meghiee

[meghiee]

Mandatory beach episode with Omni-mark and sunshine reader 🤖 teaching the poor guy how to take a day off and how to relax - plus super awesome sexy y/n in a bikini 🥳

a/n: i kept this pretty gn BUT there is some of mark kinda freaking out over reader showing skin :')

omni!mark x reader

warnings: established relationship, thats it :)

summary: a beach day... with a superpowered grump who shows up in full gear! you're determined to get mark to relax, even if it kills him.

-

You'd been planning it all week. Sun, sand, and maybe a cold drink or two. You had exactly one goal for the day: get Mark Grayson to relax.

Which, was easier said than done, especially when your boyfriend was half Viltrumite, emotionally repressed, and carried the weight of planetary defense on his shoulders like a walking guilt complex.

But, you'd worn him down, finally, and he'd agreed, somewhat begrudgingly, to join you for a "normal" beach day.

You packed snacks, towels, water bottles, and bug spray, just incase the universe decided to be a little extra annoying today. Oh, and sunscreen. Even if Mark was technically invincible (ha ha get it), you weren't, and more importantly, he promised he'd try to take the day off.

You picked a spot just a little outside the main crowd, but somewhere you could still hear the waves crashing, and just far enough from screaming toddlers and sand-kicking volleyball bros.

At 10:00 A.M. sharp, you texted him: "where are you alien boy"

At 10:05, you heard a boom of displaced air and looked up to see a familiar figure descending from the sky like a cranky comet. You immediately wanted to throttle him.

"Mark," you called, shading your eyes from the sun above him. He landed with a light thud, boots hitting the sand like he wasn't drawing attention to himself (he definitely was...) His arms were crossed, his brow already furrowed, and worst of all... he was in full uniform. Capes. Boots. Gloves. The whole thing...

Your hands went to your hips, "seriously?" He blinked in confusion, "What?"

"You're wearing your costume."

"I didn't know what else to wear," he muttered, voice flat as ever, "this is what I always wear."

You crossed you arms, pursing your lips. "Yeah, ok... to fight alien warlords, not the beach!"

Mark looked down at himself like he was just now realizing the cape might not be standard beachwear. "I don't own swimwear," he said stiffly, shifting awkwardly. You sighed, grabbing his hand.

"Okay, no biggie. There's a little shop across the street, we'll go there."

The beach shop was small, a bit cluttered, and the air was filled with the scent of sunscreen and coconut candles. Mark stood in the middle of it like a giraffe in a phone booth, his cape brushing over displays of novelty tank tops and plastic beach pails.

You held a pair of swim trunks. They were teal with little sharks on them. "How about these?" He stared at you like you'd handed him a nuclear bomb. "Absolutely not."

"They're cute!"

"They're humiliating..."

You sighed and groaned dramatically, moving onto a more neutral pair: matte black with a subtle gray stripe. "Better?"

He grunted, which, in Mark-speak, meant fine.

Fifteen minutes later, and a near wardrobe malfunction in a changing stall later... he emerged in the trunks and a plain gray T-shirt he insisted he must buy, holding a plastic bag stuffed with his uniform and armor.

"You look good!" you complimented.

He scowled, "I feel unprotected."

"You are literally bulletproof."

"That is not what I meant."

You slipped your hand into his, "Come on, grumpy. Let's go soak up some sun before you spontaneously combust."

Back at the beach, the heat shimmered across the sand, and the ocean breeze rolled in soft and salty. It was refreshing out here. You dropped your bag and kicked off your sandals in the spot you chose previously, then pulled your coverup over your head, revealing your swimsuit underneath.

You didn't even look up until you heard a sharp inhale. You turned, and nearly choked on your spit.

There Mark stood, incredibly still. Eyes very, very wide, and mouth parted slightly like he'd just seen a car crash.

"...What?" you asked, brows furrowing in confusion. He just blinked. "You... you're wearing that?"

You looked down at yourself, seeing nothing wrong with what you were wearing. "It's a swimsuit?"

"You are... showing so much skin." His voice strained at the end, as if the words physically hurt to say. Your lips began to twitch into a smile. "That's kind of the point, Mark. It's the beach."

"But there are people here." He said like it wasn't obvious. Mark's eyes scanned the area as if the mere presence of strangers was a threat. "They could be looking at you." You just shrugged, though, grabbing the sunscreen from your bag. "Okay...? Let them."

His jaw clenched so hard you thought he might snap a tooth. "You could wear a towel, or something..." He scoffed, crossing his arms and returning to that stiff stance.

"Or... I could be comfortable."

"You don't need to be this comfortable."

You turned to him fully, hands on your hips. "Mark, are you seriously freaking out right now because I look good in a swimsuit?" You pointed to yourself. Truthfully his reaction was flattering, but it was getting a bit annoying, especially if he was trying to tell you what you could and couldn't wear.

"I'm not freaking out," he snapped quickly, too quickly. You raised a brow. "You are red."

"I am not."

"You're blushing!" You pointed at him, amused.

"My skin doesn't work like yours."

You stepped closer, squinting at him with a teasing smile. "Could've fooled me." Mark groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "I knew this was a bad idea."

You stood on tiptoes, and kissed his cheek gently. "You are just flustered."

"I am not flustered."

You hummed amusingly, and Mark looked away, his ears visibly red. "I don't like people looking at you."

Under all the grumpiness and awkward hovering, there it was, his protectiveness. His possessiveness. That deeply Viltrumite part of him that didn't know how to not treat the people he loved like they were precious.

You reached out and took his hand, lacing your fingers together and eased him to sit down on the towels with you. "They can look," you said quietly once you were both sat. "But, I go home with you." That shut him up, for a long time. Too long. It was too quiet now. "You know," you whispered, "if it bothers you that much, you could always tell me I look good."

His jaw tightened. Then, after a long pause, he muttered, "You look... distractingly good."

You grinned, proud of yourself (and him for finally admitting it...) "I'm sorry, what was that?" You put your hand to your ear as if you didn't hear him., mouth open, feigning innocence. "I said, you look fine." He rustled through your bag for a water bottle, trying not to make eye contact. "It's distracting, that's all."

You beamed, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thanks."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

You hummed, "Mhm, sure you didn't."

He groaned, "this is why I don't do beaches."

But later, as you laid back in the sun, his hand stayed firmly in yours, and he didn't stop scanning the crowd every few minutes with the same laser-sharp focus. You caught him sneaking glances at you more than once, and his ears got a little redder each time.

[meghiee]

Your writing is life changing, ho. I literally dropped my phone and gasped when I read when reader was still alive in your latest post with viltrumite mark 😭😭 I love your writing so fricken much

oh my gosh :') thank you thank you thank you!!!!! :D

[meghiee]

the heir part 2.

part 1 can be found here :)

viltrumite!invincible x afab!reader (she/her used)

warnings: angst as usual, mentions of violence, very little gore, theres a slight "steamy" scene at the end, but it doesnt go into detail (so no smut lol soz) just incase tho: 18+ ONLY!!! MDNI :')

summary: mark was never supposed to love, but he is learning to, and now he's on the edge of losing everything.

a/n: i thought of making this into 2 parts but i decided to feed yall cause ive had this in drafts for a MINUTE

-

Mark didn't smile when the baby first laughed. He didn't say a word the first time you managed to sit up without pain and feed your son on your own. Didn't react when the boy called you "mama" before his first birthday.

But he watched.

Always watching.

Whether it be from the shadows of doorways, or from the foot of the bed. Sometimes even from the control panel in the far corner of the room. He'd watch as you rocked the baby to sleep, or as you gently traced the tiny wrinkle above his brow. He listened to the way your voice softened when you spoke to the infant. How you looked at the child, like he was a miracle instead of a weapon.

Mark didn't speak about it.

He couldn't.

Because speaking it aloud would mean acknowledging the pit in his chest everytime you smiled. And that meant weakness.

You never wanted to love Mark. When they took you from Earth, the last thing you expected was to feel anything for the man they forced you to marry. He had arrived in your life like a storm: cold, beautiful, but brutal. You remember how he looked at you that first night: impassive, detached. As if you were something he was assigned to preserve, not protect.

And yet... he never hurt you. That, somehow, made it worse.

You expected rage. Violence. Instead, he gave you silence. And silence, it turned out, was so much heavier than hatred.

At night, you would cry in the sterile bed, alone. Not because you were afraid he'd hurt you, but because you feared he wouldn't care enough to try.

And worse of all, you began to miss him when he was gone.

After the birth of your son, you began to notice things about Mark. How he eyes softened when he looked at your son. How he stood between you and every door, as if he could sense danger before it arrived. How his voice always lowered when he spoke to you. How he touched you now, gently, with hesitant reverence, as if afraid you'd vanish.

You sang to the baby sometimes, nothing grand, just small gentle songs from under your breath. Earth melodies, your melodies. He hated that he remembered every word.

"His bones are denser than yours," Mark commented, handing you a scan as you sat beside the crib. "Don't let him sit on your lap too long. You'll bruise." Mark rested his hand on the crib, staring down at the sleeping infant. He felt a tinge of resentment. The fact this small being could hurt you.

"I don't care if I bruise," you muttered, rocking the crib gently as you stared up to Mark, frowning. "He needs to feel safe."

Mark watched as you moved your hand to rub gentle circles into the child's back. His throat tightened. You didn't even notice the effect you had on him, you never did.

Mark stared into your eyes as you looked down to the child. How your face was soft, welcoming. But beneath that sweet look, there was a layer of gloom. He always saw it. It was there when you arrived, and it remained today. Before, he didn't care about it. It was human weakness, such a trivial matter he didn't bother with. But now, it was staring to get to him. It started to pain him.

"You're too soft with him," Mark said after a pause, stepping away from the crib and turning away from you, he couldn't bare to look at your face any longer. "He's Viltrumite. He needs discipline."

"He's a baby," you snapped, glaring at the back of his head, "He needs a mother."

Mark didn't answer.

He hated how you smiled at the child. It softened you, and worse, it softened him.

Later that night, you found him in the training chamber, tearing apart reinforced drones, sweat streaming from his temple, with fury in every strike, like he was punishing something inside himself.

He dreamed about Earth that night. About your apartment, before the war. He dreamt what you looked like in jeans instead of silk robes. He dreamt of you leaning on a balcony, sipping some cheap coffee. He didn't know you back then. But now, you were burned into him like a branding.

He awoke with your name on his lips, and he hated himself for it.

Mark stopped sleeping in his own room after that night, much preferring to be near you. He didn't sleep in your bed, at first. Just in the same room. On the floor, on the couch, within reach. That changed fast, though. He said it was for the safety of the infant when you asked.

Mark began to question everything. His orders, his council, and the war. He sat in war rooms listening to commands speak of "strength through sacrifice", but all he could think about was you. The way your body slowly broke to carry his future. The sacrifice you had made, for him.

One day, after a council meeting, a senior Viltrumite approached him. "She is making you weak," they warned. "The woman, and the child. You are not focused." Mark didn't respond, but his jaw clenched as his fists tightened into a ball. "She is a tool; a womb. You've used her, you've bred your heir. That's all she was meant for." Mark's vision went red.

He broke the commander's spine in three places.

When he returned that night, hands still stained from battle, he found you asleep on the floor beside the baby's cradle. You must've fallen from exhaustion. You weren't sleeping much recently. The child was fast asleep in your arms. Your body curled protectively around the infant. One of his tiny hands was tangled in your hair. You looked peaceful. You looked alive.

And something inside Mark cracked.

He dropped to his knees silently, resting his forehead against the edge of the cradle. His fists clenched, and his heart, the same heart he had been taught to lock away, ached so hard it terrified him. He was never supposed to feel this way.

"I'm losing myself."

Mark stared into the mirror that night, whispering those words to no one. His hands rested on the edge of the sink, the blood crusted on his knuckles. He looked exhausted. Not from any sort of battle, from you. He turned on the water, running his hands under as he lathered them with soap. The soap washed off in red hues as the blood was washed away. He felt this strange ache inside him that he had no name for. It was there anytime your hand brushed his, or any time the baby laughed in your arms. He was starting to question it. What it was.

If love made you weak, why did it feel so much like strength when he held you after nightmares?

If compassion dulled your instincts, why did he feel more alive in your presence than he ever had on a battlefield?

He gritted his teeth, and slammed his fist into the mirror; shattering his own reflection. He felt suffocated.

You found him next to the window the next morning, staring out into the ever stretching abyss. His eyes were dark, heavy. "You're avoiding me," you mumbled.

"No," he replied, then hesitantly corrected himself, "yes."

"Why?"

Mark exhaled, his chest tight. "Because I don't know what this is. What we are. What I've become." You looked out the window, wondering what he saw out there. It was vast space. After a moment, you simply stated, "You're a father, and you're trying."

Mark turned to you, and for once, there was no stern face, no steel in his voice. No empire. No war. Just Mark. "I thought I had to be like them," he began, "I thought I had to cut everything out of me to survive. But, when I look at you, and him... I forget how to be cold." He paused, his body began to shake. He couldn't hide it anymore.

Everyday, it grew harder. Every laugh from the baby, every time you fell asleep against his shoulder, every time your hand found his in the dark. He couldn't just keep pretending you were only a mother to his heir. He couldn't pretend you were a political tool; you weren't a tool at all.

You were his, and that terrified him more than any war ever had.

Because love wasn't something Viltrumites were allowed to feel. Love made you hesitate. Love made you choose between the mission and the heart, and Mark had already chosen. He was just afraid of saying it out loud. "If I love you," he muttered quietly, his hand hesitantly reaching out to touch your cheek, afraid that you'd move away; push him away. "then I wouldn't be Viltrumite anymore." He peered deep into your eyes. It made your chest tighten, and your body hurt. Your mind screamed to look away, but your heart couldn't. You were tired of being afraid, and you yearned for any sort of compassion. Your body leaned into his touch as his fingers grazed your jaw.

Mark kissed you for the first time that night. Not hungry, not rough, just real.

It was the middle of the night when you woke.

The bedroom was dark except for the dull silver glow from the twin moons outside the window. Mark was laying beside you, not hovering like a protector or hovering near like a soldier. Just there. Still. Breathing. Present.

You weren't sure how long you laid there, staring at the ceiling. You were listening to the quiet sound of your son's breathing in his crib across the room. Then, you shifted slightly, and Mark's hold around your waist tensed in response.

"You're awake." he said, voice low and slightly hoarse.

"You're not sleeping." you whispered back.

There was a pause.

"Didn't want to."

He said it like a confession, quiet. Vulnerable.

You rolled over to face him. It took effort; you were sore from carrying and tending to the child, still exhausted. But, when your eyes met his, your breath caught in your throat.

His face was less guarded than usual. The hard lines of his jaw were soft in the dim light, and his dark eyes weren't cold. They looked wounded. "Mark," you started, softly, voice trembling without meaning to. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Staying. Trying."

His brow furrowed, you could see it. That Viltrumite part of him searching for a tactical reason; a strategic purpose. Something he could say that didn't make him feel exposed. But, he didn't give you that. He gave you the truth.

"Because, when I leave this room, I hate myself." The words hit like a punch to the chest.

"And, when I'm here, with you..." he breathed in, slowly. "I don't."

Your throat closed in on itself as you tried to swallow, your mouth was dry. You reached up, hesitating at first, and then let your fingers brush against his cheek. His skin was warm, but tense under your touch. You swore you felt the faintest tremble in his jaw.

"Mark," you whispered, and that's when he looked at you. Dead in your eyes. He looked not like a commander, not even like a soldier. But a man.

Your lips parted, but you didn't know what to say. It didn't matter anyway, you didn't get the chance. Because, in the next breath, he leaned forward and kissed you.

Not hard. Not demanding. It wasn't practiced, hell; it wasn't even smooth.

It was careful. Raw.

His lips pressed against yours with all the hesitation of someone who hadn't kissed anyone in years, or maybe, had never kissed someone they cared about at all. And yet, it was still desperate. Like he was terrified that if he waited any longer, he'd lose his chance.

Your hands moved instinctively, fingers sliding into his hair, anchoring yourself to him. You kissed him back gently at first, then deeper, matching the unspoken need you both had buried under silence for so long.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his. His breathing was unsteady.

"You shouldn't have done that." you whispered, voice shaking.

"I know," he murmured, still close. "But I had to."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stop thinking about you, and I'm tired of pretending I don't."

There was a long silence, then:

"...Do it again." you requested, "please?"

He let out a sort of... growl; guttural.

And then he did.

It wasn't the kiss, not even the second one, that made you realize what laid underneath. Yearning, agonizing pain, love.

It was the silence afterward, and the way he held you like he didn't want to be anywhere else in the universe right now.

You'd fallen asleep in his arms, and for the first time since you were taken from Earth, you felt safe. Not because of where you were, but because of who was with you. You awoke that night and stared at him as he slept. The man who had once been a symbol of everything you feared, and you knew: you loved him.

Not because you were forced to, not because you were broken. But because, somehow... somewhere between shared grief, quiet nights, and the ache of survival, you found him. And he found you too.

There had been whispers for weeks, Conquest was approaching.

The Empire said it was routine; a strength test for Mark, a chance to prove his loyalty. But, Mark wasn't stupid. Conquest wasn't a teacher. He was a butcher. The message was clear: You're too soft. Prove us wrong, or we'll take everything from you.

Mark began doubling the guards around your chamber. He stopped letting the baby out of your sight. He trained in silence until his fists bled. You asked him, once, why he wasn't sleeping anymore.

"Because I dream of your blood on my hands," he admitted, coldly. "And I can't let that happen."

The attack came without warning.

Not from Conquest, but from an allied Viltrumite faction meant to "test your resilience." That's what they called it. A test.

It happened midafternoon.

You were rocking your son in the nursery; a quiet day. Mark had only just left for command briefing after hour of debate. He hadn't wanted to. You remembered how lingered in the doorway, frowning slightly. "Don't answer the door." He told you. "And if something happens: call me, I'll come."

You smiled at the time. "You worry too much." But he didn't. He didn't worry enough.

Because only twenty minutes after he left, they broke into the palace during a shift change, five of them. Faster than you could see. They cut down two guards, knocked out the others. You had just lifted your son from his crib when the glass shattered.

They came through the shards, masked in polish silver, armor dark as obsidian, with cold hands already bloodied from cutting through palace security.

You screamed before they touched you, shielding the baby as you ran for the wall panel. Your fingers shook as you ripped it from the wall, grabbing the emergency phone. It rang, and rang. You didn't get the chance to say anything when Mark finally answered. You didn't need to though, he heard everything on the other line.

One of the Viltrums slammed into you with bone-breaking force, knocking you into the far back wall. The child flew from your arms along with the phone. You heard the crack in your ribs before the pain even hit. One of them shattered the phone with a hard stomp.

They didn't say a word. They weren't here to talk. You fought, clawed, bit, screamed. But, it didn't matter. You were human, and they were Viltrumite.

The last thing you saw was your baby being pulled from the floor, his tiny eyes looking at you, wide with panic as his screams filled the room. Your blood pooled beneath you as everything went black.

The last thing Mark heard on the other line was your screaming. It tore through his spine like a spike; primal, terrified, yours. He didn't wait for clearance, didn't wait for protocol.

He ripped through twenty floors in less than a second, leaving scorched trails in the palace walls behind him.

The first thing he saw when he arrived: blood. Your blood. It was dripping down the walls, streaked across the crib, and splashed on the floor like someone had painted it there on purpose.

"No..." he dropped to his knees beside your body. You were barely breathing, covered in gashes, and ribs sunken in. Your right leg twisted at a brutal angle. Your face.. your face looked gone. Swollen, purple. Like they hadn't even cared to be precise.

"No, no no- no..."

"You're okay. You are fine. Stay with me..."

He lifted you gently, but even that made your body jerk with pain. Then, he realized the child was gone, and something in him broke.

He moved like a weapon.

The attackers didn't make it very far. They'd only just left the palace airspace when Mark caught them. He didn't speak, didn't give warnings, didn't even ask if the baby was alive.

He ripped through the first two like they were made of paper, exploding their armor with his fists. The third tried to run with the child. Mark reached him mid-air and slammed him so hard into the ground that the stone cracked in a crater beneath them. He tore the man's mask off and saw no remorse. No fear, just duty, and that was worse.

So he crushed his skull. And then, finally, finally... he looked down and saw his son on the battlefield, crying. Alive. Untouched.

Mark dropped to his knees. His breath came in broken gasps. He held the child close to his chest, heart pounding so violently that it was a roar in his ears.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You're safe. You're safe, I've got you. I've got you." He cooed, shushing the child. Then he remembered, you weren't.

You flatlined the moment they got you to the med-bay. Too much blood lost, too many broken bones. Internal damage beyond Viltrumite's tech to heal fast enough. Mark didn't leave your side. He stood in the corner, trembling, his face stern, and fists clenched so tight that his knuckles turned bone-white. Not from fear, from powerlessness.

"We're losing her," a medic barked. "You said you could fix her!" Mark snapped back.

"She's human! Her system's rejecting our re-gen tech; her brain is shutting down!" That's when the machine went flat.

Mark stopped breathing.

He took a step forward, reaching for you. His hand hovered above your heart like he could force it to start again just by willing it. "No," he whispered, and for the first time, he knew what it felt like to have life ripped from you, right in front of you. He knew what it felt to feel powerless, afraid. Human emotions he had rejected. He thought of all the civilians he had killed; how they screamed, pleaded with him, for mercy.

He fell to his knees beside the table you were laid upon, head pressed to your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. "You can't go." he said hoarsely. And, for the first time in a long time, tears began to well up at the corners of his eyes. Salvia built up in his throat as his stomach churned. He could throw up. Then, just like a spring being released, the tears poured. His hands pressed into his eyes as he sobbed vigorously. He bit his lip in attempt to slow them, swallowing hard. But they didn't stop.

One after another.

He buried his face in your chest, desperate to contain your fading warmth. He didn't beg, didn't pray. He just said your name, over and over, like a broken record. Mark grabbed your face and kissed your forehead. He refused to let go.

It was the baby who saved you, funnily enough.

His cries echoed through the med-bay, piercing and high. Mark turned toward the sound, and something about it jolted you awake.

You rose from the table with a sharp gasp as guttural moans filled your throat. You clawed at your chest and arms, trying to rip the foreign needles and wires out of you. Your lungs were on fire, and pain seared through your entire system. Mark nearly collapsed as he turned around to rush back to you. He placed his hands over your chest as he tried to hold you down. You thrashed in his arms. "She's breathing... she's breathing!" He shouted as loud as he could. You began to seizure.

You awoke three days later in a more private room. Tubes were in your arm, bandages across your chest. Mark was slumped over your bed, still in full armor, hands clasped around yours like he'd never let go again. His forehead rested against your palm, and his eyes were red. He wasn't sleeping, that much was obvious. He just existed.

"Mark?" you rasped. His head snapped up, his face broke open wide in disbelief. "You're awake," he whispered, "God, you're awake." He pressed his forehead to yours, still trembling.

"I thought I lost you." He confessed. You tried to lift your hand to his cheek, couldn't. "Sorry to disappoint." you whispered, trying to give as best as a smile as you could, your cheeks ached. Mark kissed your hand as he gave a small chuckle.

"I'll never let anyone touch you again," he mumbled into the back of your hand. "I don't care if I have to kill every Viltrumite in the galaxy."

You looked into his eyes, and you knew he meant it.

Your body healed slowly.

The Viltrumite medical technology was advanced; enough to stitch torn muscle and knit fractured bones in hours. But, some wounds didn't respond to the regeneration pods. Some hurt in the quiet places, in the soft things.

Like, breathing. Or, sitting up without pain. Sleeping without waking up screaming.

Mark never left. Not once.

He stayed through every recovery cycle, every blood draw, and every sharp intake of breath when you tried to move. Sometimes, he read to you in a stiff, gruff voice. Other times, he just sat at your beside, watching your chest rise and fall, as if terrified it might stop again.

You never said it out loud, but something between you had changed since the attack. There were no more walls, no more blank stares. He looked at you now like you meant something. And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

You were strong enough to leave the bed by the third week. Still sore, still moving slowly, but moving. Mark helped you into the bathing chamber and helped you undress. He waited, silent and respectful, just outside the glass wall. You didn't ask him to leave. You didn't want him to.

His eyes didn't hunger. They didn't claim. They just watched, cautious and reverent, like he couldn't believe you were still alive.

Mark helped you out of the bath. He had a towel nearby that he used to wrap you up before taking a step back. He looked almost afraid to be near you. Afraid you were too fragile, that you'd break again.

Your voice was hoarse as you whispered, "You know, you can come closer." He didn't move at first.

Then, wordlessly, he stepped towards you. His hand reached out, it hesitated in the air before resting over your stomach. He looked as if he was looking upon a distant memory, a tender memory.

"You almost died," he mumbled, his eyes falling to the floor.

"I know."

His throat bobbed.

"I didn't know what to do with that, I still don't."

You reached for his hand, gently guiding it to your ribs, to the part of you that had once been bruised, where pain still lingered. "Then just stay," you whispered. "That's all I need."

So he did.

The palace chambers had grown quiet again. But this time, it wasn't the cold silence of strangers. It was something warmer, something waiting.

You woke one night, painlessly for once, and found Mark already awake. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to you, bare-chested, his hair still damp from a late shower.

Mark was lost in thought, hands clasped together between his knees. "Can't sleep?" you asked softly. He glanced back. "Didn't want to."

You hummed in response, sitting up slowly. The air between you was full of something that wasn't tension anymore, just longing. Understanding.

You reached out. He turned. You kissed him first. This moment wasn't like before the baby, when you moved out of fear, out of expectation, out of what your union was meant to be. This was different. This was soft.

Warm.

He kissed you back like he'd been starving for it. Not for your body, for you. All of you. His hands slid against your waist as if learning you all over again. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, skin to skin, heart to heart.

And when he laid you down, there was no urgency. No dominance, no command. Only worship, pure need. You whispered his name like a prayer. He touched you like he might break you; not because you were fragile, but because you mattered. Because you weren't just a part of his duty, you were his choice.

His hand rested in the crook of your neck as he moved with you, lips brushing against your skin, breath hot and uneven. He held you through every rise and fall. Your hands in his hair, his arms tight around your back. Your legs tangled together as if the universe might try to pull you apart.

But it wouldn't, not anymore.

When it was over, you lay wrapped around each other, hearts pounding, skin warm with sweat and closeness. "That was... different." you whispered, breathless.

Mark's fingers threaded through yours. He looked down at you, eyes soft, no longer afraid of the truth.

"Because, I love you." he confessed. Your heart stuttered. He said it like a promise, a confession he was ready to live with. Your throat tightened.

"I love you, too."

[meghiee]

Gradually breaking down the tough walls of omni-mark and teaching him how to feel again ?

Sunshine reader x grumpy omni-mark ? 🙏

a/n: i love this idea!!! enjoy anon :D

omni!mark x reader

warnings: none? (i think...) reader finally has a good ending!!! yippe!! :D

summary: mark is brooding, distant, and harsh around the edges. you, on the other hand, are bright, resilient, and maybe too friendly.

-

The first time you met Mark Grayson was a little less than ideal...

One second, you were depositing your bi-weekly paycheck, the next you were lying face-down on the cold floor of the First National Bank. It was your standard run-of-the-mill bank robbery. "Everyone to the floor!" and so on... Nobody wanted to play hero, so everyone, of course, fell to the ground, you included. Your heart pounded in your ears, fear racking your entire body.

Lucky you, though! There was a loud boom as something skyrocketed itself through the air, and right into the glass of the bank's front window... The shards sprinkled everywhere, so in the split second you had, your body automatically went to shield your head. What came first was shouting, next what sounded like a struggle, some gunfire, and then, you heard that unmistakable crunch of bone meeting something inhumanly strong.

Then, silence.

You peeked up cautiously.

There were scorch markers on the walls, shattered tiles everywhere, and three armed men groaning in various states of unconsciousness. But what really caught your attention was the man standing in the center of it all; red cape resting like a blanket on his shoulders, his blood-smeared knuckles clenched tightly.

He didn't smile. He didn't try to comfort anyone. He just turned, scowling like this was everyone else's fault, and turned on his heel and left. Muttered something about humans or something. Their weakness and fragility it sounded like.

The next time you met, you were chatting with your sweet elderly neighbor, Mrs. Li. You had been walking home from work when she called for you, eager to show off her new car that her husband bought as an anniversary present. She was always sweet to you, despite how it was a bit annoying that she was constantly trying to be your wingman with her grandson... It had been another one of those days. You quite frankly had no clue how she even changed the conversation to her grandson, but it got there! Smiling, you just nodded away, replying here and there to her borderline advertising with "Uh-huh." "Oh, really?" and "Wow!" and a forgiving smile.

Mark had hovered above your neighborhood, observing. That's truthfully all he had been doing all day. Observing Earth. He grew up here, sure. But after a day of no crime, he had nothing else better to do but to go for a walk... or fly. It was relaxing, truthfully. It made him feel human again. What a luxury it was to have that feeling.

It wasn't the flashy car Mrs. Li now had that caught his eye. No, it was you. You seemed so... familiar. He hovered closer, just above the powerlines. His arms crossed as he racked his brain for his memory of you. His eyes squinted in on you as he let out a deep, annoyed loud sigh. Why, and how did he know you?

He caught the attention of Mrs. Li, who clutched her hand over her chest. "Oh! I didn't know you had a suitor already?" She rasped out with a gulp. Her eyes glanced down to you and back up to Mark as she stepped back a bit.

Your eyes darted to the side and back to her in confusion, your mouth a bit agape. "Huh? I'm sorry... what are you talking about, Mrs. Li?" She pointed her wrinkly finger up towards the sky as she began to wonder how long he had been standing there before she noticed. He had to of been a suitor if he sighed like that at the mention of another man she had concluded. Your gaze followed to the sky.

There he stood, that familiar cape swooshing in the light breeze. He stood perfectly blocking the sunset, which gave him an almost god-like appearance.

Mark's eyes traced over your every feature, from the roots of your hair, to the confused look on your face, and down your body. He knew that face and the work uniform you wore from somewhere... Oh. The bank.

"Um... hello?" You had waved up to him. You gave a somewhat forced smile as you tried to hide the fact that his wandering eyes made you feel a bit uncomfortable. You recognized him too, he was the "hero" from the bank.

He kinda just hovered there for a moment, awkwardly. He honestly forgot people could see him, and it was a little creepy he was just there, staring. And after that, he was just gone. Off into the sky, to God knows where.

Hm, strange.

Well atleast it took care of the wingman problem!

The next time you saw him was at work. He floated right outside the coffee shop you worked at, hovering like a storm cloud in broad daylight. Didn't say anything. Just stared until you awkwardly opened the window and leaned out.

"Hello? Can I get you something?" You gave him that smile again. Forced, but this time a bit softer, kinder. A little brighter, too.

"I want coffee." he said almost demanding. That took you back a bit. He couldn't just... come inside? Your lips pursed. "Could you... come inside?" Your hands gesturing to the door. He scoffed, but still stepped inside using the front door. You returned behind the counter and got to work. You didn't really know what to make him, honestly. He didn't even look like the type to drink coffee in the slightest.

You brought him a black coffee in a to-go cup with a tiny drawn smiley face. He stared at it like it was an insult, before taking a sip. His face scrunched up as he swallowed. Yeah, he definitely never had coffee before.

"I'm guessing maybe you're more of a protein shake guy?" Gesturing to his arms. You couldn't deny, he was quite toned.

He didn't respond, just turned on his heel again and walked out the door, cup in hand.

What a strange man...

He showed up the next day.

He was covered in blood this time. Not his, you hoped. There was a tear across his shoulder where red fabric hung loose, and his boots were caked with something you definitely didn't want to ask about. But, even in that state: bruised and exhausted, he stood in line like anyone else.

Nobody dared to skip him.

"Make me whatever you did last time." he said flatly, when he reached the counter, eyes flicking to the menu with mild disgust.

You glanced him over. Studying his ragged state. You wondered in your head what he might've been fighting before coming here. You hummed in response, "Sure. Want, umm... cream? Sugar?" You asked, turning to grab a cup.

"No."

"Got it. Just, rage in a cup."

That took him a bit back. Like he hadn't expected sass from you, especially when you were wearing a puny apron this time that said "espresso yourself." They were new, just got them in that morning, actually.

You presented him the completed drink. He reached out to take it from you. Your hands brushed. His skin was warm, too warm.

"This one will be on the house... again." you added, trying not to stare too hard at him. You thought back to yesterday, wondering if he even drank the coffee you gave him.

He nodded once, muttered something like a thanks, and left.

And then he showed up, again.

And again.

Same time everyday, 8:12 AM. Usually no blood, the same coffee order, and that unreadable expression.

The days started to blur together.

At first, he never stayed. Just ordered, paid, and then left. But then one day, he sat down. He didn't say a word, just stared out the window for about twenty-ish minutes, cup untouched. You tried not to stare, but failed, stared anyway.

By the end of the week, you stared just bringing his coffee to the table instead of waiting for him to ask. "You know," you stared, setting his cup down gently, "we've got other drinks... You could live a little! A vanilla latte won't kill you."

He gave you a look. A glare. "I'd rather die."

You rolled your eyes and stifled a laugh, "Okay drama queen."

You started learning his patterns.

He always came after something bad happened. Collapsing buildings, alien attacks, or the newest: Viltrumite Interference. He didn't like talking about it, and you didn't press.

But, you were persistent in your own gentle way.

You'd ask dumb questions, tell him stories from your shift, and call him out when he looked too serious for too long. "You're scowling again," you pointed out once, leaning over the counter as he stirred his drink for the first time ever. "Is that your default setting or is it because of the coffee?"

"I'm always scowling." He replied, not looking up.

"Maybe you need a muffin?"

"I don't eat sugar."

"Wow. Tragic..."

Eventually, he started answering your questions. One word responses turned into full sentences. Then, stories. You learnt he liked the smell of rain, and hated jazz music. He also stopped listening to podcasts because people "talk too much about things that don't matter." He also read the same book three times because it reminded him of peace, even if he didn't understand the meaning.

He told you about space like it was a memory, not a theory. He told you about the silence on moons, and the way air sounds different when you're not sure you're going to make it back.

And, you listened. Not like a fan, not like someone impressed. Just, someone who cared.

The first time he called you by your name, it startled you. You were handing off his drink as usual when he said, "Thanks, (Y/N)." You blinked in surprise. "Whoa, you do listen." Mark looked away, clearing his throat. "I'm not deaf." You hummed, sort of in agreeance. "I see that."

He glanced at you, and this time, he actually smiled. Small, barely there. But you saw it.

Then, he started following you home. Nothing romantic, just him trying to make sure you made it home safe; he mentioned something about "the city becoming dangerous" when you asked why. You hummed in response, but you still felt like there was more to it. Those glances of his started lingering.

On your walks, he started watching you like he was waiting for the next thing you'd say. And once you reached your front door, he would hover outside, like he was waiting for something. It was always an awkward goodbye. Once your door shut, he never left. He always hovered near your windows. Never close enough to be seen, but close enough to protect you incase something happened.

He wasn't sure why he did. You weren't special by any means, not to him atleast. Maybe. Maybe it was the way you joked with him. Or maybe it was that soft smile you always wore. At first it pissed him off a bit, now it made his heart strings pull in various directions. The more time you spent with him, the more cracks started to show in the wall he built around himself.

He never stopped being grumpy, though. He still scowled at squirrels, muttered about idiotic traffic systems, and gave side-eyes to anyone who flirted with you at work.

"I don't understand you," he said once on a walk home, eyes fixed on the skyline above. "You're happy for no reason. Often. That's... weird." The corner of your mouth twitched up at his words. "I don't need a reason to be happy," you replied, "Some of us just enjoy their time, especially when they're around others." You pointed at him as he glanced down to you, he hummed in response, a habit he began picking up from you.

He stayed a little longer that night.

The next time he stayed late was the night he first kissed you. You decided to just let him come in, not wanting to stand on your porch for an hour like last time. It was cold that night, just like this one was. He looked so foreign in your house. He stood stiff, as usual, and didn't get too close to any furniture. He looked like he was waiting to be told to sit down, instead of just sitting down. You on the other hand, were already wrapped in a blanket on the couch, staring up at him like he was a little... dumb. "You can y'know, sit down." You patted the space next to you, a signal he was free to do as he pleased. Mark nodded, "...right." he replied, walking over to you and sat. He sat so stiffly, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it would move. He looked like he was ready to leave. You stared rambling about your day and how you smelt something that reminded you of a childhood memory. With a heavy sigh, he interrupted you, grabbing your face and pulling you into him with a desperation that startled you. He kiss was clumsy, breathless. His hands trembled. He didn't know how to be gentle.

But, you did.

You eased into him, letting the tension bleed out of his muscles one heartbeat at a time. You kissed him like you weren't afraid. Like he wasn't the son of a murderer. Like he himself, wasn't one either. Like you weren't human and breakable.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wide and was breathing uneven. He shot up from the couch and took a step back, body stiff as he spoke, "I shouldn't have done that."

You smiled, rising with him. You closed the distance between you two as you let the silence fill the air. You tried reading his face, tried to decipher him. That stupid mask blocked any chance of that. Finally you spoke, "Yes you should've, Mark." He didn't answer.

But he did stay the rest of the night.

Mark wasn't quite made for love. He was shown it as a kid, sure, but he wasn't meant to experience it. He was made for war, plain and simple. For barked orders and blood mixed with fire. But, you started to show him that he could be loved again.

And slowly, he changed.

He'd bring you gifts; awkward, misplaced things like meteor fragments or Martian plant samples. Stuff you really didn't need, but it was the thought that counted. He started showing up before you asked. He began to rest. He listened more, smiled more, and sometimes even laughed. Real laughs, the from the stomach kind of laughs.

And one night, when you were curled up on the couch watching some stupid romcom, he wrapped an arm around you and whispered softly, "I don't think I ever understood why my dad fell for a human."

The words made you shiver and look up at him. He was staring ahead, unreadable. "But now?" He glanced down at you, locking eyes. Something warm flickered in his cold face.

"Now I do."

[meghiee]

Why do you hate us? Why do you put us through these things

AHH IM SORRY ANON </3 i just love writing angst :( i swear ill drop a happy fic.... eventually. :')

[meghiee]

mark grayson!invincible x reader

warnings: angst, gorey ish, no happy endings, reader dies

summary: you died, marks depressed and spiraling with grief as the world around him falls apart, again.

-

The rain had stopped falling hours ago, but Mark couldn't stop staring at the dark red stain in the dirt; right where your body used to be. You're long gone now, zipped up in a GDA bag before he could get to you. Cecil told him not to look.

He didn't listen.

He saw it all. The way your jaw had been twisted, your throat nearly torn open. How your hand had been reaching for something; someone. For him, maybe.

A variant had done it. The one with the black and yellow suit, with a smirk just like his own. "You were always so fragile in my dimension, I wonder if it's the same here?" Mark heard him say. You tried to fight, but you didn't even get the chance to survive. One minute, Mark was mid-battle with one of the variants. The next minute, the world tilted upon it's axle as you rag-dolled to the pavement. Like a marionette whose strings were cut.

He didn't even hear your last words, if there even were any.

"You could've stopped it."

Mark hears your voice speak those words to him sometimes. Not in the creepy, delusional way where he thinks your ghost is haunting him. But in the knife-in-the-gut kinda way where his guilt haunts him instead. It replays in his head when he's trying to sleep, when he's trying to eat, and especially when he tries to smile; if he even does that anymore...

You could've gotten there faster. You could've gone after the variant who looked the most like a threat. You could've shielded them. You could've asked them to stay back. You could've told them you loved them that morning. You could've-

The list goes on, and on. The result is that same, though.

You died, and now everything is worse.

Mark tries daily to move on. The world doesn't just stop because you did. Cecil still calls. Missions still happen. Live still need saving. But, Mark's not the same. He's sloppy. Unfocused. He gets pummeled by villains who would have never touched him before. He flies through buildings without bothering to dodge. And, to put the cherry on top, he starts letting himself bleed more than usual now. The whispers began to start:

"Is Invincible... slipping?"

Eve tried to help. She came by with food, with sympathy, sometimes with others for him to talk to. Mark doesn't say no, but truthfully, nowadays he doesn't say much at all anymore.

"Do you remember what they'd say about bees?" Eve asks him once, trying to get him to smile. You'd been obsessed with saving the planet once. Bees, specifically. Mark had teased you for it, but you made it your little mission. You even saved a hive once from a burning shed and made him carry the box of buzzing insects back to safety while you swore up and down that they wouldn't sting him if he just believed in your cause. It was like your little shtick.

"I think they'd laugh," Eve began softly, "if they saw you still wearing that stupid hoodie they loved."

Mark hadn't truthfully noticed he was. Or, maybe he did. He didn't recall even putting it on. It just still smelled like you, and he couldn't breathe without it.

The house is too quiet now. Your toothbrush is still in the holder. Your shoes are still by the door. Your charger is still in the wall socket. Mark hasn't touched any of it. Not because he's preserving it, but because he just can't. Moving it would make it all real to him. That you were truly gone. It was better to just pretend. He couldn't face that pain anymore, especially when every time he closed his eyes, he could see your neck snap, over and over again.

He plays your last voicemail on loop, sometimes. It's nothing special, you were just reminding him to pick up dinner. But you say, "I love you" at the end, and that's enough to break him, every time.

And then, Conquest arrived.

The sky had ripped open like paper, and there was that faint hum of Viltrumite tech filling Mark's ears. Truthfully, he didn't care to fight. He was already sore and bruised. He wasn't okay, mentally. And when Conquest steps through the atmosphere, eyes full of determination and grinning like he was the Devil, Mark doesn't run.

He wants to, though. Not away, no. Towards.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the fight he doesn't walk away from. Maybe he finally doesn't have to keep living in a world without you...

But... then he hears your voice again.

This time it's different.

"Live."

It makes him shudder. It's not a real voice, no. It's a memory; a whisper from the day you'd patched up his busted shoulder and joked that he was too pretty to die. That he made you feel safe. That you wanted a future, with him.

He owes you one.

So, he doesn't die. But, he doesn't win either...

Mark fought like hell, taking punch after punch. He screamed your name when Conquest slammed his skull so hard into the Earth that the world turned white for a moment. He crawls back up, though, despite it all, because he refuses to let anyone else die. Not because he though he could save anyone, but because he couldn't save you.

He won't let that happen again.

Mark doesn't remember when the fight ended. It's all just a blur now. And as he lays in a GDA medical bed, ribs cracked, teeth missing, and blood in his lungs, Cecil tells him they're lucky Conquest retreated.

Mark doesn't feel lucky.

Eve visits again. She holds his hand for a while, pretty much until he falls asleep.

All he dreams of is you.

You're standing in the garden you always wanted. A month before your passing, you had gone to department stores, buying piles of wood and tons of dirt. It all lay in your backyard now, untouched. You and Eve had this whole plan to construct it once the weather got warmer. She offered to just make it for you, but you refused. It didn't feel right that way.

You're crouched down by a planter box. Clipping various flowers from their stems: lilies, orchids, and hyacinths. Mark walks towards you and crouches across from you, but you don't move. You just continue working. Do you even see him?

His arm reaches out, longing for your touch, your warmth. But, then you just disappear.

He wakes with a startle.

[meghiee]

the heir.

viltrumite!invincible x afab!reader (i will be using she/her pronouns for this story)

warnings: kidnapping/abduction, mentions of sex/breeding but nothing graphic (no smut here soz), pregnancy, forced marriage, angst ofc, reader becomes depressed, TW!! for mentions of starving oneself

summary: you are taken to be a suitable breeding match for viltrumites. your match? mark grayson.

a/n: thinking of making a part 2 to this... idk! :)

UPDATE!!! i made part 2 :D

-

The day they came, Earth didn't even get the courtesy of a fair warning. The sky cracked open, and Viltrumites descended from the sky like they were gods, and in a way, they technically were. They weren't loud or dramatic, just incredibly efficient. They weren't here to fight. They were here to collect.

They didn't call it that, of course. They called it a "selective preservation and integration protocol." They told you it was an honor. That Earth's population had been deemed too weak, too... soft. Only a handful of humans were to be preserved. You were among them. Not for your strength or your mind. For your "breeding potential". The Viltrumite Empire demanded heirs, and the scan determined you were genetically viable enough to carry one. Specifically, you were genetically-compatible with a high-ranking officer.

Mark Grayson.

Half-Human, but he was practically entirely Viltrumite now. He used to be known as Invincible; a name people used to cheer for. Now, it was only whispered in fear.

When you first saw him, you remembered the boy you'd see on television. His smile. How he'd help those around him, from the poor to rich, young to elderly. He had humanity. That boy was dead, though. What stood before you now was nothing more than a man forged in steel. His gaze lacked compassion, and his voice no longer carried kindness in it's tone.

"This is her?" he inquired coldly. His arms crossed against his chest as he frowned, he almost seemed disappointed. "She looks... fragile." He paused, glancing you up and down as if examining you. It felt uncomfortable, almost as if he could see everything about you; innards and outers. You began chewing on the inside of your cheek as you straightened your posture. You felt so conscious of everything you did now. Why'd he have to look at you like that? "She'll be sufficient." an older Viltrumite gentleman stated. It felt nice to have him defend you till,

"You'll begin the pairing ceremony tomorrow. Her cycle aligns."

You wanted to cry. That was so uncomfortable.

You were taken to a fortress-like world. Metal and marble, polished and perfect. No color. No sound. No life.

This was Mark's home, and now it was yours' too.

You were given a luxurious quarter, but it felt more like a prison. You never had to cook or clean, but you were constantly monitored. Always watched. It wasn't even you they cared about, it was the child they expected you to carry. You were told the process would be swift. You and Mark were to "unite genetically" and begin the process of bearing an heir.

Mark didn't touch you, not at first. He just studied you like you were a puzzle, like he was figuring out what made you tick and what made you crack. He didn't bother to get to know you or your life. He didn't care. He didn't speak to you often either. But, when he did, it was always flat, emotionless.

"The medical team wants a fertility scan today."

"You're not eating enough protein. That can affect gestation."

"We'll begin mating this week."

You hated that word. It made you feel like livestock.

The first time you shared a bed, he barely said a word. There was no love, no soft touches and gentle words. It was mechanical, clinical. Like a transaction for the Empire. You held it together, despite how this whole ordeal was beginning to tear you apart inside. It was a cycle. One day you sat alone, staring out the window as life moved on while you remain dormant. The next day you were prodded and poked by various people and machines. Then you were back to trying again with Mark.

But, you didn't cry until one night after he left. You stood in the too-polish and too-clean bathroom, staring at yourself. You were smaller, thinner. You looked foreign in the silk robes they dressed you in. Your hands grasped the sides of the sink counter as the tears fell down the drain. Your breath was heaving but you bit your tongue, trying to stay quiet. They didn't like weakness here.

Glancing up at yourself in the mirror you began to realize you didn't recognize yourself anymore... This wasn't you. The you that was full of life and joy. The you who established a career for themselves. Maybe that you died on Earth, and you were just the husk that remained. You sat crumpled on the cold tile, knees drawn to your chest. Your sobs slipped out in trembling gasps, each one echoing off the porcelain walls. The floor stole your warmth as if it was punishing you just for breaking down. The chill made your body shiver as tears puddled quietly beneath your chin.

You became pregnant six weeks after the first contact. The medical team confirmed it with quiet nods and clinical approval. You thought that maybe, just maybe, he would soften. That someone would finally speak to you like you mattered. But, nothing changed. Mark said nothing at first. He just stared at he holopad in silence, like he was reading your death sentence.

Later, when you returned to your quarters, Mark appeared in the doorway.

"I'll be taking a reduced deployment schedule," he began. "They don't want to risk..." Mark paused, he gestured to your stomach, "complications." You glanced up from your hands, tangled together as you fidgeted with the tips of your fingers... when did that become a habit? This was the first time you really looked at him in days. He looked hesitant, almost... concerned?

It didn't matter to you. Why did he care now? The anger began to rise in your chest, but it was almost if your body didn't care to feel anymore. "You think I'll die," you said flatly.

Mark was treading over gingerly before he hesitated. Those words stopped him in his tracks. Then, that look on his face disappeared. He was back to Viltrum again. "There's a 27% mortality rate for baseline humans carrying Viltrumite offspring. Even higher in emotionally unstable hosts."

That word, host. It slammed against your chest like a punch. There's that feeling again; like you were just livestock.

The sickness started early. Bone-deep exhaustion, blinding migraines. Your senses were too sharp, and your skin felt wrong.

And no one cared.

You stopped eating. Stopped speaking unless spoken to. The silence in the palace was unbearable, broken only by the humming of strange, alien machinery or the occasional barked order in a language you didn't understand.

At night, you would curl up in the corner of the massive bedroom, to hollow to cry anymore. If you did cry, it was sobbing, painful sobbing. You tried to avoid it. You didn't care if the baby came early, or if you died.

No one asked how you were feeling. The medics just measured your vitals as usual, and the attendants brought you your pills on schedule. Mark would check your stats daily, but he never once asked how you were doing.

Until one night.

You didn't show up for the scheduled scan.

Mark stormed into your chamber, ready to issue a command... until he saw you curled in the corner, shaking. Your body racked with breathless sobs. You were so exhausted. You hadn't eaten in two days, your lips were cracked, your skin was sickly pale, and you were sure you had a fever.

"I can't do this," you whispered, "I don't want this." Your arms hugged your stomach as you croaked.

He froze in the doorway. You swore you could see something flicker in his eyes, like the cog wheels were turning. Mark's fists clenched as he sucked in a long breath through his nose, closing his eyes. Exhaling, he walked towards you, crouched down slowly, and began rubbing your back. His palm was shockingly warm, and his touch felt right for the first time. Your body leaned into him, but your mind felt nothing but anger. You were bitter.

"Are you in pain?" he finally spoke, and for once he sounded... concerned. You didn't answer.

"I need to know if you're in pain." he spoke once more, quieter this time. "I need to know... if something's wrong, please."

You examined him through your wet eyelashes. Truthfully, you were stunned. It wasn't much, but that 'please' was the first thing he'd said that sounded like it came from a human being.

After that night, Mark began to linger.

"I... noticed," he began, awkwardly, "you've lost weight." You were laying in bed when he came in, trying to fall asleep. There was nothing to pass the time, and sleep was the quickest option. Rising from the covers, you peered at him with heavy, exhausted eyes. His eyes, however, looked more gentle today. More... welcoming. Nurturing. Like he was trying. In his hand, he held a small plate, but there lay fruit. This wasn't Viltrum fruit, no, this was human fruit. Human fruit from Earth. That was the first day you began eating again.

It became a routine from that point forward. He brought meals himself now, mostly in hopes that you would atleast try to eat something warm, something that came from a stove instead of being plucked from a tree or bush. He'd sit beside you while you forced down the cut-up fruit. Oranges, berries, and apples. All things he said "were good for you and the infant." He began to strike up conversations, nothing exciting, just mundane things... "Was it sunny on your side of Earth?" or "Do you like music?"

It honestly felt clumsy... like he was trying to remember what people did in moments like this. But, atleast he was trying, finally.

One night, when your back was aching, and you were too nauseous to speak, Mark sat beside the bed, pulled his gloves off, and gently placed his hand over your stomach, rubbing slowly.

"It's growing fast," he murmured, his eyes squinting at your stomach, almost as if he was calculating. "It may already be stronger than most soldiers." He glanced up to you, but... he looked troubled.

You frowned, whispering, "You're afraid."

Mark nodded slowly, rising from his spot. "I don't want to lose you."

It wasn't romantic, hell, it wasn't even tender. But, it was the first honest thing he'd said that wasn't for the Empire's sake.

Your health declined rapidly in your final trimester. The baby's strength began growing faster than your body could realistically handle. Your bones began cracking under the weight of it's kicks. Soon, you began having seizures.

Mark stopped sleeping.

Instead, he would sit by your beside, reading medical data, and scanning your vitals obsessively.

Once, you coded for sixty seconds. Mark nearly killed the attending doctor trying to revive you.

"I will tear this planet apart if she dies," he snarled.

The doctor responded coldly as he worked, "Your heir will survive either way."

Mark punched him through a wall.

That night, when you woke up groggy and half-dead, you faintly saw Mark's bloodied knuckles and pale face through spotted vision.

"You need to live," he begged, hoarsely. "You are not replaceable."

You swore you felt his hand shake in yours.

From that night forward, something severely shifted between you two. Mark stayed home more. He still brought you meals, but now they became more thoughtfully chosen. No longer just meals to boost your vitamins and general health, but meals that you would eat back home. It seemed as if he was listening to your answers of his mundane questions, especially the day he brought home an unopened box of Monopoly. It had been years since you played, but Mark did recall you mentioning the board game when he inquired once about your childhood. You two never did sit down to play, but it was the thought that counted, right?

Your pregnancy began to inch toward it's end, but the dread never faded. Viltrumite births were violent. Bloody. Dangerous.

Mark knew that, and that's what haunted him. You were already so weak now... who knew if you were to survive.

Labor lasted twenty-two hours.

You screamed. Fought. Bled. The baby wasn't just strong, it was tearing you apart from the inside. The medics said you wouldn't survive. Mark paced outside your medical suite for hours. He kept trying to get peaks through the door every time someone would exit the room, but it was too crowded. Every scream he heard from beyond the door felt like a knife carving itself deep into his chest, brutalizing his heart. He grew restless, anxious. "Stay with me," he whispered to himself again and again, hoping that somehow you could hear him. "Stay with me, please..."

When the alarms blared, he nearly tore the door of it's hinges. He couldn't stand outside any longer. You were hemorrhaging and fading, fast.

In the end, you survived.

But barely.

You don't remember the birth itself, only waking later in a clean, silent room. Mark stood beside you with the baby in his arms. His eyes were sunken, and his armor was smeared with blood. Was that yours?

It was a boy; a spitting image of Mark.

"You weren't supposed to make it," he whispered, his hand reaching out to hold yours. You squeezed it, "Sorry to disappoint."

He choked out a laugh; it was the first time you ever heard one from him.

Recovery was slow.

But you lived.

Mark stayed close; often in the same room, sitting with the baby whilst you slept. He learned how to hold him gently and how to soothe him when he cried. It didn't come naturally at all, but he was determined.

He never left you alone at night.

And slowly, your hatred toward him... toward all of this, started to change. Not into love, not yet, but something... similar. Something real.

[meghiee]

that’s why mohawk mark ugly anyway 🥀 absolutely heartbreaking angst as usual

LMFAOOOO yk hell yeah, screw him man

& thank you SM!! :D <3 VERY MUCH appreciated, i am glad you are enjoying my work!!

[meghiee]

the anchor.

mowhawk!mark x reader

warnings: marks a bit of a p.o.s. in this :/, reader dies at the end, no happy ending

summary: mark begins to change, but you smile through it and continue life like normal. this isnt your mark anymore

-

It started slow.

At first, Mark would only look at you a little too long before turning away. Not lovingly, but curiously. Like, a person trying to remember why they kept a photo of a place they no longer missed. You chalked it up to just stress. Maybe it was the aftermath of war? Maybe the weight of taking Earth for the Viltrumites alongside his father.

You should've known better.

You weren't stupid. You were just... in love.

He changed after his missions began to pile in. Not at all once, of course. He didn't just wake up one day with the mohawk and the harsh voice. It was more like watching a church rot behind it's stained glass. Everything outside seemed still perfectly fine, until you stepped too close. That's when the cracks revealed themselves.

You used to trace the curve of his smile with your fingertips. But, not this one. Not this smirk he wore now, jagged and dry. Not the one he gave when vaporizing rebels. Not the one he wore when barking orders at his soldiers. And most certainly not the one he wore when he looked at you like you were an old toy someone forgot to throw away. No, you used to trace his real smile. The one he wore in high school when he couldn't stop blushing after you kissed his cheek. The one he gave when sneaking out past his curfew. The one you fell in love with, before the sky turned red and Earth fell silent beneath his boots.

Smiles can be sharp, though, and Mark's had turned into a blade. You saw the signs, the little digs.

"You're still wearing that?" he snorted while walking past you in the palace one day.

"It's kinda cute how you're still pretending to matter in all of this."

"You're like a stray I forgot I fed once."

He always followed it up with a wink or a laugh. You just smiled weakly each time, pretending it was just a joke; pretending your heart wasn't just bruised from how hard he stopped meaning his words with love.

But you didn't leave, of course not! You were still holding out for something. For the Mark who used to pull you into his lap when he came home from his patrolling. For the Mark who said "I love you" first. For the boy, not the God.

"Why are you still looking at me like that?" He snapped one evening. You were both sat for a meal you had prepared for him. You slaved hours over a hot stove, hoping he would compliment you on your hard work that night. He didn't even finish his meal. You blinked in confusion, looking up from your plate. "Like what?"

"Like I've changed, like I'm the one broken." He shot back at you. Your face twisted in confusion as your lips parted to reply. He didn't wait for your answer, though. He slid his chair back from the table with a disgusted scoff and stormed off, disappearing somewhere into the palace he had claimed. You sat there in silence as you dropped your fork to your plate; your heart began to pound against your ribcage in... fear? Confusion? You weren't entirely sure... What did you do wrong?

Truthfully though, you missed him. You missed the Mark who used to love your cooking. The one who would help clean-up after dinner, then cuddle for hours on the couch. He used to ask how your day was, even if his was worse. He used to apologize after arguments, and never ever let you sleep angry. That Mark was long gone.

And yet, you stayed.

You kept cooking for him, kept waiting up for him, kept saying "I love you" even when he didn't say it back. You learned to smile through clenched teeth, and to kiss his cheek even when it felt like you were kissing stone. You made his bed, brought him warm food whenever he came back bloodied, and you would hold his shoulder even when he flinched away. You stayed, because that's what love does.

But it wasn't love anymore, it was attachment. You were his anchor, and he was a ship beginning to get impatient of being tethered any longer.

The night it happened, Mark came home late. He stank of blood and smoke. His boots tracked in ash and blood all over the marble flooring. His suit had become shredded at the hem. But yet, he was still grinning...

"There you are..." You said softly, pulling back the covers of your side of the bed, sinking into it. "I saved dinner, it's on the stove." Mark glanced you up and down, "What? More of your slop? Amazing! You know, I conquered three more continents today, but sure, let's pretend burnt rice matters!"

You swallowed thick saliva as your face fell in disappointment. "But, you said you liked it last time?" Mark stalked over to you, scoffing as you spoke. The sound made your heart sink to your stomach. You felt embarrassed. "Yeah, well... maybe I lied." He stated flatly, he shrugged as his head shook and his lips shrugged too.

You should've gotten up. You should've walked out. But instead you pulled the covers back from his side as well, and offered him a strained, saddened smile. He didn't answer. He just stared at you, hard. Then, he chuckled. Low, sharp, and mocking.

"You know what's so funny?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes roaming the room as if it was foreign land. He didn't often sleep here with you anymore. "I've killed entire regimes. I wiped them out with just a single blast. I've crushed rebellions! I've broken bones of heroes like they were twigs in my hand." His hands mimicking a twig snapping between his hands as he spoke, "I restructured this planet." He turned, looking at you now; his grin still in it's place.

"But yet, somehow... you're still here. Making soup, folding socks, asking me if I'm still okay!"

You tried to laugh, but it came out more of a scoff. "Because I care."

Mark leaned forward. His eyes felt like they were piercing into the back of your head.

"No," he said. "Because you don't get it."

His hands were on you before you could react. One clamped around your throat, calloused and cold. The other pinned your shoulder as your head slammed back into the pillow. You thrashed, confused. "Mark...?" His name came out more as a stutter, though.

"You held me back," he hissed, voice flat, as if he was explaining the weather. "You always have."

Your fingers scratched at his arms, your eyes wild. "I let you stay," he continued, "even when the others told me to toss you away. I said, 'No, let's see what they do! Let's see how they survive once the tide comes in.' And do you know what you did?"

He squeezed harder.

"You made me dinner."

Tears pooled in your eyes as your body convulsed, fighting to get him off of you. It was impossible, he was stronger than you, much stronger. You tried to speak, tried to scream, but only wet gasps slipped through. He leaned in closer, lips near your ear.

"You made me weak," he whispered. "I could be a God, and yet you keep trying to tuck me in at night."

But as your vision blurred, and your limbs fell limp, you realized you felt not panicked, not angry, but you felt acceptance. Acceptance that maybe you knew this would happen all along. That he maybe never fully loved you.

He let go just as the last breath left your lungs. Your body lay still, eyes wide, lips parted like maybe you still had something to say.

Mark stood, straightening himself up as he stepped out of the room, never looking back. You remained warm for only a few more minutes; just long enough for the last trace of love to fade.

[meghiee]

masterlist ✧˖*°࿐

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invincible:

"you're dead, and everything is worse now"

invincible x reader

warnings: angst, gorey ish, no happy endings, reader dies

summary: you died, marks depressed and spiraling with grief as the world around him falls apart, again.

-

"and so i process grief by running from it, until it finds me in the middle of the street on a beautiful summer's day"

viltrumite!invincible x reader

warnings: death mention, angsty(?) i think. this is my first fic i've written in like 5 years so if it's bleh i apologize. :') essentially viltrum mark is having an identity crisis

summary: viltrumite!invincible has always had a crush on you throughout highschool. one day after he has turned to the viltrums and he is in a battle, your home is destroyed by accident. he avoids the area in order to avoid coming face to face with your death. but what must he do when he sees you walking down the street, alive, on a warm summer day?

-

the heir.

part 1

part 2

viltrumite!invincible x afab!reader (i will be using she/her pronouns for this story)

warnings: kidnapping/abduction, mentions of sex/breeding but nothing graphic (no smut here soz), pregnancy, forced marriage, angst ofc, reader becomes depressed, TW!! for mentions of starving oneself

summary: you are taken to be a suitable breeding match for viltrumites. your match? mark grayson.

-

"you cannot live without them, a dog always finds its way back home"

sinister!invincible x reader

warnings: psychological horror, cannibalism, gore

summary: sinister!invincible learns that he cannot live without you as he survives a wasteland. one day though, he finds a way to go back home to you.

-

the anchor

mowhawk!mark x reader

warnings: marks a bit of a p.o.s. in this :/, reader dies at the end, no happy ending

summary: mark begins to change, but you smile through it and continue life like normal. this isnt your mark anymore

-

omni-mark request

omni!mark x reader

warnings: none? (i think...) reader finally has a good ending!!! yippe!! :D

summary: mark is brooding, distant, and harsh around the edges. you, on the other hand, are bright, resilient, and maybe too friendly.

[meghiee]

requests & rules ✧˖*°࿐

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fandoms i will/have wrote for:

invincible

star wars

lords of chaos

twd

the outsiders

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stuff i will write:

any of the fandoms listed above!

angst, fluff, both!

oneshots, stories, headcannons

stuff i will NOT write:

smut/lemons, sorry! :(

incest

character x character, i only do x readers :/

zoophilia

characters under the age of 18

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i will always fulfill requests as long as they are within my rules. i can't promise that i will write anything in the order that i get it, but i will get to it eventually :) i like to write based off of what mood i am in and if i have anything that gives me inspo, whether it be for a request or something i think of!

[meghiee]

about me! ✧˖*°࿐

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hii!! my name is meg. i know im going to forget to update my age as time goes on, so for reference i was born in april of 2007. currently making me 18! (as of 2025) something that will become very apparent is that i am a HUGE peanuts fan.

i've always written stories and such growing up but i started getting heavily into it back in 2013 when creepypasta was all the rage. my first fic was a jeff the killer story i made on quotev, and since then i just wrote little oneshots here and there for all the fandoms i liked.

i mentioned in my first post that it was my first fic in 5 years, which is true! i last wrote a x reader story on wattpad back in 2020 during covid about star wars, specifically kylo ren :').

ANYWHO, i usually write stuff based off of pictures ill see on pinterest that i see and im like "omg wow thats so cool!" i also sometimes will listen to music and go "wow this would be a great plotline" but, im always open to requests so feel free to send any at any time! :) ill put my request page rules and shtuff here and then my masterlist here! :D

feel free to also ask me anything on my ama/request button on my page! :)

[meghiee]

welcome to my page!! :D

hello! welcome welcome :)

───────────୨ৎ───────────

my masterlist

about me

requests

───────────୨ৎ───────────

fandoms i will/have wrote for:

invincible

star wars

lords of chaos

twd

the outsiders

[meghiee]

sinister!invincible x reader

warnings: psychological horror, cannibalism, gore

summary: sinister!invincible learns that he cannot live without you as he survives a wasteland. one day though, he finds a way to go back home to you.

a/n: i learnt a little bit about how tumblr works and how to change text color! :D i also learnt how to open up my asks, so if there's anything you wanna ask me or maybe a request, go ahead! :)

-

It started with screaming. Mark barely remembered what he said the moment the green portal in front of him closed. It was something about Angstrom... Something about making him suffer for this. Something about never seeing you again.

"Ugh... He can't hear you, idiot..." Another Mark had remarked, his arms crossed as he scowled at him.

Then, there was silence...

A wasteland. Lifeless, endless, dead. But, he wasn't alone... not really at least. Not at first. All the other Marks left over from the war were tossed in this desert with him. Some were angry, others prayed to the vast desert around them to go home. One decided he was going to be the pack leader on the first day, and thus a fight broke out. He went after Mark, but he ended up killing him instead. His body was laid out; a reminder to the rest to not try anything. Eventually, it didn't go to waste. Nothing ever did anymore.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks began to blur into months. Hunger clawed at his mind first, not his stomach. It came in the form of memories. You. You reaching for his face, whispering his name, "You're still human, don't forget." But, humanity is a distant thing in this wasteland.

One by one, the other Marks fell. Some to time, some to insanity, some to him. The hunger was too much, and Mark... well, he stopped pretending it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't kill them out of desperation or survival, no, he tore through them like it was just another battle. As his other versions whined about the pain and their guilt, he reminded himself that they weren't strong enough. They didn't deserve to remember their version of you.

He kept your name like a relic. Mark would whisper it into the hollow air while he slept. He wrote it in his own blood across the stone walls of a ruined fortress before licking the crimson off his finger as if it was nothing but sugar. Licking his lips as he stared at your name. He scanned his brain for you. But... he could no longer recall your face in perfect clarity. All he had left now was your voice, maybe hints of your scent if the wind blew just right, and the taste of your lips as you kissed him. Those memories remained, and somehow, they sustained him.

Mark laughed more now. A loud, hysterical laughter which echoed throughout the broken sky. All the others had gone silent. And then, one day, as he dragged the last remaining variant to the top of a corpse pile, something flicked in the dust.

A portal. Green and alive.

It was small, cracking, and unstable. But, it was real! The first real thing he'd seen in what felt like eternity... And through it, he saw your world. Your city. Your world's sunset on the skyline. You.

Mark no longer cared for the corpse in his hand, dropping it mid-scream. His legs gave out beneath him. His strength was gone, all that remained was hope. Hope that this was actually real. Hope that he truly hadn't reached the end of his rope. His bloody hands reached for it like he was nothing but a starving animal. A starved dog.

His voice cracked, it sounded so... alien to him now. "Y/N...?" Your name fell from his lips like it was a sacred prayer.

The portal opened wider.

He didn't wait.

You were washing dishes when the air bent sideways. You turned, startled. The plate you were washing fell from your grasp to the floor as your hands began to shake out of fear. A ragged shape stumbled through the rift that had opened in the middle of your apartment.

Mark collapsed on your floor.

But... this wasn't the Mark you remembered. This was not your boyfriend. The one who kissed your forehead and laughed at bad sci-fi movies. This Mark was... barely human.

He was emaciated but still powerful. Bloodstained. Drenched in filth and fury. His hair was tangled, and his eyes were wild with bottomless hunger. Not for food... no. For you.

"...Mark?" you whispered as your body began to freeze up in fear. He looked up to you. His tears were already streaming down his dirt caked face. "I found you," he gasped. "I found you!"

He tried crawling across the hardwood towards you. His limbs were shaking; maybe from fear? Adrenaline? Hunger. "I thought I lost you. I thought I..." his voice croaked as it dissolved into animalistic sobs. "They said I'd forget, that I would move on. But, I couldn't. I couldn't breathe without you..."

You backed into the sink behind you, your hand grabbing the edge of the counter as your nails dug into the material. Your heart was pounding so hard it almost felt as if it was going to burst right from your chest. "Mark... what happened to you!" You spat at him, almost sounding accusatory. He smiled through blood-crusted teeth. The sight made you wince in disgust. "I'm home now." He stated flatly, like it was something so obvious.

Mark stood, slow, almost reverent. His hands reached toward you, shaking, trembling. Not to hurt... no, not yet. Just to touch. To prove you were real. And as you looked into his eyes, you realized something horrifying.

He wasn't just broken.

He was starving. Not for food. Not for water.

But, for you.

"You cannot live without them," Angstrom had mocked. But, Mark smiled now, his steps closing the suffocating gap between you two.

"A dog always finds it's way back home."

And dogs, when starved long enough, don't ask permission before they bite.

[meghiee]

viltrumite!invincible x reader

warnings: death mention, angsty(?) i think. this is my first fic i've written in like 5 years so if it's bleh i apologize. :') essentially viltrum mark is having an identity crisis

summary: viltrumite!invincible has always had a crush on you throughout highschool. one day after he has turned to the viltrums and he is in a battle, your home is destroyed by accident. he avoids the area in order to avoid coming face to face with your death. but what must he do when he sees you walking down the street, alive, on a warm summer day?

-

He truthfully hadn't meant for Earth to fall the way it had.

But... orders were orders. So, Mark Grayson, a hesitant and unsure teenager; always slouched over as if he was trying to crawl into his imaginary shell to hide his statue-like height (thanks Viltrumite DNA...) It made him feel more invisible. He liked it that way, with his wide eyes and shaky hands that made him curse under his breath whenever he tried to get his nerves to settle. But now he was a full-blooded soldier of the Viltrumite Empire.

The moment he turned on humanity, resistance crumbled fast. Even faster when he stopped holding back. Back onto his humanity. His human side was no more. He could still remember the last thing he ever felt, though. A loud, aching heartbeat just before everything inside him halted and went cold.

The moment he died was the moment he saw your house; a pile of smoldering ash, shattered brick, and dirt everywhere. It lay nested in the middle of a crater from a battle he didn't even remember starting. The sky was red. Not from the sun setting into the night, but from blood. It burned into the clouds, coating the air with the thick scent of copper. Mark hadn't meant to look. He was too far gone for caring, for sympathy. He was lost in a haze of rage and obedience. He tried to remind himself as he felt his body gravitate toward the wreck that Mark Grayson was gone. He was Viltrumite now. He was Invincible. A soldier. A conqueror of cities. A killer.

He only looked down by accident (or atleast that's what he told himself) He swore he saw motion in the wreckage below him, and it just simply caught his eye. Yeah... right. The area felt familiar...

Oh. That's right, this was your home.

Mark froze in midair, hovering high above the crater his fist had helped carve. His eyes scanned the destruction. The walls were leveled, and the porch he often saw you sitting on as he passed while walking home from work was now just a pile of broken concrete. He felt the wind blow through his Viltrum suit as it howled in his ears. He could hear the soooosh of greenery around him. Trees, bushes, and oh... your mother's flowers. Peonies and azaleas. Perfectly untouched despite the rubble. They were your mother’s… right?

The realization made his vision tunnel as his breath caught in the back of his throat. He didn't hear the cries anymore. He didn't see the survivors fleeing down the block. The smoke and dust danced around him and swam higher into the skyline. All he saw now was a shell of a home and a ghost of a life he no longer allowed himself to think about anymore.

You'd gone to school together. You weren't close by any means; Mark wasn't brave enough for that. He knew you from afar. He would watch you during class. He'd listen to your conversations with friends and memorized the way you'd laugh as you told a joke. He would walk behind you sometimes in the hall as you made your way to class just so he could be near you. He could recall the day you spilled your water bottle on your notes and how, despite you being upset, you just smiled it off and shrugged. "No use crying over wet paper!" You said, your voice chippering at the end of the word 'paper'. He liked that.

He hovered above for what felt like hours. Just staring... unmovable. His eyes were dead, like he had no concept of emotion any longer. His fists were caked with someone's blood. It had formed a tiny puddle on the remaining pavement below him hours ago. But now it had dried, crusting away as he clenched his fists hard. The skin began to crack and callous. You didn't deserve that. You weren't anything like the others, nowhere even near being a threat. You hadn't even been part of the fight. Just collateral. Just... gone. You were so human. You were always so much more alive and bright than everyone else.

But now you were... No- he didn't bring himself to confirm it. He couldn't. He didn't want to know for sure. So, he turned away. His heart, whatever was left of it, shriveled into his core and tore itself apart. His eyes hardened as he sucked the emotion rising to his face back down into his pit of anger.

He never asked about you. He didn't want confirmation. It was easier to assume you were dead, anyways, and file it away in that new compartment in his mind. It lay right beside his mercy, guilt, and humanity. And from that day forward, Mark had become unstoppable. For the next year, he became the model Viltrumite. He was efficient, merciless, and unshakable. The Viltrumites were pleased. He stopped hesitating. He stopped flinching at screams. The part of him that once cried during the ending of Seance Dog was far gone. It lay buried beneath the rubble of what was once your home. Maybe it kept your ghost company?

Cities fell, leaders bowed, and he avoided that one neighborhood like it was littered with radiation. He couldn't even bring himself to even fly over it. You were buried there, and as far as he was concerned, he couldn't even let himself grieve. That was weakness. Weakness was punished.

Mark told himself that he simply imagined it. That you were just a distant memory. A soft voice with a bright smile that was drowned out by his duty. Maybe he even just imagined you...

And that worked!

For a while.

A year passed. Earth bent it's knee. The remaining resistance fought from shadows, broken and aimless. It was a dry summer day when everything had cracked open again. Mark was flying low; not out of sentiment, but because a rebel pack had been reported in the city. No biggie, just do a routine check. The streets were quiet aside from the gentle chirps of the nearby birds. Sunlight stretched itself over cracked sidewalks and boarded windows. It was hot out today. Summer had returned like it didn’t have a clue what the world had become. Civilians still lived here, though barely. Not many dared to go outside in broad daylight anymore.

Then he saw you.

At first, it didn't register. Just someone walking down the street.

No... It couldn't be.

But yet, there you were.

You were alive, and walking.

The street was falling away as time broke. The world went silent. Your house was gone. Vaporized. He'd seen it himself. You had to of been in it!

But yet, here you were. The sun was on your skin. Your lips were curved in a ghost of a smile, as if Earth hadn't burned. Like he hadn't helped burn it. Your hair was tied up haphazardly as if maybe you'd been in a rush today. The sun blinded itself onto your face as you attempted to shield it from your view, soon giving up and just squinting as you walked along. Your bookbag was slung over one shoulder like it was just any other day in a peaceful world... Where were you going?

Just as Mark planned to escape from this scene; his cold, human heart was growing too heavy in his chest. He didn't like that. You looked up at him. His stomach was doing somersaults. Something inside him had cracked, and then shattered into millions of pieces. Grief. Relief. Horror. Hope. It all slammed into him at once like a meteor to the gut. He wanted to fly to you.

He wanted to run.

He wanted to tell you everything. Every last thought he had. Like how he thought he had killed you. That you were the only thing left from his past that he missed. That even when he tried to forget your name, your face, god- that smile. He still remembered the day you once smiled at him over a shared worksheet like he was just another human being. It all still haunted him in his dreams that he tried to deny himself from having.

Your eyes locked with his. There was no recognition in yours. Just vague apprehension like you knew who he was now, but not what he used to be. Not what he used to feel for you.

Didn't you remember him from high school? The quiet kid always scribbling in notebooks. The one who stared a second too long when you passed in the hallway. Did you recognize him now? The bloodstained symbol on his chest, his hardened jaw, or maybe his darkened eyes?

Did you remember him at all?

You turned away, rounding the next corner and picking up pace, wary of who he was. What he could do. But still, he didn't move. He couldn't. It was as if he forgotten how to move at all. Everything was flooding back in a rush. It was overwhelming.

You were alive. And he... He had become something else just to survive losing you. He'd buried the best parts of himself, thinking they died with you. His humanity. And now? He didn't know if he could go back to who he was. But, he wanted to. God, he wanted to...

He tried so hard not to care. To forget. To become what they wanted him to be.

But now?

Now he couldn't stop remembering.