#I really like her mask and the white lines on her suit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mocharyc · 2 months ago

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Invincible variants x reader Pt. 5✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

♡ The first variant gets the best pickings of her(y/n's) love ♡

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Fever Dreams‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 10k+ [Part 5] ☆ TW: fluff + more~ ☆ Author's Note: This chapter took a long time to get down, I kept re-writing it over and over again. I really wanted the... well, I can't spoil, lol. read and find outttt ♡ ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊ ♡This is a long chapter; bear with me pls♡

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Y/N drifted in and out of consciousness, fragments of conversations reaching her through the haze of medication and pain. Each voice filtered through her fevered mind with distinct clarity, bringing with it the unique cadence and emotion of its owner.

"...collar repairs are possible, but without proper calibration..." Emperor's voice, commanding even in hushed tones. His brow furrowed with impatience, the muscle in his jaw twitching beneath his chiseled face as he stared down at the broken technology with disdain. The golden accents of his imperial uniform caught the dim light of the cabin as he moved, his posture rigid with authority.

"...keep her sedated until the fever breaks..." No Mask's voice carried an unusual gentleness. His exposed features—so jarring without the familiar invincible mask—softened with concern as he checked her bandages with practiced efficiency, his fingers trembling slightly when they brushed against her burning skin. The familiar blue and yellow of his costume seemed darker in the cabin's shadows, his face marked with exhaustion.

"...touch her again and I'll tear your arms off..." Mohawk snarled, his threat punctuated by the flash of his teeth. His eyes blazed with protective fury, veins pulsing visibly at his temples as he stood with his fists clenched, knuckles white with restraint. The distinctive ridge of his mohawk cast a jagged shadow across the wall, matching the harsh lines of rage etched into his face.

"...mission parameters are clear, this distraction is illogical..." Omni's razor-sharp logic cut through the tension. His perfectly composed features betrayed him only through the slight clench of his jaw as he fought against his overwhelming desire to rush to her side, to ensure her comfort himself. The blood stained red and white of his uniform seemed to glow in the half-light, pristine despite the chaos surrounding them.

"...she’s your Y/N, she's mine..." Sinister's words dripped with possession, his face gleaming with obsession. His pupils dilated as he stared hungrily at her prone form, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as if tasting her vulnerability in the air. His black and yellow suit seemed to absorb the shadows, making him appear more creature than man.

The voices blended and separated, identifiable not just by tone but by the emotions etched into their identical-yet-different faces—Emperor's imperious sneer, the way his nostrils flared when contradicted; Mohawk's snarling defiance, the permanent crease between his brows deepening with each protective glance; Omni's calculated detachment betrayed by the trembling of his lower lip when he thought no one was watching; Viltrumite's cold authority masking deeper anguish visible in the shadows beneath his eyes; Prisoner's raw hatred punctuated by twitches of longing that softened his scarred features momentarily; Phantom's haunted gaze, perpetually searching; Sinister's predatory smile revealing his sharp canines, his eyes never blinking beneath his black lenes when fixed upon her; No Mask's rare flickers of humanity breaking through his professional demeanor like cracks in armor.

They were arguing about her, around her, over her—as if she were a prize to be claimed rather than a person with agency. The realization should have angered her, but in her weakened state, it offered opportunity. Their fracturing alliance, their competing claims—these were vulnerabilities she could exploit if only she could recover enough strength.

The medication pulled her under again, dragging her into dreamless darkness where even these thoughts faded to nothing.

When Y/N next opened her eyes, the cabin was bathed in the silvery glow of moonlight. The pain in her side had dulled to a persistent throb rather than the sharp agony of before, suggesting No Mask's medication was working. Her mind felt clearer, no longer swimming in the fog of fever and infection.

She wasn't alone. A figure sat in a chair beside her bed, silhouetted against the moonlight streaming through the broken window. For a moment, fear spiked through her—was it Prisoner, returned to make good on his threats? Sinister, with his disturbing obsession? But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she recognized the distinctive outline of Phantom's mask face, the void-like quality of his presence.

"You're awake," he observed, his voice so quiet it might have been mistaken for the rustling of leaves outside. Beneath the see-through fabric of his mask, his eyes watched her with an intensity that felt different from the others—less possessive, more... haunted. The moonlight cast sharp shadows across his masked features, highlighting the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself apart from her.

Y/N didn't respond immediately, taking stock of her condition. The bandages around her torso felt clean and dry, no longer sodden with blood and infection. Her throat, while still raw from the collar's damage, no longer burned with each breath. The worst of the fever had broken, leaving her weak but coherent. She felt her Viltrumite powers slowly returning.

"Why are you watching me?" she finally asked, her voice stronger than it had been earlier, though still rough around the edges. She pushed herself up slightly on the bed, wincing as the movement pulled at her healing wounds.

Phantom didn't answer directly, his head tilting slightly as he studied her in the moonlight. A muscle in his jaw jumped beneath the edge of his mask, betraying emotion beneath his controlled exterior. "You look like her," he said after a long pause.

"My mother."

The admission was so unexpected, so far from anything Y/N had anticipated, that she found herself momentarily speechless.

Of all the possible intimate connections these Mark variants might have formed with her, a maternal one had never crossed her mind. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, lips parting slightly as she processed his words.

"Your mother?" she echoed, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. She shifted against the pillows, trying to see his face more clearly in the moonlight.

Phantom leaned forward slightly, the moonlight casting half his masked face in silver while leaving the rest in shadow. For a moment, his eyes glimmered with something that might have been tears under his mask, the wet moisture beneath his lenses catching the light. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, as if steeling himself to continue.

"In my universe," he explained, each word measured as if speaking required conscious effort, "she raised me after my father died. Taught me control. Strength." His gloved fingers curled into a fist on his knee, knuckles white beneath the leather. "Than they came… I was took weak without proper training… When she was killed, there was... nothing left to contain what I became."

Y/N remained silent, sensing that any interruption might end this rare moment of vulnerability. The rawness in Phantom's voice, the slight tremor of his lips beneath his mask—these were cracks in his armor that she hadn't thought possible. She kept her gaze fixed on him, her own face softening with something like understanding.

"The others," he continued after a moment, his eyes darting to the door as if fearing interruption, "they see their lovers, their partners in you. Their Y/Ns." The word seemed to catch in his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly.

"But I see the woman who taught me what compassion meant." His mask turned toward the broken window, moonlight catching damp fabric beneath the eyes of his mask. "Before I forgot."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken history, with the ghost of a relationship that had shaped this Mark variant into something different from the others. Not better, perhaps—his hands were as blood-stained as theirs—but different in motivation, in drive.

"Is that why you're here?" Y/N asked finally with a raise of her brow, her voice barely above a whisper. "To remember what compassion feels like?"

Phantom remained motionless for so long that Y/N wondered if he'd heard her question. When he finally spoke, his voice had returned to its usual emptiness, the momentary vulnerability buried beneath layers of control, his eyes once again shadowed and unreadable behind his mask.

"I'm here because I believe every universe should suffer what I have." The words were recited like a mantra, a truth so fundamental it had become faith. "Angstrom Levy promised us salvation. Promised me..."

"A new Y/n?" she supplied when he trailed off, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone as she rolled her eyes, a hint of defiance returning to her despite her weakened state.

Phantom's head snapped toward her, the movement too quick, too inhuman to be comfortable. The tendons in his neck stood out like cords beneath his skin, his breathing suddenly harsh behind his mask. The moonlight caught the subtle changes in his posture—a coiling of tension, a predatory stillness.

"No," he said, with unexpected vehemence.

"You can't be replaced. She can't be… None of you can." His voice dropped, becoming almost introspective. "That's what they don't understand. What I'm beginning to fe–..."

He stopped abruptly, rising from the chair with fluid grace. His black and blue uniform absorbed the moonlight, creating a void in the shape of a man, as he moved.

"You should rest," he stated, retreating behind the mask of cool detachment, though his eyes remained fixed on her face with an intensity that belied his tone. "Tomorrow will be... difficult."

Before Y/N could question him further, the cabin door opened, admitting Viltrumite's imposing figure. The moonlight caught the white of his uniform, lending him an almost ethereal quality as he stood framed in the doorway, power and authority radiating from his perfect posture. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, his dark hair swept back immaculately despite the chaos of their mission.

His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked between Phantom and Y/N, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His nostrils flared slightly, as if he could smell the vulnerability that had permeated the room moments before.

The white of his uniform seemed to glow in the moonlight, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the strength contained in his frame.

"Your watch is over," he stated, not a question but a command. His gaze lingered on Y/N's face, something unreadable flickering in their depths. "Return to bringing destruction to this planet."

Phantom inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, moving toward the door. He paused beside Viltrumite, the two Mark variants presenting a study in contrasts—one all light and imperial presence, the other shadow and restrained power. The tension between them was palpable, crackling in the air like electricity.

"She's stronger," Phantom observed quietly, the words meant only for Viltrumite's ears but carrying in the cabin's stillness. "The fever's breaking, clear signs of her Viltumite status returning."

Viltrumite's features remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction. The corner of his mouth twitched upward momentarily, a fleeting crack in his regal facade.

"Good, now go," he replied, dismissal evident in his tone. "Join Sinister in the eastern quadrant. The planet still needs to be destroyed."

Phantom disappeared into the night without another word, leaving Y/N alone with Viltrumite. The absence of his presence left the cabin feeling suddenly larger, emptier; a sadness bellowed in her eyes.

The older Mark variant moved into the cabin with measured steps, each movement precise and controlled. In the moonlight, he seemed carved from marble—flawless, ageless, his features set in lines of authority that brooked no defiance. His eyes, though identical to all the Mark's in color, held centuries of experience and the weight of an empire.

"Your condition is improving," he observed, coming to stand beside her bed. Closer she could see his brown eyes clearer, they were cooler than the others' yet somehow more penetrating, cataloging her appearance with clinical assessment. The slightest twitch of his lips betrayed satisfaction at her recovery. "No Mask's intervention was... fortuitous."

Y/N attempted to push herself higher on the pillows, determined to face him from a position less vulnerable than flat on her back. The movement sent a dull throb of pain through her side, but it was manageable—a vast improvement from the searing agony of before. A bead of sweat formed at her temple from the effort, rolling down her cheek.

"Lucky for you," she replied, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "Can't extract much value from a corpse, can you?"

Something shifted in Viltrumite's expression—not quite surprise, but a reassessment.

His nostrils flared slightly, and the harsh lines of his imperial bearing softened fractionally, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath the mantle, his brown eyes studying her with newfound interest, pupils dilating almost imperceptibly. A muscle in his cheek twitched, betraying emotions he kept carefully controlled.

"You misunderstand," he said, his voice losing some of its commanding resonance. "Your survival is... significant beyond our new mission parameters."

Y/N laughed, the sound bitter and sharp in the moonlit cabin. "Right. Because I look like her—your Y/N." The words were a challenge, thrown like rocks at his feet.

Her eyes flashed with defiance, color rising to her cheeks as she held his gaze. "Is that it? I'm a convenient replacement for whatever woman you lost?"

Viltrumite's reaction was unmistakable—a tightening around his eyes, a momentary tension in his jaw that made a muscle jump beneath his skin. For an instant, his perfect composure cracked, revealing raw grief beneath the imperial façade. His fingers trembled slightly before he clenched them into fists at his sides, the veins in his forearms standing out against his skin.

"She was not just..." he began, then stopped, the words seeming to catch in his throat. His eyes appeared suddenly brighter, more vulnerable in the moonlight streaming through the window.

Y/N watched, fascinated, as emotions warred across his face—grief, anger, longing, all quickly suppressed beneath the mask of control. His eyes darkened, his breath coming slightly faster as he fought for composure. The white of his uniform seemed suddenly too bright, too pristine in the darkness of the cabin.

"She was going to be the Empress of Earth," he finally continued, his voice steadier. "My partner in bringing order to chaos. She just lacked the Viltrumite blood." His expression softened minutely, something like nostalgia crossing his features. "But she understood the necessity of strength, of..."

He trailed off, his brown eyes distant, seeing not the cabin but some memory of glory long past. Then, with a visible effort, he refocused on Y/N, his gaze sharpening like a blade being honed. The moment of vulnerability vanished, replaced by the cold calculation she had come to associate with him.

"You are not her," he said, each word precise and deliberate. "But you could be... more."

Y/N felt a chill that had nothing to do with her fever. The hunger in Viltrumite's eyes was different from Sinister's predatory obsession or Mohawk's possessive rage. It was the hunger of a man who had tasted power and found it addictive, who saw in her not just a lost love but a potential ally in conquest.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she met his gaze.

"I'm not interested in being anyone's empress," she said flatly, a puff of her cheeks as she met his gaze without flinching. "Or replacement. Or puppet."

Viltrumite's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes, the expression as cold as winter frost. "You speak as if you have a choice," he observed, his tone almost gentle as he leaned down closer to her. "As if any of us did."

Before Y/N could respond, something unexpected happened. Viltrumite moved closer, his expression shifting from imperial distance to something more human, more vulnerable. In one fluid motion, he reached out and touched her face, his fingers cool against her fever-warm skin.

As his fingers slid along the side of her soft cheek, a shiver ran through his entire body, barely perceptible but unmistakable.

"You have her spirit," he murmured, his voice so low she could barely hear it. "Her defiance. It's... why I—"

He leaned in closer, his warm breath washing over her face. The scent of him—clean, masculine, with an undercurrent of blood. His eyes, dark and intense, searched her face as if memorizing every detail. The hardness in his expression melted away, replaced by something almost tender, almost reverent.

For a brief moment, Y/N saw not the conquering Viltrumite but a man grieving, a man who had lost something precious and thought he'd found it again. His eyes softened, the harsh lines around his mouth relaxing into something almost tender. The nearness of her, the warmth of her skin against his fingers, seemed to draw him out of himself, out of the imperial persona he wore like armor. His eyes almost fluttered shut, her warm breath fanning over his lips.

He looked into her eyes, noting the flush spreading across her cheeks, her lips parting softly. But he just stared into her eyes, and he remembered why he fell in love with her in his universe. The pale flecks of color in her iris caught the moonlight, bringing him back to another time, another place—where those same eyes had looked at him with adoration rather than defiance.

Then reality crashed back upon him like a wave. His eyes widened with shock, horror flashing across his perfect features as he realized what he was doing.

A flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks pink, a color that looked alien on his usually controlled face. His jaw clenched tight enough that a muscle twitched violently along his temple.

His hand jerked back as if burned, and he stepped away from the bed, his composure reasserting itself like armor sliding back into place. He was panting softly.

The moment of vulnerability vanished so completely that Y/N might have thought she'd imagined it, if not for the lingering sensation of his touch on her cheek and the haunted look that briefly crossed his features. His shoulders squared, spine straightening as he physically rebuilt his imperial bearing.

"Rest," he ordered, eyes not meeting hers, his tone once again cold and commanding. "Your strength will be required soon."

Biting his lip softly, he turned and strode to the door, his back rigid with tension, shoulders squared as if preparing for battle. The moonlight made the white of his uniform glow almost ethereally, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist—perfect Viltrumite physiology enhanced by years of conquest. ~ Body Teaaa 💅~

"I must ensure the destruction continues as planned," he said without looking back, his voice carefully modulated to betray no emotion. "Another will watch over you."

The door closed behind him as he took off, leaving Y/N alone in the moonlit cabin. The sudden absence of his overwhelming presence left the air feeling lighter, easier to breathe.

Her face flushed as she released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her mind racing with the implications of what had just occurred. The cracks in Viltrumite's façade, the momentary tenderness—these were weapons she could use, if she was clever enough. Her fingertips unconsciously traced the path where his hand had touched her cheek, her brow furrowing in thought, Damn that was hot…

She had barely begun to formulate a plan when a sound from outside caught her attention—a distinctive electrical hum that raised the hairs on her arms. It was a sound she knew all too well, one that haunted her nightmares and left her throat constricting with sudden fear.

The sound of a GDA teleportation device.

It happened in seconds, the air around the cabin heating up, molecules vibrating with increasing energy.

Y/N watched as the atmosphere wavered, becoming distorted like heat rising from hot pavement. The familiar blue glow of the teleportation field began to form in the center of the room, and she knew the process was about to begin—someone was coming, GDA. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat sending fresh pain through her injured side.

Y/N struggled to sit up, ignoring the pain that flared in her side. Panic gave her strength she didn't know she possessed, and she managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed just as the air in the center of the cabin shimmered and distorted. Fresh blood began to seep through her bandages, a dark stain spreading across the white fabric as her sudden movement reopened her wounds.

A figure materialized, tall and imposing in the distinctive uniform of the GDA. The moonlight illuminated his face, revealing hard eyes and a mouth set in a grim line. Cecil Stedman, director of the Global Defense Agency, the man who had authorized the experiments that had made her what she was. His thin face looked ghostly in the blue teleportation glow, the light catching on the eye bags around his eyes.

"Finally you're alone," he said, his voice cold with satisfaction. His eyes narrowed as they took in her weakened state, the bandages visible beneath her torn suit, dark stains of blood seeping through the white fabric. "Did you really think we wouldn't find you? We were just waiting for the moment you alone without those stupid variants glued to you."

Y/N's heart hammered in her chest, fight-or-flight instincts screaming even as her body refused to cooperate. She opened her mouth to respond, but Cecil was already moving, the old man's gaze sweeping the cabin until it landed on something on the kitchen counter. His thin lips pressed into a line of concentration, his movements efficient despite his age.

The broken collar. The pieces had been laid out carefully, presumably by Omni as he assessed whether it could be repaired. The moonlight glinted off the metal components, making them look like fragments of ice rather than the instrument of control they truly were.

"How convenient," Cecil murmured, moving to collect the fragments. A satisfied smile stretched across his thin lips, deepening the wrinkles around his mouth. "Can't have alien technology falling into the wrong hands, can we? Especially not these hands."

Y/N tried to stand, her legs trembling with the effort. Sweat beaded on her forehead as pain shot through her side, causing her to wince visibly. Her jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding against the agony that threatened to overwhelm her. The wooden floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet, the room spinning slightly at the edges of her vision.

"You don't understand," she managed, her voice stronger than she expected. Her eyes flashed with defiance despite the pallor of her skin. "They're not just—"

"Variants of Invincible?" Cecil cut her off, his thin lips curling in a humorless smile. His eyes, cold and calculating, narrowed as he studied her.

"Oh, we understand exactly what they are. The fuckers ripping apart our planet, killing billions!" His voice rose slightly, a vein pulsing at his temple, his carefully maintained composure cracking to reveal genuine fury beneath. "What we don't understand is why our most valuable asset decided to join forces with them."

"I didn't—" Y/N's face contorted with frustration, her eyes widening with the urgency to make him understand. A lock of hair fell across her face as she leaned forward, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the bed. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, metallic and warm on her tongue as she hisses, why am I so weak?!

"Save it," he snapped, pocketing the collar fragments in his suit. The harsh lines around his mouth deepened as he frowned, making him look even older. "You had one mission, and you failed. You're coming back with me now. The experiments aren't finished, and you're far too valuable to leave in the hands of these... aberrations. Even if our planet if falling apart."

Y/N's fingers curled around the edge of the mattress, searching for stability. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with shallow breaths, each one sending a ripple of pain through her injured side.

"I can't go back," she said, trying to keep the desperation from her voice. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to Cecil, pupils dilating with fear. "I can't live like that again—controlled, unable to feel, to think outside the parameters they set." Her voice broke slightly at the memory, cracking on the final word.

"The collar nearly killed me. Another round of experiments will—"

"That's not your decision to make," Cecil interrupted, his voice flat as he pulled out a small device, pressing several buttons. The blue light from the small screen cast eerie shadows across his face, highlighting the cold determination in his eyes. Due to the destruction, normal teleportation has been reduced to remote control.

"This will only take a moment. Try not to struggle—in your condition, it will only make things worse."

Y/N's mind raced, searching for options. The Mark variants were gone, scattered across the planet on their mission of destruction. She was alone, wounded, barely able to stand. But return to the GDA, to the experiments that made her a Viltumite, to the collar that had nearly killed her?

That was a fate worse than death. Her eyes darted around the cabin, seeking anything that might serve as a weapon or distraction.

With a desperate surge of strength, she lunged for the door, trying to fly but it didn't work, she was still to weak. Her face contorted with pain and frustration as her legs gave out after just two steps. She crashed to the floor, the impact sending fresh waves of agony through her side. Blood soaked through her bandages, warm and sticky against her skin. She was no Viltrumite if she couldn't take this simple pain.

But the strangled cry escaped her lips as she pressed her hand against the wound, crimson seeping between her fingers, vivid and alarming against her pale skin. The floor beneath her began to stain with dark droplets, her blood pooling on the worn wooden planks.

Cecil sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. His shoulders slumped slightly before he straightened again, "Always the hard way with you, isn't it?" He moved toward her, device in hand. "Don't worry. Soon enough, you won't remember any of this. A new collar will see to that."

Y/N's vision began to blur, darkness creeping in at the edges. A single tear slid down her cheek as she looked up at Cecil, her expression a mixture of defiance and despair. Blood continued to seep through her fingers, each heartbeat pushing more of her life force out onto the cabin floor. Her lips trembled with the effort of staying conscious.

The last thing she saw was Cecil standing over her, the teleportation device counting down to activation to teleport two beings. His thin face set in lines of grim determination, the blue light from the device casting ghostly shadows across his features.

Then, a crash as the cabin door burst open, the sound of splintering wood echoing in the small space.

"Get away from her." The voice was cold, utterly devoid of emotion—and yet, somehow, vibrating with barely contained rage.

Omni stood in the doorway, his red and white uniform splattered with dust and blood. His eyes, usually so calculated and distant, burned with an intensity that made him look almost feral. His hands, normally so steady and controlled, trembled slightly at his sides. The moonlight cast half his face in shadow, highlighting the rigid set of his jaw and the dangerous flash of his teeth.

Cecil froze, his face draining of color as he took in the sight of the Invincible variant. His eyes darted between Omni and Y/N, rapid calculations visible in his expression. The teleportation device beeped insistently in his hand, the countdown continuing, its blue light pulsing with increasing urgency.

"Look- You don't understand what you're interfering with," Cecil said, his voice steady despite the fear evident in his widened eyes. "Even if you're destroying our planet she… She belongs to the GDA. She's government property...Take everything else but her-"

Omni's nostrils flared, "She belongs to no one," he stated, each word precisely enunciated. He took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under his weight. "Especially not to someone who would collar her like an animal."

Y/N, still conscious but barely, watched the exchange through half-lidded eyes. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one sending fresh spikes of pain through her body. The blood pooling beneath her felt warm, too warm—a stark contrast to the cold that seemed to be creeping through her limbs. Her vision tunneled, focusing on Omni's imposing figure, the red of his uniform seeming to blur and shift in the dim light.

Cecil's face hardened, his mouth a thin line of determination even though he could die at any moment. "I can't leave without her," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"She's too valuable. The work we've done—" He broke off, glancing down at Y/N's prone form, his expression a mixture of scientific detachment and genuine concern. The lines around his eyes deepened, betraying a conflict behind his harsh exterior.

Omni moved with inhuman speed, crossing the room in a blur of motion. Before Cecil could react, Omni's hand closed around his throat, lifting the older man off his feet. The teleportation device clattered to the floor, its countdown still ticking, the blue light casting strange shadows across the cabin walls.

"Your work," Omni said, his voice still eerily calm despite the fury blazing in his eyes, "nearly killed her. The collar you designed—" He stopped, something flickering across his face—a memory, perhaps, of his own Y/N. His grip tightened momentarily before he seemed to regain control, his fingers adjusting with mathematical precision to maintain pressure without crushing Cecil's windpipe. "You will not take her. Not now. Not ever."

Cecil's face reddened as he struggled for breath, his hands clawing ineffectually at Omni's iron grip. "You... don't... understand," he gasped, his voice a raspy whisper. "Without... the collar... she's... unstable."

Y/N's eyes widened at this, a fresh surge of adrenaline clearing some of the fog from her mind. "Liar," she managed, her voice weak but clear. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth as she pushed herself up on one elbow, her face contorted with the effort. Her skin had taken on an alarming pale, making the blood on her lips stand out like crimson against snow.

"The collar... was killing me. You knew... and you kept... pushing."

Omni's eyes flicked to Y/N, something softening in his gaze as he took in her bloodied form. The harsh detachment slipped for a moment, revealing raw concern beneath. His perfect posture faltered, a momentary slouch betraying his distress before he straightened again with a huff.

Then his attention returned to Cecil, his expression hardening once more, eyes cold and calculating beneath the black lenes of his mask covering his eyes.

"I should kill you, slow… and painfuly, just like i’ve killed so many others" he stated, his tone suggesting he was merely making an observation. "It would be... logical. Efficient." His thumb pressed against Cecil's carotid artery with precise pressure, a demonstration of how easily he could end the older man's life with a flick of his thumb.

Cecil's eyes bulged, his face now purple from lack of oxygen. His feet kicked uselessly in the air, his hands still trying to break Omni's grip. The veins in his temples stood out prominently, throbbing with each desperate heartbeat.

Y/N watched, her vision swimming. Part of her—the part that remembered the pain, the experiments, the collar that had nearly killed her—wanted Omni to do it. To end Cecil's life and with it, the threat of returning to that existence. But another part, the part that still clung to some sense of who she had been before all this, couldn't bear to watch. Her eyes, though clouded with pain, retained a spark of humanity that she feared losing.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She coughed, the action sending fresh pain through her side, blood spraying from her lips in a fine mist. "Not... worth it."

Omni's head tilted slightly, considering her words. His grip on Cecil's throat loosened fractionally, allowing the older man to draw in a ragged breath. "He hurt you," Omni said, his voice so quiet only Y/N could hear it. For a moment, the mask of detachment slipped completely, revealing a depth of emotion that shocked her. His eyes, usually so cold, burned with a protective fury that bordered on madness. A muscle in his jaw worked silently, betraying the battle between logic and emotion raging within him.

"I know," Y/N acknowledged, her eyes meeting his beneath his mask.

She tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace, blood staining her teeth. "But I'm... not like him. Not yet." Her eyes pleaded with him, even as her strength began to fade. "Don't... become what he... thinks you are. You can be kind, I know you can."

Omni stood perfectly still for a long moment, his face a battlefield of conflicting emotions. Then, with a movement so sudden it was almost invisible, he hurled Cecil across the room. The older man crashed into the wall with a sickening crack, then slumped to the floor, unconscious but alive. A thin trickle of blood running from his receding hairline down his temple.

The teleportation device continued its countdown, the beeping more insistent now, the blue light pulsing faster.

Omni moved to Y/N's side, kneeling beside her with a grace that belied his power. His large hands, capable of such destruction, were gentle as they carefully lifted her. His face, usually so controlled, showed open concern as he took in the extent of her injuries. The front of her bandages was now completely soaked through with blood, the white fabric stained a deep crimson.

"You're bleeding heavily," he whispered, his voice soft once more, though his eyes betrayed his worry. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he saw the blood soaking through her bandages. "The fall reopened your wound...Y/n."

Y/N tried to respond, but the words wouldn't come. The room was spinning now, darkness encroaching on the edges of her vision. She felt Omni's arms around her, solid and warm, as he lifted her from the floor. His heartbeat, steady and strong against her cheek, was oddly comforting. He partially melted into her touch, cradling her with a tenderness that belied his fearsome reputation. He would keep her safe—this certainty radiated from him, wrapping around her like a protective shield.

"Stay with me," Omni commanded, his voice taking on a note of urgency that broke through his usual detachment. His eyes searched her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. The black lenses of his mask couldn't hide the desperation in his gaze as he leaned closer, the harsh lines of his jaw tightening with concern. "Y/N, focus on my voice. Stay conscious."

Y/N tried to obey, but the darkness was too inviting, the pain too overwhelming. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, fluttering closed despite her best efforts. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, painting a crimson trail down her ashen cheek. The warmth of it contrasted sharply with the coldness creeping through her limbs.

The last thing she heard before unconsciousness claimed her was the urgent beeping of the teleportation device and Omni's voice, suddenly clear and filled with raw emotion, "I won't lose you. Not again." His large gloved hand cupped her cheek with surprising tenderness, thumb carefully wiping blood from her parted lips. The gesture was so gentle, so unlike the calculated precision with which he typically moved, that had she been conscious, it would have stunned her.

As darkness engulfed her senses, Y/N's mind spiraled into fever dreams. She felt herself being lifted, placed back on the old bed, the springs creaking beneath their combined weight. Through the haze of unconsciousness, she imagined Omni's voice, broken and desperate, "Stay with me Y/N... feel me... God, I—"

She felt his large hands guiding her legs around his hips as he leaned over her, his powerful frame encompassing her own. The heat from his body seeped through her clothes, warming her chilled skin. His presence was overwhelming, consuming her senses entirely.

"Stop me... Y/n, tell me to stop..." The words were a plea, not a command. His voice, usually so controlled, now ragged with need. A strangled groan escaped him as his head came to rest on her chest, between the valley of her breasts, his rough hair brushing against her suit. The friction sent unexpected sparks of pleasure coursing through her body.

He nuzzled closer, allowing her to feel the unmistakable hardness pressing between her legs. His hips rolled against hers with exquisite restraint, the motion so gentle yet devastating in its effect. Her body responded with an intensity that shocked her, a sensation she had never experienced before.

Y/N awoke with a startled gasp, her eyes flying open, heart hammering against her ribcage. Sunlight was barely peeking through the broken window, bathing the cabin in the golden light of sunrise. The dream's vividness left her disoriented, unsure of what was real and what wasn't.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, a flush spreading down her neck to her collarbone. Her mouth was dry, yet she felt an unfamiliar wetness between her legs, a persistent throb that confused her. As an experiment, these sensations were entirely new territory—her body responding in ways she didn't understand. She panted heavily, trying to calm her racing heart as she pushed the vivid images from her mind, focusing instead on the dull ache in her side.

When Y/N fully regained consciousness, the cabin was illuminated by the soft glow of dawn. Her side throbbed with a persistent ache, but the searing pain had subsided. She was back in the bed, fresh bandages wrapped tightly around her torso. The coppery taste of blood lingered in her mouth, but she felt stronger than before.

She wasn't alone. Omni sat in a chair beside the bed, his posture perfect even in repose. His uniform was still stained with dust and blood, suggesting he hadn't left her side since the confrontation with Cecil. He leaned over the bed, his arm on the edge, hands curled around each other as he pressed his forehead to his palms. His eyes were closed beneath his mask, but she could tell from the tension in his jaw that he wasn't sleeping. The muscles around his mouth twitched occasionally, betraying that his mind was far from restful. He had remained vigilant all night, watching over her with an intensity that spoke of something beyond mere duty.

"You stayed," she said, her voice raspy but stronger than it had been the night before.

Omni's eyes snapped open beneath the lenses, instantly alert. He straightened in the chair, shoulders squaring as if caught in a moment of weakness. He leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking beneath the shift in weight. His gaze swept over her with clinical precision, cataloging every detail of her condition. Something flickered across his face—relief, unmistakable and profound—before his features settled back into their usual controlled mask. The momentary softening around his eyes disappeared so quickly she might have imagined it.

His nose twitched slightly, nostrils flaring as he caught a scent. His eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch behind his mask, his head dipping to glance at her midsection then back to her face, a fleeting expression of surprise crossing his face before he schooled his features once more.

"It was the logical course of action," he stated, his voice neutral, though a slight tremor betrayed him. "Your condition was... unstable."

Y/N's lips curved into a small smile, her eyes softening as she looked at him. A stray lock of hair fell across her forehead, and she made no move to brush it away. "You can show me emotions," she hummed softly, the sound barely audible in the quiet cabin. "It's just you and me."

Something in her chest tightened as she realized she was beginning to feel drawn to this red and gray suited Invincible variant. Among all of them, he had been consistently the most protective, the most considerate of her wellbeing. Even now, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, as if restraining himself from reaching for her, spoke of a care that went beyond his calculated exterior.

Y/N tried to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at her injured side. Fresh beads of sweat formed at her hairline from the effort, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she suppressed a groan. Omni's hand shot out, steadying her with surprising gentleness. His touch lingered a moment longer than necessary, his fingers warm against her skin.

He brushed his fingertips over her face, almost reverently, as if memorizing every feature. The pad of his thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, his breathing noticeably changing—becoming deeper, more measured, as if he was fighting for control. When he finally pulled away, it seemed to require conscious effort, his hand retreating reluctantly.

"Cecil?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of what had happened after she lost consciousness. Her brow furrowed with concern, a vertical crease forming between her eyebrows.

Omni's expression darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The perfect line of his mouth tightened, eyes hardening behind his mask. "Gone," he said simply. "The teleportation device activated before I could disable it. He escaped with the collar fragments."

Y/N exhaled slowly, relief and dread mingling in her chest. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, pushing it away from her face. Her fingers trembled slightly with the lingering weakness from blood loss. "He'll be back," she said, her voice steady despite the fear churning in her stomach. Her pupils dilated slightly, the only visible sign of her anxiety.

"Yes," Omni agreed, his tone matter-of-fact. "That is the most probable outcome."

Y/N studied him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands. Despite his clinical demeanor, something about him seemed... different. Fractured, somehow. The perfect control he maintained seemed to be costing him more effort than usual.

"Why did you help me?" she asked, her eyes searching his face. "Why not let him take me? It would have been... logical." She used his own word deliberately, watching for his reaction, her head tilting slightly to one side.

Omni's eyes met hers, and for a moment, his mask slipped completely. The raw emotion in his gaze—grief, longing, determination—took her breath away. His perfect composure cracked, revealing the man beneath the calculated exterior. With deliberate movements, he reached up and removed the mask covering his eyes. The black lenses that had hidden his expression were gone, allowing Y/N to see the full intensity of his gaze.

His eyes were a startling blue, unlike the others; deep and clear as mountain lakes after a storm. They were red-rimmed from exhaustion, the skin beneath them slightly darkened, but they burned with an emotion that made her heart skip a beat. Long lashes framed those expressive eyes, a stark contrast to the hardness of his other features; his angular jawline, the straight nose, the firm set of his lips all softened by the naked emotion in his gaze.

"Because I watched you die once," he said, his voice low and intense, vibrating with suppressed emotion. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he continued, a muscle jumping beneath the skin as he stared at his hands. "I will not do so again."

The control that had been his hallmark was visibly slipping. His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling more rapidly as emotions he'd kept buried threatened to surface. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking with the tension.

Y/N's eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. The color drained from her face as understanding dawned.

"Your Y/N," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I only know from what Sinister said… But I want to hear from you, what happened to her?"

Omni's gaze dropped to his hands, which had curled into fists on his knees. The knuckles whitened with pressure, veins standing out prominently. When he looked up again, his expression was carefully controlled once more, though his eyes still burned with that same intensity.

"She had cancer," he said finally, each word seeming to cost him. "A human weakness I couldn't fight. I tried everything—" his voice caught, Adam's apple bobbing visibly as he swallowed. "Every treatment, every experimental procedure. I exhausted every resource at my disposal, but it wasn't enough."

His breathing quickened slightly, nostrils flaring with the effort of maintaining control. "My father... Omni-Man... he saw her as a distraction. A weakness. Because I spent more time with her than training. Learning." His eyes darkened with remembered rage, pupils contracting to pinpoints. "So he killed her."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. "Then I killed him," he finished quietly, his voice devoid of emotion once more. "And then... I became something else."

Y/N reached out, her hand covering his fist. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, and she felt him tense at the contact before slowly relaxing. The hard lines of his knuckles softened beneath her touch.

"I'm sorry," she said simply, her voice soft with genuine sympathy. Her eyes, though tired, were clear and compassionate as they met his. The skin around them crinkled slightly with the sincerity of her expression.

Omni looked at her hand on his, an expression of confusion and wonder crossing his face. His eyebrows drew together slightly, creating a small crease between them. "You are... different from her," he observed, his voice quiet. "More... resilient. Adaptable." His gaze returned to her face, studying her with newfound curiosity. The intensity in his eyes softened to something almost like admiration. "She was gentler. Less... combative."

Y/N smiled slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at her split lip. A small bead of blood welled up where the skin had cracked. She absently ran her tongue over the injury, tasting copper. "I'm not her," she said gently but firmly, her eyes never leaving his that were drawn to her lips. "Just as you're not my Mark... cause I don't have one."

Omni blinked, nodded slowly, accepting the truth of her words. "I am aware," he said, his voice regaining some of its clinical detachment, though his eyes remained unguarded. "Yet the similarities are... significant." The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. "I- I want…Perhaps I could be... a new Mark in your life? Only yours."

Despite his dominant demeanor and controlled exterior, there was something vulnerable in the way he leaned toward her now, something almost submissive in his posture. As if beneath the calculating facade, he was desperate for her approval, her acceptance. His eyes, now unshielded by his mask, couldn't hide the truth—if she asked kindly, he would do anything she requested. He couldn't help but lean in closer, drawn to her by a need that transcended logic or reason.

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the shift in his demeanor. This powerful being—capable of such destruction, so clinical and detached—was looking at her with a vulnerability that made her heart ache. The juxtaposition was striking, his imposing physique and the gentle way he now regarded her, like a fierce predator suddenly revealing its softer nature. She had no future with GDA anymore, these variants were about to become her only world.

"I'd like that," she whispered, her voice barely audible even in the quiet cabin. Her eyes dropped to his lips for a fraction of a second before returning to meet his gaze, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

Something in Omni's expression changed—the last threads of his restraint visibly snapping. In one fluid motion, he moved from the chair to the edge of the bed, his weight causing the mattress to dip. His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb tracing the outline of her bottom lip with exquisite gentleness.

"May I?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion, eyes searching hers for permission.

Y/N nodded, her lips parting slightly in anticipation. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a sensation both terrifying and exhilarating.

Omni's lips met hers with surprising tenderness. The contrast was striking—his lips soft and warm against her chapped ones. He kissed her as if she might shatter, his large frame hovering over her smaller one, careful not to put weight on her injured body. The scent of him filled her senses—clean sweat, leather from his uniform, and something distinctly male that made her head swim.

The kiss deepened slowly, his mouth moving against hers with careful precision. His tongue gently traced the seam of her lips, requesting entry rather than demanding it. When she parted them, he explored her mouth with the same methodical attention he brought to everything—learning what made her breath hitch, what drew small sounds from her throat.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, supporting her as their connection intensified. He tasted her split lip carefully, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the sweetness of their kiss. Y/N felt his chest rumble with a suppressed groan as she tentatively met his tongue with her own, her inexperience evident but her eagerness making up for it.

The controlled precision that defined his every movement was still present, but now channeled into something else entirely—each touch calculated to bring her pleasure without pain. His massive frame dwarfed hers as he moved closer, the bed creaking beneath their combined weight.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Omni immediately rested his forehead against hers. His usually stern face was transformed by a softness Y/N had never seen before. His lips were reddened and slightly swollen from their kiss, his piercing blue eyes half-lidded with a mixture of desire and wonder. A faint flush colored his high cheekbones, spreading down to disappear beneath the collar of his uniform.

"I never thought I'd feel this again," he whispered, his warm breath fanning across her face. "After she died, I locked everything away. Became... cold. Analytical." The corner of his mouth lifted in a small, self-deprecating smile that transformed his usually severe features. "Efficient."

Y/N's own face was flushed, her pupils dilated, lips parted and tingling from his attention. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath, the sensation of his kiss still lingering like an imprint on her skin.

"I noticed something earlier," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "Your scent changed." His pupils dilated as he spoke, nearly eclipsing the blue of his irises. A slight crease appeared between his brows, his expression a mixture of scientific curiosity and unmistakable desire. "It was... intriguing."

Y/N's brow furrowed in confusion, her lips still tingling from his kiss. Her cheeks burned hotter, the flush spreading down her neck to the tops of her breasts visible above her torn clothing. "My scent?"

A small, genuine smile curved his lips—perhaps the first real smile she'd seen from him. It transformed his face completely, softening the hard angles and revealing a glimpse of who he might have been in another life, one with less pain and loss. The skin around his eyes crinkled, small lines appearing that spoke of smiles long forgotten.

"You were dreaming," he explained, his voice taking on a note of tender amusement. His thumb traced small circles against the nape of her neck, the sensation sending pleasant shivers down her spine. "Your body responded... physically."

Understanding dawned, and Y/N's face flamed with embarrassment. She tried to look away, but Omni gently cupped her cheek, guiding her face back to his. His palm was warm against her skin, his touch reverent.

"Don't be ashamed," he said softly, his expression earnest and open. His eyes, so startlingly blue, held no judgment—only fascination and something deeper, more primal. The hard line of his jaw had softened, his perpetual frown replaced by parted lips and gentle eyes. "It's natural. Beautiful, even." His eyes darkened with something like sadness, the corners turning down slightly. "They never let you experience this, did they? The GDA. They kept you from feeling... everything."

Y/N shook her head, her throat tight with emotion. "The collar suppressed everything," she whispered. "Emotions, sensations... they said it was necessary to control the Viltrumite abilities. To keep me stable."

Anger flashed in Omni's eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His nostrils flared, lips pressing into a thin line as his face hardened momentarily. "They lied," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "They feared what you might become if you were allowed to feel. To be whole."

His expression softened as he looked at her, the hard lines of anger melting away. The severe set of his mouth relaxed, his eyes warming from icy rage to tender concern. With careful movements, mindful of her injuries, he shifted to sit beside her on the bed, his back against the headboard. The mattress dipped under his considerable weight, the old springs protesting.

Gently, he slid one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her knees, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. He settled her against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin, his powerful arms creating a protective circle around her smaller frame. The warmth of his body seeped into hers, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her ear.

"Let me show you," he murmured against her hair, his lips brushing the top of her head. "Let me show you what it means to feel. Not just... physically." His voice dropped lower, the words rumbling in his chest beneath her ear. "Though I would very much like to explore that aspect as well, when you're healed."

Y/N relaxed against him, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear comforting. His fingers traced patterns on her arm, each touch sending small sparks of pleasure along her skin. The sensation was new, overwhelming in its intensity—without the collar, every nerve ending seemed hypersensitive.

"I'd like that," she whispered, turning her face up to his. Her eyes were bright despite her exhaustion, her lips curved in a small, shy smile. The pallor of her skin had given way to a healthier flush, color returning to her cheeks.

Omni's smile was gentle as he bent to press his lips to her forehead. His eyes closed briefly, thick lashes fanning against his cheeks as he savored the contact. It had been so long since he'd allowed himself to touch anyone with tenderness, to feel anything beyond cold calculation and rage. The muscles in his face, usually so rigid with control, relaxed into an expression of profound relief.

"First, you must heal," he said, clinical pragmatism returning to his voice, though his eyes remained soft. "Your body needs time to recover."

But even as he spoke, his lips moved from her forehead to her temple, then down to the sensitive spot just below her ear. Y/N's breath hitched as he placed feather-light kisses along the column of her throat, each one sending a new wave of sensation through her body. His hot breath ghosted over her skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. The contrast between his clinical words and his tender actions drew a small, breathless laugh from her.

"Although," he murmured against her skin, his lips vibrating against her pulse point, "there are ways I can help you explore these new sensations without compromising your recovery."

His hand moved to cup her face, tilting it up so he could claim her lips once more. His large palm engulfed the side of her face, fingers threading into her hair as he pulled her closer. Their lips met with more urgency this time, his control slipping as he responded to her eager reciprocation. The kiss was deeper than before, more assured—his tongue sliding against hers in a dance that left her dizzy and wanting. His teeth gently captured her bottom lip, tugging slightly before releasing it to soothe the sting with his tongue.

Y/N's inexperienced movements were awkward at first, but she quickly learned to follow his lead, mimicking his actions. Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the taut muscle beneath his uniform. A small whimper escaped her throat as he angled her head to deepen the kiss further, his expertise evident in every calculated movement.

When they broke apart again, both flushed and breathing heavily, Omni's eyes had darkened to stormy blue. His carefully controlled exterior had cracked completely, revealing the raw need beneath. His hand trembled slightly as he brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with surprising tenderness.

"Your Y/N," she began, her voice rough with emotion. "She never experienced this? With you?"

Omni's expression turned somber, a shadow passing over his features. The light in his eyes dimmed, his mouth turning down at the corners as painful memories resurfaced. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

"No," he admitted quietly. "She wanted to wait. And I respected her wishes." His jaw tightened, grief and anger momentarily darkening his gaze. The veins in his temple became more prominent as his face hardened with suppressed rage. "Then my father killed her, and I lost my chance to show her how much I treasured her."

His eyes met Y/N's, fierce with a new determination. The blue of his irises seemed to glow with intensity, his gaze burning into hers. "I won't make that mistake again," he vowed. "If you'll allow it, I'll show you everything they denied you. Every sensation, every emotion. I'll help you discover what it means to truly live. Soon… I swear my dove."

The intensity of his gaze made Y/N's heart race. She reached up, her fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. "I'm not her," she reminded him gently. "I can't replace what you lost."

"I know," he said, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. His lips lingered on her skin, warm and soft. "You're not a replacement. You're something new. Something... unexpected." His eyes softened as they studied her face, taking in every detail—the curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips, the flecks of color in her eyes. "Something precious. I want to move on, to start something new with you."

With careful movements, mindful of her injuries, Omni gently placed her back on the bed, moving to hover over her. His massive frame blocked out the light from the window as he positioned himself above her, his knees on either side of her hips, his weight supported on his forearms on either side of her head to avoid putting pressure on her wounded body. The bed creaked beneath them, protesting the shift in weight.

He began to explore her body with gentle touches. His lips traced a path from her mouth to her jaw, then down the sensitive skin of her neck. Each kiss was reverent, worshipful, as if he was mapping terrain he had dreamed of but never expected to discover. His stubble scraped lightly against her soft skin, the slight roughness a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

Y/N gasped as his lips found a particularly sensitive spot at the junction of her neck and shoulder. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the material of his uniform. The sensations were overwhelming, unlike anything she had experienced before—without the collar suppressing her responses, her body reacted with an intensity that left her breathless.

"Beautiful," Omni murmured against her skin, his voice vibrating against her pulse point. His large body completely encompassed her smaller one, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room from her view. The size difference between them was stark—his hand alone could almost span her entire waist, his thigh thicker than both of hers combined. Yet there was no fear in her response to him, only wonder at the gentleness such strength could display.

"So responsive. So alive." His hand moved to rest at her waist, careful to avoid her bandaged wound. The heat of his palm seeped through the thin material of her clothing, branding her skin. "Tell me if anything hurts, if you want me to stop."

Y/N could only nod, words beyond her as his exploration continued. His hand skimmed up her side, tracing the curve of her waist, the outline of her ribs. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, a touch so light it might have been accidental if not for the intent focus in his eyes as he gauged her reaction. Her breath caught, back arching slightly into his touch without conscious thought.

Omni watched her reactions with fascination, adjusting his approach based on the smallest change in her breathing or the subtle tensing of her muscles. His eyes, normally so cold and analytical, now burned with heat as he cataloged every gasp, every flutter of her eyelids, every unconscious movement of her body seeking more contact.

"They stole this from you," he whispered, his voice tight with anger as he looked up at her flushed face. A vein pulsed in his temple, his jaw clenching momentarily before he visibly forced himself to relax. "They denied you the most basic human experiences. The right to feel pleasure, to connect with another person… But it saved you for me, my dove."

Y/N caught his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her eyes were bright with determination, her cheeks flushed with color that had nothing to do with her injuries. "Then help me reclaim it," she said, her voice stronger than it had been since her injury. Her eyes burned with determination, a new spark of life that had been missing before. "Help me discover what they took from me."

Something like awe crossed Omni's face as he looked at her. His eyes widened slightly, lips parting in surprise at her boldness. "You truly are remarkable," he said softly. "So different from her, yet just as captivating. Perhaps more so–No you are more."

He leaned in to kiss her again, this time with a passion that left no doubt of his intentions. His hand slid up her side, carefully avoiding her injury, coming to rest just below her breast. He paused there, breaking the kiss to look into her eyes. His red mask lay discarded at the edge of the bed—every emotion visible in his expressive eyes, the tense line of his jaw, the slight tremble of his lips.

Omni was on his hands and knees above her now, Y/N's body cradled between his powerful limbs. His broad shoulders blocked out the light from the window, casting his face in shadow except for the startling blue of his eyes. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, creating a cocoon that held just the two of them, separate from the world outside.

"May I?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. His hand hovering just below her breast, waiting for permission to continue. He wouldnt touch her out permission.

Y/N nodded, her lips parted in anticipation, eyes never leaving his. She reached up to touch his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the stubble along his jaw. His skin was hot beneath her fingertips, flushed with desire. She couldn’t believe this was real.

Omni's hand moved higher, palm cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her top. His touch was gentle but assured, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a way that drew a gasp from her lips. His eyes darkened at the sound, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remained.

His other hand slid along her thigh, fingers tracing patterns on the fabric covering her leg. The heat of his palm seeped through the material, warming her skin. His touch was purposeful yet hesitant, as if fighting against his own desires to ensure he didn't hurt her.

Just as his hand began to move higher up her thigh, the cabin door burst open with a splintering crack. Wood fragments scattered across the floor as the door nearly ripped from its hinges. The silhouette of the form panting, hissing with anger.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD OMNI–!”

––––––––––

☆ Hehe~ Cliffhanger (∩˃o˂∩)

☆ If you couldn't tell, I might have a favorite variant... hehe well, I have 3, but it's so hard to incorporate all of them equally. Omni seemed the wisest choice to be y/n's first kiss (ㅅ´ ˘ `) my boi was desperate for his Pookie

☆ Sad to say, I won't be posting for a while, I need a break after this grind, lol !!Pt.6!!

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

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

602 notes · View notes

batsovergotham · 28 days ago

Text

tangled threads pt 1

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: more smut guys i cant be contained, mentions of cheating, shit abt to go down next chapter, jealousy, reader is lowkey an overthinker

w/c: 11.7k

a/n: prepare yourselves mentally for the next chapter. anyways yummy possessive mark smut. also shout out to anons birthday today ily mama<33

Your suit itches a little under your arms.

It’s not a big deal, not really. You’d stitched this one yourself after all, and honestly, it’s the greatest version yet. Sleeker, cleaner, sturdier. No duct tape. No odd wrinkles that make you appear like an amateur. The webbing design is symmetrical this time, and you finally worked out how to line the soles so you wouldn’t fall off every damp rooftop like a young deer on ice.

Progress.

Still, you quiver a bit as you crouch over the alleyway, perched on the edge of a fire escape, head inclined.

It was calm a second ago. Just the normal city street , car horns, distant music, some man yelling at his phone. But then you heard it.

A skirmish.

And then

“Shut up! I said give me the bag!”

Your eyes bolt up wide.

There it is.

It’s the type of stuff you’re supposed to be used to by now. A classic mugging. Textbook crime. You should feel like this is ordinary, that it’s no big deal because this is your work now. Your obligation.

But your stomach still twists, adrenaline coiling like a spring behind your ribs. You’re nervous. You always are.

Still, you move.

You slither up the side of the structure with a practiced elegance you didn’t have a few weeks ago. Natural webs have some attractions. They’re stronger than the synthetic stuff more elastic, too. And your fingers? They just know how to hang on now, like your DNA rebuilt itself into something savage and spider-ey.

You glance down from the rooftop and notice them two guys in jeans and jackets, both jittery, frantic. One of them’s clutching a knife. The other’s snatching a pocketbook out of a woman’s arms middle-aged, short brown hair, immobilized with fright. She’s too stunned to yell. Just wide eyes and shaky hands.

You don't hesitate.

You leap.

The air whistles past your ears as you tumble midair, webbing connecting to a lamppost to slow your descent. You fall precisely between the woman and the assailants, hunched low, one hand on the pavement, head angled up beneath the white glare of your glasses.

They flinch.

You straighten slowly. Try not to sound cocky. But… well, maybe a touch cocky.

“Hi. So. I know muggings are, like, a city staple, but have we considered not scaring innocent people today?”

The person with the knife lunges, predictably. You sidestep and web his arm to the dumpster behind him in one smooth motion. The webbing adheres instantaneously, holding strong.

“Whoa, fast reflexes,” you mutter. “But uh… maybe don’t stab strangers. Ever.”

The second person attempts to run. You link his shoes to the pavement and he eats it hard, sprawling face-first with a muffled moan.

The woman holds her bag tighter. She’s trembling.

You turn to her softly, keeping your voice low. “You okay?”

She nods once, speechless.

You motion toward the opening of the alley. “There’s a police station two blocks over. I can walk you there if you want or I can wire these dudes to a lamp post and call it in.”

She blinks. And then she grins.

“I can make it,” she murmurs. “Thank you. Thank you.”

You grin under the mask. “Anytime.”

She hurries out, heels clicking on the sidewalk as you link the assailants together and lift them up onto the wall like hanging, very puzzled Christmas ornaments.

You're still smiling a little when you leap back up to the roofs. The breeze feels good against your skin. Cold, crisp. You exhale and let yourself breathe.

That’s the problem with evenings like these. You don’t just halt crime.

You recall why you’re doing this in the first place.

You’re not a cop. You’re not a soldier. You’re not a millionaire with gadgets or a flying suit.

You’re just… you.

Some nerd with a brain full of comic books, a heart much too tender for your own good, and a weird radioactive spiderbite that chose to make your life complicated.

But right now, someone’s safe because you showed up. And that’s enough.

You fire a web, swing into the night, and let the city hum beneath your feet.

You’re back on patrol five minutes tops when your phone buzzes against your hip.

Which is odd.

Because, like… no one actually calls you when you’re out here. You’ve been careful, about the mask, about the second persona, about compartmentalizing. The entire double life thing is taxing, yet you make it work. You have to.

Still, your heart skips. Because if it’s someone who knows you, truly knows you, then something could be wrong.

You land on an empty rooftop and fumble to grasp the burner you keep strapped inside your suit, right below your ribcage. The screen lights up.

Blocked number.

Great. Classic. Totally cool.

You hesitate, thumb lingering.

Then sigh. “Fine,” you mumble. “Caution to the wind, I guess.”

You tap the response button.

There’s static, heavy, thick. Then a voice, low and piercing.

“Spider-Woman. Confirm identity.”

You freeze.

Nobody calls you that. Not out loud. Not formally. You didn’t even select the name, it kind of just happened. You made a few public saves, and the news stations did the rest. You still shudder a bit when you hear it, like it belongs to someone else.

“…Who is this?” you question carefully, without hiding your mistrust. “Because if this is a prank, it’s very elaborate and kind of terrifying, and also I have a paper due tomorrow, so-”

“We don’t have time,” the voice snaps. “We’ve been tracking you for a while. You’re registered as an unclassified enhanced. We’ve got graphics, reports, footage. And for now, we don’t care about jurisdiction.”

Your mouth gets dry.

That’s not good.

That’s the antithesis of good.

“…Okay,” you respond warily. “Still waiting on the part where I don’t hang up.”

Another beat. Then the voice changes, less harsh, more strained. Still serious.

“There’s something happening. Midtown. Three blocks south of the Flaxan contact point. We’ve got Guardians on-site. Situation's escalating rapidly. You’re the only augmented we have in range not tied up in a response unit.”

Your brain strains to keep up.

You’ve heard of the Guardians of the Globe. Who hasn’t? They’re legends. Heavy hitters. Real-deal superheroes with powers that make your webs look like party tricks. You’re quite sure if you ever met one, you’d forget how to talk. Or breathe.

And they need backup?

“You’re sure you have the right person?” you ask, voice thin. “Because I’m kind of more of a friendly-neighborhood-falling-off-buses type. If this is, like, end-of-the-world level stuff, I’m not exactly your girl.”

“You’re in the air in thirty seconds or we send in someone else,” the voice says. “We’ve got a possible offworld breach. Hostile. High-speed descent. Debris fields are developing. Civilians still in the area.”

Then quieter, almost like a warning.

“This isn’t about being ready. It’s about showing up.”

Your stomach twists.

You want to say no. You truly do.

Because you’ve battled muggers and bank robbers. You’ve hauled drivers out of automobile crashes and stitched up the occasional robbery victim, but this? This sounds larger. This sounds weird.

This sounds like the type of thing that people die in.

You squeeze the bridge of your nose through your mask. “God, I didn’t even bring snacks.”

The voice doesn’t laugh. You hang up.

And then you’re running.

You swing hard, fast, quicker than usual because suddenly there’s a tightness in your chest that won’t quit. You’re thinking about debris. About civilians. About what the hell “offworld breach” means. You’re thinking about the Guardians. About what type of thing makes them require support.

Your mind swirls through every half-finished scientific headline and tabloid theory you’ve ever skimmed. Alien threat? Another dimensional rip? Viltrumite thing? No, can’t be. You’d know. Right?

You don’t know.

That’s the worst part.

You’re swinging into the unknown, and you’re not ready.

But you’re going anyhow.

Because the woman in the alley’s probably home by now, cuddling her family.

Because someone else might not be.

Because if this is what it means to matter, then maybe you owe it to the city, and to yourself, to try.

You thrust yourself into the sky, pulse thumping, and hope, desperately, that you’re enough.

The first thing that hits you when you go to Midtown is the smell.

It clogs your nose through the filters on your mask, acrid smoke, burnt metal, dust. There’s a peculiar flavor in the air too, electric and biting, like the city’s been scraped raw. The type of stench that tells you something very, very wrong is happening.

You fall on a rooftop hard enough to make your knees ache, lungs burning as you take it all in.

Below you, the city is tearing itself apart.

Chunks of the roadway are caved in. Cars are flipped, on fire, some burning wrecks with doors hanging open. Windows are broken for blocks. Civilians are rushing in every direction, carrying wailing children, holding phones, yelling names. Sirens cry from someplace nearby, but the noises get swallowed in the tumult.

And in the middle of all of it?

Flaxans.

You’d seen them before, on TV, in the news, maybe once or twice in the darker reaches of the internet. But this? Seeing them in person is like getting a hit to the stomach. They’re shorter than you expected, barely five feet tall, but muscular. Thick limbs, squat bodies jammed into luminous green armor that hums with alien electronics. Their moves are military, coordinated, rehearsed, rapid. They march ahead in line, mowing out anything that stands in their path with pulse rifles and wrist-mounted plasma cannons.

And strangely, they appear comfortable here.

Like this is normal.

You swallow the bile rising in your throat. Then you fire a web and descend directly into the midst of the combat zone.

You hit the ground in a tumble, spring up swinging, literally, and web a Flaxan’s face to a mailbox before he can aim. Another rounds on you, but you flip over his head, twist his arm back with a webline, and smack him to the pavement. It’s like a dance, only you’re the only one not invited and everyone else brought weapons.

A flurry of yellow and red surges past you.

You turn just in time to witness Rex lob a bright metal bolt toward a clump of Flaxans. It adheres to the earth between them and detonates, sending them flying like crash test dummies. Shrapnel showers down in every direction.

He’s delving into the belt around his hips now, fingers lightning-fast as he retrieves more discs, random stuff, really. You can’t even tell what half of it is until it flashes brilliant orange and shoots into the air in a beautiful arc.

You don’t hesitate.

You leap in.

“Nice throw,” you yell, arriving behind him just as another disc goes off. “That from baseball practice, or just lots of recreational violence?”

Rex turns, eyebrows rising under his visor. “Spider-Woman?”

You web a Flaxan attempting to sneak up behind him and slam it into a wall. “The one and only. Unless someone’s cosplaying extremely hard right now.”

“I thought you were just some social media hoax.”

“Honestly? Same,” you mutter, ducking a plasma shot. “But it turns out I’m very annoying in person.”

He tosses a metal disk that flashes brilliantly and pops like a firecracker in the face of another soldier. “Well damn. Welcome to the big leagues.”

You web-swing over a mound of rubble, land on a Flaxan’s back, and kick him flat. “Didn’t get the welcome basket. Just smoke and aliens.”

Rex flings a handful of incandescent bars at an advancing gang. They disperse, and two get knocked off their feet by the concussive explosion.

“You got moves, Webhead.”

You roll your eyes under the mask. “You’re gonna call me that again, aren’t you.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You don't have time to answer. There’s a harsh noise, mechanical, electric. A pulse in the air. It makes your teeth ache.

You both whirl around just in time to witness another portal blast open in the center of the roadway. The borders glow green and sticky, like jelly formed of static. A dozen more Flaxans fall through, landing in tight formation. Their weapons are already pointed.

“Come on!” you groan. “Does this planet look like it has the resources for this??”

Rex chucks a disk like a grenade and blasts out the first line. The following batch doesn’t even flinch.

You lunge forward, webbing two of them to a lamppost, only to get blasted backward by a pulse round. It hits your side, not a clean shot, but enough to knock the wind out of you.

You slam against the bonnet of a Prius, denting it so severely the windshield spiderwebs below you. Your ribs sting.

Rex lands near you with a grunt. “Still with me, Webhead?”

You groan. “Yeah. But I think I messed up this guy’s insurance premium.”

He grins and pulls you up, tossing another glowing disk into a Flaxan’s chest. “You always this mouthy in fights?”

You cough, then web-launch yourself into a wall run. “You always this explosive in team-ups?”

His laugh is wild and short, like it’s simply muscle memory now.

But then you hear it.

A grinding, metallic screech.

You jerk your head toward the sound and freeze.

The school bus from earlier, still teetering on the verge of the hole in the road, is starting to tilt.

The earth underneath it collapses.

You don’t think.

You just move.

You shoot a webline to the back of the bus, push yourself forward, and fall hard on the side of a building across the street. Your arms extend, strain tugging hard through your shoulders, almost enough to dislocate. But you hold. You have to hold.

The bus tilts. Groans.

And finally settles.

The back wheels impact pavement again. You release the web slowly, carefully, and the frame creaks as it levels out.

The hatch in the back breaks open.

Kids pour out. A dozen of them, coughing, eyes wide with horror. One tiny girl, maybe seven, throws her arms around your waist and clings like her life relies on it.

You freeze.

Then softly, one arm still shaking, you embrace her back.

“You’re okay now,” you mumble. “I’ve got you.”

A tremendous thud hits nearby. You turn just in time to see Monster Girl fall in her altered condition, covered in gore, panting hard.

She stares at you, then the kids.

Her voice is gruff, yet real. “Nice save.”

You nod, still breathless. “I had help.”

She snorts. “Hope you’ve got more where that came from.”

Another portal flickers open. You hear more screaming in the distance. The sky’s become a peculiar green in places, the boundaries of the city flashing like a glitch in a video game.

But you’re here.

Rex is still tossing homemade bombs like it’s second nature. Monster Girl is smashing through enemy lines like she was born for it. Dupli-Kate and Bulletproof are assisting evacuate civilians from an overturned ambulance.

And you?

You're bleeding. Sore. Ribs bruised. Every bit of you screaming.

But you’re still standing.

Still swinging.

Still saving lives.

You’re not the strongest. Not the quickest. Not the most powerful person on this block.

But you showed up.

The world narrows.

It’s not the smoke, or the wailing sirens, or even the metallic fragrance of burning debris that surrounds your senses now.

It’s him.

Invincible.

Hovering only a few feet above the ground, suit scuffed, hair a wild jumble around the edges of his mask, chest heaving from the strain of smashing through an alien army and nevertheless, somehow, beaming at you like this is just a pick-up basketball game instead of a war.

"You’re good," he replies, voice raspy with exertion but obviously warm. Genuine.

You blink, briefly disarmed. You’re used to people shrugging you off, underestimating you, some kid in a handmade suit but there's none of that in his voice. No condescending tone, no expression of amazement that you managed to stay up.

It’s simple. Honest.

“You’re not terrible yourself, Hotshot," you fire back, heart thumping foolishly hard under your ribs.

The second the words leave your tongue, you wince inside.

Hotshot? Seriously? What are you, a walking 90s action comic script?

He glides a bit closer, hands slack at his sides, his whole body still crackling with velocity he hasn’t completely burnt off yet.

"Hotshot, huh?" he says, taunting, cocking his head slightly.

You struggle, backpedaling like a defective Roomba. “I meant, you’re fast! Like, you know. A hot... thing. Flying. Through... air."

You trail off, humiliated. You can feel the heat spreading over your cheeks inside the mask.

But he simply laughs, not harshly. It’s smooth and brilliant, somehow cutting clear through the smoke and sirens. It smacks you down in your gut, a vibration you don’t know what to do with.

“Well, I’m not gonna argue,” he adds, mouth twisting into an even larger smile. “I’ll take ‘Hotshot.’ Makes me sound cooler than I am.”

You huff a chuckle without intending to, the stress oozing out of your painful muscles for just a second.

Movement out of the corner of your eye yanks you back to reality.

A group of Flaxans, still armed and regrouping over the ruins, assemble for a charge.

Instinct kicks in.

You don't need a plan. You don’t even need a glimpse.

You and Invincible move in perfect harmony.

You dash low and quickly, webbing the ground in front of the Flaxans to make them slip. He swoops above in a broad arc, striking his fists together in a shockwave that flattens their first row like bowling pins.

You’re almost there by the time the second line regains footing, slingshotting off a lamppost and kicking the leader square in the chest. He goes down with a groan, shattering pavement.

Another Flaxan tries to flank you, Invincible intercepts effortlessly, seizing the soldier by the collar and flinging him through the remnants of a bus stop.

You dart forward, webbing a plasma weapon out of a Flaxan’s hands, catching it midair, and tossing it to Invincible.

He catches it one-handed, turns it, and smashes it over another alien’s head in one seamless move.

Crash.

"Good job, Web-head!"

You sigh loudly as you fall alongside him. "Spider-Woman!"

He grins, the type of grin that’s half apology, half doing it on purpose because it’s hilarious.

You don’t punch him.

You want to.

But you don’t.

Instead, you focus.

There’s a lull, brief but golden, and in it, you hear the crackling of something greater starting up. Another portal. A last wave.

The earth under your feet shudders.

Invincible soars higher, searching the horizon. His expression hardens behind the mask.

"They're bringing in heavy reinforcements," he says. "Bigger tech. Maybe even tanks."

You shoot a web at a cracked traffic light and pull yourself up to perch at his height.

"So what’s the plan, Hotshot?" you tease, but your voice is firmer now, shifting into something more natural, like the two of you have always battled together.

He stares at you, really looks, and flashes that same, unbreakable, reckless smile that must terrify the hell out of every criminal he confronts.

"Plan? Easy," he adds, rolling his shoulders. "We hit 'em harder."

You snort, shaking your head. "Ohhh, you’re one of those. Big punch, no intellect."

He pretends to be hurt. "Hey! I have at least some brain."

"Sure," you quip, firing a webline at a neighboring structure to swing ahead, "Maybe half a brain cell rattling around in there like a marble."

He laughs again, loud, unguarded, real, and it fires something in your chest.

Not simply admiration. Not simply attraction.

Something familiar.

...Weird.

You don’t have time to linger on it.

The last Flaxan gateway opens with a shriek that shakes your teeth.

The roadway virtually implodes as a massive mech suit strides through, Flaxan design, green armor, twin weapons strapped to its shoulders, storming toward the city center like a behemoth out of a nightmare.

Civilians trapped under a smashed taxi yell nearby.

Invincible cracks his knuckles.

You web-swing down and settle alongside him.

He stares at you, grinning crookedly again. “One last dance?”

You beam a grin back behind your mask, pulse pumping.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

And without another word, you launch yourselves together, him a blur of yellow and blue, you a streak of red and black, straight into the heart of the war.

Side by side.

Like you’ve been doing it forever.

The Flaxan’s mech claw snaps around Mark’s neck mid-flight, yanking him down like a broken toy. Metal fingers crush into his throat and collarbone, bruises bursting dark and ugly across his skin. He gasps, head wrenched back so violently his collarbone creaks under the pressure. Blood fills his mouth, hot and metallic, his vision swimming at the edges. The Flaxan squeezes harder, grinding bone and muscle until his skin blooms purple and black.

"Not... today," Mark rasps, his voice shredded. He slams his forehead into the mech’s cockpit, shattering glass, the grip faltering.

He crashes to the ground, coughing, the bruises burning like brands but rage drives him back to his feet, fists clenched, ready to rip the monster apart.

The mech lets out one more, earsplitting cry before it smashes backward, its metal structure crumpling like a soda can under its own weight. Invincible doesn’t hesitate, he leaps forward, shouldering the wreck mid-fall to redirect it away from the crumbling residential block.

The mech smashes into an abandoned construction lot with a gut-punching BOOM, sending a rolling wave of dust and grit into the air.

You hardly have time to respond.

You shoot a web at a damaged crane, hauling yourself up and swinging in a broad arc, your body cutting through the dust cloud in a tight corkscrew spin before you crash softly into the battered pavement.

It’s silent now.

Not peaceful, there’s still the distant screech of sirens, the crackling of burning debris but the worst is passed.

The Flaxan gateways are gone.

The aliens are scattered or unconscious.

You straighten up slowly, every part of you hurting.

Your suit is ripped across your side, your suit torn at the knuckles, and you’re quite sure you twisted your ankle on that last nasty landing.

But you’re alive.

Standing.

Victorious.

And as you peek over your shoulder, you see him.

Invincible.

He drifts down through the settling dust like a shot-out star, boots hitting the cracked pavement with a hard, grounded thud. His suit is charred and shredded in parts, a deep cut flowing sluggishly from his brow, yet he’s grinning anyway wide and dumb and sincere.

His eyes meet yours over the wreckage.

And despite yourself, despite the tiredness tugging at your limbs, you grin back behind your mask.

"You’re good," he says first, a touch raspy but very sincere, dusting soot from his gloves.

You breathe out a nervous breath, adjusting your weight. “You’re not so bad yourself, Hotshot.”

He laughs, a pleasant, youthful sound that cuts through the smoke hanging in the air.

"Hotshot, huh? Might be my new fave."

You cock your head. “Could’ve been worse. I nearly nicknamed you Flyboy.”

He scrunches his nose, appearing to be terrified. "Ugh. I’d have to start wearing a cape if you did."

You snicker, and maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's the bizarre connection you had fighting back-to-back but for a minute, it’s easy.

Like you’re just two foolish kids who stumbled into rescuing the world.

Before any of you can say anything further, heavy shoes crunch on the pavement.

Rex Splode comes walking toward you like he rules the battlefield, brandishing a burned Flaxan weapon between his fingers.

He pauses a few feet away, sizing you both up like he’s stumbled across a scene developing.

“Oh, wow," Rex exclaims, loud enough that you wince. "Look at this. Banter. Flirting. Dramatic tension."

You and Invincible both quickly stiffen.

“What?! No!” you blurt, far too fast.

Invincible grunts, raking a hand through his hair. "Dude, knock it off."

But Rex is already in full performance mode, tossing his arms wide. “I mean, the way you two were syncing up back there? Chef’s kiss. Someone call Hollywood, we found a new power couple.”

You shake your head, horrified. “I have a boyfriend, thank you very much!”

Invincible lifts a hand too, clumsily. "And I have a girlfriend."

You and him both point at each other like you're setting down evidence at a trial.

Rex whistles low, grinning. "Yikes. Star-crossed and everything."

You sigh into your palm, feeling the heat climb up your neck behind your mask. "This is not a thing."

Invincible crosses his arms, fidgeting nervously. "Yeah, Rex. Seriously. Cut it out."

But Rex only smirks, flinging the burnt weapon over his shoulder. “Sure, sure. Totally believable. No chemistry at all. Couldn't even tell you were two seconds away from proposing mid-battle."

You almost choke.

Even Invincible makes a strangled sound like he’s struggling not to die on the spot.

You square your shoulders, pushing yourself to breathe. "For the record, my boyfriend is basically the world's biggest nerd. He thinks jaywalking is too rebellious.”

Mark runs across your mind, messy hair, naively sweet eyes, a voice breaking somewhat when he attempts to flirt.

You feel a silly, overpowering warmth spring in your chest at the thought of him.

Meanwhile, Invincible huffs, attempting to appear nonchalant. "My girlfriend’s way cooler than me. She's, um... smarter. Way smarter."

(He glances sideways at you for a fraction of a second before clearing his throat and focusing hard at a broken light post.)

You catch it, but you brush it off.

It’s just fighting adrenaline.

It doesn’t signify anything.

Probably.

Rex isn’t helping.

He slaps a hand on Invincible’s shoulder and laughs big. “Well, tell your lady thanks for letting you share the battlefield with your love tonight."

Invincible shoves him off softly. "You’re such an idiot."

You can’t help it, you laugh.

The tension breaks, just a bit.

You gaze at Invincible again. He’s smiling too, crooked, exhausted, a touch ashamed.

There’s blood crusting at the corner of his lips, a bruise deepening on his jawline, his whole body drooping with exhaustion, and he still seems like he’s having the time of his life.

You shouldn’t feel so warm inside.

You really, really shouldn’t.

You push your hands onto your hips, attempting to seem nonchalant.

"Anyway. I’m out. I've got a hot date with an ice pack and a thousand regrets."

Invincible chuckles, raking a hand over his shaggy hair.

"Same. Except, like, two thousand regrets."

You shake your head and blast a webline up to a shattered billboard.

You hesitate for just a second, staring back at him.

"See you around, Flyboy."

He grins, lopsided and careless.

"You better."

You jump into the air, soaring high across the rubble of Midtown, heart still thumping hard against your ribs.

You’re smiling too hard behind your mask.

And you don’t realize

neither of you realizes

that when you meet Mark Grayson tonight, when you fumble through a weary, uncomfortable coffee date...

you’ll be seeing the same boy who caught you mid-fall.

Who grinned at you through flames and blood and broken concrete.

The same boy you already, somehow, unconsciously, entirely belong to.

Morning strikes you like a freight train.

You wake up aching in areas you didn't even realize you had muscles, your body fighting the mere act of breathing.

Your ribs ache deep and hot under your skin. Your arms feel like they’re burdened down with lead.

Even your fingers are tight, bruised and painful from slinging webs for hours straight.

You sit up carefully, cringing as a stinging pang slashes through your side.

You look at the bedroom ceiling for a few long seconds, heart heavy, lungs feeling too big in your chest.

The war feels like a dream now.

Like it didn’t happen.

Like it was some foolish dream you thought up between classes and homework.

But the bruises are genuine.

The cuts are genuine.

The way your body trembles when you force yourself to your feet is quite genuine.

You get dressed mechanically, loose pants, a big sweatshirt you can hide yourself in.

You take twice as long as normal doing your hair, covering up the bruises on your face with meticulous makeup on your bruised eye.

Your hands tremble a little when you apply the concealer.

You pretend it’s just tiredness.

By the time you make it to campus, the sun is high and the sidewalks are full.

Students swarm by you in every direction, chatting about schoolwork, weekend plans, gossip.

Nobody looks twice at you.

Good.

You need today to be normal.

You need to visit Mark, and sit with him beneath some stupid tree with coffee and chat about anything but superheroes and cities breaking apart.

You hold your coffee cup like a lifeline, the cardboard warm against your injured fingertips.

Your ankle twinges intensely with every other stride.

You breathe through it.

You’re fine.

You’re halfway at the library when you notice him.

Mark.

He’s standing near the steps, bag thrown over one shoulder, hair as unkempt as ever.

He’s wearing one of his normal awful graphic tees, the Seance Dog one that’s virtually falling apart, and a pair of pants so old they’re more thread than fabric at the knees.

Your heart stumbles the way it usually does when you see him.

You halt your steps, some silly smile already pulling at your mouth without permission.

But then you see her.

Eve.

She’s standing close, too close, from where you are.

They’re laughing at something, heads inclined toward one other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

You pause, your feet clinging to the concrete like you just walked into quicksand.

Your fingers clench reflexively around your coffee cup. The cardboard crumples slightly beneath your fingers.

You aren't even aware you're holding your breath.

Eve reaches out, casual, easy, and punches Mark softly on the arm.

He ducks his head, laughing, scratching the back of his neck the way he usually does when he's embarrassed or flustered.

You recognize it.

You know that gesture like you know the back of your own hand.

You bite the inside of your cheek till you taste copper.

You try, really try, to persuade yourself it's nothing.

They’re simply friends.

Mark told you. He said he and Eve were old news. That it never truly went anywhere after Amber broke up with him. That it’s just friendship now.

But standing here, watching them...

It doesn’t feel like just friendship.

It feels like something you’re not supposed to witness.

Eve is attractive in that easy, nonchalant manner that makes your stomach twist.

Sunlight captures the red in her hair, the way it drapes over her shoulders.

She’s beautiful. More elegant. More sure about herself.

And Mark.

Mark's staring at her with that easy, comfortable grin you used to believe was reserved exclusively for you.

Your heart kicks into your ribs, quick and terrified.

You shift your weight, attempting to seem busy, pretending to scroll through your phone.

But your eyes keep sliding back, betraying.

They’re still chatting.

Still smiling.

Still appearing like they fit together flawlessly in a manner that you will never quite measure up to.

You feel sick.

Your coffee has gone cold in your hands, the warmth leaking away without you knowing.

You tell yourself to move.

You tell yourself to stroll over there, to wave, to say hey like a normal human being.

But your feet won’t move.

You’re glued to the place, staring like an idiot from across the quad.

You’re so dumb.

You’re so, so dumb.

You’re Spider-Woman, for God's sake, you battled alongside actual superheroes, you survived an alien invasion, and yet here you are, petrified by a gaze.

You peel your look away finally, your throat tight.

You sink your head lower under your sweatshirt and slink toward the Humanities building, weaving between the masses as swiftly as your aching body would allow.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Your chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with damaged ribs or strained muscles.

You stagger inside the building and slump into the nearest bench, hands quivering around your coffee cup.

You set it down before you crush it completely.

You sit there for a long period, simply breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

You can still see it behind your eyelids, Mark laughing, Eve gazing up at him, the comfortable push of familiarity between them.

You close your eyes tight, hating yourself for how much it hurts.

It’s unreasonable.

It’s insecure.

It’s unjust.

But you can’t turn it off.

Not when you’ve never felt like enough to begin with.

You push the heels of your palms into your eyes, wishing the anguish away.

Later…later you’ll meet up with Mark, like you arranged.

Later you’ll sit across from him with coffee or fries or anything stupid and normal.

And he’ll grin at you, and he'll grab for your hand without thinking, and he'll say something dumb and charming like he usually does.

And you'll remind yourself that you're the one he's dating.

Not Eve.

You.

You'll push yourself to believe it, even if your foolish heart still hurts with uncertainty.

Even if some part of you, small and nasty and terrified, already feels like you're waging a battle you don't know how to win.

You sit there on the bench for a long minute, simply breathing.

In, out.

Trying to shove the dumb, unpleasant emotion back down where it belongs.

Trying to remind yourself that you’re exhausted.

You’re sore.

You’re emotional after all that happened last night.

It’s not Mark’s fault.

He hasn’t even done anything wrong.

And yet, when you hear familiar footsteps sprinting up the steps toward you, your body tenses without thinking.

You glance up and there he is.

Mark.

He’s a bit out of breath, hair a mess like he rushed across campus to make it on time.

His backpack's falling off one shoulder, and there’s a coffee stain on the front of his Seance Dog T-shirt like he spilled it in a haste.

You would normally smile at the sight of him.

You would normally feel that silly, automatic flutter in your chest.

But right now?

It just bends into something heavier.

“Hey!” he exclaims, flashing you his boyish, too-bright smile. “I thought I was gonna be late, but turns out Professor Connors is running behind. We’ve got like, five minutes.”

You nod mutely, straightening up stiffly.

Mark’s grin falters a little, his brow furrowing.

“You okay?” he says, putting his backpack higher on his shoulder. "You look... tired."

You shrug, pushing past him without meeting his eyes. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Which isn’t a lie.

You didn’t sleep.

You spent half an hour reliving the picture of Eve smiling at him over and over until it burnt itself into the backs of your eyelids.

Mark falls into stride with you as you approach into class.

Normally, he’s a touch clingy in that stupidly cute way bumping your shoulder, brushing your hand with his, sneaking small looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

Today, you keep just enough distance between you that he notices.

You see it in the way he hesitates mid-step, like he’s not sure if he should approach closer or not.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, softer now. “You seem... I dunno. Off.”

You exhale through your nose, hard, holding the strap of your bag until your knuckles hurt.

"I said I’m fine," you mumble, harsher than you want to be.

Mark blinks at you, thrown off.

You don’t typically snap at him.

You don't normally snap at anyone.

He falls silent for a beat, staring forward at the structure.

You both climb the steps in awkward, weighty quiet.

You can feel him stealing looks at you from the corner of his eye.

You know he’s worried.

You know he’s confused.

You hate yourself a bit for making him feel that way.

But you can’t help it.

You can’t stop picturing it, him standing there with Eve, smiling, laughing like he belonged next to her in a way he doesn't next to you.

You don’t want to be that person, the jealous girlfriend, the insecure mess.

You trust Mark.

You do.

But that doesn’t stop the anguish gnawing at you from the inside out.

You enter inside the lecture hall together.

You normally sit close, shoulder to shoulder, sharing silly whispered commentary throughout the dull sections.

Today, you place your bag onto the seat by the window, giving yourself an extra chair of space between you without thinking.

Mark waits nervously before sitting next to you, near, but not as close as usual.

Professor Connors starts talking.

Slides click onto the projector.

The normal mind-numbing drone of a lecture fills the air.

And you sit there, looking at the board, not hearing any of it.

You’re too conscious of Mark fidgeting beside you, tapping his pen against his notepad, bouncing his knee, stealing looks at you every few minutes like he’s trying to figure out how he ticked you off and has no clue what he did.

You feel him lean down slightly, voice low and hesitant.

“Did I... do something?”

You shake your head fiercely, gaze fixated on the screen. "No."

"But you’re mad," he adds, not accusing, just perplexed, a little hurt. "I can tell."

"I’m not mad," you lie, voice too flat.

He leans back, appearing a bit more upset now, but keeping it under the surface the way he usually does when he doesn't know how to solve anything.

You cross your arms across your chest, sliding deeper in your seat.

You hate this.

You hate that he’s trying.

You hate that you’re blocking him out.

You hate that you feel so little, so childish, so disposable.

You twist your fingers into the hem of your hoodie, pushing your nails into the cloth.

You’re being unfair.

You know you are.

Mark didn’t do anything wrong.

You’re just exhausted.

You’re just insecure.

You’re just frightened that one day he’s going to discover that someone like Eve fits better beside him than you ever could.

And you won’t even be able to blame him for it.

You look toward the front of the room, willing yourself to focus on anything but the burn behind your eyes.

Beside you, Mark goes still.

Quiet.

Trying to give you room.

Trying not to make it worse.

You sit there, side by side, the slight distance between you feeling like a canyon.

And for the first time since you started dating him, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not as sure of yourself as you thought you were.

Class drags like a big weight behind you.

You keep your eyes forward, your expression neutral, trying not to think about the agony in your chest, or the ache in your ribs, for that matter.

The lecture is just a jumble of slides and half-hearted notes.

Beside you, Mark fidgets incessantly.

He’s never been excellent at sitting still.

His knee jumps beneath the table, his pen taps a rhythm on his notepad still, and every so often, he stares at you.

You ignore him.

Or you attempt to.

You can feel the confusion radiating off him like flames.

He doesn't understand why you’re suddenly cold.

You can literally hear the gears in his mind turning.

Normally, he’d mutter a foolish joke under his breath, just to make you roll your eyes and smile.

Normally, you’d push his arm or steal his pen simply to screw with him back.

Today you don't.

You just sit there, frozen, looking blankly at the blackboard while your chest tightens tighter.

Finally, mercifully, the lecturer dismisses you.

Everyone around you rushes up, grabbing bags, talking.

You stuff your notepad inside your backpack with hard, jerking movements.

You can feel Mark watching you, waiting for you to look at him, but you don’t.

You rush toward the door.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear him jog to catch up.

"Hey-"

His voice breaks a little on the word.

He clears his throat and tries again, maintaining pace with you. "Wait up."

You keep walking, not slowing down.

Mark scuffs his sneakers across the tile, visibly worried. "Um... you doing anything after this?"

You peek at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s staring at you, hopeful, wary, all huge blue eyes and tangled hair, and something terrible and tender twists inside you.

You hate that you still want to fall into him.

You hate that you can't.

You shrug. "Why?"

Mark touches the back of his neck, a classic motion when he's uncomfortable or awkward.

"I dunno. Thought maybe we could, like... hang out or something."

He says it like he’s winging it.

Like he hadn’t been planning it in his thoughts for the previous twenty minutes while you gave him the cold shoulder.

"We could get food," he says hurriedly. "Or, uh, Netflix. Something silly. Whatever. I mean, if you want. No huge issue if you don't. Just-"

He’s spiraling.

Fast.

You halt at the entryway of the main building, fingers clenching on the strap of your bag.

You eventually gaze at him.

He’s got that uncomfortable, serious face you know too well, the one that indicates he has no idea what he did wrong but he wants to repair it regardless.

You should say no.

You should put distance between you.

Give yourself room to breathe.

But the words stick in your throat.

You can’t make yourself shove him away.

You can’t.

"Maybe," you respond quietly.

Mark perks up quickly and his whole face glows. It's so foolish and innocent that it makes your chest feel harder.

"Cool," he adds, going for casual and failing terribly. "Yeah, nice. No pressure."

You nod, tugging your sweater sleeves down over your wounded knuckles.

You step outdoors together.

The sun is too bright; it makes your head hurt.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But he keeps strolling next to you, shoulders slouched, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, stealing looks at you like he’s trying to figure out how upset you are without risking saying anything idiotic and making things worse.

After a minute, he clears his throat again.

"You sure you're okay?" He repeats it lowly, trying not to seem like he’s lingering.

You hesitate.

You could tell him the truth.

You could say. ‘I saw you with her. I saw you smiling. I saw how easy it was.’

But you don't.

You just pull your arms tighter over yourself and whisper, "I'm fine."

Mark studies you for a second longer, like he knows you're lying but doesn’t know how to call you on it without making everything worse.

"Okay," he replies eventually, quietly. "I’ll shut up."

He touches the back of his neck again, gazing at the sidewalk.

You soften a little.

Just a bit.

Because he’s trying so hard.

Because he doesn’t even know what he’s attempting to solve.

You decrease your speed a little so he can catch up.

You don’t take his hand.

But you don’t draw away when your arms brush.

You stroll side by side in silence, awkward, wounded, fatigued.

Not healed.

Not really alright.

But trying.

His dorm is still a disaster.

Not a biohazard-level mess, not yet, but busy enough that you wind yourself carefully stepping over a crumpled sweatshirt and a couple of tossed notebooks on the floor as you go in. The curtains are half-drawn, plunging the room into a pleasant sort of half-shadow, and Mark quickly sinks face-first onto his bed like a dead body.

"You pick," he mumbles into the covers. "Netflix password's saved."

You snort under your breath, laying your bag down and poking his foot with your knee. "Lazy."

"You knew what you signed up for," he mutters back, voice muffled.

You roll your eyes, but a faint smile comes across your face before you can stop it. You walk to his desk, turn on his laptop, and navigate through Netflix until you find something silly and familiar, something you both can half-watch without actually paying attention.

By the time you press "play," Mark’s switched over, rolling onto his side to make way for you without even opening his eyes. Like he simply expects you to be there. Like it’s normal.

And somehow…somehow it is.

You kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed with him, the mattress lowering beneath both your weight. He quickly drags you closer without thinking, flinging one arm around your waist and nestling his face into the crook of your neck.

You go stiff for a second, the heat running up your neck so fast it makes you dizzy, but Mark only sighs, pleased, and squeezes you once before relaxing. His breath is warm on your skin. His body is warm against yours.

You tell yourself not to read into things.

You convince yourself it's simply who he is. That Mark Grayson is the sort of person that hugs people like he means it. The sort of man who laughs at your idiotic jokes, who waits for you after class, who doesn't notice when you gaze at him like he's the whole universe wrapped up in an oversized sweatshirt and a poor Netflix suggestion.

You don't even know you’re crying until Mark stirs against you and pulls back, looking blearily up at you in uncertainty.

"Hey," he replies, voice suddenly crisper, more aware. "What's wrong? Are you…are you crying? Oh my gosh, did I elbow you in the face? I knew I should've moved the laptop-"

You let out a wet laugh, brushing your sleeve across your face. “No, no, you didn’t elbow me, you idiot. I’m OK. I just-" You swallow. "It’s stupid.”

Mark sits up fully now, his hair sticking up in a million different places, looking absolutely wrecked with stress. His hand hangs over your back like he wants to touch you but isn't sure if he should.

"It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry," he adds, so sincerely, so earnestly that your throat tightens again.

You shake your head, producing a feeble grin. "I’m just-" You breathe deeply. "I’m really glad I met you."

Mark stares at you for a second, like he’s attempting to download those words right into his head. Then he grins, tiny, gentle, real, and leans in to place a kiss on your forehead.

"You’re stuck with me now," he says playfully, attempting to make you laugh, but you can hear the reality behind it. The way he means it.

You close your eyes and lean toward him, letting yourself breathe him in.

For a little while, you simply remain like that, tangled together on his bed, the laptop playing some bad comedy nobody’s actually watching, the late afternoon light creeping golden over the room, and for the first time all day, that unpleasant knot between your ribs starts to ease.

Maybe you’re not Eve.

Maybe you’ll never be as confident or as flawless or as easy as she looks.

But you’re you.

And oddly, that’s the person Mark wants next to him right now.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

The world outside disappears, the sounds of campus traffic, the distant sound of someone laughing down the hall, even the quiet hum of the laptop playing some show you’re no longer recognizing. It’s all background static now.

All you can feel is Mark.

The calm, steady rise and fall of his chest on yours.

The weight of his arm, relaxed but protecting, wrapped over your side.

The way his thumb continues pressing little, absentminded circles into your hip through the fabric of your shirt, like he’s grounding himself there.

It’s dumb.

It’s so ridiculous.

But you’re terrified to move.

Scared that if you shift, if you break the fragile enchantment hanging in the air, you’ll lose whatever this is, whatever glittering, delicate thread has weaved itself between the two of you.

God, you love him.

And the notion strikes you, abrupt and raw and terrifying, He could leave you at any second.

He might discover you’re not what he needs. That you're too much or not enough. That he deserves someone simpler to love.

And it would break you.

It would totally break you.

You’re so weary of pretending you’re cool with it.

So tired of smiling through it.

So weary of being too timid to tell him.

The panic rises in your chest, overpowering, and before you can think better of it, before you can convince yourself that you're meant to be sensible, or wise, or at least not a complete disaster-

you lean up and kiss him.

Hard.

It’s clumsy. Desperate. You just manage to angle your face right before your mouth crashes into his, your palm fisting uncomfortably in the front of his sweatshirt like you need anything to grasp onto, something substantial to prevent from falling apart altogether.

Mark freezes.

For a single, painful heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss you back.

You nearly flinch, almost draw away, terrified at yourself, heat blooming up your neck so quickly it burns

But then he makes a sound.

A quiet, broken, shocked sound down in his throat.

And then he’s kissing you back.

It’s not polished.

It’s not gentle.

It’s hungry.

Mark turns, rolling fully onto his side, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, pushing you more into him like he can’t take the notion of even an inch of gap between you. His mouth is hot and a touch feverish against yours, and you can feel the strain he’s been carrying, the perplexity, the doubt, the hope, pouring out into every weak breath he exhales into your skin.

You gasp against his mouth as his other hand finds your waist, dragging you closer, and the sound seems to destroy him, he sighs, deep in his chest, and kisses you harder, like he’s scared if he lets off for even a second you’ll vanish.

Your heart is beating so fiercely it feels like it could break your ribs wide.

You feel alive in a way you didn’t even aware you weren’t before. Like the world has sharpened into something brutally vivid, every nerve-ending lighted up, every inch of your skin throbbing with how hard you want more.

When you eventually draw back, it’s only because you have to because you’re both breathing like you just ran a marathon, foreheads crushed together, hands still clutching to each other like the ground may drop out beneath you if you let go.

Mark’s eyes are blown wide, his pupils black and blurry, his cheeks heated. His lips are red and a bit puffy. He looks destroyed.

He looks fantastic.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice low and rough. “You’re-you’re just full of surprises today, huh?”

You want to laugh, or joke, or say something funny, but all you can do is gaze at him, chest heaving, your hands still knotted in the front of his sweatshirt. You feel stripped bare. Exposed.

You attempt to talk, but it comes out tiny, hoarse “I’m sorry-”

Mark’s visage dissolves, softens, and he shakes his head instantly.

“No.” He crushes his forehead more firmly to yours. His hand brushes across your cheek, trembling just slightly. “No. Don’t apologize.”

You blink hard, tears pricking the corners of your eyes again but this time it’s different. Not fear. Not jealousy.

Relief.

Hope.

Something terrifyingly near to bliss.

Mark draws back just enough to actually look at you, his thumb stroking across your eye where a tear slid loose. His voice is so soothing it nearly breaks you. “I didn’t even know what I did wrong,” he mutters against your lips, voice shaking with relief and leftover fear. His hands roam your back like he’s reassuring himself you’re real. “I just… thought you hated me or something. Thought you were done.” Your throat tightens so tightly it aches. You attempt to grin, and it wobbles all over the place.

“You’re…you’re quite awful at subtlety, y’know," you say, your voice barely holding steady.

He grins, crooked and lovely, like he understands precisely how much he’s destroying you with it.

“Guess it’s a good thing you’re bad at it too.”

And then he kisses you again, softer this time, slower, like he’s enjoying it, like he’s remembering the way you taste, the way you breathe against his mouth.

And you let him.

God, you let him.

You sink into him, let yourself drown a little, because you finally can.

For once, you don’t have to pretend you’re OK.

For once, you’re exactly where you want to be.

Right here.

With him.

Mark kisses you like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists.

It starts soft, a brush of his mouth against yours, tender and a little shaky, like he’s still not totally sure you’re real, but it doesn’t stay that way for long.

Because you kiss him back.

You kiss him back with everything you've been holding in, every second of pining and doubt and hope and fear you've tried to swallow down for months. You kiss him like you're afraid he might disappear if you don't.

Mark responds like he’s been starving for it.

The hand cradling your jaw slides down, finding the side of your neck, his thumb brushing the line of your throat where your pulse is hammering wildly. His other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the sudden press of his body makes your breath catch.

You don't even remember tilting back, but somehow you end up half-lying across his bed, tangled together, the world narrowing down to the slow drag of his mouth against yours and the heat coiling low in your belly.

You feel clumsy.

Overwhelmed.

Alive in a way you didn’t even realize you weren’t before.

When he parts your lips with his tongue, you let him, and the soft, involuntary noise that slips out of you seems to light something up inside him, something a little reckless, a little raw.

Mark shifts over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head on the mattress, and you grab the hem of his hoodie without thinking, clinging to him, pulling him closer.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you, flushed, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, and for a second you just stare at each other, hearts pounding so loud you’re half-convinced he can hear yours through your ribs.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice hoarse, serious.

You nod, dizzy, breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, just-”

You swallow, and your voice wobbles. “You’re really close.”

Mark grins crookedly, something soft and helpless in the way he looks at you.

"That’s kinda the idea," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you again, slower this time, savoring it.

The heat between you builds with every touch. It’s not frantic, not like the movies make it seem but it’s constant. A steady, aching pull. A need that feels so much bigger than just your bodies.

His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once, skimming along your waist, tracing the curve of your hip, ghosting up your side under the fabric of your shirt but never pushing too far, never crossing a line without some kind of silent permission. Like he’s letting you set the pace. Like he’s terrified of hurting you, even by accident.

And it just wrecks you.

The way he touches you like you’re precious.

You fist your hands in the front of his hoodie again, pulling him closer, and he follows your lead without hesitation, pressing against you, the firm heat of him impossible to ignore now. You can feel the hardness straining against his jeans where he slots between your thighs, and the realization sends a molten jolt through you so strong you almost whimper.

Mark pulls back just enough to look at you again, searching your face, his own flushed and almost wrecked with want.

“We can stop,” he says, his voice low, rough. “If you want. Just say the word.”

God.

You’ve never wanted anything less.

“I don’t wanna stop,” you gasp, fingers clutching him tighter. “Just…” You blink rapidly, breath hitching. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore. And it hurt more than it should’ve.”

Mark lets out a short, shaky laugh, not mocking, just unbelievably fond. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheekbone, then the corner of your mouth, slow and patient and sweet.

“Neither do I,” he breathes against your mouth, his voice rough but honest. “I’m just… trying. Trying to be good enough for you. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

You let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob of relief, and he kisses you again, really kisses you, deep and slow, like he’s trying to tell you with his mouth that you don’t have to be perfect. That you’re enough.

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie again and tug, clumsily. He breaks the kiss to help you, grinning a little as he yanks it off and tosses it somewhere behind him.

Your heart trips at the sight of him, broad-shouldered, solid, every muscle in him straining under light golden, sweat-slicked skin. He’s not some giant, he’s real, tangible, all lean strength and quiet power.

Everything you know, everything you’ve missed. Everything.

Mark leans back down, and this time, when his hands slip under your shirt, you arch into him instead of flinching. His palms are warm against your ribs, exploring slowly, reverently.

You kiss him harder, and he groans against your mouth, grinding his hips against yours in a way that makes you gasp, your fingers scrambling at his shoulders for something to hold onto.

It's messy. It's uncoordinated. You’re both breathing like you just ran a marathon and half-laughing into each other’s mouths whenever your teeth accidentally bump.

And it’s perfect.

Because it’s real.

It’s honest.

It’s you and him, no games, no pretending, just raw, aching want.

Mark kisses a trail down your throat, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your jaw, and you shiver, your hands sliding up into his hair without thinking. He groans when you tug gently, pressing closer, and you realize with a dizzy, giddy kind of wonder that you’re driving him just as crazy as he’s driving you.

You don’t know who breaks first.

Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the soft, broken little gasp you let out when Mark shifts his hips against yours again, grinding slow and helpless, like he can't stand being apart from you even for a second. Maybe it's him, maybe it’s the way your hands find their way up under his muscles, tracing the warm, solid lines of him, feeling him shudder against your palms.

It doesn't matter.

Because the next thing you know, Mark is pulling back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, his hair a mess, his breathing ragged, and there’s something wild and pleading in his eyes.

"Bedroom," he mumbles against your mouth. "Please."

It sends a bolt of heat straight through you, grounding and electrifying all at once.

You nod before you can think twice, and he stands up, gathering you into his arms without missing a beat.

You let out a surprised little yelp, clutching at his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

"Mark!" you hiss, half-laughing, half-mortified as he stumbles a little, nearly knocking over a pile of laundry in his rush to the door.

He’s laughing too, low and breathless and giddy, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn't even pretend to put you down. His hands are firm under your thighs, holding you steady against him like he doesn't want to risk losing even an inch of contact.

"William’s gone," he says, a little smug, like it’s the greatest victory of his life. "He’s at Rick’s for the weekend, remember?"

You barely remember your own name right now, let alone William’s plans.

All you can focus on is the way Mark is carrying you like you're something precious. Like you're something he’s earned.

He kicks the door open with his foot and fumbles inside the darkened dorm bedroom, still carrying you, still kissing you in little stolen gasps and nips whenever he can reach your mouth.

He finally manages to get you to the bed, half-dropping, half-tumbling you onto the mattress, and you both collapse into a heap, laughing, breathless, tangled together.

The mattress springs squeal under your combined weight, the familiar scent of Mark's cheap laundry detergent and body wash surrounding you like a second skin.

And for a second, you just look at each other.

Really look.

His cheeks are flushed deep pink. His dark hair sticks up wildly. His chest rises and falls fast, like he’s been running.

He’s beautiful in a messy, real way that makes your throat ache.

You reach up, your hand trembling a little, and brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking, his eyes fluttering half-shut, like it's the best thing anyone’s ever done for him.

You love him.

The thought knocks the air right out of your lungs.

But before you can spiral too far, Mark’s kissing you again, softer this time, slower, more deliberate.

He pulls back just an inch, his voice low, rough.

"You sure?"

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

But then you catch the flicker of doubt in his eyes, and you make yourself say it, voice a little shaky but certain

"I’m sure."

Relief floods across his face so raw and visible you almost cry again.

Mark kisses you like he’s thanking you. Like he’s worshiping you.

His hands slip under your shirt, tracing your ribs, your waist, the curve of your back, reverent, slow, giving you a hundred chances to change your mind that you’re never going to take. He sits up just enough to tug your shirt over your head, and you arch into him, trying not to shake.

He’s so careful with you.

It undoes you.

When your shirt’s gone, Mark sits back on his knees for a second, just staring at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s trying to burn the sight of you into his memory.

You flush, biting your lip, self-conscious but before you can squirm or cover yourself, he reaches out, slow and steady, and drags his fingers down your arm, your side, your hip, like he’s memorizing you by touch.

"You’re beautiful," he says, like it’s a fact, like it’s inevitable, like it was always true and you were just the last one to figure it out.

You want to say something, something smart, something funny, something to fill the aching, awful tenderness spilling out of you but all you can do is pull him back down into another kiss.

It gets messier after that.

Hungrier.

Mark’s mouth moves to your throat, then down to your collarbone, then lower still, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. You arch into him, gasping, your fingers scrabbling at his hair, his back, his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto.

His hands roam your body like he’s discovering it for the first time, reverent, careful, greedy all at once and you can feel how badly he’s trembling, how hard he’s holding back.

It makes your heart clench.

It’s not perfect.

It’s messy, clumsy, and breathless.

It’s hands fumbling with buttons, knees bumping into the mattress awkwardly, both of you half-laughing, half-moan.

But it’s real.

And when he finally slides his hand low, cupping you through your pants, you can’t help the desperate little sound that punches out of you, wrecked, needy, shameless.

Mark groans against your throat, his voice rough and low.

"God, you sound so good."

You whimper, hips canting up helplessly into his touch, and he curses softly under his breath, like he’s losing the last shreds of his self-control.

"Need you," he mutters, frantic. "Need you so bad, baby."

You rake your hands down his chest, feeling him shudder under your touch, and he drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"Tell me if you wanna stop," he says again, voice breaking a little. "Please."

You cup his face in both hands, pulling him down into a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

"I don’t want to stop," you whisper against his lips. "I want you. Please, Mark."

His thumb traces up your ribs, brushing the edge of your bra and that’s when he freezes.

The room feels suddenly too still. His fingers ghost over your cheekbone.

You blink, confused, and then, fuck.

The makeup. The damn sweat had smudged it enough that the bruise was showing, an ugly smear of purple and yellow blooming beneath your eye like some kind of poisonous flower.

Mark pulls back a little, his brows knitting together, worry carved into every line of his face. "What-?" he starts, voice low, almost afraid to finish the question. "Who did that to you?"

You jerk back, instinct lashing out before you could think. "It’s nothing," you snap, too quickly, too defensively. The words slapped the air between you. You scramble back off the bed, arms crossed tight over your chest, heart hammering like a bird in a trap.

Mark holds his hands up, palms open, like you’re some skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. "Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not- I just…are you okay?"

"I said it’s nothing," you bite out. You can hear your voice crack, and hate it. Hating how exposed you feel. How soft and messy and wrong it all is now.

You can’t tell him. Can’t tell how you’d gotten it during the Flaxan invasion, fighting side by side with Invincible, half the city in flames around you. Can’t tell him that you were just some girl in a homemade suit, stitched together with shaky hands and stubborn hope, swinging into a war zone like you actually belonged there. That you’d thrown yourself into the fight with no real training, just reckless bravery and a desperate, aching need to make it right. To prove to yourself you could be something more than scared, more than helpless.

You swallow hard, fighting the sting behind your eyes.

Mark doesn’t push. He just stays where he is, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at you like he wants to gather you up and shield you from the whole goddamn world. And that, that almost breaks you more than anything.

Because you don’t know he was the same. You don’t know that under that rumpled mop of hair and the nerdy smile, Mark Grayson carries bruises a thousand times worse, stitched into his skin from fights against monsters and gods and nightmares with teeth. That he had secrets pressed into his bones so heavy it was a wonder he could stand up straight.

He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic you’d seen a hundred times. "If you ever wanna talk about it," he said, voice low, "you can. You don't have to pretend around me."

You don’t know whether you want to scream at him or throw yourself into his arms. Maybe both. Your heart twists painfully. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

"I’m fine," you lie, voice barely a whisper.

Mark doesn’t believe you. You can see it all over his face. But he doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make you say more than you can handle. Instead, he just nods slowly and says, "Okay."

And somehow that okay messes you up you more than a thousand questions would have.

You don’t even bother putting your shirt back on properly. You just yank it over your head, backwards, half your hair tangled inside the collar. Your fingers fumble with the remainder of your garments, quivering with the type of terror you haven't felt since your first disastrous chemistry presentation in front of the whole class. It’s almost comical, how much simpler it was to be nude in front of Mark than it is to look him in the eye right now.

You can still feel the way his hands hesitated, confused, once he saw it, the way the perspiration on your skin distorted the delicate layer of makeup you’d spent twenty minutes putting on, the bruise below your eye emerging like an ugly secret. And Mark… he noticed. Of course he noticed. He’d been running his mouth all night on how lovely you were. You should’ve known there was no way he wouldn’t notice it once things got hot and close and-God, you’re so foolish.

You wrench the zipper of your jeans up too hard and it jams midway. You have to stop, breathe, and force your fingers to settle down enough to correct it. Mark’s still sitting on the side of the bed, his face all tense and anxious, looking like he’s trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

"Wait, hey-" he starts to stand, reaching out.

"No, I'm fine," you cut him off far too soon, way too harsh. You throw your bag over your shoulder, nearly knocking over the light on his bedside in your hurry. "I just remembered, I have to…I have to go. Homework. Big exam. You know. School."

Your voice breaks uncomfortably halfway through, and you want to crawl into a hole and die right there. But instead, you push your sneakers on without bothering to knot them and fumble toward the door.

Mark’s standing now, looking like he doesn’t know whether to chase you or stay put. His hair's a tangle, his cheeks still red from earlier, and there’s this look in his eyes that makes your heart lurch sideways. Confusion, primarily. Hurt.

You don't give him a chance to say anything else. You slam the door open and virtually rush down the hall, your footsteps loud and dumb on the poor dorm flooring.

You don't even know you’re sobbing until you step outside and the cold air hurts your moist cheeks.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr / @iansimpsforeveryone / @luvvcharxo / @jiyeons-closet / @weponxwrites / @xzmickeyzx / @heiankyonoeiyuukun / @edgycatx / @oxymorondemon / @bluerrie / @swtheartz / @maxi-ride / @nightmarewasteland / @hot15936 / @rotinginmybed / @deleted-1-800 / @thehumanradio17

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible fanfic #invincible season 3 #invincible angst #invincible x you #mark grayson x reader #invincible smut #reader insert #mark grayson #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut

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tumble-witch · 2 months ago

Note

Out of all of your redesigns so far, which one is your favorite?

Oooohhh, what a fun question!

Tbh, all of them for different reasons

Huge post ahead!!!

At first I didn't like Blue Stray's design that much, but with a few tweaks here and there it really grew on me and now it's probably my favourite to draw. I'm still thinking about the hair color and suit hues, but making her hair all twirly changed everything

From this → To this!

With Golden Beetle it's a different story

I really really like his first design and so far I really like how it looks. Sometimes a pain to draw though, I keep forgetting which spots go where. Maybe I'll change him a bit down the line

I can never recreate his beautiful hair from here TwT

Moth Errer was a group effort. I had an emergency Discord call with my wonderful friends and it turned into an hour long brainstorm about her design. Moth is probably the most packed with details out of all of the designs I had so far!

Her mask is based on traditional Chinese opera masks. I wanted it to look like a butterfly, but also remind of tears running down her face. I took the colours from her canon design, too!

Right now I'm working on her civilian design and damnmnnmdnasfhagf mommy? sorry mommy? sorry

Adrien Agreste is where I relax. Blue Stray merch and crocks stay ON. This man can wear whatever the hell he wants. I also want to dress him in fits I have myself. But for now I just let his spirit posess me whenever I draw him. I love him ok? Ok.

I love Marinette Dupain-Cheng so so much you don't understand. But her fits need to be restricting and not-her. I really want to make her wear something nice for once, like in a Paris Fashion week comic or something. She deserves better

But this?

This is perfection. (the pic is from this post). No, actually Bread Girl as a character literally is perfect. No freckles, always smiling with perfect white teeth, hair tied neatly. I like how uncanny it is

I'll use this design in the new comic, too!

Chloé Bourgeois i think is pretty okay, but I didn't think about her outfit too hard. She def needs to appear more in BGAU

I really like Rose Lavillant as a civilian. It's like an angel posessed my hands when I invented this open shoulder look. Tbh I've been searching for a shirt like that ever since

Her akuma design was rushed, but you can't go wrong with colours like that so it's solid in my books!

Juleka Couffaine absolutely fucking slays. Next.

I wanna work on Nino Lahiffe more, but so far I really like him. I think an earring, some cool ass pants and he's golden! (haha get it? golden?)

He really needs to make an appearance in the first akuma comic!

Alya Cesaire needs a proper full redesign. When she made her first appearance it was a one-time thing. I didn't expect to spend on this AU more than 40 minutes of my life! I can do better than a full Nino fit for her

Phew! That was a lot. It was fun to remember some old stuff, thanks again anon!

#ask #anon #BREAD GIRL AU

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jawsoffate · 3 days ago

Text

Diabolically Yours | part I (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

A/N: I'll try update regularly because i'm really excited with this idea. This is also something new that i'm trying so, please, bear with me. It's being crossposted on ao3 too.

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II

Part I: Where Everything Goes Wrong

Emma wasn’t the kind of person who made deals with demons. At least, not until that weekend.

She was the kind of person who organized her mugs by color, cried during movies with dogs, and said “excuse me” even to store mannequins. But she was also the kind of person who was absolutely fed up.

Fed up with a stagnant life, with a pile of ignored résumés, unpaid freelance gigs, family gatherings full of invasive questions like “so, any boyfriends?”, and above all, fed up with relying on luck.

So why not cheat a little? Not much. Just enough.

It was just a basic pact. A “mystical agreement with an underworld entity for moderate personal gain.” No soul-selling involved (she read three blogs that guaranteed this), no sacrifices, nothing too heavy. Just a simple ritual with easy-to-find items: black candle, red chalk, coarse salt, and blood from the summoner. There was even a tutorial on YouTube — dubbed.

The goal? To summon a useful demon. Nothing too ambitious. One specialized in creativity, literary inspiration, maybe a bit of extra charisma — things that would help boost the frustrated writing career Emma so badly wanted to take off.

She even chose a specific name: Belmior, the Demon of Eloquence.

According to the grimoire Forgotten Spells and Hidden Codes (available as a PDF on Telegram), Belmior was polite, focused, wore a linen suit, and helped artists create masterpieces.

Perfect.

The ritual was set up on her bedroom floor: rug rolled up, furniture pushed aside, window slightly open to “oxygenate the energy.” Emma lit the candles, drew the circle with chalk and salt, put on the suggested ambient music (something ethereal with harps, very conceptual), and recited the words in a firm voice:

“Domine voco te, Belmior, Artifex Verbi, Veni et responde...”

The ground shook. The candles blew out on their own. A cold wind blew from nowhere.

Emma smiled. It was working!

Until, with a sharp crack — like a lightbulb bursting — the air split in two and a figure appeared in the center of the circle.

But… it wasn’t Belmior.

He wasn’t wearing a suit. He didn’t radiate serenity. He didn’t bring a quill and inkpot. What emerged looked like it had stepped out of both a ceremonial nightmare and a divine painting.

The figure was tall, lean, with dark skin that shimmered with an unsettling metallic sheen. His face was covered by a pale mask, adorned with golden lines and glowing green symbols that pulsed like living magical veins. Where eyes should’ve been, there was only shadow. And where there should’ve been a mouth… the silence was sharper than any scream.

He wore a dark cloak with gold details and chains hanging from his body as if they were part of him, decorating his chest like cursed jewels. On one shoulder, a white piece of ornate armor — fit for a king or a celestial executioner.

He looked ancient. Solemn. And completely out of place in Emma’s room, between a half-dead plant and a bag of cookies.

“Seriously? You used finger blood for this?” he said, in a deep, slightly hoarse voice, clearly annoyed.

“Great. A hysterical human with a blog ritual.”

Emma went pale. “You... you're not Belmior.”

“And you’re not smart. But let’s deal with one problem at a time.”

He looked around, scowling at the crooked circle on the floor, the fallen candle, and the harp music still softly playing in the background. Then he looked back at her.

“My name is Vessel. And you’ve just made the worst kind of ritual mistake: summoning me by accident without a clear purpose.”

“I just... wanted creative help!”

“And you summoned a demon of dimensional disruption. That’s like calling a plumber to fix a broken heart. Congrats.”

Emma stood in silence for a moment. Then she sighed. Deeply. “Okay. Okay. This can be fixed, right? You can just… go back?”

“I’d love to. Really. But there’s one small detail: you called me incorrectly, with an incomplete connection and an unfinished contract. The result?”

He stepped toward her, and she instinctively stepped back. He took another step. She backed up again. He followed, like they were dancing some kind of supernatural tango.

“We’re stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“Stuck. Glued. Bound by a partial arcane link. You summoned me and didn’t release me. I can’t leave until... the bond dissolves through some sort of great personal achievement.”

“This is a joke.”

“My entire existence is, darling.”

Emma sat on the floor, dazed.

“I just wanted to write a good story for my semester project. It’s worth 70% of my grade.”

“And now you’ve got a demon as your personal coach. What an opportunity.”

She glared at him.

“You’re going to mess everything up, aren’t you?”

“Most likely.”

Emma squinted, trying to figure out if this was real or just a caffeine-fueled creative breakdown.

“So now what?” she asked, voice still shaky. “What happens next?”

Vessel stretched his arms as if waking from a nap. He looked absurdly comfortable in the room, as if Emma’s bedroom were just an extension of hell — which, given the scattered clothes, might not be that far off.

“Now? Now... we live this nightmare together. I follow you around, you try to get rid of me, and somewhere in the middle, you learn a lesson.”

Emma stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I have literally centuries of experience with botched summonings”, said Vessel, folding his arms and leaning against the wall like someone commenting on the ending of a predictable TV show. “It always ends the same way.”

He raised a hand and started counting on his fingers:

“First: the human learns a touching emotional lesson.” One finger. “Second: they cry. Always cry. Sometimes ugly cry”, two fingers. “Third: I get banished dramatically, surrounded by smoke, cheap candle scent, and an existential crisis that lasts about fifty years”, three fingers. He dropped his hand and sighed theatrically. “The only variable is the candle scent. Vanilla, cinnamon, jasmine... a scented hell.”

Emma raised an eyebrow at him.

“And yet you keep coming?”

“The entertainment makes up for it. Plus, humans are... delightfully messy. I never know if I’ll end up in a gothic castle, a suburban garage, or” he gestured broadly “a room with shelves full of cheesy romance novels.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“If you want it to be.” “Right. And in the meantime, you’ll just... stay here? With me?” “Of course. Unless you want to find out what happens when we’re apart.” “What happens?”

He smiled. That should’ve been illegal. It was the kind of smile reserved for perfume commercials with French names and a lifetime contract with sin.

“Try it. Go on. Walk thirty steps in any direction. I’ll wait.”

Emma hesitated. Her rational brain screamed that it was a bad idea. Her curiosity said “what’s the worst that could happen?”

She took ten steps to the bedroom door. Nothing. Fifteen. Vessel stood still, arms crossed. At twenty, a light pressure hit her chest. At twenty-five, it turned to dizziness. At thirty, it felt like an emotional anvil was dropping onto her heart.

She staggered. “Okay! Okay, I get it!”

Vessel appeared beside her before she could blink, hands behind his back and a mock-innocent expression.

“You reached the limit. Congratulations. We’re officially mystical Siamese cats. Isn’t that cute?”

Emma leaned against the wall, catching her breath.

“This is a nightmare.”

She stormed back into the room, flopped onto the couch. Vessel sat in the armchair like exiled royalty. “And don’t you have, I don’t know, a hellish boss to report to?” “I do. But he’s busy with an interdimensional conference. Don’t get involved with demonic bureaucracy — it’s worse than a bank queue.”

Emma frowned.

“You’re really taking this well.”

“Like I said, this isn’t my first time stuck with a clumsy, cute human who mispronounced arcane words like a margarine commercial.”

She arched a brow.

“Did you just call me cute?”

“I said clumsy and cute. Don’t take it out of context.”

“Are you flirting?”

“I’m breathing. In my species, that’s already halfway to flirting.”

She turned her face, trying to hide the small smile that slipped out.

“And what if I just... ignore you?”

“I sing. Loudly. And my voice makes dogs cry.”

“Lovely.”

“And I know the entire ABBA discography.”

“That... that’s not a threat. That’s a promise.”

Vessel smiled genuinely for the first time. Emma noticed that, behind the irony, there was something almost... comforting. Like a presence that, despite the chaos, fit better than anything else she had ever tried to summon into her life.

“Fine.” She took a deep breath. “You can stay on the couch. But no dream invading, no touching my chocolate drawer, and absolutely no commenting on my sad song playlists, got it?”

“Got it.” He paused. “But I can help you write. I’m great with sarcasm and irony.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’ll be useful after all.”

“Oh, Emma... you haven’t seen anything yet.”

#sleep token #ii sleep token #iv sleep token #iii sleep token #sleep token fic #vessel x reader #vessel sleep token #vessel x you #vessel sleep token smut

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stars-obsession-pit · 2 months ago

Note

Can do stories off art? If can't come up with fix prompt? Dp x dc could use more art.

Only do crossovers?

Try this prompt sounds interesting https://www.tumblr.com/wyvernsgale/777684760738873344/an-au-of-this-fantastic-au?source=share

So, firstly, the thing written for that prompt by @wyvernsgale:

Look, on some level, Tim gets it.

Bruce doesn’t owe him his parenthood. He had no part in the cloning process. He didn’t ask to have another kid dumped on him so suddenly after he lost his own. Passing Tim off to the foster system wasn’t an inherently unreasonable decision.

The rejection still stung, but Tim had been able to understand it. Bruce just didn’t want to take in another kid.

Except that evidently Bruce did want more kids. He recruited multiple other teenagers into his vigilante brood.

So why had Bruce rejected him?

He couldn’t get the question out of his head. Was his existence really that disgusting a thing? Was he doomed to always be alone, to never find anyone who cared about him?

Those fears had gradually worn away after he found a new family in Amity Park with the Grays. Not completely gone, but quieted down enough that he could manage them.

And then Amity Park went to hell. Well, not literally (unless that incident with the Ghost King counted), but the situation was bad. First the ghosts, then the Guys in White taking control.

Phantom was trying his best to maintain things, but it wasn’t enough. A whole team of allies was gradually coming together—beginning with Tim’s own sister Valerie after he convinced her to give the ghost boy a chance—but they were still losing ground. They needed help, badly.

So they sent requests to the Justice League.

But nobody came.

After the first few dozen, the lines actually blacklisted them for spam. Tim then reached out to Bruce directly, sending messages begging for aid.

Yet still, nobody came.

Could Batman be blocking their requests? Did Bruce really hate him that much?

Whatever the reason was, they were on their own. They closed ranks, built up their own systems of managing the issues. The GIW’s advances slowed to a stalemate. With time, maybe they’d even fully triumph over the white-suited bastards.

And then Batman had the nerve to show up and offer help. Like he hadn’t left them to rot.

Tim Gray sneered at his genetic template, not that the other “hero” wouldn’t be able to see it through Tim’e mask.

“Oh, so now you’re here. Ignoring our time of need and only showing up once we’re strong enough to potentially actually win and pose a threat to your image. How typical.”

Then, actually answering the questions from the ask: (beyond the readmore)

Stories based on art, maybe! Depends on what the art is I guess. Making actual art myself… yeah no I’m not likely to be satisfied enough with my skill level to willingly post my drawings.

As for if i would do non-crossovers: not no, but it heavily depends.

Like, I don’t feel confident enough in my depth/breadth of DC knowledge to be able to build off of many of their topics in proper detail. For instance, I know jack shit about the actual canon Flash or Green Lantern stuff, so I couldn’t see being able to write anything with a focus on them without first going through and consuming some of their source material.

Non-crossover stuff that’s purely Danny Phantom is easier for me than DC in that regard - there’s far less source material to comb through and my brain for whatever reason accepts its fanon more readily than with DC.

For other fandoms beyond those two… don’t get your hopes up high. There are a few other series I’ve posted about on this blog and would potentially be willing to write more with, but it’s a far smaller sample than my DPxDC interactions.

#asks #prompt fill #dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #dcxdp #danny phantom x dc #danny phantom x dc crossover #dpxdc tim drake #clone tim drake #dpxdc bruce wayne #Bruce is *not* meant to be evil here btw. Tim is angry so is reading extra malice into things #Bruce/the JL may have messed up but it wasn’t maliciously

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celebtf · 1 year ago

Text

The Flash & The double

I was sitting at my breakfast table one morning and scrolled through Instagram like I always do. Like always I never really find something but I looked at some Reels, alot of cute animals, like cats and dogs, I really love those videos.

I looked and saw that CW had put out an audition, it was for The Flash, I love that show and Grant look so hot in it too. I sended in my application with photos and resume, it was a little chance I got this job.

A week later a girl from CW called and said I was welcome to a audition next week. I thanked her and I got the script sent over.

I arrived at the location she sent over, it was this an apartment, not what I had in mind but I didn't question anything. I walked in and sat on a chair in the hallway and waited till somebody called my name.

" Steve " a blonde girl yelled and I followed quick after her in to the room.

In the room sat 4 people, I guess then would judge me, probably a jury to see if I fit the small part I was auditioning for. When I looked up I saw Grant Gustin himself sit at the table, he smiled and looked me up and down.

" So Steve, can you do any acrobatics? " Grant asked me with a big smile, his teeths are perfect I though for myself.

" Yes, I can do both acro and parkour, I been training for years, I used to be a stunt double back in the days.. well 2 years ago " I laughed and smiled.

" So we are looking for somebody that can do this small part and also be a stunt double for Grant if that would be needed " the blonde girl said, I smiled answered her.

" Okay we are switching things up, here, take one of my scrips" Grant said and gave me a page with a few of his lines from season 1. I read them and did the audition and after, I went home, questioning how good I really did.

A few days later calls Grant himself my phone to congrat me on getting the job, he said I would only work as his Stunt double as they cut the other character, I didn't really complaine ofcourse, it's The Flash. They would need me on set tomorrow for a Suit fitting.

The next day I was on set early since I didn't want to be late for my first day. " Steve, there you are, welcome " Grant met me with open arms. He smelled so Woody and musky, drove my mind crazy. Me and Grant walked together to the costum departementet since I didn't really know my way around.

We both arrived and walked in to the costume departement, it was so big, and it had mini rooms and a whole closet, I had never seen something this big before.

" Hey Steve, sorry for calling you in this early , just needed to check some things, your suit is over there, we will leave for a while when you change. " the girls said and left me and Grant alone. " Is It okay if I stay " he asked, I felt myself getting harder, but answered him and he stayed.

The suit looked really good for it to be a stunt double one. Usually the company don't really put in the effort when it comes the the stunt double's costumes because they often get trashed on set.

I took of my clothes so I was only in my white boxers, I could see Grant checking me out in the corner of my eyes. I took the suit and started dressing myself, on leg at a time, then over my butt, over my abs and all the way up. I asked Grant to zip it up, and he did. " let me help you with the mask too" Grant said and put the mask on me.

I could feel my body start to shake, a wave past through my body and I felt my feet grow bigger, my legs and thighs got thicker, my butt got fuller, in the pain I saw Grant lick is lips and grab his bulge. My spine cracked and I was in pain, so much pain, my arms got bigger and thicker. A wave of pleasure went down to my dick and it started to grow harder and longer. I could feel the mask heating up, my jaw got shaper, my nose got smaller, eyes went brown and my hair shortend and became brown.

" Looking good Sexy, damn, my ass looks so good in that suit " Grant laughed and walked towards me. " You did this, you planned all for this " my voice cracked and came out darker. He laughed again " Ofcourse I did, from the start, that's why you got to read my lines at the audition, remember, now look in the mirror and say you don't look hot "

Damn I look good and I snaped a picture, I could here Grant laugh behind me again. He came behind me and started to touch my new body.

" I see somebody is excited to see his new face and body " he grabed my bulge and I moaned. " You know, when you're as famous as me, you can't be at two places at once, so I planed this, so you could do half the work and I do the second one. " he laughed and gave me his script " You do the scenes today, I'm sneaking home, I texted my adress, come over with your stuff, you're living with me now". Grant grabed my bulge again and I moaned, he laughed and left.

I went over the lines, went out on set, I kept telling myself I'm Grant Gustin.

Hello I'm back with a new story, this one is inspired by @dulafer and his story " The stunt double " but with a twist. I hope everybody likes it.

#celebrity tf #body swap #celebtf #transformation #gay #male body suit #malebody swap #male shapeshift #body switch #the flash #CW #grant gustin

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physics-of-one-piece · 7 months ago

Text

Merlot & Primroses Moodboard + Excerpt

Doflamingo x Reader

You can read the first chapter of this fic HERE

Your husband’s brother finds you. Life with him and his sham of a family is as cold as the snow your husband was found buried in, the dog tags around his neck missing. You're going to wilt slowly living with Doflamingo, you’re sure. No flower can survive in such snow.

A/N: The Red Suit Doffy fic that is set in the same setting as I'll build castles for you, my love with Reader as Rosinante's wife, except in this one, Doflamingo is faster than the marines, and gets to Reader first and takes her to his ship. The snippet below are Doffy's first lines/thoughts/scene in the fic. I'm sending this as a little gift for @fanaticsnail and her birthday celebration🎂 Have some Red Suit Doffy & Donquixote Brothers Feels, Snail. Thank you for gifting us with your writing. You're amazing. ❤️

How does betrayal feel like?

It feels like silence.

Silence of four years, a gap battled with taps on the den-den mushi and ink on paper.

It feels like the silence being broken by a voice. A voice not as deep as Doflamingo’s but sounding godly all the same, confident and calm, a softness Doflamingo’s didn’t possess.

His little brother’s voice, which Doflamingo mourned the loss of, not knowing he was mourning an empty lie. So many nights he spent thinking how Rosinante's voice would sound like as an adult, how his laugh would sound like, hoping maybe with time, he would hear it - one day, one day, one day — not knowing it was there all along and Rosinante had denied him all of it, had given it to the marines, to Law, to strangers Doflamingo didn't know.

Doflamingo hated them all.

Why did they get to have it and he didn’t?

Rosinante was his little brother, his family, his only equal, the only one who understood, the one who’d been through the same hell as he had... And yet, Doflamingo never got Rosinante back, never truly met his brother as an adult, not really. All Doflamingo got from Rosinante was a mask and silence, while they got everything.

All Doflamingo was given was a scrap, and lies.

So many lies.

Rosi — the one who gave his nickname to him because he couldn’t pronounce Doflamingo’s full name when he was two, shortening it into a harmless nickname full of fondness — didn’t even call him Doffy.

The first words Rosi said to him after four years of silence, after eighteen years of nothing, was his fucking marine code.

Rosi talked to him like they were strangers.

“You just had to go and screw everything up! Why did you come back just to mess with me, Corazón?!”

What Doflamingo meant by those words was: Why? Why did you come back? You should’ve stayed away from me if you hated me. Then this wouldn’t be happening! I wouldn’t have to do this if you’d stayed away from me!

The pain of betrayal is sharp and agonising.

Like a bullet.

Like red blood on white snow.

Doflamingo wouldn’t be surprised if he was bleeding in the same places Rosinante had, too.

Vergo’s words rang out in his head.

“Your little brother has a wife.”

Doflamingo stared at the picture of you. The one Rosinante gave everything to.

Finding out something like this...

It felt like... Like the first inhale of the fresh, clear sea morning, like the first bite into a feast after starving for a week, like the most pure, fresh water after trudging through a desert.

Doflamingo thinks he understands now why Rosi didn’t stay away from him, why Rosi returned.

Because Rosi couldn’t stay away. If not for himself, then for you, his wife.

Would Doflamingo be able to stay away, if he knew his brother was alive somewhere, with a wife, and hell, maybe planning to have a family? Would Doflamingo be the one considering a choice; stay away or meet? Cursed if you don’t, cursed if you do.

Would Doflamingo be able to do it?

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to stay away from Rosi, or from Rosi’s family. Because Doflamingo was family, too. Rosi’s family was Doflamingo’s family, too.

Just like now, Doflamingo couldn’t stay away from you. It was impossible. It felt like his own threads were pulling him toward you, urging themselves forth from his fingertips, reaching out to wrap around you, no matter how much he was sure you didn’t want them to.

Just like how Rosi couldn’t stay away from Doflamingo no matter how much he hated him, Doflamingo couldn’t stay away from you no matter how much he knew you hated him.

He just couldn’t. The thought was painful to bear, the mere image of staying away threatening to shred the last remaining piece of Doflamingo’s heart held together by strings.

“Doffy?” Vergo’s voice across the snail pulled Doflamingo out of his thoughts; he was still staring at your file, at the picture of you, at your name. “What do you want to do?”

Doflamingo got out of his chair, grabbing the feather coat that laid on it.

“I’m going to go get her,” he said, swinging the pink mantle over his shoulders. He grabbed a quill and parchment, writing down a note for Trebol and the others to find. He looked outside. It was early in the morning; Vergo's call and documents he sent had woken him up. It was still dark out in the sea.

“Understood,” said Vergo without question. “Safe travels, Doffy.”

Doflamingo hummed in response, and put the reciever back down on the snail. He exited his cabin, walking to the balustrade of the ship, putting his right foot atop the rail. The wind was chilly, brushing at his face.

He still had a family. Rosinante had not only left Doflamingo behind.

He left a wife behind, too.

Doflamingo took to the sky.

#doflamingo x reader #doflamingo x you #one piece #doflamingo x y/n #one piece fanfic #snail birthday celebration #donquixote doflamingo x reader #one piece x reader #op doflamingo #donquixote doflamingo

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wheredostarsgowhenyoudie · 1 year ago

Text

Once upon a Monday night after patrol...

Peter (swinging in through the window in the spidey suit, taking his mask off): Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark! Guess what! Guess what! Guess what!

Tony (who is in the middle of fixing Dum-E paused his tinkering at the whoosh, lips twitching to a smirk which he hid by drinking coffee): What, what?

Peter (beaming so wide): I made three friends today! Well four if you count the elusive one who approached me but shied away from the others. I named them Stephy, Stacey, Gwen and Michie!

Tony: Aha, and what are they this time? Birds? Bees? Iguanas?

Peter (still smiling, brings out a phone to show him a photo): They're cats Mr. Stark! And they're so cute, I love them so much! See. One white, one cream, one grey, one black. They're all cat colors!

Tony (shuffles the kid's hair): Hm-hm. Nice going Underoos. Looks like a menagerie.

Peter (suddenly goes shy): Uhm, could we- I mean if it isn't too much, sir, and only if it isn't! Err, could we maybe, if it's alright with you, go to the petting shop for my birthday?

Tony (felt his eyebrows rising automatically, looking at the camera, knowing Friday is already making a list of pet stores he could acquire): You want a pet? Is that your wish?

Peter (looks down): Ahm, no, I just...ahm, I just thought it'd be fun to pet some cats and dogs with you. It'd be a memorable experience, but uhm, you don't have to if you're busy or if...if you'd rather not. No pressure Mr. Stark! I mean, I just thought I'd ask.

Tony (face softening into a smile): Of course. Tell you what, meet me outside your apartment 10AM tom. We'll get breakfast, go to the pet shop and then the other three places I planned to take you to.

Peter (eyes widen): Really? You'd spend the day with me Mr. Stark? But aren't you busy or something?

Tony: Nope. Not at all. All free for my favorite spiderling.

Peter (is unable to hide his excitement and went for a hug): Thanks Mr. Stark!!

Tony (finds himself squeezed by his favorite half arachnid child, not really complaining and patting his kid in return): There, there, Underoos. There, there.

Later, several people will receive a meeting cancellation and request to reschedule.

President Elis, Nick Fury, Steve Rogers and the entire board of Stark Industries.

And when they reach out to Pepper Potts to ask what the heck, her polite and professional answer would be simple and concise.

"Code S," she would say, and they would all perk up into a knowing smile, understanding and accepting the code for what it is.

Code S. Reserved for one specific boy from Queens who happens to be Friday's, every Stark employee's and every affiliate's and partner's top priority over everything as per the mandate from Tony Stark himself. Everything else will be put next in line if the code is triggered.

There's even a video/threat attachment to the email to discourage anyone who dares disobey or violate the terms and agreement.

Officially, it stands for Code Superior. In front of Tony and Peter, the avengers sometimes call it Code Spider-man, even if Peter has no idea about the mandate and signed agreement that anyone who needs Tony Stark/Iron-Man to work with or for them has to sign. But they all knew it meant something else anyway.

Code S, in Friday's coding and among Tony's closest relations, could only stand for one thing. Code Son. A spot unofficially but exclusively reserved for one clueless Peter Benjamin Parker.

#irondad & spiderson #avengers #irondad #spiderson #peter parker #tony stark #peter parker & tony stark #stark industries #mcu #tom holland #spider-man #iron man

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cyanide-sippy-cup · 9 months ago

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Finally watched Caped Crusader and I have ✨thoughts✨.

Oswalda is straight up iconic. Loved every scene with her. I actually laughed out loud when the dude goes "Thorne got you to kill the wrong son?" and she responds "Not that!" I'd let her lock me in a suitcase and throw me in the sea. She gets a gold star ⭐

I like that we get to see Selina's origin. I like the classic suit. That's kinda it though. A bit sad that Bruce didn't feel any connection with her. Just not a huge fan of her character here. She doesn't feel like Selina (a problem most of this show faces tbh).

I was loving the Harley stuff. The bit with Renee was so cute, and I love that she really was passionate about helping Bruce move past his trauma. I really like that she's Barbara's friend. Was really upset at the fakeout death but at least she was just joshin. The villain stuff felt like fetishes which like okay. I guess Bruce needed to put in something to replace BruceBabs. Anyway, that's the final dig towards him. As much as this Harley episode wasn't my favorite, a promise is a promise. Although I do gotta ask, WHY CAN'T RENEE CATCH A BREAK IN HER LOVE LIFE >:(((

No fucking way the moral of episode 7 was "the system is totally not screwed, it's just a few bad apples and also a criminal is a criminal and should be jailed". Barbara literally says the system sucks cause the cops can do what they want and get in anyone's pockets and then nearly gets killed by a cop and then they end it with "actually, I think you do"?! I mean yeah that specific guy deserved prison but ending it on that note of Barbara feeling betrayed and confused on her morals tells a very not-so-delightful message. Glad the show backtracks on all that immediately but it's still weird and definitely could've used some revising to fit in with the rest.

Onomatopeia was awesome though. I remember people claiming his shtick couldn't work when he appeared in Superman and Lois. They said that it only worked in comics and would be too silly out loud. Happy to report that they're wrong.

I feel like I'm the only one who was excited to see Waylon but that's okay cause I got enough excitement for everyone. Love to see my mans kicking the shit out of potential perverts. You go, Waylon!

Dick, Jason, Steph, and Carrie. Definitely an interesting combination. But it's also so nice to see a Jason who grew up in a different environment and is therefore adorable with no rage in his heart. As opposed to Carrie who was ready to kick some ass. The ending to episode 8 really understood Batman, what with him saying he can't leave her there, carrying her and shielding her under the cape, and then asking about her later.

The Harvey bit is kinda cool but 1, I've always been iffy on the shotty DID stuff and 2, I think they coulda gone further. Just watch The Long Halloween for a better Two Face plot.

I like Harvey helping that guy get his stuffed animal back. That was a nice small character moment. If we had more stuff like that and Bruce being unable to confess his emotions to Alfred, I think this whole thing would be better. This one made up for episode 7's little message by having Barbara tell Harvey that it's not so cut and dry and that he deserves help too. I'm glad they went back to that after the whole "sometimes things are black and white" bit. Batman is about helping people just as much as Superman is and I feel like sending a message that "nope, bad is bad and he should just punch people" doesn't fit the entire thesis of Batman.

This finale really encapsulates how this show doesn't quite understand the character of Batman. It may be comic-accurate for him to be an asshole and put on the voice randomly, treat Alfred like crap, and randomly break character with stuff like "don't start growing a conscience now, Dent" but as I said it goes against the whole thesis. This is more along the lines of the Nolan films with the "Bruce Wayne is the mask" bit. And we all know how I feel about those films.

And then it ends on a boring cliffhanger with the boss guy and then a shitty Joker teaser. Boo.

In short, this show is good but it's not anything special. I do really like the classic Batman aesthetic, but that's pretty much it. It doesn't really understand the characters like MAWS and WFA, the overarching plot is kind of uninteresting and it doesn't feel like we're building up to something great. I feel like this show really wanted to use the episodic style to take a look at all these different elements of Gotham's world with references to existing characters and aspects. But whereas MAWS smoothly slid those into its narrative and setting, this just kinda feels like a villain of the week show instead of working towards this grand narrative. And that can be a good thing, I mean I'm a Scooby Doo fan for crying out loud, but in this scenario, it just doesn't work that exceptionally. If it gets a season 2, I'll probably watch it. But this isn't something I'd be excitedly waiting to see new episodes of.

#this was pretty much more of a fizzle than a bang #it had its moments but overall just kinda... sank #batman caped crusader #caped crusader #batman cartoon #batman show #bruce timm #harley quinn #selina kyle #oswalda cobblepot #harvey dent #dc cartoons #dc comics #dc #batman #bruce wayne

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olailamajnoon · 5 months ago

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Steve, Part 2

Previous fic

Steve walked into the bathroom of the warehouse where Batman had stashed him. Stupid flightless birds, he muttered, thinking of Oswald Cobblepot and his giant drum belly. Thanks to you, I don't have place to hang my underwear. The lack of fucking clotheshooks inside the cold-ass bathroom annoyed him. Who wants to put their underwear on the floor while showering? And there was no bathtub. Fucking Penguin, and fucking Regina.

Regina, with her drop-down-dead beautiful eyes, and her soft gurgly voice. Her lips, the way they kissed him, like he was wanted and loved.

She had wanted a squirrel fur coat, and had made it the price of admission, and Steve, like a total chump, had taken the bait.

"Takeout!" someone called from the door. Steve stepped out of the shower hurriedly and put on his robe and tighty-whities. "Coming!" he called, hoping the voice belonged to the blue one, and not the red one who liked to poke fun at his—everything, really.

He breathed in. Why the fuck was he nervous? These guys had never hurt him. These guys were constitutionally incapable of hurting him. They treated him like a vulnerable bunny. Even the big strong one with the guns.

He walked into the warehouse's main room. (He was calling it the main room because he didn't know what else to call it. It was large and white and square, and main.) The lighting was dim and harsh at the same time, and the concrete walls and floor were hard and smelled old.

There were like nine bats. There were definitely nine. Steve could count. He realized what he must look like, in his tattered bathrobe.

"Nice robe, Steve," said Red Hood. Steve stuck his tongue out.

Batman turned around, and stared at Steve. He didn't feel as self-conscious as he probably should have.

"Do you need fresh clothes," said Batman. He had some kind of gadget in his hands.

So Batman had definitely noticed.

Steve tried to smile and act jolly, but the truth was the presence of nine bats had unnerved him. He knew one thing about the Batfamily—they usually operated in twos or threes. Unless...there was a Gotham-wide operation, which could only mean one thing. A disaster. A cataclysm of epic proportions.

"What's going on? Can I help?" he asked, his smile too wide, his face way too happy.

"No," said Red Hood and Red Robin together, and then frowned at each other.

"Help how?" asked Nightwing. "You've already given us all the information on Penguin you could. Thanks to you, we took down his waterfront businesses. All of them."

Steve glowed at this praise. Then he collected his face, and composure. "I could go places you people can't. Perp habitats. Henchmen bars. Hellholes. I can be of use to you."

"Why," said Batman.

"Why?" Steve was confused. Also the heater was off, and he was standing in the middle of a cold warehouse trembling, but he didn't want Batman to see and think he was afraid or some shit. He wondered how soon he could get into his clothes. The bats seemed to be wearing insulated suits, the bastards.

"Why do you want to be of use," Batman said, as if repeating himself.

"I dunno," said Steve, shrugging. He breathed out. "Maybe cause you gave me another chance."

Batman looked at him steadily, not saying anything. Just looking with his arms crossed.

"Everyone deserves another chance," said Orphan gently.

"Yeah, well. It's whatever, you know," said Steve, embarrassed there were suddenly tears in his eyes. He didn't want to cry big man-tears in front of Batman.

"Fine," said Batman. "You might be of use."

"Really?"

"Yes. If you prove reliable, there may be a place for you. Keep out of the line of sight, and wear a mask."

Wait.

Holy fuck.

A mask?

"Yessir," said Steve. "Yes, yes sir."

"You will also—" Batman seemed to bore into Steve's eyes, "��not ask any questions that are not relevant to you, or try to ascertain our identities in any way."

"Uh—okay."

"Trust is built, Steve. My trust is limitless, once I extend it to someone, but it takes time to create."

Steve sighed happily. Batman was trying to trust him. He tried to remember the last time anyone had tried to trust him, really trust him. "I won't let you down, sir," he said.

"I hope you won't," said Batman, rather softly.

Steve turned around to go to his room to get dressed, but then he turned around. "Just one thing."

Batman cocked his head.

"I totally get it. The secret identities and all. But—" he swallowed. "I have no one to tell. I'm isolated from my family and friends, I can't ever return to them. I'm completely cut-off. So. You know. Even if I ever knew. Your secrets are safe with me."

"We'll see," said Batman shortly. "For now, you will operate under me. I'll see what can be done, about...other things."

He thinks I'm lonely, Steve realized. He thinks I'm complaining. But he doesn’t know that for the first time in my life, I don’t have to watch my back. I don’t have to keep up appearances. I’m totally fucking alone...

...and somehow, I’m fucking okay.

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mocharyc · 2 months ago

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Invincible variants x reader Pt. 6✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

♡ A new variant appears?♡

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Broken Convergence‧ ₊ ˚

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

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

"YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD OMNI—!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Sneaking off to have her all to yourself!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Release her, Sinister."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Directly toward Y/N.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moment was shattered by a growl of rage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The attack came from all sides at once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We don't play fair anymore."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their Y/n.

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

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

Lensless Mark = No Goggles Mark

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