Oh, my gosh… Lazy-ahh, my heart literally stopped, seeing this pop up. I MUST share! 💗
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTj2duqfp/
And I was wondering, if you’d be okay with it, 👉👈 that I could maybe perhaps request male reader X multiple marks? At least, the ones shown in the vid (Lensless, Mohawk, Sinister, Full-Masked, Shiesty, Omni, Viltrumite, Prisoner). It gave me a funny idea where reader saved his universe by essentially being like, “Guys, fellas, no need to fight. You ALL can share me 😎,” and reader somehow now houses multiple war criminal boyfriends who swore not to tear apart this universe because they love Reader. What can he say? Reader’s just that guy with the major pull game. 😎
Anyway— If you end up accepting this request, I was wondering if the small fic could be about reader taking a beach day vacation with his bfs. Half bc he thinks it’d be good for them to get outta their cramped home and blow off steam. The other half? To relax. It can be a hard to be around them sometimes bc some butt heads with each other and, well, they’re THEM. Reader loves ‘em all for diff reasons, but still— 😅
BEACH DAY
pairing invincible variants x male reader
when you saved your dimension by essentially telling eight war criminal mark grayson variants "guys, fellas, no need to fight—you can all share me," you proved one universal truth: nobody's pull game hits harder than yours. now you're stuck herding your emotionally constipated boyfriends to the beach, where the only things stronger than their urge to conquer continents is their inability to resist you. between mohawk mark's bitching, sinister mark's possessive hands, and viltrum mark watching from the shadows like a kicked puppy, it's a miracle the ocean's still standing. but hey—if anyone can keep eight genocidal maniacs from drowning each other (and maybe sneak in some cuddles), it's you. tags: [reader] has rizz that transcends dimensions, beach day with your war criminal harem, "why choose when you can have all of them?", mark grayson variants being disasters (affectionate), somehow this is cecil's problem now
taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia
the first rule of housing eight alternate-dimension versions of your best friend (who may or may not be war criminals)? never let them get bored.
which is how you find yourself playing glorified babysitter to a pack of superpowered, emotionally constipated maniacs on a beach, herding them toward the shoreline like they’re not all one wrong look away from leveling the place. your sunglasses are shoved haphazardly onto your face, the cheap plastic frames doing fuck-all to block the glare, and the cooler in your grip sloshes ominously—half booze, half whatever sugary shit lensless mark begged you to pack. it dangles from your fingers like a peace offering, or maybe a bribe. behave, it says. or i’m dumping all your drinks in the sand.
"alright, you dysfunctional assholes," you call over your shoulder, voice dripping with the kind of exasperated fondness that comes from knowing exactly how much trouble they’re about to cause. your grin is sharp, all teeth, the kind that says i dare you to test me even as warmth curls in your chest at the sight of them trailing behind you—some reluctantly (mohawk mark, scowling like the sun personally offended him), some with the enthusiasm (lensless mark, already vibrating out of his skin). "sun’s out, sand’s gonna get everywhere, and if i see one attempted murder before lunch, i’m tossing whoever started it into the ocean. no cuddles. no take-backs."
they’re gonna do it anyway, you think, watching sinister mark’s smirk widen like he’s already planning his first act of violence. little shits. but there’s no real heat behind it—just that same stupid, helpless affection that’s been lodged under your ribs since the day you looked at these disaster men and said, yeah, okay, i’ll keep you.
(and if your heart does a traitorous little skip when viltrum mark rolls his eyes but still falls into step beside you, shoulder brushing yours like an unspoken i’m here—well. that’s between you and the seagulls.)
mohawk mark scoffs, arms crossed tight over his chest like he's physically holding back his own damn enthusiasm. the sunlight glints off the silver studs and piercings on his face as he scowls—all sharp angles and sharper attitude, the kind of pissed-off pout that'd make lesser men back the fuck up. "this is fucking stupid," he grumbles, kicking at the sand like it personally wronged him. but his fingers are already working at the laces of his boots, because here's the thing about this mark: he's all bark, no bite when it comes to you.
yeah, he's a bastard—the kind who'd gut a man for looking at him wrong and laugh while doing it—but he's your bastard. and you know that stubborn set of his jaw, the way his eyes flick to you when he thinks you're not looking. he could level cities without breaking a sweat, but he's never been able to tell you no. not really. not when it matters. for all his bitching, he’d never say no to you.
so he mutters another curse under his breath, but he peels off his boots anyway, tossing them toward the pile of shit you've all dumped by the umbrella. and when he catches you watching, he flips you off—but there's no heat in it, just that familiar, fucked-up fondness that makes your chest feel too tight.
asshole, you think. mine.
sinister mark hums, low and knowing, as he slinks up beside you with the predatory grace of something that absolutely should be on a leash. the sunlight catches the dangerous curve of his smirk—all teeth, no warmth, the kind of grin that'd send sane men running. his fingers find your hip like they own it, digging in just shy of painful, and you can feel the challenge in his grip. "admit it, sweetheart," he purrs, breath hot against your ear, "you dragged us out here just to see us wet and half-naked." the bastard even has the audacity to nip at your earlobe, like he's marking his fucking territory.
"pfft. like i haven't memorized every scar already," you shoot back, shoving at his chest with your free hand. your smirk is all defiance, but your pulse betrays you—rabbiting under your skin like it's trying to escape. and fuck if he doesn't know it, his laugh a dark, velvety thing that curls low in your gut. for one reckless second, you let sinister's grip stay, let him crowd you like he's won something.
(he hasn't. but the game's half the fun.)
lensless mark's laugh cracks through the air like a gunshot—too loud, too bright, the kind of sound that makes people turn heads at best or reach for weapons at worst. you barely have time to register the shit-eating grin on his face before he's barreling past you, all reckless limbs and unchecked energy, sand spraying up behind him like shrapnel. "last one in's a loser!" he crows, already yanking his shirt over his head mid-sprint. the fabric gets stuck around his elbows for a glorious second, nearly tripping him, but he just laughs harder like this is the best fucking day of his life.
you see the exact moment he decides to go full send—the way his knees bend, the wild spark in his eyes—and you're already shouting "don't you fucking dare—" when he cannonballs into the waves with a splash that soaks the first five feet of shoreline.
"you goddamn menace," you yell, wiping saltwater from your face as he surfaces, hair plastered to his forehead and grinning like he just won the lottery. he shakes his head like a wet dog, spraying water everywhere, and you're this close to throwing a sandal at him when he waves back toward you, arms outstretched.
"c'mon, babe!" he goads, dripping and delighted. "water's perfect—"
"keep those soggy hands to yourself or i'm drowning you for real," you warn, but there's no real bite to it—not when he's looking at you like this, all sunlit and carefree, the ocean clinging to his skin like it's trying to keep him too.
he pouts for exactly half a second before mischief flickers back into his expression. "bet you're just worried about what we'll do once you're in here with me," he teases, already backing toward deeper water with that stupid lopsided grin that makes your pulse jump despite yourself.
"bet you'll taste saltwater if you try doing anything with me in there with everyone watching," you counter, already shrugging off your jacket because fuck it, you were gonna get wet anyway. your traitorous feet are already inching forward when a shadow falls across the sand.
full-masked mark materializes at your elbow like some kind of horror movie jumpscare, holding out sunscreen with that unsettling precision of his. "you'll burn," he murmurs, voice muffled but warm behind the mask. when you raise an eyebrow, he gestures toward your exposed skin—the sun's relentless today, and he knows better than anyone how it lingers on your shoulders, your neck, the dip of your spine.
"let me help you with that," he says, already uncapping the bottle before you can protest. not like you were gonna say no anyway, because denying him feels like kicking a very lethal puppy. his hands are gentle as he works the lotion into your skin, thumbs pressing careful circles between your shoulder blades like he's memorizing the landscape of you. it should be creepy. it is creepy. but there's something almost... reverent in the way he does it, like applying sunscreen is some sacred ritual.
"you're staring," you mutter when you catch his head tilted at that particular angle again.
"observing," he corrects, smoothing a thumb along the back of your neck. "your skin is... responsive today."
you snort. "that your weirdo way of saying i'm warm?"
"my weirdo way of saying i care," full-masked mark counters, and fuck if that doesn't make your stomach flip. his thumb swipes one last unnecessary circle between your shoulder blades before retreating, leaving your skin tingling in a way that has nothing to do with sunscreen.
"disgusting," shiesty mark's voice cuts through the moment like a knife. you turn to find him sprawled under the umbrella like some ancient desert deity holding court, veil rippling dramatically despite the complete lack of wind. he hasn't moved an inch since you arrived, but now his head tilts just enough for you to catch the gleam of one dark eye assessing full-masked mark's handiwork. "you missed a spot."
you blink. "the fuck you talking about—"
shiesty mark moves faster than he has all day, snagging your elbow and yanking you into his personal shade. the sudden shift from blazing sun to cool shadow makes you shiver—or maybe that's the way his fingers slide up your arm, tracing an imaginary line full-masked mark supposedly neglected. "here," he murmurs, dragging a calloused fingertip along your inner elbow. "and here." his touch ghosts over your collarbone, light as the fabric of his veil. "amateur."
full-masked mark goes statue-still in that way that usually precedes violence. you brace for impact, but shiesty mark just leans back with a huff, producing—of all things—a fucking spray bottle from his bag. "hold still," he orders, misting some suspiciously expensive-looking aloe vera over the places he just touched. it smells like mint and something unplaceably expensive. "now you won't stick to my sheets later."
you're torn between laughing and choking him. before he can retreat, you fist your hand in the bottom of his veil—not hard enough to dislodge it, just enough to feel the fabric strain between your fingers as you yank him closer. "you planned this," you accuse, close enough now to see your reflection warped in his tinted goggles.
his hands find your waist automatically, like they've got their own GPS for your body. "maybe," he admits, voice dropping to that low rasp that does stupid things to your pulse. one palm slides down your hip with deliberate slowness, feeling his callouses on your exposed skin as his fingers trace your thigh down to your knee. you can feel the heat of him through the layers of clothing and veil, a living furnace pretending at indifference.
the sharp smack against your ass stings just enough to make you jerk—not away, but into it, because fuck if you don’t love when he gets handsy like this. his palm lingers half a second too long, fingers digging in with that perfect blend of punishment and promise before he’s reclining back into his stupid pillow throne like some desert monarch. "go be someone else’s problem," he huffs, waving you off with all the drama of a shakespearean lead. but his traitorous fingers tap twice against your hipbone as you pull away—stay, that touch says, i’m not done with you yet.
you’re still wearing that shit-eating grin when you finally step back, cocking your head at him as he crosses his arms like a petulant child. the way his veil shifts with his exaggerated exhale tells you everything—he’s pouting. god, you could kiss him. you should tease him, really lay into him for being such a dramatic little shit, but—
the air changes. shifts. grows heavier with the particular static that precedes him. you don’t even need to turn to know who’s there—that arrogant footfall, the way space itself seems to bend around his presence. you’d know that walking ego trip anywhere.
prisoner mark doesn’t so much remove his shirt as he unleashes himself from it. the fabric peels away with a wet sound, clinging desperately to sweat-slick skin before finally surrendering. sunlight spills over the battlefield of his torso, catching on silvered scars and newer pink ones—some you’ve mapped with your tongue and fingers in the dark, others still untold stories. his muscles flex as he tosses the shirt aside, putting every damn ridge and valley on display like he’s daring you to look.
"see something you like?" that voice—rough as gravel, warm as whiskey—rolls over you, and fuck, you’re only human. your gaze drags up from the v of his hips to find him already watching you, that cocky smirk playing at his lips.
"just admiring the view," you say, stepping into his space like you own it—close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, to catch the salt-and-iron scent of his skin. your thumb finds that familiar, vicious scar along his ribs—the one that twists like a lightning strike, the one you know aches when the weather turns. you press just hard enough to make him suck in a breath through his teeth. "wondering if you taste as good as you look," you murmur, dragging your nail lightly over the raised tissue. "wondering how many of these i gotta kiss better before you stop being such a dramatic little shit about taking care of yourself."
his breath hitches—just once, barely there—but you feel it where your chest brushes his. gotcha.
the flush creeping up his neck is fucking priceless. "try it and find out," he mutters, voice gone rough like gravel, hands already settling on your waist like they belong there.
you press closer, grinning when his fingers tighten reflexively. "that a challenge, big guy?"
"observation," he counters, but his thumb rubs absent circles against your hipbone—that secret tell he’s trying (and failing) to play it cool.
you’re about to retort when he suddenly scoops you up like you weigh nothing, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. you yelp, kicking halfheartedly as he strides toward the water. "put me the fuck down—"
"nope." he smacks your ass for good measure, the bastard. "heard you giving lensless shit about not swimming earlier. hypocrite."
"i’ll drown you—"
"promise?" he deadpans, but his arms are careful as he wades in, adjusting his grip so you won’t slip. the water’s cooler than expected when it hits your skin, and you shiver against him. he pauses. "...cold?"
there’s no audience now, no performance—just his voice gone quiet, hands shifting to cradle you properly. it’s this version of him that fucks you up the most: the one who remembers how you take your coffee, who patches your wounds without comment, who notices.
you swallow. "nah. just surprised you remembered."
he scoffs, but it’s fond. "dumbass." then, softer: "hold your breath."
the plunge into the waves is abrupt but controlled, his arm a solid band around your ribs as you both go under. when you surface, spluttering, he’s grinning—real and rare and yours—saltwater dripping from his body.
"asshole," you gasp, but you’re laughing, clinging to his shoulders as the current tugs at you.
his forehead bumps against yours, just for a second. "yours."
the word hits you like a stray bullet to the chest—sudden, devastating, leaving your ribs cracked open around the impact. you can feel his breath mixing with yours, seawater dripping from your lashes onto his cheeks, his hands warm even through the ocean's chill. for one heartbeat, then two, the world narrows to this: the salt on his lips when they brush your temple, the way his pulse jumps under your palm where it's pressed to his neck, the quiet truth of it all—that this terrifying, beautiful man would burn cities to keep you safe and call it nothing.
you're about to say something stupid, something real, when suddenly—
"GROUP HUG!"
lensless mark crashes into you from behind like an overexcited tsunami, arms looping around both your waists as he splashes down. prisoner mark's grip tightens instinctively to keep you from faceplanting into the waves, his annoyed "what the fuck-" drowned out by lensless mark's delighted cackling.
"awww, were you guys having a moment?" lensless mark coos, cheek pressed against your shoulder. he's vibrating with energy, all sun-warmed skin and reckless joy. "don't mind me, just here to spread the love!"
you can feel prisoner mark's sigh reverberate through your chest, long-suffering but fond. his fingers find yours under the water, squeezing once—a silent promise to finish this later—before he's shoving lensless mark's face away with his free hand. "get off, you overgrown puppy."
but he doesn't let go of you.
his fingers stay tangled with yours under the water, rough and sure, like an anchor in the tide. it sends something warm and stupid curling through your chest—something that feels suspiciously like home—and you squeeze back before you can stop yourself. prisoner mark’s thumb brushes your knuckles, just once, and you’re suddenly grateful for the ocean spray cooling your burning face.
lensless mark makes a wounded noise against your shoulder, his arms tightening around your waist like a possessive octopus. "hey," he whines, nose nudging the back of your neck. "why’s he get to hold your hand?" there’s a pout in his voice, the kind usually reserved for when you steal the last slice of pizza or refuse to let him shotgun your energy drinks.
it’s adorable.
you bite back a grin, tilting your head to catch his eye. "you are currently hugging me like a koala, dude."
"not the point," he huffs, but his grip loosens just enough to slide a hand over prisoner mark’s wrist—like he’s trying to subtly pry your fingers apart. prisoner mark snorts, deliberately lacing his fingers tighter with yours under the water just to watch lensless mark’s eye twitch.
god, you could kiss them both.
"aw, is someone jealous?" you tease, leaning back into lensless mark just to feel him perk up against you. his chin hooks over your shoulder instantly, all eager puppy energy again.
"no," he lies, right as prisoner mark mutters, "pathetic."
lensless mark gasps, scandalized. "you wound me—"
you’re laughing too hard to care when they start bickering over your head, still stubbornly clinging to you from both sides—until a flicker of movement catches your eye.
viltrum mark stands where the waves kiss the shore, motionless as a statue, letting the water rush over his feet only to retreat again. the sunlight paints his silhouette in gold, but his expression is shadowed, distant. for a moment, he looks at you—really looks—and something flickers across his face too fast to name. something that makes your breath catch. then he turns away, jaw tight, staring at the horizon like it holds answers.
you know that look. you’ve memorized every version of it.
"gotta pee," you lie, giving prisoner mark's bicep a parting squeeze.
his grip tightens—just for a heartbeat—before he huffs and releases you. "better come back," he mutters, the threat undercut by how his thumb strokes your hipbone like a fucking goodbye kiss.
lensless mark clings tighter, nuzzling your shoulder with a dramatic whine. "just go in the water like a normal person," he stage-whispers, grinning when you elbow him. "what? it's technically recycling!"
you can feel prisoner mark roll his eyes without looking. "you're disgusting."
"you love it," lensless mark sing-songs, finally releasing you only to splash water at prisoner mark's face. as they descend into bickering, you slip away, the ocean reluctant to let you go—waves tugging at your knees, salt crystallizing on your skin like tiny constellations.
you don't look back. you don't need to. the weight of their attention follows you anyway:
prisoner mark's gaze—heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. lensless mark's pout—audible in every splash he makes protesting your exit.
and ahead—always just ahead—the rigid line of viltrum mark's figure, standing sentinel where the sea meets the shore. the waves lick at his ankles like they’re afraid to touch him too long, retreating every time like they know better. you watch the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back.
you know why.
(in every other universe, you’re dead. in every other timeline, he’s too late. this—you—are the one miracle his bloody hands don’t deserve.)
"hey, space prince," you call softly, coming to stand beside him. the water swirls around your feet, trying to pull you back to the others, but you dig your toes into the sand. "you gonna brood all day or actually talk to me?"
he doesn’t look at you. his voice is rough when it comes, like he’s been swallowing glass. "you should go back. enjoy today and relax."
"nah." you bump your shoulder against his—careful, testing. "kinda like the view from here."
the two of you stay like that. pressed together where the tide can't reach, breathing in sync as the waves paint fleeting patterns around your ankles. you glance at him from the corner of your eye—the way the sunlight gilds his sharp profile, how his throat works around unspoken words—before letting your gaze drift back to the ocean. a soft laugh escapes you when prisoner mark yanks lensless mark underwater by his ankles, their squabbling carrying across the beach like seagull cries.
viltrum mark's gaze flicks to you at the sound, and something in his expression fractures. his fingers twitch against your hip like he wants to memorize the shape of your smile through touch alone.
"penny for your thoughts, markus?"
his breath hitches like you've struck him. suddenly he's two years younger, watching you fish through your pockets with that mischievous grin, always prepared to humor him. the memory is so vivid he can almost feel the warm copper pressed into his palm, your laughter ringing in his ears like wedding bells.
one heartbeat. two. the past and present blur at the edges.
"beloved."
it tears out of him like a prayer, raw and reverent. his hand finds yours, calloused fingers slotting between yours with the familiarity of a thousand lifetimes. when he turns, his eyes are glassy with unshed tears—all that carefully cultivated control crumbling to dust. "i cannot—" his thumb traces the pulse point in your wrist, feather-light. "breathe when you're not near. every moment you're out of sight, i see it. your body broken in a hundred different ways. my failures carved into your skin." his voice drops to a whisper, cracked with confession. "i do not know how to love you without destruction following."
the words hang between you, fragile as the foam dissolving at your feet.
you turn your hand in his, pressing a soft kiss on his knuckles and hear his heart pound like a war drum. "good thing i'm pretty fucking hard to kill," you murmur, leaning in until your temple rests against his. the salt on his skin tastes like forgiveness when you brush your lips to his jaw. "and better at loving you through the aftermath."
his arms encircle you like a man clutching salvation—slow, trembling, terrified of his own strength. but when you sigh into his shoulders, he finally breaks. his face buries in your neck, his shoulders shaking as he inhales the scent of sunscreen and sea air clinging to your skin. somewhere beyond this moment, lensless mark whoops at prisoner mark's failed attempt to drown him. the tide continues its endless dance with the shore.
but here, now—with his heartbeat steadying under your palm, with his tears dampening your shoulder—there is only this:
his lips moving against your skin, barely audible: "stay."
yours, answering without hesitation: "always."
for a long moment, you just exist like that—his arms locked around you like living armor, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, the ocean humming its approval at your feet. you can feel the exact second his breathing steadies, the tension in his shoulders unwinding like a coiled rope finally set free.
then your stomach growls loud enough to startle a nearby seagull.
"shit," you laugh, pulling back just enough to see his face. "guess babysitting you guys work up an appetite." you poke his ribs, grinning when he doesn’t even flinch, in fact he leans into it. "wanna come grab a snack with me? i’ll even share my chips if you promise not to brood while eating them."
his expression does something complicated—that usual viltrumite stoicism battling with the softness you’ve carved into him over time. finally, he exhales through his nose, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "go on, beloved," he murmurs, voice warmer than the sun on your skin. "i will... enjoy the view a while longer."
you follow his gaze to where prisoner mark is now attempting to drown lensless mark with one hand while balancing a beer in the other, and snort. "yeah, real scenic."
his small, private smile is worth every near-death experience you’ve ever had. "indeed."
you leave viltrum mark to his brooding (and let’s be real, probably some light conqueror plotting) and wander over to where omni mark has transformed your shitty cooler into what looks like a tactical supply depot. drinks are lined up by abv percentage, snacks sorted into neat pyramids by protein content, and—christ—he’s even folded the napkins into perfect triangles.
"you know we're just gonna mess that up in five seconds, right?" you ask, plopping down beside him with a grin.
he doesn’t look up from adjusting a bag of pretzels exactly two inches to the left. "someone should do things properly." his voice is flat, but you catch the way his pinky finger twitches toward you—his version of a needy grabby hand.
you steal the beer directly from his "sorted by flavor profile" section just to watch his eye tick. "properly, huh?" you take a long swig, wiping your mouth with exaggerated sloppiness. "that why you rearranged my entire spice cabinet last week? alphabetically? by heat level?"
"you were using cayenne pepper in pancakes."
"and they were good."
"they were a war crime."
you bark out a laugh, leaning into his space until your shoulder bumps his. "aw, you do care."
he sighs like the weight of the universe rests solely on his long-suffering shoulders, but—
but then his arm slides behind you, his palm settling against the small of your back with quiet certainty. his thumb rubs absent circles over your spine, the touch so light you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know him like you do. if you didn’t know this is his version of pulling you into his lap and never letting go.
"eat something," he mutters, nudging a perfectly peeled orange toward you with his free hand. "your blood sugar is dropping."
you don’t ask how he knows. he always knows.
instead, you split the orange in half and press a segment to his lips. "only if you do."
he pauses. considers. then leans down to take it from your fingers with deliberate slowness, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that's absolutely fucking calculated. the bastard even has the audacity to maintain eye contact as he does it, his lashes casting shadows over those stupidly intense eyes of his.
"freak," you whisper, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathless.
his lips quirk against your fingertips before pulling away. "i'm the freak here?" he murmurs, the endearment dripping with sarcasm—but there's no hiding the way his thumb rubs over your knuckles after. "says the one who dips their fries in soft serving."
you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest like he's struck you. "first of all, it's ice cream. second of all, it's delicious."
"it's deranged," he counters, but he's already reaching into the cooler for the sweet corn junk food he pretends he didn't buy specifically for you. the packaging is pristine, untouched—he's been saving it.
you snatch it from him before he can change his mind. "aw, honey," you coo, batting your lashes exaggeratedly. "you do love me."
he sighs like the very concept exhausts him, but the corner of his mouth twitches as he watches you tear into the snack with zero decorum. "against my better judgment," he mutters, brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip with his thumb.
the touch lingers.
so do you.
your shoulder stays pressed against omni mark's, the solid warmth of him as steady as the tide rolling in. his arm hasn't moved from behind you, his palm still a grounding weight at the small of your back. you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the occasional flex of his fingers against your spine when you shift. it's stupid how right it feels—how someone so meticulously controlled could fit against you so perfectly, like he's carved out a space in the universe just for the two of you to exist like this.
you glance around at the chaos—lensless mark attempting (and failing) to build a sandcastle with sinister mark's boots as buckets, shiesty mark still holding court under his umbrella like a desert monarch, full-masked mark silently observing it all like a particularly concerned gargoyle with a little satchel in his hands, and are those seashells in the satchel?—and huff. it's a quiet, satisfied sound, exasperation and fondness tangled together in your chest.
and for a moment, it's perfect.
then mohawk mark nails sinister mark square in the face with a wet sandball.
the thwack is audible even over the waves.
"you little shit—"
sinister mark lunges. they go down in a tangle of limbs and curses, seawater spraying everywhere as they roll through the shallows. lensless mark immediately starts taking bets.
you pinch the bridge of your nose. "five minutes," you mutter to omni mark, who hasn't so much as twitched beside you. "i asked for five goddamn minutes of peace."
he hums, plucking the bag of sweet corn from your hand before it can become collateral damage. "statistically improbable," he says, like he's commenting on the weather, just as sinister mark gets mohawk mark in a headlock that looks borderline fatal.
you groan, already pushing to your feet—because someone's gotta play referee before they start leveling beachfront property—but omni mark's arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place.
"no need for you to go over there, my love," he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. his other hand is already flexing, that familiar clench starting to gather at his fingertips. "i'll handle it."
you snort, patting his chest. "baby, if you 'handle it,' we're gonna lose half the beach to orbital bombardment." you can already see the calculations flashing behind his eyes—angles of attack, collateral damage estimates, the exact amount of force needed to politely separate them without reducing the coastline to glass. "they'll listen to me. probably."
his jaw ticks. "they'd better." it's not a request. it's a threat—one that lingers in the air like ozone as he reluctantly lets you go, his fingers trailing down your arm like he's already preparing to catch you.
you shoot him a grin over your shoulder. "aw. you do care."
his eyes narrow, tracking the way sinister mark is now attempting to drown mohawk mark in six inches of water. "i care about not explaining to your original mark why his universe is missing its favorite nuisance," he mutters, voice dripping with false annoyance.
"liar," you sing, already jogging toward the fray, sand kicking up behind you.
you don't see the way his gaze softens as he watches you go—don't catch how his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to pull you back to safety. don't notice the way his lips shape the words be careful without sound.
what you do notice is the absolute shitstorm unfolding in the shallows. mohawk mark has sinister mark in a headlock now, both of them coated in enough sand to constitute a felony, while prisoner mark casually films the whole thing on a waterproof phone he definitely stole from someone.
"alright, children," you sigh, wading into the mess. "break it up before i—oof!"
mohawk mark's elbow catches you square in the ribs when he twists free, sending you stumbling back into the waves. saltwater soaks through your shorts instantly, the shock of cold knocking the breath from your lungs.
everything stops.
mohawk mark freezes mid-punch. sinister mark's eyes go comically wide. even prisoner mark lowers the phone.
"...shit," prisoner mark mutters.
the beach goes dead silent.
viltrum mark is on his feet before the last wave finishes receding from your stumble, water sloshing around his ankles. his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles bleach white, veins standing out along his forearms like live wires. the look he pins mohawk mark with could glass cities—could level civilizations—because how dare you, how dare you be careless with the one miracle dozens of universes couldn't replicate.
lensless mark isn’t smiling anymore. his usual golden retriever energy has evaporated, replaced by something hollow and haunted. his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s reliving it—the way his dimension’s version of you had gasped their last breath trying to shield him from his own father’s fists, how the blood had pooled so fast—
even shiesty mark has gone statue-still under his veil, the fabric fluttering with the force of his ragged breathing—too fast, too shallow, just like it had been that night in the alley when he was seventeen and still shaky with new powers, when you'd thrown yourself between him and a fatal swing meant for his spine. his hands flex slightly with unstable energy, the same way they had when he'd desperately tried to hold you together, trying to stop the way how the upper half of your body is split halfway from your bottom half and your body's healing capabilities couldn't catch up, his freshly-manifested strength fizzling uselessly against the wound.
his outstretched hand trembles, muscles coiling without conscious thought—caught between disintegrating mohawk mark where he stands or gathering you against his chest to check for injuries. the memory plays on loop behind his eyes: you at seventeen, blood bubbling at your lips as you cupped his face with failing strength, whispering "go on, love. it's okay" right as his tears hit your cheeks. you'd smiled. you'd smiled while dying in his arms during his very first patrol with you and the guardians of the globe, and now—
now he doesn't trust himself to touch you. doesn't trust himself not to.
full-masked mark's entire body locks up, his outstretched hand frozen in that awful, familiar position—the same desperate lunge he'd made when his dimension's you slipped through his fingers off that collapsing skyscraper. the memory plays in brutal clarity: your startled laugh cutting off as a giant suddenly appeared and swung at the building you two were in, sheared through steel girders, your shoes scraping uselessly against crumbling concrete as you fell. sixteen years old and still grinning like it was all some dumb joke, even as the wind whipped your hair across your face.
he'd fought like a wild thing against the arms holding him back—screaming himself raw, fingernails tearing bloody furrows in the restraining hands as he watched you shrink against the distant pavement. his powers had erupted then, too late, always too late, the building trembling as his newfound strength shattered every window in a half-mile radius. what good were invulnerability and super-strength when they came after your skull cracked open on the sidewalk? when he had to identify your body by the tacky friendship bracelet he made for you when you two were kinds on your left hand because the rest was—
the seawater dripping from his hand now might as well be blood. his breath comes in short, ragged bursts behind the mask, the filters suddenly suffocating. the beach smells like salt and sunscreen but all he can taste is concrete dust and copper. his fingers twitch, still reaching, always reaching, for a ghost he'll never catch.
and omni mark—
omni mark's fingers dig into his own palms hard enough to draw blood. the calculations flash behind his eyes in real-time: trajectory, velocity, the exact angle at which to snap mohawk mark's spine without getting viscera on your clothes. he knew this would happen. he'd run the probabilities the moment you stood up (87.6% chance of injury, 42.3% chance of re-aggravating old wounds, 99.9% chance of his own heart stopping at the sight). and yet he'd let you go anyway, just like he'd let his dimension's you walk into that ambush, just like he'd trusted the universe to spare you this time—
the universe, as always, is a cruel fucking bitch.
and mohawk mark—
mohawk mark looks like he’s been gutted.
his hands hover over your arms like you're made of spun glass, fingertips trembling so badly they barely graze your skin. each shallow, ragged breath sounds like it's being dragged through broken glass—too fast, too desperate, the kind of hyperventilation that comes when your brain is screaming not again not again not again. his pupils have swallowed all the color from his eyes, black and wide with the kind of primal terror that only comes from watching your worst nightmare replay in real time.
he remembers. oh god, he remembers.
his dimension's you at seventeen, grinning that stupid lopsided grin right as you body-checked him out of the way—the split-second before his father's fist cleaved through your ribs instead of his. how you'd smiled even as your knees buckled, even as your blood soaked through his shirt where he caught you. how your last words had been "hey. look at me. you're gonna be okay." like you weren't the one dying in his arms.
and now here you are—his you but not his, alive but not yours—with saltwater dripping from your chin and that same reckless glint in your eyes, and his lungs have forgotten how to work.
"fuck—" his voice shatters like dropped porcelain, raw with the memory of your blood between his fingers. he can still feel the exact moment your pulse stuttered and stopped under his hands. "are you hurt? i didn't—fuck, i didn't see you—"
his fingers find the reddening spot where his elbow connected, mapping the injury with feather-light touches. his thumb traces the edges of the bruise like he's memorizing its borders, like if he can just confirm this is the only mark on you, maybe this time he won't fail. maybe this time you won't slip away while he's screaming for help that never comes.
a snort escapes you, loud and deliberately obnoxious, and just like that the tension snaps. the murderous glares soften into exasperated eye-rolls, clenched fists uncurling as the marks remember how to breathe again. "oh my god," you laugh, shaking water from your hair like a dog, "you guys realize i've survived dozens of near-death experiences, right?" you flex your bicep with a shit-eating grin. "this bod's been through way worse than an elbow to the ribs."
sinister mark opens his mouth—probably to argue—so you seize mohawk mark's moment of distraction to yank him into a headlock, ruffling his hair with your free hand. "who's the fragile one now, huh? pretty sure i just took out a viltrumite with my face and lived to tell the tale."
mohawk mark barks out a laugh that sounds suspiciously wet—right before you grab his wrist and haul him into the surf with you, because fuck fairness and fuck brooding. soon all three of you are tumbling through the waves in a tangle of limbs, the fight forgotten in favor of trying to dunk each other like overgrown kids.
"see?" you crow, flicking water at mohawk mark's nose. "still kicking. you're all stuck with me, buddy."
the way his smile goes soft at the edges tells you he doesn't hate that idea nearly as much as he pretends to.
"this," prisoner mark announces to no one, "is why we can't have nice things."
now, you're too busy getting sand in places sand should never be to care. sinister mark's laughter rings bright over the waves as you finally manage to pin him, his dark hair wet and his grin unguarded for once. mohawk mark collapses beside you both, breathless, his knee knocking against yours in quiet apology.
and when you finally glance back at the shore, omni mark is watching with that look—the one that says you're all disasters but also you're my disaster.
worth it.
shiesty mark drags lensless mark out of the shallows by his ankle, cackling as the other variant flails like an overturned turtle. "surrender!" he demands, shaking him just enough to send water droplets flying in a glittering arc. full-masked mark appears at your elbow without a sound, pressing a perfect conch shell into your palm—its spiral ridges still warm from his hands. "for you," he murmurs, like he's handing over state secrets instead of beach debris, his thumb lingering on your pulse point just a second too long.
viltrum mark materializes beside you with that terrifying quiet of his, offering a soda can already popped open the way you like it, because you're lazy and appreciate it when they've already opened the can for you. the condensation drips over his fingers when he passes it to you, his pinky brushing yours in a move that would be accidental on anyone else. his smile is barely there—just a faint curve of lips—but it's yours. always yours.
and yeah, they're disasters. mohawk mark and sinister mark are already squabbling over the last beer, prisoner mark is teaching omni mark highly questionable sandcastle construction techniques, and you can already see lensless mark winding up for another ill-advised cannonball. you'll be mediating arguments and confiscating potential weapons (sticks, rocks, the occasional seagull) until the sun dips below the horizon.
but as you lean back against viltrum mark's legs, soda fizzing on your tongue and full-masked mark's shell safe in your pocket—as shiesty mark's laughter rings out sharp and bright across the water, as prisoner mark's shadow falls across you in a silent offer of shade—
you press the cold soda can to your grinning lips and think:
you wouldn’t trade this for anything.
(well. maybe for one thing. but your mark—your mark, the one who doesn’t love you back—isn’t here. and that’s fine. really.)
(you’ve got eight others who do.)
(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆
"mark? are you there?"
cecil's voice crackles through the earpiece, too loud in mark's right ear.
mark doesn't answer at first. his fingers curl into the sleeves of your hoodie—your hoodie, the one you "forgot" at his place last winter with that smirk, the one that still smells like your shampoo no matter how many times he washes it. the fabric is stretched thin where he's been worrying at the cuffs for the past twenty minutes, his knuckles pale with how tight he's gripping it.
"yeah, i'm here..." his voice comes out rough, quiet.
he watches from the shadows of the boardwalk as you lean into sinister mark's side, laughing at something lensless mark says. the way your face lights up when sinister mark presses a kiss to your cheek—soft, reverent—makes mark's stomach twist. his jaw clenches hard enough to ache.
"does it look like they're going to start conquering anything soon?"
cecil's tone is carefully neutral, but mark knows him too well. there's concern there, buried under all that bureaucratic bullshit. mark didn't want to work with cecil again, but he had to. for you. for the chance to see you happy, even if it's with versions of him who actually deserve you.
"they're fine," mark mutters, thumb rubbing absently over the fraying edge of your hoodie pocket. "i trust him. he'll keep them in line."
because he knows. knows they'll listen to you. knows they'd burn the world down if you asked. because he would, too.
"remember the deal, kid. i'm only letting this happen because of you. normally i wouldn't let eight genocidal maniacs roam free."
a sharp, humorless laugh escapes mark as he watches viltrum mark card his fingers through your hair, murmuring something that makes you grin. his chest hurts.
"i know," mark says, but it comes out strangled.
he should look away. he can't.
(he wonders, bitterly, if this is how they felt—all those other marks, watching their versions of you die. because this? this slow, aching unraveling? it sure as hell feels like dying.)
holy shit you guys. 7.3k words of pure chaos and i somehow survived writing this. trying to keep track of eight different marks nearly short-circuited my brain—i had like eight browser tabs open just to remember who was supposed to be threatening who at any given moment. if i ever attempt this again, we're absolutely capping it at three variants maximum unless someone wants to sponsor me with a lifetime supply of energy drinks and a personal assistant. but hey, you know it's a proper lazy-ahh one-shot when it's got war criminals being weirdly tender, at least one mark having a silent crisis in the corner, and approximately 50% more angst than originally intended. hope you enjoyed this beautiful mess anyway, cause i definitely lost several years off my lifespan writing it. now if you'll excuse me, i need to go hibernate for three business days. <3
