Collector of Fanfics

you remember the first time mark flew.

it was clumsy, chaotic, and beautiful. you were standing on the rooftop of your apartment. watching him wobble through the air like a baby bird. he landed beside you with a grin that could melt steel.

"i did it!" he laughed as he hugged you out of pure excitement.

you smiled, but your heart ached. you already knew- you were falling for him.

but then came amber. she was so smart, and grounded. she was everything mark thought he needed to stay tethered to a normal life. you watched him chase her, watched him lie to her, watched her eventually walk away. and the eve- eve- powerful, radiant, and always just a little too close. she was perfect essentially though, at least perfect enough to be better for mark than you.

you were the one who always stayed though. through bloodied battles, sleepless nights, and the crushing weight of responsibility. you were the one who held his hand when he couldn't breathe after Nolan's betrayal. you were the one who whispered, "you're not him," when he doubted everything. it was always you.

but he never spared you more than a glance, never looked at you the way you looked at him.

-

it started with tremors.

reality itself began to crack. the guardians scrambled to contain the damage, but it was too late. a tear opened above earth- shimmering, unstable, and pulsing with energy.

from it came mark- or- the first variant.

he looked like mark, but older. his suit was torn, his eyes hollow. he collapsed in front of you, whispering your name like it was a prayer.

"i can't believe it's you- i- i lost you..." he said. "never again."

you froze. mark, your mark, stood behind you, silent, watching.

then came another and another.

each one different- some scarred, some smiling, some who looked like the shell of mark. broken. but all of them knew you. all of them seemed to have loved you.

mark watched as they surrounded you, drawn to you like moths to a flame. and for the first time, he felt it- fear. not of losing a battle, not the fear of fighting his father, no.

the fear of losing you.

-

you tried to ignore it. tried to stay focused on the war, on the collapsing dimensions, on the mission.

but how could you, when one variant always seemed attached to your hip like you were sacred? when another whispered stories of your life together in his world- how you saved him from himself, how you were his light?

but you also noticed how distant mark grew. he held a short fuse now, always snapping at others. flying off alone. you confronted him one night after a brutal anomaly in Paris, where half the city had been swallowed by a dimensional quake.

flying towards him on a rooftop, you slowly made your way towards him. the silence was loud. very loud.

"you're angry." you accused, although you didn't really need to. nor did you need any confirmation on the deal. his actions always did show what he truly felt.

"i'm not," he lied with a pout.

"you're jealous."

the silent stretched on even longer. he didn't deny it.

"i see the way they look at you," he said quietly as he turned to fully face you. "and i see the way you look at them..."

"mark..." you sigh, closing the gap between you two, your hand now on his shoulder. "i've only every looked at you though."

-

the final war came fast.

a coalition of corrupted variants- twisted versions of heroes and villains- descended on earth. they sky turned red. the air buzzed with energy. you fought beside mark and his variants, each one a reflection of what could've been. or what had been in their universe.

you were everywhere- teleporting between collapsing cities, shielding civilians, taking hits that honestly should've killed you or knocked you out at least. mark was always just behind you, watching, protecting, longing.

of course someone had to ruin it.

a corrupted mark- his suit black, his eyes glowing- struck you down. you fell, bleeding, your body broken.

you could hear mark scream from the other side of the battlefield.

he tore through the battlefield like a comet, fists blazing, rage uncontained. he didn't stop the variant was nothing but a mush of blood, guts, and broken bones.

then he was beside you, cradling you, sobbing.

your blood was seeping into his suit as he tried to apply pressure to your biggest wounds.

"don't leave me," he whispered. "i never said it. i never told you because- because i was scared but i love you (y/n). i love you. i always-"

you touched his cheek, blood on your fingers. "took you long enough grayson."

-

First, let's set the stage for your background: You're Art's adopted superhero daughter with gravity-based superpowers. Like Mark, you keep your real identity a secret to keep you and Art safe while you're a part of Teen Team. From time to time, you help Art with his secret work of designing suits for heroes. If throuple Mark and Eve were to happen, I imagine that the sparkles would happen first with Eve first rather than Mark. ────୨ৎ────

You and Eve have always been very good friends, especially since you're always there to listen to her complain about Rex and her parents.

Now, if we're being honest, there's always been a little something between you and Eve. Neither of you was ready to ever talk about it since you weren't really sure how to go about it, and Eve was with Rex.

But sometimes, when you're both alone and just sitting together on top of a building looking over the city, your pinkies intertwine, and there's a nice silence that settles between you, and both of your cheeks flush.

────୨ৎ────

It's early on in Mark's superhero career when you first meet. He's there at your dad's shop trying to figure out his suit when you walk in:

"Daddd, have you seen my sketchbook? I can't find it anywhere! I already loo- Oh! Mr. Omni!" you smile, rushing down the stairs and towards Nolan. Mark watches with surprised eyes as you fake punch his father and giggle as you latch yourself onto his bicep, and he lifts you off the ground. Your eyes soon land on Mark, and you smile at him before looking at Nolan. "Is that your son?" you ask, curiosity clear as day. "Don't you think you should introduce yourself first?" Art teases, always amused with how you interact with Nolan. You roll your eyes at your dad's teasing before introducing yourself to Mark. "No way, you're going to put him in that!" you say as your eyes rack over Mark's body. His cheeks flush under your heated gaze, and both of your dads glance at each other as you step closer to the young hero. "You've definitely got the lean build going for you, ya know. And a pretty cute face. Shame you wanna hide it behind a mask," you say, and if you were actually paying attention to Mark, you'd see his face flush even more. "The kid hasn't decided on a name yet, you know," your dad says, and you turn to look at him. "Says he wants something iconic," he adds, and your face lights up as you get what he's hinting at. You quickly turn to Mark again, eyes wide, and smile even wider. "You have to let me design your suit!" you say, and with red cheeks, Mark agrees. You go on and on about different possibilities before Nolan cuts you off, saying that they have to go, and with a smile, you let them go, but not before stopping Mark one more time. "Here's my phone number! Text me when you finally have a name," you say, and Mark can barely say anything, so Nolan thanks you for him before they leave. Little do you know that you're the first girl to ever give Mark their phone number.

────୨ৎ────

The first time you see Mark in action is during the Flaxan invasion, and soon after, you introduce him to Eve and the rest of the team.

Before you know it, you're starting to feel funny around Mark the more you get to know each other, but as soon as you find out he's seeing Amber, you push your feelings to the side.

And then, when you find out Rex cheated on Eve, you two start spending a lot more time together. In fact, you start spending the night in her treehouse so she doesn't get lonely, and it's finally then that you talk about what's been going on between you:

"If I'm being honest, I've always had a little bit of a crush on you," Eve admits, her cheeks a dark red and yours also flush. "But I was with Rex, and I didn't want to ruin our friendship if you didn't feel the same way. Oh, and I don't know if you're into girls, and I've never really thought about it, but I know that-" you cut her off by kissing her. "I feel the same about you," you giggle as Eve smiles. "I was also scared of ruining our friendship in case you didn't feel the same, and you were with Rex, so I just never said anything." You both laugh and spend the rest of the night talking about exploring the connection between you both more.

────୨ৎ────

The one who brings up Mark is actually you. Since you and Eve are officially going out, you notice how she acts a little differently around Mark, kind of like the way you did to her when she and Rex were still together. The more you think about it, the more you realize that you and Eve were missing something—that something being Mark.

After a long talk, you tell Eve about your past feelings for Mark, and she tells you about her current feelings for Mark. Even though you both are on the same page about Mark, he's still seeing Amber at this point, so you both agree that it's better to keep him as a friend than ruin your friendship over your feelings.

────୨ৎ────

After the whole incident with Nolan (or Omni-Man, as you prefer to call him now because you still cherished your past moments with Nolan), you and Eve grow much closer to Mark by being there for him and helping him with his relationship with Amber.

One night, when Mark is telling the two of you about his newest issues with his relationship, do you let it slip that you and Eve are together.

While Mark was happy for both of you, there was a weird feeling at the bottom of his stomach now that he knew you two were happily together while he was struggling with Amber. It was like he was missing out on something, but he didn't know how to explain it, so he just congratulated you two again on your relationship.

────୨ৎ────

Time passes, and more threats come your way before you find out Mark and Amber broke up and about his fight with Angstrom.

You both met with him to make sure he was okay, and you weren't ready for how much it would hurt you when your eyes met Mark's sad, tired eyes.

While reassuring him that you were both there for him if he ever wanted to talk, a strange look overcomes his face before he shakes his head and looks down at the water. You three spend the rest of the night with Mark's head on Eve's shoulder and his arm wrapped around your shoulders with your hand holding his.

────୨ৎ────

Things change after that night, and then Eve tells you about her and Mark's conversation about his time in the desert dimension. To say that you hated the future you was an understatement. Cause there's no way that your feelings about Mark are revealed by a future heartbroken, devasted you.

Although you want to talk to Mark about everything, the universe seems to be pitted against you as you hear about his and Cecil's fighting. You send Eve to check up on him and his family while you catch up with your dad about everything, needing to get everything off your chest.

You talk for most of the night about everything that's happened and apologize for being so secretive about it all. Thankfully, Art is very supportive of you and Eve and your now-growing feelings for Mark.

It's later that night that Eve stops by your house and meets your dad, and she tells you about her conversation with Mark. While you completely understand how she feels, you can't but feel bad for Mark. While she falls asleep in your room, you sneak out and fly over to the Grayson house to finally talk to Mark.

The whole conversation is a little embarrassing, and your heart breaks as Mark tells you about how he always felt something for you and Eve but never acted because of timing:

"You blew me away the first time I saw you," Mark admits. Your heart beats a little faster. "I know Eve thinks that I'm only saying this because future her said so, but I'm not. I know how I feel for both of you, and I'm done being afraid. I'm not wasting any more time. So, please, if you feel anything for me, even a fraction of what I feel, just give us—all three of us a chance." Mark's eyes bore into yours, and you turn to look up at the sky before giggling. "You really know how to make a girl feel special, huh, Invincible," you tease, smiling at Mark before telling him you'd be willing to give all three of you a try but that Eve needed to agree as well because you loved and respected her opinion. Needless to say, Mark was over the moon and more than willing to talk to Eve again.

────୨ৎ────

With a little help from you, Eve and Mark were able to talk about everything again, and as Eve finally agreed, you came out from behind the pillar you were hiding behind and hugged the both of them.

The three of you laughed as the night went on, and you spent the next hours sitting on the bridge with one of Eve's hands intertwined with yours and the other with Mark's.

────୨ৎ────

“Eve I actually have work today.”

You wince at the lie you told what you would consider to be your best friend, you shift your phone to sit in the nook of your left shoulder and slowly try and open your fridge door. Don’t get you wrong, you loved eve and loved hanging out with her too, but ever since she started dating mark she seemed to be more insistent on your presence.

At first you thought she was simply being eve, nice, not wanting you to be left out (even if you went on multiple missions together that same week) but after the first month, you quickly grew tired of being the 3rd wheel and actually uncomfortable with being around too much (to you but not eve and mark) so you started making up excuses on why you couldn’t hang out, being sick, having to help your parents with something, or something else.

This brings you back to current day, the silence on the other end of your phone made you stop in your tracks, “eve?” You call out her name to try and see if she hung up on you but looking at your phone the call was still running. “W-why are you lying…” your breath catches in your lungs, not from her accusation but from the site of eve and mark standing right outside your front room window staring at you.

“Shit…” you mutter to yourself, slowly sitting your phone on the counter top you hear a “don’t” in a different voice- marks voice, your hand freezes in place. The handle to your front door throttles before it’s just gone left in the pink remnants of eve’s power’s.

“I thought you liked being with us?” Eve stares at you with a hurt expression on her face, and mark stands with a more disappointed one. “I-I do eve, I just-“ “then why do you keep lying to us…” mark cuts you off before you could finish, making eve frown deeply and tilt her head forward at you.

Duchess Frances and Duke William Monroe had always fought over toys and trinkets since they were young. These small squabbles never ended, even when they reached adulthood. Especially when they both had their sights set on you, the pretty little maid. Both siblings were incredibly competitive over you, their sweet, oblivious maid.

You had been with them since they were children since you were the daughter of a maid. And once you were a teen, you worked for the family too… and those two siblings made your life a living hell. You had no idea that they did such awful acts upon you for your utmost attention rather than sadistic pleasure, but how were you to know the truth? They merely learned love through what they observed between their cold parents.

Frances used to cut your hair without your permission and stuff the remnants into a tin under he bed, while William had a much stranger habit. He enjoyed keeping your dirty socks. They were both so strange to you as the years went on. What started at childish bullying turned into a strange dynamic they had with no other house servant.

When adulthood finally came, Frances Monroe became a diva. Unlike her war commander brother, who threw elaborate parties and had gaggles of women dancing on his arms, she’d flaunt her furs and jewelry amongst the party guests. And she made you, her maid, do her hair and makeup multiple times a day just so she could have your hands on her. Frances adored the attention she recieved from other women, but didn’t like the attention of men… the socialite didn’t quite understand why, but she gravitated towards you. You were the only one who indulged her every command and it made her feel special. Even though Frances failed to realize you didn’t quite have a choice.

Your hands were constantly making finger waves in her French bob. You swore your hands were in the permanent shape of the comb and your hands smelled constantly of sugar water. Yet Frances was never satisfied.

“Redo it. You can’t possibly think this hairstyle is acceptable for my party guests.” She’d tell you each time despite how good the hair looked. This was all to have your constant attention… and to keep you away from her older brother, William.

When you finally had free time, you’d be hounded by William who wanted you to fetch him all kinds of assortments. Whether it was drinks or snacks, he’d ask for them in bountiful amounts. Yet that wasn’t the worst part, the worst part was when William had you feed him and it was always a show.

William would beckon you over like a dog in front of so many people before he’d have you nearly straddling his lap to hand-feed him an appetizer or an olive from his martini. His blue eyes would be half lidded and dazed… like you were yet another woman he wanted as a conquest. It made you sick.

You hated those two spoiled brats. The hours you worked as a servant were so long and demanding and the pay? It was so low, you almost felt like a pet rather than a worker. You worked multiple jobs since the Monroes' cutback on servants in the manor. There were hardly any male servants due to the ongoing war… and you knew it was only a matter of time before one of the few men left in this house might try to put their hands on you. You had heard stories from other maids… and you had no interest in being a bed warmer and ultimately, known as a trollop it’s why you’ve been saving most of your checks. You needed enough for a ticket to sail across the Atlantic to America… maybe you’d find a better life in New York than working for this awful Duchy.

You sat up as you went to the hidden hole you had hidden under your mattress where you kept a metal tin full of shillings. You had about £14 that you’ve collected over three years. It’d be enough for a boat ticket… You only made about that much a year as a parlor maid. Which was more than what you made years ago. You were grateful for the meager pay rise because you were that much closer to freedom. You packed your tin back where it was before you made sure it was secure once more. The last thing you needed was for someone to discover this… you had been talking to a sailor for a few months now on getting on the hair and he promised you a spot if you ever truly needed it. You took great advantage of your looks to get what you wanted. And you were hopeful that he’d keep his word.

The days went on and you noticed William began to seek you out more and more. Whether it be to ask you to fetch him a beverage or to stand as close as possible beside you while you dusted. It unnerved you how he looked at you, yet the older maids could do nothing to help you.

“I’ll be going to war soon,” William told you softly. His blue eyes filled with longing. “…meet me in my room tonight.”

Frances angrily stormed into the room when one of the maids let it slip that William asked you that request. Her blue eyes were narrowed as her pin curls were still pinned to her head since she had waited all morning for you, specifically, to come to her room to take them out despite her having a personal maid.

“How dare you indulge my brother! You are to be at my beck and call, not his!” She huffed in annoyance, her pale cheeks flushed red. “I’m far better company than that sheik! Look at my hair! I need you to fix it.”

You obediently followed her to her room as she practically dragged you. Frances complained the entire time as you fixed her blonde bob for her. The socialite was leaning into your hands the whole time which made your job even more difficult. If only you looked up to see the dazed expression on her face, then you’d know how Frances really felt. Frances felt the feelings for you that a man would feel for a woman and that really upset her. Because Frances knew she could never truly have you. She’d have to marry a nobleman one day. Unless… She took you back with her.

It rained that night, but you quietly went to William’s room as he asked. You didn’t want to upset him since William had a worse temper than Frances, herself.

He was quick to wave you over to him as he sat in his chair. His blue eyes studied your form in an emotion you could only describe as reverence. Which was odd since he was a known ladies' man. Yet you never truly looked into whether or not he genuinely joined those ladies in his room. He was just a privileged elite in your eyes anyways.

“You’ve grown so beautiful.” William quietly told you, and his hand went to grab yours. His grip was as tight as the coils of a snake around its prey. “It’s not fair that my sister keeps you all to herself.”

The moment he went to try to pull you into his lap, you quickly tried to push away from him. His blue eyes widened before they became half-lidded. Did you enjoy teasing him? How naughty…

“I’m sorry, my lord. I hadn’t meant to offend you-“ William chuckled as he continued to let his hands roam your body. He had been holding back for so long but no other woman could get him quite as worked up as you did.

“Nonsense. I’m finally able to appreciate you and your beautiful body now that my father isn’t here. Do you know how hard it was to keep all the men away from you all these years? I didn’t want another man to ever touch you, sweetheart.” William smiled. “I’ve been carrying a torch for you for years and now I finally get to touch you.”

The moment he went to pull you in for a kiss, you shoved him before you fled. The Duke hardly had time to register what had just happened before he gave chase. If you glanced back, you would have see the expression of pure panic on his face. William had thought you liked him too… You had never lashed out like this before!

“Wait! Please-“

But you rushed into your room and took out that little tin full of money from under your mattress before you fled down the staircase. A few servants merely gave you a glance at first until they saw the young master chasing you. The room soon descended into pandemonium, which of course attracted Frances to exit her room in shock. Her blue eyes widened when she saw you rushing out the door in only your maid uniform and your little, metal tin.

“Wait! Where are you going?!” Frances soon descended the stairs as well, yet she wasn’t quick enough. You were out that door. Both siblings screamed for you over and over again, but you drowned them out.

The stone of the Red Keep was a perpetual, aching cold, a damp, marrow-deep chill that no braziers could ever truly banish. It seeped through the thin soles of your silk slippers, a constant, unwelcome reminder that you were no longer home.

There, the very marble of your mother’s house had been sun-warmed, holding the golden light long into the violet dusk. Here, the grey fortress swallowed light and warmth alike.

You had been a gilded prisoner within its labyrinthine walls for three days, though it felt like three lifetimes. The betrothal decree, read aloud in the throne room with chilly finality by your grandfather, King Daeron the Good, had been the last lock snapped shut on the cage.

You, the forgotten daughter of a disinterested prince and his foreigner wife, were to marry Prince Valarr Targaryen. A name. A legacy of conquest and dragonfire. A stranger meant to chain you to this cold, northern rock forever.

You would not do it.

The plan was born of sheer, desperate will. You had waited until your handmaid, a stern, silent woman who watched you like a jailor, was distracted, then slipped into a disused corridor hung with faded tapestries. From there, a narrow garderobe’s stair, slick with condensation, led down to a secluded courtyard near the armory. The air here smelled of forged steel, leather, and the distant, pungent scent of the stables.

And there it was: a high fence of weathered wood, shrouded in thick, creeping ivy. It was the outermost boundary you could reach, and on the other side, you imagined, lay the teeming, anonymous freedom of the shadowed alleys of King’s Landing.

The fence, however, was a deceitful thing. Taller and smoother than it appeared from a distance. Your first leap was pitiful, your fingers barely brushing the mossy top. You cursed under your breath in the liquid High Valyrian of your father's people, gathered the ridiculous, voluminous skirts of your Myrish lace gown and prepared to attempt something truly undignified.

“That looks like a strategy doomed to end in either a torn dress or a broken ankle,” a voice remarked, tinged with amusement.

You spun, your blood turning to ice water. A young man stood framed in a nearby archway, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He was dressed not in court silks, but in fine, tooled leathers and a dark tunic, the practical attire of a knight or an advanced squire. He had a pleasant, honest face, crowned with a tumble of thick brown hair and one eyeof a clear, bright blue and the other of a warm brown. No silver-gold locks, no piercing, haughty violet gaze. He was no Targaryen prince, just a handsome bystander, a son of some lordling perhaps. A witness.

Panic sharpened your tongue. “It’s only doomed if one lacks conviction,” you retorted, turning your back to him to glare at the offending fence. “Now, are you going to assist, or do you make a habit of merely spectating while ladies are in distress?”

You heard the soft scuff of his boots as he pushed off the archway and stepped into the courtyard. “Assist with what, precisely? A sudden, passionate study of masonry? Or is the ivy here particularly fascinating?”

“I am attempting to run away from my betrothed,” you declared, as if announcing you were going to fetch a book. You pointed at him, your gesture imperious. “And you look like a knight, or near enough. It is chivalric to aid a lady. It’s in your vows, I’m certain of it.”

A startled, warm laugh escaped him, the sound echoing softly off the stones. “My vows, is it? You have me at a disadvantage, my lady. And who is this dread betrothed who inspires such… inventive escape attempts?”

“Prince Valarr Targaryen,” you hissed, the name feeling like a betrayal on your lips. “The ‘Young Prince.’ He’s likely in some council chamber right now, practicing his solemn looks and weighing his future glory. I, however, have no desire to be a traded trinket in their endless dynastic game.” You waved impatiently at the fence, your lace cuff catching on the ivy. “Now, a boost. Unless your courage fails at the thought of defying the Crown Prince’s grandson.”

The stranger’s expression shifted. The amusement didn’t vanish, but it was joined by a flicker of genuine surprise, his eyebrows lifting. He recovered quickly, that easy smile returning as he gave an exaggerated, appraising look at your ensemble, the delicate gown, the slippers meant for palace halls, the fierce, unyielding set of your pretty face.

“I see. A most dire predicament,” he said, his tone sober but his mismatched eyes alight with unconcealed delight. He closed the distance between you. “Well, I’ve heard tales of this Prince Valarr. They say he’s… painfully dutiful. All solemnity and sigils. Probably reads ledgers for pleasure. A terrible fate, to be sure.”

“You see?” you cried, feeling a surge of camaraderie. “A life of utter tedium awaits! A boost, ser, I beg you!”

He moved behind you, his hands coming up to hover respectfully at your sides. “As my lady commands. On my count, then. One… two…”

On “two,” his strong hands gripped your waist and lifted. You gasped, scrambling against the wood, the rough grain snagging your sleeves. Your slippers slid uselessly against the fence. You were lodged there, hopelessly straddling the top, dignity in tatters.

“You know,” he mused, his voice slightly strained from supporting your weight, “I’ve also heard he’s rather intrigued by this match. Might even be… hopeful about it. Might be walking the gardens right now, dreaming of his elusive bride. It would be quite a blow to his princely pride if she were to vanish over a fence like a common thief.”

You kicked out, desperate for leverage. “Then he should dream of someone who wishes to be dreamed of! Stop jostling!”

“My most humble apologies,” he chuckled, his grip firming. With one final, solid heave, you were unceremoniously pushed over the crest. You landed on the other side with a soft oomph, in a tangled heap of lace and wounded pride. You scrambled upright, brushing dirt from your arms, a wild, triumphant laugh bubbling in your throat.

Freedom! You turned, peering back through the dense lattice of ivy and wooden slats. Your accomplice was dusting off his hands, that annoyingly attractive, lopsided grin still firmly in place.

“Thank you, kind and noble ser!” you whispered fiercely. “You have served the cause of freedom bravely this day! May the gods bless you!”

He offered a shallow, theatrical bow. “The pleasure was entirely mine. Though, my lady… a point of information.” He nodded past you, down the narrow, shadowed alley where you stood. “This path leads directly to the royal kennels.”

Your triumph curdled. “The… what?”

“The kennels. His Grace’s hunting hounds. Very loud. Very… enthusiastic about newcomers.” As if on cue, a cacophony of deep, inquisitive barks erupted from the far end of the passage, followed by the sound of rattling chains and a kennelmaster’s shout. “Prince Valarr’s own pack, I believe. They say he has a gift with animals. Fiercely loyal, impeccable trackers.”

Your heart plummeted through the soles of your useless slippers. You were not free. You were trapped in a foul-smelling, barking cul-de-sac, still very much a captive within the Red Keep’s endless sprawl.

From the other side of the fence, his warm, rich laughter floated through to you, utterly unrepentant. “A humble suggestion? The lemon cakes set out in the main hall are exceptional today. Far sweeter than splinters, and with significantly less… canine involvement. I’m told even broody, significant princes have been known to enjoy them.”

Before you could muster a scathing reply, he leaned closer to the slats, his blue eyes capturing yours, the amusement in them softening into something that felt almost like… kindness. “Farewell, my fleeing lady. This has been, without question, the most entertaining interlude of my week.”

And then he was gone, the sound of his retreating footsteps fading into the general hum of the keep, leaving you alone, fuming, and hopelessly lost amidst the rising chorus of barks.

---

They had found you in the kennel yard, of course. A stern-faced steward and two guards, summoned by the commotion, had escorted you back through the keep with all the dignity of a captured fugitive. Your Myrish gown was snagged, your hair had escaped its pins, and you were fairly certain you smelled of hounds. The handmaidens had tutted and clucked and stripped you of your ruined clothes as if you were a child, then set to work with bath oils, and a gown of deep Targaryen red that felt like a brand.

"You have the look of your mother," one of them said, not unkindly, as she fastened a collar of pearls at your throat. "The softness. The prince will be pleased."

You said nothing. You were too busy plotting seventeen different ways to escape through the window, none of them feasible from the third floor of Maegor's Holdfast.

The engagement feast was already underway when they finally released you into the wild. The great hall blazed with torchlight and candlelight, the long tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats and sugared fruits, the air thick with music and laughter and the suffocating press of courtiers. You were announced—"the Lady Y/N, Princess of House Targaryen"—and the name felt like a collar around your throat.

Your grandfather, King Daeron, smiled benignly from the high table. Your father, Prince Aerys, was notably absent, as he had been for most of your life. Beside the king sat Prince Baelor, the heir, and beside him an empty chair. Valarr's chair. Your betrothed was nowhere to be seen.

Good, you thought viciously. Let him choke on his lemon cakes.

You were swept into the current of the feast before you could breathe. Lords and ladies you didn't know approached with smiles that didn't reach their eyes, offering congratulations you hadn't asked for, speculating on wedding dates you hadn't consented to. You smiled until your cheeks ached, nodded until your neck cramped, and desperately wished for home.

Then the dancing began.

The first partner was some lord from the Reach, eager and sweaty-palmed. The second was a Dornish envoy who moved with serpentine grace but spoke only of politics. The third was a lannister who held you at arm's length as if you carried a plague. You spun and stepped and smiled until the faces blurred together, until the music became a meaningless thrum, until you were certain you would scream if one more person asked if you were excited for the wedding.

And then, mid-turn, you were passed from one set of hands to another—a smooth, effortless transition that left you blinking up at a new partner.

It was him.

The boy from the courtyard. The knight who had boosted you over a fence and laughed while the hounds cornered you. He was dressed for the feast now, in a tunic of deep blue velvet that brought out the strangest thing about him: his eyes, mismatched. One was a warm, sunlit brown. The other was a clear, striking blue. They regarded you now with that same infuriating, delightful amusement, and his hand was warm and steady at your waist.

"You," you breathed.

"Me," he agreed, sweeping you into the rhythm of the dance as if you'd been partners for years. "Though I confess, you look considerably less... ivy-covered than when we last met. The hounds were not too rough with you, I hope?"

"You abandoned me to them!"

"I gave you excellent advice about lemon cakes," he countered, spinning you. "You chose not to take it. That's hardly my fault."

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it—a surprised, genuine sound that felt foreign in your own throat. "You call that advice? 'Go eat cakes while your escape crumbles around you'?"

"I call it pragmatic." He pulled you closer as the dance brought you together, his voice dropping to something warmer, more intimate. "Besides, I had a feeling we'd meet again. I wanted you to remember me fondly."

"Fondly." You raised an eyebrow. "You tricked me."

"I helped you." His mismatched eyes sparkled. "There's a difference. I could have summoned the guards immediately. Instead, I gave you a moment of true freedom, however brief, and the memory of a handsome stranger who lifted you over a fence. That's practically chivalric."

"Practically," you repeated, but you were smiling now, and you couldn't seem to stop. The music swirled around you, the candles blurred into golden smears, and for the first time since arriving in this cold, grey city, you felt something other than fury and despair. This boy—this insolent, charming, impossibly handsome boy—looked at you like you were the most interesting person in the room. Not a political asset, not a foreigner curiosity, not a forgotten daughter finally put to use. Just you.

"You dance well," he said, as if the observation surprised him.

"You lift well," you returned. "For a knight, anyway. What house do you serve? Or are you some landed knight's son, haunting courtyards and terrorizing runaway brides?"

He laughed, low and warm. "Something like that. And you—you truly meant to flee? All the way back to your home?"

"All the way back to my mother," you corrected. "She has a house on a hill where the windows open to the sea. You can hear the waves from every room, and the mornings smell of salt and oranges." The longing in your voice was naked, unguarded.

Something shifted in his mismatched gaze, the amusement softening into something quieter, more intent. "That's a cruel thing," he said, "to take a girl from a place she loves and cage her in stone."

"It's politics," you said bitterly. "I'm a piece on their board. A princess to bind an alliance, to strengthen the crown. It doesn't matter what I want."

He was quiet for a moment, his steps never faltering. Then "And if the prince himself wanted something different? If he wanted not a piece on a board, but—" He stopped, shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. "Listen to me. I know nothing of princes. Only of fences and lemon cakes and ladies who glare magnificently."

"Magnificently?"

"I've never seen such splendid disdain. You should teach a class."

You laughed again, and it felt like surrender. The dance was slowing, the music winding toward its end, and you realized with a start that you didn't want it to stop. You wanted to stay here, in this bubble of warmth and wit, with this impossible boy who looked at you like you mattered.

The final notes faded. He released you slowly, his hand lingering at your waist a heartbeat longer than propriety demanded. He bowed, you curtsied, and for a breathless moment the noise of the hall receded to nothing.

"Well met, my fleeing lady," he murmured. "Again."

Before you could respond, before you could ask his name or beg him to find you later or do any of the dozen reckless things clamoring in your chest, two figures approached through the crowd.

Prince Baelor, the realm's delight, handsome and smiling. And behind him, your father.

You stiffened instinctively, the old wound of his indifference flaring. But Baelor was beaming, and your father-your father was looking at you with something almost like approval.

"Well, well," Baelor said warmly, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the boy beside you. "This is a pleasant sight. Valarr, I see you've found your bride."

The world stopped.

You turned, slowly, to face the boy with the mismatched eyes. The boy who had boosted you over a fence. The boy who had teased you about lemon cakes. The boy who had just asked, with such careful indirection, if you might want more than a political marriage.

He was watching you with those impossible eyes and there was no amusement now. Only hope. Only fear. Only the desperate, silent plea of a boy who had gambled everything on a dance.

Your father cleared his throat. "It gladdens me to see you getting along so well. Your grandfather will be pleased."

The pieces slammed together in your mind with the force of a collapsing wall. The courtyard. The fence. The knowing amusement. The careful questions about what the prince might want. The way he'd looked at you as if you were not a piece but a person.

"You," you whispered, the word carrying a universe of meaning.

"Me," Valarr agreed softly, his voice stripped of all playfulness. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. I wanted to—I tried to, a dozen times—but then you were so fierce, so determined, and I thought if I told you who I was, you'd—"

"Hate you more?" you supplied, but there was no heat in it. Your mind was reeling, caught between fury and something far more dangerous.

"Yes." His hand found yours, brief and tentative. "Or worse, you'd pretend. You'd smile and curtsy and hide that magnificent disdain behind courtesies, and I'd never see the real you again. The girl who climbs fences and curses in Valyrian and dreams of windows that open to the sea."

Baelor and your father were exchanging pleased glances, oblivious to the storm raging between you. "We'll leave you to your dancing," Baelor said genially. "So good to see the young people getting acquainted."

They withdrew, and the crowd swallowed them, and you were alone with Valarr in the center of the swirling feast. The music had started again, a slower melody this time, and couples were drifting back to the floor.

He offered his hand. "One more dance? And then, if you still want to flee, I'll boost you over any fence you choose. I swear it."

You looked at his hand. You looked at his face, those mismatched eyes, that hopeful, fearful expression, the boy who had seen you at your most undignified and liked you anyway.

You took his hand.

"I'm not promising anything," you said severely.

His smile could have lit the entire hall. "I wouldn't dream of asking for promises. Just one dance."

Maybe you liked reincarnation and transmigration stories so much because it seemed so inconceivable of it being even close to plausible. Maybe if you knew the sheer fright you would feel in such a story, you wouldn’t have entertained the notion in the first place.

Well, being reborn into what you thought was a fictional world wouldn’t be too bad if you woke up in Pokemon. Now, that sounds like a good time. Getting to leave home as a minor and not having to worry about money when you can just beat the shit out of your fellow trainers seems pretty good, actually. Way better than your actual situation, cruelly so. In fact, you think God or whatever entity-concept-bitch that threw you into a new life should recompense you. Maybe if you monologued hard enough you’d be given what you’re owed—

Are you being dramatic? No. No, you’re not. And if you are, then maybe you’re allowed to be a little obnoxious when you have a bloodied behemoth of a man with a scarred face and metal arm staring down at you, expression not dissimilar to a feral animal with rabies.

Judging by how the screams and sound of buildings collapsing has long gone silent, you suspect that the alien world you were born into was now distinctly lacking its lifeforms. It’s almost a shame. Your new species looked like pretty space elves, like something out of a shut-in nerd’s erotic sci-fi fanfic.

You’re almost disappointed that you have to die as a toddler, you’re pretty sure you were going to grow up to be quite the beauty based on how your new mother looks—

Oh, she’s probably dead too.

You feel like you should be crying right now, but you remain motionless, pinned under the gaze of an apex predator that seeks to maul you, without the right to even grieve.

In the depths of your fractured mind, you realize that this doesn’t seem to be in character for the man, if you can even call him that, before you. You should already be dead, like an ant carelessly crushed by the heel of an uncaring giant. But you’re still alive.

He speaks, and your heart nearly stops.

“So, you are the one that your…mother sought to protect. Once, she was a fine warrior, ravenous and uncaring, but you made her…weak. Pathetic, even. It was almost a mercy to put her down, free her from the sad morsel of flesh she has degraded into.” He leans down now, fully looming above you, your wooden cradle acting less like protection and more like a trap, leaving you unable to escape.

“And for what? To nurture you beyond what her teat can offer—“

Does he have something against breastfeeding?

“—Viltrum had no tolerance, even when it came to weeping babes—“

Oh. You know who’s standing above you now, Negan voice be damned to the worst layer of hell.

“Yet, here you lie, a new generation of our dying empire; weak and disappointing. The only spawn I have sired, the only being in the universe that shares any blood with me—“

Anything else he says is drowned out by your own internal screaming. Your father is Conquest and he's a deadbeat. The unhinged psycho from yet another superhero comic that delights off suffering and broken bones.

But, this information, while horrifying, brings a clarity that washes over you like cold water. You’re currently a toddler, a Viltrumite one, sure, but a toddler, nonetheless, with a pathetic grip and too small limbs, reliant on your now dead mother to care for you. But you’re Conquest’s child. His family, even if the term is a foreign concept to him, and that makes you special. That gives you a chance to survive. You know his isolation, his loneliness. You know how easily Viltrumite pride crumbles when its few survivors found love on Earth, folding like a house of cards. Nolan was the outlier and then the rule.

The way of survival was clear to you, another remanent from your past life; play the fool, stupid and oblivious.

So, you embrace your new body and abandon shame, and throw your hands into the air, making grabby hands at the murderer, asking for ‘uppies’.

(You’d cry later.)

He ends his traumatizing soliloquy, going frighteningly silent.

Yeah. He looks like he’s going to kill you. So, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“Da!” You cry out, giving him a gummy smile.

Maybe you should have just let him kill you.

His face remains as impassive as stone but after another painfully long pause, he reaches down with bloodstained hands and picks you up, holding you from under your arms, large fingers completely covering your ribs.

“You are Viltrumite in blood only, your weakness would have had you purged—“

You let out a childish laugh, innocent and pure, desperate not to get ‘purged’ as he put it, “Silly da!”

That gets him to shut up. You ignore the way he flexes his fingers, the way they dig into your skin, more than capable of crushing your bones—

Your stupid, tiny hands grip his, as if willing—pleading him to not end your second life.

“You are so new to life, so sheltered, you cannot even comprehend who holds you, what I am even capable of doing. Your own mother has been slain by my hand,” he muses. “You truly…perplex me. Do you know who I am by sheer instinct? Does our blood tie us together so intrinsically?”

You kind of want to laugh at how much his words piss you off. What an annoying way to speak. Without even realizing it, your little fingers start to squeeze and you hear his surprised intake of breath. Your hand pulls away, to reveal the beginning of a bruise on his finger.

Oh, fuck.

“So young, and your powers are already appearing? This feeling, is it…” He lets out something similar to a laugh, ugly and unnatural, “There is value to you yet, child.”

He abruptly lets you go, and you fall back into your crib, too shocked to even yelp. Who drops a child!? The only thing you do is stare up at him in shock. He smiles down at you, and you almost piss yourself.

“You…are different. I will not take you with me. Do not fret, for I will be watching.” He promises, expression odd, “The being you will become, so unlike what we should be…I look forward to it. After all, you are mine.”

And as sudden as he appears, he’s gone. And you’re left, feeling slightly bruised, alone in your crib on a now dead planet.

How were you supposed to survive, exactly!?

*

You did survive. It seems like your planet had ties to the Coalition, who only arrived after everyone died. Pretty cowardly, really. But, you can’t really complain since they did retrieve you from your broken home , taking you with them. To fight for their cause, but beggars can’t be choosers in a brutal subversion of superhero media. Why couldn’t you have ended up in Venture Bros?

The cherry on top of this train wreck of a situation is that they immediately clocked you for being a half-Viltrumite, presenting you to their leader, Thaedus. Tad, as you sometimes called him, when you wanted to annoy him.

He trained you, along with many others, who drilled it into you to survive, to be stronger than the Viltrumites that threatened the safety of all life and freedom as you know it. You were their ace in the hole, their hunting dog, the hope of the Coalition. Mongrel and messiah in one. They made sure you were educated, well versed in their code of ethics. That your loyalty would always be to them. Questionable of them to do, frankly speaking, but they kept you clothed and fed, so you had no reason to protest.

The company wasn’t so bad at least. Under the Coalition, you’ve had the opportunity to meet a lot of people, from all ends of the universe, some kind, others absolutely terrified of your mere existence.

Allen fell into the former category, always seeking you out, sharing anecdotes from his missions and asking for you to share your own. And with Allen, came Telia, a higher ranking member than you both that you trusted to not spit on you for being ‘Viltrumite scum’ or whatever it was that some practically scornful cadets called you. Little did they know who their leader truly is.

*

You’d figure you wouldn’t see your ‘father’ after he killed your mom, but fate was unkind and Conquest is bat-shit insane. But at least he didn’t rat you out. You still wonder why he annihilated your home planet when you were clearly proof of compatible breeding. Honestly, genocide was a mercy compared to what you know they wanted to do to Earth, what they would probably do to you, if they caught wind. It was for the better they died, unfortunately. Even if their only survivor carried their legacy as recessive genes.

Not that you would ever ask him, even if you did often have the opportunity. Whenever you least expected it, when you were too concentrated on your mission, whether it was peacemaking or inspecting a new planet to add to the Coalition, he would appear, killing whatever adversary you were facing gleefully, expecting your gratitude and admiration for it, so you’d grit your teeth and call him ‘father’, despite the humiliation. You were still too weak, too scared to act how you wanted to. Which was to cave his skull in.

Other times, he would just follow you. Silent, like a spectre. Or a fucked up looking dog.

It was worse when he tried to copy the acts of physical affection you shared with others. His hugs usually broke one or two ribs and his head pats left you with a bump. You’re not even sure how he learned about them in the first place. Other times, they weren’t…too painful, at least.

*

“Child,” he calls after slaughtering the fleet you were leading on a recon mission. “You grow stronger, yet you still lack the true strength of an Viltrumite.”

“Is that so?” You laugh, good natured, noting Shez’s head by your feet. He was your pilot. A good man and father from what little you knew about him.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken you with me, if I still should,” Conquest admits.

“That’s an interesting thought,” you smile stupidly, trying to keep the murder off your face.

“But you are…more interesting like this.” He concludes. And you wonder why someone like him was committing probably the highest level of treason. For some daddy-daughter time? The Empire obviously didn’t do family, bonds were meaningless to them, but apparently not to Conquest anymore. Did the isolation from his race finally get to him? Was he really that simple? That…lonely?

Another long moment of silence passes before he leaves you with your broken ship and dead crew.

“Okay?” You whisper, making eye contact with Shez.

*

You were on your way back to base after surveying a planet of bug people, they had no warriors or weaponry to speak of and their technology was nothing to write home about. Unfortunately, they had nothing to offer to the Coalition. At least that meant Viltrumites would have no interest in them either. No, that sounds wrong——

Your thoughts are cut off when you’re suddenly tackled mid-flight, and before you know it, you find yourself in a stone cube your father apparently dragged around as shelter. A house? Just without a bed. And everything else. It was sad and barren, only having some supplies and what looks like a…cake? On the ground before you, messily frosted a deep red colour. You hope that isn’t blood, actually.

“You told me once how some species choose to celebrate their day of birth. A foolish sentiment,” he rumbles, sitting before you.

You can kind of remember rambling about birthdays. You usually just say whatever pops up in your mind so his thoughts don’t swerve into killing you. The most terrifying thing about him was how we could go from looking like the psycho killer he is to giving you big, sad eyes. It almost humanized him.

“Oh, it’s not my birthday,” you start to say before noticing his expression, “It’s— it’s your birthday?”

“I do not recall when I was born.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment.

“You said there would be singing,” he scowls.

“Oh, well, only sometimes, like rarely, actually—“ you notice his glare, and duck your head. “Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…”

*

While you didn’t have to worry about debt or making something of yourself like in your past life, your current life was uniquely difficult.

You were growing wary (and scared) of having to placate your ‘father’. You don’t believe he would snitch to the Empire about your existence, that would be mutually assured destruction, so you were finding little reason to continue your ‘hangouts’ with him and you were beginning to worry if you were impacting the plot too much, god forbid your existence becomes the reason he survives.

So, you’re going to Earth, to hide yourself being the bigger, flashing target that was Mark Grayson. Let him deal with Conquest when the time came.

…and maybe you missed having a home. And the PlayStation, you definitely missed that.

And after years of having Conquest rough you up (break your bones and rupture your organs) to test your might, you weren’t looking forward to him trying to give you some type of sick ‘becoming an adult’ beating.

So, you told Thaedus you were going on leave, a vacation, really. You needed a break from the continued mess that was your life. What better than reliving the mess that was your past life instead? When your biggest worries were meeting the disappointment of your parents rather than having to placate your colonizer father.

“You want to go to Earth…? The planet that inhabits the only other half-Viltrumite we know of, that is currently the Empire’s main focus?” Thaedus blinks at you. "For fun?"

“What, I’m not allowed to sightsee? Take a load off? I see, so I don’t even have the right to take time off! I mean, I’m already a child soldier so I might as well be under Thragg’s rule—“

“And that’s the only reason?” Your fellow Viltrumite interrupts.

“What? Worried I’m going there to revive our dying civilization with Nolan’s son?” you tilt your head, smiling blandly.

And the conversation ended pretty quickly, after that. Not before he tried to once again ask you to bring your sperm doner over to your side. Which was another hard no. You were not going to mess with canon.

At least Allen seemed a little more thrilled.

“They really do grow up so fast,” Allen wipes a tear from his eye. “But, look at you, finally putting yourself out there, getting some work-life balance! Earth will love you! Well, some of them are pretty paranoid after the whole ‘Viltrumite killing thousands’ thing, but you’ll be fine! Just be yourself! Well, maybe not ‘yourself’—“

“Worried?” You tease.

“No, not at all!” He laughs nervously, “It’s just that sometimes you can be just a teensy bit…mean? Which I love! Great banter between us! It’s our thing! But, maybe, the Earthlings will see it as psychological warfare…?”

“Me? Mean? I wouldn’t say that, in fact, others would describe me as nothing but pleasant!” You chortle, disregarding everything he said, and Allen awkwardly joins you, muttering something under his breath that suspiciously sounded like a prayer.

*

Allen told you to just hang around the moon and someone would pop up to greet you. You hope it isn’t the Immortal.

You internally curse when the Immortal appears, rage clear on his face as he shoot’s up, ready to attack. How embarrassing of him, really.

You tackle him back into Earth’s stratosphere in a sudden burst of speed, breathing in sweet, probably polluted air.

“Take me to your leader?” You ask, arms stilled wrapped around his shoulders. “Or better yet, have him head over to me. A welcoming committee would be nice.”

He only lets out another shout, throwing a punch towards your face, so you grab his arm, throwing him over your shoulder before deigning to fly away then waste any more of your time trying to talk to a knockoff…Vandal Savage?

You instead head to New York City, normally known as a magnet for trouble, in any other reality than this one. You definitely stand out in your Coalition uniform, but people barely spare you a second glance from the park bench you’ve currently claimed as yours.

You watch a group of nearby pigeons fight over a hot dog bun before a presence blinks next to you. Honestly, Cecil’s teleportation was comparatively primitive to other civilizations you’ve come across. A lot more wasteful too.

A moment of silence passes and you can at least commend him for taking a seat next to you. You’re sure that he has a bunch of weapons and satellites honed in on you, but it’s brave of him regardless. Maybe you should thank Allen for opening a bridge in the first place. You doubt he’d be as chill if you weren’t wearing your uniform.

“So, I hear you have a Viltrumite problem,” you start, smiling.

“And I should assume you’re not here to add on to that?” He asks wryly. “Not here to spread word of the Viltrum Empire?”

You laughed as if he actually said something funny, “You know that not all of us were raised like that. No, there are outliers that weren’t indoctrinated from birth. Not of pure blood. Me…and Nolan’s kid. Is he too busy to say hi?”

“Extremely.” He narrows his eyes at you, and you can tell you’ve unsettled him. Oh, Mark wasn’t here was he? Looks like little Oliver would be arriving soon.

He meets your gaze, “I’m going to be blunt. I already figured you weren’t a hostile force because of your ‘friend’ already popping by, but I thought your little group was too busy to grant us any aid. So tell me this. What the hell are you doing here? You’ve already gave everyone a heart attack, to do what? Watch birds fight?”

“I’m on vacation,” you reply brightly.

He stares at you. “You’re here…on vacation.”

“Yeah, Allen mentioned Earth was an interesting place, if not a bit…behind. My old planet wasn’t too different actually! I mean before we started stripping it for resources. Don’t worry, everyone was already dead,” you continue. “Honestly, it feels nostalgic being here. In more ways than one.”

“For some reason, I don’t believe you and believe you at the same.” The man rubs his face tiredly, but you don’t take it as him letting his guard down. It’s probably a signal for something, you’re guessing.

“I’m being pretty polite, you know. I could have just came here undetected. I’m fast enough and I have the tech for it, but I wanted to meet you,” you admit, still smiling, though you doubted it was comforting. “You’re in a pretty tough position here, friend. Viltrum believes you can help replenish what they lost and the only reason they haven’t is because Earth is continuously racked with…internal issues. And they trusted Nolan, too much, a mistake you guys made too. Your strongest fighter would die to any Viltrumite, including me. Honestly, feels like you guys just have horrible luck. And it’s not going to get any better.”

“So what? The Coalition is going to back us up now? From what I’ve heard you guys haven’t had much luck against the Viltrumites either,” he retorts and you laugh again, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him against your side. You can feel his tension despite his expression not changing. You doubt he’s ever been manhandled like this. “…awfully friendly, aren’t you?”

You’re being mean. But you have a lot of frustration that you aren’t able to take out against the one that wronged you. So, yes, you’re being a bully right now, making his weak, little heart almost go out, but you’ll make up for it. Someday.

You wonder if Donald is shitting himself right now. “I’ve killed two of them before. Viltrumites, that is.”

“Two?” He sounds unimpressed, but you can tell you only raised your danger level.

“Believe it or not, it was a major loss for them. Painted a target on my head the first time, the second time, they started getting a bit nervous,” you share, “The only way to kill one of us is to be stronger. Plain and simple.”

You’re lying a bit there, but you’re not about to share your weaknesses with him of all people.

“Roundabout way to sell yourself, I thought you were here to…relax,” he says, shifting in your grasp.

“I am, but even off duty, I took an oath to protect, especially when Viltrumites are involved. Don’t think of me as an enemy or something you need to worry about. If they come, I’ll help. And if I’m not fighting whoever they send, and they will send someone, I’ll just be enjoying the sights.” You pat his shoulder before pulling away. “I think we’ll become great friends…sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Cecil.” He’s playing nice, at least. “You can stay, we’ll even fund your…activities. But, the only way you involve yourself in any altercation, you wait for my call. Trust that you’ll be met with immediate consequences if you act out.”

With those final words, he’s gone. You’re amused that he only threatened you after you let go of him. He was definitely placating you the same way you did for your father.

“Some clothes and currency would be nice?” You call out to the sky, aware you’d be monitored during your stay. Voyeurs.

You were definitely going to take advantage of the taxpayers. Sorry, Americans.

*

You let out a sigh of contentment as you emerged from the ocean, heading back to where you left your towel. You’ve seen a lot of beaches over the years, but you never had the chance to actually enjoy any of them. So you figured you’d make sure of a private beach in Australia, uncaring of the actual owners.

Right as you bent down to pick up your towel, you had to dodge an incoming punch from the protagonist himself. Wow, he just got back on Earth and he came to visit you. You’re honoured.

“This isn’t your planet—“ you know he was about to make a speech about how colonization is bad, but he pauses, mouth agape as he takes in your form.

You meet his gaze, tilting your head. Ah, you understand now. In your last life, you weren’t a big fan of revealing outfits, but after interacting with a variety of cultures and species, you were comfortable in your skin, meaning sometimes you liked to wear sexy bikinis that didn’t leave much to the imagination. 

“Yes?” You smile.

“Uh, you, uh, I’m not—you’re a Viltrumite!” He barely gets out, obviously going red under his mask.

“You definitely didn’t let Cecil finish before hunting me down, did you? And did he really give you my location before at least saying I’m a friendly Viltrumite like you?” You pout, crossing your arms, already sure Cecil is shouting into his earpiece.

“You—yeah, he’s bringing me up to speed now,” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re friends with Allen? He didn’t mention you…like at all.”

“Viltrumites aren’t something you can freely talk about,” you reply, “I’m sure you can guess why.”

“Heh, yeah, for sure,” he says awkwardly.

When you don’t say anything, he speaks up again, “You, uh, don’t seem that different from a human. My mom said even my dad took a while to get used to Earth. But you look great— like you’re doing great!”

“Well, compared to the Empire, the Coalition is all about diversity. They made sure I wasn’t an emotionally constipated killer.” You take pity on him and ignore his slip up. A part of you wants to mess with him a bit more, mostly out of envy for him having a human mom and an actual childhood, but that’s twisted even for you. “Did you want to join me?”

Okay, maybe you did have it in you.

“Oh, me? Wow, that’s, wait, no, I have a girlfriend! Oh my god, Amber,” he starts to mumble to himself guiltily. Did he come see you before his girlfriend? You’re flattered, even thought those two are on the brink of a breakup.

“You should get comfortable having me around, Mark.” You mention casually, “Cecil wants me to help whip you into shape. Allen mentioned you were a late bloomer.”

His cheeks flush again much to your glee. “You? But you’re—“

“Doubting me, are you?” In an instant, you’re behind him, kicking his knee in, so he stumbles before whipping around to face you.

Oddly enough rather than offence, he’s giving you the same stupid look as earlier. You look done and let out an ‘ah’. You turn around, arm covering your now bare chest. You weren’t that secure.

“Can you pass me my top?”

In a flash, he’s holding up the piece of fabric, his other hand covering his goggles. For that act of kindness, you pretend not to notice how affected he is by the sight of your tits. Honestly, he’s acting like he’s a virgin, which you know he is not!

*

You’re having the most fun you’ve had in a while, or maybe even the most fun you’ve had in this life.

You get to laze around, eat good food, beat the shit out of Mark for ‘training purposes’. Going on vacation really was the best, especially since you were basically waiting to get drafted to fight in a war. Right now, the best thing to do is nothing.

“You don’t pull punches, do you?” Mark hovers above where you’re perched on a cliffside, watching the sunset after hours of tossing him around.

“That’s what makes me so good at my job,” you grin up at him. Surprisingly, he smiles back at you. You guess being associated with Allen is like a ‘get-out-of-jail’ card here. Well, for now.

“You sure about that? You just smack me around and yell ‘dodge this’,” he teases. “By the way, you’re supposed to warn me before you hit me, not after!”

“I’m Pavlov-ing you. In a good way,” you clarify.

“I don’t thinking saying it’s the ‘good way’ actually makes it good.”

“Hmm, yeah, I guess you’re—dodge this!”

*

“He smells like grape juice,” you breathe, hugging the purple toddler to your chest.

“He doesn’t smell like grape juice just because he’s purple,” Mark retorts, crossing his arms as he watches you nuzzle your face into Oliver’s hair. “I don’t get why you wanted to see him.”

“He’s another halfie, we’re like a super minority right now,” you explain, “And I didn’t really see too many kids growing up.”

“How old are you?” Mark asks suddenly before backtracking, “Oh, wait is that rude to ask? I don’t mean it in a bad way, just curious if, uh, I’ll shut up now.”

“Worried I’m as old as your mom?” You ask. “No, I only recently entered adulthood like you.”

“Cool, cool, cool.” Mark nods, attempting to appear casual. “So, uh, me and Amber broke up.”

That’s earlier than you thought it would happen.

“Why?”

“I’m going to drop out of Upstate, I barely have enough time with the super hero gig and training, as is, forget about actually being able to be there for her. It wasn’t fair to her,” Mark admits. “It felt like we were holding onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“You did sound like a bad partner,” you hum and he shoots you a betrayed look. “But, life isn’t so simple for you. You’ll find your peace eventually, Mark.”

You’ve seen it, after all.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” He rubs his neck sheepishly. It’s a cute habit, you hope it’s one he keeps even if it seems unlikely.

*

“—are you okay?” Mark appears in your vision, bloodied and bruised. “You…scared her off? Uh, asserted your dominance?”

“I’m not a dog,” you grumble, lifting yourself from the sand, as he collapses to sit beside you. “But, yeah, Anissa, was it? Older than us, way older. Any further confrontation between us would have led to more serious injury, so she cut her losses and left. Wish I could have bashed her head in permanently, but there’s always next time. If she was just a little slower…”

“You guys were faster than I thought was possible,” he shakes his head ruefully.

“Experience does count for something. At least, you’re good at taking a beating,” you console.

“Yeah, that definitely makes me feel better.”

“That’s what I’m here for; pina coladas and emotional support,” you grin mockingly before your face falls back into neutral dissatisfaction.

Mark pats your arm, “You’ll get her next time.”

*

“Wow, you really suck at this,” Oliver remarks, watching your character die for the nth time, the two of you sitting on the floor, engaged in the most broken game of all time. You'd rather play a RPG.

“Why do you even like playing shooters? Bullets are literally the most useless thing in space,” you mumble, tossing your controller away.

“Why do you keep playing with my brother when I’m the one that invited you over?” Mark wonders, slumped on the couch behind you.

“She just likes me better,” Oliver brags. “How long are you here for anyway? You said you were just on leave.”

“I’ve literally never taken any day offs, so like ten years, I guess. Or whenever they’re planning to take out the remaining Viltrumites,” you shrug, prompting Oliver to starting ranting about how he’s going to get the most takedowns.

“What are you going to do when it’s over? When there’s no threat?” Mark asks suddenly.

“What? Like, universal peace? I guess the same thing I’m doing right now,” you answer, unsure why he looks so pleased. Dork.

“Then I guess I’ll have to get to work,” he says as if he could just achieve it like that. Well, he would, but doesn’t know that.

“Maybe win a fight first.”

“Ohhhh!”

“Shut up, Oliver.”

*

Shit was going down. It was the average Ao3 user’s wet dream. Dozens of morally dubious Marks fucking everything up.

And, you were having your (Y/N) moment. And letting out some steam through violence. You can only blame your genetics.

“I’m gonna be real with you, babe, this is the most fun I’ve ever had,” a variant wearing a mask without lenses, revealing stupid Bambi eyes, admits, nose bleeding, staining his teeth red when he smiles.

“Aw, you’re going to make me blush,” you giggle after bringing a knee to his face.

“No, really! I thought the only kinda cool thing I could do was kill the Guardians again, but that was a bust! When you tackled me into a mountain, I think I got, like, a gratitude boner or something!” He exclaims, what a manic sweetheart he is. And he should be grateful, you saved him from having to survive the horrors alongside Darkwing Jr.

“Wow, you’re actually being serious about the boner thing,” you comment, doing your best to look into his eyes, and not at his—

“What can I say? You just do it for me, baby, maybe it’s your penchant for punching the shit out of me. Or maybe it’s those pretty legs of yours,” he admits shamelessly, “Actually, do you own any fishnet—“

You punch him into the ground and watch him bounce, but he only lifts his head to look at you like a lovesick puppy. “Marry me?

Okay, that’s enough. The sadomasochism thing was mostly a joke. He can get cannibalized. You’re pretty sure Rex is about to sacrifice himself and take that as an excuse to dip.

*

The day you’ve been dreading. Conquest’s arrival, and you do not want to stand ready for it.

People (and dogs) are going to die. Mark and Eve are going to get mutilated. And you don’t think you can live with that happening on your watch.

So when Cecil calls you for backup, you don’t ignore him. You cry a little, but you go.

When you see him about to tear Oliver in half, you dive down from the sky, landing a kick against his back, forcing him to drop Oliver, you’re barely able to catch him, watching Conquest land a couple feet away.

“That’s enough,” you declare, gently setting the boy down for retrieval, trusting Cecil to take care of him, and approach your father.

“It looks like you’ve improved at hide and seek, it’s been months since I’ve seen you, and you’re here? Your softness…I can only take responsibility for it,” he tells you, quiet compared to the devastation around you. His hand cradles your cheek when you’re close enough, gentler than he’s ever been with you. You raise an eyebrow at the absurdity. Did he miss you that much?

“That’s right, it’s your fault. You could have taken me in at any time, let me be molded into a ‘true Viltrumite’, but you didn’t. Why? All that loyalty to them but you falter now? I don’t understand,” you admit. “Families don’t exist for our people. You want me to be strong, but not enough that I be trained like the rest of you.”

“You were the only one to ever smile at me,” he states simply.

You really hated when you felt bad for him.

Your little moment is interrupted when you hear Mark shout.

“Get away from her!” You raise a hand, stopping his charge as he stares at you in confusion.

“Father, what are you doing? I thought maybe you wanted me to be the one to kill you, but it’s that not that,” you exhale steadily before continuing, “The day you didn’t kill me or take me, you became a traitor. You don’t care about the Empire, clearly, and based on the way you keep following me around like a sad, old dog, there’s more to you than just wanting to fight. What do you want?”

“I want you to live as you always have, without the influence of anyone but myself,” he says. “That way, you can still bear to look at me. That matters more than anything else. Treachery or even destroying this planet, it doesn't matter what I do, so you must remain as yourself.”

That’s almost sweet.

“I came here to drench myself in blood, but now, I will crush this planet against my heel, even if it’s against the Empire’s wishes, for attaching itself to you like a parasite, wasting away your potential and time,” he vows. “I will liberate you from this weakness.”

What?

“What!?” Mark, who was previously stuck in a shellshocked state, shouts.

Your father turns back to Mark, glee gone from his face, replaced with a look of loathing. Before he can move, you wrap your arms around him, feeling him stiffen in shock, as he stares down at you.

“Father! Dad! Dad, you’re right, I’ve gotten attached to this place, for better or worse. Maybe that makes me weak. But, I’m okay with that,” you nervously ramble, clutching onto the man like a lifeline, even thought you have to resist the urge to start shaking. You need to come up with something quick. “The truth is…that I want to start a life here. On a planet where blood and bonds ties us together, where families are forged. Because I’m…”

You silently apologize to Mark.

“I’m with child. Nolan’s son is the father,” you lie, looking your father in the eye. “Here, parents raise their child. They spend every day with them. And…and grandparents are very involved! They just pop up and spoil their grandkids…and that’s totally something I want.”

“A child?” Your father brokenly gasps, looking back at Oliver’s battered form.

“No, that’s not—obviously not! I meant, in my womb, dad!” You yell, pulling away.

He stares at your stomach like you have a bomb strapped to you. He stumbles back before flying away, concrete breaking under the impact. You wonder if canon even matters anymore.

You’ve saved thousands, but at what cost?

Mark finally regains the ability to speak, “We’re pregnant!?”

“I lie when I'm scared, Mark! You should know that!”

*

When you exit the washroom after a very long shower, you’re not surprised to find Mark in your hotel suite, awkward lounging on your bed, staring a bit too long at your fluffy bathrobe for it to be an admiring gaze.

“How was Rex’s going away party?” You ask, sitting next to him, crossing your bare legs.

“Great, I’m happy for him. They missed you, actually. Rex wanted to thank you for taking down that variant,” he smiles, and you take note that most of his injuries have already healed. You stopped the worst of it. “Rae too, looks like they’re a thing now. Didn’t see that coming.”

You hum, an urge to bully him hitting you. You turn to face him, “Do you want to have sex?”

“S-shouldn’t I buy you dinner or take you to a movie first?” He blurts out.

“You wanna take me out?” You ask.

“Yes, of course, I think we’re doing things a little…out of order?” He says. “I mean, sex is also, hmn, good. Really good.

“I was just thinking you should put a baby in me before Conquest comes back,” you explain casually. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I figured we might as well go along with it.”

He chokes, and you bite back a smile.

He’s too easy.

“You don’t have to. It’s a better alternative than fighting him, but we can figure it out,” you continue, “Maybe we could—“

You’re cut off when he presses his lips against yours, hands cradling the back of your head. Any noise you make is swallowed by him. He pulls away, nose brushing against yours.

“Let’s do it,” he declares.

“Uh, I think your line is supposed to be ‘that’s crazy’ or ‘how can we have a baby’,” you reply, face feeling hot at his sudden boldness.

“I mean, it’s like you said, it’s the best alternative. I’d rather have Grandpa Conquest showing up than the bloodthirsty version,” he says, hand already moving to untie your robe.

“Dude, no way do you want a baby,” you blanch. Is this a game of chicken? Are you losing said game of chicken?

“We can at least try,” he says dragging you further up the bed. “And we can figure out the money thing. I wouldn't let the mother of my child go hungry."

“Well, uh, I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to try,” you bite your lip before he pushes you down by the shoulders, climbing atop you, pressing his mouth against your neck.

“We’re doing this for Earth,” he mumbles in between his sucking and biting.

“For peace,” you agree, a little breathless.

This was either going to cause Cecil a stroke or be some good wank material.

*

“I think I might be a little obsessed with you,” he admits from in between your thighs, face drenched.

Join the club, you think delirious.

Mc’s mom looking up from hell to see Conquest doing the same thing he shamed her for; loving their daughter: I’m going to rip his dick off

*

Mc:

Thaedus: what have you done

*

Cecil, after meeting mc: mass suicide?

*

Mc, bullying Cecil because she can’t kill her dad: damn I need therapy

Mc: I’m going to physically intimidate that old man again.

*

Mc, sobbing after hearing someone sing ‘happy birthday’:

Mark, the ‘someone’: I’m…sorry??

*

Mark: so you’re not pregnant 😔

Oliver, lying a couple feet away, bleeding out: can you do this shit somewhere else

*

Mark: why is that variant still here…and why is he holding roses

Mc: should we keep him as a dog or something

Mark: no??

*

GDA admins, after basically creating a sex tape: delete…or save🤭

*

Conquest: where is the womb??? Where is my grandchild being held!?

I feel like whenever I come up with a title before I actually write a fic, I end up changing everything and doing a rewrite, which is what happened here…I decided to make mc apart of the coalition rather than the empire, creating a more estranged relationship, the only way love could form since it would impossible if mc was raised the Viltrumite way…anyone still around from when I made the original poll? I prefer this version more since there’s more freedom to write the mcs personality when they’re not part of a regime

Anyway even the style of the fic changed from being manwha adjacent to becoming a mix of Gintama/adult swin humour lol

But yay over 6.6k words ughh lemme know about any errors, I’m so bad at editing

you could only gulp in response.

then, he’s rising above you, broad, muscular shoulders boxing you in as he settles between your thighs. the heavy heat of his dick presses against your sensitive, aching entrance, his incandescent gaze dragging over your face like he’s trying to memorize every expression, every shaky inhale.

as if he was mapping out your features to store in the forefront of his mind. to painfully revisit over and over again.

the realization that had struck him back at the temple as he looked at every mural, every worn painting and towering statue of the air nomads. they all looked like his people. familiar faces, familiar smiles, familiar powers.

but none of them resembled you.

none carried the curve of your lashes or the little furrow in your brow when you worried. none had your laugh, the unique slope of your nose, your warmth, your favor for sour over sweet, your gentleness for children and particular bugs. none exuded your enchanting presence, whether you could bend or not. and suddenly, the grief that sat in his chest for years changed shape entirely. because what would be the point of preserving the world he lost if, in doing so, he lost every trace of the person he loved most within it?

“this—this isn’t about me reviving airbenders or a duty to save my dying culture. this isn’t about avatar sonam or tagah or monk gyatso or anything that has to do with bending. this is about you and me and me wanting to start a family with you,” he states with that heavy, solid avatar voice of his. firm and sure, thumb brushing along your jaw, “this is about me making sure that a part of you will always exist in a world where the avatar exists. that your lips, your eyes, your soul. . . live on for eternity. so that every time i look into this world through the eyes of the new avatar, i can still see you. see you in our grandchildren, in our great-great grandchildren, in the people that will come to exist because we loved each other. . . to know that you’ll always be in my life someway, somehow.”

“aang. . .”

“i realize now that there will come a day when airbending returns, whether in our lifetime or long after we’re gone.” he presses his forehead against yours, tone softer despite the ache in his words. “i know that i’ll get to see that vision through the eyes of the avatars who will come after me. and if i keep chasing impossible answers, impossible resolves— if i keep throwing myself at a future i can’t force into existence— i’ll lose you in the process. i’ll waste the little time we’re given together. with our friends. with our children. the thought of losing you to time. . .”

it killed him.

you feel it. the shift in him. the sincerity behind every broken word, every trembling breath. the sheer despair that claws through him at the thought of you leaving nothing behind of yourself, of the love the two of you share. the regret he’d forever live with if he only prioritized the revival of air-bending or the kids that would inherit it. and the fact that he still hasn’t left the avatar state only makes it worse, every emotion stripped raw and vulnerable beneath glowing eyes and tattoos and shaking hands.

“so i vow now that i will never neglect your life or your culture for the sake of mine. whether we have airbending children or not. . . that is up to the universe.”

his hands cup your cheeks gently as he leans in, drawing you into a slow, sloppy kiss. you could only gasp softly when his tongue slips past your lips, kissing you like he’s trying to seal his fate with yours.

he slowly pulls away, thick fingers easing you open as he makes room for himself. “i can live without other airbenders. i can make due with the acolyte family we’ve founded. what i cannot live without is you. what i cannot imagine not ingrained in this world beyond my lifetime is you.”

aang smiles for the first time tonight, like the image in his mind was far more beautiful than anything he could’ve ever imagined. he sinks inside, massive and overwhelming, drawing a raspy breath from your lungs at the sheer stretch of him. still, you pull him closer, wanting nothing more than to feel the slow, heavy drag of him inside you.

“so for now,” he whispers, breath warm against your lips as he begins moving slowly, in and out, “all i want is a child with you. one that embodies everything that you are. one that will carry on your memory, your curiosity, your strength, your traits.” gone was the glow of the avatar state, the white fading slowly from his eyes until they were simply his again, fixed on yours with a tenderness so deep it was almost unbearable. “so i’m begging you. . . give me a baby that looks just like you.”

you cry out helplessly as he buries his face into your throat, holding you impossibly close. every stroke is long and deliberate, driven far less by hunger and more by an emotion too large for words. the slick of your arousal coats his balls as you helplessly grind against him, cunt fluttering around the girthiness of his base. you could feel all the veins that line him, tracing your walls as he fucked you like he needed you to breathe.

you blink back the tears threatening to spill. “b-but i do want our baby to be like you. i do want to help you—”

he shakes his head fervently, fingers tightening around you like he’s afraid you still don’t understand. “no. no,” he rasps, “i don’t want this to be some duty you carry for me. i want this because it’s us. because it’s the life we chose together. no obligations. no sacrifices.”

you feel the dampness at the corner of his eyes as he clings to you, hands roaming your body in a worship-like trance, as though he was reassuring himself that you were real and here and present and his. to have and to hold and to sink himself into when the world is in chaos.

“please,” he croaks hoarsely into your neck, voice cracking around the word, and the raw vulnerability in it makes your chest ache more than anything else ever could. “say you’ll give me a baby, sweetheart. say you’ll give me this one thing. even if they come without air-bending.”

a broken sound leaves your throat as you cling to his shoulders, nodding desperately against him, back arching into his warmth. “yes,” you breathe out shakily, fingers curling around his nape. “yes, yes, yes. of course, i will.”

the words—your defining proclamation—undo him entirely. he groans into the curve of your neck, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, every breath hot, cold, then hot again against your skin. he cums in thick, long spurts, coating your insides pearly white as you cream on his cock, legs caging him in. his tattoos begin to faintly glow once more as he shivers, hips still pumping his seed into you, forehead pressed beneath your jaw, as though he can’t bear even an inch of distance between you.

when he finally pulls back, his eyes have returned to their natural state, shining with something far softer than desire.

devotion, perhaps. a need to always keep you safe. to give you—and your children—a world that offers everything and takes nothing in return.

“i love you,” he murmurs softly, brushing the damp strands of your hair from your face. he rests his forehead against yours again, eyes slipping closed as his heart, for once, is at ease. “thank you.”

your lips tremble into a tired smile, fingers curling weakly around his head. “you never have to thank me for loving you.”

though your words alone could never truly capture the depth of everything you’ve given him.