“It was obvious as soon as I saw you” he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, but it falls again anyway. He continues, “Viltrimites are able to identify one another from distant ranges by memorizing the heartbeat pattern of the individual. Yours is.. the same- exactly the same as it was before.”

Shit. This guy was hardcore.

“How did she die?”

He hesitates. Doesn’t move at all. He stares at you, though. Never blinking. Finally,

“Old age.”

Old age? How the hell could she have died of old age? Unless-

“How- how could she have- how old are you?” You breathe out as the realization hits you.

He stands. He looks down on you, his body casting a shadow on your form- sheilding you from the firelight of a dying city.

“132.”

Oh hell no.

There was no way you were spending the rest of your life with this old ass man. 132?? He had plenty of time to enjoy you- other you. You did not need this shit-

“She was very happy on Viltrum” he reasons with you as your legs find strength to stand up. He continues-

“She lived a long and prosperous life. She provided me with several legacies-“

Legacies??

“Listen,” you interrupt his rambling. “I think I need to go now.”

“You don’t understand what it’s like!” His desperation blazes to anger, “to have a longer lifespan than your mate. To have to watch her wither away!

“I loved her- formed an attachment where I was not juristicted to do so. I forged a life for her on Viltrum. Despite her inferior birth! And then I had to watch the consequences of my attachment! She died in my arms! Weak and suffering! And I am meant to- what? Continue living? For how long?”

He weakens, grabs ahold of your arms- tender finally, “Y/n, I cannot endure these years ahead without you.”

You melted a little. Because you understood. The heartbreak endured by the loss of half of this duo. The lengths you both would go to in order to retrieve the missing piece.

But, you couldn’t choose him. At least- at least not right now.

So you started shaking him off you- for the fifth time today you needed space. Time. A moment to think.

But he wouldn’t grant you that.

“No.” His hold tightens as you squirm against him, “no, I won’t let you leave me again.”

“You don’t have a choice” you shove your arms open- breaking his hold on you.

“My mission is done! Your mission is done! We’re leaving. Now.” His patience is growing thin, you can tell.

“I’m not going with you!”

“Neither one of us has a choice.”

The wind shifts, and you struggle to breathe! A muscled arm presses down on your windpipe. You feel the expanse of a warm, strong body behind you- pressing into you. Somehow, with a swiftness your earth had never seen, he had gotten behind you. His arm held your throat in a chokehold, and another arm tied around your waist, pinning your arms, and promising to never let go.

“Let it happen, dear” he coos in your ear. “When you wake up, we will be home again” your vision was starting to black out, “and we will live to see stars burn out” your struggling was growing weaker, “and we will be together until we die.”

No no no no this can’t happen! You’re supposed to find your Mark! You made a deal. You had a mission. But the world was getting dizzy~ and you could feel yourself weakening~

A thunder crack and you could breathe again. Inhaling a gasp, you see your Viltrimite abducter on the ground.. pinned down by..

The variant with the full mask.

As oxygen rushed back into your brain, you made sense of what happened: the hooded Invincible had thrown himself into his Viltrimite counterpart- to save you.

Still atop the monochrome menace, he turned his face to you-

You were clutching the ground, still heaving in air. You wanted to thank him, but the Viltrimite recovered too quickly. Taking advantage of Masked Mark’s attention on you, the Viltrimite landed a hard punch on the fabric-covered face.

But Mark was always quick to recover. A punch here, a kick there. Pinning each other mercilessly to the ground. Until finally your masked crusader had the advantage again- for how long though, you weren’t sure. The two were so evenly matched.

But while pushing Viltrimite-face into the dirt, Invinsible looked back at you, again. His gaze was so powerful, despite his eyes being veiled.

You wondered how he would look underneath it all. Would he be the same?

But his gaze was pointed now- he’s telling you to go, you realize.

Oh Mark, you always jumped at the chance to save me.

You want to help, but the white-clad figure is up again, breaking Mark’s attention on you. You know it’s best to move on.

So with one mission completed, and the other entirely fucked- you speed away yet again. Leaving two versions of your love to make each other bleed.

How poetic.

——

You need somewhere quiet. Somewhere you feel comfortable enough to slow down and process all that has happened. Somewhere you feel safe.

Mark’s house.

You’re back where it started. A few doors down, you recognize your house- barely. The lawn was all wrong. And the paint colors were too orange. Your house supposed to be a beautiful blue and brown. The big maple tree meant to be shading your front yard was just an old stump.

Had your family redecorated when you died in this world? How did you die? Or had they moved away, and this was the tasteless assortment of an entirely new family? What about your family in your own world? Were they somehow still alive? You hadn’t killed them directly, but with all the violence, you wouldn’t be surprised. Were they waiting for you? Did they miss you? Or had they redecorated too?

Ugh! These existential questions made your brain hurt. You need to resolve the tension in your head.

The living room was exactly how you remembered. The kitchen was exactly how you remembered. The stairs were exactly how you remembered.

Would Mark’s room be the same? You bite your lip as you stand outside the door.

You try to imagine the lives of each of the Marks you had encountered. How different they had all been. What did each of their rooms look like? White Viltrimite coldness? Bloodied wallpaper? A mansion’s plush king bed? Posters of Omni Man on the walls? Pictures of you?

But when you open the door, you gasp. It was so.. unexpected:

It was exactly the same as you remembered.

The seance dog poster, the collections of comic books, the blue sweaters hanging in the closet.

This.

This!! This was your Mark! Of course it was! Your Mark was a hero! He wasn’t one of those sadists destroying the world! How could you have forgotten??

You know what you have to do now- who you have to choose. Who you came here for.

And then you heard the front door open-

“Mom?” A ragged breath called out downstairs- “mom I’m hurt! Where are you?”

It was him! It had to be him, back from saving the world.

You couldn’t help it. Finally things seemed clear to you! Finally you knew what you were fighting for/ What you really wanted.

You rush down the stairs, ready to hold him in your arms. To make him love you if you have to-

A Mohawk.

Mark doesn’t have a Mohawk.

To be fair, he looks just as surprised to see you. Until he starts to look annoyed, and you realize he is not hurt as he starts to whine-

“Aw what the hell, you’re not mom-“ he stops, so suddenly. And stares. At you. All bravado gone, mouth gaping open like a dead fish. Just, staring. Then,

“..y/n?”

Ah dammit, your mask! You lost your mask when dealing with the Viltrimite!

“Is it..” he whispers, “is it really you?”

You don’t even recognize the man in front of you now- all his cockish arrogance dissipated and baked into something gooey and sweet.

“Look, I know what you’re going to say- but I’m not going with you- anywhere.” You start backing up the stairs again- “You can’t have me forever or whatever the fuck- so don’t try to-“

“That’s okay!” He hastily steps toward your retreating form, “all I asked for was a few minutes!”

“What?”

“My deal with Angstrom- I get to say goodbye.”

Oh God. Your heartstrings couldn’t help but play a sympathetic tune. This little annoying fucking prick asshole only asked for- a goodbye?

“What do you mean?” You try to keep your voice level. Steady girl.

“I-“ he sighs. “I lost my y/n. Dad killed her- in front of me. Said she was weak. Said she made me weak.” He looks down in anger, recalling the memory through blazing eyes. But then he looks up again, softer, at you- “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t get to tell her how much she- that I loved her. Y/N, I love you.”

Your heart clenches, how long had it been since you’d heard those words from Mark Grayson?

Your feet barely make a sound on the stairs as you descend towards the boy who had professed his heart.

“I-“ maybe this was okay to say. Maybe, because he only wanted this moment, you could allow yourself to indulge. Maybe you deserved to have this just as much as he did, “I love you too.”

And his lips find yours. Needy.

You think maybe you should pull away.

But his hands find your neck. Delicate.

And your arms find his shoulder blades. Desperate.

He’s a gentlemen; sweet and chaste. Until he’s not. Very quickly you’re reminded of the nature of this variant.

His tongue is insatiable. It explores your mouth with hostility, and you’re pleasantly surprised to feel the cold smooth of a piercing purring itself across your hard palate.

His hands are naughty little explorers as well. They grope and squeeze anywhere they can find purchase, although they linger on your waist, the small of your back, your hair, and definitely your tits. He flicks your nip with his thumb, then returns to it with gentle fingers- feeling the nib grow slowly hard. He repeats the process, growling at the slow increase in sharpness.

You even allow him to grab handfuls of ass. For all his exploring, he discovers that pinching your ass causes you to yelp a little bit- which he loves.

But soon you can’t ignore the growing bulge in the crotch of his suit. And as he reaches for the tiny hidden zipper under your left arm (which of course he knows where the zipper is) you know you have to pull away. You only manage a few inches.

“Ah please baby- I’ve been waiting for this for years” he rasps out, refusing to fully let you go.

“This isn’t a good idea, I- I can’t.” You say, voice light but stiff.

“I forgot how good you kissed. Fuck, I need more babe.”

“That’s all you get.” You wipe your mouth- you gotta get ahold of yourself!

“But- Angstrom. I did my shit. I get more time with you!” His voice has that vulnerable waver in it again now, but it’s edged with something sharper.

“Time’s up.” You step back. This was nice, but you had to get your priorities straight! Only a few moments ago you had chosen your Mark Grayson- and it wasn’t the horny and pleading man in front of you now.

“No, I- c’mon. You- you said you loved me?” He was trying to rebuild his asshole facade, but it was collapsing in on him.

“I meant it.” You did.

“Then, you don’t have to go.” He smiled. An idea latching on in his brain. Uh oh. “Yes! Yeah, cmon. You and I- we could just, we could stay together. Do whatever we wanted. We were fire baby, let’s do it again.”

“No, Mark.”

Hearing his name caught him off guard, and for a moment you thought it might be enough to revert him back to that pleading puppy he was when he confessed his loved for you. Maybe it was enough for convince him to let you go.

It wasn’t.

His fiery eyes reignited tenfold, “Ohhhh baby” he whines- “say it again.”

“Stop it Mark.”

He shivers. “Yeah just like that.”

“You got your moment” you chide. “It’s over now. Get a grip or I‘ll smack you.”

He guffaws. You stand straighter, “I won’t warn you again.”

He’s right in your face in an instant- “you like being smacked a little. I remember. Dirty girl~”

CRACK!

and he was on the ground. Once again, you check for a pulse. He’ll reawaken soon. But for now, you need to begin the second part of your mission:

Secure a spot at the side of your chosen Mark.

And you know just where to look.

—

The pentagon.

Under several layers of ground of concrete, on the B6 floor, there is a top secret hospital wing. In room A2 of this wing, in the recovery unit, two of the strongest individuals on Earth are holding hands.

Eve Wilkins, who had fought valiantly, lays catatonic on the hospital bed. Her leg is crushed, but her heart now beeps rhythmically.

Mark Grayson, who could not protect her, sits beside her. Holding her hand gently at his forehead. He ignores the pleas of an old man.

“Mark, she is in the best hands. I can assure you that as soon as she wakes up, I will alert you. But right now, Earth needs you. You need to get out there, Mark.”

“No. No I’m not leaving her again.”

“Dammit Mark, lock the fuck in. I’m losing heroes left and right. They’re dropping like flies out there. Your brother is out there, Mark. Oliver.”

But the hero remains silent.

“Mark-“

“Sorry, sir. But we’ve got intel on one of the hostiles-“ a strawberry blonde man pokes his head in the room.

“Wha- fine. What is it, Donald?”

“The docile party- the one who doesn’t attack and who might have saved Rex Splode?”

“The girl?”

“Ah- yes, sir. We’ve acquired some new footage of her without her mask. It seems she is not a version of Mark at all.”

Great, cuz Mark’s been pissing me off.

“Who the hell is she?”

“We’ve run her face through our databases, and it seems she is- well, most likely a version of-“ the strawberry blonde man glances at the stoic hero still grave over the hospital bed, but continues- “y/n.”

—

The pentagon would be difficult to overpower. But you weren’t really looking to overpower it anyways. You just needed to make yourself seen.

Honestly, it was a miracle you hadn’t seen the Mark of this world already. Wasn’t he supposed to be protecting the earth? Where the hell was he?

Of course, you hadn’t been doing all that much fighting. You suppose you hadn’t made yourself a priority to a defender of earth.

You need to change that.

As you weave between skyscrapers, you make a mental note: don’t kill civilians. Your new Mark probably wouldn’t appreciate that. Could you still convince him to be with you despite all the damage you’d caused? He would still love you in this world.. right?

SHIT! Your eyes are dizzy as you are flipped belly-up, and rocketed upwards- WHAT THE HELL-

Getting your bearings a little, you realize you are being carried bridal style, and shooting up above the skyline.

“AHHH!! HEYYY!!” you scream blindly. You thrash about a bit, but you’re too disoriented to break the grip of your kidnapper.

Maybe it’s my new Mark? Finally come to pay me some attention?

“Hush now, I’ve got you, y/n.” A variant with Viltrimite logos on his shoulders, and a crisp voice soothes you. Or attempts to.

Damn. No such luck.

You’re tired of this. You jolt your legs up and flip over and out of his grasp. You’re not dizzy this time. No, you’re prepared now.

“Let me guess!” You huff, “you’re in love with me. Angstrom promised you could have me. You saw me flying by, and recognized me. You think you can forcefully claim me. Maybe that worked with your old y/n. But it won’t work with me.”

His eyes are wide with surprise.

“Ah, so Angstrom filled you in already? Good. That will make-“

“NO!” You huff. “Angstrom did NOT fill me in! I figured that out by MYSELF. Because apparently I am the ONLY Invincible who uses their brain. If you would use YOUR brain, you would turn around and leave me the hell alone!”

A moment.

He stared at you.

You huffed a bit.

You shoved a strand of hair off of your face.

And then he laughed.

A large, crystal clear laugh. It rung and sang out.

“I am-“ he stifles a giggle, “I am not used to you being so obstinate.”

“No,” you say flatly, “I’m sure you’re used to getting everything you want.”

“Ahh” he touches his finger to his nose, and winks at you- “that I am.”

You decide you’re going to kick this guy’s teeth in. But how many teeth? It depends. He is sporting two Viltrimite logos. But if past incidents are anything to go by, that’s neither here nor there.

You decide you need to gauge how much you hate this guy.

“So you’re another one of those Viltrum sycophants?”

“Ha! More than that. I am Viltrum’s emperor.”

Alright. So screw this guy!

Your leg is at his jaw in a fraction of a second, ready to kick sense into this guy by kicking some wisdoms out.

But he has caught your ankle in a- delicate- embrace.

Oh fuck.

This guy was insanely fast.

“I’ve enjoyed watching you toddle about with your stolen powers, but- word of advice?” Blinding pain. Agonizing pain in your ankle. He’s broken it, there’s bone protruding. “-don’t fuck with the guy that challenged the most powerful being in the universe and won.”

Your heart is in your stomach. Your hairs stand on end. Your nervous system feels like it’s trying to simultaneously jolt itself awake and into oblivion.

You’re fucking scared.

“AAH!” You cry out again as he releases your ankle. It drops deftly below you.

“Sorry about that, truly.” The predator states with sympathetic eyes- “it’s all tactical, really.”

Blood is gushing out of your ankle, you wonder how long it will take for the droplets to land on the city below?

“Lambs- you see. When lambs start to wander off from the herd, a Shepard will break its legs. The lamb has to rely on him. So the Shepard will carry the lamb around his shoulders, feeding it and keeping it warm. Until it learns a dependency. So, even when the lamb can walk again- it will never walk far from its loving Shepard.”

His teeth glint as he offers a tiny grin.

You feel yourself become lightheaded. You need to get out of here.

But he’s on you too fast. He offers an arm to you, but you do not take it. You try to back away, but he is insistent. He grabs your hands and wraps them into the crook of his arm.

Pretending to be a gentleman.

He’s not a gentleman. He’s not a Shepard. He’s a wolf.

He’s worse than a wolf. He’s the fucking emperor of Viltrum. You start to really take in what that means. How someone would go about becoming the leader of a warrior species. What they would have to do. What this man had obviously done. Had he killed the emperor before him? That’s.. beyond what you had thought possible. This couldn’t fathomably be Mark Grayson. Your sweet Mark Grayson. And yet it was.

It was at this moment you finally had to contend with yourself;

your Mark was always deranged.

Your Mark had fed you blood. His blood. For months. Without telling you.

Whether he could punch through the core of the Earth or not, Mark Grayson would always be.. fucked.

But strangely, the thought was comforting. It reassured you- that maybe you were not so alone and awful as you had thought.

Taking into consideration everything you had witnessed today- you were finally able to console yourself on one horrible fear which had followed you since Mark had died-

No matter what, Mark Grayson would always love you.

You almost smiled.

“We’ll be happy together, sweet lamb.”

Almost.

—

Fuck. It couldn’t really be you, could it? You had been gone so long, ever since..

No it probably wasn’t you. Don’t get your hopes up, Grayson.

Even if Donald had said the blurry photo of your face was a 90% match.

FUCK! Even just seeing your face- however blurry- was painful and perfect and horrible and wonderful and-

DAMMIT!! What the hell is a guy supposed to do in this scenario? SHIT what was he gonna tell Eve?

Eve is gonna be pissed.

I mean, as soon as Donald mentioned your name, he was up off that hospital bed. He was demanding where you were, how certain they were it was you, what you had been doing, how this was even possible…

And SHITTTT you were wearing HIS SUIT?? FUCK, you had to come back swinging, didn’t you?

But that was JUST LIKE YOU! Of course you would make some grand entrance back into his life. Of course you would be this perfect mess of contradictions.

Making him second guess himself!!

You bear his insignia, but you show up with versions of him intent on destroying the Earth. But you aren’t destroying the earth. But you aren’t exactly helping, either. You look like his first love, but you don’t love him back? Are you on his side? Do you care about him?

FUCK!

He feels like he’s in grade school again. He feels like he’s watching you kiss Toby Fichte at camp again. He feels like he’s playing superheroes with towels for capes in the backyard again. He feels like you’re sitting together, eating sliced apples again. He feels like he’s holding your cold body, and crying out your name again.

And he’s chasing after you again, too.

He can’t help it.

He loves you. No matter what.

He’s speeding towards the Seattle skyline, searching for you, when he catches the faintest smell. It’s sliced apples. It’s campgrounds. It’s comic book pages. It’s clean towels. For a moment, he’s home.

But then he catches something else-

Copper.

—————————————————————————

Wow! Okay so that was WAY LONGER THAN I THOUGHT IT WAS GONNA BE!!

I hope you enjoyed!! I took a good amount of creative liberties (I only watch the show, and although I did some research- I didn’t want to spend more nights working on this than I already had). I tried to get all my favorite variants a good chunk of screen time!!

I’d love to hear your thoughts, and if you’d like a part 2! Also which variant do you think you would choose?

The multiverse is vast, infinite, cruel.

It births and kills versions of the same soul over and over again, shifting fates with a careless hand, allowing some to prosper and others to rot. For some, it is a playground of endless possibility. For others, it is a prison, one in which they are forced to watch the echoes of a life they will never have.

And for them the ones who have lost you it is a nightmare they cannot wake from.

●

It begins with loss.

A singularity of grief, festering across countless realities, bound by one constant: You are gone.

There are worlds where you died in battle, torn apart in the ruins of a dying Earth, your hands still reaching for him even as the light faded from your eyes. There are worlds where you were murdered, where a crueler Mark snapped your spine in a fit of rage, only to regret it for every breath he took after. There are worlds where you simply ceased to exist, erased by the cruel machinations of fate.

And then, there is this world the one you call home. The one where your Mark, your love, is the one who died instead.

Here, the sky is calm, the streets are quiet. There are no Viltrumites looming above, no blood painting the clouds. The war that destroyed countless other Earths never touched yours. But you, the one who has seen too much, who has survived what so many versions of you did not, carry the weight of it all.

You exist in a universe untouched by their ruin, unaware that they are coming for you.

●

Across shattered dimensions, the hunt begins.

Sinister Mark Capevincible never grieved like the others. Grief was for the weak, for those who still held onto human things like regret. And yet, he felt your absence like an open wound, like a thing gnawing at the edges of his mind. He had killed for you. With you. And when he found you lifeless in his arms, he slaughtered an entire world in your name.

But the void you left behind never filled. Not with blood, not with screams.

Mohawk Mark Movincihawk was less composed. He raged, he laughed, he tore through entire cities just to feel something, to make the world suffer as he did. He mocked the idea of love, spat on the memory of you, and yet, when he thought no one was watching, his fingers traced the phantom shape of your face in the air.

No Goggles Mark Nogogglesible made a game of it. Of pretending he didn’t care, of sneering at the pathetic ache that settled in his bones. But he did care. He cared in the way a starving man cares for food, in the way a drowning man craves air. He wanted you back, but the universe had taken you from him, and he would make it suffer for that.

Prisoner Mark Prisonincible was methodical. He didn’t scream or rage. He simply decided that if he could not have you, then no one could. He had nothing else to live for, nothing else to fight for. And so, when Angstrom Levy came to him with an offer, he listened.

And he was not the only one.

Hoodvincible. Capvincible. Gogglesvincible. Viltrumincible. Omnivincible.

They had all lost you in their own way, and each of them, no matter how cold, how cruel, how merciless they had become, wanted you back.

Angstrom promised them that.

All they had to do was take down the one Invincible who had everything they lost.

●

The war was brief but brutal.

Main Mark fought with everything he had. He was strong stronger than many of them had anticipated. He fought for his Earth, for his mother, for the life he had built. He fought for the people who depended on him, for the future he dreamed of.

But more than anything, he fought for you.

The you of his universe had been gone for years, torn apart by his father’s wrath when she dared to stand beside him. He had never truly recovered from that loss, but he carried on, because that’s what you would have wanted.

And that was why he had to die.

Because he still had you, in another universe.

He fought. And he fell.

They tore him apart in the ruins of his own city, surrounded by the corpses of those who had tried to defend him. He was bloody, broken, but still defiant to the end.

“You’ll never have her,” he spat, teeth stained red. “She’ll never be yours.”

It was Capevincible who delivered the final blow. A hand through the chest, fingers curling around a still-beating heart.

“You don’t get to decide that,” he whispered.

Main Mark’s body crumpled to the ground, and the war was over.

●

Now, they are coming.

Your world is untouched, peaceful. You wake every morning to the rising sun, to the hum of a city that still thrives. You go about your days carrying the weight of the past, of the love you lost, unaware that across the multiverse, echoes of the man you loved are tearing through reality to find you.

They are different from him. Twisted, cruel, shaped by loss and rage. Some of them will claim to love you still. Some will see you as a possession to reclaim. Others will simply want to break you, to make you suffer as they have suffered.

But they all want you.

And soon, they will have you.

This is shaping up to be an intricate, dark, and poetic story of obsession, grief, and twisted devotion. Since you want this next part to be even longer than the last, I'll take my time building the eerie tension of their arrival, their interactions with each other, and the looming dread of the hunt.

I'll weave in their personalities, how they view you, how they react to the idea of having you again.

This will be a descent into the mind of monsters who believe they have earned you.

●

The first thing they notice is how quiet your world is.

The sky is still, unbroken by the charred streaks of dying ships. There are no sirens screaming through the streets, no blood soaking the pavement, no desperate, last-breath cries for help. It is a world untouched, soft in a way that feels wrong.

They step onto this Earth like wolves entering a sanctuary, their mere presence a corruption of its peace.

Some of them sneer at it Mohawk Mark, No Goggles Mark, Hoodvincible. Weak. That's what they see. A world that has never known their wrath, never earned the scars of war. They walk its streets like ghosts, watching the humans move about their day with sick amusement, wondering how long it will take before terror consumes them.

Others are indifferent Gogglesvincible, Capvincible, Prisonincible. They have no interest in the people who roam this Earth. No interest in the mundane, fragile lives that scurry beneath their feet. Their purpose is singular.

And then there is Capevincible.

For a long moment, he does not move. His fingers flex, curling, twitching at his sides as he breathes in the air of this untouched world.

You are here.

Not an echo. Not a memory. You.

He has not seen you in a long time, not since your body lay limp in his arms, warmth fading, breath stilling, eyes staring through him like he was already gone.

He has not forgotten that moment.

The way his vision had blurred, red creeping at the edges, heartbeat drumming, pulse roaring in his ears. The way rage had swallowed him whole, the way the universe had been made to suffer for what it took from him.

And now, it dares to give you back?

Something dark coils inside him.

Something violent.

"You feel that?" Mohawk Mark is grinning, his hands clasping together with a crack of his knuckles, his eyes wild. "She's close. Shit. It's been a while since I've been this excited about something."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Omnivincible says, his tone even, detached. His eyes flick toward Capevincible, watching the way his breathing has slowed, measured, controlled.

Omnivincible is a calculating man. Where the others are eager, he is patient. He does not let his emotions rule him the way Capevincible does. But even he knows this is different.

This is her.

"Do we kill her?" No Goggles Mark asks, tilting his head, his smirk lazy and sharp. "You know, like we did with him. Would be kind of poetic, wouldn’t it?"

The air shifts.

It is sudden.

One moment, they are standing as they always have monsters in the shape of men, beings of unshaken power, unchallenged dominance.

And then Capevincible moves.

No one sees it.

Not even Omnivincible, whose perception is unmatched, who has always been the first to anticipate a strike before it lands.

All they hear is the sound.

Flesh breaking.

Bone cracking.

No Goggles Mark's body slams against the concrete, his ribs caved in, blood splattering across the pavement, a gurgled breath wheezing from his throat as he chokes on the force of the impact.

Capevincible stands over him, his hand still outstretched from the blow, his expression unreadable.

And then he speaks.

"If you ever suggest that again," he says, voice low, deadly, "I will break you into so many pieces even we won't be able to count them."

Silence.

No Goggles Mark coughs, rolling onto his side, a sputtering laugh bubbling from his lips even as his lungs struggle to repair themselves. "Damn," he wheezes, wiping the blood from his mouth. " Someone's sensitive."

But he does not repeat his question.

Because now he knows.

There will be no killing you.

Capevincible will not allow it.

And the others?

They are no different.

Mohawk Mark clicks his tongue, but there is something hungry in his gaze. "You know," he muses, "for all your dramatics, you are right about one thing." His smile widens, all teeth, all threat. " We deserve her more than he ever did."

Omnivincible does not argue.

Neither does Viltrumincible.

They all know the truth.

You were theirs in every universe.

And now, you will be theirs again.

●

Somewhere in the city, you shiver.

It is an ordinary day, as it has been every day since your Mark was taken from you. The world continues to spin, unchanged, indifferent.

And yet, for the first time in a long time

You feel watched.

A presence, unseen but there.

A warning, whispered into your bones.

Somewhere, far closer than you think, something is hunting.

And it will not stop until it finds you.

●

The sky splits open like a wound.

They arrive in silence. No grand entrance, no dramatic descent from the heavens just a slow, deliberate bleed of presence, as if the universe itself is trying to pretend it never let them in.

The city does not notice at first. People go about their lives, oblivious to the wolves that have slipped into their midst. They are insects, ants scurrying across pavement, murmuring into phones, sipping coffee, clutching bags of groceries with hands that have never held blood.

They do not realize that they are already dead.

Sinister Mark moves first.

Not to kill, not yet.

His movements are slow, measured, purposeful. He breathes in the air of this world, of your world, and feels something inside him snap into place.

He had wondered if this version of you would feel different. If you would be someone new, an echo rather than a resurrection.

But no.

He feels it already, like a tremor in his bones. You are you. The one who was taken from him. The one who left him with nothing but rage and emptiness.

His fingers twitch. His jaw clenches. His vision narrows.

Somewhere in this city, you are breathing. Existing. Untouched.

And that will not do.

The others spread out. They are not patient like he is. They are wolves with snapping jaws, hyenas tearing into the throat of something too fragile to fight back.

Mohawk Mark is the first to strike.

A man in a suit, rushing across the street, briefcase in one hand, coffee in the other. An insignificant thing. An insect, like the rest. Mohawk Mark lands in front of him with a grin, cocks his head, and watches him stumble back.

"P-please," the man stammers.

Mohawk Mark laughs. " Please ?" he echoes. "Man, I love when they beg."

His fist moves too fast for the human eye to track. One moment, the man is whole. The next, he is red mist.

The street falls silent.

Then, the screaming starts.

And that is all it takes.

No Goggles Mark vanishes into the crowd, reappearing in the center of a busy intersection. "Oops," he hums, before grabbing the nearest person a woman, her mouth open in terror and crushing her like paper. Blood splashes his face, and he laughs. "Damn, that was fast. I was hoping she'd scream more."

Hoodvincible is less creative. He simply starts ripping people apart. Limbs fly, bodies drop, the pavement darkens with blood. He is snarling, cursing, relishing the slaughter.

Gogglesvincible is clinical. No rage, no joy, no amusement. Just cold efficiency. He moves through the city like a shadow, erasing life with every flick of his wrist.

Viltrumincible and Omnivincible are more restrained. They watch. They study. They take note of how quickly this world crumbles, how fragile it is compared to the war-ravaged Earths they have known.

Prisonincible? He lingers. He does not lose himself in the bloodshed like the others. His purpose is singular. He watches the skyline, waiting for the moment when you appear.

They are enjoying themselves.

Sinister Mark does not care.

He lets them play, lets them tear through the city like feral dogs, lets the streets run slick with the blood of people who never saw it coming.

He is focused.

Because you are near.

And then

A flicker. A heartbeat. A presence that does not belong to this ruin.

His head snaps up. His eyes darken.

He moves.

●

The alley is dark.

You press yourself against the cold brick, your breath sharp and uneven, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

The city is screaming.

You do not know why.

You do not know what is happening.

All you know is that the air feels wrong , that something is crawling under your skin, that every nerve in your body is shrieking for you to run, run, run

But it is too late.

He is already here.

The shadows shift. A shape steps forward, slow, unhurried.

You feel it before you see him.

A weight. A force. A presence so thick, so suffocating, that the air itself seems to cower from him.

And then

A voice.

" There you are."

It is almost gentle. Almost.

Your breath catches.

He is

Wrong.

You know Mark. You loved Mark.

But this is not him.

This is a monster with his face.

His eyes are different. Darker. He is taller than you remember, broader, his frame coiled tight with something hungry. His hands flex at his sides, fingers curling, twitching, like he is holding himself back.

You take a step back.

His lips twitch. A smirk.

"You remember me," he muses. "Good."

His voice is deep, smooth, threaded with something dangerous. It slithers through the space between you, wraps around your throat like a vice.

"I " Your voice breaks. You do not know what to say.

He takes a step forward. You take a step back.

And his smirk widens.

"You do ," he breathes. "I can see it. You feel it, don’t you?"

His head tilts, eyes raking over you. Slow. Lingering.

You want to run.

You try.

You don’t even make it a step before he moves.

It is not a fair thing, the way he moves.

One moment, he is a breath away. The next, his body is pressed against yours, his hands braced against the brick on either side of your head, his breath ghosting over your skin.

"You think you can run from me?" he murmurs.

His voice is velvet and knives.

You shudder.

He leans in. His nose brushes your jaw. His lips hover at the curve of your throat.

"You feel it," he repeats, softer now. "Don’t you?"

His mouth is so close.

You gasp, twisting away.

His fingers curl around your chin, dragging you back.

"Ah-ah," he chides. "I lost you once."

His grip tightens.

His voice drops to something almost reverent.

"I'm not losing you again."

Sinister Mark / Capevincible

- The air is thick with the scent of sweat and something darker, something almost metallic. He lingers above you, his breath uneven, not from exhaustion but from the sheer euphoria of destruction—of claiming. His body is a furnace against yours, but there is no tenderness in the way he stays. His fingers are still curled in fists, his jaw still locked in hunger. The violence of him does not soften, even now.

- He does not ask if you are alright. He does not murmur reassurances or stroke your skin. If anything, there is irritation in his gaze, as if he is displeased with how quickly the moment has ended. He rolls onto his back with a huff, his mind already restless, already searching for the next conquest, the next thing to tear apart.

- His fingers twitch, and you can tell he is contemplating whether to reach for you again, whether to take more. The thought of stopping—of gentleness—does not occur to him. You are a canvas for his desires, a battlefield where only he emerges victorious. The sheets are ruined, the bruises already forming, and he watches them like an artist admiring his handiwork.

- “You can leave,” he mutters, though there is no real expectation that you will. Perhaps part of him enjoys the sight of you trying to collect yourself, the trembling in your limbs, the way you are still breathless and overwhelmed. It is not kindness that keeps him near—it is possession. He may not hold you now, but he knows you are still his.

- If you do not move, he does not push you away. He does not touch, but he does not reject. He allows you to exist in his space, but only because he knows you will stay. And if you do not? He will find you again. That, you are certain of. He always finds what belongs to him.

- As sleep creeps at the edges of your awareness, his voice cuts through the silence—low, amused, a whisper of menace. “You look wrecked,” he says, as if it is a compliment. And perhaps, in his eyes, it is.

Mohawk Mark / Movincihawk

- He laughs as he sprawls out beside you, arms stretched lazily over his head, body gleaming with sweat. There is something cruel in his amusement, something sharp in the way he watches you struggle to catch your breath. He enjoys this—this aftermath, this moment where you are undone, where he is the victor in a game only he was playing.

- “What, tired already?” he teases, nudging your side with his knuckles, grinning when you flinch. There is no softness here. He revels in the mess he has made of you, the bruises, the bite marks, the trembling. To him, this is the reward—the proof of what he has done.

- He does not comfort. He does not soothe. If anything, he tests your limits even now, fingers ghosting over your most sensitive places just to see you shudder, just to hear that sharp intake of breath. He wants to push, to prod, to see if you can take more. Because he can. He always can.

- When you turn away from him, he chuckles, pressing himself against your back, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Aww, don’t tell me you’re mad,” he coos, mocking, delighted. “You liked it.” And there is no room for argument, not in the way he says it. Not in the way he knows he is right.

- He does not fall asleep easily. He is restless, always hungry, always looking for something else to entertain him. If you are still awake, he will toy with you, pulling at your hair, tracing invisible patterns on your skin, whispering things that are not quite threats but feel like them.

- Eventually, he tires of it. Eventually, he sighs, pressing a lazy kiss to whatever part of you is closest. “Fine, go to sleep,” he allows, as if it is his permission to give. But you know better than to think the night is truly over. Not with him.

No Goggles Mark / Nogogglesible

- He hums to himself, a pleased little sound, stretching like a cat beside you. The grin on his face is unshaken, wide and smug, as if he is replaying every moment in his head and savoring it. He looks at you, then at the mess of the bed, then back at you. “That was fun,” he says, and the simplicity of it makes something uneasy settle in your chest.

- He pokes at your side, nudging you as if testing whether you are still conscious. “You good?” But the question is not asked out of concern. It is asked out of curiosity, like a child tapping the glass of an ant farm just to see the insects scatter.

- He leans over you, grinning down at your exhausted form, fingers idly tracing over the marks he left behind. “You make the best sounds,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Did you hear yourself? Damn.” There is no apology in his tone, no remorse. Only satisfaction.

- When you try to shift away, he tuts, looping an arm around your waist and yanking you back. “Where you goin’?” he asks, though he already knows. “You’re not leaving yet.” It is not a request. It is a statement. A decision already made.

- He does not sleep right away. Instead, he watches you, smirking to himself, occasionally brushing a hand over your body just to see you react. He likes this part—the aftermath, the possession, the way you are still at his mercy even now.

- And when exhaustion finally drags you under, his voice is the last thing you hear, low and amused, pressing against your ear like a brand. “Hope you’re ready for next time,” he murmurs, already promising more.

Prisoner Mark / Prisonincible

- The room still thrums with the echoes of what just happened—sheets tangled, bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with something more than heat. He stays above you for a moment, not moving, not speaking, only watching. His breath is slow, measured, controlled. A stark contrast to the violence that came before.

- He rolls onto his side with a sigh, fingers tapping absently against your hip. The touch is not soft, not affectionate—it is possessive, idly tracing over the bruises he left, pressing just hard enough to make you shudder. There is something in his eyes, dark and amused, as if he enjoys watching the way your body still reacts to him even now.

- “You’re quiet,” he murmurs, and the corner of his mouth twitches, like he knows why. Like he enjoys it. His hand drifts up to your throat, fingers pressing lightly, just enough to remind you of what they had done before. Not a threat. A memory. A promise.

- He does not offer comfort. If anything, he studies you like an artist admiring a painting, making mental notes of what he will do differently next time. How much further he can push. What else he can take. And you know there will be a next time.

- He does not hold you, but he does not leave either. He stays beside you, arm draped over his forehead, eyes closed but still alert. He is not a man who rests easily. Even now, you can feel the coiled tension in him, the way his body hums with readiness, as if he is waiting for something—though whether that something is a fight or another round, you do not know.

- Eventually, he exhales sharply, his voice breaking the silence like a blade. “You should get some sleep,” he says, though it sounds more like an order than a suggestion. And when you finally do, you can still feel his gaze on you, as if even in slumber, you are still under his control.

Sheisty Mark / Hoodvincible

- He laughs, low and breathless, still riding the high of it. He stretches beside you like a lion in the sun, cocky and self-satisfied, grinning at the ceiling like he just won a fight. And in his mind, maybe he did. Maybe this was a battle to him, and you were just another opponent he overpowered.

- “Shit, you look wrecked,” he chuckles, nudging you with his foot, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Didn’t think you’d tap out so fast.” The words are teasing, but there is no real kindness behind them. He likes seeing you like this—spent, breathless, undone. It feeds something in him. Something cruel.

- He does not pull you close. He does not murmur soft words or press lazy kisses to your skin. Instead, he props himself up on an elbow, looking down at you with a smirk that is all sharp teeth and arrogance. “Damn, I really did a number on you, huh?” He sounds almost proud.

- If you try to move, he stops you—grabbing your wrist, pressing you back down with an effortless strength that reminds you just how easily he could keep you there forever if he wanted to. “Nah, don’t go runnin’ off yet,” he mutters. “Ain’t done lookin’ at you.” There is something unsettling in the way he says it, like you are a prize he refuses to let go of just yet.

- Eventually, he stretches again, yawning like a cat, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. “Damn, I should wreck you like that more often,” he muses, rolling onto his back. But there is an edge to his tone, a silent threat beneath the laziness of it. Because you know he means it. And next time, it will be worse.

- He does not hold you, but he does not let you leave either. His presence is a cage, even when he is not touching you. And as you drift into uneasy sleep, his voice lingers in your ears, low and smug. “Sweet dreams, baby. You’re gonna need ‘em.”

Bald Mark / Capvincible

- He does not move right away. He lingers above you, fingers pressing into your skin like he is still grounding himself in the feeling of you, still savoring the imprint of his touch. There is no tenderness in it—only possession. Only the need to remind you that you are his, in ways words cannot express.

- “You took it well,” he murmurs, his voice like silk over steel. He sounds almost impressed, but there is something mocking in it, too. Like he expected you to break sooner. Like he is already thinking about how much further he can push you next time.

- His fingers trace over the marks he left—bruises, scratches, the evidence of his hunger written into your skin. He smirks, pressing down on one just to hear you gasp. “That one’s my favorite,” he muses, dragging his knuckles over it. “Maybe I’ll make it darker next time.”

- He does not ask if you are alright. He does not offer comfort, because that is not what he does. Instead, he leans down, lips brushing your ear, his voice a dark whisper. “You’re still breathing. That means you can take more.” And there is no doubt in your mind that he means it.

- He watches you for a moment longer, as if deciding whether he is finished with you yet. And then, finally, he pulls away, stretching lazily, rolling onto his side with a satisfied sigh. “You should sleep,” he says, though there is no softness in the command. It is not a suggestion. It is an expectation.

- And as you finally close your eyes, exhaustion pulling you under, you feel his fingers curl around your wrist, grounding you in his presence. A silent reminder that even in sleep, you belong to him.

Goggles Mark / Gogglesvincible

- The air is thick with the remnants of what transpired, the sheets tangled, your body trembling in the aftermath. He remains still beside you, breath steady, as if nothing had happened at all. His presence is imposing even in silence, a cold specter lingering at your side, watching.

- He is not one for excessive words, nor for the meaningless pleasantries that others might indulge in. Instead, he observes you with a calculating gaze, his fingers ghosting over the bruises and marks left behind as if assessing his own handiwork. His touch is neither gentle nor rough—just clinical, indifferent, as if cataloging the evidence of his own cruelty.

- “You’re still alive,” he finally murmurs, his voice as hollow and monotone as ever. It is not a question, nor a reassurance. Just a fact, stated plainly, as if your survival was never really in question to begin with.

- He does not hold you, does not soothe you. Instead, he remains close, just enough to remind you that he is still there. His hand rests idly on your hip, fingers curling slightly, not in affection but in possession, an unspoken claim. He does not need to say the words for you to understand.

- When you shift, his grip tightens, just a fraction—barely perceptible, but enough to make you freeze. “Don’t move,” he says, voice quiet but absolute. Not because he cares for your comfort, but because he enjoys the moment, the stillness, the way you remain where he wants you.

- Sleep does not come easily under his watchful gaze, but it comes nonetheless. And when you wake, he is still there, the weight of his presence a suffocating thing. A silent reminder that you are his, in ways you can no longer deny.

Viltrum Mark / Viltrumincible

- He is still wrapped around you, arm draped over your waist, breath slow and controlled. Not out of tenderness, not out of love—but out of something deeper, something far more insidious. Ownership. You are not separate from him. You are an extension of him, something he has conquered and now keeps close.

- His fingers trace the marks on your skin with something almost resembling reverence. Almost. “You took it well,” he muses, voice low, contemplative. There is something like amusement in his tone, but it does not quite reach his eyes. He is pleased, but not in the way a lover might be. It is the satisfaction of a king surveying his land, of a warrior admiring a battle won.

- “You understand now, don’t you?” he murmurs against your ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. “You were made for this. For me.” It is not a question. He does not ask. He states. Because to him, there is no world in which you are not his.

- He does not ask if you are alright. He does not offer words of comfort. But he does not leave either. His grip is firm, unrelenting, keeping you anchored against him as if daring you to try and pull away. And you know better than to try.

- Eventually, his hold loosens just enough for you to breathe, though the weight of him still lingers. He watches you, waiting, expecting. And when you finally exhale, sinking into his embrace, he smirks. Victory.

- “Sleep,” he commands, voice softer now but no less absolute. And as your eyelids grow heavy, you realize that sleep is not a choice. It is another surrender, another way in which he has claimed you. And you are too tired to fight it.

Omni-Mark / Omnivincible

- He does not move for a long time. The room is quiet, save for the slowing rhythm of your breaths, the lingering heat still clinging to your skin. He lies beside you, gaze fixed on the ceiling, expression unreadable. Detached. As if he is already somewhere else entirely.

- When he finally speaks, it is without emotion, without warmth. “You’re still awake.” A simple statement, but there is something behind it. Not concern. Just mild curiosity, as if he finds it odd that you have not yet drifted into unconsciousness.

- His fingers brush against your arm, absentminded, like a scientist observing a specimen. There is no affection in the touch, no real intention—just a lingering presence, as if he is deciding whether or not to acknowledge you further.

- “You’ll be fine,” he mutters eventually, rolling onto his side, back facing you. Not dismissive, not cruel—just indifferent. Like it does not truly matter either way. And perhaps, to him, it does not.

- But despite the coldness, despite the emotional distance, he does not leave. He remains in the bed, body close enough to feel but not to comfort. A silent contradiction, an enigma you cannot decipher. He does not care, yet he does not go. And that, somehow, is worse.

The alley is suffocating.

Your breath comes fast, shallow, but not from exertion. Not from fear, though that, too, coils in your chest like a thing alive. No, it is the weight of him that steals the air from your lungs.

Sinister Mark is close. Too close.

The bricks are cold at your back, unyielding, rough against your palms as you brace yourself. But he is warm—so terribly, unbearably warm. His presence is suffocating, his body caging you in, hands planted on either side of your head. His eyes burn through you, deeper than they ever did before, dark with something far worse than rage.

Possession.

His lips part like he might speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, his breathing sharpens, the rise and fall of his chest ragged, like he's trying to hold himself together with sheer force of will.

Then, finally, he exhales a curse under his breath, something guttural and raw.

"You don’t get to run from me," he says, voice almost gentle. Almost.

A lie of softness wrapped around something razor-sharp.

Your heart pounds, but you meet his gaze, refusing to cower. You should be afraid. You are. But there is something else, something deeper, something that should not exist in the face of such violent devotion.

"You’re not him," you say.

And oh, that does something to him.

His fingers twitch against the brick, his whole body going rigid like he’s just been struck.

"No," he agrees, voice hoarse. "I’m not."

He should be furious. He should rip through the wall behind you in his rage, in his inability to be what you lost. But instead, he lets out something close to a laugh. It’s dry, humorless.

And then, without warning, he kisses you.

It is not a kiss meant to soothe, nor a kiss meant to convince. It is a claim. A demand.

His lips crash against yours with bruising force, fingers digging into the wall like he’s holding himself back from tearing you apart in a way you would not survive. His teeth catch your lower lip, sharp enough to sting, but he does not relent. His hands have yet to touch you, and yet you feel him everywhere—his presence, his heat, his need, pressing into you like gravity itself.

It is the most dangerous thing you have ever felt.

But you do not push him away.

You tilt your chin, just enough to break the kiss, just enough to breathe, and when you speak, your voice is steady, unwavering.

"He would hate you," you murmur. "Everything you are. Everything you've done."

Sinister Mark inhales sharply, his head tipping forward so that his forehead brushes yours.

Then he laughs.

It is low, deep, shaking through him in something close to ecstasy. He exhales against your lips, slow and measured, a ghost of breath against your skin.

"Then it’s a good thing he’s dead."

And the worst part?

You believe him.

The realization sends a tremor through you, but before you can react—before either of you can—another voice cuts through the alley like a blade.

"Well, well."

A slow, amused whistle follows.

"You found her first. That’s cute."

Sinister Mark does not move, but you feel the shift in his body, the slow turn of his head toward the source of the voice.

Mohawk Mark.

He stands at the mouth of the alley, his silhouette cast in flickering streetlight. There is blood on his hands, on his clothes, smeared across his jaw like war paint. His grin is wide, lazy, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

"Was wondering when you’d get tired of playing with your food," he muses, stepping forward.

Sinister Mark is still, his posture unchanged, but something about him feels even more dangerous now, like a predator whose kill has just been threatened.

"You’re in my way," he says, voice void of any warmth it once held.

Mohawk Mark chuckles, rubbing his thumb through the blood on his knuckles.

"You’re so serious," he muses. "Come on. We all came here for the same thing."

His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens.

"And damn, she looks even better up close."

A rush of cold floods your veins, but before Mohawk Mark can take another step, the air shifts.

The wall behind you cracks under Sinister Mark’s grip, a deep, splintering sound that vibrates through the alley. His expression is unreadable, but his intent is clear.

Mohawk Mark tilts his head.

"Don’t be greedy," he teases. "I mean, I could fight you for her, but we both know how that’d end."

Sinister Mark’s jaw tightens.

"You’d lose."

Mohawk Mark’s grin sharpens.

"Maybe."

He steps closer.

"But I’d have fun trying."

The space between them shrinks, and you realize with a sick, sinking feeling that they are not arguing about if you will be theirs.

Only who gets to have you first.

Sinister Mark doesn’t blink, doesn’t so much as twitch.

Then, slowly, he reaches out—grabbing the front of Mohawk Mark’s suit.

And slams him into the opposite wall.

The force cracks the bricks, a spiderweb of fractures blooming outward. Mohawk Mark exhales sharply but laughs, wiping a streak of blood from his temple where the impact cut skin.

"That’s the spirit," he purrs.

Sinister Mark leans in, his voice dropping to something quiet, something lethal.

"You won’t touch her."

Mohawk Mark raises a brow.

"Oh? And what are you gonna do about it?"

Sinister Mark smiles.

A slow, terrifying thing.

"I’ll show you."

The alley goes silent.

For a moment, the only sound is your own breathing, too fast, too uneven.

Then, suddenly—

Mohawk Mark moves.

Faster than you can process, faster than human sight can track. His fist swings for Sinister Mark’s jaw, a hit that would shatter bone—

But Sinister Mark catches it.

The impact is deafening.

For a long, terrible moment, they are locked in place, a silent battle of strength and will.

Then they move.

It happens too fast. One second, Sinister Mark’s grip is crushing Mohawk Mark’s fingers, an unspoken promise of destruction. The next, Mohawk grins, twisting his wrist with practiced ease, slipping free just enough to drive his other fist into Sinister’s ribs. The crack is deafening.

Sinister barely flinches.

Instead, his response is immediate and brutal. He swings Mohawk like a ragdoll, slamming him into the opposite wall with enough force to send debris flying. Mohawk lets out a bark of laughter even as the impact splits his lip, blood smearing his grin.

"You hit like a jealous boyfriend," he taunts.

Sinister doesn’t waste breath on words. He lunges.

Their battle is violent, chaotic. Brick and concrete crumble around them as they tear through the alley, each strike a promise of suffering. Mohawk is fast, laughing between his dodges, jabs sharp and mocking. But Sinister is relentless, every attack carrying the weight of absolute hatred.

And they are distracted.

For the first time since this nightmare began, no hands are holding you down. No cruel voices whispering claims to your body, your existence.

You run.

It is not planned, not graceful. It is instinct. Pure, blinding survival. Your feet slam against the pavement, your breath ragged as you race through the ruined city.

Everything is in ruins.

Buildings are gutted, glass and steel strewn like the organs of a dying beast. Fires burn in the distance, black smoke curling into a bruised sky. The scent of blood is thick in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of destruction.

The dead are everywhere.

Twisted forms litter the streets—civilians, heroes, anyone who dared stand in their way. Some are unrecognizable, bodies reduced to pulp beneath inhuman strength. Others are frozen in their last moments of horror, eyes wide, mouths open in screams that will never end.

This is what they have done.

What they have turned the world into.

And you are next.

A flicker of movement in the distance makes your stomach drop.

At first, he is just a shadow against the firelit horizon, standing amid the carnage like a god surveying his kingdom. Then, as your breath hitches, he turns.

No Goggles Mark sees you.

His head tilts, blood dripping from his fingers, his grin slow and lazy. His eyes gleam with something hungry.

You run faster.

It is useless.

In the blink of an eye, he is gone—vanished from his perch among the corpses. Before you can even scream, a gust of air slams into you, and suddenly—

He is there.

Directly in front of you.

You crash into his chest, the impact sending you stumbling, but his hands catch you, firm and unyielding. He holds you steady, fingers pressing into your shoulders with bruising amusement.

"Well, well," he murmurs. "I was gonna say we should just kill you."

His grin widens.

"But now that I see you?"

He leans in, breath warm against your skin.

"I just wanna taste you."

Your stomach twists violently. His grip tightens, one hand dragging up to brush your jaw, slow and deliberate. His fingers are still wet with blood, smearing against your skin like war paint.

You shove him.

It is like pushing against steel. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even budge, just laughs—a delighted, terrible sound.

"Oh, I like you," he hums. "You're not even crying yet. That's cute."

His hand moves again, fingers tracing the line of your throat.

"You know," he continues, conversational, "Sinister’s gonna be pissed when he finds out you ran. He’s real possessive. Real crazy about you."

His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling the frantic beat beneath your skin.

"But me?" He tilts his head, grinning. "I don’t mind sharing."

Terror flares white-hot in your chest.

You try to twist away, but he moves faster, catching your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to his.

"Mm," he muses. "Yeah. I get it now. Why they all want you."

He steps closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.

"You’re just so—"

A blur of motion—

And suddenly, he is gone.

One second, he is pressed against you, his breath ghosting over your lips. The next, he is yanked backward with bone-crushing force.

The world spins.

Then you hear it—

A snarl of fury.

A brutal, devastating impact.

And the growled, venom-laced words that follow:

"She. Is. Mine."

Sinister Mark.

You turn just in time to see him drive No Goggles into the pavement with the force of a meteor. The ground shatters beneath the impact, cracks webbing out in every direction.

No Goggles Mark coughs, laughing even as blood drips from his mouth.

"Damn," he wheezes. "Took you long enough."

Sinister looms over him, eyes black with rage.

"You let her run," he seethes.

No Goggles grins, wiping blood from his chin.

"And you almost lost her."

The words are a taunt, a goad. Sinister reacts exactly as expected—by grabbing No Goggles by the throat and slamming him into the nearest wall.

"You don’t get to touch her."

No Goggles laughs, the sound strained from the pressure on his windpipe.

"You gonna fight me for her, too?" he rasps. "Or are you scared you’ll lose?"

Sinister’s fingers tighten.

"You were never a threat."

His free hand moves—too fast to track—gripping No Goggles’ wrist and twisting. The sickening crack of breaking bone fills the air.

No Goggles’ laughter chokes off into a sharp inhale.

And yet—

Even as agony flashes across his face, his grin remains.

He leans in, voice dropping to something almost reverent.

"Then prove it."

For a moment, neither of them move.

A tense breath between destruction.

Then Sinister Mark lunges.

No hesitation. No warning. Just pure, unrelenting violence.

His fist collides with No Goggles Mark’s jaw, sending a ripple of force through the air. The pavement beneath them splinters from the impact. No Goggles barely has time to react before the next blow comes—a brutal uppercut that sends him hurtling through the ruined cityscape, smashing through what remains of a collapsed skyscraper.

Debris rains like a dying god’s final breath.

Sinister doesn’t let up.

He moves faster than thought, a streak of crimson and darkness as he follows No Goggles into the wreckage. A heartbeat later, another impact shakes the ground. Dust billows out in waves, choking the sky. The sounds of their battle are deafening—flesh hitting flesh, bones fracturing, the sickening crunch of destruction.

You do not wait to see the outcome.

You run.

Again.

Your body screams in protest, muscles aching, lungs burning from the effort. But you don’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when every moment wasted brings you closer to being caught again.

You dart through the ruins, slipping between shattered cars and crumbling buildings, heart hammering in your chest. The world is a graveyard, a smoldering wasteland left in their wake. You do not think about the bodies. You do not think about the blood.

You only think about escape.

But fate—fate is a cruel, laughing thing.

Because before you can even reach the next block—

A shadow looms above you.

A rush of wind.

And then—

You are airborne.

Your scream is stolen by the sky as you are yanked from the ground, lifted with terrifying speed. The city shrinks beneath you, buildings reduced to tiny, smoldering corpses of their former selves. The higher you rise, the more the destruction spreads out like a bleeding wound, stretching to the horizon.

The grip on you is unyielding. Strong. Familiar in its cruelty.

Then, a low, smug voice in your ear—

"Miss me?"

Mohawk Mark.

You twist, struggling against his hold, but his arms are locked around you, iron-clad, caging you against his chest. His laughter vibrates against your back, a pleased, predatory hum.

"Damn, you really don’t wanna be caught, huh?" he muses, effortlessly adjusting his grip as you writhe. "Too bad."

He tilts his head, smirking. His face is bloodied—whether his own or someone else’s, you can’t tell. His grin is sharp, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

"You know," he murmurs, voice dipping, "Sinister’s gonna lose his mind when he finds out I got to you first."

His words send a fresh wave of panic through you.

You jerk against him, desperate, nails digging into his skin. He only grins wider.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tuts, tightening his grip. "Be nice now."

Then, without warning—

He kisses you.

Rough. Unforgiving.

His mouth crashes against yours with a hunger that is almost painful, teeth scraping, tongue demanding. His grip around your waist tightens as he holds you steady, savoring the way you struggle.

Your reaction is immediate.

You bite him.

Hard.

He jerks back with a sharp inhale, tasting his own blood.

Then—

He laughs.

A delighted, wicked sound, rolling from his throat like a lover’s sigh.

"Shit," he breathes, licking his lip where you broke the skin. "That was hot."

He looks down at you, amusement flickering through his gaze.

"You really got some fight in you," he muses, voice rich with approval. "I like that."

Then—his grip shifts.

Suddenly, he is no longer holding you.

He is dangling you.

The air around you turns colder as he loosens his grasp, just enough for your body to slip a little. The city stretches out beneath you, endless, waiting.

"You know," he murmurs, tilting his head, "I could just drop you."

The words are spoken playfully, casually.

And yet—

There is no doubt that he means them.

Your breath catches.

Mohawk watches your reaction, utterly enthralled.

"You scared, pretty thing?" he teases, voice honeyed with mock sympathy. "You should be. Bet you’d hit the ground real hard. Splat."

He chuckles, fingers flexing around your waist.

"But don’t worry," he purrs, pulling you back in. "I like you too much to waste you like that."

Before you can respond—

Another voice cuts through the wind.

"Well, shit."

Mohawk tenses.

You twist in his grasp—just in time to see another figure hovering in the air, watching the two of you with a lazy, knowing smirk.

Sheisty Mark.

His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his posture relaxed, but his eyes—

His eyes are locked onto you.

And he looks—

Obsessed.

Mohawk exhales, rolling his shoulders.

"Look who finally decided to show up," he drawls, tone half-annoyed, half-amused.

Sheisty’s grin widens.

"Yeah, yeah, took me a second," he shrugs. "Had some fun down below first. Damn, though."

His gaze rakes over you, dark and slow.

"You really are as pretty as I remember."

Your stomach twists.

Mohawk tightens his grip around you, possessive.

"Back off," he warns. "I found her first."

Sheisty raises an eyebrow, floating closer.

"Yeah?" he muses. "And? You really think Sinister’s gonna let that slide?"

Mohawk’s smirk falters—just slightly.

Sheisty chuckles.

"Man’s losing his mind over her," he continues, shaking his head. "Tearing the city apart, wrecking everything in his way. He ain't gonna let you have her just 'cause you got lucky."

Mohawk narrows his eyes.

"Maybe not," he admits. "But I don’t see him here right now, do you?"

Sheisty hums, considering.

Then he grins.

"Guess that means I can cut in."

Before Mohawk can react—

Sheisty is in front of you.

Too fast. Too close.

His hand reaches out, trailing a finger along your jaw, slow and deliberate.

"Been waitin’ a long time to see you, baby," he murmurs, voice like velvet and danger. "And you don’t know how bad I wanna get my hands on you."

His touch is feather-light, teasing, his eyes drinking in every detail of you.

Mohawk growls.

"Touch her again," he warns, "and I'll break you."

Sheisty laughs.

Loud. Careless.

"You wish you could," he taunts. "But let's be real, man."

He smirks, tilting his head.

"You really think any of us get to keep her?"

His words hang heavy in the air.

A reminder.

A promise.

Because this—

His words hang heavy in the air.

A pronouncement. A sentence.

You do not accept it.

You refuse.

Your body moves before thought can catch up, every muscle coiling, every instinct screaming. You twist, kick, shove—fingers curling into fists, teeth bared like an animal caught in a hunter’s snare. You are not gentle. You do not beg.

Mohawk barely reacts.

Sheisty, watching, laughs—a sharp, delighted sound, rich with amusement.

"Oh, shit," he snickers. "She’s got spirit."

Mohawk hums, unimpressed. His grip remains ironclad, barely shifting as you fight. It’s insulting, how little effort he has to exert, how he treats you like a toy rather than something dangerous.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "It’s cute."

Then, with a sharp yank, he crushes you back against him, your struggle rendered meaningless in an instant.

"You done yet?" he asks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice laced with something condescending, something dark. "Or do I gotta remind you who’s in charge here?"

You don’t answer. You won’t.

But your silence?

It delights him.

He exhales, a low chuckle rumbling through his chest.

"Alright then."

Then—

He lets go.

And you fall.

The wind screams past your ears, cold and howling. The world rushes up to meet you, a kaleidoscope of fire and ruin and broken things. Your stomach lurches, your pulse thrashing wildly in your veins.

You don’t even have time to scream.

Then—impact.

No, not the ground. Not death.

Mohawk.

His arms snap around you, catching you effortlessly, his body a wall of unshakable strength. He holds you midair, just inches above the city’s broken bones.

A fraction of a second later, and you would have been nothing.

He laughs.

It is obscene in its pleasure.

"See?" he grins, pulling you close again, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin. "Told you. I’m in charge."

Your breath is ragged, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you say nothing.

He drinks in your silence like it’s the most satisfying thing in the world.

Then, with a casual ease that makes you hate him all the more, he descends.

Your feet touch the ruined pavement.

You drop.

Not from weakness, no—but from the sheer violence of your body’s rebellion. Your knees buckle, your arms limp at your sides, your head heavy. You are shaking, but you do not sob.

You will not give them that.

Mohawk watches you with satisfaction, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of boredom.

"Man," he exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets. "That was fun."

Sheisty, still hovering nearby, tilts his head.

"You’re fucked up, bro," he comments, though his grin betrays nothing but approval.

Mohawk just smirks, nudging you lightly with his boot.

"You alive down there, sweetheart?" he teases.

You glare at him.

He laughs again, full and rich, like this is all just a game.

Sheisty crouches beside you, his presence a heat you do not want. His fingers brush under your chin, tilting your face up so he can get a better look.

"She looks real pretty like this," he murmurs, voice low, appreciative.

Mohawk hums in agreement.

"Yeah. Shame Sinister ain’t here to see it. He’d lose his mind."

Sheisty chuckles.

"Bet he’s already tearin’ through bodies tryin’ to find her."

You stiffen at that.

Because you know it’s true.

Sinister will not tolerate this.

He will not share.

Mohawk sees the realization settle in your expression, and he grins.

"Oh, you get it now, don’t you?" he muses. "You’re ours now. And Sinister? He’s gonna do whatever the fuck it takes to get you back."

Sheisty leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin.

"Hope you can run, baby," he murmurs. "’Cause this is just startin’."

Then—

A voice.

A presence.

Calm. Unshakable.

"Enough."

The word cuts through the space like a blade.

Your stomach drops.

You turn your head—

And see him.

Omni-Mark.

Standing just a few feet away, watching the scene with an expression as cold as carved stone. He is not like the others. There is no amusement in his face, no grin, no wicked glint in his eye.

He is a stillness. A force.

A storm waiting to break.

Sheisty straightens slightly, exhaling.

"Shit," he mutters. "Look who finally showed up."

Omni-Mark does not acknowledge him.

His gaze is only on you.

And it is—

Unnerving.

Slowly, he walks forward, his movements unhurried, deliberate.

"Stop playing with her," he says, voice even, measured. "We’re not here to waste time."

Mohawk exhales sharply, rolling his eyes.

"Relax, man," he drawls. "We were just havin’ fun."

Omni-Mark stops directly in front of you.

"You call this fun?"

His tone is unreadable.

Mohawk shrugs.

Sheisty grins.

You?

You cannot move.

Because when Omni-Mark looks at you—

It is not hunger.

It is not amusement.

It is possession.

A claim written in the silence between heartbeats.

You feel it.

Like iron tightening around your throat, a noose cinching tighter with every second that passes. Their eyes on you, their hunger suffocating, their need as endless as the destruction surrounding you.

You should be afraid.

You should be broken.

Instead—

Something inside you snaps.

Like a thread pulled too taut, like a caged animal that has finally bled against the bars one time too many.

"Enough," you spit, the word raw, seething. Your voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp enough to wound. "You disgust me. All of you."

Silence.

Then—

Sheisty lets out a low, amused whistle.

Mohawk grins like you’ve just whispered something filthy into his ear.

Omni-Mark remains still.

For a moment, you wonder if your words have landed, if they have struck something deeper—if these men, these monsters, can feel anything other than the sickening hunger that gnaws at them like rabid dogs.

Then Mohawk steps closer.

"You hear that?" he murmurs to Sheisty, his grin widening. "Disgust, she says."

Sheisty snickers.

"Yeah? Ain’t stoppin’ her from lookin’ real good right now."

Your hands curl into fists.

"You think this is funny?" you snap, your voice laced with fury. "You think any of this is a game?"

Mohawk exhales sharply, amused, like you’re a feisty pet growling at its owner.

"Oh, sweetheart," he drawls, "I know it is."

His hand raises—too fast, too close—aiming for your face.

But you are faster.

Before you can think, before you can stop yourself—

You slap him.

Hard.

The sound echoes, sharp and brutal, your palm stinging from the impact.

Silence falls.

For a moment, you dare to believe you’ve shocked him. That you’ve hurt him.

But then—

He laughs.

Low, dark, dripping with delight.

"Ohhh," Mohawk breathes, tilting his head, eyes bright with something dangerous. "I like you."

Before you can move, before you can brace yourself—

Pain.

A sharp, brutal sting that blossoms across your cheek. Not enough to break you, not enough to leave you ruined—but enough to remind you what he is.

Enough to remind you who holds the power here.

You stumble slightly, your vision flaring white for a second, but you refuse to fall. Refuse to give him that satisfaction.

Mohawk watches you with something like admiration.

"Still standin’?" he muses. "Damn. You’re tougher than I thought."

Omni-Mark’s voice cuts through the space like a knife.

"Enough."

It is not loud. It is not angry.

But it is absolute.

Mohawk clicks his tongue, rolling his shoulders.

"Man, you’re no fun," he mutters.

But he stops.

He doesn’t touch you again.

Omni-Mark’s presence looms, his gaze unreadable, his expression carved from stone. He does not look at Mohawk.

He only looks at you.

And that is somehow worse.

Because in his eyes, there is something new.

Not amusement. Not lust.

Something deeper. Something colder.

Something you do not want to understand.

Before you can dwell on it, before you can react—

The world shifts.

Arms wrap around you from behind, crushingly tight, a rush of wind swallowing you whole—

And suddenly, you are gone.

Lifted into the sky, stolen yet again.

A sharp, barking laugh echoes in your ear, hot breath brushing against your skin.

"Damn, girl," Sheisty chuckles, his grip firm, unyielding. "They keep arguin’, and you just keep gettin’ passed around like a fuckin’ prize."

Your stomach lurches as he ascends, the ruined city shrinking below you.

You hate this.

You hate this feeling.

You hate how easily they take you, how effortlessly they trade you between their hands like a thing to be owned.

"Put me down," you snarl.

Sheisty only laughs harder.

"Now why the fuck would I do that?" he teases, adjusting his grip. "You just got way more interesting."

You twist, fighting against him, but it is useless.

The air is cold, the wind whipping against your skin, and you realize with a bitter, aching fury—

You are tired.

Tired of running.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of being passed from one nightmare to the next.

And worst of all?

They know.

Sheisty feels it in the way your struggles weaken, in the way your breath comes harsher, in the way your fury is still there but wrapped in exhaustion.

"Tired, baby?" he murmurs mockingly, his grip tightening. "Don’t worry. I’ll take real good care of you."

Below, in the ruins, a storm is brewing.

Mohawk, still grinning, is watching. Omni-Mark’s gaze is locked onto the sky.

And somewhere, unseen but inevitable—

Sinister is coming.

And when he does—

The world will burn.

The wind howls at this height.

It whips against your skin, sharp as knives, biting through your exhaustion as you are dragged higher and higher, Sheisty’s grip like iron around your wrist.

When he finally lands atop the tallest skyscraper, he drops you.

Your knees hit the concrete, the city stretching out beneath you like the corpse of a fallen god—burning, ruined, lost.

"You look good up here," Sheisty muses, towering above you, his silhouette carved against the moonlight. "Like a queen lookin’ down at her kingdom."

You glare at him, every muscle in your body wound tight.

"Not a queen," you snap. "A prisoner."

He smirks.

"Same shit, different name."

Before you can speak, the air shifts again—

Two shadows descend.

Mohawk lands first, his bloodied grin splitting his face as he cracks his neck. Omni-Mark follows, silent, his gaze unreadable.

"You fly too fast," Mohawk says, walking toward Sheisty, unbothered by the height. "Almost thought you were tryna keep her all to yourself."

Sheisty snorts. "I was."

Mohawk laughs. "Yeah? Guess we got the same problem."

You grind your teeth, nausea twisting your stomach.

They talk about you like you’re nothing.

Like you don’t even need to be here to hear it.

Like you belong to them.

Before you can snarl something back—before your frustration and fury can boil over—

The sky rips apart.

A sonic boom shatters the air, a roar of movement so fast it feels like thunder splitting the heavens.

And then—

Sinister lands.

The building shakes beneath his arrival, his cape whipping behind him, his entire body taut with violence.

His eyes find you immediately.

And something in them burns.

A hunger deeper than all the others.

A possessiveness so sharp it could cut the world in half.

Mohawk exhales sharply.

"Fuck, man," he mutters, shaking his head. "You really don’t like sharing, do you?"

Sinister doesn’t move.

His fists are clenched. His jaw is tight.

His entire body is wound like a live wire—one wrong move, and he will break.

"You took her," he says, his voice low, deadly. "Again."

Sheisty tilts his head.

"Yeah," he says. "And?"

Sinister steps forward.

And they move first.

Sheisty and Mohawk strike, their bodies colliding with his, trying to contain him—

Not to kill.

Not to win.

But to stop him.

"Listen, man," Mohawk grits out as Sinister throws him back, "we get it, alright? You wanna keep her all to yourself." He dodges a strike that nearly caves in the building. "We all do."

Sheisty, blood smeared across his knuckles, laughs through his teeth. "But this?" He wipes his mouth. "You really think you’re gonna take on all of us?"

Sinister breathes hard, his chest rising and falling like a beast caged inside his own skin.

Then, before he can answer—

Another voice cuts through the dark.

"You’re all wasting time."

No Goggles lands.

Then Goggles Mark.

Then Prisoner.

Then Viltrum.

Then Bald.

They arrive like specters, like ghosts drawn to the scent of blood.

A twisted congregation of monsters.

And all of their eyes are on you.

Your stomach lurches.

The air is suffocating, thick with something worse than hunger, worse than want.

This is possession.

This is claim.

Prisoner crosses his arms, eyes flicking over the others. "If we fight over her all night, she’s just gonna end up in pieces."

No Goggles smirks. "Or dead."

Goggles Mark tilts his head, his voice cold, monotone. "Which would be a waste."

Viltrum steps forward, looking at Sinister. "You can’t kill us all," he says simply.

Sinister doesn’t answer.

Because he knows.

They are too many.

He could fight until the city crumbles beneath them, and it would not be enough.

"Come on, man," Mohawk wipes blood from his jaw, grinning. "We don’t gotta kill each other over this."

Sheisty scoffs. "Yeah. We can just share."

Your blood runs cold.

Share.

Like a thing. Like an object.

Like you are nothing.

You stare at them, your hands clenched into fists, nails biting into your skin.

"Go to hell," you whisper.

Silence.

Then Bald laughs.

"Damn," he mutters, looking at you with something close to amusement. "She still thinks she’s got a choice."

No Goggles grins. "Cute."

Goggles Mark doesn’t smile, but his voice hums with something dark. "Resistance is inefficient."

Sinister’s jaw locks.

But he says nothing.

Because he knows.

If he fights—

He loses you entirely.

So he breathes, heavy and deep, and when he looks at them again—

He agrees.

Not with words.

Not with anything so simple.

But with silence.

And that silence seals your fate.

You take a step back, the edge of the building behind you.

There is nowhere to run.

Nowhere to hide.

They are too many.

And they have already won.

You are suffocating.

Not from lack of air.

But from them.

From the weight of their eyes. From the quiet, crackling tension that wraps around you like barbed wire, slicing into every inch of your being.

You stare at them—all of them—these monsters shaped in the image of one man.

Your body shakes with rage. With something raw, something uncontainable, something clawing up your throat like a scream that could bring the whole world to its knees.

"You—" Your voice cracks, fury splintering through every syllable. "You destroyed everything."

The city burns beneath you, broken by their hands. By their war.

By their hunt for you.

Mohawk laughs, his head tilting, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Yeah. And?"

Your stomach twists.

"You think I care about this place?" No Goggles leans forward, his tone mocking, almost bored. "About them?" He gestures to the city, to the thousands—millions—of lives reduced to nothing but dust and corpses. "You know damn well we don’t."

Prisoner crosses his arms, his expression cold. "All this?" He motions to the destruction around him. "Just a small price to get you back."

You flinch.

They talk about it like it’s nothing. Like none of it matters.

Like you should be grateful.

Your fingers curl into fists. "Back?" Your breath shakes. "Back?"

Sheisty chuckles. "Yeah, sweetheart. Back."

Sinister moves then, slow and deliberate, until he is standing too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the sheer violence caged beneath his skin.

"You," he says, voice like crushed stone, "are supposed to be ours."

You shake your head.

"You’re insane," you whisper. "All of you."

Sinister’s lips curl. "Maybe."

Mohawk snorts. "Definitely."

Omni-Mark’s gaze is unreadable, his voice calm. Too calm. "You misunderstand."

You glare at him. "Then make me understand."

They exchange glances, silent messages passing between them like something unspoken, something ancient.

Then Bald steps forward.

"You died," he says.

Your breath stutters.

"In every world," Goggles Mark adds, his voice a chilling monotone. "In every timeline."

You blink.

Your lips part.

"That’s not—"

"It’s true," Viltrum Mark cuts in, his expression unreadable. "In each of our realities, we had you once." His fingers twitch, curling into fists at his sides. "And then we lost you."

Silence.

Heavy. Unbearable.

Your pulse pounds. "How?"

No Goggles grins, but there’s something jagged in it, something that hurts. "All sorts of ways, baby."

Mohawk’s gaze darkens, his voice laced with something twisted, something almost fond. "Sometimes you were taken from us."

Sheisty nods, cracking his knuckles. "Sometimes you tried to leave."

Omni-Mark speaks next, calm and cold. "Sometimes we were the ones who killed you."

Your breath catches.

You step back.

But there is nowhere to run.

Sinister exhales slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "I always lost you the fastest."

His voice is quiet. Almost reverent.

Like your death is a prayer he has whispered a thousand times.

"Every version of you," he continues, "always fights me." His fingers twitch. "Like this one does."

You shake your head, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. "I’m not her."

Prisoner tilts his head. "You think it matters?"

Goggles Mark adjusts his gloves, his tone eerily indifferent. "You are her. She is you."

Bald smirks. "And this time, we get to keep you."

Your skin crawls.

Your mind races.

Their words repeat, looping in your skull like a curse.

You died.

In all of their worlds.

You wonder how.

You wonder what he did.

What they did.

Sinister steps forward again, so close his breath ghosts over your lips.

"I crushed you in my hands," he murmurs, his tone a thing of death, of violence, of worship. "Held you too tight. Let your ribs crack one by one like snapping twigs."

Your stomach lurches.

Mohawk leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he grins. "You ever seen what happens when a body hits the ground from space?"

You try to shove him away—

He grabs you instead, fingers digging into your arms, his strength unbreakable.

"You screamed so pretty," he hums. "Right before you popped."

Sheisty clicks his tongue. "Mine bled out slow."

Viltrum Mark rolls his shoulders, his expression unreadable. "Mine never even saw it coming."

No Goggles laughs, voice bright with amusement. "Mine fought so damn hard."

You shake your head, chest tight, breath ragged. "Stop."

Sinister grips your chin, forcing your gaze to his.

"Not this time."

Your stomach twists.

"Not this time."

The words echo, low and final.

A verdict. A sentence.

A fate sealed by the weight of their obsession.

Because in this world—

They will never lose you again.

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