Synopsis: After fulfilling his part of the deal with Angstrom, he moved on to the main clause of the agreement. What he truly wanted to possess. Still the differences between universes could be quite strange.
!!Warnings: Reader is married to Main Mark and has children with him, reader is pregnant. I've aged the characters further than in the original for the sake of the story. Sinister Mark is opportunistic and terrifying, but the writing is actually quite safe, ust squint a little and you'll see that Sinister Mark is a warning, he's the kind of person who can experience longing intensel, a little smut!!
A.n: I can't even imagine this with the other variants. Especially with Viltrumite and Maskless Mark…both would probably go insane. Especially Viltrumite Mark lol. Btw I accidentally shared this text four days ago…and someone saw it. Unfortunately, I had to silence that person—may they rest in peace…😔 (bribed them into silence) Normally, I barely used em dashes but I wanted to try out a new style.
!!Words Count 3k!!
He was moving at a speed that tore through the sound barrier. Learning where that idiot version of himself lived had been quite easy. The annoying part was finding out he was married. To what belonged to him. To you. With a scowl on his face, he sliced straight through the left wing of the plane in front of him. He kept going as if the roar of destruction he'd caused didn't exist at all. Of course, even while making a deal with Angstrom—someone whose very existence he could barely tolerate—he had known you would be different in this universe. He had expected you to be his partner in this version as well, not stuck in some long marriage arranged the moment you came of age. "Hah, married? Seems my little domestic fantasy is stronger in this universe." A smirk followed the mockery in his voice.
He loved you in a way that would make him sick to his stomach. He had never denied it—neither to you nor to himself. Besides, he wasn't going to legitimize something that already belonged to him with some stupid pieces of paper. Ridiculous. He landed in front of the house he was certain was the address he'd been given, touching down fast. He had come down at the door with such smooth speed that not the slightest sound betrayed his arrival.
Before reaching for the door, he cast a brief glance at the house. It was a large, beautiful place—detached, decorated in dark and green tones. The front yard stretched wide to the sides, reaching all the way toward the backyard. "Nice house for playing family." The amusement in his voice dripped from his lips like poison as he turned the handle of the outer door and slipped inside with ease. "Ah…stupid and overly confident too." The fact that the door stood there with so little precaution was almost funny; apparently, this version believed he could protect you from everything. When he stepped inside, a heavy scent of lavender filled his senses.
With the daytime sun pouring inside, the house felt surprisingly calm and comfortable. The ivory-colored wall at the entrance continued into the living room that greeted him right away. There wasn't much in the entryway—just a shoe rack, a coat closet and a few umbrellas carelessly stuffed into a box.
Sinister Mark looked around the living room as he walked in, his hands swinging lazily at his sides. It was quite spacious—farther ahead stretched a long hallway, with doors on the right opening into other rooms, while on the left there was a cozy, characterful kitchen connected to the living room.He wandered around the room for a bit. The fact that there wasn't even a single photo of the two of you was irritating. He clicked his tongue. "Whatever."
He reached for the first door that caught his eye on the right, but just as he was about to step inside, the door beside it flew open with force.
"Dad's here!" A little boy ran toward him with great excitement and wrapped his arms around his leg. He couldn't have been more than five…maybe not even that. Mark struggled to process what was happening. His brows knit slightly. The thing clinging to him…was that your child? He didn't even reach out to touch the kid. Even with the mask, the surprise on his face was obvious. The little boy looked up at Mark with shining eyes—eyes he wasn't used to seeing. "You promised we'd have baked pasta night today, Dad."
Mark let out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. What was wrong with him? Of course you would have a child—you had been married to his idiot version for quite some time. Pulling himself together a little, he offered a small smile to the boy who looked exactly like him. Then he bent down and slid his hands under the child's arms to lift the kid who was still clinging to his leg.
He wasn't even sure what to call the boy—maybe he should ask…but before he could lift the kid who was eagerly waiting to be picked up, another small figure burst out of the room the boy had come from. For a second, his focus shifted to whoever had come out—then, the next second, the son he had just picked up had his head jerked to the side with a loud "Ah!" The one who had just landed a quick punch to the boy's face was a little girl who reminded him of himself as well. Her hair was braided in a fishtail style, and if it weren't for her furrowed brows, she would have had the face of an angel. Suddenly, she shrieked—sharp enough to make Mark flinch. "How many times do I have to tell you not to dump your requests on Dad when he gets home, Dean!"
"Dadddddd she hit me againn!" the boy,whose name he had just learned was Dean,cried with trembling voice and teary eyes. While holding his bruised cheek, he clung to Mark's arm with his other hand. "You shouldn't do that," Mark said as he finally lifted Dean into his arms, hardly believing the situation he'd found himself in. Were the kids twins? They looked so much alike that he couldn't even spot any difference that suggested an age gap.
Holding his son in his arms felt strange. He was such a fragile little thing. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, his hand went without thought to Dean's reddened cheek. He studied the damage with a careful look, she had hit him quite hard. It really was…odd to imagine his son being on the receiving end of his daughter's force. She seemed to realize her momentary anger had passed and offered a small apology. After throwing Mark some strange glances for a moment, she said, "You promised your new costume would be blue!" She tugged on his cape. Mark looked at the girl who was pulling at his cape while his hand still rested on Dean's cheek. God… she was so stubborn. Who did she get that from?
"Eh some surprises don'f hurt anyone." His usual smirk had finally settled back onto his face. He wasn't even sure what to call the girl —what was her name? The real question was…where were you? Pulling his hand away from Dean, he patted the cheek of his pouting daughter and stroked her hair. Strange. Even through the glove, it felt soft.
He hadn't felt this since your death. Even now, if he wanted to go searching for you all over the house, he still couldn't shake the impact of the reality that these were his children. He had never even imagined having kids with you—but here they were, inexplicably looking entirely like him. He watched with curiosity as Dean stroked the fabric of his mask in his lap—perhaps there were similarities in their characters, who knew? In time, he would learn. He looked at the love the children gave him with a ravenous hunger, even though their real father was out somewhere, thinking they were safe. The thought made him chuckle. He bent his knees slightly and scooped his daughter into his other arm. Carrying both kids in his arms, a feeling of happiness rose within him—one he would normally mock, but couldn't deny now.
He stepped into the room the children had come from earlier. It was a colorful space, filled with a large round table in the center and plenty of paints. Even the walls were covered in drawings. As Mark set the kids down, one of the drawings on the wall caught his eye—a family portrait. You, the children and that awful version of him. They stood hand in hand, wearing awkward, shaky smiles. Even if he hadn't killed you, it was an image he would never have been able to obtain…
"Alright kids," he said, turning to the children who were sitting on the floor, continuing their unfinished drawings. "Where's your dear mother?"
"Mommy said she's taking a bath, Dad." Dean didn't even bother to lift his head. Mark satisfied with the answer, glanced once more over the table from his shoulder before turning to the door. Both kids were sitting there, carefully trying to draw his bright yellow costume on paper with their crayons. The smile on his face faded. Without looking any longer, he left the room. Nothing in this house truly belonged to him—but at the same time, it did. Messy…and warm.
In the quiet house, it was easy to follow the sound of running water. He climbed the stairs step by step from where the upper level began near the kitchen. At the very start, he opened the bathroom door that greeted him and stepped inside. "Mark?" That voice. As it came from behind the door, his eyes quickly searched for the source—almost desperately. You were sitting in the bathtub, hair wet, looking toward the door. Toward him. With those alive, vibrant eyes of yours. Not the dead ones. No—these had their own living tones. You parted your lips, but only a breath came out. Tilting your head, you watched him curiously. "You came home early…did something happen?" A faint, worried smile played across your face.
Sinister Mark just stood there. Right now, you were real. The voice he heard was real. Not like the ones he used to hear…no, his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. He took a step or two forward sideways, then stopped again. Pressing his lips together, he clenched his gloved fists, the slight creak echoing as you watched. "I know…you told me I should never attempt these things without you. Is this for that?" His clenched hands relaxed, and without thinking, he walked toward you. Toward the nakedness he hadn't seen in years. While you were babbling, he had already kneeled beside the bathtub. "I just wanted to relax…you know, being with the twins wears me out too much."
His hands went to your hair, stroking it gently. "I can't be mad at you for this." Under his touch, you leaned even further back into the bathtub. You were look so beautiful, so safe under the soapy water. He had to consciously keep his hands from trembling. "Then why did you come home early, handsome?" you teased, giving a playful grin. He watched how the corners of your lips creased slightly with that smile—a sight he wasn't used to. You loved him, but you never smiled like that. Not after what he'd done. Had he learned again, would it always be the same? Would life grow dim in your eyes like that grin, would it fade toward him? That soul, which had never had a chance to crush him, would it retreat back into its shell again…
He swallowed. His adam's apple moved as he shifted slightly. "I missed you." The confession hung between you—but even heavier in his heart. He wondered how you'd react, watching your eyes look at him with a hint of surprise, the smile on your face fading slightly. He didn't want it to fade completely. Slowly, his hand moved to stroke your cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, Mark." Suddenly, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. Your embrace caught him off guard—his hand was still suspended in the air where your face had been. He clenched his teeth. He gently buried his head against your wet shoulder. "God, you're wet." His hands settled on your back, returning your hug. You giggled at his mild complaint, and he inhaled it. Like a starving animal savoring the way your body shivered with your laugh. You were alive, warm, happy. More than he expected. It was so comforting. It was funny to think—this peace…yet the entire damn house was soaked in it. That unfamiliar happiness, that peace that was almost allergic to his soul…it was everywhere. Surrounding him. When you felt his grip tighten, you responded in kind. "Yes, big man, now you need to stop coming to my feet like a kicked puppy every time you're unhappy. I don't want the kids to pick that up either." You said it in a playful tone as you patted his back.
One of his eyebrows twitched beneath the mask, his face buried in your shoulder slowly shifting toward your jugular. His breath gently brushed against your skin as he murmured, "A kicked puppy? I'm not like that, Y/n." you only let out a teasing little hum. God, you were so sarcastic woman…he could get used to. He pressed a sharp, longing kiss along jugular in your neck. Then another. His hands slid down your back toward your tailbone, and he felt your breath hitch for a moment. Your body, fuller and rounder than he remembered, hadn't fully recovered after giving birth to the twins. Though your breast, pressed against him in the hug, had regained some of its former fullness. He didn't mind—it just felt unusual. When his hands ghosted lower to your rear, you pushed back at him playfully. The sudden motion caught him off guard. "Mark, you idiot! Didn't I say no sex while I was pregnant?* All the fun seemed to drain as you quickly climbed out of the foamy bath. Before he could process your words, your belly came into view—swollen, marked with stretch lines. Wet, you stepped past him, and he looked down at the now empty foamy water. His wrists rested against the edge of the tub, hands dangling forward. He muttered in disbelief, "God…she was pregnant." Despite the shock on his face, a deep anger flared inside him. Against your husband—no against his own version. Damn it…that useless piece of trash. How lucky and insatiable. He would've decorated the floor with his own hands where he first found you. Turning his head over your shoulder, he watched you dry your wet hair. His eyes slid back to your hips and rear. After lingering there for a moment, he shifted focus to your belly, even though he couldn't see it fully from behind. "You've gotten even plumper every day," he said, trying not to sound too weird while letting his thoughts slip. You glanced at his grin over your shoulder. So today was a playful day, how nice. "I wonder whose fault this is?" You set aside the small towel in your hand, grabbed a bigger one from the rack, and wrapped your body in it. "If you hadn't ripped the damn condom during sex, I'd be living in peace right now. Not eating that cursed jam with the egg all at once."
Jam and eggs together? Mark couldn't hold back a laugh—god, pregnancy cravings were so strange. He quickly rose to his feet and strode toward you, wrapping his arms around you from behind. His hands slid over your swollen belly while his eyes followed every movement. Gently caressing you over the towel, he turned his face even closer to yours. "Pregnancy suits you," he murmured, his breath brushing your ear. "Give me a kiss, beautiful woman." Chuckling, you tilted your head to meet his grinning lips. Today he was acting pretty weird. But you didn't think much of it—you remembered how even just Mark breathing used to make you snap, thanks to your hormones. This had to be because of the hormones. He captured your lips quickly, his hands stroking your belly as he drew in your breath. Your tongues danced together inside your mouths. God, your moans…it was like he could take even more from you, he pressed his head further into you. His hands slid beneath your belly. With a slight lift of your stomach, you moaned against his lips. That was enough for him. After pulling back just enough to let you breathe, your lips met again. He devoured you hungrily, and with a swift motion, escaped from your towel. The towel fell to your feet as Mark turned you around and pressed your back against the door. As gently as he could. You paused the kiss for a moment. "God, Mark you're such a trickster," you said. Ignoring your words entirely, he bit and pulled off his gloves. Tossing them aside without care, his fingers found your opening shamelessly. Both of you went breathless—Mark even more so from excitement. He was on the edge of losing control. With your plump form, he wanted to consume you completely. Damn the baby…it was the only thing standing between him and claiming what was his. Just two motions, and Mark's fingers were coated in your fluids. "God, look at you…you're literally dripping."
You whimpered with a hint of embarrassment. "Because of the bath!" Chuckling at your words, he pulled you into another kiss. "Yes, yes I'm sure that's the reason, my little beautiful wife." He couldn't get enough of your lips. He wanted to taste as much as he could with his tongue, to slide his teeth as far as possible. And he did—gently nibbling just enough to tease your lips. You moaned right against his mouth. "Mark! Be gentle! I'm carrying two lives here!" You scolded him, tapping his hand on your shoulder, and in response, he pressed his fingers against your walls. You moaned with pleasure. It was the most delightful sound in his ears. Chuckling as he lightly licked the faint blood that had appeared on your lips without bleeding, he said, "I can't help it… you're just too beautiful." With two fingers moving inside you, you could barely stay standing, propped up just by his presence. You were delicate, fragile… maybe pregnancy wasn't such a bad thing after all. Especially knowing he could see you like this for nine months…yet, from the corners of his mind, hatred and jealousy toward your Mark flared up once more. I'll ruin his brain and…then he whispered, "After the one in your belly comes out, I'll bury another one inside you, my love."
Later, after he made you cum twice with his fingers and fucked your thighs, you would have had a few words about his “new” costume—telling him how the yellow actually suited him, etc—then he would go off to do a task he needed to do, which involved killing the real Mark. I was pretty lazy and ate up half the scenario. Nothing was left for you. By!
thinking about a human!reader who has lived a pretty decent, normal existence. at least, as normal as it could be with all the hero's trying to exterminate world ending threats daily, and leaving major cities in ruins afterwards. the death of the guardians made the threats worsen over time.
one day, as you were taking your usual midnight stroll, you were stopped by the one and only, omni-man. his only excuse? he said and i quote.
“human, it has come to my attention that you’re releasing strange, aphrodisiacal pheromones; and it has become a problem for me.”
you blink once, twice, thrice, and you’re eyes widened as you finished processing his sentence. you were releasing sexy pheromones?? where was it during your days in college? your vision on omni-man’s flushed face trails down to his pelvic region, where his ragging boner was making itself known beneath his suit.
cue to nolan dragging you to an empty alleyway, stripping you both butt naked, and riding you until you left his hole gaping and filled to the brim with your cum. he let out an uncharacteristic, longing moan as he painted your chest in white.
turns out he’s been wanting you for a while ever since he first caught whiff of your scent that one afternoon a week ago as he was defeating a kaiju.
as for the “aphrodisiacal pheromones” you seem to unknowingly release daily: it only seems to affect nobody else but nolan. you don’t have a problem with it though, as long as you continue to fuck the number one super “hero,” you don’t need anything else.
that’s until mark appears before you with an embarrassed grin and a hard on of his own. then his other variants appeared like beasts in heat, and now conquest. yeah, you’re a viltramite magnet.
thinking about an alternate mark whose first and only objective in the invincible war is to get to you. you were his first love - his only love, and he's missed you desperately...
in your universe you were too nervous to make a move and now it's too late since mark and eve are basically meant for each other... so when chaos hits and all the invincible variants come to wreak havoc and mark rushes to make sure you're safe, you don't understand why he's not out there saving the world with eve.
you're in his suffocating embrace when you ask him this and he stiffens briefly, before pulling away to look down at you. his eyes so full of adoration and he asks: "who's eve?"
Pink clouds, wrong winds, a shimmer at the edge of the horizon that no one could quite explain. People said it was a storm system, or some satellite malfunction, or whatever else made them feel safe enough to still walk their dogs.
But on your little suburban street, the world was still pretending to be normal, birds still sang, the mail still came, and you still sat cross-legged on your bed flipping through a fashion magazine, pink gloss glinting in the dying light.
You didn’t care much for the details, you just liked how the sunset made your nail polish look extra shiny.
You had no idea that a god was coming for you.
He’d torn through dimensions before.
Through worlds that looked almost right, that felt almost right, universes where his name was still Mark Grayson, but the air didn’t taste like home. Where there was no you.
In his world, you’d worn the crown of Viltrum at his side. You’d been the only one brave enough to touch his blood-stained hands and call them human. The only one who could calm the storm that lived behind his eyes. And then you died, flame, light, silence. He’d held your body and sworn the stars themselves went dim.
So when Angstrom Levy whispered that you was alive, somewhere else, that he could bring him to you… Mark hadn’t hesitated.
Now he stood above your neighbourhood, his cape torn, his armour dark with dust and smoke, staring down at pastel rooftops and cherry-blossom trees.
The air smelled like sugar and summer rain.
It didn’t make sense. None of this did.
Until he saw you.
You, sitting there on your bed with your magazine, hair catching the light, a smoothie straw between your glossed lips.
So normal. So heartbreakingly alive. You weren’t wearing a crown now, just a baby-blue skirt and a soft sweater, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine.
A sound, not thunder, not exactly, rolled across the sky, deep enough to rattle picture frames. Your head snapped up. For a second, everything went still, too still. Then a shadow passed over your bedroom window.
Something, someone, moving too fast to be human. He landed without a sound. The air rippled. The pages of your magazine fluttered.
You pressed to the glass, heart skipping. He landed on the street like a meteor, pavement fracturing beneath his boots. Blood, dust, and red armour that gleamed even in the fading light. Not your Mark. Not quite.
This one’s shoulders were broader, movements sharper. His eyes, same hazel brown, but harder, swept across the quiet neighbourhood like he was searching for something.
He was standing at the end of your driveway. And then he looked up.
Right at you.
You froze, your breath catching like static. Because even from behind the cracked windowpane, you saw it, that flicker of something raw in his face. Recognition. Relief.
Before you could even blink, he was gone from the street. Then—
A rush of air. A thud on your balcony.
You stumbled back as your curtains fluttered. And there he was.
Mark, but not your Mark. His hair darker, his suit stained with someone else’s war. A faint scar sliced across his cheek. He looked like every nightmare version of someone you loved. And yet…
He looked at you like he’d been holding his breath for centuries.
“...You’re alive,” he said, voice low, disbelieving.
“I—” you managed, clutching your magazine like it was a weapon. “I think you might be looking for someone else?”
Mark just stared, he shook his head, slow and certain. The name he hadn’t spoken in years trembled on his tongue.
"No. I found you."
You blinked. “Me?”
The way he said it, soft but heavy, like a vow, made your heart stutter. He stepped closer, eyes drinking in every detail like he was memorising you. The gloss on your lips. The oversized college hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
“You died,” he murmured, like he couldn’t believe the words. “Back home. Angstrom said— he said he could take me somewhere you still existed.”
You blinked, mascara fluttering. “I— I don’t even know who Angstrom is. I’m— I’m just a college student! I have midterms, and— and a boyfriend—”
His jaw tightened at that word.
“You’re his,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was pure disbelief, like the universe had betrayed him twice.
There was something broken in his voice, something that made your chest tighten even though you had no idea who he was.
“I’m… not yours,” you whispered, though your voice didn’t sound convincing even to you.
He exhaled shakily, and for a moment, the world outside didn’t exist, just the two of you, the air thick with something unnameable. You’d never seen eyes so broken, so hungry, so sure.
“You don’t remember me,” he said, more to himself than to you. “But I remember every version of you.”
Your heart tripped over itself. And somehow, you believed him.
Maybe it was the way he said it, not cruel, not possessive, but raw. Like he was speaking to a ghost.
And when he finally spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “I crossed universes to find you.”
You didn’t mean to let him in. But somehow the balcony door was open, and somehow you were sitting on the edge of your bed again, knees drawn to your chest while he stood in your room, this stranger with the same face as someone you knew, tracking every corner like it hurt to see how small it was.
He didn’t touch anything.
Just looked. At the perfume bottles on your dresser, the stack of magazines, the clutter of makeup everywhere. “You always filled rooms with colour,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
“You talk like you’ve been here before,” you murmured.
His gaze dropped to you. “Not here. But… everywhere you were felt like this.”
You swallowed. “You keep saying that. That I’m her. That I died.”
He nodded once, slow. The light from your window caught the edge of his ruined cape. “We ruled together,” he said. “Viltrum was colder than this world, but when you laughed, it felt like spring. You used to tease me for how serious I was. You’d tell me I looked better when I forgot the crown.”
Something in his voice, hoarse, reverent, made your stomach twist. “What happened to her? To… me?”
His jaw clenched. “A rebellion. I was too far away. By the time I got back, there was only smoke. I buried you myself.” He glanced up again, eyes gleaming with a grief that seemed to stretch across galaxies. “I thought time would dull it. It didn’t.”
The room was too quiet. Your fingers twisted in the hem of your sweater. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“You don’t have to be,” he said. “You don’t remember it. But I do. Every word. Every look.”
He told you things then, half-memories, half-fairytales. How you’d once stood beside him in white armour, how you’d scolded him for being late to your coronation, how he’d learned to braid your hair because Viltrum had no maids and you refused to cut it. His voice softened when he spoke about the way you’d calm him after battles, how you’d touch his face like he was something human.
It was impossible, all of it, yet you found yourself listening, eyes wide, pulse thrumming. The details were too small, too tender to be inventions.
When he finally stopped, the silence between you felt fragile. You looked down at your hands. “That doesn’t sound like me,” you said, half smiling, half terrified. “I can’t even remember to water a plant.”
His lips curved, just barely. “You would’ve said that then, too.”
The smile faded into something heavier. “You don’t have to believe me,” he added. “But I needed to see you once more. Even if you never remember, I needed to know you were somewhere safe.”
The ache in his tone cracked something in you. You reached out before you could think, your fingers brushing the scar along his cheek. “You look tired,” you said softly.
He caught your wrist, but gently, as though afraid you’d vanish. “You always said that,” he murmured. “Right before you’d tell me to rest.”
Your heartbeat thudded in your ears. “Then rest,” you whispered.
For the first time, the tension in his shoulders eased. He lowered himself beside you, just enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The world outside still burned with distant battles, but your little room felt suspended in its own quiet orbit.
You didn’t know if he belonged here, or if you belonged anywhere near him, but you found yourself wanting to keep listening, to the stories, to the way he said your name, to the soft disbelief in his voice when he looked at you.
Maybe it was madness. Maybe it was fate.
But when he smiled again, tired and almost human, you felt it, that dangerous pull of falling, even across universes.
He leaned closer, slowly, as if testing the air between you. The scent of ozone and distant smoke clung to him, mingling with the vanilla lotion on your skin. His forehead brushed your shoulder, a shockingly tender gesture. You froze, breath catching as his lips pressed softly against the curve of your neck.
Warmth bloomed where his mouth touched, sharp and electric, making you gasp and jerk backward instinctively. His arms tightened, holding you still for a heartbeat too long before letting you pull away.
"Don't—" you choked out, fingers trembling against your throat where his kiss lingered like a brand. His eyes locked onto yours, raw desperation clawing through the exhaustion.
"This might be the last time I see you," he rasped, voice cracking. "Your face… your laugh… I need to remember it right." The yearning in his gaze was a physical weight, heavy enough to bend the room around you both.
He didn't move closer again, just watched you with that fractured intensity. Your boyfriend’s face flashed in your mind, Mark, your Mark, texting about dinner plans while this stranger bled universes onto your rug.
The guilt coiled hot and sudden in your stomach.
Yet, when he reached out, brushing a stray hair from your cheek with knuckles scarred and rough, you didn’t flinch. His touch was gentle, deliberate, mapping you like uncharted territory. "In my world," he murmured, thumb tracing the line of your jaw, "You’d already kissed me by now."
The words hung between you, charged and dangerous. You saw the manipulation then, subtle as a knife slide, the grief weaponised, the loneliness offered like a bridge you couldn't help but cross.
Your pulse hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of confusion and something darker, sweeter. The magazine lay forgotten on the floor, pages splayed open beside his cracked boot.
His thumb still traced your jawline, rough skin catching on your softness. The accusation hung in the air, you’d already kissed me.
It wasn't just a statement, it was a challenge wrapped in velvet grief, a lure cast into the turbulent sea of your confusion. You saw the manipulation, the way he wielded his loss like a key to your sympathy, but the ache in his eyes felt real, terrifyingly real. It resonated somewhere deep and forbidden.
He leaned in again, slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving yours.
This time, his lips didn't seek your neck. They brushed yours, a feather-light contact that sent a jolt through you. It wasn’t your Mark’s familiar, easy kiss. This was desperation distilled, a question asked with trembling pressure.
Ozone and iron, the scent of alien battles, filled your senses, overwhelming the vanilla of your room.
You meant to pull away. You should have pulled away.
But a sound escaped you, a tiny, breathless gasp against his mouth. And then, inexplicably, impossibly, you were kissing him back. Your lips moved against his, tentative at first, then with a sudden, shocking hunger that mirrored his own.
It wasn't gentle. It was collision, a frantic claiming fuelled by centuries of loss and the dizzying, terrifying pull of recognition you couldn't explain.
Your fingers tangled in the torn fabric of his cape, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself against the vertigo. The taste of him, salt, smoke, something metallic and ancient, flooded your mouth.
Your boyfriend’s name screamed silently in your mind, drowned out by the roaring in your ears and the frantic beat of your own traitorous heart. He groaned, low and deep, the sound vibrating against your lips.
One hand slid into your hair, cradling your head, while the other pressed firmly against the small of your back, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his armoured chest.
The kiss deepened, turning fierce, possessive. It wasn't tenderness, it was a drowning man dragging you under with him, a reclamation of something he believed was irrevocably his.
His tongue swept against yours, demanding, exploring, mapping the contours of your mouth with a familiarity that stole your breath and twisted the knife of guilt deeper. You clung to him, lost in the storm he carried, the magazine pages fluttering uselessly on the floor beside his boot, forgotten relics of a life that suddenly felt impossibly small.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your jaw, your throat, leaving a path of searing heat. "Every universe," he murmured, voice thick against your skin, rough with reverence and something darker.
"Every single one. You're always perfect." His hands slid down your sides, fingers finding the hem of your soft sweater. He pulled it up slowly, revealing the smooth skin of your stomach, his gaze worshipful.
You shivered, not from cold, but from the intensity of his stare, the sheer certainty radiating from him. He nudged you backwards gently, guiding you onto the bed until you lay against your pillows.
He followed, settling between your legs, his weight a solid, anchoring presence. His eyes never left yours as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your baby-blue skirt. He slid it down your hips, the fabric whispering against your skin, joining the discarded sweater on the floor.
Then his fingers traced the delicate lace edge of your panties. "So soft," he breathed, his touch achingly slow as he peeled them down your thighs. "Always so soft for me." His calloused fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you gasp.
Then, finally, he touched you there.
A slow, deliberate circle around your clit, the pressure perfect, maddeningly light. Your hips jerked involuntarily.
"Shh," he soothed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your core. "I remember." His thumb pressed down, rubbing slow, rhythmic circles, each stroke sending jolts of electric pleasure radiating outwards. He watched your face intently, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every bitten lip, every hitched breath.
Unlike your Mark, eager, sometimes clumsy, wonderfully flustered, this Mark moved with devastating precision.
Every touch was calculated, expert, honed by experience you couldn't fathom. He knew exactly how to draw the tension tight, how to make your body sing for him alone. He leaned down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss just below your navel.
"You taste like sunlight," he murmured against your skin, his thumb never faltering its slow, torturous rhythm. "Even here. Even now."
The contrast was dizzying, the raw, cosmic yearning in his eyes, the gentle, devastating skill of his hands, and the terrifying knowledge blooming within you: he knew you better than anyone, even yourself.
He pulled back slightly, his gaze locked onto yours.
With deliberate slowness, he began to unfasten the clasps of his battle-scarred Viltrumite armour.
Metal plates slid away with soft clicks, revealing the powerful musculature beneath, broader shoulders, thicker cords of muscle straining against his skin, littered with scars your Mark didn't possess.
Then, his fingers moved lower, freeing the final clasps at his hips. The armour fell away completely, pooling at his knees on your rug. Your breath caught. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already fully erect.
It was impossible. It wasn't just longer, it was thicker, harder, veins standing in stark relief against flushed skin, a brutal testament to Viltrumite biology pushed to its absolute limit.
A visceral shock ran through you. Your Mark was strong, powerful, but this… this was primal, overwhelming.
Every inch of him radiated raw, untamed power, a physical manifestation of the centuries of war and loss etched into his soul. He saw your wide-eyed disbelief, the flicker of apprehension mixed with undeniable fascination.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, possessive, knowing. "Stronger," he rasped, his voice thick with need. "In every way." He ran a hand slowly down the thick length, his knuckles brushing against your trembling thigh. "Built to rule worlds… and ruin you."
He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate. He gripped your hips firmly, lifting you effortlessly, aligning himself.
The blunt, massive head pressed against your slick entrance. You braced yourself, biting your lip, expecting pain, invasion. Instead, he pushed forward with agonising, controlled slowness.
Inch by impossible inch, he filled you, stretching you wider, deeper than you'd ever been.
A choked sob escaped you, not pain, but overwhelming fullness, a pressure that bordered on exquisite agony. He groaned, deep and guttural, his head falling forward, dark hair brushing your forehead.
"Gods," he breathed, his voice ragged. "Tighter than I remembered." He stayed buried to the hilt for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, letting the sheer, impossible size of him imprint itself on your senses.
Then he withdrew, almost completely, before thrusting back in with that same devastating control.
Each slow, deep stroke dragged against every sensitive nerve, igniting sparks behind your eyelids. His eyes burned into yours, intense, possessive.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough velvet. "Look at me while I take what's mine." His hips rolled, a powerful, relentless rhythm that stole your breath and shattered your thoughts.
Your boyfriend's name dissolved into meaningless static, replaced by the pounding of your own heart and the slick, obscene sound of him moving inside you. He filled the room, filled your world, leaving no space for anything but him, his strength, his claim.
Tears blurred your vision, hot and unbidden.
"T-Too big," you gasped out between shuddering breaths, your fingers clawing at his scarred shoulders. "Mark… please… it's too much…"
The words were a whine, thick with overwhelmed sensation and a dawning, terrifying pleasure. He chuckled darkly, low and vibrating through your joined bodies. He leaned down, catching a tear on his thumb before bringing it to his lips.
"You used to beg for it," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot. "Beg me to fill you just like this." His thrusts deepened impossibly further, grinding against a spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.
A ragged cry tore from your throat as your back arched off the bed. He smiled, a feral, possessive twist of his lips. "See? Your body remembers." His pace remained torturously slow, deliberate, each powerful thrust designed to maximize friction, to make you feel every ridge, every vein.
He watched, enthralled, as tears tracked down your temples, mingling with sweat. "Cry for me," he rasped, his own control fraying, his breathing harsh. "Cry because you know you belong here. Under me. Filled by me." The words were manipulation wrapped in velvet grief, a poison you drank willingly.
He shifted, hooking your legs over his forearms, spreading you wider, sinking deeper still. The angle was brutal, perfect. Your whimpers turned into desperate moans, your hips lifting to meet his punishing thrusts despite the overwhelming stretch.
"That's it," he growled, approval lacing his voice. "Take it. Take all of me." His gaze dropped to where you were joined, watching himself disappear inside you, slick and glistening.
The possessive hunger in his eyes was terrifying, exhilarating. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a fierce, claiming kiss, swallowing your cries, his tongue mimicking the relentless thrust of his hips.
Outside, the wind howled louder, shaking the windowpane, a distant echo of the storm he carried within him.
Inside, your small room was filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, ragged breaths, and the soft, broken sounds of your surrender.
He moved with the precision of a conqueror reclaiming lost territory, every stroke a declaration: You are mine, in every universe. His hand slid down your trembling stomach, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, insistent circles.
"Come for me," he commanded against your mouth, his voice thick with need. "Show me you remember." The dual assault was too much, the deep, stretching fullness, the sharp friction on your clit.
Pleasure coiled, impossibly tight, then shattered. You screamed into his mouth, your body convulsing around him, clamping down on the massive intrusion.
He groaned, deep and triumphant, his thrusts turning frantic, losing their careful control as he chased his own release, buried impossibly deep inside you.
He pulsed within you, hot and thick, filling you with a possessiveness that went beyond the physical. His body shuddered above yours, muscles locked taut, breath ragged against your sweat-slicked neck.
For a long moment, there was only the frantic drumming of your hearts and the fading tremors of your climax.
Slowly, reluctantly, he withdrew, leaving you feeling achingly empty and impossibly marked. He stayed close, propped on one elbow beside you, his gaze tracing the flush spreading across your chest, the tear tracks drying on your cheeks.
His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip. "Mine," he murmured again, the word softer now, laced with a profound, weary satisfaction.
The unnatural pink glow had deepened outside. A low rumble, distinct from thunder, vibrated through the floorboards, another universe tearing at the seams.
He tensed, his head snapping towards the window, the lover instantly replaced by the warrior. His jaw tightened. "Levy's portals are unstable," he said, voice hardening. "They won't hold."
He looked back at you, the raw yearning crashing back into his eyes, sharper than before. "I have to go back."
You stared at him, the impossible reality crashing down: the taste of him still on your tongue, the ache between your legs, the lingering scent of ozone and sex.
Mark, your Mark, would be checking on you soon. Panic, sharp and cold, sliced through the haze of spent desire.
He sat back, breathing hard, the heat between you fading into something quieter, heavier. You reached for his hand, gripping it tightly, afraid that if you let go he would simply dissolve back into the impossible light that had brought him here.
The air around you hummed, faintly electric. The walls trembled.
Another portal was opening.
“Mark,” you whispered. You didn’t know which version of him you were calling to, the one from your world or the one who had crossed galaxies to find you. Maybe both.
He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing your knuckles. The battle-hard calm returned to his features, but underneath it, something softer flickered, a grief so old it looked like love.
“If I stay,” he said quietly, “your world unravels. Levy’s fractures will spread until there’s nothing left of either of us.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I can’t lose you again… even if it means I have to walk away.”
The sound of the portal deepened, a low thrum that made the windows shake. Light spilled through the cracks, violet and gold, painting his face in colour.
You shook your head. “Will I ever see you again?”
He smiled, that same half-smile your Mark sometimes wore when he was trying to be brave. “Every universe has a version of you,” he murmured. “Maybe someday, when the stars line up just right… you’ll love me.”
You wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in your throat. So you did the only thing you could: you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. The warmth of him, the smell of smoke and sky, seared itself into your memory.
When the light flared, you had to close your eyes.
And then he was gone.
The room was silent again, the air still humming faintly, your curtains fluttering with the echo of his departure. Outside, the sky had returned to an ordinary blue-grey. The world, impossibly, went on.
You sat there for a long time, tracing the spot on your hand where he’d held you, half-expecting to wake up from the whole thing. Then your phone buzzed, your Mark, texting to ask if you were okay after the war outside.
You typed back, yeah, all good, though your heart still felt full of stars.
And when you looked out the window one last time, for just a second, you thought you saw a streak of red against the horizon, disappearing into the clouds.
ik the variant invincible hype kinda died down but HEAR ME OUT!
Imagine being the universal soulmate of mark in every dimension, like your love was hella deep with a ride or die dynamic going on. It doesnt even matter what you are, viltrumite, a normal human, a metahuman wtv you always end up being marks girl.
Now imagine its the invincible war, Angstrom pulled up with a bunch of other alternate invincibles who either fumbled the bag with you and you died in their dimensions, or both and THEY killed you. So some of them have the goal to find you in this dimension and take you back etc.
All accept for one mf, you can decide who but I say Shiesty Mark and Mohawk Mark. For some odd reason nothing bad happened in your relationship despite them turning evil, in fact, YOU GO EVIL WITH THEM. So imagine the surprise of the other variants when their dead loml appears with some cocky mf who knows hes infinitely better than all of them combined cause he managed to not only NOT fumble you but also TURN YOU EVIL.
So now in his dimension you're both just a crazy villain power couple who are crazy for each other and are joining in the war for funsies.
And if this alternate mark were to die and the others were planning to snatch you up for themselves? baby you're DYING WITH HIM. Like, it doesnt even matter if they're all mark, they aren't YOUR mark so its an instant decision for you just, join him in death.
I haven't seen this in a fic before so I wabted to put the idea out there and get some invincibke fic writers working because its always "oh you died in my universe" or "oh you betrayed me" but never "you lived and became utterly devoted to me to the point that if I died, you'd join me in death and Id do the same for you." like?? WE NEED MORE YNS WHO ARE JUST AS CRAZY.
The whole idea of the marks witnessing them is so funny to me as well, cause wdym I lost my girl but some other mf out there in another universe ends up being luckier than me that his girl is jist as crazy ?? LIKE ID BE PISSED, GOD HAS FAVORITES.
Anyways hope this reaches the right audience, i need this in a fic writers please.
