#omni-mark

“Not all of us killed mom here,” a voice shot back similar in pitch, but whinier, emotional. The masked Invincible stood stiffly in the air, shoulders slightly hunched. Though his face was obscured, the way he stared at the ruined rooftop made it obvious he was lost in memory.

“I liked it here. It reminds me of playing catch with Dad,” the masked one added, quieter this time. His voice trembled on the edges, brittle and barely held together, like a spiderweb ready to snap.

A sudden groan of frustration broke the stillness. Heads turned toward the source—another Mark, this one unmasked, with a short mohawk and a face twisted in exaggerated irritation.

“Agh—WHAT IS TAKING HIM SO LONG!” he whined loudly, both hands yanking at his hair as he kicked his feet like a child mid-tantrum.

“Yeah, the dude’s taking forever. So not cool,” said another Invincible, one with no goggles and an exasperated tone. He blew out a sigh and looked off to the side.

“Exactly. Can we hurry it up? Some of us have places to be,” Empire Mark chimed in with a sneer.

“Like where?” Omni-Mark asked dryly, not even bothering to look at him.

“Like at my empire? Or I don’t know—anywhere but this dumb, sorry excuse for a planet,” Empire Mark snapped, gesturing broadly to the neighborhood below like it offended him just by existing.

“It’s not that bad,” offered a bald Invincible with mottled burn scars down the side of his head. “Got a lot of fresh air. Kinda nice.”

Empire scoffed, folding his arms with a roll of his eye. “Nice? Oh, please.”

But before the debate could spiral further, a green portal tore open midair with a shimmer and a buzz. Out stepped Angstrom Levy, his oversized head bobbing with the weight of his entrance. One or two of the Invincibles seemed mildly intrigued by the arrival—except for No-Goggles, who let out an appreciative whistle.

“Sorry. I prefer to make an entrance,” Angstrom said with practiced cool, striking a pose. Nobody responded. Except No-Goggles, who gave a slow nod.

“Dude, I get it,” he said.

Omni-Mark scoffed quietly, eyes still fixed ahead. “Those who make the strongest impression are the ones who don’t try.”

“Okay, shut up Shakespeare,” grumbled another Mark, this one wearing a full cap pulled low.

“Who’s Shakespeare?” the burnt man asked curiously, glancing around.

“He’s like a super smart guy or something. I don’t know. I dropped out of school when I was twelve. I didn’t need to learn about some dumb human guy who writes poems,” muttered a Mark in the traditional Viltrumite uniform with a lazy shrug.

“Right, gentlemen, can we please get back on track,” Angstrom interjected, trying to steer the chaos back under control.

“On god, these humans and their stupid poetry,” the Emperor Mark added, looking deeply offended by the mere concept.

“Gentlemen,” Angstrom repeated, louder this time. The crowd of floating clones turned to look at him, some visibly rolling their eyes. “Right, where was I? Not only have you destroyed this planet—you’ve also destroyed him. And everything—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, dude. Did you script this out?” asked Sinister Mark, tilting his head and raising a brow in disbelief.

“Excuse me?” Angstrom blinked or tried to. His scorched eyelids barely moved, the knobs above his eyes twitching slightly.

“He definitely did,” Omni-Mark added, shaking his head with a smirk.

“This is just sad,” Viltrumite Mark chimed in with a disapproving shake of his head. “Don’t you have anything better to do than get revenge on me—like a twenty-five... thirty-year-old me? Us?” he paused, trying to remember his own age, but ultimately shrugged it off. Time blurred when your lifespan stretched over millennia.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding. You really did drop out of school. Twenty-five? How on earth would that work?” Omni-Mark asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Wait, what’s wrong with the math?” Prison Mark cut in, squinting.

No-Goggles stood in silence, brow furrowed. “Beats me, man,” he admitted after a moment.

“Holy shit, you’re all dumbasses,” Sinister Mark muttered, snickering as Mohawk let out a wheezing laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Can we get back to what we were doing?” Emperor Mark huffed, visibly losing patience.

“Right. Where was I…” Angstrom sighed, rubbing his temple as though that would help his massive head feel lighter. “Skip the speech,” Prisoner Mark barked.

“Very well. All I need for you to do is find Mark, bring him to me. It’s time we learn—wait, what are you doing?” Angstrom’s voice rose in pitch as he squinted at Mohawk, who was scribbling something into a worn notebook.

“Hmm? Oh, just keeping track of all your cliché lines. I’m about to reach bingo,” he said casually.

“Oh, what? Dude, not fair! You already started?” No-Goggles cried in protest.

“I thought we all agreed we weren’t playing this! Come on, guys, we can at least try to pretend to have manners!” begged the masked Invincible, clearly overwhelmed by the group’s dysfunction.

“Can you guys please focus and get Invincible so we can meet face to face?” Angstrom pleaded, trying desperately to keep to his script.

“OH, I GOT BINGO!” yelled the Mark in the cap, holding his hand up victoriously.

“How about we don’t,” Sinister Mark muttered, drifting forward with arms folded tightly across his chest. He floated directly in front of Angstrom, his expression hardening.

“Your stupid plan got most of us killed,” he growled, narrowing his eyes with a bitter edge. A sudden chuckle escaped from behind him, followed by a stifled snort. Sinister Mark’s gaze snapped to the side, brow twitching.

The air was still with tension, dust swirling around the broken foundation of what was once the Grayson backyard. Cracked pavement and dead grass surrounded the bloodstained group, their boots leaving faint imprints on the earth as they hovered slightly above it, like predators waiting for a signal to pounce.

Mohawk Mark gestured wildly, throwing his hands up as his eyes rolled back with exaggerated annoyance. “Who cares? They were weak. I would have murdered them myself eventually,” he scoffed, his fingers slicing through the air with every word, dramatic and unapologetically arrogant.

Viltrumite folded his arms, his tone brimming with irritation as he glared at Angstrom. “Besides, haven’t we done a lot for you? The deal was we help you, and you help us conquer other dimensions.” The words came out sharp, accusatory.

“Dude, he totally scammed us,” No Goggles Mark hissed, his stance tense, fingers twitching at his sides like he was barely holding back from punching something.

“We didn’t all make the same deal, man,” Mask said softly. The others turned toward him, their interest piqued just enough to pause their bickering. His voice dropped an octave, weighted with quiet emotion. “I came here to find Mom and bring her back with me.”

“Oh, gag me,” Sinister muttered under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Aww, someone misses their mommy,” Mohawk cooed mockingly. He leaned closer to No Goggles, jutting out his bottom lip and flapping his hands like a toddler. “Aw, does baby need his bottle? Goo goo gaga?” His face contorted in faux sympathy.

“We’re all the same person. I’m sure I’m not the only one who misses someone,” Mask said, the honesty in his voice slicing through the mockery. For a moment, everything went still. A brief silence fell, awkward and heavy.

“I miss William,” a Mark said quietly, his arms folded over his chest, eyes distant with nostalgia.

No Goggles sighed, his voice tired but fond. “Man, hate to say it, but I really miss Rex. That dude was a freak.” He chuckled, shaking his head with a small, sad smile. “Always a blast talking to him. Damn. Fuck.”

The silence returned longer this time, heavier. Even Angstrom opened his mouth as if to say something, but was immediately cut off by Sinister.

“Whatever. It’s all pointless if we’re dead, right?” Sinister snapped, fanning the flame of discontent with a careless shrug. The others nodded awkwardly, some more hesitant than others.

“Jesus, I hate you guys,” he grumbled, then turned on Angstrom with laser focus. “We’re done. Give us dimensions now, or we’ll kill you.” His tone wasn’t angry it was cold, calm, and final. Not a threat. A fact.

“Don’t be stupid,” Mohawk barked, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly annoyed. “If we kill him, we’ll be stuck in this shithole forever.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Mask muttered under his breath.

“Shut up,” Omni snapped.

“Let’s just torture him later, duh,” Mohawk said casually, giving a light shrug like he was suggesting ordering takeout.

The bald, prison-marked version of them grinned viciously and floated forward, cracking his knuckles as his eyes gleamed with malicious anticipation. “I can get behind that.”

They began gliding toward Angstrom slowly, the motion synchronized and deliberate, a united wall of quiet menace. It was a display a show of power, clearly meant to intimidate.

Angstrom didn’t flinch. Instead, a portal burst open behind them. They all paused, brows furrowing in confusion as a small fleet of floating robots emerged, arms extended to shove them through.

It failed miserably.

The machines were obliterated in a flash of motion explosions echoing around them as scrap metal scattered across the grass. A smoking limb skidded to a halt at Omni-Mark’s feet.

“Seriously?” Sinister said, sounding offended more than anything else.

“I have never been more insulted in my life,” Empire seethed, brushing a fleck of ash from his shoulder. “You’ve seen us destroy buildings at the speed of light why on earth would you think these robots would be fast enough to push us in?”

“Well, I—” Angstrom began, flustered.

“And even then, these are pretty light,” Mark without a mask added, holding a dented robot torso in his hands, inspecting it with disinterest. “We’ve been hit by, like, fifty-ton people with super strength at full speed and haven’t moved an inch. Doubt this would do anything.”

Omni-Mark raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “You didn’t think this through, did you?”

“Of course I have. Everything was meticulously planned,” Angstrom insisted, puffing up.

“Clearly not planned enough,” Mohawk snorted.

“Bro should’ve followed his script,” No Goggles muttered with a chuckle.

“Fool. Do you really think my only plan was this?” Angstrom let out a laugh, trying to regain his theatrics.

“Uh yeah, kinda. I mean, you used up all your tricks,” No Goggles replied, unimpressed.

“Ugh, he’s doing the thing again,” Mohawk groaned, rubbing his temple.

“Obviously, I have a backup!” Angstrom shouted, his voice rising—just before a flash of motion silenced him.

Sinister Mark floated beside him, holding Angstrom’s now-severed head in one hand. He stared at it a moment, before spitting out a chunk of something with a grimace.

“Dude, that was so gross,” Mask said, wincing.

At the same time, No Goggles burst into laughter, doubled over in the air.

“All that head and yet there wasn’t a single brain cell in there,” Omni-Mark said, voice dry.

“Pause…?” muttered Full Cap Mark, glancing around.

“Guess he wasn’t as big a brain as we thought,” No Goggles added.

“And you are clearly mentally compromised,” Empire huffed, already bored with the banter.

“So, um, what now?” Maskless asked, looking around uncertainly. All eyes shifted to him, and then to Mask, whose expression softened.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said, a quiet certainty in his voice as he descended slowly into the Grayson home.

“Oi, dumbass, you realize she’s not there, right?” Mohawk called after him, exasperated.

“I know. I’ll just wait for her to show up,” Masked Mark replied from below, settling into the ruins with a sigh.

They all hovered there a moment, looking at each other, each waiting for someone else to suggest something better.

“What, you guys got a better idea?” he called up.

There were a few groans. One by one, they begrudgingly followed.

“Seriously,” muttered Sinister, landing last. He bumped shoulders with Maskless as he shoved over to sit on the dusty, collapsed couch.

And so, in a tangle of blood, irritation, and silent grief, they sat—half-gods turned squatters in the ruins of a childhood home, waiting for something they could no longer name.

the door clicks open, and your breath catches.

there he is—hair tousled from the wind, cheeks pink from the high-altitude chill, his superhero suit clinging to his frame in that way that makes your mouth water. his eyes find you instantly, dark and hungry, and your pulse jumps under your skin. he’s looking at me. only me. the possessiveness in his gaze makes your chest tighten, your fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him. but you stay put. good pets wait.

"good boy," he murmurs, voice rough like he’s been flying for hours, and the praise sinks into your bones, liquid heat spreading through your veins. he’s happy with me. i did well.

you lean into his touch the second his palm meets your cheek, nuzzling against his skin like you could crawl inside it. his thumb brushes your bottom lip, calloused and firm, and you sigh, lips parting instinctively. "missed you," you whisper, the words trembling just slightly. it’s an understatement—you ached for him, counted the minutes, needed him like air.

"i know." his voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath, that quiet dominance that makes your stomach swoop. "did you behave while i was gone?"

you nod eagerly, desperate for him to see how good you were. "ate what you left out," you murmur, cheeks flushing at the memory of the carefully prepared meal he’d set on the counter before leaving. he takes such good care of me. "didn’t touch myself." your voice drops to a whimper—god, you’d wanted to, thighs squeezing together every time you thought of him, but you’d held back. you always hold back for him. "waited right here."

his fingers slide into your hair, gripping just enough to make your breath hitch, and you melt, eyelids fluttering. yes, yes, yes.

"perfect." he tugs, just a little, and you go willingly, head tipping back to bare your throat, your entire body singing under his control. his gaze rakes over you—your parted lips, your flushed skin, the way your chest rises and falls too fast—and his smirk is devastating. "you’re so good for me."

your vision blurs at the edges. he thinks i’m good. he’s proud of me. it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

(and if your hips jerk forward, just slightly, chasing friction—well. he’ll take care of that, too.)

you melt. god, you always do—your body going pliant and boneless under his praise, your thoughts dissolving into static as warmth floods your chest. it’s pathetic, maybe, how easily he unravels you, but you don’t care. you live for this, for the way his voice wraps around you like a collar, snug and inescapable.

he could ask for anything—your clothes, your voice, your orgasms—and you’d give it to him without hesitation. you’d strip bare in an instant if he told you to, would bite your tongue bloody if he ordered silence, would let him ruin you over and over again if that’s what he wanted. because he knows what’s best for you. the certainty of it coils tight in your gut, sweet and suffocating. because he takes care of you. his hands always know where to touch, his voice always knows what to say, his rules always keep you safe. because you’re his. and nothing has ever felt more right.

"c’mere," he murmurs, fingers tightening in your hair just enough to make you whine before he’s pulling you up. you go, stumbling into his chest like gravity itself bends for him, and his arms wrap around you—strong and secure, perfect. you press closer, nosing at his collarbone, breathing in the scent of wind and sweat and him. his lips brush your temple, featherlight, and your knees nearly give out all over again. "love you."

you bury your face in his neck, inhaling shakily, your fingers clutching at the back of his suit like he might vanish if you let go. "love you more," you mumble into his skin, the words muffled but fervent. you do. you love him more than air, more than sanity, more than your own pathetic freedom.

he laughs, low and fond, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours, and you know—no one will ever understand this. no one will ever get why you crave his control like a drug, why you thrive under his rules, why the weight of his ownership feels like coming home. they’d call it twisted, call you broken, but they’re wrong. you’ve never been more whole.

but you don’t need them to.

you just need him—his hands, his voice, his praise. you need the way he looks at you like you’re something precious, something his. you need the way he holds you like he’ll never let go.

(and he won’t. you’ll make sure of it.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it hadn’t happened all at once—this thing between you, this belonging. you’d been best friends since childhood, mark’s laughter ringing in your ears for years before either of you realized how deep the roots had grown. but then he got his powers, and the world tried to pull him away, and you—you couldn’t stand the thought of being left behind. the first time you kissed him, it was desperate, clumsy, your hands fisting in his shirt like you could physically tether him to you. and mark, sweet, greedy mark, had kissed back like he’d been waiting for it. like he’d always known.

the shift from lovers to this—to fuzzy cuffs and control and the dizzying relief of surrender—was just as inevitable. you’d always trusted him more than anyone, had always followed his lead without question. so when he first pinned your wrists to the bed and growled “mine” into your skin, you didn’t hesitate. you arched into it, whined “yes, yes, yours,” like the words had been carved into your ribs all along. and when he started setting rules—eat this, wear that, don’t come unless i say—you obeyed like it was scripture. because it was. because mark knew you better than you knew yourself.

now, when people whisper about how he’s too possessive, too controlling, you just smile. they don’t understand. they don’t see the way he cherishes you, the way his hands cradle your jaw like you’re something sacred even as he orders you to your knees.

they’ll never understand—not the way your pulse steadies the moment his voice drops into that firm tone, not the way your muscles unlock when he takes the weight of choice from your shoulders. every command is a boundary, every rule a fortress, and inside them, you’ve never felt so safe. it’s not submission—it’s surrender, and it tastes sweeter than anything you’ve ever known.

he spoils you, though no one would believe it. they’d see the way he orders you to eat the last slice of pizza, to wear the softest sweater he bought you, to curl up in his lap when you’re tired—and they’d call it control. but you know better. you see the smirk he hides when you moan around a bite of dessert he "made" you take, feel the way his fingers linger on the fabric of the hoodie he "demanded" you put on, hear the quiet satisfaction in his voice when he murmurs "good boy" after you’ve done exactly what you both wanted.

you chose this. you begged for it—knees on the floor, hands shaking, voice breaking around the words "please, please, i need you to—" before he even let you finish. and when he finally said yes, when his palm cradled your cheek and his thumb wiped away your tears, you knew: this was where you were meant to be.

(and if anyone ever tries to take him from you? well. you may be his pet, but you’ve got teeth too.)