stardustlin

[stardustlin]

i’m soooo into invincible rn….i need viltrum mark so bad 😛😛😛!

[stardustlin]

━ HC aftercare beats it all (18+)

( main!mark grayson x girl!human!reader )

HEADCANON: rough!mark grayson + his aftercare AUTHOR'S NOTE: hello this was based off this lovely request so kisses to whoever submitted that! my inbox is always open if any of you have ideas for main!mark hehe. all that i say warning-wise is that while it isn't non-con, the reader does get so uncomfortable that she has to use the safeword. aside from that, enjoy xoxo MDNI PUHLEASEEE

( the scene )

Lemme get something straight first and say that you using the safeword HAS NEVERRRR HAPPENED. Mark is excellent when it comes to using his superpowers for an advantage in bed, never for abuse.

He loves how he can manhandle you so easily or keep you in place exactly where he needs you to be. And he ALWAYS makes sure he's being careful with you- making sure he's not crushing you, making sure your expression in your face shows everything of pleasure and nothing of pain.

But...there was this one particular night that he'd fucked up.

It was after a shitty, rough mission. What should have been a simple in-and-out job turned into something torturous: hundreds of aliens plaguing the city with their psychic abilities- using mind control and hallucinations to turn one person on another. And the Guardians of the Globe weren't shy from these powers either. One of the aliens had sent Mark into an endless mind loop, showing images of the death of his loved ones and...you. By the time Mark had snapped out of it, he'd killed the alien in a blind-rage.

So, when he finally came home- your bedroom, he was all raw, shaken and barely holding it together. He was so desperate to ground himself in you, eager to let go of the headspace he was now put in.

Mark opened your window with trembling fingers, and when you eyed him up and down, his body told you everything that it was a rough fight.

Split lip, messy hair, blood on his jaw and that wild look in his eyes...

"Oh, Mark," You whisper, sympathy furrowing your brows as you grabbed his hand with tenderness and softness- a simple reminder that you were here and safe, "Why don't I run you a bath? And then we can eat ice-cream?" He was motionless. You frowned, "Or we can just cuddle?"

But, your words served no purpose in this moment because he was already releasing your hand off him and, with efficiency, he unshed his suit. With every inch of bruised and cut skin exposed to your orbs, he lowered and lowered more until...

Oh.

"Oh."

He was hard.

It's not the first time Mark's needed to fuck you after a fight or mission. In fact, it's probably the best sex you get- with all the pent-up frustration and adrenaline still pumping through his veins, he's gotta release it somewhere…

You could say it's the perks that come with having a superhero boyfriend

So, with no further questions, you let him take you as he pleases.

But this time it's...it doesn't feel right. Sure, he kissed you passionately as he backed you until you were sitting on the edge of your bed, and his hands were roaming every inch of your precious, delicate skin like he needed to make sure all parts of you were intact.

But, it just...it felt rushed and rough- there was not an ounce of praise slipping off his lips as it so easily does and if there were any words, it was-

"-Need you- fuck," He grumbled against your neck- your skin already trailed with deep, maroon-kissed hickeys. He had already pulled your pyjamas off, and you couldn't help but whine when you heard the tear of your favourite undies as he so effortlessly ripped them in half. Of course, they weren't anything expensive, but comfort beats labels- does it not? "Need you now, baby."

You'd hope that rubbing your arms up and down his biceps that pulsated with raging muscles and veins would have encouraged Mark to slow him down, "Mark, can you just- Mark!" You were cut off with a gasp at the harsh bite of his teeth on your skin- your soft, smooth, delicate fucking skin.

He. Fucking. Bit. You.

Mark never bit you. And sure, it didn't hurt enough for you to stop him, but God, were you gonna have a word with him.

So you had let it go, only to then choke again when Mark suddenly flipped you over so your stomach was resting on your bed. His calloused, large hands that usually reminded you of a flower's petals, or the bridge of a baby's nose now felt rough, harsh...unfamiliar.

You tried to push the feeling of discomfort that was arising away to the back of your brain, and better yet, bringing forward the phantom breathy moans of Mark's voice telling you how pretty you are and how you're doing so, so well for him amongst your racing mind.

But it wasn't until Mark brought your ass closer to him and he pushed your head down into the bed roughly and you actually couldn't move against his force did your heart begin to race, though not out of the usual excitement and arousal.

No, this was...this was panic- discomfort.

His cock was just grazing the entrance to your hole when you realised that he wasn't even going to stretch you, to prepare your walls for him, to...to even fucking please you.

So with a sharp inhale, you said it.

"Red!"

Once the word left your lips, Mark had stopped everything.

Let's just say that you using the safeword was the slap back to reality he didn’t know he needed.

He froze.

"Wait- what?" And when he flickered his eyes down to your face, screaming of seriousness and panic, he immediately took his hands off of you, "Baby- fuck," And he watched as you silently - definitely from the shock, not to ignore him - manoeuvred yourself so you could stand up and away from the bed.

And as he observed your figure with worried eyes while you walked around the room and picked up your pyjamas, he couldn't help but feel like his stomach just got punched worse than any villain ever could.

His voice changed immediately- from that deep, breathless edge to a broken concern, "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

( the aftermath )

The aftermath was hard at first because aftercare was Mark's favourite part of sex, but clearly you weren't in a good headspace for that.

While he wanted nothing more than to curl his body around you, cuddling you until you fell asleep as he whispered his sorries, it's more important that you collected your feelings first.

So, the first thing he did was let you have your space.

You made him have a shower so you could sit in your bedroom by yourself- the one room that was your safe space now felt...ugh, it felt dull. And you hated that because all you wanted to do was shake whatever negative thoughts you had out of your brain, but you couldn't do that when your eyes wouldn't stop staring at your teared underwear on the floor.

You're not mad, nor upset at him- just frazzled at how uncomfortable and weird it was for you. It didn't feel like your boyfriend, your Mark.

Mark had the quickest shower he's ever had. Ignoring the aches his cuts winced against the hot water and soap, and his muscles whining with how efficiently he cleaned his dirty body- Mark was in and fucking out, not wasting any more of a second being away from you.

But, even after Mark got out of the shower and he frantically stumbled into your room with only a towel wrapped around his hips, you didn't look up at him- didn't want to.

And fuck, did it break his heart.

His baby, his sweet girl was like this because of him.

But, after you walked past him and began showering yourself, you did come eventually around. And thankfully, Mark was right there for you.

( the aftercare )

Cue Mark's aftercare!!

You just finished having your shower. And as you walked back into your room with wet hair and new pyjamas, you immediately noticed the difference in atmosphere in your bedroom; it didn't feel so sickeningly odd anymore, instead, it was oozing back into that familiar sense of safety and comfortability.

Your bedsheets were neatly fixed, and your bedroom lights had been flicked off, only the individual-lit candles circulating your room with warmth were the only lights provided for your eyes. There's a couple of sweets and snacks on your bedside table, along with a freshly filled water bottle (yes, it's got lots of ice too).

And Mark, now in sweats and a shirt he usually left at your place for emergencies like this, was just standing there...nervously.

"Is…is this okay?" He asked, immediately scratching the back of his neck, and if you really looked close enough you probably would've noticed the rosy-kissed blush spreading just below his jawline.

You tilted your head a little, examining the room just one last time before you attached your gaze back onto his. And, with a little smile, you nodded, "This is a start."

Mark sighed in relief.

Good. That's all that he needed so far.

Mark knew your weakness. He knew one of the many things that made you melt, made you feel at peace...

Warm blankets that were just fresh out of the dryer.

So as Mark wrapped said blanket around your body, he then sat on your bed with his chest against the headboard- and pulled you into his lap gently. It's so reverent, so incredibly warm as you rested your cheek against his covered chest, while one of his hands cradled your head and the other stroked your back.

With your ear pressed up against his chest, your heart was able to beat to the same rhythm as Mark's, only helping to relax you more to the natural white noise provided just for you.

Then, the questions came.

Mark's the type of guy to do that- don't tell me otherwise.

He just was so nervous- and with anxiety comes the constant need to be reassured.

So, he asked them one at a time with a frequency so gentle yet so eagerly that you could feel the faint vibrations of his voice pulsating through his body.

"Do you need anything else right now?"

"What size are you in underwear?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

...

"Should I leave? Do you want me to leave?"

You sighed heavily, "Just stay with me," You ushered in a delicate whisper. And with that, Mark let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He clutched you tighter- though still careful.

You spent the new few hours like this, with your favourite show playing low on your laptop in the background and the occasional shift to your positions.

But, one thing never faltered during it all- Mark never let you go.

He's reassuring- maybe too reassuring. "I'm not gonna stop checking in now, okay? I don't care if we've done it a million times- I'm still gonna ask. I'd rather annoy you than hurt you again."

DID I MENTION HE'S SO WARM AND BIG AND UGH.

And he won't slide it under the rug either. He explained thoroughly to you what those aliens did, but even when your head started to feel heavy with sympathy as you listened to him, Mark hushed you. "No, what happened to me from those aliens should never have been your body's responsibility to snap me out of it. I should've had more self-control to just...get over it, rather than putting it all on you."

And even days later, he still was on about it.

Mark would keep reminding you how much he valued your trust, even when you forgave him and softly reminded him that: "Hey, that's what safewords are for, right?"

Mark kept his promise about constantly checking in on you, because now when you have sex, he is fucking relentless with how much he asks if you're okay.

He's also slower, more communicative, and soooo so gentle the first few times you're intimate again.

Everytime you encouraged him to be a little more rougher, Mark would double...triple check to make sure you were okay about it.

"Are you sure you want me to be rougher?"

"Yes, baby,"

"No but- are you...sure sure?"

You sighed, your knees and arms wearing thin with exhaustion in your current doggy position because Mark was not shutting up- even with his cock buried inside you. So, you turned your head, and directed his right hand that was on your waist down a little lower so it rested on your ass cheek. "Mark. Please slap my ass."

"Shit- fuck, okay-"

ily mark

[stardustlin]

COOKED

Dearie, I am obsessed with your writing! Can I request some gn superhero reader x sinister mark? Reader became a hero because what else are their powers good for (you can imagine whatever their powers are)? They were taught by society by obviously what’s right and wrong, about how they SHOULD act, but there’s always been something cruel and dangerous, glinting beneath the surface. Something that shivered with excitement at destruction, that made their hands quiver and ache to grip something (or someone) until it was destroyed. They know how to act the image of a just hero. Maybe they tried fooling themselves into this hero business, that if they could fool themselves long enough, that they’d believe this lie of a heroic persona they’ve made up. Mark sees what festers beneath the surface. It’s gorgeous and deranged, and he wants to be the one that frees reader of this delusion they’ve foolishly attempted to tell themselves.

Where Saints Are Buried

Note: Honey… you basically wrote the story for me lmao. Let me see if I can elaborate a little further.

Warnings: None aside from mentions of violence.

Synopsis: To be loved as a lie, or wanted as a weapon— choose. This is not a love story, it’s a recognition. You were born righteous and powerful, but there’s always been a tremble in your hands, an ache to ruin. He sees it— Mark sees all of it. And he’s not afraid. He’s enthralled.

Sinister Mark x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1,848

No one ever asked what it cost you to stay kind. You were supposed to be the good one. That’s what they told you, over and over again, until the words wrapped around your spine like chains. You were the miracle, the blessed one, the glowing future on two legs. A child of light.

It wasn’t born in a lab. It wasn’t given. It was carved. Forged into you by something older than the stars—older than reason itself. When it woke inside you, it wasn’t loud. It was still. A stillness that made the world hold its breath. The kind of silence that hums with pressure. Like the moment right before lightning splits the sky. The kind that people cannot name. So they dressed you in gold and white and hoped it would make you smaller

It didn’t manifest in colors or capes. It came in gravity shifts and fractures in space that shouldn’t be possible. In the way time seemed to bend around your anger. In the way your hands could pull apart things reality claimed were solid.

Your power wasn’t designed for saving people. It was made to undo. Undo structures. Undo flesh. Undo fate. Some days, when you used it, you swore you could feel something watching— Not a god. Not a person. Something deeper. Something waiting. And it liked when you let go.

The first time your powers manifested, you were twelve. There was a fire. A scream. A snap of instinct and suddenly— You were burning, but untouched. Everything else? Gone.

They told you, you’d saved lives. That you were destined for more.

And maybe that’s where it started. The lie.

And for a while, you believed it.

Because it was easier than asking why your hands shook after battle—not from fear, but from the electric hunger that hummed in your bones when the dust settled. Why your lungs expanded too eagerly in smoke and ruin. Why you sometimes looked into the eyes of a man begging for mercy and felt…  Nothing. You let them paint you as the symbol. The protector. The golden child with powers that could rewrite physics and ripple through dimensions. You stood on podiums. You learned how to smile for cameras. You memorized what to say. You wore righteousness like armor, but it always fit too tight—cutting, pinching, reminding you that you were built for war, not worship. They called it justice. You always called it endurance. And now, its a lie that’s left rotting beneath your skin. Because, if this is what truth feels like—bare, bloodied, burning—then maybe you were never meant to wear white in the first place. Perhaps you were never pure. The fibs that etched themselves into your memory pondered the grandeur of breaking the world into pieces rather than rebuilding what was meant to starve.

But still, you tried. You told yourself it was nothing, perhaps a glitch in your humanity. A leftover survival instinct. You buried it beneath mission reports, beneath clean costumes, beneath the applause. You trained. You smiled. You learned the cadence of interviews, how to hold your head up just enough to look hopeful, humble. You knew how to win a fight and still look clean afterward.

You gave them what they wanted: a god who looked like salvation.

But beneath the surface?

There was always something else. 

It wasn’t rage. Not really. Rage is loud. Blunt. This thing inside you—it was quiet. Slow. Patient. It coiled around your heart like smoke, whispering,  “Let it break. Let it all fall.”

You buried it under good deeds. You buried it under smiling teeth and controlled punches and speeches about “hope.” When the line between stopping and breaking blurred, and you didn’t stop yourself. You were a hero. That’s what they called you. So you kept smiling. Kept posing for the cameras. Kept lying.

And no one ever saw it.

Until him. Sinister Mark didn’t need to see it. He already knew.

From the very first time your eyes met, he looked at you not like a threat—not like a rival— but like something he recognized. Like he’d been waiting for you. He didn’t monologue. He didn’t sneer. He didn’t make a show of being your opposite. He just… smiled. A smile that held a blanketed warmth unforeseen before. That calm, infuriating, terrifying smile that told you— “I know what you are. You can’t lie to me.”

And when you struck him? When you gave in, even for a moment, to that creeping thing inside you?  He laughed. A real laugh. Like you were art. Like you were finally becoming something worth watching. Observing that sliver of chaos you spent years trying to hide. That crack in your moral armor. That hunger you dared not name. You told yourself you hated him.

Told yourself he was evil. A monster. That his interest in you was twisted, predatory, vile. That he doesn't beg you to stop. He begs you to admit that you like it like an addict. But when you lay awake at night, soaked in sweat and silence, it wasn’t his cruelty that haunted you— It was the way he looked at you like you weren’t a lie. Like he didn’t need you to be good to find you beautiful. Like the part of you, you’ve hated most was the one he admired. Finally having someone who didn’t require you to lie about the instincts crawling beneath your flesh. You crafted yourself from applause and duty, but the mirror only shows blood and breath and eyes that don’t blink when they should. What do you do when the thing you’ve always feared becoming looks more honest than anything you’ve been? Somewhere within, the hero is still trying to stand up. you just aren’t sure if you want them to anymore. Tonight, something in you breaks.

You’re not on a rooftop for some dramatic aesthetic. You’re here because you can’t face a mirror. There was another mission. Another “victory.” Another moment where your powers overwhelmed the intention behind them. They said you saved people. You stopped the threat. You did your job.

But you know what you felt when you held that last man by the throat, when he clawed at your wrist— Relief. Satisfaction. And worse…  Joy. What would happen if you let go? If you stopped playing the part the world wrote for you, and stepped into the role that fit like a second skin. Not a villain. Not a monster. Just you. Unfiltered and unleashed. Who would… retaliate?

He found you before you found him. Your hands are still shaking when you hear the soft impact of boots on concrete behind you. You don’t look, you already know it is. His presence moves like gravity. A slow, dark pull that you pretend doesn’t drag at your ribs. He doesn’t speak, not at first anyway. Just stands beside you, the space between you buzzing like a live wire.

“I hurt them,” you say, your voice cracking, but quiet. “Too much. They said I did the right thing.”

Mark tilts his head, like he’s studying the shape of your guilt.  “You did. You stopped them.”

“They weren’t supposed to die.”

He hums. “But part of you liked that they did.”

Your breath shudders, your flesh stings as your chest suddenly drags with the weight of the earth. Your body lurches forward, “Then why do I feel like I can’t breathe?”

He stepped closer. Just near enough that you felt the heat off his skin. “Because you’re suffocating in the skin they gave you.” And then, softer—almost reverent:  “I see what you are. And it’s beautiful.” And still—you don’t deny it. Because he doesn’t need you to. Because you’re so, so tired of pretending and he’s finally offering you an out. 

He takes a step closer. “You’ve been trying to wear a mask so long you forgot what your own face looks like.” His voice is low, almost gentle. Not mocking.  Not this time. He leans in, barely touching, his breath brushing your ear like a secret. “Let it crack.” The tension felt like romantic horror—close, coiled, always on the verge of consuming each other. His voice reaches places that your conscience won’t. His words cause a greedily warmth to dust your skin, craving to be seen. 

Because for the first time, someone wasn’t praising your perfection. He was worshipping your ruin. He did not crave your kindness—he craved the monster you hide. The one made of fire and fault lines and a smile sharp enough to split a man. And gods help you— You liked it. He was like a shadow clawing at your back, whispering truths you didn’t want to hear. You kept fighting him. That’s what heroes do. 

You turn to him. Your eyes—wild and vulnerable. “Why do you care?” It’s not accusation. It’s confusion, desperation even. It’s you, standing at the edge of yourself. And he answers like it’s obvious, like it’s something you should know.

“Because I’ve seen gods destroy worlds for less than what lives inside you.”  He steps forward, one hand lifting to your cheek—not touching, but close.  “And I want to be here when you finally stop lying to yourself.” 

You could break now. You could fall apart. But for once, maybe that’s not the worst thing.  Maybe being seen—truly seen—isn’t damnation.  Maybe it’s the first real breath you’ve ever taken. And for the first time in your life… You let it show. And he smiles like he’s witnessing a gorgeous storm splitting the dam that is your restraint. Like you’re the most beautiful disaster he’s ever known.

He had seen galaxies collapse and stars choke on their own fire, but none of it compares to the moment you stopped pretending to be good. This is what gods must look like, just before they fall. Just before they experience the precipice of a world rightfully theirs.

He truly saw potential. What lied in wake for him to inspire. You were not born of mercy but of aftermath; a cathedral built from the bones of your restraint. The gods must’ve carved you from the ash of their regrets and whispered, ‘Go. Finish what we couldn’t.’ ... yes, that’s what he believed. He would be the one to set you free. The elegant bird trapped in a cage of their own suffering. You were not redemption or wrath, you were his and if wanting you damned him then let Hell open its gates and take notes.

So he stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like he was approaching a creature more divine than dangerous. And when his mouth met yours, it wasn’t gentle—it was a reckoning. A desperate, trembling kind of hunger, like he was kissing the end of the world and begging it to stay just a second longer. He kissed as if knowing you'd cause ruin, like he'd forgiven your naivety in rejecting who you truly are, and pleased to watch you do so through shaking hands and wet eyes.

Because to be ugly is to be loved. And to be seen is to stand naked before him and still be held.

A/N: Chat, did we cook? (This was so scrumptious to write.) we love creative anons, UGH!

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[stardustlin]

ANYWHERE TO SEE YOU — sinister! mark grayson x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST

INSPIRED BY @halo-chao ‘s COMMENT

WARNINGS: implied sex, mention of abortion, pregnancy, miscarriage, alcoholism, blood, dark themes

PART ONE

You woke up before him.

For a few blissful seconds, you forgot where you were—forgot the weight of his arm draped over your waist, forgot the way your body ached from the night before. But then it all came crashing back.

You were still here. Still trapped in his world, his bed, tangled in sheets that smelled like him.

Carefully, you slid out from under his arm, barely breathing as you moved. Mark was a light sleeper, and the last thing you wanted was to wake him. You needed space, even if only for a moment.

Your feet hit the cold floor, and you grabbed the first piece of clothing you could find—one of his shirts, loose enough to cover you. You didn’t care that it smelled like him. You just needed to move. You stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you. And then you stared at yourself in the mirror.

Your reflection looked like a stranger’s. Your skin was flushed in places he had touched, lips swollen from his kisses, your eyes hollow, haunted.

This wasn’t you. This wasn’t the woman your husband—your real husband—had loved. The woman who had once laughed, once lived.

Mark had taken her, too. Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the sink, your breath coming too fast, too shallow. You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear your own skin off, scrub away every mark he had left on you. But it wouldn’t change anything. You were still here. And he wasn’t letting you go.

A soft knock came at the door, followed by his voice, still heavy with sleep. “You sneaking off in the middle of the night?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, taking a slow breath before forcing your voice to be steady. “I just needed a minute.” Silence. Then the sound of him shifting, leaning against the door.

“Hope you’re not regretting last night too much,” he mused. “That would be tragic.” You swallowed the bile rising in your throat. You couldn’t do this. Not now.

“…I’ll be out in a second,” you said quietly.

Another pause. Then, to your relief, the sound of him walking away. You looked back at your reflection, your fingers curling into fists. You could keep playing this game, letting him strip away what little was left of you.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed in the bathroom, staring at your reflection like the answer to everything might suddenly appear in the hollowness of your eyes. But eventually, you stepped away.

Mark was waiting in the bedroom, lounging lazily on the bed, shirtless, one arm behind his head as he watched you with that insufferable smirk. “Took your time,” he mused. “Thought you might’ve drowned yourself in there.”

You didn’t respond. You just walked past him, heading for the closet where he had let you keep some clothes—not because he cared, but because he wanted to maintain this illusion of domesticity. Like you were actually his wife.

Like you were actually his. You felt his eyes on you as you pulled out something to wear, your fingers shaking slightly as you got dressed. He enjoyed watching you squirm, enjoyed the little moments where he could remind you just how powerless you were here.

“Come eat,” he said suddenly. “You’re not skipping another meal.” You didn’t argue. There was no point.

The kitchen was too normal. That was the worst part. He had set the table, plates already filled. You hesitated for a second before sitting down across from him, picking at the food while he ate without a care in the world.

“So,” he said casually between bites, “what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” You kept your eyes on your plate. “Nothing.” Mark hummed, amused. “Liar.”

You forced yourself to take a bite, the food tasting like ash in your mouth. He was watching you too closely, like he always did, like he knew you were planning something. And maybe he did. But it didn’t matter.

The drinking started as an escape. A glass of wine here, a few sips of whiskey there—just enough to dull the sharp edges of reality. But as the days bled into weeks, it became something else.

A necessity. Mark never stopped you. If anything, he seemed amused by it, watching with a knowing smirk every time you reached for the bottle. He never told you to stop, never warned you that you were drinking too much.

Because he wanted this. He wanted you to rely on something—and if it wasn’t him, then this was the next best thing. You weren’t sure when you stopped drinking just to forget and started drinking just to function.

One night, you stumbled into the living room, the bottle of whiskey in your hand nearly empty, your vision blurred at the edges. Mark was sitting on the couch, legs spread comfortably, watching you with amusement as you swayed slightly.

“You’re pathetic,” he murmured. You scoffed, taking another sip. “I wonder why.” His smirk widened. “Oh, don’t blame me. This is all you, sweetheart.”

You clenched your jaw, your grip on the bottle tightening. He was right, in a way. You were the one drinking. You were the one spiraling.

But he had pushed you here. Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What’s the end goal here, huh?” he asked. “You think if you drink enough, you’ll forget where you are? Forget who you’re with?” He tilted his head, eyes dark with amusement. “Or maybe you’re just hoping you won’t wake up at all.”

You didn’t answer. Because that thought had crossed your mind. His smirk faltered for just a second, like he saw something in your expression that he wasn’t expecting. Then he sighed, standing up and walking over to you. You flinched slightly when he took the bottle from your hand, but he didn’t scold you. Didn’t stop you.

Instead, he just pressed a lazy kiss to your forehead and murmured, “You should pace yourself. I’d hate for you to go and ruin all my fun.” And just like that, he walked away, leaving you standing there—empty, broken, and still craving something that would never be enough.

You tried to stop. Not for yourself, not because you wanted to be better, but because you refused to let him be right.

You hated the way he looked at you when you drank—the smug satisfaction, the amusement in his eyes, like he knew you would cave. Like he was waiting for it. So you slowed down. You avoided the bottles. You fought the cravings, the need to numb yourself. And for a while, it worked.

But then came the nights where the silence was too loud, where the memories of your real life, your real husband, clawed at your mind until you felt like you were suffocating. And Mark was always there.

He saw your struggle, saw the way your fingers twitched when you walked past the liquor cabinet. And he enjoyed it. Because he knew—just like before, just like always—you would break eventually. And you did.

The cycle repeated itself, like a cruel joke the universe refused to let you escape. You drank. He watched. He waited. And then you gave in. He never had to force you. That was the worst part.

Because by the time his hands were on you, by the time he whispered those filthy, possessive things against your skin, you weren’t fighting anymore. You let him have you. Again. And again. And again.

And when it was over—when you were lying beneath him, sore and spent, your body betraying you in ways your heart never could—you realized just how pathetic you had become. Because you had nothing left to hold onto. Not your dignity. Not your pride. Not even yourself.

The first time you threw up, you blamed the alcohol.

It made sense. You had been drinking more than usual—too much, if you were being honest with yourself. It wasn’t uncommon to wake up nauseous, your head pounding, your body sluggish. So when you barely made it to the toilet one morning, emptying the contents of your stomach into the bowl, you didn’t think twice about it.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, groaning as you slumped against the cool tile. I need to cut back.

You told yourself that. You even tried for a few days, forcing yourself to drink water instead of drowning your misery in liquor. But the sickness didn’t stop. Every morning, like clockwork, it returned.

Some days were worse than others—violent retching that left you trembling, your stomach twisting into knots. Other days, it was a mild wave of nausea that would pass after a few minutes. You figured it was stress, your body finally reacting to the hell you had been trapped in. It wasn’t just the nausea, though.

The exhaustion weighed on you constantly, a bone-deep fatigue that made it hard to get out of bed. You had always felt tired since coming here—being Mark’s prisoner had a way of draining you—but this was something different. It clung to you, heavier than before, leaving you sluggish and disoriented.

Then came the cravings. At first, you didn’t even notice.

Your appetite had been inconsistent since arriving in this twisted version of your life. Some days you barely ate at all. Other days, you stuffed yourself with anything you could find, desperate for comfort, for something that didn’t make you feel so hollow. But then you started craving things you never had before. Weird things.

One night, you stood by the open fridge, your fingers curled around a cold cup of chocolate pudding. You didn’t even remember grabbing it, but the moment you saw it, your stomach demanded it.

You dug in, shoveling spoonfuls into your mouth without thinking, sighing at the way the sweetness coated your tongue. It felt good.

For the first time in what felt like forever, something actually tasted right. You barely noticed Mark’s presence until he spoke. “What are you doing?”

You froze mid-bite, blinking up at him as he stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, watching you with mild amusement. You rolled your eyes, licking the spoon before speaking. “Eating pudding.”

“At—” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Two AM?” You shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve been craving it.”

Then you paused. Something in the back of your mind itched, an old memory stirring, but you couldn’t quite place it. Then it hit you. Your fingers slackened around the cup, and it slipped from your grasp, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

“No… no, no, no…” You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around yourself. Mark frowned. “What’s the problem now?”

You barely heard him. Your mind was spinning, racing back to a time when you had sat in your kitchen—your real kitchen—licking chocolate pudding from your fingers, laughing as Mark teased you about your late-night cravings. Back when you had been pregnant.

Your breath caught in your throat. “I’ve done this before…” Mark tilted his head. “Done what before?”

You swallowed hard. “The cravings. The sickness. The mood swings.” Your voice shook as realization set in, creeping through your body like ice. “I thought the nausea was from drinking. I thought my period was late because of stress but… it would explain everything.”

A terrible silence filled the room. Mark’s expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. His amusement was gone. His smirk, the teasing glint in his eye—gone. He stood still, unnaturally still, his dark eyes locked onto you like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, finally, he spoke. “What?”

Mark scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re not pregnant.”

You swallowed hard. “I think I am.”

“No.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. His body tensed, his jaw tightening as he took a step forward. “You’re not.”

His reaction shouldn’t have surprised you, but it still made your stomach drop.

You forced yourself to breathe, to stay calm, even as panic clawed its way up your throat. “Mark, think about it.” You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping you upright. “We—we haven’t been careful.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “It makes sense.”

Mark stilled.

His brows furrowed, and for a brief moment, something flickered behind his eyes.

A realization.

A cold, harsh truth that neither of you had considered before.

For weeks—maybe even longer—you had been trapped in a cycle with him. The nights blurred together, filled with rough hands and heated breaths. He had taken you again and again, never once stopping to think about the consequences.

Neither had you. The thought had never even crossed your mind. But now, faced with the possibility, everything came crashing down. His expression darkened. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“No.” The word came out quieter this time, almost as if he was trying to convince himself. You watched his face, your chest tightening. “Mark…” His hand shot out suddenly, grabbing your chin in a bruising grip, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“I won’t lose you again,” he growled, his voice trembling with something you almost mistook for desperation. “I won’t watch you wither away. I won’t let that thing kill you.” Tears pricked your eyes, but you blinked them back. “It’s not a thing,” you whispered.

His grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he abruptly let go, stepping back like he couldn’t stand to be near you. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. “You’re getting rid of it.” The finality in his tone sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t asking. Your breath hitched. “Mark—”

“I said you’re getting rid of it,” he snapped, his voice laced with something sharp and unforgiving. “I don’t give a damn what you think, what you want—this isn’t up for discussion.”

A bitter laugh bubbled up in your throat, but it came out strangled. “You killed our daughter before she had a chance to live. And now you want me to—” Mark’s eyes flashed with something dangerous, his lips pulling into a snarl. “I saved her.” Your chest heaved, your nails digging into your palms. “You don’t get to decide that,” you choked out.

His gaze locked onto yours, and for the first time, you saw it—fear. Buried beneath the anger, beneath the cruelty, was fear. Not for the child. For you. He clenched his fists. “I do,” he said, his voice low and unyielding. And just like that, you knew—this wasn’t a fight you were going to win.

You shook your head, stepping back from him like he was something vile, something you couldn’t bear to be near.

“No!” Your voice broke, but you didn’t care. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over as you clutched your stomach. “This is my chance—our chance! At having my family back! I won’t let you take that from me!”

Mark groaned, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. “Y/N.” He was trying to be patient—his version of it, at least—but you could hear the strain in his voice, the way he was barely holding himself together. “You know what happened to the other you. She died because she got pregnant. I won’t let that happen to you.” Your breath hitched. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

You could hear it in his voice, see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his entire body coiled like he was preparing for battle. This wasn’t a man having a conversation. This was a man at war. And you were the enemy. “You’re not him,” you whispered, voice trembling. Mark’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“You’re not my Mark,” you repeated, your fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. “My Mark—he would’ve been scared, but he still would’ve stood by me. He still would’ve fought for me, for our baby.” Mark’s jaw ticked. His lips pressed into a thin line. But you weren’t done.

“You don’t want to protect me,” you spat, anger bubbling up like a volcano. “You want to control me.”

That got a reaction. Mark moved—in the blink of an eye, he was in front of you, so close that you could feel his breath against your face. His hand shot out, gripping your wrist hard enough to make you wince. His face was unreadable, but his voice was deadly calm.

“You think I don’t know the difference between control and protection?” His grip tightened. “I buried you once.” His voice was low, guttural, dripping with something dark. “Do you think I want to do it again?” You inhaled sharply, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

His fingers loosened, just slightly. “I can’t—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, there was no mockery, no cruelty. Just raw, unfiltered emotion.

“I can’t lose you again.” Something in your chest clenched. For a split second, you saw your husband in him. The one you had loved. The one you had lost. But then the moment passed, and he was himself again. Mark. But not yours. And that was far more terrifying.

You didn’t speak to him for days. You couldn’t.

Every time you looked at him, all you saw was the monster who had stolen everything from you—who had stolen her, the other you, the one who had died at his hands. The thought of him making that decision again, of him thinking he had the right to decide what happened to your baby, made you sick.

So you shut him out. You ignored him when he spoke. You turned away when he entered the room. You barely ate in his presence, forcing down just enough food to keep yourself going.

Mark was used to your defiance—he thrived on breaking you down—but this time, something was different. He didn’t lash out. He didn’t mock you or force you to bend to his will.

He just watched. Every time you passed him, his gaze was on you, unwavering and unreadable. Like he was waiting. You hated that it made you uneasy. You hated that you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

You spent most of your time in the bedroom, curled up in bed with your hand resting over your stomach. The idea of something growing inside you, something small and fragile, something that was yours… it was overwhelming.

It was terrifying. But it was hope. Hope that maybe this was your second chance. Hope that maybe—just maybe—you could take back some control. You weren’t the other you. You were stronger. You knew your body, you knew you could do this. And Mark—this Mark—wasn’t going to take that away from you.

Even if he thought he could. Days passed in a blur of silence. And then, one night, you woke to find him sitting in the chair across from the bed. Watching you. Like he had been there for hours.

Your breath hitched, your body tensing under the sheets. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the city lights outside, casting shadows across Mark’s face. He sat perfectly still, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.

Watching.

Waiting.

Your throat felt dry. “How long have you been sitting there?”

Mark tilted his head slightly, the movement slow and calculated. “A while.”

A shiver ran down your spine. You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, as if it could somehow protect you from the weight of his gaze. “Why?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. His expression was unreadable, but there was something unsettling in the way his eyes traced over you, stopping at the place where your hand rested against your stomach.

“You think you can ignore me forever?” His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it—something simmering. You swallowed hard, but you didn’t back down. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Too bad.” He stood abruptly, and before you could react, he was in front of you. His hands gripped the blanket, ripping it away in one smooth motion, leaving you exposed to the cold air. You flinched, instinctively curling away from him. “Mark—”

“I don’t like being ignored,” he interrupted, his voice low, almost a growl. “Especially not by you.”

You glared at him, ignoring the way your pulse quickened. “What do you want me to say? That I forgive you?” Your fingers dug into the mattress. “That I understand? That I’ll just—just go along with what you want?” His eyes darkened. “I want you to listen.”

“To what?” you snapped. “To you telling me that my baby—our baby—doesn’t deserve a chance? That you get to decide whether it lives or dies?” Mark exhaled sharply, shaking his head like you were being difficult. “You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand!” You sat up, gripping the sheets beneath you. “I’m not her, Mark! I’m not the woman you killed, and I’m not going to let you kill this baby, either!” His jaw clenched. “I won’t let you die.”

“I won’t die!” you shot back. His hands balled into fists at his sides. He was losing patience. “You think you know that?” he said, voice eerily calm. “You think you’re different?”

“I am different.” Your voice wavered, but you held your ground. “And I’m keeping this baby whether you like it or not.”

Mark’s expression twisted, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. For a moment, you thought he might lash out. That he might end it right then and there.

But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “You really think you have a choice?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it sent chills down your spine. You shuddered. “Yes.”

Mark inhaled deeply, then—just as quickly as he had approached—he pulled back. His lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. “We’ll see.”

And with that, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him. Leaving you alone. Leaving you breathless. Leaving you afraid.

The fights never stopped. Every interaction was a battle, every word laced with venom. The house, once eerily silent, now echoed with their arguments—shouted threats, desperate pleas, and the ever-growing tension that coiled around them like a vice.

Mark was growing impatient. And your stomach was growing right along with it.

Each time he saw it—each time his eyes lingered on the curve of your belly—his expression flickered. Just for a second. A hesitation, an ache he would never admit to. But then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. And the anger remained.

“You think this is cute?” he sneered one evening, his voice sharp enough to cut through steel. “Playing house? Pretending this is something good?”

You glared at him from across the room, one hand instinctively cradling your stomach. “It is good,” you shot back. “But you wouldn’t understand, would you? Because you’re incapable of seeing anything beyond yourself!”

Mark’s jaw clenched, his fists at his sides. “You’re going to die if you keep this up.”

“You don’t know that,” you hissed.

“I do,” he snapped, stepping closer, towering over you. “I watched it happen!”

You flinched but stood your ground. “Then watch me survive.”

He exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained frustration. He wanted to shake sense into you. He wanted to tear this idea—this delusion—out of your head. But he couldn’t. And worse, he couldn’t ignore the way his chest tightened every time he looked at you.

Every time he saw the growing swell of your stomach, proof of something real. Something his. Something he swore he would never have again. The next time he spoke, his voice was low, dangerous. “I should rip it out of you,” he murmured, almost to himself. Your blood ran cold. But instead of fear, something else took over—rage.

“Then do it,” you challenged, stepping even closer. “Do it, Mark. Kill me. Because that’s what you’d have to do, isn’t it?” Your eyes were wild with fury, with desperation. “I will not give up this baby.”

Mark didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His breathing was ragged, his hands trembling at his sides. You weren’t supposed to say that. You weren’t supposed to call his bluff. Because that’s what it was. A bluff. And you both knew it.

With a growl of frustration, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the walls. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding.

Your hands trembled as you pressed them against your belly, feeling the faintest of movements beneath your fingertips. A reminder that you weren’t just fighting for yourself. You were fighting for them. And you weren’t going to lose.

You sat curled up on the couch, knees hugged tightly to your chest, your body wracked with silent sobs. Another fight. Another screaming match that left you hollow and exhausted.

Mark had stormed off, slamming the door so hard the walls trembled, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the house.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, staring blankly ahead, your tears drying on your cheeks.

Then, your eyes landed on it. A bottle of wine, sitting on the counter. Mark never touched it. It was likely from his mother’s collection, forgotten and collecting dust. Your fingers twitched.

One glass won’t hurt.

You rose to your feet, moving on autopilot as you made your way over, uncorking the bottle with shaky hands. The first sip burned, but you welcomed it. It was warm, numbing. Comforting. Then another. And another. By the time Mark found you, the bottle was empty.

“Are you serious?” His voice was sharp, filled with exasperation.

You just giggled, leaning against the counter for support. “What’s the big deal?” You slurred, blinking up at him through hazy eyes. Mark sighed, running a hand down his face. “You’re drunk.”

“Very drunk,” you corrected, stumbling toward him. He caught you with ease, his grip firm but not rough. Your fingers trailed up his chest, your lips pressing against his jaw. “Mmm… missed you.”

For the first time in days, you were touching him willingly, clinging to him. The tension between you had been unbearable, each fight driving a deeper wedge between you. And now, you were finally his again.

A small smirk tugged at his lips—until he felt something warm drip down his leg. His brow furrowed. He looked down. And his stomach dropped. Blood. Your blood.

It stained the floor, pooling at your feet, soaking into your clothes. Mark’s grip on you tightened. “Y/N, stop—listen to me—”

But you weren’t listening. Your lips were still trailing along his jaw, your hands tangled in his hair. All you wanted was him. A distraction from the pain, from the helplessness.

He cursed under his breath. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t normal. Without hesitation, he scooped you up, carrying you into the bathroom. He turned on the shower, stepping in with you, his clothes quickly getting drenched.

You hummed against his skin, not noticing the way his jaw was clenched, the way his eyes were glued to the blood mixing with the water. He peeled your soaked clothes away, his own following soon after.

It wasn’t until you finally looked down, hoping to see the effect you had on him, that you saw it. The red spiraling down the drain. Your smile vanished.

“Wait… blood?” Your voice came out small, weak. Your dazed mind struggled to process it, but deep down, you already knew. Mark tensed, his hands tightening around your arms, holding you steady.

“I’m bleeding?” You choked out, your eyes widening in horror. Panic settled deep in your chest, your breathing quickening, the dizziness intensifying. Mark didn’t let you go. He wouldn’t let you go.

“Y/N,” he said, voice firm. “I need you to stay with me.” But you were already trembling, gripping his shoulders like a lifeline.

“No—no, no, this can’t be happening,” you whispered, panic rising. “It was just one glass, I—I didn’t—” Your hands shot to your stomach, desperate, pleading—but the pain was already there, sharp and unforgiving. Mark’s breathing was ragged. His heart pounded in his chest.

“You will be okay,” he swore. But as your legs gave out beneath you, the last thing you saw before everything went dark was his face— And the sheer, unfiltered panic in his eyes.

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled your nose when you finally came to. The dull beeping of a heart monitor echoed in the quiet room. The world was too bright, too sharp, and for a moment, you had no idea where you were. Then it hit you. The fight. The wine. The shower. The blood.

Your hand shot to your stomach, fingers pressing against the hospital gown covering your skin. Empty. No. Your breathing grew shallow. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

“Good. You’re awake.”

Your head snapped to the side. Mark was sitting in the chair beside you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He looked tired. More than that—he looked relieved.

You opened your mouth, but your throat was dry. When you finally spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper.

“The baby?” Mark met your gaze, expression unreadable. Gone. You shook your head. “No—no, I was fine. I—I only had one glass, I—”

Mark’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know!” Your voice cracked, hysteria creeping in. “I didn’t—”

“Stop!”

His voice was sharp, cutting through your panic like a blade. Your breath hitched, eyes locked onto his. Mark sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked exhausted.

“You almost died,” he said, his tone quieter now. “Again.” Tears welled in your eyes. This was your fault. You did this. If you hadn’t been so reckless, if you hadn’t let your emotions drive you to drink, maybe—maybe—A sob tore through your chest, your hands clutching at the blanket draped over you. “I—” You hiccuped, shaking your head. “I killed them.”

Your hands trembled, your entire body shaking. “I—I was so stupid, I should’ve been more careful, I—” Mark exhaled through his nose, standing up abruptly. “It’s done.”

You flinched at his tone. He wasn’t angry. Not like before.

But he wasn’t grieving either. You expected him to scream, to throw something, to punish you—because that’s what Mark did when he didn’t get his way.

But he didn’t. Instead, he was calm. Too calm. His eyes flickered to your stomach before meeting your gaze again.

“This is for the best,” he said simply. Your breath caught. “You—”

“I told you,” he cut you off. “I told you what happened to the other you. I warned you.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “And look where that got us.” Tears streamed down your face. “You’re relieved.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even hesitate. And that hurt more than anything. You had lost your child. And Mark was relieved. Because in the end, it meant you were still his.

[stardustlin]

Hot sex with viltrimite mark after an argument, please 😝💓

NOTHING MORE | viltrumite mark x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: smut, swearing

“You took me, Mark.”

Your voice echoed off the walls of the cold, sterile room—the room he claimed was your “new home.” His figure loomed near the door, arms folded over his broad chest, his jaw tight, but his eyes—his eyes—watched you like you were some fragile, unpredictable thing.

“You didn’t ask. You didn’t even explain. You just… took me like I was some prize you earned. Like I’m just here to breed your children and be quiet about it.”

His expression didn’t change, but you saw something flicker across his face—just for a second. Guilt? Frustration? Or was it just annoyance that you were speaking out again?

“I’ve been here for months,” you whispered, stepping closer, the fury in your chest burning hotter than your words. “And you sleep beside me, touch me like you own me—but you’re not with me, Mark. You don’t hold me like you love me. You don’t talk to me unless it’s about my ‘purpose.’ I feel so—so alone.”

You placed your hand on your chest, breath shaky. “It doesn’t even matter if my so-called husband is beside me at night. You’re always cold. Emotionally gone. I could scream and you’d just stand there like this.”

He took a step toward you, slow and heavy. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you challenged, eyes glinting. “I’m just some human pet you knocked up in your head. A thing to mold into a good little Viltrumite breeder.”

His jaw tightened, nostrils flaring. “You think I don’t want you?” he growled. “You think I don’t feel anything when I look at you?”

You didn’t back down. “Wanting me doesn’t mean anything if all you ever do is fuck me like a duty and never see me.”

That got to him. His hand slammed against the wall beside your head, not to hurt you—but to cage you there, to make you listen. His eyes were darker now, like a storm had been building behind them and finally snapped.

“You think I don’t touch you because I have to?” he breathed, dangerously close now. His voice dropped, rough and low. “You think I hold back because I don’t want to lose myself? You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath caught, chest rising as your back pressed against the cold metal. His presence was overwhelming now, heat rolling off him in waves.

“Then show me,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Show me that I’m not just some fucking womb to you.”

His mouth was on yours before the last word left your lips—violent, bruising, desperate. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was rage and loneliness and longing crashing together in a single kiss. He gripped your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish, like you’d disappear if he didn’t anchor himself to you.

You moaned into his mouth, finally feeling something from him, something real, something human. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp.

He pulled back, breathing heavy, lips inches from yours. “You’re mine,” he growled, possessive and raw. “Not for breeding. Not for war. Just—mine.”

You stared at him, heart racing, lips swollen, body trembling not from fear—but from finally being seen.

You didn’t wait.

Your hands shot up, fingers tangling in his thick black hair as you yanked him down to you again, not gentle—not anymore. You wanted him to feel everything you had been holding back. The loneliness, the frustration, the hollow ache of sleeping next to a man who made your skin burn but your heart feel cold.

You tugged hard, and he groaned into your mouth, his control fracturing with every pull. His grip tightened around your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct, your back hitting the wall as his mouth moved down your neck—biting, sucking, marking.

“I’m not fragile,” you hissed into his ear. “If you’re going to take me, then take me. But stop pretending this is just about control.”

His breath hitched, and then his lips were on yours again—this time deeper, messier, like he couldn’t get close enough. He moved with rough, desperate precision, hands roaming under your clothes, his Viltrumite strength making your head spin.

“You think I don’t want you?” he growled between kisses. “You think I don’t lose my fucking mind every time you look at me like that? You think I sleep at night?”

You clawed at his shirt, nails dragging down his back as your voice trembled, “Then why do you act like I’m nothing but a body to fill?”

He slammed his hand beside your head again, eyes blazing. “Because if I let myself feel how much I need you, I’d tear this planet apart just to keep you.”

You shuddered—part fear, part desire—and you pulled his hair again, dragging a guttural sound from his throat. His body pressed tighter against yours, hips grinding against you through the thin fabric between you.

“I want all of it,” you said through clenched teeth. “Not half of you. Not this cold version of the man I loved. Give me the real you, Mark.”

His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “I’m scared you’ll hate me if you see who I really am.”

You cupped his jaw with both hands, forcing him to look at you. “I already hate what you’re becoming. But I still love what’s buried underneath.”

And that broke something in him. He didn’t hold back this time.

His mouth was back on yours, hands exploring like he couldn’t decide whether to worship or ruin you. The tension that had been festering between you both snapped like a live wire—raw, hungry, and dangerous.

This wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t romantic.

It was two broken souls colliding in a storm they both created.

He didn’t just take you— You let him. Because for the first time in months, it felt real.

And even if it ended in flames— You’d finally burn together.

Clothes were torn more than they were removed. His hands gripped and groped like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go for even a second. The cool metal of the wall pressed into your back, grounding you while everything else burned hot.

His lips dragged down your collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You hissed, nails digging into his shoulders, and tugged his hair again—harder this time. He growled low in his throat, rutting against you like an animal barely holding itself back.

“You like that?” you breathed, voice breaking into a moan as his hand slid between your legs.

“I like everything about you,” he muttered into your skin, mouth trailing down your chest. “Even when you’re screaming at me. Even when you say you hate me.”

His fingers slid inside you without warning, and your head slammed back against the wall, breath stolen from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was claiming. A punishment for all the days he kept his distance. A confession for all the nights he held you and refused to let himself feel.

“Mark—”

“You don’t get it,” he rasped, his other hand cupping your cheek, rough thumb brushing your lower lip. “I’m stronger than entire civilizations. I could destroy worlds. But you?” He kissed you hard, voice cracking. “You make me weak. You make me need.”

You clenched around his fingers at those words, whimpering into his mouth, and he swallowed every sound like it gave him life.

Then he was inside you, hot and thick and there—and you both groaned into each other’s mouths like the world had finally aligned. There was no pretense now. No cold walls. No breeding talk. Just desperation. Just him. Just you.

He moved like he meant it. Like he was making up for every cold night. Every ignored plea. Every moment you felt like a ghost beside him.

Each thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, your cries echoing in the walls of his fortress—no longer silenced. No longer ignored. His cock reached the deepest parts inside you and made you see stars.

You clung to him, fingers pulling his hair so hard he winced and growled like a feral thing. His hands bruised your hips, dragging you closer, closer, closer.

“Say it,” he demanded, forehead against yours, sweat dripping between you. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I hate you,” you gasped, tears burning behind your eyes. “But I’ve always been yours.”

That was it. That was all it took.

He cursed into your neck, thrusts growing erratic, desperate, like he couldn’t get enough. You came with his name ripped from your throat, shaking, raw, wrecked. And when he followed—biting your shoulder, moaning your name like it was the last thing he’d ever say—it felt less like release and more like surrender.

He didn’t stop after the first time.

You were still trembling in his arms, legs wrapped tight around his waist, when he pulled you from the wall and carried you—still buried deep inside—to the bed like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

He laid you down like you were something sacred, but the moment his eyes locked with yours again, all that worship turned feral.

“Not done,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Not even close.”

“Mark—” you tried to speak, but his hips snapped forward before you could finish, and you choked on a cry.

You were still sensitive, still fluttering around him, but he didn’t care. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was exactly what he wanted—to watch you unravel again. To see your body remember him, even if your heart was still unsure.

His pace was relentless, hips grinding into yours with punishing force, every thrust a wordless apology. You arched beneath him, nails scraping down his back, dragging red lines in your wake.

“You wanted the real me?” he hissed, dragging his lips down your throat, biting the soft skin there. “You have me.”

Your hands found his hair again, yanking it back to force him to look at you. The way he groaned at that—it was filthy. He liked it. Liked when you took control even while he was wrecking you.

“Then don’t hold back,” you dared, breathless. “Break me if you have to—but don’t you fucking hide from me again.”

His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and tongue, devouring every gasp you gave him as he pounded into you harder, faster, deeper. The sound of skin slapping, the creak of the bedframe, your breathless cries—it filled the room like a storm.

Your second orgasm built fast, hot, and overwhelming. You clenched around him, eyes fluttering, and he cursed against your lips, fucking you through it like a man possessed.

And then he kept going.

Even after you were shaking. Even after your voice was gone, reduced to broken whimpers and clawing hands.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes wild. “Falling apart under me… still so fucking beautiful.”

You bit his shoulder hard, trying to muffle the scream as he hit that spot again, and again, dragging you into a third release that left your body limp beneath him.

He grunted low in your ear, chasing his own high now, grinding into your soaked heat with maddening control. “You’re not leaving me,” he whispered like a vow, “I’ll make sure you never can.”

His hips snapped one final time, spilling deep inside you with a groan so primal it made your blood run hot.

But even then, he didn’t move.

He hovered over you, panting, his forehead against yours, your bodies still connected—his chest heaving like he’d just survived war.

And maybe he had. Maybe you both had.

Because as ruined and used as you felt, wrapped in his arms, your fingers still tangled in his hair—you didn’t feel alone anymore.

You felt wanted. You felt his.

When it was over, silence settled. Your breathing was uneven, both your bodies still tangled, chest to chest. He didn’t let go.

For once, he didn’t pull away.

“…I’m sorry,” he whispered after a long moment. His voice was hoarse. Honest.

You looked up at him, still catching your breath. “Are you?”

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he admitted, eyes soft for the first time in forever. “But I’m trying. Even if I don’t know how to say it, even if I fuck it up—I feel everything when I’m with you.”

You reached up and brushed a thumb under his eye. “Then stop pretending you don’t.”

He nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he held you close—bare, bruised, but not alone.

Not anymore.

[stardustlin]

ft: mainstream!mark and variants (mohawk, viltrum, omni, sheisty, sinister) (invincible) reader: fem wc: 2604 summary: hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend? cw: canon typical violence, foul language, and the variants are kinda sorta freaky in this requested by: @sophsthebest

this was so fun to write lowk and I would've been done faster if not for the blood moon event in dbd so err yeah I'm going to go die in a hole now

Life is strange, really. 

One moment, you’re helping refold shirts because some people don’t even have the decency to put stuff back to where they found it, and the next, an international warning tells you to stay inside because there are evil variants of your boyfriend now roaming the Earth with unclear intentions.

You share a look with your coworker, who looks just as off-put by the information, her fingers curling around her phone as her brow dips. Just as her lips part to speak, the first building falls. It’s only a few blocks away, and the ground beneath your feet trembles at its sudden collapse.

You hear the screams of those out on the street, internally debating whether or not to follow suit until a notification from Mark lights up your screen, the ridiculous nickname you’d set when you were twelve a small comfort to your racing heart.

MarkyWarky: please tell me you’re okay

You: i’m fine

You: i’m just scared mark 

You: why are there so many versions of you anyway…

MarkyWarky: i wish i could tell you

MarkyWarky: just stay put alright im otw

The message does little to soothe, and you can’t help but stare at your screen with nothing but apprehension. Your coworker is quick to seize you by the arm when the sound of collapsing buildings and wailing cars draws closer, ushering you into the break room with the floor manager as though the small, unwindowed room would protect you from the raw strength of a Viltrumite.

“Holy shit, we’re gonna die…We’re actually going to die…” The floor manager, Kasandra, curls into herself with tears already welled in her eyes as she chokes back a sob. No one says anything, unable to face the grim reality at steak when debris begins to crumble around you. You all huddle into the furthest corner as your hope in Mark begins to wane.

Small pieces of rubble hit your head as you tuck your head tightly into Kasandra’s shaking shoulder, the lights overhead flickering violently when the ceiling begins to cave in on itself. There’s no use holding back the tears now and you can’t hide your anguished cries, unheard over the collapsing infrastructure.

This is it, you think, mentally saying your goodbyes to everyone you’ve grown to love. Amber. Eve. William. Mark—oh, Mark. The annoying boy next door who grew to be your first love. 

Sparks flare as the light above you finally collapses, but you don’t feel a throbbing pain in your head or death’s cold embrace, instead, you find yourself wrapped in a familiar pair of arms, still clinging to an almost catatonic Kasandra while your coworker grips the forearm wrapped around the three of you.

“I’ve got you,” a voice in your ear says, and you can feel the tears begin to well once more, though, this time out of relief. Mark is quick to shoot from the rubble, hold unwavering before he sets the three of you down and urges you to run to safety.

Your two coworkers are quick to flee, but you stupidly linger, worry etched onto your features at the sight of Mark’s beaten face and tattered suit. In the distance, you can see Eve facing valiantly against a variant, the odd cloth mask adorned on his face his most defining trait. She pants, her palms facing outward to just barely raise a shield against his erratic punches.

Mark pulls your attention back to him, face pinched as his thumb traces your lower lip in an attempt to ground both you and himself. His lips are soft against your forehead for a brief moment before he pulls back, staring at you through his cracked goggles with an emotion you can’t quite place. 

“I love you,” you whisper, stroking his bruised cheek softly.

“I love you too. But, you need to go. Now. I’ll check on you soon, promise.”

So, you run as fast as your legs can carry you, doing your best to ignore the ruins and corpses that seem to block every turn.

You don’t get far.

A shadow overhead blocks the sun—its presence so oppressive and commandeering that it freezes you in place.

“Another survivor?” 

You can’t bring yourself to turn despite the way your heart lurches at the familiarity of the voice. Your breath hitches when the shadow lowers—whatever twisted version of Mark this is drawing ever closer like a lion to its prey.

“I thought those other two were the last of them, but what’s one more?” The voice is cold, almost clinical, very unlike the warmth that radiated off of your Mark. A glove is quick to find purchase on your throat, and you glance down to see the red rubber shining beneath the sun.

Blood coats the hand, tinting the glove an even darker shade of red than what you’d first surmised. You try not to think about the warmth of it as his grip grows tighter, making it harder to breathe, but not enough to kill, like he’s messing with you in some cruel, twisted way.

“You’re this dimension’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” His lips press against the shell of your ear, jerking your body to face the fight between Mark and the clothed one from before alongside Eve, who reaches out to you weakly before eventually crashing against the side of one of the buildings. Your Mark wheezes, clutching at his chest when the cloth-masked variant throws him into a nearby building by the hair. “Pathetic.”

The sound barrier tears as another Mark enters the fray, his mohawk wild and unkempt in the wind as he grins at the sight of battle, though there’s no amusement behind his smile. “Who the hell do you think you are running off like that?” For a moment, his wild eyes slip to where you and your captor reside, a flicker of…something flashing through his before it fizzles away. “Keeping hostages alive? Didn’t peg you for the cruel type.”

You barely register the click of the Invincible’s tongue over the roaring beat of your heart, his thumb remaining stationary over your pulse point; a warning. He could snap your neck at any given moment, and you don’t know what’s stopping him, but you’re grateful for whatever’s causing him to hesitate.

“Come on, just put her out of her misery already,” the mohawked Mark goads with a small shrug as he pulls his fist back to punch your Mark into the concrete when the cloth-masked variant throws him in his direction. Cracks split beneath your feet at the sheer force, the ground almost giving way, but all you can do is watch as your Mark slowly gets up from the crater his body had formed. 

He locks eyes with you, something snapping inside of him at the sight of the variant clad in a suit nearly identical to Omni-Man’s wrapping his hand around your throat.

“[Name]!” He calls out, bursting free from the grasp of the two other Marks with a renewed sense of vigor. 

Time seems to freeze the moment your name leaves his bloodied lips, the Mark holding you hostage too stunned to react when your Mark’s fist collides with his jaw hard enough to send him three blocks away. It isn’t long until you’re swept into Mark’s arms, the hold both protective and possessive as he glares at the other two, his chest heaving with each labored breath he struggles to take.

“No fuckin’ way.” The mohawked variant blinks slowly, his lips pulling into a mix of a grimace and a smirk. “That’s unfair on so many levels.” He turns to the Mark in a cloth mask who seems to share the same sentiment, mumbling under his breath about how unfair it is that this version of him gets the hot babe.

Omni-Man Mark merely scoffs when he floats back, his suit still pristine as though he’d never been thrown at all while he crosses his arms over his chest, scrutinizing the way you tremble in this version of him’s hold. You aren’t the best friend he’d killed mercilessly back in his dimension. Here, you were a woman—his woman. And he’d be damned if he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone.

A best friend and a wife. Who would’ve thought?

While he’d never seen the other, male, version of you in a romantic light, his heart stirs at the thought of taking this version of you for himself. It’s not like it’ll take much to kill this Mark; he’s already as good as dead anyway—

“Is everything alright here?” Clad in white and silver, yet another version of Mark descends from the sky like some sort of disgraced angel. 

“Ugh, why are you here?” Mohawk Mark rolls his eyes obnoxiously, his gaze only briefly flickering to the new variant.

“Angstrom sent me to see if you all were sticking to the plan, which clearly you aren’t.”

“Aww, the lil’Viltrum baby can’t do anything without a mission? How sad!” He bats his lashes dramatically before sneering. “What are you gonna do next, bark? Who gives a shit about the plan? You’re acting as if you weren’t gonna kill him after anyway!” 

The Mark in the Viltrum uniform chooses not to dignify him with a response.

Unbothered by his counterpart’s nonchalance, the mohawked Mark sets his sights back on you, spreading his arms wide as if to welcome you in with a hug. “Hey, [Name], it’s just me. Just Mark. Your best friend, remember? We used to play CoD and shit when your parents were out.”

Viltrum Mark’s brows furrow at the familiar name, steady gaze finally paying you mind as you try to sink further into the Mark of this dimension’s arms. You’re a lot…softer than he recalls you being, your form far less filled out; almost feminine. But, that couldn’t be right, right? How cruel would it be for this version of him to have the perfect mate whilst he, while grateful for your prior companionship, was stuck with nothing more than a best friend? One that he’d ultimately killed for resisting.

Surely, his brain is playing tricks on him.

Then he hears it—they all hear it.

The small terrified whimper you let out, the sound almost heavenly as you try to curl into Mark like your life depends on it. Which you suppose it does at this very moment.

A collective groan settles across all the present variations of Mark, all differing levels of arousal. They can practically taste the fear emanating off of you, stalking closer like a pack of deranged wolves.

Disgust pulls at Mark’s lips at the look in their eyes, his arms trembling around you as the last line of defense between you and these monstrous versions of him. “What the hell are you guys on about?” He seethes, only to be met by a suffocating silence.

Viltrum Mark appears in front of you before you and Mark can process his presence, tearing you out of your boyfriend’s arms despite your screaming protests. His grip is firm, but it’s the underlying softness in it that has you trembling with both fear and confusion. One of his hands finds your chin, stroking the contour of your jaw while his thumb gently presses down on your lower lip in a similar fashion that your Mark had done earlier.

“You’re [Name].” His face twists with perplexion as he speaks. “But, you’re so soft.” You feel his other hand fall from your arm, settling on your hip as if to prove a point. He squeezes and prods the fat, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt to feel the soft skin underneath, his fingers splaying against your stomach while his nose buries itself in your neck. “You’d be a great mother.”

No.

No.

No.

This can’t be happening—

You’re pulled into another set of arms. These ones leaner yet more possessive than the Viltrum Mark’s. But not yours.

“Jesus what the fuck is wrong with you.” Mohawk Mark’s voice rasps mockingly above you, his arm curling around you and dangerously close to your breasts. You know he feels your heart stop, snorting cruelly as he pulls you flush against him. His gloved hand tilts your chin up to him cruelly, relishing in the way tears well in your eyes.

“P-Please…” You weakly claw at his wrist despite knowing how useless it is in comparison to his innate strength.

Holy fuck, he could get used to the sound of that.

Man, why couldn’t you be a girl in his world too? Oh, the things he would do to you. How he would ruin you. He wonders if you’re similar to his [Name], the [Name] who trusted him to do the right thing only to die trying to stop what’s already been done. Do you play the same sport as your male counterpart? Enjoy the same food? Ah, whatever, you’re still his, no matter his relation to you. Best friend or otherwise.

“Get away from her you fucking freak!” Your Mark’s garbled voice reaches your ears, his fist colliding with the side of the mohawked variant’s head, sending him careening into the white-clad Viltrumite. Mark doesn’t even get the chance to look over you before he shoots into the air with you in his hold, tucking your head into his shoulder as he whispers calming words into the crown of your head. “I’ve got you, baby,” he echoes his prior sentiment, flying as fast as he can with the cloth-mask and Omni-Man wannabe hot on his tail.

A familiar red glove catches Mark’s leg, snapping it easily. Mark screams, his teeth grinding as he pivots his other leg directly into the variant’s face, no doubt breaking his nose before he crashes into the cloth-masked Mark, who yells obscenities as the two of them crash into the city below.

Finally, silence settles between the two of you. Heavy with confusion. Heavy with fear.

“What the hell was that…” You cling to him, trembling like a newborn fawn in his hold.

“I—I don’t know.” He buries his nose in your neck as he lowers into a desolate field miles away from any civilization, breathing in your comforting scent beneath the smell of iron and ash that seem to cling to your skin while he settles against a tree. The field is peaceful; untouched by the destruction that plagues the rest of the world.

“...What about Eve and the others?” You hesitate, palms hovering over his broken leg to do your best to put the limb back together. The bone melds back together grotesquely, it's disgusting snap a sound you think you’ll never get used to.

“Eve slipped away before things got ugly. I’m not too sure about the others…” He lets out a low hiss, his fingers digging into the ground when his skin gets pulled tautly back into place. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I won’t let them get to you, not as long as I’m still breathing, alright?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, collapsing into his chest as you try not to think about everything you’ve lost in such a short amount of time. He kisses your forehead gently, leaning back against the tree for only a moment of respite.

“Aww, what a cute sight.” A patronizing voice overhead has both of you snapping your heads to the sound. Clad in yellow and black with a billowing cape behind him, this version of Mark sneers, his gaze looking between you and Mark. His brows raise beneath his mask, lips forming something akin to a sadistic grin. “Well, well, well. You’re looking a bit different here, aren’t you, [Name]?”

Shit.

©asarii 2025 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site or run my works through ai

[stardustlin]

omg i haven’t been here over a freaking year…simply because college and i just gave up on writing 💀 but feel free to hmu, my messages are always open for a simple chat 🤍🤎

[stardustlin]

[stardustlin]

With international attention focused on Israel’s genocide in Gaza, Israel is violently and rapidly stealing more and more Palestinian land in the West Bank.

Israel’s most genocidal leaders are seeing through plans to force as many Palestinians out of their homes as possible in order to ensure they can never return.

“For every country that unilaterally recognizes a Palestinian state, we will establish a [illegal] settlement,” said Israeli Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich.

Let’s be clear, stealing Palestinians land has been Israel’s goal since day 1. It’s illegal, it’s wrong, and it must be stopped.

No one is above international law. The Biden administration should be pushing Israel to abide by international law, not enabling its war crimes against Palestinians.

Like all people, Palestinians deserve to be safe and free in their homes.

[stardustlin]

hi guys i’m back 🫡

[stardustlin]

YOU’RE BACK!!!! Hello, hi, how are you? I’ve been waiting for your return. I hope the college stuff ir okay. I know it can be really hard(I hate it). Anyways hope you’re having fun and good luck with anything. Will be waiting for your next drabble/fic or whatever you’re willing to give us.

hi!! i’m not officially back but i come back every now and then to reblog posts or updates on my life atm :)

[stardustlin]

this gave me major flashbacks especially with the guy i’m talking too OH LAWD

i know we can all agree that miguel is an ass man, but i really love titty-worshipping miguel. I saw this short porn video of mike adriano tittysucking and I just need miguel doing that to me. like something about lactating and him drinking it up like its the best thing in the world is sooooooo sdjkhfskjjsdf

imagine him caressing your ass as he nibbles and suckles. he sucks as he uses his tongue to flick and wiggle the tip of your nipple. the smacking sounds he'd make as he's popping your titties out of his mouth. or even better, he squeezes the boob he's sucking on.

or if two miguels suck on each tit. I think about this fic for that specific scene alone.

gosh I just want to learn animation and do what saintnueva2099 on twitter does sdjkfhsdjshfjsgdhkdjf

for now, ima settle on doing a sketch of him tittysucking. i must indulge this fantasy.

✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮

[stardustlin]

hello!! hi!

im not sure if its stated anywhere (im sorry if it is D:)

but do you perchance write for transmen? :))!! so sorry for the bother

hi hi yes i do <3

[stardustlin]

just a little something inspired by today (got me forgetting all about my crush)

cute smitten miggy.

"care to tell me who you think likes me?" you asked miguel with a playful tone and a cheeky grin as you looked directly into his eyes, this was the only time in a long while when he's got his eyes on anything, or anyone, rather, other than his work. his eyes seemed to widen at the sudden proximity, making him fluster a little, but he gently shook it off and returned to his stoic face of indifference as he looked back at his monitors. "i just know someone here's taken a liking to you, not that it's any of my concern." he says all flatly as you chuckle and move closer to him.

"is it... a guy?" you ask him as he sighs. "i'm not obligated to disclose that information." "oh, come on, miggy..." you urge him all sweetly as he takes in a deep, slow breath and gradually breathes out. "...it is a male, yes." he responded as you nodded and thought about it for a moment. "what does he look like?" you ask him as he stiffed up a bit at the question. he cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts, careful on what to tell you so as not to slip up.

"...he's tall, like, really tall." "mhm." "a bit tanned." "mhm?" "and has... dark, wispy hair." "oh, sounds like my type." you teased with a smirk, making miguel turn to look at you. "really?" he asked you with slight disbelief in his tone. you nodded and realized that the person who fit that description was... kind of the guy talking to you right now. you joked towards miguel that this person could be anybody, and you purposely guessed incorrectly who these men that would be after your heart would be–but with every wrong guess you made, miguel's frown deepened and his eyes softened; as if not hearing that one name he was yearning to hear stung him a bit.

"could it be..." you trailed off and paused for dramatic effect as miguel set himself up for disappointment again. "...you, mig?" you asked him, making miguel's shoulders tense up and his body jolt up. he sweat and stammered, trying to articulate his feelings and thoughts at the moment, but he kept failing–making you giggle as miguel looked so, so adorable like this. "he's smitten with you." lyla quipped as miguel turned around all embarrassed and glaring at the AI assistant. "i am not." "are to." they went back and forth with this little banter that pissed miguel off and made him all embarrassed and bashful, making you giggle and smile all the more at his adorable demeanor when flustered. though he hates being embarrassed... he loves hearing and seeing you smile and be happy, even if that meant he had to be vulnerable and show sides of himself that even he never knew of or discovered before.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @hearts4gabri @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok @fictarian @yuridopted0 @simsrandomstuff @luvstarrstruck @popeheywardssecretgf @meeom @arachnoia @melovetitties @fable-library @ophanimgold @smokeywhalee @capnshtfce

[stardustlin]

not back but yeah i’ve been so busy with college and talking to this one guy :,) in my soft lover girl era <3 he’s super fine and rly sweet.

[stardustlin]

omm i want him

He's not the like the others...

[stardustlin]

they’re right!! y’all need to listen to us writers. and respect our boundaries. it’s fine if a writer writes this if they had experience but even then do not go randomly to writers “begging”…it’s weird and you have no decorum at all. seek help.

man u guys are funni you don't think i remember this? (tw: dr*gs and ov*r*os*)

first time? that's rich, right @miguelswifey04

at least change your wording to make it look more original bro

anyway, please STOP SENDING REPEATED REQUESTS. I AM NOT A ROBOT WHO IS REQUIRED TO MAKE YOUR STORIES. if you want to see it written, write it yourself :> i didn't respond to your request at first because i was uncomfortable with it, there, i said it. i'm sorry, but i cannot and will not fulfil your request. i think i've made it clear in my rules that i will not do disturbing themes, i am not required to, ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY'RE REPEATED REQUESTS.

i'll give you the benefit of the doubt and say you're not the same anon spamming me and asking lin (hopefully not other writers) with this very request, i'm gonna tell you right now i am not comfortable with writing this. i'm sorry if i sound angry, bc i am. please respect us writers the same way as we respect you anons; i didn't respond to your previous req so as not to embarrass you or anything, but i can't keep quiet anymore.

sorry for the long ass rant, tl;dr: i'm not gonna write this, and if you send another req EXACTLY LIKE THIS OR HAS THE SAME THEME AS THIS OR ANYTHING TRIGGERING, YOU WILL GET BLOCKED. g'day.