Imagine Where Invincible Variants Who Lost Their Reader Meet Reader Who Lost Their Mark, Does That Make

across timelines — johnny cage !

sum. seeing you again amidst armageddon overjoyed johnny, but, were you the you that he knew? whatever or whoever you were, all he knew was he was glad to see you alive.

author's notes. beyond pressing 'read more' – everything you'll read is purely fictional and based on the mind; spelling and grammar mistakes, spot them and get a price (aka my thanks), moreover, feedback and comments are highly valued! i hope you have a good reading experience. love, ian. ౨ৎ‧₊˚ ⋅

tags ・・・ johnny cage x reader, character death, angst, hurt/comfort, very mcu gamora and quill coded. does not accurately follow the storyline of mk1.

word count ・5.9k

send an ask → find more on the navi → find more on the mortal kombat masterlist !

johnny was still in place, motionless, his breathing stopped.

seeing your body drop down the floor, hearing it thud. bruises and scars decorating your skin, and blood weeping from your body staining the floor scarlet.

he could swear he'd watched how the life force drained from your body and dissolved into the wind, all from giving your all in the war to subdue your own mother, or at least one who was a splitting image of her.

"Y/N!!" he'd cry out, snapping from his trance. he'd run to your disheveled state, everything around you faded to black. "y/n.. no.. don't .. stay with me" he would plead, breaths heaving in desperation, trying to find reason and sense, how does he end your misery. his touch was delicate, afraid of hurting you even further, his hand would caress the back of your head and he would bring your half-asleep body closer to him. "y/n.. stay awake.. liu kang.. he can help you.." he would try, he would try to convince you, to convince himself, just to keep you with him, to persuade you to stay.

"johnny.." a soft plea in your voice, barely conscious, you were losing too much blood at this point. black spots clouded your vision, if you weren't fighting tooth and nail just to stay awake you probably couldn't feel how heavenly it was to be held by the jonathan carlton this way. finally. was this all it had to take? for him to finally hold you close... to hold you so tight, to never want to let you go. agonizing as it was, you'd force yourself to lift up your hand to his face, faintly feeling his ease into your touch.

"i'm here, y/n.." he'd reassure you. nothing felt better knowing, you know he's here with you. a small smile fell on your lips, before gradually, your eyes began to close. brows furrowed, johnny started panicking. "y/n? y/n? hey, don't be like this— y/n, y/n wake up!" he'd try to shake you slightly, until he shaked you more. "Y/N WAKE UP!" he'd cry louder, but to no use... you were...

"NO!"

johnny jolted from his slumber.

... gone. you were gone. truly... gone. forever.

his shoulder slump, his morale and his energy on the down low. it was the middle of the night and he'd awoke from his nightmare to another, the real one, this time. he couldn't bring himself to sleep again, he'd thought of you endlessly that night, dreading the fact of his not being there for you, that night where you had gone. why wasn't he where you were? why wasn't he with raiden and liu kang, why couldn't he stuck with you, like he promised?

how could he have slept at a time like this... gods only know how. a creeking noise would play in the dead of night, alerting johnny who arose from where he'd lain. "johnny.." he called, glowing white eyes, solemn and hints of worry in his voice – the god of fire and thunder wasn't well on hiding the heavy weights on his shoulder – johnny thought subconsciously, above all his concern, was his own exhaustion, what possibly could liu kang be barging inside his room for?

"come.. we must go." the lord said, it was not a simple ask, moreso an obligation.

this was it.

the .. the thing he had promised months ago, though at this point, it's felt like years for johnny.. this was.. this was gonna be the thing that would change the arc of his life..

for the better?

nah, how could it be? when you were... dead.

and he couldn't have done anything to prevent it. hell, liu kang couldn't. so how's this for the better? if it's without you?

he shrugged the thought off, he has to focus on now, as he walked alongside valiant warriors facing up against those who cowered up those stairs that descended from the heavens down to this hellscape.

"let's fucking dance" he'd say to himself, bouncing up and down to pump up in preparation, jazz and all.

then it began ...

cacophonies of war cries echoed from above and from behind him as everyone charged at each other. it was fucking arma fucking geddon. johnny rushed to reach the top, kicking, throwing, and punching anyone in the face, gladly, in their nuts— who got in his way. everytime he did, that sweet killer smile grew on his face, brushing off the sweat and blood that adorned his skin whilst continuing his descent towards the skies.

he was well on his way, when something suddenly clung to his ankle and dragged him down a LOT. "fuck!" he cursed out before trying to get back up, seeing who this fucker was trying to come for him, he was having none of it.

it was...

him.

"well if it isn't.. me" the other johnny seemed almost taken aback seeing johnny,

"just gonna put this out there, i'm the sexy one." johnny would taunt at him even when he was slightly struggling to get on his feet but he found himself bouncing right again ready to take this son of a bitch who was another version of himself, the other would just scoff, "yeah? well i'm sexier." a smirk etched on his stupid face, he would regret that for sure, johnny thought.

the other would launch forceballs at johnny but his were red, it was nothing to our ol' jonathan – dodging it like the plague. punishing the other with a crushing blow to the sternum with his shadow kick. he would laugh at his other who'd fall on his ass, groaning in pain, he'd go back to running up where he was supposed to go.

he ran and ran like there was no tomorrow, because it really felt like there wasn't gonna be anymore. he threw forceballs at anyone who got in his way, not caring anymore, he was gonna get up there and stop this shit.

and he got so close, closer, and closer!

and.. finally, he was there.

wow.. that was.. easy.

he'd scoff at the absurdity, that proved to be a mistake– when he got knocked down a few the pavement of the heavens.

"ow, what the fuck" he kept cursing, everyone's out for him today, no, literally.

he was about to crush the son of a bitch who tried him without pulling back his punches this time, when suddenly his arm clashes with theirs and time is stuck and still, as his eyes gaze back to the same eyes he'd missed terribly.

"...y/n..?" a call to the wind, above a whisper but beneath a yell, his heart doesn't know whether to pick up its pace in absolute euphoria or to slow down and cherish the small time in seeing you again.

oh he was so happy... so happy, he'd let his guard down.. as you did, surprisingly.

"you're alive..." a revelation to him.

an even bigger revelation to you,

who was this man? and why was he looking at you like this? ... nobody, you don't know this creep. you're alive? when had you not been?

"more than ever." you'd say, before swiftly moving forward to knee him in the groin. he'd groan aloud from the heavy impact.

kung lao hissed imagining the agony johnny must've experienced, "hurt like a bitch" johnny described poorly, eyes down, almost as if he wasn't upset at it, finding humor in the interaction with.. someone who resembled you. he almost laughed, but he'd smile smally instead.

he knows. he knows that lookalike wasn't you, because he remembers the you he'd known.

and he had no intention of forgetting you, ever. because across all the timelines that existed, of all the y/n's and the johnny's out there.

to him, the only y/n that mattered was you. and he knows you shared that sentiment. he was wholeheartedly yours, just the same way, you were his.

he would mourn you, for life.

being a writer is constantly google the definitions of words you already know the meanings of because your brain's always paranoid and telling you maybe you've been using them wrong your entire life

I can excuse misusing words in my daily life but my mlm slow-burn enemies to lovers smut has to be perfect

Steve solos

the little things

Pairing/s: Bi Han x Fem!Reader Warning/s: 18+ (mentions detailed smut), angst, a bit ooc bi han, sad bi han Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: He started to notice the little things. Author's note: hi! i apologize for not posting as much, i swear i am working on so much fics :')) my mind is just really focused on uni stuff but i promise i'll have more fics posted soon

a map filled with various markers drawn on areas—potential locations—where the shirai ryu could be found was laid out on top of the grandmaster's desk. bi han was bent over dozens of paperwork, he had worked tirelessly all night and day with cyrax and sektor planning the cyber initiative for the lin kuei clan.

he lifted his head away from the papers to take a short break from reading, shutting his eyes and rubbing his temples. when was the last time he had a good night's sleep? why did he suddenly feel such a heavy weight place itself upon his shoulders? his eyes lingering across the large study room; the sight of the two other empty desks puts a scowl on his face, the remembrance of his brothers' betrayal still ran deep within him. he then glanced at a far corner of the room, your bookshelf now littered with cyborg pieces and wires. despite the rage brewing inside, bi han could not help but also feel pain within him.

why did they all betray him? how could they all not see his vision for their clan? how could they just easily leave him alone like that?

their absence had majorly shifted the mood within the lin kuei palace. all the recruits were extremely on edge, servants stayed within their quarters for longer periods of time--only coming out to do their duties--or they'd leave and never return, and there was cold dull aura engulfing the area despite the many fires placed around.

for a time, bi han thought it was nothing; just minor adjustments he could handle. however, it only stuck out more like a rash he can never seem to get rid off. every time he took his meals in the dining hall, he felt... off. the sounds he could hear were cyrax and sektor's muttering about the technological advancements they were achieving. bi han was always only focused on himself and his own world, only eating quietly and eyes on his bowl, so please tell him why, when he raised his head to find out what was bothering him, did the table seem much bigger? were those seats always empty? why did these spaces pierce daggers into him? did he always eat so little?

he noticed that his blue ninja outfits after being stitched, did not have that sweet aroma he thought it naturally had. they stench of laundry soap.

after a long while, bi han then began to irritatably notice more of the little things.

during training, the silence of the yard haunts him, bi han noticed the absent sounds of tomas’ karambit hitting the wooden dummies, the sight of kuai liang polishing and sharpening his weapons while speaking to the recruits, tomas’ groans of frustration when he is beaten once again by kuai liang, or the way you praise bi han on when he’s dueling with either a group of lin kuei recruits or one of his brothers. the feeling of your gaze exploring his sweaty body no longer trailed across his skin, he's met with emptiness.

the halls of the lin kuei palace grow colder and its silent aura deafening. bi han has always hated the torturous presence of silence. it reminds him of the isolated bubble he’s built around himself ever since their mother died and his father forced rigorous teachings upon him, he was always required to train alone to avoid distractions and harden himself. from time to time, on his way to his isolation, he would catch both his brothers play fighting in the yard and they would invite him to join in but he’d give them the cold shoulder. this continued on for weeks and his response grew shorter and much more harsh, until finally they stopped and avoided him.

they now kept to themselves and instead of seeking them out, the hurt made bi han more irritated and more focused on his self-improvement; thinking they didn’t like him anymore.

he often thinks if what he did, choosing the betterment of his clan over his family, was the right decision. now, the meeting room where he missed your laugh and voice when you tell about the happenings of your day, kuai liang’s voice of reason when bi han had rash decisions during plannings, or tomas’ stupid bickering of their late father’s principles and ideals. now he stares at the map in front of him and the empty room excluding cyrax and sektor in the corner tinkering with god knows what.

the missing warmth made him shiver, you would always have your hands on his shoulder when he was hunched over the table like this; easing his stress and ice cold blood. he could feel a phantom of you over him, but he yearned for your skin against his, your lips leaving pecks on his nape. bi han sighed in exhaustion.

sektor noticed this, “grandmaster, are you alright?” she faced her leader and cautiously walked towards his figure, not wanting to intrude on his personal space.

bi han just nodded, “i am feeling tired, continue on without me. i wish to lie for a bit.” he said, before pushing himself away from the table and walking towards the door.

“But the plans bi ha—“

“i said i will lie for a bit. did you not hear me sektor?” bi han growled.

“yes, grandmaster. we shall await you.” sektor stepped back, watching her leader’s figure exit the study room.

bi han let out a loud exhale before making his way back to his bedroom.

if kuai liang and tomas were here, they’d immediately recommend bi han to go to bed once he shows any sign of exhaustion. they would always reassure him that they could handle the responsibilities for the night, he needed to get some well-deserved rest and should spend some time with his wife. bi han would remember the way they had to call you to the study to be able to persuade him to go to bed. he was offended they would treat him like a child like this but deep down inside, he appreciated the caring gesture—plus he loved seeing you puff your cheeks out of frustration.

his steps grow heavy—the excitement of going to bed now fades slowly since your presence was the only thing that made him feel at ease. the long silent hallways kept draining every ounce of hope and bits of happiness left within him, the mask that he wears became suffocating and the lin kuei badge now burns on his chest as he feels it was the major reason for the decisions he’s made. memories flood through him as he passes by the doors and picture frames along the hallway.

he distinctly remembers the way he fucked you against the walls of this hallway, you were teasing him all day and pressured him to chase around the palace while the others were on missions of their own. he remembers the way he grabbed you by the hair and back-hugged you tightly, grinding his pelvis into your ass and his cold lips between your neck and shoulder. he remembers the feeling of your legs around his waist as he pounded you into the wall, your nails digging and scratching on his back—he could still feel the burning sensation. his hands remember the curviness of your body and the juicy flesh of your ass in his fingertips, keeping you so closely connected to his sweaty body. he remembers how you moaned his name so loud it echoed around the halls, your breathless pants and screams never ceased along with the skin slapping against skin. the picture frames falling from their hooks with every thrust of his hips into yours.

he, especially, remembers your whispers of affection along his lips when he creamed into your pussy. bi han felt his heart swell that moment, he loved you so dearly and deeply. he would freeze the world to a standstill if it meant being with you for all eternity.

after that, he brought you to both of yours’ shared bedroom, crashing on the bed and cuddling you close. he could even remember the sounds of your giggles at his intimate actions.

bi han slams the door of his bedroom open, your faint aroma hit his nose and his eyes sadly glance at the neatly made empty bed. he pictured your figure reading one of the lin kuei history books, your favorite tea sitting on your bedside table. now he is greeted with nothing but the consequences of his own actions. he shivered from the cold breeze coming from the open window as it brushes against his skin, you always wanted it wide open because you loved watching the sun rise as you awake in the morning. the warmth of the sun enveloping your hugged figures.

he closed the door behind him and walked to his small cabinet in the corner, his hands go up to his face to take of his mask and carelessly tossed it on the surface. bi han rubbed his temples trying to ease his head pain.

finally realizing that he could not have the energy to go back to cyrax and sektor, he unbuttoned his blue-tattered uniform and tossed it in a hamper nearby, leaving him topless and his black pants. he then dragged his tired figure to sit at the end of the bed. he bent down to take his shoes off and put them aside—if you were here, you’d tell him to properly put them in the corner of the room so that none of you would trip over it in the morning.

suddenly, he felt tears pricking in the corner of his eyes. bi han took deep slow breaths and swallowed just so that he could stop the sobs that threatened to escape his lips. he deeply regrets taking the risk of trusting shang tsung’s word, but you would understand that all he did was release them from liu kang’s clutches, right? could you take him back? could any of you take him back after what he’s done? would you three listen to the reason why he did what he had to do? if he had the chance to meet you again, could you give him a second chance to make things right?

his thoughts consume him the entire evening, and he eventually finally lies his head on the pillows. the covers shielded and hid him from the blowing evening breeze, but it couldn't stop the ice from forming within the deepened hole of his heart nor hide the tears flowing down his cheeks.

A/N: ok idk if i like this but the idea came to me so good adhakdjsj also i know this is not the kung lao and raiden x reader fic i was writing for almost weeks now but i needed to get this off my chest and drafts ajsndjkhabdks angsty bi han is best bi han

i’m losing it

across timelines — johnny cage !

sum. seeing you again amidst armageddon overjoyed johnny, but, were you the you that he knew? whatever or whoever you were, all he knew was he was glad to see you alive.

author's notes. beyond pressing 'read more' – everything you'll read is purely fictional and based on the mind; spelling and grammar mistakes, spot them and get a price (aka my thanks), moreover, feedback and comments are highly valued! i hope you have a good reading experience. love, ian. ౨ৎ‧₊˚ ⋅

tags ・・・ johnny cage x reader, character death, angst, hurt/comfort, very mcu gamora and quill coded. does not accurately follow the storyline of mk1.

word count ・5.9k

send an ask → find more on the navi → find more on the mortal kombat masterlist !

johnny was still in place, motionless, his breathing stopped.

seeing your body drop down the floor, hearing it thud. bruises and scars decorating your skin, and blood weeping from your body staining the floor scarlet.

he could swear he'd watched how the life force drained from your body and dissolved into the wind, all from giving your all in the war to subdue your own mother, or at least one who was a splitting image of her.

"Y/N!!" he'd cry out, snapping from his trance. he'd run to your disheveled state, everything around you faded to black. "y/n.. no.. don't .. stay with me" he would plead, breaths heaving in desperation, trying to find reason and sense, how does he end your misery. his touch was delicate, afraid of hurting you even further, his hand would caress the back of your head and he would bring your half-asleep body closer to him. "y/n.. stay awake.. liu kang.. he can help you.." he would try, he would try to convince you, to convince himself, just to keep you with him, to persuade you to stay.

"johnny.." a soft plea in your voice, barely conscious, you were losing too much blood at this point. black spots clouded your vision, if you weren't fighting tooth and nail just to stay awake you probably couldn't feel how heavenly it was to be held by the jonathan carlton this way. finally. was this all it had to take? for him to finally hold you close... to hold you so tight, to never want to let you go. agonizing as it was, you'd force yourself to lift up your hand to his face, faintly feeling his ease into your touch.

"i'm here, y/n.." he'd reassure you. nothing felt better knowing, you know he's here with you. a small smile fell on your lips, before gradually, your eyes began to close. brows furrowed, johnny started panicking. "y/n? y/n? hey, don't be like this— y/n, y/n wake up!" he'd try to shake you slightly, until he shaked you more. "Y/N WAKE UP!" he'd cry louder, but to no use... you were...

"NO!"

johnny jolted from his slumber.

... gone. you were gone. truly... gone. forever.

his shoulder slump, his morale and his energy on the down low. it was the middle of the night and he'd awoke from his nightmare to another, the real one, this time. he couldn't bring himself to sleep again, he'd thought of you endlessly that night, dreading the fact of his not being there for you, that night where you had gone. why wasn't he where you were? why wasn't he with raiden and liu kang, why couldn't he stuck with you, like he promised?

how could he have slept at a time like this... gods only know how. a creeking noise would play in the dead of night, alerting johnny who arose from where he'd lain. "johnny.." he called, glowing white eyes, solemn and hints of worry in his voice – the god of fire and thunder wasn't well on hiding the heavy weights on his shoulder – johnny thought subconsciously, above all his concern, was his own exhaustion, what possibly could liu kang be barging inside his room for?

"come.. we must go." the lord said, it was not a simple ask, moreso an obligation.

this was it.

the .. the thing he had promised months ago, though at this point, it's felt like years for johnny.. this was.. this was gonna be the thing that would change the arc of his life..

for the better?

nah, how could it be? when you were... dead.

and he couldn't have done anything to prevent it. hell, liu kang couldn't. so how's this for the better? if it's without you?

he shrugged the thought off, he has to focus on now, as he walked alongside valiant warriors facing up against those who cowered up those stairs that descended from the heavens down to this hellscape.

"let's fucking dance" he'd say to himself, bouncing up and down to pump up in preparation, jazz and all.

then it began ...

cacophonies of war cries echoed from above and from behind him as everyone charged at each other. it was fucking arma fucking geddon. johnny rushed to reach the top, kicking, throwing, and punching anyone in the face, gladly, in their nuts— who got in his way. everytime he did, that sweet killer smile grew on his face, brushing off the sweat and blood that adorned his skin whilst continuing his descent towards the skies.

he was well on his way, when something suddenly clung to his ankle and dragged him down a LOT. "fuck!" he cursed out before trying to get back up, seeing who this fucker was trying to come for him, he was having none of it.

it was...

him.

"well if it isn't.. me" the other johnny seemed almost taken aback seeing johnny,

"just gonna put this out there, i'm the sexy one." johnny would taunt at him even when he was slightly struggling to get on his feet but he found himself bouncing right again ready to take this son of a bitch who was another version of himself, the other would just scoff, "yeah? well i'm sexier." a smirk etched on his stupid face, he would regret that for sure, johnny thought.

the other would launch forceballs at johnny but his were red, it was nothing to our ol' jonathan – dodging it like the plague. punishing the other with a crushing blow to the sternum with his shadow kick. he would laugh at his other who'd fall on his ass, groaning in pain, he'd go back to running up where he was supposed to go.

he ran and ran like there was no tomorrow, because it really felt like there wasn't gonna be anymore. he threw forceballs at anyone who got in his way, not caring anymore, he was gonna get up there and stop this shit.

and he got so close, closer, and closer!

and.. finally, he was there.

wow.. that was.. easy.

he'd scoff at the absurdity, that proved to be a mistake– when he got knocked down a few the pavement of the heavens.

"ow, what the fuck" he kept cursing, everyone's out for him today, no, literally.

he was about to crush the son of a bitch who tried him without pulling back his punches this time, when suddenly his arm clashes with theirs and time is stuck and still, as his eyes gaze back to the same eyes he'd missed terribly.

"...y/n..?" a call to the wind, above a whisper but beneath a yell, his heart doesn't know whether to pick up its pace in absolute euphoria or to slow down and cherish the small time in seeing you again.

oh he was so happy... so happy, he'd let his guard down.. as you did, surprisingly.

"you're alive..." a revelation to him.

an even bigger revelation to you,

who was this man? and why was he looking at you like this? ... nobody, you don't know this creep. you're alive? when had you not been?

"more than ever." you'd say, before swiftly moving forward to knee him in the groin. he'd groan aloud from the heavy impact.

kung lao hissed imagining the agony johnny must've experienced, "hurt like a bitch" johnny described poorly, eyes down, almost as if he wasn't upset at it, finding humor in the interaction with.. someone who resembled you. he almost laughed, but he'd smile smally instead.

he knows. he knows that lookalike wasn't you, because he remembers the you he'd known.

and he had no intention of forgetting you, ever. because across all the timelines that existed, of all the y/n's and the johnny's out there.

to him, the only y/n that mattered was you. and he knows you shared that sentiment. he was wholeheartedly yours, just the same way, you were his.

he would mourn you, for life.

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 2 ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

☆ A distance night with Mohawk ♡ ~ Pt. 1 ৻( •̀ ᗜ •́ ৻)

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ First Watch ‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 4k+ [Part 2]

☆ TW: Major Fluff ♡

☆ Summary: Mohawk acts like a turd but I believe he's good at heart. (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡ He's just on the cusp of a broken mind, def the one to talk to himself for comfort.

–––––––––––––––––– ♡ Mohawk Marks p.o.v ♡

Six fucking hours.

Mohawk Mark stared down at Y/N's unconscious form, still hardly believing she was real. The cabin felt too small, too quiet after the others had left—each of them casting lingering glances at Y/N before departing with thinly veiled reluctance. He caught Sinister's black and yellow suit from the corner of his eye, the demonic bastard's lips curling into that signature psychotic grin that made Mark's blood boil.

"Yeah, fuck off," Mohawk had sneered as they filed out, making sure to flip off Emperor Mark's retreating back, the yellow and blue-ish gray fluttering around him like he was some kind of goddamn royalty. "She's mine for now."

When the door finally closed, leaving him alone with her, the gravity of the situation hit him like a cement truck. She was here. Actually fucking here. Different universe, same face, same everything—but alive. 

Not dead like his Y/N. And from that fight she'd put up against all eight of them, she was fucking strong. Stronger than his Y/N had been.

"Shit," he muttered, running his hand through his now-drooping mohawk, the black tips falling limply over his forehead. Dismissing his tattered suit, he looks around the cabin. "This place is a goddamn mess."

His eyes fell on the crumpled body of the cabin's former occupant, still leaking blood onto the rough wooden floor where Sinister had left him. The old man's eyes stared at nothing, his throat a gaping red smile courtesy of Sinister's unnecessarily theatrical kill. The crimson puddle spread across the uneven floorboards, seeping into the cracks between the planks, filling the musty air with the coppery scent of death.

"Fucking drama queen couldn't just snap your neck, could he?" Mohawk grumbled, grabbing the corpse by its ankles, lifting the man like he weighed nothing. "Had to make a whole production out of it. Typical Sinister bullshit."

He carried the body toward the door, the blood trailing, leaving a dark smear across the floorboards. The dead weight was nothing to him—he could bench press a tank without breaking a sweat—but the awkwardness of maneuvering the stiffening corpse through the narrow doorway had him cursing up a storm.

"Motherfucking!—Tiny-ass—backwoods—piece of shit—CABIN!—" Each word punctuated with a violent tug of the fat man's body through the door frame, not wanting to destroy the cabin. Finally, with a sickening snap of ligaments, he just ripped the man's arms off and easily pulled the torso outside, blood spattering across his blue and black suit.

He stood on the small porch, taking a moment to breathe in the nice crisp cold night air. The forest surrounded them, ancient pines stretching toward a star-studded sky, their silhouettes black against the deep blue canvas. No fire, no blood-curdling screams or destruction… His life felt instantly peaceful, now that he had Y/N back in it. A foreign feeling after eighteen months of rage and pain.

He sighed softly, scanning the dense forest surrounding them. No witnesses, no neighbors, nothing but trees and wilderness for miles. Perfect isolation.

 With casual disregard, he hurled the corpse as far as he could, making sure to yeet the two severed arms as well, sending the body parts arcing high above the treeline miles away before disappearing into the forest with a distant, muffled crash.

"Rest in pieces, old timer," he snorted at his own joke, wiping his bloodied hands on his thighs. "Nothing personal. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong universe."

Back inside, he surveyed the cabin with critical eyes. It was rustic, to put it kindly—a single room with a small kitchenette in one corner, its countertops stained with years of use, cupboards hanging slightly askew. A bathroom barely large enough to turn around in, with a shower that probably hadn't seen hot water since the Cold War. And a bed that had probably been new when Nixon was president, sagging in the middle under a faded quilt that smelled of mothballs and regret.

"This is bullshit," he muttered, kicking at a worn rug that might have once been colorful but now was just a sad, faded thing covering even sadder floorboards. "She deserves better than this shithole."

His eyes returned to Y/N, still lying motionless where they'd placed her on the floor. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her face serene despite everything she'd been through. The angry red marks where the collar had dug into her neck stood out in stark contrast against her skin. A permanent scar burned into her delicate skin, a constant reminder of the GDA's cruelty.

"Fuck," he breathed, anger bubbling up inside him like magma. "I'll kill every last one of those GDA assholes. Turn their fucking building into a crater. Make them wish they'd never even thought about putting a collar on you."

He stood there for a moment, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked, before forcing himself to focus. She needed rest, comfort. Not him raging uselessly about revenge.

"Let's get you somewhere more comfortable than the fucking floor," he said, kneeling beside her. His hands—hands that had crushed throats and shattered bones—hovered uncertainly above her for a moment before he gently steadied one under her head, the other beneath the small of her back. It felt strange being so careful—he'd spent most of his existence breaking things, not cradling them.

He laid her on the bed, but immediately grimaced at the musty smell that rose from the ancient mattress, picking her back up and gently tossing her over his shoulder with one arm. "Jesus Christ, this thing reeks worse than Prisoner Mark's armpits. And that's saying something—dude smells like he bathes in toxic waste."

On impulse, he stripped the bed, yanking off sheets that might have once been white but were now a dingy gray. They came away with a cloud of dust that had him coughing and cursing.

"Fucking disgusting," he spat, bundling the offending bedding and tossing it out the window, the glass shattering with a spray outside at the immense force. "Great, what now, genius?"

He searched through the cabin's sparse storage, finding only one spare set of sheets that didn't look much better than the ones he'd discarded. 

Still, he struggled to make the bed, wrestling with fitted corners that refused to stay put and a flat sheet that somehow ended up more wrinkled than when he started.

"How the fuck does anyone do this shit?" he growled, giving the sheet a violent snap that nearly took out a lamp. "Is there a goddamn degree in bed-making I missed? No wonder Viltrumite Mark has that stick up his ass if this is what 'domestic life' is like."

After ten minutes of increasingly creative curses, he'd produced something vaguely resembling a made bed. It wasn't pretty, but it was better than the floor.

With exaggerated care, he placed Y/N on the fresh—well, fresher—sheets, arranging her limbs in what he hoped was a comfortable position. 

Her hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare at her bruised face, so peaceful in unconsciousness, so heartbreakingly familiar.

"There you go, sleeping beauty," he murmured, his usual harsh tone softening despite himself. "Not exactly five-star accommodation, but it's safe. Nobody's gonna hurt you here. Not while I'm around."

He stared at her face, drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst. Same full lips, same curve of her cheekbones, same tiny scar above her right eyebrow. His fingers itched to trace that scar, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, to reassure himself that she was real and not some cruel hallucination.

"Not gonna be a creep while you're knocked out," he told her unconscious form, shoving his hands to his sides, pinching at the fabric of his suit. "I'm an asshole, not a fucking monster. Though Sinister probably would've—" He cut himself off, unwilling to even think about what that psychopath might have done if left alone with her.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to move away from the bedside. Instead, he dragged over the cabin's only chair—a rickety wooden thing that groaned ominously under his weight—and sat down to keep watch. The fading light cast long shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate arch of her cheekbones, the soft curve of her jaw.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking off the seconds of his six-hour vigil. Outside, daylight was fading, golden light barely painting the darkened sky, filtering through the dusty windows and painting long shadows across the uneven floorboards. A tiny beam of sunlight caught particles of dust, making them dance like tiny stars in the otherwise dim room.

"So," he said to the silence, his voice oddly loud in the quiet cabin as he tapped his fingers together.

"Guess I should introduce myself, huh? I'm Mark. Well, obviously I'm fucking Mark—you've seen eight of us now, poor bastard. But I'm the best one. The rest are just cheap knockoffs."

He chuckled humorlessly, dragging his hand through his mohawk again, trying to reshape it into its usual spiky glory without much success. The blue and black ends stuck out at odd angles, making him look more deranged than usual.

"They call me Mohawk Mark. Creative as shit, right? But in my universe, I'm just... Mark. Mark who fucked up. Mark who couldn't save you."

His voice caught on the last word, raw emotion surfacing before he could shove it back down. Memories he'd tried to bury came flooding back—her smile, her laugh, the way she'd roll her eyes at his worst jokes but laugh anyway. The way she'd been the only one who saw past his bullshit, who wasn't afraid to call him on it.

"You died," he said flatly, the words falling like stones in the quiet room. "In my universe. You fucking died, and it was my fault..."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his bloodstained hands. Hands that had failed to save her when it mattered most.

"We were... together. Not just fucking—although that was pretty goddamn amazing—but really together. You were the only person who didn't take my shit, who pushed back when I was being a dick. Which was, you know, most of the time."

A bitter smile twisted his lips.

"I was such an arrogant prick. Thought I was invincible—ha, get it? Fucking hilarious—thought nothing could touch me. Or you, because you were with me. But then this asshole came along, this nobody with a grudge and some Viltrumite tech he'd stolen. Didn't even see him coming."

Mohawk's voice dropped to a whisper, his usual bravado stripped away.

"You pushed me out of the way. Can you believe that shit? ME. The guy who can stop a bullet with his fucking eyelash, and you... you just..."

He broke off, the memory too vivid—her body, broken and bleeding, in his arms. The way the Viltrumite tech had torn through her like she was made of tissue paper, leaving a gaping hole where her heart should have been. The way her blood had felt, hot and sticky, pouring over his hands as he tried desperately to hold her together. The light Instantly fading from her eyes as he screamed for help that wouldn't come in time.

"There was so much blood," he whispered, his voice cracking. "All over me, all over the ground. I tried to stop it, tried to hold you together, but it just kept coming. And you—you looked up at me, and you fucking smiled. Like you were happy it was you and not me. Then you tried to say something, but there was blood in your mouth, and you just... you just stopped. Right there in my arms."

He swallowed hard, his throat tight.

"You died protecting me. Me! The biggest asshole in the universe! The Invincible one! Who does that? Who throws away their life for someone like me?"

He stood abruptly, the chair skittering backward as he paced the small confines of the cabin, too much raw energy coursing through him to stay still. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, a counterpoint to the ticking clock.

"I buried you myself," he continued, the words pouring out now. "Wouldn't let anyone else touch you. Dug the grave with my bare hands, six feet deep in that spot by the lake you loved. Covered it with those wildflowers you were always going on about. And then I hunted down the fucker who killed you. Made him suffer. Made him beg. And when I was done, there wasn't enough left of him to bury."

He paused, staring out the window at the setting sun, its dying rays painting the forest in shades of gold and red.

"And then this multiverse bullshit started, and Angstrom found me. Said I could take my anger out on another world, another universe. Destroy a place where nothing mattered because it wasn't my reality. Sounded like a pretty sweet fucking deal at the time."

He stopped at the window, his brown eyes staring out at the darkening forest. The first stars were beginning to appear, tiny pinpricks of light in the deepening blue.

"But then we found you. Or I found you, I should say. Those other dipshits would've just zapped past you if I hadn't recognized you first. Would've missed you completely, the blind bastards."

He turned back to look at her, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable, all pretense and bravado stripped away.

"And now I don't know what the fuck to do. Because you're not her—not my Y/N. But you look like her, sound like her. And those assholes out there?" He jerked his thumb toward the door. 

"They're going to try to take you for themselves. Each one of them. Emperor Mark with his 'I rule the world' bullshit. Viltrumite Mark probably wants to breed a whole army of super-soldiers with you. Phantom Mark might seem nice, but he's just as fucked up as the rest of us. No-Mask can't shut up about his friend William, but he'll want you too. Omni mark may seem mature and collected, but he's got a dark mind beneath that fucking stoic face. And Sinister?" He shook his head, a shiver running down his spine. "That guy gives me the creeps, and I'm not exactly squeamish."

He returned to the bedside, carefully perching on the edge of the mattress. The bed creaked beneath his weight, but held firm.

"But I found you first," he said, a possessive edge creeping into his voice. "And I'm not letting you go this time. No fucking way. I'd rather tear this whole universe apart."

He tentatively reached out, finally allowing himself to brush a strand of hair from her face. His touch was surprisingly gentle for hands that had torn through concrete and steel. His fingertips lingered, barely touching her skin, as if afraid she might shatter like glass.

"We should've had more time," he whispered. "In my universe, we should've had years. Decades. Instead, I got eighteen months, two weeks, and four days."

The specificity of the number hung in the air between them—every day counted, treasured, mourned.

"This time will be different," he promised, his voice hardening with determination. "I'll kill anyone who tries to hurt you. Including those alternate versions of me. They didn't protect their Y/Ns either, so they don't deserve you any more than I do."

A humorless laugh escaped him.

"I sound like a jealous psycho, don't I? Guess that's what losing you did to me. Made me fucking crazyyyy. But I don't care. You're here. You're alive. And I'm not letting you go.”

Outside, twilight was deepening into night. Through the window, stars were beginning to appear, pin-pricks of light in the growing darkness. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, the sound carrying clearly in the still air. Mohawk Mark settled more comfortably on the edge of the bed, his large frame incongruous with his gentle movements.

"Not gonna lie, this is gonna get messy," he told her unconscious form. "Eight Marks, all with their heads up their asses, all thinking they have some special claim on you? Recipe for disaster. Especially sinister…" He shook his head, a soft groan running through him. "Better if you stay far away from that psychopath."

He sighed, rubbing his slightly bruised face with both hands.

"And me? I just want a second chance. To do it right this time. To keep you safe."

His eyes drifted to the clock. Five hours and twenty-three minutes left of his watch.

"You know what's really fucked up?" he said conversationally, as if she might answer. "In those shitty romance movies you used to make me watch, there's always some speech about how 'if you love someone, let them go.' But that's bullshit. I let you go once—not by choice—and it broke me. So this time?" His jaw set in a determined line. "This time I'm hanging on. I don't care if it's selfish or wrong or whatever. I get a do-over, and I'm taking it."

He reached out again, his fingertips barely brushing against her hand. Her skin was warm—alive—and the contact sent electricity shooting up his arm. How long had it been since he'd touched her? Since he'd felt anything but rage and emptiness?

"I just need you to wake up," he whispered. "Wake up and remember me somehow. Not likely, I know, but hey—a multiverse exists, so anything's possible, right? Maybe there's a version of you that remembers a version of me."

Outside, an owl hooted softly, its call carrying through the still night air. Inside, Mohawk Mark settled in for his vigil, his eyes never leaving Y/N's face, as if by sheer force of will he could bring her back to consciousness.

"Take your time," he said softly. "I've got five hours left, and I'm not going anywhere."

The cabin creaked and settled around them, the wooden beams contracting in the cooling night air. Moonlight now streamed through the window he'd broken, casting eerie shadows across the floor. 

In the silence, his thoughts wandered, memories surfacing like bubbles in still water.

"Remember that time we went to that shitty carnival?" he asked her sleeping form, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You made me ride that ferris wheel even though my legs were too damn long for the seat. When it stopped at the top, you kissed me and said you liked seeing me vulnerable for once."

He laughed softly, the sound strange even to his own ears. When was the last time he'd laughed without bitter sarcasm?

"Or that night I came back from that fight with those Dinosaurus, all bloody and fucked up? You didn't say a word, just cleaned me up, bandaged what needed bandaging, then tore me a new one for being reckless. Said if I got myself killed, you'd find a way to bring me back just to kill me yourself."

His voice caught on the last word. The irony wasn't lost on him.

"Guess I'm the one who found a way to bring you back…"

He glanced at the clock again. Four hours and fifty-seven minutes.

"Sinister's got next watch," he muttered darkly. "No fucking way am I leaving you alone with him. Guy's more unhinged than I am, and that's saying something. The things he did in his universe..." He shuddered. "Let's just say even I've got lines I won't cross."

Mohawk stood up, restless energy making it impossible to sit still any longer. He paced the length of the cabin, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight.

"You should see Emperor Mark," he continued, needing to fill the silence. "Strutting around like he owns the fucking multiverse. 'I am the supreme ruler of Earth,' blah blah blah. Bet you'd have knocked him down a peg or two. You never did have patience for that kind of bullshit."

The memory of her standing up to him, hands on hips, not backing down even when he towered over her, made something twist painfully in his chest.

"You were never afraid of me," he said quietly. "Everyone else—even other heroes—they'd flinch when I got angry. Not you. You'd get right up in my face, tell me to stop being a dramatic asshole." He smiled, a genuine one this time. "God, I loved that about you."

The word 'loved' hung in the air, and he froze, suddenly aware of what he'd said. Loved. Past tense. Because his Y/N was gone, and this woman on the bed, no matter how identical, wasn't her.

"Fuck," he whispered, running both hands through his hair. "This is so fucked up."

He moved to the kitchenette, rifling through the cupboards for anything to distract himself. Finding a bottle of whiskey, he uncapped it and took a long swig, grimacing at the burn.

"Tastes like piss," he muttered, but took another drink anyway. The alcohol wouldn't affect him—his metabolism was too efficient for that—but the ritual was comforting in its familiarity.

A sudden sound from outside had him instantly alert, the bottle forgotten as he moved silently to the window. His enhanced vision cut through the darkness, scanning the treeline for any sign of movement. A deer stepped cautiously into the clearing, ears twitching, and he relaxed marginally.

"Just Bambi," he said, returning to Y/N's bedside. "Though with our luck, it's probably Bambi with a grudge and a nuclear warhead."

He settled back into the chair, bottle dangling from his fingertips. For a while, he just watched her breathe, the steady rise and fall of her chest hypnotic in the quiet room.

"You know what scares me?" he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. "That you'll wake up, take one look at me, and see a monster. That you'll run screaming. That you'll hate me for what I am, what I've done."

He took another swig from the bottle.

"I wasn't always like this," he continued. "The hair, yeah—that was a rebellious phase that stuck. But the rest? The violence, the rage? That came after. After you died, after I realized that all my power meant jack shit when it mattered."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"I killed him slow," he admitted, voice flat. "The guy who took you from me. Made it last days. Kept him conscious the whole time. Told myself it was justice, but it was just... emptiness. Trying to fill a hole that couldn't be filled." He laughed bitterly. "Pretty fucking poetic for a guy who didn't graduate high school, huh?"

A soft moan from the bed had him instantly on his feet, bottle clattering forgotten to the floor. Y/N's eyelids fluttered, but didn't open, her face slightly contorting in pain.

"Y/N?" he whispered, heart hammering. "Can you hear me?"

She shifted slightly, a frown creasing her forehead, but remained unconscious. He exhaled slowly, equal parts disappointed and relieved. He wasn't ready yet—didn't know what he'd say when those eyes finally opened and looked at him without recognition.

"Not yet, huh?" he murmured, gently adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. "That's okay. You've been through hell. Take your time."

He retrieved the bottle from where it had rolled under the bed, setting it on the nightstand.

"When you do wake up," he said, sinking back into the chair, "things are gonna get complicated. Eight Marks, each one thinking they've got dibs on you? It's gonna be a clusterfuck of epic proportions."

He studied her face in the moonlight, memorizing every detail all over again.

"But I'll be there," he promised. "I'll keep you safe from them, from the GDA, from whatever other bullshit this universe throws at us. Even if you don't remember me. Even if you never..." He swallowed hard. "Even if you never feel about me the way my Y/N did."

The clock ticked on, marking the passing minutes. Three hours and twenty-two minutes left.

"I should probably talk strategy," he said, switching gears. "Sinister and Emperor are the obvious threats. They'll try to use you, control you. Viltrumite's more subtle, but just as dangerous. No-Mask and Prisoner are wild cards—unpredictable. Omni should be okay for now, he's a wait to the last second type of guy. And Phantom..." He frowned. "He's the one to watch. Plays the sympathy card, all 'I miss my mom' and shit, but he's got an agenda. They all do."

He stood up again, too restless to remain seated.

"Only safe Mark in the bunch is me," he declared with dark humor. "And I'm a complete psychopath according to most psychiatric evaluations. So that's saying something."

As if in response to his self-assessment, Y/N's fingers twitched, curling slightly into the sheets. He was at her side in an instant, his eyes glued to her hand, then her face, back to her hand. watching intently for any sign of consciousness.

"Y/N?" he whispered, hope creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "You with me?"

Nothing. Just the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing.

"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand down his face. "Now I'm seeing things. Get it together, Mark."

He retreated to the window, staring out at the moonlit forest. The night was clear, stars scattered across the black velvet sky like diamonds. In another life, they might have been lying on a blanket somewhere, her head on his chest as she pointed out constellations he pretended to be interested in.

"You used to love the stars," he said softly. "Could name all the constellations, all that shit. I never got it—they're just balls of gas burning billions of miles away—but you'd talk about them like they were magic."

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass.

"After you died, I couldn't look at them anymore. Kept thinking about how the light from some of those stars takes years to reach us. So maybe, some of that light started its journey when you were still alive. Like some part of you was still out there, somewhere."

He laughed at himself, the sound hollow in the quiet room.

"Pathetic, right? Big bad Mohawk Mark, getting all philosophical about starlight." He shook his head. "The others would never let me live it down if they heard me now."

The thought of the other Marks sobered him. Each one was dangerous in his own way, each one a twisted reflection of what he might have become under different circumstances. And each one would want Y/N for himself.

"I won't share you," he said, turning back to face her. "Not with them, not with anyone. They can have this whole fucking universe to tear apart, but you? You're off-limits."

He returned to the bedside, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress. His hand hovered above hers, wanting to touch but hesitating.

"I know it's selfish," he admitted. "You're not my Y/N. You don't know me, don't owe me anything. But I've spent eighteen months in hell without you, and now you're here, and I just..." He exhaled sharply. "I just need a second chance."

Finally, he allowed himself to take her hand in his, engulfing her smaller fingers in his palm. Her skin was soft, warm—alive. The simple contact made his chest constrict.

"When you wake up," he said, voice rough with emotion, "you can tell me to fuck off. You can run as far from me as you want. But until then, I'm staying right here. Keeping you safe."

A memory surfaced—Y/N in his kitchen, attempting to cook something complicated, cursing colorfully as smoke billowed from the oven. He'd laughed until she threw a dishrag at his head, then pulled her against him, still laughing as she pounded her fists against his chest in mock outrage.

"You used to say I was the worst boyfriend in the multiverse," he recalled, a smile tugging at his lips. "Turns out you were right, just not in the way you meant. There are literally seven other versions of me, and every single one of them is fucked up in their own special way."

He glanced at the clock again. Two hours and forty-five minutes.

"You know what? Sinister can go fuck himself. Emperor too. I'm not leaving when my time's up. If they want to try and move me, they're welcome to try."

He shifted, carefully arranging himself so he was sitting with his back against the headboard, her hand still clasped loosely in his. For the first time since she'd died, a flicker of something that might have been hope kindled in his chest.

"Wake up or don't wake up," he told her. "Either way, I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."

Outside, a wolf howled, the sound echoing through the trees. Another answered, then another, a chorus of wild voices in the darkness. Mohawk Mark settled in, Y/N's hand still in his, to wait out the night.

"Take your time, sleeping beauty," he murmured. "I've got all the time in the world."

–––––––––––––– Next chapter may be freaky, or just crazy lol. haven't decided yet ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

Pt. 1

omg i fucked up nejsidjejejeje

One of my favorite videos that I’ve found on TikTok :):)

posting soon maybe by monday iawuhdiahd see u xo