#omni invincible | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alive-gh0st · 17 hours ago

Text

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: you survive in a silence that doesn’t feel neutral anymore. he’s gone. or avoiding you. maybe both. you try to stay unbothered but absence has a shape and it looks a lot like him. and when he finally shows up, he doesn’t apologize. you argue. quietly. like you always do. and for a moment, he almost stays. almost reaches. almost tells the truth. but the door still closes. and this time, you’re the one who whispers after him.

❤︎ contains: sfw. emotionally repressed war criminal x emotionally repressed divine being. omni!invincible (barely). cupid!reader (tired). slow burn agony. mutual silence as mutual yearning. isolation. exile. ANGST. dinner avoidance. return of the stupid orb. jokes to cope. watching the sky like an idiot. protective body language. quiet returns. the ribbon. proximity tension. hand brushing. voice cracking. flash of vulnerability. him not staying. not yet.

❤︎ warnings: emotional repression. abandonment themes. unresolved trauma. exile (ongoing). past violence (vague). mutual denial. hurt/comfort (but mostly hurt). soft things framed as dangerous. unresolved grief. being wanted by someone who doesn’t think they’re allowed to want. someone who leaves before they’re left. parent issues. childhood disappointment. unhealthy expectations. crushing silence. villain origin foreshadowing.

❤︎ wc: 3959

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: did it seriously take me this long to write anything—just for it to turn out to be heart-crushing angst? hell yeah. also, i’m actually sick. rotting in bed. you’d think that means i had more time to write—wrong. turns out illness doesn’t make you productive, just dramatic. anyway, if i suffer—you suffer. that’s the deal. enjoy the emotional damage 💔

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You notice it in the quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. Not the kind people write songs about or daydream into.

No—this kind is sharp around the edges.

Suspicious.

It hums under your skin like a sound you’re no longer hearing.

There’s no faint gust of wind against your bedroom window tonight—brushing past your cheek like it belonged to someone. No shift in the air. No flicker of motion behind your shoulder.

No faint static buzz to warn you that someone with a God complex and boundary issues has landed nearby again.

You wait anyway. Still. Like muscle memory.

But nothing comes.

Not the red-and-white blur at your window. Not the too-loud sighs echoing from the hallway… neither the hovering silence above your bed that you used to pretend not to hear.

So you breathe.

Roll your eyes at yourself. And mutter something stupid like, “Guess even war machines need days off.”

You tell yourself it’s normal.

That he’s probably just busy.

Invincible things.

World-ending, time-sensitive, bigger-than-you things.

Maybe the government kidnapped him for a diplomatic mission. Maybe he got distracted by a meteor or—

Or maybe—just maybe—he’s doing this on purpose.

The thought comes uninvited.

You don’t like it, but it lands hard anyway. You try to laugh it off. Try to play it cool.

You’re Cupid, after all.

Happy, fearless, emotionally unbothered. That’s the brand, right?

So you crack a joke under your breath as you slam a cupboard shut.

Something biting and dumb, like, “Sorry if emotional vulnerability was too radioactive for you.”

Besides, it’s not like you miss the eye-rolling. The grunting. The barely-there don’t touch that whenever you got too curious around his weird anti-people gadgets.

And then pretend you’re fine again.

You last a full twenty minutes before you’re watching the sky like an idiot.

Head tilted just enough to catch movement if it comes. You lose track of how long you sit like that—waiting for a shadow to ripple through the sky.

It’s pathetic.

You hate it.

Hate how often you’ve been pacing the apartment, checking the time even though you know he doesn’t live by clocks.

How you keep catching yourself listening for wind—like you’d somehow hear him land if he didn’t want you to.

The worst part?

You miss him.

Not just the awkward hovering, or the overbearing “do not touch that” energy, or even the weird way he always acts like you’re two seconds from stealing military secrets.

You miss his presence.

The unshakable, unyielding weight of it.

Like gravity had favorites and his name was first in line.

And now—it’s just empty.

The food still appears. The lights still auto-dim when you yawn too loudly.

But the air feels different. Hollow. There’s no sound. No tension.

No one breathing down your neck like you’re one bad day away from becoming an interdimensional threat.

No him.

You almost call out his name once.

Almost.

You fall asleep curled on your side, curled into the blankets, with the soft, fluffy fabric up to your chin, barely blinking at the ceiling.

The hallway beyond the room glows soft with distant light—the one that still smells like ozone and blood and—him.

The same hallway Invincible always appears from.

Or used to.

Your throat tightens. Just a little. Just enough.

It slips out before you can stop it. So quiet you almost don’t hear it.

“…Where the hell are you?”

And this time, even the silence feels like it’s avoiding you.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Days stretch like bad dreams.

You work, sort of.

Fiddle with the medkit on the counter. Try not to break anything else in Invincible’s Very Important Anti-Everything Home.

You almost knock over some kind of vibrating green orb again.

You don’t even try to guess what it does this time.

You just offer it a stiff little bow and whisper, “Apologies, Supreme Orb of Probably Nuclear Consequences.”

Mature. Dignified.

Cupid-coded.

The food still shows up.

You don’t ask how. You stopped trying to figure it out after the third day when a perfectly toasted croissant and imported guava juice appeared on the kitchen table with no sound, no fanfare—just mocking normalcy.

You’re pretty sure it’s him.

His version of still taking care of you.

As if feeding someone counts when you’re not there to look them in the eye.

You try to leave the apartment once.

Just once.

You reach the front door.

Twist the handle. Push.

Nothing.

You’re locked in again.

Great.

You stand there for a second, staring at the door like it personally betrayed you. Debate flipping it off. Maybe slamming your fist against it.

Maybe calling him a tyrannical tin can with trust issues.

But you don’t.

Cupids don’t flip.

They flourish.

(Still. You do mutter something spicy under your breath in ancient celestial. That counts.)

You try to change the dressing on your back later that day—wings still torn, bones still not bones anymore—but it stings in a way it didn’t used to.

It’s not the pain.

It’s the absence.

His hands always knew how to avoid the worst spots.

Always a little too gentle for someone who calls you a security risk.

You stop halfway through and leave the bandages loose.

Everything feels… off.

Too quiet. Too still.

Like you’re living in a version of the world that got paused while you weren’t looking.

Even the light feels wrong. Too golden. Too soft.

You’ve been counting the ceiling tiles just to stay grounded. 142 of them. One of them’s cracked in the corner. You stared at it for six minutes today.

You sit by the window again that night.

Legs tucked up, forehead resting against the glass. You’re on your 18th sky-watch of the week.

Something moves overhead.

Your heart skips, stutters.

But it’s not him.

Just a bird. Or a plane. Or—whatever.

Not him.

You let out a breath that feels like it was holding something inside it.

And then you laugh. Bitter. Too sharp. Too tired.

“What, did I short-circuit him that bad?”

The words echo around the room. Bounce off the high ceilings. Come back quieter.

You shake your head. Stretch. Stand.

Tomorrow, maybe you’ll try to escape again.

Or maybe you’ll just learn how to break the stupid green orb and hope for the best.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You don’t hear him land.

No sonic boom. No shift in air pressure. No warning.

You just turn—and Invincible’s there.

Standing in the middle of the living room like the past—almost 2 weeks—hadn’t unspooled you at the seams.

Same suit. Red and white, spotless. Same red cape and those black goggles hiding too much.

Same sharp, unreadable posture that always walks the line between calm and coiled.

Your heart stutters.

But your face doesn’t move.

He doesn’t say anything for a second.

Just watches you from across the room—like you’re a mission he forgot he accepted.

Then—

“Have you eaten?”

You blink.

Seriously?

You stare at him. Just… stare.

And he just stands there like a statue with an attitude problem.

Like this is normal.

Like this is how people re-enter each other’s lives after vanishing into the sky for a week with no explanation and locking them in a floating apartment.

“Have I—?” Your voice cuts off. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“No, actually. I’ve been too busy playing twenty questions with your security system and writing apology poems to radioactive looking things.”

A beat.

He tilts his head slightly. “So… no.”

Your eye twitches.

He walks past you toward the kitchen, like nothing’s happened. Like this is any other day.

You don’t follow. You don’t move.

You just stand there.

Stuck in place.

Like your body is waiting for him to say something that sounds like the truth.

He doesn’t.

You hear the fridge open. A drawer slide. The soft clink of utensils.

Normal sounds.

Fake sounds.

You lean against the doorframe and let out a breath through your nose. “Are we gonna talk about it,” you ask, voice flat, “or just skip to pretending again?”

Invincible doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t answer, either.

Just keeps his back to you. Steady. Untouchable.

And it’s almost impressive—how someone that powerful can shrink a room with silence alone.

You cross your arms.

Wait.

The air feels too still again.

You hate it.

But you don’t leave.

Not yet.

Because maybe, just maybe, if he’s here—then this means something.

Even if he won’t say it.

Yet.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

He shouldn’t be here.

Mark knows that the second he steps into the room and hears the way your breath stutters—soft, surprised, hurt.

He doesn’t need super-hearing for that.

You’re sitting on the couch, a fuzzy blanket tangled around your legs, eyes already narrowed like you knew he’d eventually show up and were preparing to hate him for it.

You don’t say anything.

And he doesn’t either.

Because if he opens his mouth, he’s not sure what will come out.

An apology? A reason? A lie?

No.

So he asks if you’ve eaten.

It’s stupid. He knows it.

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to claw them back. Wants to say something real instead.

Something that sounds like the weeks he spent avoiding your voice.

Your eyes.

Your touch.

But you just blink at him.

Then roll your eyes and say something about radioactive objects and apology poems.

And he almost smiles.

Almost.

Instead, Mark turns away.

Retreats into routine.

Opens the fridge. Pours juice. Makes sure the knife hits the counter at the exact right angle—controlled.

Detached.

The longer you stay quiet behind him, the harder it gets to breathe.

And he doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to see the way you’re watching him now.

Because you always look like you see too much.

The second night back, Mark catches himself hovering near your door.

Listening.

Hoping you’ll say something first—anything that would make it easier.

But you don’t.

Not until day two. Not until he’s walking past the living room and you stop him with four words that slam straight through his chest.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

He freezes.

Doesn’t face you. Doesn’t blink.

You keep going. Calm. Cold.

“You disappear. Then act like it never happened. Like I imagined the part where you locked me in a weaponized apartment and didn’t show up for almost two weeks.”

He exhales slowly. Still doesn’t turn around. His fingers curl slightly at his sides.

You wait.

Then—

“Say something, Invincible.”

His alias name sounds strange coming from you now. Like something old and soft being scraped clean.

Mark turns—finally.

And the look in your eyes almost makes him wish he hadn’t.

You’re not mad.

You’re disappointed.

That’s worse.

His voice is too quiet when he speaks. Too raw.

“You touched me like I was human.”

The air shifts.

He watches your expression crack—just for a second.

“Why?” he asks. “I’m not. You don’t know me.”

That’s the part that’s supposed to hurt.

That’s the push. The thing that gets you to stop trying.

But you don’t flinch.

You step closer instead. Just enough to make the space feel too real.

Too fragile.

“Then show me,” you say. “Or don’t. But stop blaming me for seeing more than you want me to.”

It’s too much.

Mark scoffs. Shakes his head.

Tries again, sharper this time.

“You think this is a storybook? I’m not some tragic hero. I’ve torn entire cities off the map. I’ve made this planet kneel.”

You don’t move.

Just blink.

“Cool,” you say. “So did half of my love targets back when I was a Cupid. Try again.”

He almost laughs.

It sounds like a broken thing in his throat.

And then, finally—his voice cracks.

Just for a second. Just enough.

And you catch it.

Of course you do.

You don’t say anything. Don’t press.

But your eyes stay on him. Steady. Soft.

Like you’re waiting for him to stop lying to himself.

Mark looks away.

And for the first time in years—he doesn’t feel invincible at all.

The silence stretches.

This time, it doesn’t feel empty.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The night stretches long after the silence settles. The dinner has been served. But—

Mark doesn’t leave.

He thought he would. Thought he should.

But his feet never move.

You don’t say anything else. You just go still—arms crossed, back straight, watching him like the quiet might shake something loose.

He should go.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Mark lingers.

At the edge of the room. At the edge of something else he won’t name.

The floor feels too loud under his boots.

And when he finally steps closer—it’s slow.

Careful.

Measured like a threat.

Not close enough to reach you. Not far enough to pretend he doesn’t want to.

Just enough to feel the heat of your presence again—without letting it swallow him whole.

His gaze doesn’t meet yours. It hovers somewhere near your shoulder.

Safer that way.

Less lethal.

You’re still watching him. Quiet. Waiting. Not demanding answers.

Just existing in that unbearable way you do—like you see everything and won’t say a word until he says it first.

He stops when the space between you is thin enough to feel. Not touch. Just feel.

You shift.

Your fingers move. The air does too.

And then—your hand brushes his.

It’s accidental. It has to be.

But it’s real.

Skin to skin. A second. Maybe less.

Mark tenses.

Instinct coils fast in his spine, in his jaw, in the base of his throat.

His body reacts like you hit a nerve.

He jerks—then stops.

Doesn’t move away.

You notice.

Of course you do.

But you don’t look smug. Don’t say anything clever. You just breathe out steady and say—

“You think I don’t see it. But I do.”

His jaw clenches.

His eyes flick to yours. That’s a mistake.

Because you’re looking at him like he’s not made of blood and violence. Like he’s something worth staying for. Even now.

Even still.

“You’re not what you think you are.”

The words settle between you like a secret.

And it’s not a declaration. Not a plea. It’s just truth—quiet and solid.

And that makes it worse.

Mark doesn’t answer.

Just looks at your hand like it’s a flame and he’s not sure if he deserves to burn or not.

His own hand lifts.

A little.

Halfway to yours.

Then—stops. Folds.

Drops.

And the distance stays.

But something else lingers there too.

Something unsaid.

Something unfinished.

Something he doesn’t push fully away this time.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You don’t chase him.

Not when Invincible steps back.

Not when his hand drops like it never meant to reach for yours in the first place.

You don’t say a word.

You just breathe through it—through the ache in your chest and the way your fingertips still hum from almost touching him.

Because you felt it.

Even if he didn’t say it—you felt it.

That split second of want. Of weakness. Of maybe.

The silence after feels louder than anything he could’ve said.

It presses against your ribs, makes your pulse ring in your ears.

You’re alone again, technically.

But not really.

Because his silence is still here. Sitting beside you like a ghost with perfect posture.

You don’t look back as you leave the room.

Your feet carry you into the hall, down toward the shadows and the softer light and the quiet that doesn’t try to explain itself.

Each step feels heavier than the last. Not because he’s gone.

But because he almost stayed.

Your hand curls tight at your side.

You shouldn’t feel like this. You know better than this.

You’re a Cupid.

But still—your heart pounds.

Loud and uneven. Like it wants to remember the almost instead of the nothing.

You pause in the doorway to your couch.

The table beside it is different.

You notice it immediately.

Something small. Familiar.

A ribbon.

Not just any ribbon. Yours.

One of the ones Invincible stole.

Or borrowed. Or kept. You never figured it out.

You stare at it.

It’s been placed there deliberately—neat, centered, soft in the low light.

Like an apology that can’t speak. Like a note without ink.

Your throat catches.

You reach out, pick it up gently.

It’s light.

Lighter than the silence, at least.

But it folds over your fingers like it knows how tired you are.

You hold it like it might bleed.

And then, too quietly, like a secret just for the walls to hear, you whisper into the night.

“…Why do you always leave me with the soft parts?”

No one answers.

Not that you expected one.

You clutch the ribbon tighter. Like it means something. Like he meant to leave it. Like that matters.

And then—you turn.

Climb onto the sofa. Curl in on yourself without thinking.

The blankets wrap around you easy, familiar.

Like they know how this part goes.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You just go still again.

Like maybe if you’re still enough, he’ll come back and finish the gesture.

But Invincible doesn’t.

So you pretend it doesn’t matter.

Again.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark almost makes it out without waking you.

Almost.

The apartment is quiet. Dim.

Lit only by the lazy gold haze spilling through the windows. The kind of morning that pretends it’s softer than it is.

You’re still curled on the couch where you fell asleep.

Blankets half-kicked off. Cheek pressed against your arm. Breathing steady, unaware.

He stares too long.

Lets himself pretend, for a moment, that you’ll stay asleep—that you’ll never know he was standing there.

That maybe if he leaves without the goodbye… it won’t count.

Won’t hurt.

His fingers hover over the door panel.

Ready. Close.

Mark doesn’t mean to linger.

He meant to be gone before you woke up. Quiet. Clean. A clean cut never bleeds as much.

But you shift before he can actually open the door.

It’s soft—barely a sound. Just the faint rustle of blankets against fabric. But it slices through him anyway.

Your eyes flutter open. Groggy. Unarmored.

That makes it worse.

You sit up slowly, couch creaking beneath you. Hair sticking up in the back. One of your sleeves has slipped down your shoulder.

It shouldn’t make his breath catch.

But it does.

He turns before you can speak—like maybe if he just leaves now, you’ll forget he was ever here at all.

But your voice stops him.

Low. Still half-asleep. But steady.

“…You were really gonna leave without saying anything?”

Mark doesn’t answer at first.

The door in front of him hums softly.

Unlocked. Open. Waiting.

His black goggles gaze at it like it might do the leaving for him.

“I thought it’d be easier,” he says eventually.

His voice is flat—hollow. “If you didn’t see.”

You exhale. Slow. Careful.

“Easier for who?”

Silence.

It stretches again, thin and tight, wrapping around the both of you.

He closes his eyes.

“You always look at me like you’re waiting,” he mutters. “Like I’m gonna be something I’m not.”

Your feet hit the floor.

“You mean something you don’t think you are.”

That makes him turn.

Slowly.

You’re standing now, wrapped in the same blanket you fell asleep under. You don’t look angry.

You just look tired.

And soft.

And a little hurt.

Mark hates how much he wants to stay.

His fists clench by his sides. Then release.

“I’m not what you see,” he says. “And I don’t want to watch your face change when you realize that.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t have to.

Because Mark knows the truth.

You already see him.

Somehow—

You’ve always seen him.

You just won’t say the thing he’s not ready to hear.

So instead—you smile.

It’s faint. Barely there. Almost cruel in how kind it is.

But it doesn’t break.

It doesn’t beg.

Just waits.

Mark exhales once. Sharp.

Then—

He turns back to the door.

Hand reaches for the control panel.

And just before the metal peels open, he says it. Not loud. Not soft either.

“Don’t wait up.”

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

You let the door open.

Let the wind rush in, colder than before.

And just before he disappears into it, your voice finds him—light as thread, soft as knives.

“…I will.”

But he’s already gone.

And the door shuts behind him like it always does.

Too loud. Too final.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌A long time ago, before he knew what leaving felt like.

The living room is too quiet.

Too clean.

Not a single cushion is out of place.

The floor gleams. The air smells like whatever the Graysons use to wipe down glass—chemical and lemony, with an undertone of sterilized order.

But Mark’s standing in the middle of it like it’s a battlefield.

Barefoot on the rug. Chest puffed.

A red bedsheet draped around his shoulders—safety pinned in the front like a real cape.

He tugs it tight with both fists. Stands taller.

He even spiked up his hair a little with water so it would fall the same way his dad’s always does after a mission. Sharp. Heroic.

Omni-man.

Mark grins at his reflection in the mirror near the hallway.

It’s a little crooked because of the missing tooth—leaving a gap. It’s also a little too small, but it does the job.

He flexes once. Poses.

Then rushes back to the couch and grabs the sheet of printer paper he left there—crayon scribbles in red and white and blue.

Their family.

Mom. Dad. Him.

Except—this time, he drew himself with the cape.

Not his dad.

Just him.

He hears the door.

The front lock shifts with that signature mechanical click—the one Omni-man’s key always overrides.

Mark freezes, heartbeat picking up.

The good kind. The kind that means he’s home.

A second later, Nolan steps in.

And he’s not alone.

Blood streaks his arms. His cape is torn, ripped at the edges. His face is shadowed—tired in a way Mark doesn’t quite understand yet.

But he’s here.

Mark lights up. Practically launches across the room with the drawing in hand and cape trailing behind him.

“Dad! Dad—look!”

Nolan doesn’t say anything.

Just closes the door behind him. Slowly. Methodically. Drops his keys on the table without looking up.

Mark rushes forward anyway, breathless. Holding the paper up like it’s gold.

“I made this—I made us! But like—if I was a hero too. Like you.”

The little boy spins once, proud.

“I’ve been practicing my landing pose. You know. For when I can fly.”

Finally—finally—Nolan looks.

His eyes scan the cape. The safety pin.

Then the drawing.

He doesn’t blink.

And something changes.

Something behind his tired eyes shift—something Mark won’t understand until he’s older.

“…Where did you get that cape,” Nolan says, voice low.

Mark startles.

“It’s just a sheet,” he says quickly, adjusting it. “Not a real one. I just thought—”

“You don’t get to wear that.”

The words hit too hard.

Too sharp.

Not loud. But not soft.

Mark’s mouth stays open. Drawing still in his hand.

Nolan steps closer.

“Not yet. Not until you’ve earned it.”

Mark’s arms drop.

He doesn’t ask what earning it means.

He just looks down.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Right. Sorry.”

Nolan doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look angry—not really.

Just… detached.

He walks past Mark without another word.

His boots thud once against the hardwood. Then he disappears down the hallway.

Mark’s left standing there.

Cape slipping from his shoulders. Drawing creased in his fingers.

He looks down at both.

Then lets the paper fall.

The cape slides off. Pools on the floor.

He stares at it for a long time.

Doesn’t cry.

Doesn’t move.

Just breathes.

Then—quietly, like it’s a vow—he bends down, picks the cape up, folds it in half.

Presses it to his chest.

And whispers—

“Then I’ll earn it.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ongoing TAGLIST: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @pumpkin-toffee @aloflapse @helloimamistake @brokeaesthetic @mileskisser @lonely-entity @coquette1core @w-starshine @demonsvessel @feminii @marinefreaakk @moleannan @amidrinksti @irlandajacquelinne-blog @beep-boop-baby @flowerwithnomind

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

64 notes · View notes

achillesvslz · 23 days ago

Text

200 follower special!!

INFO: Mark Grayson Variants reaction to you getting your nipples pierced!!

— warnings for nipple play!!

GN! Reader x Mark Variants!!

— SINISTER MARK

The second your shirt rides up and those piercings catch the light, his entire demeanor shifts. One moment he’s lounging like he owns the room — the next, he’s deadly quiet, sharp gaze locked on your chest like a predator locking in on prey. You can feel the change in the air around him, thick with heat and tension. “You did this without telling me?” he says, voice low and dangerous, but eerily calm — like he’s holding back something violent, or worse, possessive. He moves closer, slow and deliberate, every step radiating restrained hunger until he’s right in front of you. His hand rises — gloved, precise — and hovers just an inch above your skin. He doesn't touch immediately, just watches your body respond to the anticipation. “You let someone else mark you like this?” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. “Put metal through my favorite parts?” His thumb brushes just barely against one ring, and when you flinch — whether from sensitivity or healing pain — his smirk widens. “Still sore? Healing?” He sounds amused. Not sympathetic. And then he does touch, gently at first — thumb dragging in slow, calculated circles around the piercing, before he leans in and closes his mouth around the other, tongue warm and wet and sinful. He sucks slowly, deliberately, the pressure just toeing the edge of too much. “I don’t give a fuck if it hurts. If you’re gonna put these here,” he growls against your skin, “then I’m gonna ruin you."

— MOHAWK MARK

He clocks the piercings the second your shirt lifts, and his reaction is instant—brows shoot up, and that wild grin of his spreads across his face like a slash. “No fuckin’ way,” he mutters, already moving in, eyes glued to your chest like you’ve just handed him a gift with a bow on it. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t give you time to explain. He just palms your chest with a calloused hand, thumbing close—too close—to one ring like he’s testing your reaction. “These real?” he asks, not really caring about the answer. “Goddamn, you just had to make yourself even more distracting, huh?” He leans down, mouthing just beside the metal, breathing hot against your skin before he gently tugs your nipple with his teeth—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you shiver. And when you twitch, probably from the healing soreness, he pauses. “Still healing?” he asks with a smirk. “Mmm. That’s cute.” He doesn’t stop. His tongue swirls around the piercing, lips closing over it, and you feel the heat of his breath as he moans low in his throat. “Bet you were thinking about me when you got ‘em done. You knew I’d go fucking crazy over this.” He alternates between licking and sucking until your knees go weak, never once letting up. “Shit, you’re gonna have to heal around me, babe. I’m not leavin’ these alone.”

— OMNI MARK

He sees them as soon as your shirt shifts—and immediately, the air gets heavier. His gaze drops, unreadable and intense, locked on your chest like he's assessing a threat or a tactical advantage. He doesn’t speak at first. He just steps in closer, slow and composed, towering over you like he already owns the moment. Then his fingers lift—bare, ungloved, clinical—and he brushes them just beneath the jewelry, not touching the piercings themselves, but skimming close enough that your breath stutters. His brows lift slightly. “You got pierced,” he says, not a question, just observation. His thumb moves in a slow, circling motion around the base of one nipple, careful not to disturb the healing—but firm enough to remind you that he’s still in control. “Tch. Reckless,” he murmurs, and for a second, it seems like he might scold you further—but then, just barely, the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite approval. He flicks one ring lightly, just once, to watch the way you react. “You didn’t think I’d notice?” he asks quietly. “Or did you want me to?” His fingers linger for a moment longer, and then he steps back, voice cooler, but final. “They look good on you.”

— MASKLESS MARK

The moment he sees them, his whole face lights up like you’ve just given him something precious. His breath catches, and his eyes go wide—staring, but not in a crude way. He looks genuinely captivated, lips parting slightly as if he forgot what he was saying. “Whoa… seriously?” he murmurs, stepping closer like he’s afraid to touch without permission. “When did you—? Wait, why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you.” His hands hover over your chest for a moment, trembling just a little with restraint. When you nod or guide him closer, his fingers finally land—so gentle it’s barely more than a brush. He traces around one piercing, circling it slowly, taking his time to admire every detail with a quiet reverence. “God, these look amazing on you,” he says softly, in awe more than lust. “Like… really amazing.” He leans in, not to bite or suck, but to gently kiss your skin beside the metal, lips soft and warm. When he tugs lightly on one ring between his fingers, it’s playful—not rough—and the moment you flinch, he stops immediately. “Sorry, too soon?” he whispers, clearly a little flustered. “I’ll behave. Just—damn, you’re already so hot, and now you do this?” His hands cradle your sides, thumbs grazing your skin with tender reverence. “You make it so hard to be good.” He presses another kiss to your sternum, just below, murmuring against your skin, “They suit you. So, so well.”

— VILTRUMITE MARK

His gaze snaps to your chest the second your shirt is lifted, and he goes still—not with surprise, but with a kind of focused scrutiny, like he’s cataloging new data. “What is this?” he asks flatly, reaching out without hesitation. His fingers land on your skin with zero gentleness, thumb brushing one piercing, then the other, slow but firm—more curious than considerate. “You let someone drive metal through your flesh?” he mutters, not judging, exactly… but definitely not approving either. He doesn’t ask if they’re healed. He doesn’t care. He gives one an experimental tug—short and sharp. Not enough to be cruel, but enough to make you wince. He watches you closely when you flinch, eyes narrowing like he’s testing your reaction, testing you. “Sensitive,” he notes simply, as though the pain is a flaw he’s filing away for later. Then he twists one ring between his fingers, idly, as if it's nothing more than a hinge or a lever. “You humans and your modifications… always trying to make yourselves more appealing.” He hums to himself, low and almost amused. His eyes never leave your face. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t stop until he is satisfied. Then finally, he releases you with one last brush of his knuckles over your chest and offers a noncommittal, “They don’t look bad.” The closest thing to a compliment you’ll get from him—grudging, clipped, and barely earned. But he lingers after he says it, gaze dragging slowly back to the piercings with just a flicker of interest behind his usual mask of dominance.

— PRISONER MARK

The second your shirt lifts and he gets a look at your chest, his expression sharpens like a blade. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, stepping in close before you can even speak. His hands are rough and calloused, worn from fights and restraints, and they move before you give permission—thumbs ghosting over your chest with calculated pressure. He doesn’t touch the piercings at first. He just stares, like he’s trying to figure out what the hell possessed you to do it. “You really went and did this while I was locked up?” His tone is low, pissed, but there’s something else there too—something that betrays how tightly he’s holding himself back. He wants to hate them. The idea of someone else being close enough to put them there twists in his gut, and for a moment, his grip on your waist tightens possessively. “Looks like hell to heal,” he mutters, and yet, his fingers are already drifting toward one, brushing it just enough to make your breath hitch. That smug grin curls onto his face, slowly. “Sensitive, huh?” He tugs lightly, testing your reaction. Then again—harder this time. Not cruel, but bold. Messy. Like he’s punishing you for turning him on. “Yeah, I hate ‘em,” he says, eyes still locked on the way your body tenses beneath him, “but fuck—” he breathes out a short laugh, low and hungry, “they do something to me.” He leans in, forehead resting against yours for a beat, his voice softer but still strained. “Next time you think about decorating yourself like that, maybe run it by me.” Another pull—possessive this time, slower. Then he lets go, rough hands trailing down your sides. “They’re stupid. But they look… good.” He says it like it physically hurts to admit it.

— NO GOGGLES MARK

The second he sees the piercings, his grin stretches wide—too wide. There's that glint in his eye again, the one that never bodes well for your sanity. “Oh, you’re just asking for it,” he laughs, stepping up so close you can feel his breath on your chest. He doesn’t hesitate—not even a second. His hand is on you immediately, fingers curling around one of the piercings, thumb pressing down hard enough to make your whole body jolt. “Still healing?” he says with mock sympathy, and then slaps one nipple—sharp, fast, stinging. He watches the way you flinch, and a low, breathless chuckle escapes him. “Oh damn, that was beautiful.”

He tugs the ring, twists it, presses it down just enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain, giggling like it’s his favorite toy. “You look so fucking good like this—pierced, helpless, all twitchy and sweet.” His other hand joins in, swatting at the other nipple, then pinching it between two fingers with cruel amusement. “I shouldn’t be doing this. You’re probably gonna bruise, huh?” He doesn’t sound remorseful at all—just turned on. Hard. You can feel it when he presses up against you, still laughing softly.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear. His voice is a low growl, hungry and gleeful. “Oh fuck, I can’t wait till I see you in bed,” he whispers, breath hitching. “When I’m twisting them so hard you scream for me.” He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, still grinning like the devil. “That’s the kind of music I live for.”

— FULL MASK MARK

The second he sees them, he physically freezes—like you just hit him with a brick. There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then the full mask tips downward in the most obvious attempt to not stare, which completely fails when his head jerks right back up for another glance. “Holy—wow, okay,” he stammers, voice cracking slightly through the modulator. “That’s, uh. That’s new.”

He doesn’t reach for you right away—he’s too busy short-circuiting. His hands twitch at his sides, flexing like he wants to touch but is still trying to figure out if he’s allowed. When you give him the okay, he moves in slow, reverent, like he’s afraid to break you. His fingers hover, then gently trace the edge of one piercing, careful not to brush too close. “They… they look really good on you,” he says, breath catching. “Like—too good. Like unfair levels of hot. Honestly, how am I supposed to focus now?”

His gloved hand lifts to cup your chest, firm but sweet, and he lets out a nervous laugh when you shiver under the touch. “God, you have no idea how hard it is not to stare,” he groans. “I’m gonna be thinking about this all day. All week. You already drive me crazy and now you’ve got shiny little… distractions right where I’m weakest?” He leans in close, resting his masked forehead against your shoulder for a second like he’s overwhelmed. “That should be illegal,” he mutters. “Seriously.”

Then, just before he pulls back, he whispers—soft, but honest—“You looked good before, but this? This is unfair.”

— SHEISTY MARK

The moment you lift your shirt and show him the piercings, time stops for him. His jaw drops, eyes bulge, and then—“Baby, what the actual fuck?” he exclaims, voice jumping a full octave. He’s grinning so hard it’s almost ridiculous, one hand already moving to your chest like he has to confirm it’s real. “You—you really went and got ‘em done? Like for me? Shit, don’t tell me that or I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.” He doesn’t even pretend to hold back. His mouth is already trailing kisses down your chest, eyes flicking up with wicked delight. “Damn, they look so fucking good on you, baby. I mean—fuck. You’re trying to kill me, huh? Is this a test?” His tongue flicks out like he’s teasing a treat he’s not allowed to have, but that doesn’t last long. The second he knows you’re healed enough, he dives in. One nipple’s in his mouth, then the other—hot, greedy, wet. He’s sucking like he’s making up for some deep childhood deficiency, groaning through it like he’s never tasted anything better. His hands pin your hips like he needs you to stay still, hips grinding into yours like he’s beyond help. “Shit—shit, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he pants between sucks, breath hot and needy against your skin. “You’re so fucking hot—I swear to God, I’m gonna be thinking about this every damn time I close my eyes.” Then, with your nipple still lightly grazed between his teeth, he mutters, “Baby, if you thought I was bad before—just wait. I’m gonna suck on these like I wasn’t even breastfed.”

671 notes · View notes

stareiiez · 4 days ago

Note

Random but what do we think about all the mark variants going through no nut November and what eventually makes them crack (reader)?

FINALLY getting to this :) here we go

Sinister Mark

No Nut November is for idiots and simple minded people that are too ashamed to get their dicks wet like he does twice a day, every day. sometimes more if he's feeling extra worked up. when you told him about the ' challenge ' as a joke; he looked pissed that you would even suggest such a thing to him. his lips curled in a sneer, eyes squinted to a low glare that could melt ice.

what? you don't want to fuck him anymore? you think his dick ain't that good enough anymore? fuck that, he's got you in a head lock/ full nelson while fucking you. spitting in your ear about, here is what he thinks about your stupid human challenge.

Mohawk Mark.

He took that No Nut November as a challenge to heart. He wanted to prove he's superior enough to go through one month of no touching you or vice versa. A ruler such as himself, can do this easily. He sneered in your face when accepting the stupid idea.

what breaks him. . however? He can hear you touching yourself when he's sleeping next to you. The buzz of the vibrator you're using ain't that fucking quiet, and the sloppy pussy of yours wakes him from his dreams. he's got your ankles by your ears, clothes shredded off both your bodies. his first load spurts out extra thick and creamy, just how he likes to leave you filled.

Lens-less Mark.

Does not break. He's gone above and beyond to secure his place in the ' most badass man ' out there by beating this challenge. He's gone above and beyond, he has a cock cage that holds his swollen dick 24/7. Except when he pees, he's extra sensitive. Don't ask how he got it, he's into things that would make your wildest fantasies look like boring and comical. His balls are screaming at him to just touch you, just put the tip in at least for a second. But he endures the pain with a smile, because he knows when he'll cum after this month? It'll burn or sting, and it'll feel so fucking good.

Head Cap Mark.

breaks after a week. it got too boring for him. restrict him? of sex? please. besides, he's gotten tired of you eyeing his bulge in his costume everytime he puts it on. the sixe of it slightly grows larger, you swear, because of your neglect. you and your wandering eyes and doe eyed fucking stare when he talks is enough to shatter his walls.

he breaks when you brush against him. either by accident, like walking past, or you want to taunt him by sliding a hand down his arm when you talk to him. you and your stupid eyes are made to roll in the back of your skull when he has a thumb hooked into your ass while he plows you over the arm of your sofa.

Shiesty Mark

Fuck you and fuck off. He's fucking every single day of the month. If you're trying to egg him on with No Nut November? He'll go sleep with the pretty blonde down the hall with massive knockers and the too short skirt that lifts up at the smallest of breezes.

Omni- Mark.

Take this very seriously. He sleeps in another room to avoid even touching you. Completes almost the whole month of No Nut November until you're the one to actually whine and beg for sex. he makes you drop to your knees, hands pawing at his cape like a wounded puppy.

he fucks you to shut you the hell up when your whining gets too much on his nerves. he fucks you because you don't get on your knees for him enough.

Fully Masked Mark.

Breaks after half a day. you feel bad for even joking about the challenge, the look in his eyes makes your heart squeeze.

lil sweetie can't handle not touching you, smelling you, kissing you, licking you, biting you, tasting y---

take your clothes off. he needs to feel you again. so what if you two have already screwed three times already. he needs you again.

467 notes · View notes

mocharyc · 2 months ago

Text

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 6✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

♡ A new variant appears?♡

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Broken Convergence‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 12k+ [Part 6] ☆ TW: fluff ☆ Author's Note: Hi everyone. Sorry for the late update; I went to Knotts Berry Farm and got hella sick. People really need the decency to cover up when coughing (￣へ￣）Anyway, I wrote this chapter with a fever, lol, I hope y'all like it! ––––––––––––––

Omni had only a split second to react. His enhanced senses detected the threat before the sound reached his ears—a rush of air, the crack of wood splintering, and the unmistakable scent of rage. The muscles beneath his red and white suit tensed as years of combat training took over, his jawline hardening with determination.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD OMNI—!"

In one fluid motion, Omni slipped his mask back over his eyes, concealing the vulnerability he'd shown only to Y/N moments before. The black lenses obscured the conflict in his blue eyes as he covered her body with his own. His massive frame enveloped her completely, shielding her from the incoming assault. The mattress springs groaned in protest as he shifted his weight, his arms creating a protective cage around her smaller form.

Mohawk Mark burst through the doorway, the wooden frame exploding into splinters that scattered across the cabin floor like deadly confetti.

His blue and black suit was torn in places, smeared with dirt and blood—evidence of the destruction he'd been wreaking across the planet. His signature mohawk was disheveled, strands of dark hair falling across his forehead like jagged shadows. His eyes blazed with unrestrained fury, pupils constricted to pinpoints as he caught sight of Omni hovering protectively over Y/N.

Mohawk's lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing teeth clenched so tightly that a vein pulsed visibly at his temple. The purple-blue line throbbed beneath his skin in time with his racing heartbeat, a visual indicator of his barely contained rage.

"I KNEW IT!" he roared, spittle flying from his mouth. The veins in his neck stood out prominently, his face flushed dark with rage until it matched the crimson of his blood-splattered suit.

"Sneaking off to have her all to yourself!"

He launched himself at Omni, his body becoming a blur of motion. His fist connected with Omni's forearm as the red-suited variant blocked the attack with mathematical precision. The impact sent shockwaves through the cabin, rattling the remaining windows and knocking dust from the ceiling beams. The sound was like a thunderclap contained within the small space, reverberating off the walls and assaulting Y/N's ears.

Despite Omni's protection, Y/N felt the vibration of the impact jolt through her body. Mohawk's knee drove into her abdomen as he collided with Omni, reopening the barely-healed wound in her torso. Her vision exploded with white-hot pain, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as fresh blood soaked through her bandages. The warmth of it against her skin was instant and alarming, a stark contrast to the chill that began to spread through her limbs.

Mohawk's momentum carried both him and Omni through the opposite wall, their bodies tearing through the aged wood like it was paper. Splinters and debris showered the forest floor as they tumbled outside, uprooting trees as they grappled, each impact reverberating through the ground like thunder.

Y/N curled into herself, clutching her reopened wound. Crimson seeped between her fingers, warm and sticky against her skin. The copper scent of her own blood filled her nostrils, making her stomach twist with nausea. Her breath came in short, pained gasps as she tried to focus through the haze of agony. Beads of cold sweat formed on her forehead as her face contorted with pain, her brows drawing together and lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

"Damn it," she hissed through gritted teeth, her pupils dilated with shock. The wound from Prisoner's rusted pipe strike had never fully healed, and No-Mask's hurried medical work hadn't been enough to prevent infection.

As a man-made Viltrumite, she lacked the immunity to disease that true Viltrumites possessed. The infection had been festering beneath her skin, weakening her from within. She could feel it now—the unnatural heat radiating from her wound, the subtle but persistent throbbing that extended beyond the immediate injury.

The cabin creaked ominously around her, the structural integrity compromised by the variants' violent exit. A section of the roof had already partially collapsed, sending dust and debris raining down onto the bed. Y/N's eyes darted around the deteriorating structure, fear flickering across her features as survival instincts finally kicked in.

Outside, the battle intensified. Mohawk pounded his fist into the ground where Omni had been a millisecond before, the impact creating a crater six feet wide. The earth itself seemed to scream in protest, fracturing and buckling under the force of his rage.

"She's not yours!" Mohawk bellowed, throwing a punch that connected with Omni's jaw. The sound was like thunder, the shockwave rattling what remained of the cabin's windows. His eyes were wild, pupils constricted to pinpoints, lips pulled back in a snarl that revealed clenched teeth. A thin line of saliva stretched between his upper and lower lip as he shouted, his rage turning him feral. "None of us get to have her if all of us can't!"

Omni absorbed the blow, head snapping to the side before he recovered, his movements calculated and precise despite the fury of Mohawk's attack. Unlike his opponent, Omni's face remained a mask of calm, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his anger. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, the only evidence that Mohawk's blow had landed. He wiped it away with mathematical precision, not a wasted movement in sight.

"You don't understand what's happening," Omni stated, his voice level despite the situation. He dodged another punch, the air whistling as Mohawk's fist passed inches from his face. His body moved with fluid grace, each dodge and counter-strike executed with perfect efficiency. "She needed protection—"

"Protection?!" Mohawk laughed, the sound hollow and manic as he grabbed a nearby tree, uprooting it with terrifying ease. Soil and roots dangled from the massive trunk as he hefted it like a bat. Muscles bulged beneath his torn suit, veins standing out in stark relief against his skin. His eyes glittered with cruel amusement. "Is that what you call fucking her while she's injured? Some protection!"

Y/N felt heat rush to her face at Mohawk's crude accusation, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and indignation. The cabin creaked ominously around her, the structural integrity compromised by the variants' violent exit. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling, a section of which had already partially collapsed.

Something primal stirred within her—self-preservation that had lain dormant under the collar's suppression. With desperate concentration, she focused on the power that had been denied her for so long. The sensation was like electricity coursing through her veins, uncomfortable yet exhilarating. Her muscles trembled with the effort, her face contorting as she pushed against her limitations, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched.

The energy within her built slowly at first, then with increasing speed—a tingling at her core that spread outward to her limbs. It was like rediscovering a part of herself that had been amputated, painful in its return yet undeniably right. Her skin prickled with goosebumps, fine hairs standing on end as power surged through her.

With a strained grunt, Y/N launched herself toward the hole Omni and Mohawk had created. Her flight was wobbly, unpracticed—she ricocheted off the remaining wall, crying out as the impact sent fresh waves of pain through her torso. Blood trickled from the reopened wound, drops falling like crimson rain to the ruined cabin below as she corrected her trajectory and burst through the opening just as the cabin's roof collapsed with a deafening crash.

Dust and debris billowed outward, enveloping her in a cloud of particles that stung her eyes and choked her lungs. She coughed violently, each spasm sending darts of pain through her reopened wound. Her flight faltered, her concentration wavering as she struggled to stay airborne.

Outside, the battle intensified. Mohawk and Omni clashed in midair, the sound of their collisions echoing like cannon fire. Where Mohawk fought with wild, erratic movements fueled by emotional rage, Omni moved with precision, each strike calculated for maximum effect. Trees splintered and fell as they used the forest as their battleground, neither willing to yield.

"JUST FUCKING DIE!! She's MINE!" Mohawk roared, his voice cracking with emotion. His eyes were wild and unfocused, the veins in his forehead prominent as he drove his fist toward Omni's face. Sweat beaded on his brow, flying off in droplets with each violent movement. His mohawk had become completely disheveled, hanging limply to one side. "I found her first!"

Omni deflected the blow with efficiency, his expression composed despite the fury blazing behind his mask. His jawline remained tense, only the slight flare of his nostrils betraying his emotional state as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. Every movement was a study in controlled power, not a single motion wasted.

"Your claim is irrelevant," Omni replied, his voice cold and even. His eyes narrowed behind his mask, assessing Mohawk's weaknesses with clinical precision. Each word was delivered with perfect speech as if he were discussing a scientific theory rather than fighting for the possession of a woman. "You're too volatile, too unpredictable. You'll get her killed."

Y/N hovered uncertainly above the destruction, her limbs heavy and uncooperative as she struggled to maintain altitude. The forest below was being systematically destroyed, a mirror of the greater devastation they'd been inflicting on the planet before she had entered their lives. Massive trees lay uprooted, their ancient trunks splintered like matchsticks. Craters scarred the earth where superhuman blows had connected, the once-lush landscape now resembling a war zone.

"Enjoying the fight, my little warrior?" a silky voice whispered in her ear.

The whispered words caressed her ear, warm breath tickling her neck. Y/N flinched violently, her concentration breaking as she faltered in the air. The almost imperceptible scent of expensive cologne mixed with something darker, more primal, invaded her nostrils. Her stomach lurched as she began to fall—only to be caught by strong arms that pulled her firmly against a solid chest.

Sinister's hold was both gentle and possessive, his yellow and black suit vibrant against the blue sky. His lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes—eyes that burned with an intensity that made her breath catch. The scent of sulfur and something darker, more primal, clung to him as he pressed his nose against the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply like a predator committing its prey's scent to memory. His breath was hot against her skin, raising goosebumps despite the fever burning through her.

His entire body stiffened, the smile freezing on his face. When he pulled back to look at her, his expression had transformed into something dangerous, the mask of charm slipping to reveal the predator beneath. His pupils dilated, nearly swallowing the iris as his nostrils flared, drinking in her scent with animal intensity.

"Why does Omni's scent cover you so completely?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. His fingers dug into her arms, not enough to bruise but enough to demonstrate the barely leashed strength he possessed. The veins in his neck stood out prominently as he struggled to control his reaction, pulsing visibly beneath his skin.

"He was watching you… What exactly happened between you two in that cabin?"

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but Sinister's grip shifted, one hand moving to cup her face. His thumb and forefinger pressed against her cheeks, squeezing until her lips puckered slightly. A drop of blood welled at the corner of her mouth where her split lip reopened, the metallic taste coating her tongue. His touch was paradoxically gentle despite the power behind it, his fingers warm against her fever-chilled skin.

"Why him?" Sinister whispered, his face close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath. Something vulnerable flashed in his eyes, a momentary glimpse of raw pain before it was swallowed by possessive fury. The muscles in his jaw worked beneath his skin, tension radiating from his body.

"Why not me? I would have protected you just as fiercely. I would have worshipped you more thoroughly."

His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, wiping away the blood. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted sharply with the tension radiating from his body. His pupils dilated as he stared at the smear of crimson on his glove, his breathing becoming more ragged. He brought the blood-stained finger to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the crimson smear. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring the metallic taste of her. When they opened again, they were darker, hungrier.

"Release her, Sinister."

The commanding voice cut through the tension like a knife. Viltrumite Mark hovered several feet away, his pristine white uniform a stark contrast against the smoky sky. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his face a mask of disapproval, eyes cold with barely restrained anger. Unlike the others, Viltrumite Mark carried himself with an almost regal bearing—shoulders squared, chin raised, every inch of him radiating authority.

"This doesn't concern you, old man," Sinister snarled.

His grip on Y/N remained unyielding, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her suit where it clung to her fever-dampened skin. The heat of his body radiated through the material, creating a cocoon of warmth that simultaneously comforted and alarmed her. His arm snaked possessively around her waist, resting just below her wound. The subtle pressure sent lightning bolts of pain through her abdomen, yet there was something intimately protective in the way he held her—like she was something precious he'd lost and miraculously found again.

Viltrumite Mark's expression hardened, the muscles in his jaw flexing beneath his skin like steel cables being pulled taut. Afternoon sunlight caught in his eyes, illuminating the amber flecks hidden within the depths of brown, giving them an almost supernatural glow. A subtle twitch appeared at the corner of his right eye—the only visible indication of his growing anger.

"Everything concerning her involves all of us," he stated, his voice dropping an octave, the words vibrating with barely restrained fury.

He moved closer, each step measured and precise, the pristine white of his uniform a stark contrast to the destruction surrounding them. The devastated forest stretched like a wound across the landscape, with uprooted trees, and shattered earth testament to the variants' earlier battle. The distant smoke of burning cities hung on the horizon, a grim reminder of the chaos they had unleashed upon this world.

"You will release her. Now." The command hung in the air, heavy with authority.

"Or what?" Sinister's lips stretched into a smile that was all teeth, gleaming white against his tanned skin.

His eyes never left Viltrumite Mark's face, challenge radiating from his posture—from the defiant tilt of his chin to the ready tension in his shoulders. His body coiled like a spring, prepared for conflict, fingers digging minutely deeper into Y/N's flesh. The small indentations would surely leave bruises, and violet shadows to mark his possession.

"You'll fight me? Go ahead," he taunted, his breath hot against Y/N's ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "But remember who bleeds if I drop her."

"Stop it," Y/N said, her voice stronger than she expected.

She pressed her palms against Sinister's chest, creating a small space between them. The firm muscle beneath her fingers tensed at her touch, his heartbeat pounding against her palms like a war drum. Her eyes flashed with determination despite the pain etched into the lines of her face, fever making her skin glow almost luminescent in the filtered sunlight that pierced through the swirling dust.

"I'm not a prize to be fought over," she declared, each word precise and cutting.

Both variants looked at her with surprise, clearly not expecting resistance from her in her weakened state. A bead of sweat traced its way down her temple, a testament to the infection raging through her system, yet her gaze remained steady and defiant.

Viltrumite Mark recovered first, his expression softening fractionally. The harsh lines around his mouth relaxed, though the tension in his powerful frame remained. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly, becoming less threatening while still maintaining his authority—a predator choosing to retract its claws, but only momentarily.

"Of course not," he agreed, inclining his head slightly. The gesture was almost courtly, a curious formality amidst the apocalyptic landscape. "You are far more valuable than any prize. Which is precisely why you should not be manhandled by this—" his lip curled with distaste, "—degenerate."

Sinister's laughter erupted, sharp and brittle like breaking glass. It bounced off the ruined landscape, echoing in the unnatural silence that had fallen over the devastated forest.

"Such hypocrisy!" he spat, the words dripping with contempt. "You fucking smell her too, don't you?"

He leaned in closer to Y/N, his nose brushing against the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply. The intimate gesture was performed with deliberate provocation, his eyes remaining fixed on Viltrumite Mark, gleaming with malicious amusement.

His lips, warm and soft, grazed her pulse point—not quite a kiss, but something more possessive, more primal. Y/N couldn't suppress the involuntary shudder that rippled through her body, her traitorous nerves responding to his touch despite her better judgment.

"Tell me, old man," Sinister continued, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that seemed to caress her skin, "does it burn you up inside knowing he got to her first? That she chose that cold, calculating bastard over the rest of us?"

Viltrumite Mark's nostrils flared as he took in the scene, his enhanced senses confirming what Sinister had said. The scent of another variant on Y/N's skin was unmistakable—the unique pheromonal signature of Omni lingering on her like an invisible brand. His expression hardened, the lines around his mouth deepening as his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek.

The white of his uniform seemed to glow in the afternoon light, immaculate despite the chaos around him—a visual representation of his attempt to maintain control, to rise above the base instincts that drove the other variants.

"What have you done?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. His gaze fixed on Sinister, misinterpreting the situation. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking with the tension. "You think you can claim her? Mark her with your scent like some animal?"

Sinister's lips pulled back in a sneer, his arms tightening protectively around Y/N. For all his antagonism, there was something genuinely defensive in the way he held her now as if shielding her from judgment.

"Are you blind? I just fucking told you it wasn't me," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. The vein in his temple pulsed visibly with each heartbeat, his anger a living thing beneath his skin. "It was Omni. The so-called perfect, logical Mark couldn't keep his hands to himself."

Viltrumite's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed to slits. His carefully maintained composure cracked, revealing a glimpse of the fury beneath. The perfect stillness of his body was more threatening than any movement could have been.

"Liar," he snarled, launching himself at Sinister with blinding speed.

Sinister released Y/N just before impact, sending her tumbling through the air as he met Viltrumite Mark's charge. The collision sent shockwaves through the atmosphere, the sound like a thunderclap as the two variants grappled midair. Their bodies moved so quickly they became blurs of yellow, black, and white, punctuated by the explosive sounds of their blows connecting.

Y/N struggled to stabilize herself, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. The infection was spreading rapidly, sapping her strength with each passing moment. Her vision blurred, the world tilting dangerously around her. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her skin flushed with fever despite the chill in the air. The edges of her sight darkened, threatening unconsciousness as her body fought the invasive infection.

Below, the battle had escalated. Omni and Mohawk had noticed the new conflict and were now involved in a four-way brawl that tore through what remained of the forest like a tornado. Trees snapped like toothpicks under the force of their blows, the earth itself cratering with each impact. The air vibrated with the concussive force of their combat, dust and debris swirling in chaotic patterns around the fighting variants.

Most of the forest had been uprooted, leaving a desolate wasteland punctuated by splintered stumps and massive trees embedded in the earth like javelins. Boulders had been pulverized into dust, the very ground scarred and cratered by their supernatural strength. The destruction was systematic and complete—a microcosm of what they had been doing to the entire planet.

Y/N watched in horror as the variants tried to tear each other apart. All because of her. All because each believed she belonged to them alone. Her heart raced, pounding against her ribcage as if trying to escape. The stitches in her side pulled with each labored breath, blood still seeping through the bandages to stain her clothing.

"Stop!" she cried, her voice lost in the cacophony of destruction. Her face contorted with desperation, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "Please, stop!"

Mohawk, his face twisted in a feral snarl, ripped a massive tree from the ground and hurled it at Omni. The red-suited variant easily dodged, the improvised projectile sailing past him toward Sinister and Viltrumite.

Both variants moved in unison, avoiding the missile without breaking their combat rhythm. Viltrumite punched the tree as it passed, splitting it in half. One section continued its trajectory, spinning wildly through the air.

Directly toward Y/N.

Under normal circumstances, she would have easily evaded the danger. But weakened by infection, disoriented by blood loss, and out of practice with her powers, Y/N found herself frozen in place. Her muscles locked, her mind blank with sudden panic, eyes wide with terror. The fever clouding her thoughts slowed her reactions to a crawl, leaving her hovering helplessly in the path of destruction.

The massive tree trunk hurtled toward her, and she couldn't move.

Time seemed to slow. Y/N watched the projectile approach, oddly detached from the reality of her impending doom. She could see the rough texture of the bark, and count the rings in the exposed wood where it had been torn from the earth. She could make out individual leaves still clinging to its branches, trembling in the disturbed air. She could hear the whistle of air being displaced as it approached, feel the subtle change in pressure against her skin.

"NO!" The cry came from multiple throats at once, a chorus of horror as all four variants realized her peril simultaneously.

They moved as one, abandoning their fights to converge on Y/N. Four blurs—red and white, blue and black, yellow and black, pure white—streaked through the air, racing against the projectile threatening to end her life.

Omni reached her first, his arm wrapping around her waist to pull her aside. His body was solid and warm against hers, his grip secure yet careful to avoid her injury.

The scent of him—clean, masculine, with undertones of sandalwood—enveloped her, familiar from the night before together. For a moment, despite the danger, her body responded to his proximity, remembering the gentle yet passionate way he had touched her in the cabin.

Sinister appeared a fraction of a second later, his body positioned to shield her from impact. His back pressed against her front, creating a protective sandwich with Omni behind her. The heat of his body seeped through her suit, his powerful back muscles tensing as he prepared to take the brunt of the impact. There was something achingly vulnerable in his willingness to use his body as a shield for her—this man who had helped destroy her world.

Viltrumite Mark and Mohawk arrived in the same instant, each grabbing part of the tree trunk, their combined strength bringing it to an abrupt halt mere inches from where Y/N now hovered in Omni's protective embrace. The wood splintered under their grip, sap oozing from the fresh breaks like amber tears.

The sudden silence was deafening after the chaos of battle. All four variants were breathing heavily, not from exertion but from fear—fear for her safety. Their eyes were wide, pupils dilated, faces drained of color at how close they had come to losing her again.

Y/N stared at the tree trunk still held in Viltrumite Mark and Mohawk's grip, her heart hammering against her ribs. The blood drained from her face as shock set in, leaving her pale and trembling, her lips bloodless and parted in silent terror.

For a moment, she couldn't process how close she'd come to death. Her mind struggled to reconcile the violence around her with the protective circle now forming.

A hot flush spread across her cheeks as she realized the intensity of their gazes. Each variant looked at her with fierce protectiveness—Omni's eyes burned with determination behind his mask, his jaw set tight; Mohawk's wild gaze was tempered with genuine fear, his usual sneer replaced with concern; Sinister's face showed naked possessiveness, his lips slightly parted and breath ragged; and Viltrumite Mark's regal features were softened by relief, his eyes reflecting a pain born from past loss.

Omni's arm tightened around her waist, careful to avoid her injury. "Are you alright?" he murmured in her ear, his voice low and urgent as his hot breath fanned over one side of her face.

Despite the mask covering his eyes, she could see the concern etched into every line of his face—the tight set of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the tension around his mouth. For once, his voice held a tremor of emotion, breaking through his usually perfect control. The hand at her waist moved in a small circle, a subtle, unconscious caress that sent warmth blooming through her despite her weakened state.

"I—yes," she managed, though her voice shook as badly as her limbs. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her weak and disoriented. Blood continued to seep through her bandages, the crimson stain spreading wider across the fabric. The world spun around her, fever and blood loss taking their toll. She leaned heavily against Omni, no longer able to support her own weight.

Mohawk and Viltrumite Mark discarded the tree trunk, letting it fall to the devastated landscape below with a thunderous crash. The four variants formed a protective circle around Y/N, their previous animosity temporarily forgotten in the wake of her near-miss. Their bodies created a wall between her and the world, a barrier made of flesh and bone and superhuman power.

Y/N looked at each of them in turn, seeing the intensity in their eyes, the tension in their faces, and the mix of possessiveness and genuine concern that animated their features. It was overwhelming, this circle of identical yet different men, all focused solely on her. Each face was the same, yet each expression was unique—Omni's controlled precision, Mohawk's volatile emotion, Sinister's predatory charm, Viltrumite Mark's regal authority.

"This is ridiculous," she said, her voice steadier now despite the blood loss making her light-headed. Her eyes flashed with defiance, fever giving them an unnatural brightness. "You're fighting over me like I'm some... some trophy, but none of you bothered to ask what I want."

The variants exchanged glances, a mixture of guilt and stubbornness on their faces. The tension between them was palpable, a living thing that crackled in the air like electricity. For a moment, no one spoke, the only sound was the distant crash of falling trees damaged in their battle.

Mohawk was the first to break the silence, a bark of laughter escaping his throat. The sound was harsh and abrupt, startling against the sudden quiet. His blue and black suit was torn in places, revealing tanned skin beneath. Dust and debris clung to his signature mohawk, dulling its usual sharp silhouette.

"Well, sleeping beauty, what do you want?" he asked, cocking his head to one side, his mohawk flopping slightly with the movement.

There was genuine curiosity beneath his usual bravado, his brown eyes searching her face intently. A drop of blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, tracing a path down his temple like a crimson tear. His gaze flicked briefly to Omni's arm still wrapped around her waist, a scowl darkening his features.

"Because from where I'm standing, it looks like Omni already staked his claim." The accusation hung in the air, loaded with resentment and jealousy.

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks, painfully aware of how she must appear to them—Omni's scent on her skin, her lips still swollen from his kisses, her body cradled protectively against his. She felt Omni's grip tighten almost imperceptibly around her waist, a silent claim that contradicted his seemingly logical demeanor. His thumb moved in a small, soothing circle against her side, the gesture intimate and possessive.

"I don't belong to anyone," she stated firmly, though her voice lacked some conviction as she remained in Omni's embrace. Her chin lifted defiantly, eyes flashing with feverish intensity. "Not the GDA, not Cecil, and not..." she hesitated, her eyes moving from one variant to the next, lingering on each identical yet distinct face, "...not any of you."

They all pause, as the air around them seems to wobble, particles shifting in an unnatural pattern before turning to normal…

She sighed ignoring it as a bitter laugh escaped her lips. The sound was hollow, edged with pain and frustration. "Without the collar, I don't serve a purpose for any of you. I'm not a weapon, not a tool to be used and discarded." The words burned in her throat, raw with emotion. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles white with tension.

Viltrumite Mark's expression softened almost imperceptibly. The hard lines around his mouth relaxed, his eyes warming with something akin to tenderness. The white of his uniform caught the late afternoon light, giving him an almost angelic appearance that belied the destruction he had helped cause.

"You misunderstand," he said, his voice gentler than she had ever heard it.

"We used the collar as just another means for us convincing ourselves there was a logical approach to keeping you alive. Now without it, our claim still stands,” he hums softly.

“We don't seek to own you or use you. We seek to cherish you." A flicker of vulnerability crossed his usually stoic face, a glimpse of the man beneath the regal exterior. "Each of us lost you once. We cannot bear to lose you again."

His words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Y/N's eyes widened slightly, the sincerity in his voice striking something deep within her. Before she could respond, another voice cut through the moment.

"Can't we all just have her?" The question came from behind them, unexpected and startling.

All heads turned to see No-Mask hovering several yards away, his expression unusually thoughtful. Unlike the others, his face was still fully visible, allowing Y/N to see the earnestness in his eyes, the slight uncertainty in the set of his mouth. His face was somehow softer, more open than the others, lacking the hardened edge that years of wearing a mask had given them.

Without the barrier of a mask, his emotions were laid bare—confusion, desire, hope all visible in his expressive features. The late afternoon sun gilded his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the depths of his unguarded eyes. There was something disarmingly honest about him that made Y/N's heart flutter despite her condition.

"What did you just say?" Sinister's voice was dangerously soft as he regarded No-Mask. His body tensed, readying for another potential fight, the muscle in his jaw jumping with tension.

"I mean, she's clearly important to all of us," No-Mask continued, his expression thoughtful. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that was both nervous and thoughtful.

"Fighting over her is just going to get her killed." His eyes darted to Y/N's wound, concern evident in his gaze. "Look at her—she's already suffering because of our conflict."

Another figure appeared beside him, drifting lazily through the air. Prisoner Mark, his burned face twisted in a permanent sneer, his eyes roving over Y/N's body with unconcealed interest. The scar tissue pulled his lips into an asymmetrical grimace that might have been a smile. Light glinted off the metal restraints still attached to his wrists, remnants of his imprisonment that he wore like trophies.

"I mean, she's got three holes," he drawled, his voice rough and gravelly from smoke damage.

"But we can make it work." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the movement slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving Y/N's body. The crude suggestion hung in the air, made all the more disturbing by his casual delivery.

Disgust and revulsion flooded through Y/N, her stomach churning with nausea, her upper lip curling in distaste. Yet beneath her revulsion, there was something else—a flutter of confused interest as no one seemed to disagree with Prisoner's statement. The silence from the others was deafening, their lack of objection more telling than any words could have been.

She looked up at Omni, his hands still loosely around her waist. His face betrayed nothing, but the tension in his body told a different story. The muscles beneath his suit were coiled tight, his breathing carefully controlled. She thought she had built a connection with him in the cabin during their half-night together. She thought he saw her differently, as more than just a replacement for the Y/N he had lost. But now, surrounded by these men who all wore the same face, she wasn't sure anymore.

The realization hit her like a physical blow: Why were all these men so obsessed with her? Was it truly her they wanted, or the memory of the women they had lost? Was she nothing more than a ghost to them, a shadow of women long dead?

She needed to get away. Away from these men who looked at her like she was a prize to be won, a possession to be claimed. Away from the conflicting emotions they stirred within her—the disgust and the attraction, the fear and the longing.

With a desperate surge of strength, Y/N pushed Omni away and fled, pushing her weakened body to its limits as she shot through the air. The wind whipped past her face, cooling the fever heat of her skin. Below, the forest blurred into a sea of green, the destruction caused by the variants' battle a dark scar across the landscape.

Freedom was within her grasp. She could escape, could find somewhere to hide until she'd recovered enough to—

Strong hands closed around her waist, halting her flight so suddenly that the air was knocked from her lungs. Looking back, she found herself staring into Mohawk's face, his expression unexpectedly gentle despite the harsh lines etched around his mouth. The setting sun backlit his signature mohawk, creating a halo effect that softened his typically menacing appearance. Tiny beads of sweat glistened along his temples, catching the golden light. His jaw—usually set in a perpetual sneer—had relaxed, revealing a vulnerability she hadn't seen before.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice firm but gentle. His hands were steady on her waist, his grip secure without being painful. "Not in your condition."

Unlike the other variants, Mohawk wore his emotions openly on his face. The harsh lines around his mouth had softened, and his perpetually furrowed brow had relaxed. His eyes—those deep brown pools flecked with amber when caught in the right light—held a desperate intensity that made her breath catch. Behind the typical hardness of his expression lurked something raw and unguarded. When he looked at her, the snarky mask slipped, revealing not just desire but a terrifying depth of obsession.

Even now, as he held her suspended in the air, his thumbs absently traced small circles against her sides. The sensation sent shivers across her fevered skin, conflicting emotions of comfort and unease battling within her.

"Let me go," Y/N demanded, her voice weaker than she intended. She struggled against his hold, but her strength was fading rapidly. The infection was spreading, her temperature rising dangerously. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, trailing down her temples in rivulets that caught the dying sunlight like diamond tracks. Her skin flushed an alarming crimson, hot to the touch and stretched taut across her cheekbones. "I don't belong to any of you!"

"No, you don't," Mohawk agreed, surprising her. His voice cracked slightly, betraying his emotional state. The hand not supporting her waist came up to brush a sweat-soaked strand of hair from her forehead. His calloused fingers felt blessedly cool against her burning skin.

"But you need help. You're dying, Y/N. You are not a Viltrumite like the rest of us... you are man-made." His eyes dropped to her wound, where fresh blood was seeping through the bandages, the crimson stain spreading in a grotesque blooming pattern across the fabric. The metallic scent of her blood hung in the air between them, sharp and alarming. "Your body can't fight this infection without help."

The blunt assessment stopped her struggles. She knew he was right—could feel her body failing, the infection burning through her defenses like wildfire. Without proper medical care, she wouldn't survive much longer. The fever was clouding her thoughts, making her limbs heavy and uncooperative. Her vision blurred at the edges, reality wavering like heat rising from desert sand.

"Why do you care?" she asked, her voice small and vulnerable. She searched his face, looking for deceit, for hidden motives. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across his features, highlighting the tension around his eyes, the tiny scar at his jawline she hadn't noticed before. A muscle jumped erratically beneath the skin of his cheek, betraying his carefully controlled emotions.

"I'm not your Y/N. I'm not any of your Y/Ns." Her voice cracked on the last word, raw emotion breaking through. "Why can't any of you just see me for ME?!"

Mohawk's expression softened, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as his eyebrows drew together in an expression of heartbreaking honesty. "No, you're not," he acknowledged.

His eyes revealed everything he couldn't say. As she looked into their brown depths, she saw beyond the anger and violence that defined him—saw the obsession simmering beneath.

Mohawk wasn't just attracted to her; he was consumed by her, possessed by her very existence in a way that bordered on terrifying. There was love there, yes, but twisted and desperate, born from loss and madness.

"But you're still Y/N. A different version, perhaps, but still the woman we all loved—in our own ways, in our own worlds." He faltered, struggling with words that didn't come easily to him. "Fuck it, I can't... Fuck," he mumbled, his composure cracking further.

His hands came up to her face, moving slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. Y/N glared at him but remained still, allowing his touch. His fingertips were surprisingly gentle against her fevered skin, calloused thumbs brushing across her cheekbones with a tenderness that seemed out of place amidst the destruction surrounding them.

The physical contrast was striking—his massive hands, capable of ripping trees from the earth and punching through concrete, now cradling her face as if she were made of spun glass. She could see the dirt embedded beneath his fingernails, the scrapes across his knuckles from the earlier battle, the slight tremor that betrayed his emotional state. Each point where his skin touched hers became an anchor in her fever-hazed world, electric and alive.

Mohawk's eyes revealed everything he couldn't say. She could see the microscopic dilation of his pupils as they fixed on her face, the slight moisture gathering at the corners, the way the afternoon light caught the amber flecks within the deep brown. Tiny blood vessels mapped the whites of his eyes, evidence of exhaustion and stress. His lashes—longer than she'd noticed before—cast faint shadows on his cheeks when he blinked.

He traced the contours of her face as if memorizing them, his fingers trembling almost imperceptibly—like he was touching a ghost he'd never expected to see again. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, the touch feather-light yet sending shockwaves through her system.

The pad of his thumb was rough, calloused from years of violence, yet his touch was exquisitely gentle.

"Please... fucking please, I waited so long..." he whispered, his voice breaking with need, quivering with a vulnerability that the cocky Mohawk would never normally allow anyone to hear.

His eyes dropped to her lips, darkening with desire, his breath coming faster, stirring the loose strands of hair around her face. "Let me."

“I know Omni got to kiss you first... to hold you first... but I need this more than I've ever needed anything…” His expression spoke volumes, raw emotion written across features usually set in arrogant lines. The late afternoon sun caught in his eyes, illuminating the desperate yearning there—a silent plea that went beyond mere desire.

Despite everything—her anger, her confusion, her illness—Y/N found herself nodding, a barely perceptible movement. Mohawk leaned forward slowly, giving her time to change her mind. His lips brushed against hers, gentle and questioning at first, then with growing hunger as she didn't pull away.

He growled against her lips, a primal sound that vibrated through her core. He spoke against her lips. At this moment, nothing else existed—not the destruction below, not the other variants flying towards them, watching, not even the infection ravaging her body. There was only this connection, this single point where past and present converged.

The kiss deepened, his lips warm and insistent against hers. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as he drew her closer. The slight scratch of his stubble against her skin added to the sensory overload, a delicious friction that contrasted with the surprising softness of his lips. Mohawk kissed with none of his usual aggression, instead with a desperate yearning that spoke of years of loneliness.

Y/N's eyes fluttered open briefly during the kiss, catching glimpses of his expression—eyes closed in concentration, brow relaxed, the harsh lines of his face softened by something akin to peace. When his eyes opened to meet hers, she saw naked adoration in them, dreamy and unfocused with desire. His lips, usually set in a hard line or cruel smirk, were soft against hers, moving with a gentleness that belied his brutal nature.

Despite his obvious hunger, he held himself in check, fighting the urge to deepen the kiss further, to run his hands over her body. She could feel the restraint in the tension of his muscles, in the careful placement of his hands—one at her waist, one at her nape, both trembling slightly with the effort not to crush her against him.

Y/N found herself responding, her hands coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the thunderous beating of his heart beneath her palms. The solid warmth of him was like an anchor in a storm, steadying her as fever and desire made her head spin. His suit was damp with sweat and smooth against her fingertips, the powerful muscles beneath twitching at her touch. For a moment, the world around them faded—the destruction, the other variants, her illness—all of it receding as she lost herself in the passionate fire of his kiss.

He gently pulled her flush against him, a soft gasp escaping her as their bodies connected. The height difference between them meant that his evident arousal pressed against her stomach rather than her hips, the prominence of his bulge impossible to ignore even through his full-body suit. Glancing down briefly, she could see where the fabric stretched taut, a small dark stain spreading at the tip where his excitement had overcome even the containment of his uniform.

His response to her was primal and unashamed, his body reacting with an honesty his words couldn't match. Each small sound she made—each gasp and sigh—elicited a corresponding groan from him, the vibrations rumbling through his chest and into her own. He mumbled incoherently against her lips, soft words meant only for her, desperate professions intermingled with curses.

"Oh god," he whispered against her mouth, the words half prayer, half profanity.

The moment was shattered by a growl of rage.

Y/N and Mohawk broke apart to find the other variants surrounding them, faces twisted with jealousy and possessiveness. The passionate moment dissolved into tension as four pairs of identical yet distinct eyes locked onto them with tangible fury.

Omni's usually composed features were dark with fury, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl. The perfect order of his appearance had fractured—his hair disheveled from the earlier fight, a vein pulsing prominently at his temple, his breathing uncharacteristically ragged. What made the display so shocking was how completely it shattered his carefully maintained facade of control.

Sinister's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits behind his black lenses, his shoulders rising and falling with each rapid breath. His gloved hands opened and closed reflexively at his sides, the leather creaking audibly with each movement. The smirk that typically adorned his face had vanished, replaced by a thin-lipped expression of pure rage. Unlike Omni, Sinister made no attempt to hide his emotions—his jealousy radiated from him in almost visible waves.

Viltrumite Mark's jaw worked silently beneath his skin, the muscle jumping erratically at the hinge. His white uniform, though still immaculate compared to the others, bore smudges of dirt and debris from the earlier conflict. His eyes never left Y/N's face, something possessive and dangerous lurking in their depths.

No-Mask's reaction was the most naked, his face contorted with undisguised pain and betrayal. Without the barrier of a mask, every emotion played across his features in high definition—the shock, the hurt, the jealousy. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, as if the sight of Y/N in Mohawk's arms had robbed him of speech. A flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks crimson with emotion.

HI gaze dropped momentarily to the prominent bulge in Mohawk's suit, the wet spot at the tip of his erection visible to all. No-Mask's expression shifted from pain to embarrassment to anger in rapid succession, his own body responding involuntarily to the sight of Y/N's flushed face and swollen lips.

Sinister caught the direction of No-Mask's gaze and let out a bark of laughter, the sound brittle and sharp. "Getting a little excited there, Mohawk? Can't say I blame you." His tone was deliberately casual, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his own jealousy.

"Though I prefer a more... private approach to these matters." Despite his mocking words, there was an undercurrent of pure rage in his voice.

As soon as the other variants approached, Mohawk's arm tightened around Y/N, his moment of vulnerability disappearing behind a sneer. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken tension as the others formed a loose circle around them, hovering like sentinels in the devastated sky.

Omni's face was a study in controlled panic. While his posture remained rigid and his movements precise, his jaw muscle twitched beneath the skin, a hairline fracture in his perfect composure. The corner of his left eye spasmed minutely, and a vein at his temple pulsed in rhythm with his accelerated heartbeat. His breathing was deliberately measured, each inhale and exhale carefully calibrated to maintain the illusion of calm while his eyes, behind his mask, never left Y/N's face.

"I thought we forged something unique in the cabin," he stated, his voice carefully neutral despite the accusation inherent in the words. "Was that a lie?"

Sinister's head tilted slightly forward like a predator tracking wounded prey. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, leaving them glistening in the afternoon light. The corner of his mouth curled upward in a half-smile that never reached his eyes—eyes hidden behind black lenses that reflected Y/N's own pale face back at her.

"Don't act so surprised, Omni," he taunted, his voice silky with malice. "Did you think she would be satisfied with your clinical approach to pleasure? Your calculated touches and precisely timed kisses?" He moved closer to Y/N and Mohawk, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face with unexpected gentleness. "She needs passion, fire... not your cold logic."

No-Mask couldn't contain his panic, hovering several feet away, hands opening and closing at his sides. His eyes were wide and wild, darting between Y/N and the blood seeping through her bandages. The crimson stain had grown significantly larger during the brief kiss, the fabric now saturated to a disturbing degree.

"This is fucking ridiculous," Viltrumite Mark snarled, his regal composure shattered completely. His pristine white uniform stood in stark contrast to the chaos of his emotions, the fabric rippling as his muscles tensed beneath. His usually authoritative demeanor had given way to something raw and urgent. "She's dying, and you're all fighting over who gets to kiss her next? Are your dicks controlling your brains now?"

The crude phrasing from the typically dignified Viltrumite Mark shocked them all into momentary silence. He no longer hovered regally above them but had descended to their level, hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw set in a hard line.

"You need medical attention," Omni stated, his voice steady despite the worry evident in his eyes. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, disappearing beneath the edge of his mask. His hands opened and closed at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking softly with each movement. "The infection is spreading rapidly. If we don't act soon, you'll die."

"So what?" Y/N challenged, her voice brittle with pain and defiance. She pushed away from Mohawk, her movements uncoordinated and weak. Blood had soaked through her bandages completely now, the fabric dark and heavy against her skin. The metallic scent hung in the air around her, sharp and concerning. Her eyes burned with fever, pupils dilated and unfocused as she swept her gaze across all of them. "Why should I trust any of you? You came here to destroy my world, to kill everyone!"

The accusation hung in the air between them, sharp and undeniable. The devastation below—uprooted trees, cratered earth, the distant smoke of burning cities—stood as mute testament to her words. From their elevated position, they could see the destruction that stretched to the horizon—forests flattened, roads cratered, and buildings reduced to rubble. In the distance, several pillars of smoke rose from what had once been thriving communities, now reduced to ash and debris.

Silence fell over the group, heavy with unspoken guilt. It was Sinister who finally broke it, his usual swagger absent as he spoke.

"Because we lost you once," he said, his voice low and controlled, though something in it wavered ever so slightly. He didn't remove his black lenses, but the set of his mouth—usually twisted in a cruel smirk—had softened into something almost vulnerable. "All of us, in different ways. And it broke us."

He gestured around at the assembled variants, his movements precise and measured, lacking their usual predatory grace.

"Look at what we became without you. Monsters. Killers." He paused, a smirk returning to his lips as he added, "Well, I was always a killer. Enjoyed it, too. But the others..." He let the implication hang, eyes hidden behind his black lenses but his meaning clear.

He floated closer to Y/N, his approach cautious, as if afraid she might flee again. When he stood before her, he did something unexpected—he took her hand in his, the leather of his glove warm against her skin as his thumb traced gentle circles on her wrist.

"I know you're not her—not my Y/N," he said softly. "But when I saw you, something inside me that died with her came back to life." His free hand hovered near her face, trembling slightly before he let it fall away, as if he didn't trust himself. "I can't lose that again. I can't go back to being just an... empty fucking killer without you."

"Planet shit doesn't fucking matter!" Mohawk's voice cracked with emotion, the smooth veneer he usually wore shattering like glass. He pushed forward, hovering closer, his face contorted with an emotion too complex to name. Sweat beaded along his hairline, causing strands of hair to stick to his forehead in dark, damp tendrils. His gaze never left Y/N's face, drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst. The prominent bulge still strained against his suit, a visible reminder of their interrupted kiss.

"The main point is—" He stopped, struggling to find the right words. In a movement both desperate and gentle, he pushed Sinister out of the way to take her hands in his. Sinister's face darkened with anger, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he was forced aside.

Mohawk looked deeply into her eyes, his own intense and sincere. The pupils were so dilated that only a thin ring of color remained visible, black swallowing brown in a visual representation of his emotional state. A muscle jumped in his jaw, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His expression mirrored the vulnerability he'd shown during their kiss—raw, unfiltered emotion that he'd never allow anyone else to witness.

"We won't fucking lose you again," he added, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that seemed to caress her skin like a physical touch. The sound vibrated in the air between them, intimate despite their audience. His grip on her hand tightened fractionally, not enough to hurt but enough to convey his desperation. "Even if we have to share you. We can find a way to work it out."

The last sentence hung in the air, loaded with implications that made Y/N's stomach flutter despite her condition. Mohawk leaned closer, his breath warm against her face as he uttered a final promise, the words carrying the weight of an oath: "You will love us, Y/N... Love me..."

The declaration sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with her fever. There was something in his tone—a certainty, a devotion—that both frightened and thrilled her.

Before she could respond, the air around them seemed to wobble, particles shifting in an unnatural pattern.

The variants tensed, sensing the disturbance—a tension in reality that they'd felt earlier but had ignored in their confrontation. Now it returned, stronger and more insistent like fabric being stretched to its breaking point.

With a sound like reality tearing, a black portal materialized twenty feet away in the air. The edges crackled with dark energy, ribbons of shadow writhing around its circumference like living things. From its depths, a body was thrown—no, hurled—into their midst.

Darkwing crashed to the ground with a sickening thud, his body a broken, bloody mess. His costume was in tatters, revealing flesh beneath that was more wound than skin. One arm hung at an unnatural angle, clearly ripped backward if not worse. The other appeared to be barely attached, held to his body by thin strips of muscle and costume fabric. His mask was half torn away, revealing a face so bruised and bloodied it was barely recognizable as human. Through split and swollen lips, he drew rattling breaths, each one sounding more painful than the last.

From the portal stepped a figure that radiated casual cruelty—Lensless Mark. His uniform was tattered and ripped, his face and hands spattered with blood. Unlike the other variants, his mask resembled that of a luchador, lacking the traditional goggles and giving his face a strangely naked quality despite being covered. His lips were curled in a smile that held no warmth, only satisfaction at the suffering he'd caused. Areas of his suit were torn at the pecs and abdomen, revealing tanned, scarred skin beneath.

"How touching. The monsters have found their beauty," he drawled, his gaze sweeping over the assembled variants before landing on Y/N.

All heads turned to face him, bodies instinctively shifting to place themselves between Y/N and the newcomer. The protective formation happened without discussion or planning—a unified response from men who moments ago had been at each other's throats.

"So this is what's been keeping you all distracted," he continued, his gaze roving over Y/N's body with interest. Unlike the others, there was no warmth in his assessment, only a cold calculation that made her skin crawl. "I was wondering where everyone disappeared to after I got trapped in there. NO fucking help came for me. "

His appearance shocked the other variants. They had believed him dead, pulled into the shadowverse by Darkwing. Their expressions reflected their confusion and growing concern. With the war still ongoing and so few of them remaining after the brutal fighting, Lensless's return was an unexpected complication.

"What did you all call her? Y/N?" he mused, his head tilting as if considering the name. "Hmm. Yes. Rather mundane, isn't it?"

"This doesn't concern you," Omni said, his voice icy as he shifted to partially block Y/N from Lensless's view. His body language was pure protectiveness now, all traces of his earlier jealousy subsumed by this new threat.

Lensless laughed, the sound sharp and without humor. "Oh, but it does. Angstrom is looking for all of you. The final phase is about to begin." His eyes narrowed behind his mask as he focused on Y/N again.

"Though I must say, I'm curious about what makes this one so special that you'd take a detour from our true mission."

In a movement almost too fast to follow, he appeared directly in front of Y/N, brushing past the protective circle of variants. His gloved hand reached out, gripping her chin and tilting her face up to his. His touch was neither gentle nor especially rough, simply... clinical. His thumb pressed against her lower lip, forcing it down slightly as he examined her face like a specimen.

"Awww I don't see it," he pronounced, his voice tinged with disappointment.

"She looks like any other human to me. Fragile. Breakable." His grip tightened fractionally, enough to make Y/N wince. "Already dying from a simple infection. Pathetic."

The attack came from all sides at once.

Mohawk's fist connected with Lensless's jaw, the impact creating a sonic boom that shattered what few intact tree branches remained below. The punch sent Lensless spinning backward, a spray of blood arcing through the air from his split lip.

Before he could recover, Sinister appeared behind him, driving a knee into his spine with such force that Y/N could hear the vertebrae crack. The blow arched Lensless's back at an unnatural angle, his mouth opening in a silent scream of pain.

Omni and Viltrumite Mark moved in perfect unison, like dancers who had rehearsed for years. Omni struck high, his calculated punch landing precisely at the junction of Lensless's neck and shoulder, targeting the cluster of nerves there. Viltrumite Mark struck low, his fist driving into Lensless's solar plexus with enough force to expel all air from his lungs.

The combination of blows sent Lensless plummeting toward the devastated forest below. He crashed through three massive oak trees before hitting the ground with enough force to create a small crater, dirt, and debris exploding outward from the impact site.

No-Mask circled around, waiting for his opportunity, his face set in lines of determination rarely seen on his usually expressive features. He hovered above the impact site, ready to intercept if Lensless attempted to flee.

Y/N hovered, forgotten in the chaos of battle, her condition worsening by the second. The world tilted and spun around her, fever making everything blur at the edges. She pressed a hand to her wound, feeling fresh blood seep between her fingers. The warmth of it was alarming, spreading across her abdomen in a widening stain.

Below, the battle had expanded, the variants using the devastated landscape as both weapon and battleground. Mohawk tore a shattered tree trunk from the ground, hurling it at Lensless with enough force to level a building. The makeshift projectile whistled through the air, trailing leaves and splinters in its wake before Lensless dodged at the last second. The trunk embedded itself in the hillside behind him, quivering with the force of impact.

Omni calculated his trajectories, using precision strikes to herd Lensless into Sinister's path. Each punch was measured and deliberate, not seeking to cause damage but to manipulate Lensless's movements. Where Lensless dodged one blow, he found himself in the path of another, Omni's strategy becoming clear as Lensless was forced closer and closer to where Sinister waited.

Viltrumite Mark moved with regal fury, each blow causing sonic booms to ripple through the air. His white uniform was a blur of motion, seeming to be everywhere at once. Unlike the others, his attacks held nothing back—each punch and kick was delivered with the full force of his Viltrumite strength, intended not to subdue but to destroy.

Despite being outnumbered, Lensless held his own, his childish laughter echoing across the battlefield as he taunted and dodged. His fighting style was unpredictable, and chaotic, making him difficult to pin down. Where the others fought with purpose and strategy, Lensless fought like a child pulling wings from insects—with casual cruelty and evident enjoyment.

"You're all pathetic!" he called out, evading another coordinated attack. His voice carried across the battlefield, high and mocking.

"Pining after a ghost! She's not even the same woman you lost!"

His words struck deeper than any physical blow could have. For a moment, hesitation rippled through the attacking variants, a half-second of doubt that Lensless immediately exploited. He surged upward, breaking free of their formation, and shot directly toward Y/N.

"Let's see how quickly you forget her when she's gone for good," he snarled, his hand reaching for her throat. The afternoon sun glinted off his gloved hand as it stretched toward her, fingers curled like talons.

Time seemed to slow. Y/N watched him approach, her body too weak to move, her mind oddly clear despite the fever. She could see every detail of his face as he neared—the hatred in his eyes, the cruel twist of his mouth, the tiny scar that bisected his right eyebrow. She could hear the panicked shouts of the other variants as they raced to intercept him, too far away to reach her in time.

In that moment of perfect clarity, something shifted inside her. The power that had been dormant since they'd removed the GDA collar flickered to life, responding to her desperate need. Energy surged through her veins, temporarily burning away the fever's fog.

As Lensless's hand closed around her throat, Y/N's eyes began to glow with an inner light. The blue-white radiance started at her pupils, spreading outward until her entire eyes were luminous pools of energy. Power radiated from her in visible waves, her hair lifting in an invisible wind, strands floating around her face like a dark halo. Her skin took on an ethereal glow, veins beneath the surface illuminated with the same blue-white light that consumed her eyes.

Her hand shot up, gripping his wrist with strength that belied her condition. Her fingers—moments ago weak and trembling—now closed around his arm with crushing force. The material of his suit compressed beneath her grip, the bones of his wrist grinding together audibly.

"Not today," she whispered, her voice resonating with newfound power. The sound seemed to come not just from her throat but from the air around them, as if reality itself amplified her words.

The energy exploded outward from her body in a concussive wave, sending Lensless flying backward with such force that he created a trench in the earth when he landed. The ground split open beneath the impact, dirt and rock spraying outward like water from a broken dam. Trees that had survived the earlier battles were flattened in concentric circles from the epicenter of Y/N's power.

The other variants braced themselves against the blast, shielding their eyes from the brilliant light emanating from Y/N. The wave passed over them, powerful enough to push them back but not to harm them—as if her power somehow recognized them as not-enemies.

For a moment, she hovered above them all, radiant and terrible, her body still suspended in the air by her own power. The infection that had been killing her was temporarily burned away by the energy coursing through her system. Her wound glowed from within, the damaged tissue knitting itself back together visibly, the process accelerated to a speed visible to the naked eye.

Beneath her torn clothing—the fabric of her suit shredded across her abdomen, exposing the smooth skin beneath—they could see muscle and tissue regenerating. The deep gash that had been leaking crimson life across her stomach closed before their eyes, angry red flesh knitting together with pulsing blue-white light. The tattered edges of her suit fluttered in the energy field emanating from her body, occasionally revealing glimpses of the curve of her breast where the fabric had been torn diagonally across her chest. The legs of her suit, stained dark with blood and dirt, ripped low on her hips, frayed and revealing a sliver of skin just above her hipbone.

The variants watched in awe, their identical faces transformed by different shades of the same emotion—wonder mixed with desire, concern tangled with reverence. The setting sun cast them all in amber light, highlighting the tension in their jaws, the dilation of their pupils, the parted lips as they struggled to comprehend what they were witnessing.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the power faded. The light dimmed, starting with her skin, then her veins, until finally, her eyes returned to their natural color. The glow receded like a tide pulling back from the shore, leaving Y/N looking small and vulnerable once more. Her eyelids fluttered, exhaustion replacing the momentary strength, and she began to fall.

Five figures moved as one, racing to catch her. The air crackled with their passage as they broke the sound barrier, converging on Y/N's falling form from different directions. They reached her simultaneously, each grabbing a part of her with careful strength—Omni supporting her shoulders, his gloved hands cradling her with gentle precision; Mohawk at her waist, his fingers splayed possessively across her exposed midriff; Viltrumite Mark securing her legs, his normally stoic expression softened with concern; Sinister cradling her head with uncharacteristic gentleness, leather-gloved fingers threading through her hair; and No-Mask hovering protectively above them all, his unobscured face displaying every nuance of his worry.

As a unit, they descended to the forest floor, moving in perfect coordination despite their earlier antagonism. They touched down on a relatively undamaged clearing, gently lowering Y/N onto one of the few untouched patches of soft grass left. The setting sun painted the scene in gold and crimson, the long shadows of the men stretching across Y/N's still form like protective fingers.

Omni knelt beside her, his pulse quickening beneath his uniform as his fingers sought the pulse at her neck. The skin there was soft and warm against his fingertips, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat a counterpoint to his own racing pulse.

"It's steady," he reported, relief evident in the softening of his shoulders. The usually immaculate lines of his uniform were marred by dust and blood, a physical manifestation of the cracks appearing in his carefully constructed facade.

"The wound is healed on the surface, but the internal damage may remain. Her fever has broken, but she's severely dehydrated and exhausted."

"What the hell was that?" No-Mask asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared at Y/N's unconscious form. His hand hovered near her face, not quite touching, trembling slightly with the effort of restraint. Unlike the others, his unmasked face revealed every emotion—awe, desire, fear—all written clearly in the widening of his eyes and the tension around his mouth. A smear of dirt marked his left cheek, a bead of sweat tracing its way down his temple.

"I've never seen power like that from any Y/N in our universes."

"The GDA must have modified her differently in this reality," Viltrumite Mark mused, his regal stance betrayed by the concern in his eyes as they remained fixed on Y/N's face. His white uniform, normally pristine, bore the marks of battle—a tear across the chest, a smudge of dirt on the shoulder, droplets of blood spattered across the fabric. The sun caught in his hair, turning the brown strands gold at the edges.

"Perhaps removing the collar didn't just free her from their control but unlocked abilities they were suppressing."

"Who gives a fuck about the how," Mohawk interjected, pacing restlessly nearby. Each step left an impression in the soft earth, his movements jittery with excess adrenaline. His signature hairstyle, usually maintained with meticulous precision, now lay partially flattened on one side, giving him a lopsided, almost vulnerable appearance. A bead of sweat traced the sharp angle of his jaw, disappearing beneath the high collar of his suit. "Did you see what she did to Lensless? One fucking touch and she sent him flying like a rag doll."

A grin spread across his face, carving deep lines around his eyes that crinkled with genuine joy rather than his usual cynicism. He gestured expansively, his gaze never leaving Y/N's still form. "My—our girl's got teeth."

His expression softened as he knelt beside her, one gloved hand hesitantly reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. The touch was feather-light, his fingertips lingering on her temple with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his usual brutality. "She's more than just a pretty face. She's fucking magnificent." The admiration in his voice was tinged with possessiveness, his eyes darkening as he added, "And she's ours."

"She's not out of danger," Omni cautioned, his hand resting lightly on Y/N's forehead. Though cooler than before, her skin still held an unnatural warmth beneath his touch. A muscle in his jaw twitched with suppressed emotion, a hairline crack in his usually perfect control.

"That power surge likely depleted what little reserves she had left. She needs proper care, not just field medicine."

A groan from the nearby trench reminded them that Lensless was still a threat. The sadistic variant was pulling himself from the ground, blood streaming from multiple wounds. His suit was torn across the chest and abdomen, revealing muscled flesh beneath, scored with deep gashes that oozed crimson. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheek mottled with bruises. Blood dripped steadily from his split lip, splattering onto the churned earth beneath him in a rhythmic pattern. Despite his injuries, his visible eye gleamed with manic intensity, and his lips were twisted in a grin that spoke of insanity rather than humor.

"You think this changes anything?" he called, staggering to his feet. Each movement was labored, with evidence of broken bones and internal injuries. Blood dripped steadily from his fingertips, pattering onto the churned earth beneath him like macabre raindrops. His chest heaved with each breath, a wet rattle suggesting punctured lungs or broken ribs. Still, he straightened, defiant even in defeat.

"She'll die, just like all the others. And you'll all go back to being the monsters you truly are," he taunted, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground. The crimson spatter formed a grotesque pattern at his feet, shining wetly in the dying light. "We still have a mission to complete! Fuck this world and its beings. Angstrom is waiting for us!"

Mohawk's expression darkened, shadows gathering in the hollows of his cheeks as a savage smile spread across his face. "You know what? I'm going to enjoy this." He cracked his knuckles, the sound like gunshots in the quiet forest. His body tensed, muscles bunching visibly beneath his suit as he readied for the kill.

"Go," he said to Omni without taking his eyes off Lensless. "Take her to the meeting point with Angstrom. I'm done with this piece of shit."

Omni hesitated, looking down at Y/N's pale face. For once, indecision was written clearly in the set of his shoulders, the tension around his mouth. The evening light caught the moisture gathering in his eyes, transforming them into pools of liquid amber behind his mask. A single tear escaped, tracking a clean path through the dust on his face before falling onto Y/N's cheek—a glistening diamond against her flushed skin.

"Don't die," he whispered, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead. The kiss was feather-light, almost reverent, his breath warm against her skin, carrying the scent of aftershave and something uniquely him. His fingers brushed her cheek, lingering as if trying to memorize the texture. "Please."

With that, he was gone, streaking through the sky with Y/N held securely against his chest. His arms formed a protective cage around her, one hand cradling her head against his shoulder while the other supported her back. The wind whipped past them, ruffling her hair and cooling her fevered skin.

The remaining variants turned as one toward Lensless, spreading out to surround him. The setting sun cast long shadows ahead of them, turning four figures into monstrous silhouettes against the devastated landscape.

"Four against one?" Lensless laughed, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand, leaving a crimson smear across his cheek. The sound was wet and choked, bubbles of blood forming at the corners of his mouth. "Hardly seems fair."

"Good," Sinister replied, his smile all teeth, sharp canines gleaming in the dying light. His eyes were cold behind his black lenses, his posture deceptively relaxed even as his fingers flexed in anticipation.

"We don't play fair anymore."

–––––––––

As Omni flew with Y/N toward their destination, her eyes fluttered open briefly. Sunlight filtered through clouds, casting dappled patterns across her face as the wind tousled her hair. Despite her condition, a small smile curved her lips as she looked up at him, raising a hand weakly to touch his face.

"You're crying," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rush of wind. Her fingers, warm and gentle, traced the damp trail on his cheek, sending shivers down his spine.

"No, I'm not," he denied automatically, his usual defenses kicking in even as another tear escaped to contradict him. The droplet caught the light, transforming into a prism for a heartbeat before the wind whisked it away.

Y/N's smile widened slightly, her hand weakly reaching up to touch his cheek again. Her fingers came away damp, glistening in the sunlight. Her lips, still tender from Mohawk's earlier kisses, parted slightly as she whispered, "Liar."

A laugh escaped him, the sound rusty from disuse. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the tension in his jaw easing for the first time since they'd arrived in this universe.

"Just stay with me," he urged, tightening his hold on her slightly. Her body fit perfectly against his as if designed as his missing piece. "We're almost there."

"Will you share?" she asked, her voice fading as consciousness began to slip away again. Her eyelids grew heavy, dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks like butterfly wings. "With the others?"

The question caught him off guard, making him falter slightly in his flight. "What?"

"Will you share... me? Can you all... love me?" Each word seemed to cost her tremendous effort, her eyelids growing heavier with each syllable. Her fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his suit, holding on as if afraid he might vanish.

Omni was silent for a long moment, considering. The idea of sharing her with the others—his other selves—went against every possessive instinct he had. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin as he battled with himself. And yet... if the alternative was losing her entirely...

"Yes," he finally said, the word feeling strange on his tongue. His voice softened as he added, "If that's what you want."

The admission sent an unexpected warmth through him. The knot of tension in his chest—a constant companion since he'd lost his Y/N—loosened slightly. Perhaps sharing her was the only way any of them could truly have her. Perhaps, in this fractured reality, they could find a new kind of wholeness with her.

Their Y/n.

–––––––––––––––

I'm losing motivation for this story (Even though I already had the whole storyboard written out). (っ- ‸ - ς), But I'll PULL THROUGH! Let me know if you guys are interested in more plot and perhaps smut later on in the story. Quite literally, maybe even the next chapter...

I'm really trying to include 'love' for all the variants. let me know if you want another or specific one to be included more.

Lensless Mark = No Goggles Mark

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

475 notes · View notes

clairewritesfanfics · 22 days ago

Text

A-Z Fluff Alphabet: Omni Mark Grayson

author’s note: The alphabet here is an amalgamation of fluff templates from the following writers: @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy, @snk-warrior, @queervibesmydude and @imagineimagineimagine, and my own personal additions.

Adoration: What does he can’t help but gush about you?

Your eyes that see his most pathetic sides and still shine with pure affection. Eyes that trust and love him wholeheartedly.

Baby: Does he want a family?

Maybe. His dad screwed him up so badly he couldn’t even picture himself with a romantic partner, let alone raising children. But having you in his life means he’s doing better.

Comfort: How does he help you when you’re down or stressed?

He knows you’ll talk when you’re ready, so he will simply brew your favorite beverage and set up a nest for you in front of the TV. All your favorite shows and movies and podcasts are already queued in.

Dates: What are his ideal dates?

Quiet, classy and low-key. His favorite is an evening meal at a fancy restaurant, no fuss, there is just you and him enjoying each other’s company.

Everything: You are his __________.

You are his peace, his quiet in the storm. When the whole world is falling apart and the noise is too much, he finds solace just by being in the same room as you.

Fight: How often do you argue? How does he handle the fight itself and its aftermath?

Not a lot, not even jokingly. He tends to give way to your desires, simply because your happiness is his happiness. The only times he gets angry is when you do something reckless, like not sleeping enough or overeating junk food. He loves you, he wants you to live a long life, so please take care of yourself.

Gifts: Does he spoil you?

Yes. He has a lot of money and barely has any use for it. He’s not the type to buy you random trinkets though, his gifts are more in line with giant bouquets from Japan and wine from France.

Honesty: Does he keep a lot of secrets from you? Are they white lies or do they hide world-shattering truths?

He likes to keep his professional and private lives separate, so there is information that he won’t share with you. He’s also the type of person who prefers to keep his problems to himself, because that’s what “men do,” but after discussing it with you he’s trying to open up more.

Injury: What’s his reaction when he finds you physically hurt?

He keeps his composure long enough to get you the medical attention you need while his mind pieces together what happens. If it was a genuine accident, and you beg him to let it go, then fine, he will. But if it was intentional? No hesitation, no monologuing–that person is dead.

Jealousy: Is he a green-eyed monster?

He’s mature in many ways, but not when it comes to this. He gets moody when you start talking about anyone for too long.

Kiss: Describe the way he kisses you.

Cradles your face between his palms while he steals your breath away.

Longing: Who fell first? How did you two get together?

He’s tall, dark, handsome; has that brooding and mysterious vibe down pat–of course, you fell first. But he fell harder.

Marriage: Does he want to be your husband?

Naturally. Some people think that marriage is just a piece of paper, but for him, it’s another way to bind you to his side.

Nightmare: What is his greatest fear?

Your inevitable death. His kind can live eternities, yet cursed with a heart that can love transient things.

On Cloud Nine: Is it obvious to tell when he is happy?

For outsiders? No. Not even a little bit. The man has the poker face. Everyone is baffled when you tell them that “of course, he’s happy, can’t you tell from his smile?” while gesturing at his hard expression.

PDA: Yes or no? If yes, to what degree?

No. He won’t be opposed to a quick peck on the cheek or lips, but he isn’t a hand holder and definitely not the type to wrap himself around you while in public.

Quirk: What is a habit, skill or interest of his that surprises people?

He has a sweet tooth and his favorite dessert is sakura mochi, a Japanese rice cake with a red bean paste filling. He doesn’t like black coffee. He has no problem with matcha though, maybe because it tastes great with the mochi.

Rhythm: What’s his favorite song or genre of music?

It’s rock music or nothing else.

Spa: What helps him relax?

When he is off work, he is off work. The only reason he would fight a supervillain or mediate a natural disaster is because it's actively terrorizing the area surrounding you.

Thrill: Do you two try out new things to give spice to the relationship? Or do you stick to your routine?

You’re predictable to each other, which he adores. You buy him a second bottle of hair gel without him even asking and at restaurants, he orders for you because you trust that he knows what you like. His work gives him a lot of surprises already, he doesn’t need any more excitement than that.

Upset: What is he like when he is in a bad mood?

Even more reserved than usual. He answers in grunts and has a hard time keeping eye contact. When he’s in a really bad mood then he will leave to cool down, not for too long, because then you’ll get sad.

Value: How important is the relationship to him?

So much that he cannot picture a life without you in it.

Wild Card: Random fluff headcanon

He will not leave for work unless you kiss him.

XOXO: How affectionate is he?

A lot, just not in a physical or verbal sense. He never forgets anniversaries and other special dates, he never misses appointments with you, and he cleans up around the house when he notices that you’re tired.

Yearning: How does he cope when you two are apart?

He despises overtime. He’s no early bird either–he’s one of those control freaks who arrives exactly as agreed upon; if you tell him that a meeting starts at 8:00, he will arrive at 8:00, not 7:59, not 8:01, but 8:00 sharp. He wasn’t always this strict with his schedule, after all, for someone like him, time was endless. But he has you now, and it feels like he has so little time.

Zebra: If he wanted a pet, what would he get?

When he was younger–as in, half his current height younger–he found a bird in the front yard. It was a release dove, so it wasn’t afraid of him, it trusted Mark enough to let him pet its head. It was Mark’s first and only friend. But one day, after school, it was gone from its clumsily made birdhouse. That evening, his parents had beef, Mark had poultry. Nolan forced him to finish everything. To this day, Mark can’t even stand the smell of fried chicken.

MASTERLIST | request rules | ask box

Other Fluff Alphabet for Mark Grayson Variants:

Mohawk Prisoner

208 notes · View notes

mirai-lunar · 1 month ago

Text

- Variant Sickness -

Invincible Variants x Fem Reader! Sick scenarios with some other random thoughts sprinkled in.

Includes: Sinister Mark, Omni Mark, Mohawk Mark, Veil Mark (Shiesty Mark), No Goggles Mark, Viltrum Mark

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: Dark Themes, Violence, Yandere Behavior

Sinister Mark

-He’s unhinged, but does care in his own way.

-He would prefer it if you at least enjoyed some of your time with him. Doesn’t have to be all the time though.

-Will always carry you normally. Typical hand on back and under legs whenever he picks you up. Won’t carry you any other way so don’t ask.

-Ironically, he does not like when you cry. For any reason.

-If someone was the cause of your tears then they’re dead.

-But if he was the reason you’re crying then he’ll feel a pang of… something.

-“Stop crying. I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

-This roughly translates to: “Calm down. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

-He’d wipe your tears away with his gloved thumb. And once you calmed, he’ll go back to his normal behavior.

-Which is inconsistent. Some days he’s cold and distant. Other days he wants your attention solely on him.

-He believes he deserves it. After all, you’re his.

-Won’t admit when he’s wrong. Ever.

-If you end up sick, you won’t get any special treatment from him. He expects you to be able to take care of yourself.

-If you end up really sick, like bedridden, he just gets...quiet. And looks at you with a frown. You have no idea what’s going through that head of his.

-You’ll have to tell him to take you to a hospital to get help, and he will. He can’t help you, so someone else should. It’s the one time he’s sensible.

-Well, kinda.

-He’s not above threatening anyone that tries to touch you, including the doctors that are trying to help.

-You quickly learn that maybe it’s better to not visit hospitals. That looming presence of his puts everyone, including yourself, on edge.

-Once you’re better, things are back to normal.

-He’s an okay conversationalist. It depends on his mood. Talks with him are usually brief and straight to the point. If you ever ask him why he kidnapped you, he’d have a cold smile before responding.

-“Why? Because I love you.”

-That makes you frown. You are unsure of his definition of love.

Omni Mark

-Typical hand on back and under legs carry. He’s very gentle whenever he picks you up.

-He hates when you cry. It bothers him a lot.

-The last thing he wants to do is upset you. If he’s the cause of your tears then he’ll frown before apologizing. If not, then he’ll comfort you.

-He doesn’t demand your attention, but he does enjoy it when your attention is solely on him.

-He’s a good conversationalist. You can talk to him about anything and he has some type of input.

-Can be terrifying at times though. You’ve seen him fight before, and he’s ruthless. That keeps you up at night.

-How someone can be so uncaring towards others, but gentle to you is mind boggling.

-If you question him about this, he’ll respond simply.

-“Don’t worry about that. Just know that I love you.”

-How comforting.

-He speaks his mind, but will refrain from telling you everything he thinks. He likes when you see him in a positive light.

-He’ll admit when he’s wrong, but what he says normally has a reason behind it. So it’s difficult to even determine when he’s ‘wrong’.

-Whenever you fall asleep at a table or on the floor at night, you’ll wake up in your bed in the morning.

-If you end up sick, you’ll have to assure him that you’re fine. And he’ll take your word for it.

-Will still keep a close eye on you though.

-“You’re not eating.”

-You looked up from your food when you heard his comment.

-“Oh. Well I forgot to mention I can’t smell anything. Or taste anything.” You mixed the soup with your spoon. “I think that has something to do with the cold. I should be fine though-”

-“If you don’t eat, I’m taking you to get some help.”

-You quickly finished your food.

-You'll also get special treatment from him while sick. Lots of check ins, and soft kisses.

-You try to push away from him so he won’t get sick, but he seems unbothered.

-“I doubt I can catch anything you have.”

Mohawk Mark

-Carries you normally, but you’ll be thrown over his shoulder a lot when he’s in a rush.

-No warning on his part either. You could be in the middle of something important and he just grabs you.

-Loves when you compliment him. But why are you complimenting him anyway? His ego is big enough.

-If you end up sick, he’ll be kinda rude about it.

-“Could you sneeze somewhere else? I don’t want whatever the fuck you have.”

-You’d frown before responding.

-“Can you even catch what I have?”

-He isn’t risking it. It’s the one time he wouldn’t kiss you. You could have a simple cold but he’ll treat you like you have the plague.

-If you end up even worse, fever sky-high, he’d panic.

-Shit Shit Shit!

-Best doctors he can find, along with a little threat sprinkled in.

-“If she dies, I’m killing every single one of you.”

-You get better. And scold him afterwards.

-“Stop threatening people Mark, those doctors were just doing their job.”

-“Just making sure you were a priority. Also a thanks would be nice.”

-Always speaks his mind. Always.

-He’s a pretty good conversationalist. He actually has some sense in that head of his once you filter out all the crazy.

-He demands your attention a lot. However if you call him out on that, he’ll deny it.

-Don’t pressure him into admitting anything. You’re usually met with a snide remark or an eye roll if you do.

-He won’t ever admit that he’s wrong.

-Also you have no privacy.

-“Hey, where’d you put my- Stop screaming it's just me. Where’s my suit?”

-”Mark! Bathrooms are locked for a reason! Get! Out!!”

-He says that it’s all about him. But he does value your opinion.

Veil Mark (Shiesty Mark)

-Loves your smile. When you smile, he smiles. Though you can’t really tell when he’s smiling-

-How he carries you depends on your mood. It’s usually the typical carry, but if you’re lazy he’ll offer a piggyback ride.

-If you can’t reach something, for example something high on the top shelf, he’ll grab it for you. But sometimes he’ll just lift you up and you can grab it yourself.

-He’s a great conversationalist. Loves to talk, so you can ask him about anything. If you’re friendly with him, then a lot of playful banter would ensue.

-“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You jokingly ask him. He’d laugh before responding.

-“Fuck no.”

-Always speaks his mind.

-If you end up sick and you brush it off as nothing, then he won’t worry about it. He’d still help you out though.

-But he wouldn’t kiss you.

-“No offense but I don’t want anything you’ve got.” He’d tell you. You’d either frown or agree with him.

-Now if you’re really sick? He’s concerned.

-“Oh fuck, you’re not looking too good. You okay?” He asked you.

-“Yeah…just feeling under the weather. I need to sleep it off.”

-“You slept all yesterday too. Let’s at least get you checked out.”

-You get special treatment from him when you’re sick. Though he’s probably not the best at it.

-“Thanks for the soup,” you told him. As you put the spoon in your mouth your face went blank.

-“Is there something wrong?” He asked. You smiled.

-“The middle is ice cold.”

-Whoops.

-Well he’s trying, so you can’t be mad at him.

-Once you’re better it’s back to the usual routine.

-He’ll admit when he’s wrong. It’s not a big deal for him at all.

-Loves when your attention is on him. It’s a huge ego boost. If you ignore him though then that’ll leave him upset.

-All he wants is just some of your attention, is that too much to ask?

No Goggles Mark

-Carries you normally when flying, but is open to trying new things.

-Occasional piggyback carry when he’s not flying, and you can even sit on his shoulders if you want.

-Loves when you laugh. It’s his favorite thing about you. If you rarely laugh then he’ll try to make you laugh more often.

-If you refuse to laugh though, that’ll leave him sad.

-“Awww, you never laugh. Am I really that bad a boyfriend?”

-“You kidnapped me….?!” You reminded him.

-He knows. He just thought you’d be happier by now.

-He loves to talk, so he's the best conversationalist. Always speaks his mind, and talks to you about everything.

-Though you may not be able to get a word in edgewise before he decides to do something.

-He desperately wants your attention. You’re his favorite person after all. If you ignore him too much, then he’ll act out.

-He’ll probably fly faster so you’re forced to grip his neck tightly. Or he’ll do something heinous so your attention is solely on him.

-So give him attention to prevent these things.

-If you end up sick then he’s concerned for you. Special treatment? Yes. Lots of kisses and lovey-dovey stuff like that. He doesn’t care if you're contagious.

-If you’re really sick…then he panics.

-If you’re in his world, then he’ll probably ask his dad for help. If you're in your world, then that’s a guaranteed visit to the emergency room.

-Speaking of his father, Omni-Man doesn’t really like you.

-“Mark. You should have picked someone more…compliant. She’s a distraction.”

-“I think she’s great! You just don’t know her well enough yet Dad!”

-Anyway, he’ll admit when he’s wrong. He knows he’s not always right.

-Also quick to apologize too. He doesn’t like when you hold grudges against him. He loves you too much.

Viltrum Mark

-Carries you normally. Hand on back and under legs. It’s effective, so why change it?

-However, if you ask him to carry you another way then he might consider it.

-He loves when your attention is on him. Whenever he has your undivided attention, it always leads to other things. Whether it be some honest conversations or just some passionate romance.

-He’s a good conversationalist with you specifically. Normally he doesn’t talk a lot, but that never stops him from speaking his mind. He will always speak his mind.

-He’s just more action-oriented. Prefers to hold you against him and kiss you more often than he says he loves you.

-It’ll be difficult for him to admit when he’s wrong, because he's pretty adamant.

-But if you bring up some good points in an argument that even he can’t overlook, then he’ll consider your words.

-Any sign of sickness from you, I mean just a cough, and it’s off to visit the doctors.

-Especially if he took you to his world. Viltrum has amazing healthcare, and he’s not risking you getting sicker.

-If it’s on your world then you’ll still have a hospital visit, along with a remark from him about how incompetent the doctors are here.

-“I think you just scared them,” you told him. You vividly remembered how he floated slightly off of the ground before leaning in to speak to one of the doctors face to face. That specific doctor left the room with pure terror in their eyes. “You can be pretty intimidating.”

-You rarely end up bedridden, because he normally notices the symptoms right at the beginning. But on the rare occasion that you’re really sick, then he’ll be worried.

-He’ll do a good job at hiding that fact though. You could feel like you're dying and he’d have the most calm expression before speaking to you.

-“You’ll be alright. Just trust me.”

-That’s pretty comforting to hear.

-Once you’re better, you’re under a lot more scrutiny from him. He needs to make sure that never happens again. After all, he loves you.

I wrote this while sick. Hm, wonder where I got my inspiration from…

217 notes · View notes

klucide · 2 months ago

Text

I love you Mark Grayson.. I lov eyou forever and ever... youll be mine... Forever...

334 notes · View notes

ko-conner · 3 months ago

Text

Definitely my favourite Invincible variant costume!

#invincible #invincible war #mark grayson #omni mark #omni invincible

189 notes · View notes

igocentric · 17 days ago

Text

OMNI MARKKK woohoo

You guys should give me art reqs...hehh....

Phightibg related art wip under cut

I'll finish this soon trust

#invincible #invincible comic #fyp #drawing #invincible fanart #art #mark grayson #art wip #screaming crying throwing up #omnithug #omni mark #omni invincible #phighting!#phighting art #phighting slingshot #catshot

37 notes · View notes

particlecreator · 2 months ago

Text

Villain!Eve x Omni-Mark

Eve pleasing her emperor.

Commission by @gods-banshee

25 notes · View notes

alive-gh0st · 17 days ago

Text

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: after defying a divine directive and choosing mercy over order, you—a cupid built not to feel—fall from the realm and crash into a world you don’t belong to. wingless and exiled, you land on a planet bruised by war, grief, and something worse: apathy. but one figure watches your descent. he’s not a hero. not a god. just a man turned monster, carrying the weight of a planet he helped destroy. you were made to spark love. he was made to conquer. so why can’t he walk away?

❤︎ contains: sfw. celestial mythology. lonely immortals. slow-burn dynamics. post-war emotional fallout. deconstruction of love as a weapon/tool. and a wingless cupid with a cracked heart and a crooked smile.

❤︎ warnings: emotional manipulation (brief). themes of exile and identity loss. canon-typical violence references (omni-mark’s past). light blood/injury mentions. quiet existential grief. soft heartbreak. and the inconvenient ache of wanting to be wanted.

‪❤︎ wc: 4454

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i wanted to write something aching. something soft and sharp and too pink in all the wrong places. this is my love letter to the ones who were built to help others but never expected to be helped. to the hopeless romantics. to the heartsworn. if you’ve ever looked for your own thread and found nothing but empty space—i see you. let’s fall together.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Before time had a name, there was love.

And before love had rules, there were those who enforced them.

You were one of them.

Cupids were never born in the way humans or any other beings are.

There was no crying, no clutching warmth, no heartbeat against heartbeat. You weren’t given to anyone—because in your world, nothing is ever truly given. It’s assigned.

And you were assigned to love.

Long before your first breath—or what could even be counted as a breath—your existence was stitched together with rose-gold thread and spun into something soft.

Something radiant. Something shaped to serve.

The Realm of Threads didn’t believe in accidents. It believed in connection.

Harmony. Devotion.

These were your first lessons—woven not from stories, but from structure. From a place built not to feel love, but to uphold it.

Cupids, as humans might call them, are not gods. They are not angels. They are not the chubby, winged caricatures drawn on glossy cards each February.

They are constructs.

Beings built from emotion itself, shaped by the pulse of the universe and tasked with one divine, inescapable truth: make them fall in love.

All of them.

Every soul in every world is marked by a thread—red, golden, soft, or shining. Invisible to most. Tangible only to your kind. And where those threads exist, your kind follows.

Weaving. Binding. Mending.

You never asked why. You were taught never to ask why.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

In your realm, the sky is made of lace.

Not literal lace—but that’s what it looks like, with its rippling tapestry of lights and longing.

You drifted through it as a child, surrounded by other Cupids—silent, graceful, unwavering. They didn’t speak unless they had to. Words wasted time. Emotion was observed, not expressed.

You were the odd one out almost immediately.

You giggled when you shouldn’t have. You sang with no rhythm. You watched humans too closely, too curiously. You wondered what it felt like to be kissed—not as a target, not as a mission—but as something wanted.

The Supervisors said your strings were too tight.

They meant your emotions.

You cared too much. Thought too hard. Dreamed in colors that didn’t belong to you.

But you were a prodigy, so they didn’t clip your wings. Not then. They praised your precision, your instincts. You’d never missed a target. Not once.

But love, you would learn, is only beautiful when it behaves.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You were trained before you ever knew what training meant.

In the Realm of Threads, there is no childhood. Not in the way humans define it. There are no lullabies, no scraped knees, no tumbling laughter in the grass. There is structure. There is schooling.

There is silence.

You were given a pod—not a room, not a bed. A pod. Sterile and softly lit, humming faintly with emotional frequency.

It pulsed with the echoes of distant connections: engagements, kisses, heartbreak, soulmates colliding on foreign soil.

It was meant to teach you. Not to feel—but to understand what feeling looks like.

Your first lessons weren’t in numbers or words. They were in observation.

Screens stretched across your wall like windows into other realms. Every second of every day, you watched humans love each other. Fumble and flourish. Make mistakes. Fix them. You learned the cadence of confession, the stillness before a first kiss, the ache of waiting by a phone that wouldn’t ring.

You took notes.

You practiced on simulations. Shadow versions of real people, constructed for training. They were emotion puppets—coded to respond, to mimic the human condition, but never feel it.

You pulled their strings like a composer, conducting the perfect crescendo of a meet-cute or a second chance.

And you were so good at it.

Even the elder Cupids, old as planetary rotations, took notice.

They called you “Silken.”

They called you “True-Handed.”

They said your instincts were woven with clarity few possessed.

But even then—you knew something was wrong.

Because love wasn’t clean. It wasn’t predictable. It wasn’t math.

You saw it in the gaps between the simulations—in the real footage, in the stolen glances and unsent letters.

Love was messy.

And you weren’t allowed to say that.

So instead, you smiled. You bowed your head. You aced your assignments. And when it was finally time to receive your bow—the instrument that would mark you as a field Cupid, ready to enter the human realm—you let them place it in your hands like a crown.

Ceremonial. Divine. Cold.

Your wings fluttered for the first time that day. Not from pride. From something else.

Restlessness.

Because you weren’t sure you wanted to be part of this system.

But you’d been shaped for it. And in the Realm of Threads, shape is everything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

They say Cupids don’t feel the way humans do. But if that were true—why did it ache?

You never had a red string.

That was the first thing you noticed.

You saw them everywhere—thread-thin, glowing like veins of fire across the fabric of reality. Around wrists, through hearts, tied in impossible loops from continent to continent, galaxy to galaxy. Red. Gold. Silver.

Some pulsed softly. Some burned bright. Some frayed at the ends—doomed to break.

But you?

You had none.

You looked. Every year. Every cycle. Every mirror.

And there was never one waiting for you.

The instructors said it was proof of your purpose.

You were meant to love, not to be loved.

Cupids didn’t need soulmates. You were the threads—not what they tied together.

But still, when you were alone in your pod—your crown-glass screen humming with soft simulations—you sometimes wrapped a ribbon around your own finger and pretended.

Just for a moment. Just to feel what it might be like to belong to someone.

To be chosen.

To be someone’s reason.

You told no one.

Cupids weren’t supposed to pretend.

Not about that.

You always grinned too brightly. Talked too much. Got too close to the humans you helped.

You asked too many questions.

Why this couple? Why that connection? Why did heartbreak sometimes look so much like love?

You weren’t supposed to wonder. You were supposed to execute. Deliver arrows. Create outcomes. Adjust the threads.

But you liked watching after the mission was done.

You stayed longer than you should have. Saw the way people clung to one another. Fought. Forgave. Grieved. Moved on. Sometimes, even when the threads said they wouldn’t.

And worse—you started to feel happy for them.

Genuinely.

Not in the approved, detached sense of “mission accomplished,” but like… something warm bloomed in your chest just watching two people choose each other.

One day you told another Cupid—casually, as if it was no big thing—that it must feel nice to be loved like that.

She looked at you like you were malfunctioning. Reported you. Quietly.

You were summoned for evaluation.

They used soft words. Nothing cruel—just… firm.

“Attachment undermines your clarity.”

“You’ve been too immersed in lower realms.”

“Emotional mimicry is a known side effect. You’ll adjust.”

You didn’t adjust.

You just learned how to lie better.

You laughed louder. You perfected your posture. You earned the nickname Heartsworn, and everyone said it with admiration.

But you felt empty most days.

Like a thread that had never been tied.

And it gnawed at you, that emptiness—because you were built to help others find connection.

So why did it feel like you’d never have your own?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It happened on a world not so different from Earth.

Small. Blue. Quiet in the way only dying stars can make a planet feel.

The threads there were thin. Brittle. Nearly broken.

It needed love desperately. That’s why they sent you.

Because you never missed. Because your aim was perfect. Because you were the shining example—the “Heartsworn,” the favorite, the infallible.

And at first, it was routine.

Two beings. Two threads. One frayed at the end, knotted tight around grief. The other hesitant, flickering. Their paths crossed in a way that felt almost poetic—a shared umbrella. An open bookstore. A laugh like recognition.

You hovered above them, bow pulsing in your palm.

A clean shot. Two arrows. One for each.

But then something shifted.

The woman—your target—she looked up at the man, eyes tired but tender. And the way he looked back… like he was remembering how to breathe.

And you saw it.

She had already loved him.

It hadn’t been forced. It hadn’t been orchestrated. No divine architecture. No thread pulling them forward.

Just… choice.

Human, messy, miraculous choice.

You hesitated.

And that’s all it took.

Your bow trembled in your hands. Not from error—but from resistance.

Because for the first time—you didn’t want to interfere. You didn’t want to force it.

You wanted to let them be.

You lowered your weapon.

And then—because you were soft, and reckless, and maybe stupid in the eyes of the Supervisors—you spoke to her.

She didn’t see you. Not clearly. Just a shimmer in the corner of her eye. But you whispered anyway.

“You don’t need help. You already chose him.”

The words weren’t authorized. Your presence was meant to be undetectable. You were not allowed to alter the script.

But you did.

And for a moment—nothing happened.

Then the red thread between them sparked. Bright. Violent. Uncontrolled.

It burned itself into existence. Without your arrow. Without divine sanction.

And they kissed.

Not because you told them to.

Because they wanted to.

Your lips curled into a soft smile.

You didn’t regret it.

But the moment you returned to the Realm of Threads, you knew something was wrong.

The lights were dimmed.

The supervisors were waiting.

No lectures. No trials.

Just one sentence.

“You interfered.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself—but the guards were already reaching for your wings.

You’d heard what it sounded like.

The sound of ripping. The way it cuts deeper than bone.

But you’d never imagined it would hurt like this.

Your knees hit the lace-floor. Your mouth stayed silent.

You didn’t scream.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because they wanted you to.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to take that from them.

Dignity, you told yourself.

Dignity is all I have left.

You were told you would not be recycled. You were too “contaminated.” Too unstable. A bad example.

So instead—they exiled you.

You didn’t get to ask where.

Just a flash of cold light—

And then the sound of wind.

Falling.

Alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You hit the ground hard.

Not like a leaf drifting. Not with grace. Not with poise. Not like the Cupids in the stories.

Like a comet.

A streak of light through an unfamiliar sky, dragging heat and ache in your wake.

You didn’t black out right away—but you almost wished you had.

Because the first thing you felt wasn’t the crash. Wasn’t the way your ribs seized or the way your shoulder twisted beneath your fall.

It was the space between your wings.

The hollow.

The absence.

You gasped.

Air—not laced with threadlight, not humming with frequency, just air—rushed into your lungs like punishment.

You curled onto your side, dirt grinding into the soft parts of you. Wet grass clung to your skin. The sky above was wrong—blue, yes, but so still. No shimmering frequencies. No glowing red filaments. Just clouds, soft and slow.

You were somewhere real.

Somewhere unmarked.

Somewhere alone.

It wasn’t the pain that made you want to cry.

It was the quiet.

Because back home—even when you were alone in your pod, even when no one looked at you—there was always something.

The buzz of love blooming. The echo of longing. The soft, constant pull of other people’s threads, humming just outside your senses.

But now?

Nothing.

It was gone.

You sat up slowly.

And then immediately flopped back down with a tiny, theatrical groan.

“Ouchie,” you mumbled to no one, voice breathy and soft and definitely not pained—because no, you were totally fine. Just a bit… stunned. And mildly bleeding. And definitely wingless.

But you were smiling. Kind of. Maybe.

Okay, so it trembled a little at the edges.

“I’ve had worse landings,” you said aloud—which was a lie. You’d never landed before. You’d always floated.

You tried again, slowly, every nerve screaming. Your knees trembled. Your arms buckled. You caught yourself on the soft slope of a hill, hands sinking into wildflowers and moss.

You blinked down at them.

Yellow, pink, violet. Stubbornly bright.

They looked like something out of a simulation.

They weren’t.

They were real.

Your mouth twisted.

Of course you landed in a field of flowers. Of course.

You laughed.

It came out cracked and hoarse. Almost a sob.

Because everything hurt, and everything was still spinning, and you had no idea where you were, and no one was coming for you, and—

No.

No, you weren’t going to cry. You weren’t.

Cupids didn’t cry.

Even clipped ones.

Even broken ones.

Even ones bleeding into someone else’s sky.

Still, you tried to push yourself up, wobbling on legs that hadn’t had to support you since your designation. It felt wrong. Heavy. Like gravity had teeth and it didn’t trust you. You teetered. Fell to your knees again.

And giggled.

Which also trembled a little.

“I meant to do that.”

You dusted imaginary dirt from your imaginary uniform and gave an exaggerated little curtsy to the empty air.

No one clapped. Rude.

You dragged yourself to your feet.

Shaky. Awkward. Wobbly in a way you hadn’t felt in cycles. The Realm of Threads taught you to float everywhere. Gliding was cleaner. More efficient. Less emotional.

You hadn’t really walked since childhood simulations.

The ground felt weird under your feet. Solid. Gritty.

Your bow was still intact. Miraculously. You hugged it close like a stuffed toy, curling in on yourself for a moment, letting the quiet press into your bones.

You could still feel it.

That place between your shoulders—where your wings had been. Like a ghost limb. Like something sacred had been carved out of you and left a silence behind.

You hated it.

But you kept moving.

Maybe—if you helped someone on this world—someone would come back for you. Maybe if you just kept doing your job, proved you were still useful, still good, they’d rewind the exile.

Reattach what they’d taken.

Please.

You stumbled once. Then again. Then face-planted into a patch of daisies with a grunt so undignified you groaned into the soil.

“Get it together,” you mumbled into the grass.

You pushed yourself back up. Sat on your knees for a second. Took a breath.

You didn’t know how long you wandered after that.

Minutes? Hours? You lost time in the way only the heartbroken can.

It got dark fast.

The sky burned gold, then violet, then black. Stars blinked overhead—foreign constellations, wrong patterns.

You were still limping through the field when the noise came.

A whoosh.

Sharp. Cutting. Like something splitting the air in half.

You froze.

Turned slowly.

And then—saw him.

Not a blur. A shape. Coming toward you like a storm with legs.

You only had a second to register what was coming at you: tall, fast, red and white—a storm in the shape of a man. And a scowl, carved from thunderclouds.

Flying.

He was flying.

You squinted.

Not a Cupid. Definitely not a Cupid.

A human?

No.

No, he felt… too much.

You didn’t have your thread-sight anymore, but you could still feel.

Emotions. Echoes.

He felt like gravity.

Like something that had no business coming closer—and was doing it anyway.

He landed hard. Just a few feet away.

Harder than you had. The ground splintered beneath his feet, shockwaves rippling out in a perfect ring. Dust and wildflowers burst upward like a gasp. He stood there for a beat—motionless.

And you… just stared.

Red suit. White accents. Red cape. Black goggles like midnight slicing across his face. He didn’t glow. He didn’t shine. He loomed.

His presence felt like gravity doubled—like the world bowed to his weight and dared not rise again.

You blinked at him slowly. Then offered a tiny wave.

“Hi.”

Silence.

He didn’t move.

You glanced behind you like maybe he was staring at someone else, but no—those mirrored goggles were fixed on you.

“Hiii,” you tried again, voice cheerier. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

No reaction. His posture didn’t shift. You had a sudden, vivid mental image of being vaporized.

“I’m just passing through!” you rushed, hands up. “A… a tourist! On a very involuntary vacation!”

Still nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing—he was breathing.

Barley.

His voice, when it came, was sharp enough to slice open a planet.

“You’re not human.”

Your grin faltered for a second before rebounding, like a rubber band that’s been snapped too many times.

“Nope. Not even a little bit! But I’m very human adjacent in a lot of ways! I’ve watched a lot of rom-coms and I know how to do a proper hug—although full disclosure, I might fall over during it because of the whole… clipped wings situation.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes—hidden though they were—felt like twin drills boring into the softest parts of you.

“Why are you here?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then plastered on a sheepish smile.

“That’s kind of a long story,” you admitted, voice dipping softer now. “The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

Something flickered across his face. Brief. Gone before you could catch it.

“And now,” you continued, tone brightening again as you gestured to the wildflower field like a very proud but slightly concussed game show host, “I’m here! In… wherever here is. Honestly, it’s pretty. Good flowers. Ten out of ten. Bit of a rough welcome, but I’ve had worse.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Your hand drifted unconsciously to your back, fingertips brushing the jagged place where wings used to rise.

You shrugged. “It’s mostly cosmetic.”

He said nothing. Just stared.

You took a step forward—then immediately lost your balance and fell face-first into a patch of daisies.

There was a beat of silence. Then two. Then three.

And then—so faint you thought you imagined it—you heard the faintest exhale of breath from the man in red and white.

Not a laugh.

But maybe the ghost of one.

You rolled onto your back and grinned up at the stars.

“See?” you said, voice light. “I’m great at making first impressions.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡��

The second he saw you, he didn’t trust you.

Not because you looked dangerous. No—you didn’t. You were crumpled in a bed of wildflowers, wobbling like a broken marionette and smiling like someone had painted joy over grief and hoped no one would notice the cracks.

But that was exactly why he didn’t trust you.

People didn’t fall from the sky and grin. Not here. Not anywhere. Not anymore.

So he hovered, silent, watching you crawl upright like you didn’t know how to use your own legs. Like the planet was something foreign. Like gravity was something new.

That wasn’t normal.

He’d seen a lot of things in a lot of universes—false gods, black holes, men split into fractions of themselves—but this? A girl with stardust on her skin and nothing in her hands but a bow? That was new.

He landed hard. On purpose. Let the ground feel him.

You flinched. Not at the sound—at the silence that followed it.

And then you looked up.

Big eyes. Bare feet. Mouth bleeding at the corner, but curved like you hadn’t noticed. Or didn’t care.

And then—

“Hi.”

Like you hadn’t just fallen from orbit.

He didn’t speak.

“Hiii,” you tried again, softer. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

Still he said nothing.

He didn’t move.

He watched.

Measured.

Assessed.

You were glowing at the edges—not visibly—but in some low, stubborn frequency. Like the kind of candle you couldn’t blow out even after you’d shattered the holder.

It irritated him.

He spoke without meaning to.

“You’re not human.”

You beamed, wounded and bright. “Nope! Not even a little bit!”

You kept talking. Rambling. Fumbling your way through some patchwork lie about tourism and rom-coms and wings—clipped, apparently.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t need to.

He was looking for something. A tell. A crack.

“Why are you here?”

That stopped you.

Just a second. Barely.

But it was enough.

Your grin shrank. Eyes dipped. Voice turned soft.

“That’s kind of a long story. The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

That flickered something inside him.

He crushed it before it could breathe.

He didn’t do soft. He didn’t do “caring.” That was the problem with the others. They hesitated. Thought. He didn’t. That’s why he survived.

So why was he still here?

Why wasn’t he flying away?

Why hadn’t he broken you in half the moment you lied?

You stepped forward. Tripped. Fell face-first into a clump of flowers like a deer learning how to walk for the first time.

He didn’t flinch, but he exhaled—just once. Quiet. Almost amused.

You rolled onto your back and smiled at the stars.

“See? I’m great at making first impressions.”

He hated how you said it.

Like it mattered.

Like someone out here was still capable of being good.

He walked toward you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t crawl away. You sat there, hands splayed out behind you, watching him like you weren’t sure if he was going to help you up or crush your skull.

Smart.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head.

“I should kill you.”

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t move. “You could. You really could. But I’d prefer we didn’t start there?”

“Then give me one reason not to.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked up at him like you were weighing the clouds.

“I don’t have one.”

He stared.

You continued.

“I mean—I don’t know if I’m important. I don’t have a secret code or an army or even a sandwich right now. But…”

You reached up, touching your back—where the blood had dried, sticky and shimmering.

“But I used to be someone. I used to help people fall in love. And maybe that doesn’t matter to you—but it mattered to them.”

There was a silence.

He wasn’t sure what he expected you to say.

But it wasn’t that.

He should leave.

He should fly away and chalk you up to another anomaly.

Instead, he said:

“Can you still do it?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make people love.”

Your lips curled up. Slowly. Sadly. “I don’t know.”

Another pause.

You were watching him too closely now. Like you were trying to read a string that wasn’t there.

“You’re not really from here either,” you said softly. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

You already knew.

“Are you gonna hurt me?” you asked.

He looked at you, at the way your voice didn’t tremble, even though your body did.

And for once—he told the truth.

“I don’t know.”

You nodded.

“Fair.”

Then you reached up and offered your hand.

Not in fear. Not in desperation.

Just… like someone who was used to offering something and not getting it taken.

He didn’t take it.

But he didn’t crush it either.

He looked past you—at the dark hills, the useless stars, the broken silence.

After conquering this place and killing his father—he didn’t know what this planet was anymore.

Didn’t care.

But he had nowhere else to be. Not anymore.

He turned.

Walked.

And when he didn’t tell you to stay—

You followed.

Not too close.

Just… close enough.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Once, you were small. Once, you believed everything they told you.

Your first robe was the color of a peach blossom.

It shimmered when you turned, sleeves brushing the floor, too big for your arms and still perfect in every way. You’d never worn something so soft.

You twirled three times in front of the mirror, arms out like wings, giggling because everything felt light.

“You look very neat,” said one of the elder Cupids, gliding past with a clipboard. “Remember to keep your posture upright when you’re selected for observation.”

“I will!” you promised, standing taller.

The robe swished when you walked. You liked that. It made you feel important. Like you were finally what they said you would be—purposeful.

Part of something big.

You didn’t understand everything yet, but that didn’t matter.

You were going to be a Cupid.

And Cupids were good.

“Today,” said another instructor, voice warm and practiced, “you’ll learn about threads.”

You beamed. Sat up straighter. Listened with all your heart.

“Every being has a thread,” they explained, conjuring a floating hologram that flickered softly through the training chamber. “They wrap around us, tie us to our people. See?”

The threads shimmered—red, gold, silver, glowing like starlight.

You gasped. It was so pretty. It made your chest feel warm.

“You’ll help people find each other,” the instructor went on. “You’ll guide their steps. Fix what’s frayed. Strengthen what’s fragile.”

“I can do that!” you blurted.

A few other young Cupids turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your legs were swinging off the floating bench and your hands were already up.

“I wanna do the red ones,” you said proudly. “Those are the soulmate ones, right?”

The instructor smiled. So gently. Like they were talking to someone a little slow, but very sweet.

“Oh, darling,” they said. “You don’t get one.”

You blinked.

“Huh?”

“You won’t have a red thread,” they said again, same caring voice, same soft smile. “Cupids don’t get them.”

You frowned. “But… we’re people too?”

“No,” they said kindly. “You’re not.”

Another Cupid, older, came to kneel beside you. Their hair was smooth. Their smile too perfect.

“You’re something better,” they told you. “You were made for love. You don’t need to be in it.”

“But—” you started.

“We give it,” the first instructor interrupted gently. “That’s your gift.”

You hesitated.

“But doesn’t anyone ever want us back?” you asked in a small voice.

The instructor’s smile didn’t change.

“No one has ever asked that before.”

You blinked. Sat very still.

They stood again.

“Alright, little hearts,” the elder said, clapping once. “Time for simulation prep. Let’s learn how to listen when a thread hums.”

Everyone got up.

You did too.

You smiled. Because they smiled. Because everyone around you looked so sure, so peaceful, so right.

You didn’t want to be the wrong one.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

220 notes · View notes

achillesvslz · 1 month ago

Note

HIII OMGSJ, I love your writing so much so when I saw your request was open I jumped in like a beast. Whenever you're free of course 🫂

But I have this idea, that in the invincible war, there are a lot of Marks that get killed right, so I think that readers from their world just wait for them to come back not knowing they are dead until Angstrom comes back to tell them and they was devastating, so Angstrom take this as an opportunity to make them help him destroy the main Mark world, but the reader goal is just revenge and kill whoever killed their Mark.

And for the readers in the world of the survivor Mark, Angstrom says that if they help him he will give them their Marks back.

Idk I just want to get this idea out and wanted to know how it would happen and how the main Mark feels when seeing a multiverse of readers desperate to get revenge 😔✋️

Not you too

Characters: Main Mark + GN! Speedster! Reader variants

Synopsis: Mark's fine killing versions of himself, but you? God help him.

Content Warnings: Graphic violence, Character death (multiple versions of Reader), Blood and gore, Impalement, crushed skulls and bones, Emotional distress, Psychological trauma, Multiversal doppelgangers, Brief mentions of death by falling, crushing

E/N: not all reader variants for the Marks are reviewed in this, just hinted at. Some Reader Variants are dead though as well (My HC).

Angstrom just couldn’t let him rest, could he?

After everything—fighting off a legion of murderous versions of himself, stopping a Viltrumite threat, and barely holding the planet together—Mark just wanted one day. One single day to decompress. Kick his feet up, sip a soda, maybe rewatch Science Dog in peace. But no. That would’ve been too easy.

Instead, Cecil’s voice burst through the comms, frazzled and grim. “Green portals have opened. Versions of [REDACTED] came through. They’re… they’re not friendly.”

Mark almost dropped his drink. Versions of you—causing chaos?

And from the carnage that followed, it was clear: you were angry in every universe.

The first one came fast. Viltrumite armor tinted deep crimson, stained with blood, yours and others. Stronger than any of the others, you hit harder than even Mark was used to. The two of you clashed, fists slamming into one another with the force of missiles. You didn’t waste breath on threats—just let your speed and strength talk for you. Mark tried to reason with you, dodging, weaving, pleading. “I don’t want to fight you!” he yelled—but you didn’t care. You caught him off guard, fists flying, and nearly cracked his jaw before he countered with a desperate blow to your ribs. You stumbled. He hesitated. And you charged again. That’s when he drove his fist clean through your chest—straight through your armor, your sternum, your heart. You didn’t scream. Just looked at him with shock before collapsing, twitching, dead before you hit the ground.

Then came the second. Faster, louder, more chaotic. You zipped through the ruins of Paris, leaving a trail of ruin in your wake. Laughing like it was all a game. Mark followed the tremors in your wake, catching you in the middle of caving in another skyscraper. He tried again to plead, his voice hoarse. But you grinned, eyes crazed, and rushed him. He ducked and weaved, only narrowly avoiding a flurry of lightning-fast punches. When he finally got a grip on you, he grabbed you by the back of your head and with a brutal roar, slammed your skull straight into the concrete. Once, twice—until your mask shattered and the back of your head caved in like glass. You went limp in his grip.

The third version didn’t talk. You moved like a ghost—silent, emotionless, long hair tied back, your eyes locked on him with surgical focus. You didn’t smile. You didn’t scream. Just attacked, a blur of calculated strikes. Mark barely kept up. You were fast, sharper than the others. But one mistake—a mistimed kick—gave Mark the opening he needed. He caught your leg, twisted hard, and drove you into the ground. Then, in one motion, he lifted you back up and snapped your spine over his knee like a twig. The crack echoed across the street before your body dropped, twitching once, then going still.

The fourth was different. Omni-Mark’s version of you—serious, silent, precise. Your hits came without warning, almost mathematical in their rhythm. Mark barely had time to block them. You didn’t banter, didn’t taunt, didn’t waste energy. He respected that��until you tried to end him with a straight shot to the throat. He caught your arm, twisted it behind your back, then kicked you hard in the chest. As you stumbled back, Mark shot into the sky with you in a tight grip, rising higher and higher until the clouds swallowed you both. Then he let go. He watched you fall. You didn’t scream. Didn’t flail. You hit the Earth seconds later with a sound like thunder. And didn’t move again.

Next was the fifth. Shiesty Mark’s version. Arrogant, fast-talking, cocky. You danced around him, smirking, mocking him with every step. “C’mon, Golden Boy. You look tired already.” You zipped in and out, tagging him with punches, but never enough to do real damage. Just enough to piss him off. But Mark had learned by now. He waited, baited you into a feint—and when you went for the kill, he caught your face with one perfectly placed fist. The impact crushed your cheekbone, then your nose, then your skull. Your body dropped in a heap, twitching like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then came the sixth—mohawked, armored, and mean. You were strong, but speed was still your weapon, and you used it with relentless aggression. You barreled into Mark with enough force to collapse the side of a building. He pushed back, every second of the fight a brutal clash of precision and sheer force. You landed hit after hit, keeping him pinned, never letting up. But you slipped. Just once. Mark caught your arm, twisted, and hurled you into the shell of a half-fallen skyscraper. The entire top section came down with you inside. Concrete and steel crushed your body beneath the weight. Mark didn’t see you emerge.

The final one was the worst. Sinister Mark’s version. You were quiet, but there was something in your voice when you spoke—like you knew him. Like you remembered. “You're tired,” you said, almost gently, before disappearing into a blur of afterimages. You didn’t fight like the others. You played with time, weaving around him, dragging him into a blur of motion, a warped strobe of lights and colors. Mark chased you through the skyline, through abandoned highways, through lightning itself. You were too fast. Then everything slowed down. Or maybe everything sped up. The air warped. Space twisted. And you were gone—vanished into some endless corridor of light, swallowed by your own speed. The Speed Force, maybe. Mark would never know. But you didn’t come back.

And just like that, it was over.

By the fourth day, with the last of your variants defeated or dead, Mark stood alone among craters and corpses. The city was broken. The sky was grey. And when he finally saw you—his you—safe, real, still alive, he couldn’t help it.

He grabbed you. Pulled you into his chest. Hands trembling. Breath shaking.

He had killed you fifteen times. Fast, deadly, and unrelenting—you in every form. But this one? This one held him back. This one clutched his shirt just as tightly. And God help him… he was thankful. So, so thankful.

345 notes · View notes

stareiiez · 3 months ago

Text

omni-invincible hates you. there's no love, there's no room for your drunken admissions when he mouths at the crook of your neck.

omni-invincible is the dude lying on his back and making you do all the work. he doesn't touch you much, like his fellow headcap variant. he lacks the emotions or facial expression to show how much he likes your sappy pussy throbbing around his shaft. like all men, he has needs. But watching you with that bored flat look will meet his needs. his bare chest stuttering with how you go down on him to clean your combined messes off his softening mass of a penis. he's had better on some other far-off planet, with an alien species that was far uglier than you; so congrats? I guess?

there's no after care, there's no degradation. there's only your moans and the springs of the mattress from your less-than-adequate home for his tastes. when he gets too out of his head, and he finds you lacking in making him come.

prepare to be suffocated in your pillows, and bent over with your ass high in the air. his gloved hands cage either side of your head while he pounds away with strict and coordinated thrusts. he's chasing a high that was barely there, to begin with, and you're lucky ( as always) to be taking his cock that breaks past your cervix to fuck your womb to completion. whether you pass out from the lack of oxygen or die of asphyxiation altogether. omni-invincible doesn't bat an eye, only stares at your splayed-out form and his cum weeping from your incredibly stretched pussy overflowing from the two rounds he graced you with.

#ch: invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #fem reader #omni mark #omni invincible #omni invincible x reader #invinicible smut #mark grayson #invincible

519 notes · View notes

mocharyc · 3 months ago

Text

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 5✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

♡ The first variant gets the best pickings of her(y/n's) love ♡

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Fever Dreams‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 10k+ [Part 5] ☆ TW: fluff + more~ ☆ Author's Note: This chapter took a long time to get down, I kept re-writing it over and over again. I really wanted the... well, I can't spoil, lol. read and find outttt ♡ ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊ ♡This is a long chapter; bear with me pls♡

––––––––––––––

Y/N drifted in and out of consciousness, fragments of conversations reaching her through the haze of medication and pain. Each voice filtered through her fevered mind with distinct clarity, bringing with it the unique cadence and emotion of its owner.

"...collar repairs are possible, but without proper calibration..." Emperor's voice, commanding even in hushed tones. His brow furrowed with impatience, the muscle in his jaw twitching beneath his chiseled face as he stared down at the broken technology with disdain. The golden accents of his imperial uniform caught the dim light of the cabin as he moved, his posture rigid with authority.

"...keep her sedated until the fever breaks..." No Mask's voice carried an unusual gentleness. His exposed features—so jarring without the familiar invincible mask—softened with concern as he checked her bandages with practiced efficiency, his fingers trembling slightly when they brushed against her burning skin. The familiar blue and yellow of his costume seemed darker in the cabin's shadows, his face marked with exhaustion.

"...touch her again and I'll tear your arms off..." Mohawk snarled, his threat punctuated by the flash of his teeth. His eyes blazed with protective fury, veins pulsing visibly at his temples as he stood with his fists clenched, knuckles white with restraint. The distinctive ridge of his mohawk cast a jagged shadow across the wall, matching the harsh lines of rage etched into his face.

"...mission parameters are clear, this distraction is illogical..." Omni's razor-sharp logic cut through the tension. His perfectly composed features betrayed him only through the slight clench of his jaw as he fought against his overwhelming desire to rush to her side, to ensure her comfort himself. The blood stained red and white of his uniform seemed to glow in the half-light, pristine despite the chaos surrounding them.

"...she’s your Y/N, she's mine..." Sinister's words dripped with possession, his face gleaming with obsession. His pupils dilated as he stared hungrily at her prone form, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as if tasting her vulnerability in the air. His black and yellow suit seemed to absorb the shadows, making him appear more creature than man.

The voices blended and separated, identifiable not just by tone but by the emotions etched into their identical-yet-different faces—Emperor's imperious sneer, the way his nostrils flared when contradicted; Mohawk's snarling defiance, the permanent crease between his brows deepening with each protective glance; Omni's calculated detachment betrayed by the trembling of his lower lip when he thought no one was watching; Viltrumite's cold authority masking deeper anguish visible in the shadows beneath his eyes; Prisoner's raw hatred punctuated by twitches of longing that softened his scarred features momentarily; Phantom's haunted gaze, perpetually searching; Sinister's predatory smile revealing his sharp canines, his eyes never blinking beneath his black lenes when fixed upon her; No Mask's rare flickers of humanity breaking through his professional demeanor like cracks in armor.

They were arguing about her, around her, over her—as if she were a prize to be claimed rather than a person with agency. The realization should have angered her, but in her weakened state, it offered opportunity. Their fracturing alliance, their competing claims—these were vulnerabilities she could exploit if only she could recover enough strength.

The medication pulled her under again, dragging her into dreamless darkness where even these thoughts faded to nothing.

When Y/N next opened her eyes, the cabin was bathed in the silvery glow of moonlight. The pain in her side had dulled to a persistent throb rather than the sharp agony of before, suggesting No Mask's medication was working. Her mind felt clearer, no longer swimming in the fog of fever and infection.

She wasn't alone. A figure sat in a chair beside her bed, silhouetted against the moonlight streaming through the broken window. For a moment, fear spiked through her—was it Prisoner, returned to make good on his threats? Sinister, with his disturbing obsession? But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she recognized the distinctive outline of Phantom's mask face, the void-like quality of his presence.

"You're awake," he observed, his voice so quiet it might have been mistaken for the rustling of leaves outside. Beneath the see-through fabric of his mask, his eyes watched her with an intensity that felt different from the others—less possessive, more... haunted. The moonlight cast sharp shadows across his masked features, highlighting the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself apart from her.

Y/N didn't respond immediately, taking stock of her condition. The bandages around her torso felt clean and dry, no longer sodden with blood and infection. Her throat, while still raw from the collar's damage, no longer burned with each breath. The worst of the fever had broken, leaving her weak but coherent. She felt her Viltrumite powers slowly returning.

"Why are you watching me?" she finally asked, her voice stronger than it had been earlier, though still rough around the edges. She pushed herself up slightly on the bed, wincing as the movement pulled at her healing wounds.

Phantom didn't answer directly, his head tilting slightly as he studied her in the moonlight. A muscle in his jaw jumped beneath the edge of his mask, betraying emotion beneath his controlled exterior. "You look like her," he said after a long pause.

"My mother."

The admission was so unexpected, so far from anything Y/N had anticipated, that she found herself momentarily speechless.

Of all the possible intimate connections these Mark variants might have formed with her, a maternal one had never crossed her mind. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, lips parting slightly as she processed his words.

"Your mother?" she echoed, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. She shifted against the pillows, trying to see his face more clearly in the moonlight.

Phantom leaned forward slightly, the moonlight casting half his masked face in silver while leaving the rest in shadow. For a moment, his eyes glimmered with something that might have been tears under his mask, the wet moisture beneath his lenses catching the light. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, as if steeling himself to continue.

"In my universe," he explained, each word measured as if speaking required conscious effort, "she raised me after my father died. Taught me control. Strength." His gloved fingers curled into a fist on his knee, knuckles white beneath the leather. "Than they came… I was took weak without proper training… When she was killed, there was... nothing left to contain what I became."

Y/N remained silent, sensing that any interruption might end this rare moment of vulnerability. The rawness in Phantom's voice, the slight tremor of his lips beneath his mask—these were cracks in his armor that she hadn't thought possible. She kept her gaze fixed on him, her own face softening with something like understanding.

"The others," he continued after a moment, his eyes darting to the door as if fearing interruption, "they see their lovers, their partners in you. Their Y/Ns." The word seemed to catch in his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly.

"But I see the woman who taught me what compassion meant." His mask turned toward the broken window, moonlight catching damp fabric beneath the eyes of his mask. "Before I forgot."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken history, with the ghost of a relationship that had shaped this Mark variant into something different from the others. Not better, perhaps—his hands were as blood-stained as theirs—but different in motivation, in drive.

"Is that why you're here?" Y/N asked finally with a raise of her brow, her voice barely above a whisper. "To remember what compassion feels like?"

Phantom remained motionless for so long that Y/N wondered if he'd heard her question. When he finally spoke, his voice had returned to its usual emptiness, the momentary vulnerability buried beneath layers of control, his eyes once again shadowed and unreadable behind his mask.

"I'm here because I believe every universe should suffer what I have." The words were recited like a mantra, a truth so fundamental it had become faith. "Angstrom Levy promised us salvation. Promised me..."

"A new Y/n?" she supplied when he trailed off, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone as she rolled her eyes, a hint of defiance returning to her despite her weakened state.

Phantom's head snapped toward her, the movement too quick, too inhuman to be comfortable. The tendons in his neck stood out like cords beneath his skin, his breathing suddenly harsh behind his mask. The moonlight caught the subtle changes in his posture—a coiling of tension, a predatory stillness.

"No," he said, with unexpected vehemence.

"You can't be replaced. She can't be… None of you can." His voice dropped, becoming almost introspective. "That's what they don't understand. What I'm beginning to fe–..."

He stopped abruptly, rising from the chair with fluid grace. His black and blue uniform absorbed the moonlight, creating a void in the shape of a man, as he moved.

"You should rest," he stated, retreating behind the mask of cool detachment, though his eyes remained fixed on her face with an intensity that belied his tone. "Tomorrow will be... difficult."

Before Y/N could question him further, the cabin door opened, admitting Viltrumite's imposing figure. The moonlight caught the white of his uniform, lending him an almost ethereal quality as he stood framed in the doorway, power and authority radiating from his perfect posture. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, his dark hair swept back immaculately despite the chaos of their mission.

His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked between Phantom and Y/N, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His nostrils flared slightly, as if he could smell the vulnerability that had permeated the room moments before.

The white of his uniform seemed to glow in the moonlight, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the strength contained in his frame.

"Your watch is over," he stated, not a question but a command. His gaze lingered on Y/N's face, something unreadable flickering in their depths. "Return to bringing destruction to this planet."

Phantom inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, moving toward the door. He paused beside Viltrumite, the two Mark variants presenting a study in contrasts—one all light and imperial presence, the other shadow and restrained power. The tension between them was palpable, crackling in the air like electricity.

"She's stronger," Phantom observed quietly, the words meant only for Viltrumite's ears but carrying in the cabin's stillness. "The fever's breaking, clear signs of her Viltumite status returning."

Viltrumite's features remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction. The corner of his mouth twitched upward momentarily, a fleeting crack in his regal facade.

"Good, now go," he replied, dismissal evident in his tone. "Join Sinister in the eastern quadrant. The planet still needs to be destroyed."

Phantom disappeared into the night without another word, leaving Y/N alone with Viltrumite. The absence of his presence left the cabin feeling suddenly larger, emptier; a sadness bellowed in her eyes.

The older Mark variant moved into the cabin with measured steps, each movement precise and controlled. In the moonlight, he seemed carved from marble—flawless, ageless, his features set in lines of authority that brooked no defiance. His eyes, though identical to all the Mark's in color, held centuries of experience and the weight of an empire.

"Your condition is improving," he observed, coming to stand beside her bed. Closer she could see his brown eyes clearer, they were cooler than the others' yet somehow more penetrating, cataloging her appearance with clinical assessment. The slightest twitch of his lips betrayed satisfaction at her recovery. "No Mask's intervention was... fortuitous."

Y/N attempted to push herself higher on the pillows, determined to face him from a position less vulnerable than flat on her back. The movement sent a dull throb of pain through her side, but it was manageable—a vast improvement from the searing agony of before. A bead of sweat formed at her temple from the effort, rolling down her cheek.

"Lucky for you," she replied, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "Can't extract much value from a corpse, can you?"

Something shifted in Viltrumite's expression—not quite surprise, but a reassessment.

His nostrils flared slightly, and the harsh lines of his imperial bearing softened fractionally, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath the mantle, his brown eyes studying her with newfound interest, pupils dilating almost imperceptibly. A muscle in his cheek twitched, betraying emotions he kept carefully controlled.

"You misunderstand," he said, his voice losing some of its commanding resonance. "Your survival is... significant beyond our new mission parameters."

Y/N laughed, the sound bitter and sharp in the moonlit cabin. "Right. Because I look like her—your Y/N." The words were a challenge, thrown like rocks at his feet.

Her eyes flashed with defiance, color rising to her cheeks as she held his gaze. "Is that it? I'm a convenient replacement for whatever woman you lost?"

Viltrumite's reaction was unmistakable—a tightening around his eyes, a momentary tension in his jaw that made a muscle jump beneath his skin. For an instant, his perfect composure cracked, revealing raw grief beneath the imperial façade. His fingers trembled slightly before he clenched them into fists at his sides, the veins in his forearms standing out against his skin.

"She was not just..." he began, then stopped, the words seeming to catch in his throat. His eyes appeared suddenly brighter, more vulnerable in the moonlight streaming through the window.

Y/N watched, fascinated, as emotions warred across his face—grief, anger, longing, all quickly suppressed beneath the mask of control. His eyes darkened, his breath coming slightly faster as he fought for composure. The white of his uniform seemed suddenly too bright, too pristine in the darkness of the cabin.

"She was going to be the Empress of Earth," he finally continued, his voice steadier. "My partner in bringing order to chaos. She just lacked the Viltrumite blood." His expression softened minutely, something like nostalgia crossing his features. "But she understood the necessity of strength, of..."

He trailed off, his brown eyes distant, seeing not the cabin but some memory of glory long past. Then, with a visible effort, he refocused on Y/N, his gaze sharpening like a blade being honed. The moment of vulnerability vanished, replaced by the cold calculation she had come to associate with him.

"You are not her," he said, each word precise and deliberate. "But you could be... more."

Y/N felt a chill that had nothing to do with her fever. The hunger in Viltrumite's eyes was different from Sinister's predatory obsession or Mohawk's possessive rage. It was the hunger of a man who had tasted power and found it addictive, who saw in her not just a lost love but a potential ally in conquest.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she met his gaze.

"I'm not interested in being anyone's empress," she said flatly, a puff of her cheeks as she met his gaze without flinching. "Or replacement. Or puppet."

Viltrumite's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes, the expression as cold as winter frost. "You speak as if you have a choice," he observed, his tone almost gentle as he leaned down closer to her. "As if any of us did."

Before Y/N could respond, something unexpected happened. Viltrumite moved closer, his expression shifting from imperial distance to something more human, more vulnerable. In one fluid motion, he reached out and touched her face, his fingers cool against her fever-warm skin.

As his fingers slid along the side of her soft cheek, a shiver ran through his entire body, barely perceptible but unmistakable.

"You have her spirit," he murmured, his voice so low she could barely hear it. "Her defiance. It's... why I—"

He leaned in closer, his warm breath washing over her face. The scent of him—clean, masculine, with an undercurrent of blood. His eyes, dark and intense, searched her face as if memorizing every detail. The hardness in his expression melted away, replaced by something almost tender, almost reverent.

For a brief moment, Y/N saw not the conquering Viltrumite but a man grieving, a man who had lost something precious and thought he'd found it again. His eyes softened, the harsh lines around his mouth relaxing into something almost tender. The nearness of her, the warmth of her skin against his fingers, seemed to draw him out of himself, out of the imperial persona he wore like armor. His eyes almost fluttered shut, her warm breath fanning over his lips.

He looked into her eyes, noting the flush spreading across her cheeks, her lips parting softly. But he just stared into her eyes, and he remembered why he fell in love with her in his universe. The pale flecks of color in her iris caught the moonlight, bringing him back to another time, another place—where those same eyes had looked at him with adoration rather than defiance.

Then reality crashed back upon him like a wave. His eyes widened with shock, horror flashing across his perfect features as he realized what he was doing.

A flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks pink, a color that looked alien on his usually controlled face. His jaw clenched tight enough that a muscle twitched violently along his temple.

His hand jerked back as if burned, and he stepped away from the bed, his composure reasserting itself like armor sliding back into place. He was panting softly.

The moment of vulnerability vanished so completely that Y/N might have thought she'd imagined it, if not for the lingering sensation of his touch on her cheek and the haunted look that briefly crossed his features. His shoulders squared, spine straightening as he physically rebuilt his imperial bearing.

"Rest," he ordered, eyes not meeting hers, his tone once again cold and commanding. "Your strength will be required soon."

Biting his lip softly, he turned and strode to the door, his back rigid with tension, shoulders squared as if preparing for battle. The moonlight made the white of his uniform glow almost ethereally, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist—perfect Viltrumite physiology enhanced by years of conquest. ~ Body Teaaa 💅~

"I must ensure the destruction continues as planned," he said without looking back, his voice carefully modulated to betray no emotion. "Another will watch over you."

The door closed behind him as he took off, leaving Y/N alone in the moonlit cabin. The sudden absence of his overwhelming presence left the air feeling lighter, easier to breathe.

Her face flushed as she released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her mind racing with the implications of what had just occurred. The cracks in Viltrumite's façade, the momentary tenderness—these were weapons she could use, if she was clever enough. Her fingertips unconsciously traced the path where his hand had touched her cheek, her brow furrowing in thought, Damn that was hot…

She had barely begun to formulate a plan when a sound from outside caught her attention—a distinctive electrical hum that raised the hairs on her arms. It was a sound she knew all too well, one that haunted her nightmares and left her throat constricting with sudden fear.

The sound of a GDA teleportation device.

It happened in seconds, the air around the cabin heating up, molecules vibrating with increasing energy.

Y/N watched as the atmosphere wavered, becoming distorted like heat rising from hot pavement. The familiar blue glow of the teleportation field began to form in the center of the room, and she knew the process was about to begin—someone was coming, GDA. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat sending fresh pain through her injured side.

Y/N struggled to sit up, ignoring the pain that flared in her side. Panic gave her strength she didn't know she possessed, and she managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed just as the air in the center of the cabin shimmered and distorted. Fresh blood began to seep through her bandages, a dark stain spreading across the white fabric as her sudden movement reopened her wounds.

A figure materialized, tall and imposing in the distinctive uniform of the GDA. The moonlight illuminated his face, revealing hard eyes and a mouth set in a grim line. Cecil Stedman, director of the Global Defense Agency, the man who had authorized the experiments that had made her what she was. His thin face looked ghostly in the blue teleportation glow, the light catching on the eye bags around his eyes.

"Finally you're alone," he said, his voice cold with satisfaction. His eyes narrowed as they took in her weakened state, the bandages visible beneath her torn suit, dark stains of blood seeping through the white fabric. "Did you really think we wouldn't find you? We were just waiting for the moment you alone without those stupid variants glued to you."

Y/N's heart hammered in her chest, fight-or-flight instincts screaming even as her body refused to cooperate. She opened her mouth to respond, but Cecil was already moving, the old man's gaze sweeping the cabin until it landed on something on the kitchen counter. His thin lips pressed into a line of concentration, his movements efficient despite his age.

The broken collar. The pieces had been laid out carefully, presumably by Omni as he assessed whether it could be repaired. The moonlight glinted off the metal components, making them look like fragments of ice rather than the instrument of control they truly were.

"How convenient," Cecil murmured, moving to collect the fragments. A satisfied smile stretched across his thin lips, deepening the wrinkles around his mouth. "Can't have alien technology falling into the wrong hands, can we? Especially not these hands."

Y/N tried to stand, her legs trembling with the effort. Sweat beaded on her forehead as pain shot through her side, causing her to wince visibly. Her jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding against the agony that threatened to overwhelm her. The wooden floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet, the room spinning slightly at the edges of her vision.

"You don't understand," she managed, her voice stronger than she expected. Her eyes flashed with defiance despite the pallor of her skin. "They're not just—"

"Variants of Invincible?" Cecil cut her off, his thin lips curling in a humorless smile. His eyes, cold and calculating, narrowed as he studied her.

"Oh, we understand exactly what they are. The fuckers ripping apart our planet, killing billions!" His voice rose slightly, a vein pulsing at his temple, his carefully maintained composure cracking to reveal genuine fury beneath. "What we don't understand is why our most valuable asset decided to join forces with them."

"I didn't—" Y/N's face contorted with frustration, her eyes widening with the urgency to make him understand. A lock of hair fell across her face as she leaned forward, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the bed. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, metallic and warm on her tongue as she hisses, why am I so weak?!

"Save it," he snapped, pocketing the collar fragments in his suit. The harsh lines around his mouth deepened as he frowned, making him look even older. "You had one mission, and you failed. You're coming back with me now. The experiments aren't finished, and you're far too valuable to leave in the hands of these... aberrations. Even if our planet if falling apart."

Y/N's fingers curled around the edge of the mattress, searching for stability. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with shallow breaths, each one sending a ripple of pain through her injured side.

"I can't go back," she said, trying to keep the desperation from her voice. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to Cecil, pupils dilating with fear. "I can't live like that again—controlled, unable to feel, to think outside the parameters they set." Her voice broke slightly at the memory, cracking on the final word.

"The collar nearly killed me. Another round of experiments will—"

"That's not your decision to make," Cecil interrupted, his voice flat as he pulled out a small device, pressing several buttons. The blue light from the small screen cast eerie shadows across his face, highlighting the cold determination in his eyes. Due to the destruction, normal teleportation has been reduced to remote control.

"This will only take a moment. Try not to struggle—in your condition, it will only make things worse."

Y/N's mind raced, searching for options. The Mark variants were gone, scattered across the planet on their mission of destruction. She was alone, wounded, barely able to stand. But return to the GDA, to the experiments that made her a Viltumite, to the collar that had nearly killed her?

That was a fate worse than death. Her eyes darted around the cabin, seeking anything that might serve as a weapon or distraction.

With a desperate surge of strength, she lunged for the door, trying to fly but it didn't work, she was still to weak. Her face contorted with pain and frustration as her legs gave out after just two steps. She crashed to the floor, the impact sending fresh waves of agony through her side. Blood soaked through her bandages, warm and sticky against her skin. She was no Viltrumite if she couldn't take this simple pain.

But the strangled cry escaped her lips as she pressed her hand against the wound, crimson seeping between her fingers, vivid and alarming against her pale skin. The floor beneath her began to stain with dark droplets, her blood pooling on the worn wooden planks.

Cecil sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. His shoulders slumped slightly before he straightened again, "Always the hard way with you, isn't it?" He moved toward her, device in hand. "Don't worry. Soon enough, you won't remember any of this. A new collar will see to that."

Y/N's vision began to blur, darkness creeping in at the edges. A single tear slid down her cheek as she looked up at Cecil, her expression a mixture of defiance and despair. Blood continued to seep through her fingers, each heartbeat pushing more of her life force out onto the cabin floor. Her lips trembled with the effort of staying conscious.

The last thing she saw was Cecil standing over her, the teleportation device counting down to activation to teleport two beings. His thin face set in lines of grim determination, the blue light from the device casting ghostly shadows across his features.

Then, a crash as the cabin door burst open, the sound of splintering wood echoing in the small space.

"Get away from her." The voice was cold, utterly devoid of emotion—and yet, somehow, vibrating with barely contained rage.

Omni stood in the doorway, his red and white uniform splattered with dust and blood. His eyes, usually so calculated and distant, burned with an intensity that made him look almost feral. His hands, normally so steady and controlled, trembled slightly at his sides. The moonlight cast half his face in shadow, highlighting the rigid set of his jaw and the dangerous flash of his teeth.

Cecil froze, his face draining of color as he took in the sight of the Invincible variant. His eyes darted between Omni and Y/N, rapid calculations visible in his expression. The teleportation device beeped insistently in his hand, the countdown continuing, its blue light pulsing with increasing urgency.

"Look- You don't understand what you're interfering with," Cecil said, his voice steady despite the fear evident in his widened eyes. "Even if you're destroying our planet she… She belongs to the GDA. She's government property...Take everything else but her-"

Omni's nostrils flared, "She belongs to no one," he stated, each word precisely enunciated. He took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under his weight. "Especially not to someone who would collar her like an animal."

Y/N, still conscious but barely, watched the exchange through half-lidded eyes. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one sending fresh spikes of pain through her body. The blood pooling beneath her felt warm, too warm—a stark contrast to the cold that seemed to be creeping through her limbs. Her vision tunneled, focusing on Omni's imposing figure, the red of his uniform seeming to blur and shift in the dim light.

Cecil's face hardened, his mouth a thin line of determination even though he could die at any moment. "I can't leave without her," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"She's too valuable. The work we've done—" He broke off, glancing down at Y/N's prone form, his expression a mixture of scientific detachment and genuine concern. The lines around his eyes deepened, betraying a conflict behind his harsh exterior.

Omni moved with inhuman speed, crossing the room in a blur of motion. Before Cecil could react, Omni's hand closed around his throat, lifting the older man off his feet. The teleportation device clattered to the floor, its countdown still ticking, the blue light casting strange shadows across the cabin walls.

"Your work," Omni said, his voice still eerily calm despite the fury blazing in his eyes, "nearly killed her. The collar you designed—" He stopped, something flickering across his face—a memory, perhaps, of his own Y/N. His grip tightened momentarily before he seemed to regain control, his fingers adjusting with mathematical precision to maintain pressure without crushing Cecil's windpipe. "You will not take her. Not now. Not ever."

Cecil's face reddened as he struggled for breath, his hands clawing ineffectually at Omni's iron grip. "You... don't... understand," he gasped, his voice a raspy whisper. "Without... the collar... she's... unstable."

Y/N's eyes widened at this, a fresh surge of adrenaline clearing some of the fog from her mind. "Liar," she managed, her voice weak but clear. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth as she pushed herself up on one elbow, her face contorted with the effort. Her skin had taken on an alarming pale, making the blood on her lips stand out like crimson against snow.

"The collar... was killing me. You knew... and you kept... pushing."

Omni's eyes flicked to Y/N, something softening in his gaze as he took in her bloodied form. The harsh detachment slipped for a moment, revealing raw concern beneath. His perfect posture faltered, a momentary slouch betraying his distress before he straightened again with a huff.

Then his attention returned to Cecil, his expression hardening once more, eyes cold and calculating beneath the black lenes of his mask covering his eyes.

"I should kill you, slow… and painfuly, just like i’ve killed so many others" he stated, his tone suggesting he was merely making an observation. "It would be... logical. Efficient." His thumb pressed against Cecil's carotid artery with precise pressure, a demonstration of how easily he could end the older man's life with a flick of his thumb.

Cecil's eyes bulged, his face now purple from lack of oxygen. His feet kicked uselessly in the air, his hands still trying to break Omni's grip. The veins in his temples stood out prominently, throbbing with each desperate heartbeat.

Y/N watched, her vision swimming. Part of her—the part that remembered the pain, the experiments, the collar that had nearly killed her—wanted Omni to do it. To end Cecil's life and with it, the threat of returning to that existence. But another part, the part that still clung to some sense of who she had been before all this, couldn't bear to watch. Her eyes, though clouded with pain, retained a spark of humanity that she feared losing.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She coughed, the action sending fresh pain through her side, blood spraying from her lips in a fine mist. "Not... worth it."

Omni's head tilted slightly, considering her words. His grip on Cecil's throat loosened fractionally, allowing the older man to draw in a ragged breath. "He hurt you," Omni said, his voice so quiet only Y/N could hear it. For a moment, the mask of detachment slipped completely, revealing a depth of emotion that shocked her. His eyes, usually so cold, burned with a protective fury that bordered on madness. A muscle in his jaw worked silently, betraying the battle between logic and emotion raging within him.

"I know," Y/N acknowledged, her eyes meeting his beneath his mask.

She tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace, blood staining her teeth. "But I'm... not like him. Not yet." Her eyes pleaded with him, even as her strength began to fade. "Don't... become what he... thinks you are. You can be kind, I know you can."

Omni stood perfectly still for a long moment, his face a battlefield of conflicting emotions. Then, with a movement so sudden it was almost invisible, he hurled Cecil across the room. The older man crashed into the wall with a sickening crack, then slumped to the floor, unconscious but alive. A thin trickle of blood running from his receding hairline down his temple.

The teleportation device continued its countdown, the beeping more insistent now, the blue light pulsing faster.

Omni moved to Y/N's side, kneeling beside her with a grace that belied his power. His large hands, capable of such destruction, were gentle as they carefully lifted her. His face, usually so controlled, showed open concern as he took in the extent of her injuries. The front of her bandages was now completely soaked through with blood, the white fabric stained a deep crimson.

"You're bleeding heavily," he whispered, his voice soft once more, though his eyes betrayed his worry. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he saw the blood soaking through her bandages. "The fall reopened your wound...Y/n."

Y/N tried to respond, but the words wouldn't come. The room was spinning now, darkness encroaching on the edges of her vision. She felt Omni's arms around her, solid and warm, as he lifted her from the floor. His heartbeat, steady and strong against her cheek, was oddly comforting. He partially melted into her touch, cradling her with a tenderness that belied his fearsome reputation. He would keep her safe—this certainty radiated from him, wrapping around her like a protective shield.

"Stay with me," Omni commanded, his voice taking on a note of urgency that broke through his usual detachment. His eyes searched her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. The black lenses of his mask couldn't hide the desperation in his gaze as he leaned closer, the harsh lines of his jaw tightening with concern. "Y/N, focus on my voice. Stay conscious."

Y/N tried to obey, but the darkness was too inviting, the pain too overwhelming. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, fluttering closed despite her best efforts. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, painting a crimson trail down her ashen cheek. The warmth of it contrasted sharply with the coldness creeping through her limbs.

The last thing she heard before unconsciousness claimed her was the urgent beeping of the teleportation device and Omni's voice, suddenly clear and filled with raw emotion, "I won't lose you. Not again." His large gloved hand cupped her cheek with surprising tenderness, thumb carefully wiping blood from her parted lips. The gesture was so gentle, so unlike the calculated precision with which he typically moved, that had she been conscious, it would have stunned her.

As darkness engulfed her senses, Y/N's mind spiraled into fever dreams. She felt herself being lifted, placed back on the old bed, the springs creaking beneath their combined weight. Through the haze of unconsciousness, she imagined Omni's voice, broken and desperate, "Stay with me Y/N... feel me... God, I—"

She felt his large hands guiding her legs around his hips as he leaned over her, his powerful frame encompassing her own. The heat from his body seeped through her clothes, warming her chilled skin. His presence was overwhelming, consuming her senses entirely.

"Stop me... Y/n, tell me to stop..." The words were a plea, not a command. His voice, usually so controlled, now ragged with need. A strangled groan escaped him as his head came to rest on her chest, between the valley of her breasts, his rough hair brushing against her suit. The friction sent unexpected sparks of pleasure coursing through her body.

He nuzzled closer, allowing her to feel the unmistakable hardness pressing between her legs. His hips rolled against hers with exquisite restraint, the motion so gentle yet devastating in its effect. Her body responded with an intensity that shocked her, a sensation she had never experienced before.

Y/N awoke with a startled gasp, her eyes flying open, heart hammering against her ribcage. Sunlight was barely peeking through the broken window, bathing the cabin in the golden light of sunrise. The dream's vividness left her disoriented, unsure of what was real and what wasn't.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, a flush spreading down her neck to her collarbone. Her mouth was dry, yet she felt an unfamiliar wetness between her legs, a persistent throb that confused her. As an experiment, these sensations were entirely new territory—her body responding in ways she didn't understand. She panted heavily, trying to calm her racing heart as she pushed the vivid images from her mind, focusing instead on the dull ache in her side.

When Y/N fully regained consciousness, the cabin was illuminated by the soft glow of dawn. Her side throbbed with a persistent ache, but the searing pain had subsided. She was back in the bed, fresh bandages wrapped tightly around her torso. The coppery taste of blood lingered in her mouth, but she felt stronger than before.

She wasn't alone. Omni sat in a chair beside the bed, his posture perfect even in repose. His uniform was still stained with dust and blood, suggesting he hadn't left her side since the confrontation with Cecil. He leaned over the bed, his arm on the edge, hands curled around each other as he pressed his forehead to his palms. His eyes were closed beneath his mask, but she could tell from the tension in his jaw that he wasn't sleeping. The muscles around his mouth twitched occasionally, betraying that his mind was far from restful. He had remained vigilant all night, watching over her with an intensity that spoke of something beyond mere duty.

"You stayed," she said, her voice raspy but stronger than it had been the night before.

Omni's eyes snapped open beneath the lenses, instantly alert. He straightened in the chair, shoulders squaring as if caught in a moment of weakness. He leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking beneath the shift in weight. His gaze swept over her with clinical precision, cataloging every detail of her condition. Something flickered across his face—relief, unmistakable and profound—before his features settled back into their usual controlled mask. The momentary softening around his eyes disappeared so quickly she might have imagined it.

His nose twitched slightly, nostrils flaring as he caught a scent. His eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch behind his mask, his head dipping to glance at her midsection then back to her face, a fleeting expression of surprise crossing his face before he schooled his features once more.

"It was the logical course of action," he stated, his voice neutral, though a slight tremor betrayed him. "Your condition was... unstable."

Y/N's lips curved into a small smile, her eyes softening as she looked at him. A stray lock of hair fell across her forehead, and she made no move to brush it away. "You can show me emotions," she hummed softly, the sound barely audible in the quiet cabin. "It's just you and me."

Something in her chest tightened as she realized she was beginning to feel drawn to this red and gray suited Invincible variant. Among all of them, he had been consistently the most protective, the most considerate of her wellbeing. Even now, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, as if restraining himself from reaching for her, spoke of a care that went beyond his calculated exterior.

Y/N tried to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at her injured side. Fresh beads of sweat formed at her hairline from the effort, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she suppressed a groan. Omni's hand shot out, steadying her with surprising gentleness. His touch lingered a moment longer than necessary, his fingers warm against her skin.

He brushed his fingertips over her face, almost reverently, as if memorizing every feature. The pad of his thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, his breathing noticeably changing—becoming deeper, more measured, as if he was fighting for control. When he finally pulled away, it seemed to require conscious effort, his hand retreating reluctantly.

"Cecil?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of what had happened after she lost consciousness. Her brow furrowed with concern, a vertical crease forming between her eyebrows.

Omni's expression darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The perfect line of his mouth tightened, eyes hardening behind his mask. "Gone," he said simply. "The teleportation device activated before I could disable it. He escaped with the collar fragments."

Y/N exhaled slowly, relief and dread mingling in her chest. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, pushing it away from her face. Her fingers trembled slightly with the lingering weakness from blood loss. "He'll be back," she said, her voice steady despite the fear churning in her stomach. Her pupils dilated slightly, the only visible sign of her anxiety.

"Yes," Omni agreed, his tone matter-of-fact. "That is the most probable outcome."

Y/N studied him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands. Despite his clinical demeanor, something about him seemed... different. Fractured, somehow. The perfect control he maintained seemed to be costing him more effort than usual.

"Why did you help me?" she asked, her eyes searching his face. "Why not let him take me? It would have been... logical." She used his own word deliberately, watching for his reaction, her head tilting slightly to one side.

Omni's eyes met hers, and for a moment, his mask slipped completely. The raw emotion in his gaze—grief, longing, determination—took her breath away. His perfect composure cracked, revealing the man beneath the calculated exterior. With deliberate movements, he reached up and removed the mask covering his eyes. The black lenses that had hidden his expression were gone, allowing Y/N to see the full intensity of his gaze.

His eyes were a startling blue, unlike the others; deep and clear as mountain lakes after a storm. They were red-rimmed from exhaustion, the skin beneath them slightly darkened, but they burned with an emotion that made her heart skip a beat. Long lashes framed those expressive eyes, a stark contrast to the hardness of his other features; his angular jawline, the straight nose, the firm set of his lips all softened by the naked emotion in his gaze.

"Because I watched you die once," he said, his voice low and intense, vibrating with suppressed emotion. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he continued, a muscle jumping beneath the skin as he stared at his hands. "I will not do so again."

The control that had been his hallmark was visibly slipping. His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling more rapidly as emotions he'd kept buried threatened to surface. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking with the tension.

Y/N's eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. The color drained from her face as understanding dawned.

"Your Y/N," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I only know from what Sinister said… But I want to hear from you, what happened to her?"

Omni's gaze dropped to his hands, which had curled into fists on his knees. The knuckles whitened with pressure, veins standing out prominently. When he looked up again, his expression was carefully controlled once more, though his eyes still burned with that same intensity.

"She had cancer," he said finally, each word seeming to cost him. "A human weakness I couldn't fight. I tried everything—" his voice caught, Adam's apple bobbing visibly as he swallowed. "Every treatment, every experimental procedure. I exhausted every resource at my disposal, but it wasn't enough."

His breathing quickened slightly, nostrils flaring with the effort of maintaining control. "My father... Omni-Man... he saw her as a distraction. A weakness. Because I spent more time with her than training. Learning." His eyes darkened with remembered rage, pupils contracting to pinpoints. "So he killed her."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. "Then I killed him," he finished quietly, his voice devoid of emotion once more. "And then... I became something else."

Y/N reached out, her hand covering his fist. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, and she felt him tense at the contact before slowly relaxing. The hard lines of his knuckles softened beneath her touch.

"I'm sorry," she said simply, her voice soft with genuine sympathy. Her eyes, though tired, were clear and compassionate as they met his. The skin around them crinkled slightly with the sincerity of her expression.

Omni looked at her hand on his, an expression of confusion and wonder crossing his face. His eyebrows drew together slightly, creating a small crease between them. "You are... different from her," he observed, his voice quiet. "More... resilient. Adaptable." His gaze returned to her face, studying her with newfound curiosity. The intensity in his eyes softened to something almost like admiration. "She was gentler. Less... combative."

Y/N smiled slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at her split lip. A small bead of blood welled up where the skin had cracked. She absently ran her tongue over the injury, tasting copper. "I'm not her," she said gently but firmly, her eyes never leaving his that were drawn to her lips. "Just as you're not my Mark... cause I don't have one."

Omni blinked, nodded slowly, accepting the truth of her words. "I am aware," he said, his voice regaining some of its clinical detachment, though his eyes remained unguarded. "Yet the similarities are... significant." The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. "I- I want…Perhaps I could be... a new Mark in your life? Only yours."

Despite his dominant demeanor and controlled exterior, there was something vulnerable in the way he leaned toward her now, something almost submissive in his posture. As if beneath the calculating facade, he was desperate for her approval, her acceptance. His eyes, now unshielded by his mask, couldn't hide the truth—if she asked kindly, he would do anything she requested. He couldn't help but lean in closer, drawn to her by a need that transcended logic or reason.

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the shift in his demeanor. This powerful being—capable of such destruction, so clinical and detached—was looking at her with a vulnerability that made her heart ache. The juxtaposition was striking, his imposing physique and the gentle way he now regarded her, like a fierce predator suddenly revealing its softer nature. She had no future with GDA anymore, these variants were about to become her only world.

"I'd like that," she whispered, her voice barely audible even in the quiet cabin. Her eyes dropped to his lips for a fraction of a second before returning to meet his gaze, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

Something in Omni's expression changed—the last threads of his restraint visibly snapping. In one fluid motion, he moved from the chair to the edge of the bed, his weight causing the mattress to dip. His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb tracing the outline of her bottom lip with exquisite gentleness.

"May I?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion, eyes searching hers for permission.

Y/N nodded, her lips parting slightly in anticipation. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a sensation both terrifying and exhilarating.

Omni's lips met hers with surprising tenderness. The contrast was striking—his lips soft and warm against her chapped ones. He kissed her as if she might shatter, his large frame hovering over her smaller one, careful not to put weight on her injured body. The scent of him filled her senses—clean sweat, leather from his uniform, and something distinctly male that made her head swim.

The kiss deepened slowly, his mouth moving against hers with careful precision. His tongue gently traced the seam of her lips, requesting entry rather than demanding it. When she parted them, he explored her mouth with the same methodical attention he brought to everything—learning what made her breath hitch, what drew small sounds from her throat.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, supporting her as their connection intensified. He tasted her split lip carefully, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the sweetness of their kiss. Y/N felt his chest rumble with a suppressed groan as she tentatively met his tongue with her own, her inexperience evident but her eagerness making up for it.

The controlled precision that defined his every movement was still present, but now channeled into something else entirely—each touch calculated to bring her pleasure without pain. His massive frame dwarfed hers as he moved closer, the bed creaking beneath their combined weight.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Omni immediately rested his forehead against hers. His usually stern face was transformed by a softness Y/N had never seen before. His lips were reddened and slightly swollen from their kiss, his piercing blue eyes half-lidded with a mixture of desire and wonder. A faint flush colored his high cheekbones, spreading down to disappear beneath the collar of his uniform.

"I never thought I'd feel this again," he whispered, his warm breath fanning across her face. "After she died, I locked everything away. Became... cold. Analytical." The corner of his mouth lifted in a small, self-deprecating smile that transformed his usually severe features. "Efficient."

Y/N's own face was flushed, her pupils dilated, lips parted and tingling from his attention. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath, the sensation of his kiss still lingering like an imprint on her skin.

"I noticed something earlier," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "Your scent changed." His pupils dilated as he spoke, nearly eclipsing the blue of his irises. A slight crease appeared between his brows, his expression a mixture of scientific curiosity and unmistakable desire. "It was... intriguing."

Y/N's brow furrowed in confusion, her lips still tingling from his kiss. Her cheeks burned hotter, the flush spreading down her neck to the tops of her breasts visible above her torn clothing. "My scent?"

A small, genuine smile curved his lips—perhaps the first real smile she'd seen from him. It transformed his face completely, softening the hard angles and revealing a glimpse of who he might have been in another life, one with less pain and loss. The skin around his eyes crinkled, small lines appearing that spoke of smiles long forgotten.

"You were dreaming," he explained, his voice taking on a note of tender amusement. His thumb traced small circles against the nape of her neck, the sensation sending pleasant shivers down her spine. "Your body responded... physically."

Understanding dawned, and Y/N's face flamed with embarrassment. She tried to look away, but Omni gently cupped her cheek, guiding her face back to his. His palm was warm against her skin, his touch reverent.

"Don't be ashamed," he said softly, his expression earnest and open. His eyes, so startlingly blue, held no judgment—only fascination and something deeper, more primal. The hard line of his jaw had softened, his perpetual frown replaced by parted lips and gentle eyes. "It's natural. Beautiful, even." His eyes darkened with something like sadness, the corners turning down slightly. "They never let you experience this, did they? The GDA. They kept you from feeling... everything."

Y/N shook her head, her throat tight with emotion. "The collar suppressed everything," she whispered. "Emotions, sensations... they said it was necessary to control the Viltrumite abilities. To keep me stable."

Anger flashed in Omni's eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His nostrils flared, lips pressing into a thin line as his face hardened momentarily. "They lied," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "They feared what you might become if you were allowed to feel. To be whole."

His expression softened as he looked at her, the hard lines of anger melting away. The severe set of his mouth relaxed, his eyes warming from icy rage to tender concern. With careful movements, mindful of her injuries, he shifted to sit beside her on the bed, his back against the headboard. The mattress dipped under his considerable weight, the old springs protesting.

Gently, he slid one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her knees, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. He settled her against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin, his powerful arms creating a protective circle around her smaller frame. The warmth of his body seeped into hers, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her ear.

"Let me show you," he murmured against her hair, his lips brushing the top of her head. "Let me show you what it means to feel. Not just... physically." His voice dropped lower, the words rumbling in his chest beneath her ear. "Though I would very much like to explore that aspect as well, when you're healed."

Y/N relaxed against him, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear comforting. His fingers traced patterns on her arm, each touch sending small sparks of pleasure along her skin. The sensation was new, overwhelming in its intensity—without the collar, every nerve ending seemed hypersensitive.

"I'd like that," she whispered, turning her face up to his. Her eyes were bright despite her exhaustion, her lips curved in a small, shy smile. The pallor of her skin had given way to a healthier flush, color returning to her cheeks.

Omni's smile was gentle as he bent to press his lips to her forehead. His eyes closed briefly, thick lashes fanning against his cheeks as he savored the contact. It had been so long since he'd allowed himself to touch anyone with tenderness, to feel anything beyond cold calculation and rage. The muscles in his face, usually so rigid with control, relaxed into an expression of profound relief.

"First, you must heal," he said, clinical pragmatism returning to his voice, though his eyes remained soft. "Your body needs time to recover."

But even as he spoke, his lips moved from her forehead to her temple, then down to the sensitive spot just below her ear. Y/N's breath hitched as he placed feather-light kisses along the column of her throat, each one sending a new wave of sensation through her body. His hot breath ghosted over her skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. The contrast between his clinical words and his tender actions drew a small, breathless laugh from her.

"Although," he murmured against her skin, his lips vibrating against her pulse point, "there are ways I can help you explore these new sensations without compromising your recovery."

His hand moved to cup her face, tilting it up so he could claim her lips once more. His large palm engulfed the side of her face, fingers threading into her hair as he pulled her closer. Their lips met with more urgency this time, his control slipping as he responded to her eager reciprocation. The kiss was deeper than before, more assured—his tongue sliding against hers in a dance that left her dizzy and wanting. His teeth gently captured her bottom lip, tugging slightly before releasing it to soothe the sting with his tongue.

Y/N's inexperienced movements were awkward at first, but she quickly learned to follow his lead, mimicking his actions. Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the taut muscle beneath his uniform. A small whimper escaped her throat as he angled her head to deepen the kiss further, his expertise evident in every calculated movement.

When they broke apart again, both flushed and breathing heavily, Omni's eyes had darkened to stormy blue. His carefully controlled exterior had cracked completely, revealing the raw need beneath. His hand trembled slightly as he brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with surprising tenderness.

"Your Y/N," she began, her voice rough with emotion. "She never experienced this? With you?"

Omni's expression turned somber, a shadow passing over his features. The light in his eyes dimmed, his mouth turning down at the corners as painful memories resurfaced. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

"No," he admitted quietly. "She wanted to wait. And I respected her wishes." His jaw tightened, grief and anger momentarily darkening his gaze. The veins in his temple became more prominent as his face hardened with suppressed rage. "Then my father killed her, and I lost my chance to show her how much I treasured her."

His eyes met Y/N's, fierce with a new determination. The blue of his irises seemed to glow with intensity, his gaze burning into hers. "I won't make that mistake again," he vowed. "If you'll allow it, I'll show you everything they denied you. Every sensation, every emotion. I'll help you discover what it means to truly live. Soon… I swear my dove."

The intensity of his gaze made Y/N's heart race. She reached up, her fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. "I'm not her," she reminded him gently. "I can't replace what you lost."

"I know," he said, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. His lips lingered on her skin, warm and soft. "You're not a replacement. You're something new. Something... unexpected." His eyes softened as they studied her face, taking in every detail—the curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips, the flecks of color in her eyes. "Something precious. I want to move on, to start something new with you."

With careful movements, mindful of her injuries, Omni gently placed her back on the bed, moving to hover over her. His massive frame blocked out the light from the window as he positioned himself above her, his knees on either side of her hips, his weight supported on his forearms on either side of her head to avoid putting pressure on her wounded body. The bed creaked beneath them, protesting the shift in weight.

He began to explore her body with gentle touches. His lips traced a path from her mouth to her jaw, then down the sensitive skin of her neck. Each kiss was reverent, worshipful, as if he was mapping terrain he had dreamed of but never expected to discover. His stubble scraped lightly against her soft skin, the slight roughness a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

Y/N gasped as his lips found a particularly sensitive spot at the junction of her neck and shoulder. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the material of his uniform. The sensations were overwhelming, unlike anything she had experienced before—without the collar suppressing her responses, her body reacted with an intensity that left her breathless.

"Beautiful," Omni murmured against her skin, his voice vibrating against her pulse point. His large body completely encompassed her smaller one, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room from her view. The size difference between them was stark—his hand alone could almost span her entire waist, his thigh thicker than both of hers combined. Yet there was no fear in her response to him, only wonder at the gentleness such strength could display.

"So responsive. So alive." His hand moved to rest at her waist, careful to avoid her bandaged wound. The heat of his palm seeped through the thin material of her clothing, branding her skin. "Tell me if anything hurts, if you want me to stop."

Y/N could only nod, words beyond her as his exploration continued. His hand skimmed up her side, tracing the curve of her waist, the outline of her ribs. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, a touch so light it might have been accidental if not for the intent focus in his eyes as he gauged her reaction. Her breath caught, back arching slightly into his touch without conscious thought.

Omni watched her reactions with fascination, adjusting his approach based on the smallest change in her breathing or the subtle tensing of her muscles. His eyes, normally so cold and analytical, now burned with heat as he cataloged every gasp, every flutter of her eyelids, every unconscious movement of her body seeking more contact.

"They stole this from you," he whispered, his voice tight with anger as he looked up at her flushed face. A vein pulsed in his temple, his jaw clenching momentarily before he visibly forced himself to relax. "They denied you the most basic human experiences. The right to feel pleasure, to connect with another person… But it saved you for me, my dove."

Y/N caught his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her eyes were bright with determination, her cheeks flushed with color that had nothing to do with her injuries. "Then help me reclaim it," she said, her voice stronger than it had been since her injury. Her eyes burned with determination, a new spark of life that had been missing before. "Help me discover what they took from me."

Something like awe crossed Omni's face as he looked at her. His eyes widened slightly, lips parting in surprise at her boldness. "You truly are remarkable," he said softly. "So different from her, yet just as captivating. Perhaps more so–No you are more."

He leaned in to kiss her again, this time with a passion that left no doubt of his intentions. His hand slid up her side, carefully avoiding her injury, coming to rest just below her breast. He paused there, breaking the kiss to look into her eyes. His red mask lay discarded at the edge of the bed—every emotion visible in his expressive eyes, the tense line of his jaw, the slight tremble of his lips.

Omni was on his hands and knees above her now, Y/N's body cradled between his powerful limbs. His broad shoulders blocked out the light from the window, casting his face in shadow except for the startling blue of his eyes. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, creating a cocoon that held just the two of them, separate from the world outside.

"May I?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. His hand hovering just below her breast, waiting for permission to continue. He wouldnt touch her out permission.

Y/N nodded, her lips parted in anticipation, eyes never leaving his. She reached up to touch his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the stubble along his jaw. His skin was hot beneath her fingertips, flushed with desire. She couldn’t believe this was real.

Omni's hand moved higher, palm cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her top. His touch was gentle but assured, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a way that drew a gasp from her lips. His eyes darkened at the sound, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remained.

His other hand slid along her thigh, fingers tracing patterns on the fabric covering her leg. The heat of his palm seeped through the material, warming her skin. His touch was purposeful yet hesitant, as if fighting against his own desires to ensure he didn't hurt her.

Just as his hand began to move higher up her thigh, the cabin door burst open with a splintering crack. Wood fragments scattered across the floor as the door nearly ripped from its hinges. The silhouette of the form panting, hissing with anger.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD OMNI–!”

––––––––––

☆ Hehe~ Cliffhanger (∩˃o˂∩)

☆ If you couldn't tell, I might have a favorite variant... hehe well, I have 3, but it's so hard to incorporate all of them equally. Omni seemed the wisest choice to be y/n's first kiss (ㅅ´ ˘ `) my boi was desperate for his Pookie

☆ Sad to say, I won't be posting for a while, I need a break after this grind, lol !!Pt.6!!

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

640 notes · View notes