#bananasplit133

Invincible Variants x Reader

ft: Mohawk Mark; Sinister Mark; Unmasked Mark; Omnivincible; Striped (Emperor) Mark; No Goggles Mark.

(other headcanons here)

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━❛

Mohawk Mark

Jealousy? Nah, he thinks it’s funny. Until it isn’t. He’ll laugh, tease you, throw an arm around your shoulders when someone flirts with you—but if that someone doesn’t get the hint? That’s when things get ugly.

 He turns possessive real fast. If another guy is flirting with you, he joins in—except now he’s the one whispering in your ear, tugging you closer, making sure everyone in the room knows who you belong to.

You’re his, and he makes sure everyone knows it. He won’t fight over you. He doesn’t need to. Because the moment he flashes that knowing smirk, that you can try, but you won’t win attitude, people back off real fast.

➽─────────❥

"You always come here alone?" The guy leans in, all charm and confidence.

You barely have time to react before a warm arm drapes around your shoulders.

"She doesn’t," Mark answers for you, voice dripping amusement. "She’s got me."

The guy tenses, barely masking his annoyance. "Oh. I didn’t realize—"

Mark grins. "Yeah, I figured. You seem real comfortable flirting with my girl."

You glare up at him, but he just winks.

The guy sputters, scrambling for an excuse. Mark doesn’t give him the chance. Instead, he leans down, lips just brushing your ear.

"You like the attention, don’t you?" he murmurs, smug. "That’s cute, babe."

You shove him off. His laughter follows you.

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

Sinister Mark 

He doesn’t get jealous. He gets insulted. Do they really think they stand a chance? He doesn’t just own you—he dominates every part of your life. Anyone trying to compete is laughable.

His presence alone is enough to send a warning. If someone gets too close, he doesn’t need to start a fight. One look from him is enough to make most people back off. If they don’t? Then they’re in for a very unfortunate fate.

If you’re the one making him jealous, he makes you regret it. He won’t yell. He won’t get visibly mad. But he’ll get quiet. He’ll get cold. And suddenly, you’re left wondering if you just made the biggest mistake of your life.

➽─────────❥

The café feels wrong. Too still. Too quiet.

You glance up—and your stomach drops.

Mark stands in the doorway, watching. Expression unreadable.

The guy in front of you is still talking, oblivious. You barely hear him over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But when your eyes meet his, you know.

You excuse yourself so fast it’s almost embarrassing. By the time you step outside, he’s waiting.

"Having fun?" His voice is smooth, almost amused.

You swallow hard. "It wasn’t like that."

He hums, tilting his head. "Wasn’t it?"

A gloved hand reaches up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You shiver.

"You can do whatever you want," he murmurs. "But don’t forget where you belong."

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

Unmasked Mark

He doesn’t want to feel jealous. He knows it’s stupid. He knows you aren’t his. But seeing someone else make you laugh, seeing you give them your attention—it kills him.

He gets insecure. He wonders if you’d be happier with someone else. Someone normal. Someone who doesn’t have blood on their hands.

When he gets jealous, he withdraws. He won’t confront you. He won’t start a fight. But he’ll pull away—and suddenly, you’re the one chasing after him.

➽─────────❥

You find him on the rooftop, staring at the city.

"Mark," you breathe, stepping closer. He doesn’t turn.

"You looked happy," he says, voice distant.

You frown. "What are you talking about?"

He exhales, rubbing his face. "That guy. Back in the café."

Realization dawns, and you groan. "Are you serious?"

He shrugs. "It’s not a big deal."

"It is a big deal if you’re out here sulking about it."

That finally gets a reaction. He shoots you a glare, but there’s no real anger behind it. Just something tired.

"You don’t have to stay," he mutters.

You grab his wrist before he can leave. "You don’t get to decide that."

His breath catches. Slowly, hesitantly, he looks at you.

You squeeze his hand. "I’m not going anywhere."

For the first time all night, his shoulders relax.

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

Omnivincible

Jealousy is irrelevant. Do you really think he’d let someone steal you from him? The thought is laughable. You are his. Not just in body, but in purpose. There is no scenario where he lets another take what belongs to him.

He doesn’t get angry—he gets amused. If someone flirts with you, he watches, curious, like an apex predator watching a clueless creature wander into his den. It’s entertaining.

That doesn’t mean he allows it. If they persist, his patience wears thin. His hand finds your chin, tilts your face toward his. Mine. It’s not a warning—it’s a statement. A universal truth.

He ensures you never feel unsafe. Not because he trusts the world, but because he has made sure no one dares to threaten you. Any potential threat—whether real or imagined—is removed before you even notice.

➽─────────❥

The guy across from you leans in, eyes flicking over your face. “Didn’t think someone like you would be here alone.”

You don’t get the chance to reply.

A shadow falls over the table.

Mark is standing behind the guy, arms crossed over his chest. Silent. Unbothered. His presence is total.

The guy doesn’t notice right away. “So, what do you say?” he continues, giving you a grin.

Mark clears his throat—not loud, not dramatic, just enough.

The guy freezes. Then, slowly, he turns his head.

Mark is watching him. Not scowling. Not glaring. Just looking. Completely composed, like he’s already decided how this ends.

The guy lets out a nervous laugh. “Uh… hey, man. You need something?”

Mark blinks at him. “You can leave.”

It’s not a suggestion.

The guy hesitates, glancing at you like maybe you’ll say something—maybe you’ll help.

You don’t.

His throat bobs as he swallows, then he stands, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… I was just heading out anyway.”

Mark doesn’t move until the guy is gone. Then, with a quiet sigh, he slides into the chair across from you, resting his elbow on the table, fingers loosely curled against his chin.

“You attract the worst kinds of people,” he murmurs, amusement flickering in his eyes. Then, after a beat, he smirks.

“…Good thing I got here first.”

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

Target/Striped (Emperor) Mark

Jealousy triggers his aggressive side. He’s quick to anger, and if he sees someone flirting with you, he doesn’t just get mad—he gets violent. His jealousy manifests as a fierce need to assert dominance, often leading to confrontations.

He’ll mock you when you’re with others. Calling you lowlife is part of his charm, but it’s also a power play. He relishes reminding you of your supposed weakness, and if someone else shows interest, he’ll amplify that mockery.

He’s loud in his jealousy. When he’s upset, it’s hard to ignore. His voice rises, filled with raw energy and irritation, and he doesn’t care who hears him. He expects you to fall in line—and he’ll make sure you do.

➽─────────❥

You’re laughing with friends at the bar when you spot Mark entering. His gaze narrows as he strides over, fists clenched.

“What’s so funny?” he snaps, eyes fixed on you.

You try to explain, but he cuts you off. “Those losers? Seriously?” His voice is loud, drawing attention. “You’re better than this, lowlife.”

“Mark, they’re just being friendly—”

“Friendly? You think they want anything but to take you from me?” He leans closer, intensity radiating from him. “You belong with me. Not them.”

He glares at your friends, making them back off, leaving you feeling trapped between his anger and their confusion.

“Let’s go,” he commands, grabbing your wrist. You don’t argue

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

No Goggles Mark

Jealousy leads to chaotic amusement. When he sees someone flirting with you, he can’t help but make a show of it. He might tease the other person, enjoying the absurdity of the situation and pushing their buttons.

He has a playful demeanor, but his mood can shift rapidly. If the flirter doesn’t back off, his tone changes, revealing a more serious side. He’s possessive and won’t hesitate to remind others of that.

His humor masks a deeper intensity. While he enjoys messing with people, the underlying threat is always present. He wants you to know you’re his, and he won’t tolerate anyone else thinking otherwise.

➽─────────❥

You’re chatting with a group of friends when you spot Mark leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a playful smirk on his face.

As one of your friends gets a little too flirty, Mark straightens up and walks over, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, look at this! A little flirtation party without me? How daring!”

Your friend laughs, but Mark’s gaze is locked onto the guy leaning in too close. “You really think you can compete with me?”

The guy chuckles nervously, trying to play it cool. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Friendly?” Mark leans closer, a grin still plastered on his face, but his voice drops to a low, serious tone. “Let me make something clear: if you don’t back off, you’re gonna find out how not friendly I can be.”

The shift is instantaneous. The guy’s smile fades, and he takes a step back, sensing the danger lurking beneath Mark’s words.

“Wow, dude, chill,” he stammers, retreating a little.

Mark straightens up again, returning to his playful self as he turns back to you. “See? I told you this would be entertaining.”

You shake your head, trying to hide your amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”

HI ANON!!! :D

THIS IS PRETTY SHORT AND ALSO RUSHED BUT I HOPE ITS TO YOUR LIKING!

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'Ant' Tenna x Artist!Employee!Reader

The hum of the studio had finally quieted down for the evening, leaving only the soft flicker of screens and the distant buzz of machinery. You sat at your small desk tucked away in the corner of the employee lounge, the sketchbook balanced on your knees. For weeks now, you’d been sneaking moments here and there to sketch Mr. Tenna — his ever-shifting static screen, the sharp angles of his frame, the way his mechanical fingers flexed when he worked.

You loved capturing those little details. The way his head flickered between white noise and faint color streaks when he wasn’t paying attention. The way his movements could seem stiff and precise one moment, then almost human the next. It felt like the only way you could connect with him — without the showbiz spotlight, without the endless performance.

You flipped the page quietly, tracing your pencil over the outlines of his figure frozen mid-step, the glow of his screen-face carefully shaded. You barely noticed the door sliding open behind you.

A cool shadow loomed over your shoulder.

“Is that…me?” The voice was low, curious, with an edge of disbelief.

You jumped, closing the sketchbook hastily. But it was too late.

Mr. Tenna’s screen flickered, static flaring softly as he reached out with a slow, deliberate hand to take the book from your lap.

You swallowed hard, cheeks warming. “I—I didn’t mean for you to see it.”

He flipped the pages with surprising gentleness, his mechanical fingers careful not to smudge the graphite. Each drawing was a silent story: some were quick sketches, rough but honest; others painstaking, capturing tiny details like the way the light caught on his metallic wrist or the faint crackle of static around his screen.

He paused on a page where you’d drawn him standing with his head tilted slightly, the static on his screen flickering unevenly like a soft glitch. His mechanical fingers hovered over the paper, hesitant.

“You’ve been watching me,” he said quietly, voice low and just a bit shaky.

You blinked, cheeks heating up. “I guess… it just kind of happened. When you’re around, it’s hard not to notice the little things.”

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of machinery. His screen flickered erratically — a clear sign of his flustered state — and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words.

“Most people just stare, or ignore me,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not many actually… look.”

You shifted nervously, suddenly aware of how much you’d drawn him. “I didn’t mean to make it weird,” you said quickly. “I just like sketching. And, well, you’re kind of... interesting.”

He looked down at the sketchbook again, his fingers tracing the page you’d stopped on — a simple sketch of his silhouette, the flickering screen softly glowing.

Then, unexpectedly, he cleared his throat, a little too loudly for the quiet room.

“Well, I… I wouldn’t be opposed to being your muse! Heh…” His screen flickered wildly for a second, then he abruptly coughed into his mechanical hand, a faint static burst cutting off the awkward laugh. “EHEM. I MEAN… IF THAT’S ACCEPTABLE.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden confession.

He shifted on his feet, the usual calm and collected demeanor nowhere to be found.

NOT THAT I’M SAYING I WANT TO BE DRAWN ALL THE TIME OR ANYTHING. JUST… IF YOU WANT TO.”“ His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “It’s… not unpleasant.”

You smiled softly, feeling your own cheeks warm.

“Thanks, Mr Tenna. I’d like that.”

He gave a slow nod, the static on his screen settling into a softer glow — his version of a shy smile.

For a moment, neither of you said anything more. The quiet between you felt different now. Lighter, maybe.

“JUST… TRY NOT TO CATCH ME OFF GUARD AGAIN.” he added, voice still a little breathless.

Invincible | Mark Grayson x Tamaranean(Starfire)!Reader

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(this is kinda rushed, sorry if some things dont match with Tamaranean culture.. i havent watched TT in FOREVER)

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Mark had seen a lot of weird things since becoming Invincible. But nothing—nothing—compared to stepping foot on your home planet.

Tamaranean architecture stretched high into the sky, golden spires glowing against the twin suns. The air buzzed with energy, vibrant and warm, as ships zipped past. But what really threw him off was the people.

They didn’t just fly. They soared. They moved through the sky like it was second nature, spinning and twirling mid-air like it was a casual stroll. Bright laughter filled the air as children zipped past, their hands glowing with neon fire.

Mark swallowed. “Uh. You didn’t tell me everyone here was like you.”

You grinned. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. I just… I thought you were special.”

You nudged his arm playfully. “I am special.”

Before he could respond, a voice boomed across the palace courtyard.

“You return at last, sister.”

Mark barely had time to react before a tall, striking woman dropped from the sky with all the elegance of a hawk locking onto prey. Her black hair spilled down her back, and her armor gleamed in the sunlight.

His stomach twisted. Oh. This was your sister.

“Komand’r,” you greeted stiffly.

Her glowing eyes flicked to Mark, sharp and calculating. “And who is this? Another Earthling?”

Mark bristled. “Another?”

Your sister smirked. “I assumed my dear sibling would have learned her lesson after the last one.”

Oh. That stung.

Mark shot you a look, but you were glaring at your sister. The tension between you two was thick enough to cut with a blade.

“I see your attitude remains as unbearable as ever,” you muttered.

“And I see your taste in men remains questionable.”

Mark scoffed. “You got something to say?”

Komand’r leaned in, smirking. “Only that you are… soft.”

Mark’s eye twitched. Soft? The last time someone called him soft, he ended up half-dead in space.

You groaned. “Komand’r, please, let’s not do this—”

A loud, wet squelching noise cut through the tension.

Mark turned—only to see a massive, green, multi-eyed blob squirming forward, its trunk-like appendages wiggling with purpose. Its body jiggled slightly as it stopped before you, making a series of deep, guttural gurgles.

Mark stared. Horrified.

“…What the hell is that?”

Your face paled. “Oh. Right. That.”

The blob let out another series of noises, its trunks wiggling in what Mark somehow understood as… pride?

Komand’r smirked. “Did she not tell you? She is to be wed. It is the only way to protect our people.”

Mark turned to you, eyes wide with betrayal. “You’re engaged?!”

“I—it’s complicated!” you said quickly. “I didn’t agree to this!”

The blob burbled.

Mark’s eye twitched. “What do you mean you ‘thought I knew’?? I don’t even know what you are!”

It gurgled again.

Mark recoiled. “EXCUSE ME?!”

Komand’r chuckled. “He says he is deeply honored to take you as his mate.”

Mark gagged. Audibly.

The blob let out a low, vibrating sound that Mark somehow understood as laughter.

His stomach flipped. “Oh, HELL no.”

Komand’r smirked. “You would rather risk war?”

Mark clenched his fists. “Over my dead body is she marrying—” he gestured wildly at the blob “—THAT.”

The blob let out a long, warbling moan.

Mark’s jaw dropped. “I did NOT just insult your lineage! What lineage?! You’re a blob!”

The blob squished aggressively in response.

Mark pointed. “SEE?! THAT'S NOT NORMAL.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Mark, please—”

“NO. NO ‘MARK, PLEASE.’” He turned to you, looking betrayed. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

You groaned. “Because I didn’t think it mattered! I never agreed to it!”

Komand’r raised a brow. “You would rather defy our customs?”

Mark snapped.

“She’s not marrying that thing.”

The blob let out a wet, vibrating honk.

Mark whipped around. “Oh, YOU wanna fight me now?!”

More squelching.

Mark’s eye twitched. “Did—did you just call me a ‘puny, hairless primate’??”

The blob wobbled menacingly.

Mark didn't answer.

He just punched it through a wall.

Gasps echoed across the courtyard. Komand’r burst out laughing.

“Oh,” she purred. “I like him.”

'Ant' Tenna/Reader --- AO3

Summary: Tenna’s size-shifting system glitches, trapping him smaller than he’s ever been before—shrunk down even beyond his usual low. The Reader can’t help but get a little touchy. Tenna doesn’t mind the closeness much. He DOES mind when their moment gets interrupted though...

(Have this crumb since i'll be taking a break from working on Dial T for Tenna!)

-----

“DON’T LAUGH AT ME!” Tenna shrieked, planting his hands on his hips in a desperate attempt to look intimidating—though the effect was more adorable than anything else, given he currently had the height of a perfume bottle.

Why was Tenna this small, you ask?

You glanced down at him, still snickering under your breath at his earlier explanation. Something about a glitch in his size-changing systems, which caused him to abruptly shut down. When he came to, he found a very confused technician hovering over his tiny form, trying to figure out how to solve the problem.

Now here he was—smaller than you’d ever seen him. Way smaller than his usual limited "small mode," even. He could probably fit in your palm, which was a thought that was quickly becoming dangerously tempting.

He didn’t usually stay in his small form for long, and even when he did, you rarely had time to actually look at him, let alone touch him.

So naturally, the urge to pick him up and fluster the hell out of him was almost too strong to resist.

Your gaze swept over his tiny, puffed-up posture. He was still huffing like he had something to prove—so, gently, you reached out and plucked him up by the scruff of his little red blazer. His body stiffened immediately, arms and legs flailing for balance.

“WOAH THERE! You’re gonna give me motion sickness…!” he grumbled, clearly trying to sound unbothered.

But you weren’t buying it. His screen had gone a soft, rosy pink, and his antennas were twitching in a stuttered rhythm that practically screamed flustered. You slowly settled him into the center of your palm, leaning back with your knees bent, one hand braced behind you, the other holding him steady.

“Aw…” you cooed, your voice dripping with playful mockery. “Look at you! You’re so cute when you’re small like this.”

You nudged his tiny shoulder with your finger. “I mean, you’re always cute—but this? This is next level.”

His screen darkened to a deeper pink, and he sharply turned his head away from you, antennas drooping.

“H-Hahaa… You really think so?” he asked, voice cracking ever so slightly from a mix of embarrassment and bashful disbelief.

“‘Course I do,” you replied, tilting his screen gently back toward you with the tip of your finger. Your smile widened as you moved on to lightly stroke the top of his head. “Hmm… You could totally fit in my pocket like this. Wouldn’t that be cute? Carrying you around all day like one of those purse dogs.”

He made a strangled little noise.

You leaned in just a little closer, smirk growing. “I could even call you my pet,” you added with a teasing lilt, continuing to pet him with deliberate slowness.

Tenna’s head dropped back dramatically, antennas trembling, screen now flushed pink. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face when you heard the long, involuntary whine that slipped out of him.

“You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” you purred, shifting your hand to fully cup his tiny frame. Your thumb pressed gently against the front of his blazer while your other fingers curled beneath him for support.

His little hands gripped your thumb tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him from mentally combusting.

You ran your thumb along the edge of his blazer, brushing over the little gold trim, and watched as he tensed up, mouth opening to say something—only to produce a breathy whimper instead. That made you grin.

Your index finger came up to gently stroke the side of his CRT head, tracing along the sharp curve of it like you were examining something precious in a museum. A wave of pink washed over his face again. He jolted at the touch.

Then, slowly, you moved to his antennas.

The moment your fingers touched them, his whole body jolted like you’d hit a pressure point.

“N-Nonono—waitwaitwait—!!!” he squeaked, his screen going from pink to deep red.

“Oh?” you said innocently, already pinching the base of one between your fingers and giving it a gentle, slow stroke upward. The antenna flicked, spasming in response. Tenna choked on air.

Your other hand came up to stabilize him, cupping his back like he was something fragile—because right now, he was. With both hands surrounding him now, you lazily stroked along both antennas, back and forth, watching how he twitched and shivered with every movement.

“I didn’t know these were so sensitive…” you said with a teasing pout.

His head fell forward against your thumb, his grip tightening again. His legs had curled up slightly from the sheer flustered tension rattling through him.

“I-I’m gonna implode.” he whined into your hand, his internal fans about to go into overdrive.

You laughed under your breath, genuinely amused now. “You’re way too easy to mess with like this.” you said softly, tapping the top of his head with your finger, then gently running it down to his back and along the curve of his tiny spine. 

Tenna shivered.

You felt it under your touch—the way his frame trembled like a live wire. He curled tighter into your palm, gripping your thumb like it was anchoring him to the mortal plane.

You leaned in closer, your voice low and warm. “Are you always this responsive?” you whispered. “Or is it just me?”

“Y-You…” he rasped, stuttering halfway through the word. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Obviously,” you grinned. “You’re fun to play with like this.”

You dragged your thumb under his screen, lifting it slightly so he had to look at you—his blushing screen fully lit. He looked like he was seconds away from combusting.

And that was before your fingers went back to his antennas.

This time you didn’t just stroke them. You played with them—one finger circling the tip of one while your other hand gently tugged at the base of the other, just enough to make him squirm. His breath hitched hard, his body jerking in your grip like you'd flipped some internal switch.

“Y-YOU—! Hnnnh… th-that’s—nghh—too much—”

You chuckled. “Sensitive and dramatic. Classic Tenna.”

“Th-This is harassment.” he whined, voice high and trembling, his little frame practically vibrating in your hands.

“And yet…” you purred, watching him melt further into your palm, “you haven’t told me to stop.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but all that came out was a breathy whimper. His head drooped forward against your thumb again, like holding himself up was just too much work now.

You cradled him a little closer to your chest, letting his tiny frame rest against your collarbone. “You okay there, hotshot?” you murmured, brushing your fingers down his back again, lighter this time, more soothing.

Tenna didn’t respond right away. His antennas were still twitching, and his screen flickered once, twice, before finally settling into a soft, glowing pink.

“…You’re evil.” he mumbled against your skin, muffled and pouty.

You laughed, wrapping your fingers gently around him like a protective shell. “Maybe,” you whispered. “But you like it.”

He groaned—long, dramatic, and muffled into your collar. He didn’t deny it.

And just as you opened your mouth to tease him again—

“Mr. Tenna? I finally figured out how to—”

The office door creaked open.

You both froze.

Standing in the doorway was the very same technician who had probably spent the last two hours figuring out how to solve the glitch, proudly holding a manual in one hand and mid-sentence—until he caught sight of you.

More specifically, you sitting comfortably on the couch in Tenna’s office… holding a palm-sized, twitching, visibly disheveled Tenna against your chest.

There was a very long, very awkward silence.

The technician’s eyebrows rose slowly.

“…Oooooookay,” he said, blinking. “Should I… come back later or…?”

You bit back a snicker, but it still escaped through your nose as you looked down at the flustered mess in your hand. Tenna’s antennas were trembling like dying leaves. His screen had gone red. Not pink. Full, mortified red.

You gave him one last affectionate pet on the top of his head before gently lowering him to the carpet.

“Nah,” you said with a grin. “He’s good to go now.”

Tenna stood wobbily, adjusting his tiny blazer with a sulking sort of dignity. He didn’t look at you. Or the technician. Or anything, really. His antennas were curled downward like a cat’s ears after being caught doing something shameful.

“…YUP,” he muttered, defeated. “Fully ready. Nothing wrong here. Ha ha...”

He turned stiffly and stomped toward the technician, who held the door open in silence.

As they exited, you heard Tenna hiss, “I was clearly in the middle of something!”

“I-I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t realize you were—uh—you know—”

“If this happens again, I’m docking your pay.”

“…Understood.”

The door shut.

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Can I ask if you can write some random headcanons for some of his variants??(like viltrumite mark, shiesty/cowboy mark, sinister mark, lensless mark, Omni mark, mohawk and full masked mark) 😔

THANK YOU, ANON.

Here's (Nicknames they'd call you + Random headcanons at the end) :D

Nicknames They’d Call You

Because each Mark has his own way of expressing (or suppressing) his feelings for you.

Alternate Invincible/Reader

ft: Viltrumite Mark, Sinister Mark, No Goggles Mark , Omnivincible, Mohawk Mark, Fully Masked Mark , Striped Mark, UNmasked Mark

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Omnivincible - Pet, my mate, my little human

Omnivincible doesn’t see you as his equal, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t cherish you. He calls you pet with a sickening amount of affection, stroking your cheek like he’s admiring his favorite possession. When he calls you my mate, it’s always with this deep, territorial rumble, like he’s reminding himself that you belong to him. And little human? That one slips out when he’s being soft—when he’s tucking you into his side after a battle, or when he lets you trace the scars on his arms.

----

Mohawk Mark - Babe, punk, little menace

Mohawk Mark has a carefree and rebellious spirit that shines through in everything he does. He calls you babe casually, showing his affection without overthinking it. When he calls you punk, it’s a playful nickname that reflects his appreciation for your boldness and attitude. And little menace is a cheeky way of acknowledging the trouble you get into together, with a hint of admiration for your adventurous nature. He loves the energy you bring into his life, making every moment feel electrifying and full of excitement.

----

Sinister Mark - Annoyance, pest, my toy

He swears he doesn’t care about you. You’re just an annoyance, always poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. A pest who lingers in the back of his mind when he should be focusing on more important things. But when he lets his guard down? When it’s just the two of you in the dead of night, and he’s watching you with something unreadable in his eyes? That’s when he calls you my toy. His voice is low, almost dangerous, and he’s daring you to prove him wrong—to show him you mean more to him than that.

----

Target/Striped Mark - Lowlife, my dear, little thing

To Target Mark, you’re a weak little human, and he reminds you of that constantly. “Stay out of my way, lowlife,” he sneers, but there’s something almost possessive in the way he says it. When he’s in a rare good mood, he might call you my dear, drawing it out with that infuriating smirk. And when you surprise him—when you fight back, when you show him you’re not as breakable as he thought—that’s when he calls you little thing. His voice goes soft, almost fond. You’re not his equal, but you intrigue him.

----

No Goggles Mark - You, idiot, my weakness

He’s so angry at himself for caring about you. You’re an idiot for staying by his side, and he’s an idiot for letting you. When he calls you you, it’s always laced with frustration—“You. Get out of here.” But you never do. And that makes you his weakness. He won’t admit it, but the way his hands linger on you, the way his voice breaks when he thinks you’re hurt—it’s undeniable.

----

Viltrumite Mark - Beloved, my reason, treasure

Viltrumite Mark has no need for petty human emotions, or so he tells himself. But when he holds you, when he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, he calls you beloved. His reason. His treasure. He says them with quiet reverence, his forehead pressed to yours, like he’s trying to commit you to memory in case he loses you.

----

Unmasked Mark - Hope, light, angel

You’re the only thing good left in his world. Hope is what he calls you when he looks at you like he wants to believe in something again. Light is whispered under his breath when you smile at him, when you pull him back from the edge. And angel? That one’s different. That one’s said in a cracked voice, in a moment of pure vulnerability, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he says it out loud.

----

Fully Masked Mark - My love, precious, mine

He’s obsessed with you. He doesn’t just love you—he needs you. My love is murmured like a prayer, over and over again, as he pulls you closer. Precious is spoken with an almost painful tenderness, as if he’s terrified of breaking you. But mine? Mine is the one he says with raw desperation, with a steel grip around your wrist, with a look in his eyes that says he’ll never let you go.

----

RANDOM HEADCANONS

Omnivincible-

- He views you as a treasured possession, and any threat to your safety sparks his ruthless side. He'll eliminate anyone he perceives as a danger to you without hesitation.

-His affection often comes with an unsettling undertone, as he sees you as a part of his empire. He may stroke your cheek affectionately, but it’s always with an intensity that says you’re his and his alone.

- He struggles with guilt over his conquests and often tries to ease that burden by keeping you close. He wants to ensure you never feel the weight of his actions, even if it means manipulating your perceptions of the world around you

----

Mohawk Mark

-He drags you into chaotic escapades, often without a second thought. The thrill of danger exhilarates him, and he finds joy in testing boundaries—even if it leads to reckless decisions.

-He loves to tease you, calling you babe and punk with a playful smirk, but there’s an edge to his playfulness. He enjoys watching you squirm and will push your buttons just to see how far he can go.

-Beneath his carefree facade lies a cunning strategist. He revels in the chaos he creates, and while he enjoys your company, he’ll never hesitate to put his own desires first, even if it puts you at risk.

----

Sinister Mark

-He views you as a possession, often declaring you my toy in a way that sends chills down your spine. His fixation grows darker, making you both intrigued and terrified by his affection.

-He often displays affection in morbid ways, like collecting small tokens of your presence—things you’ve touched or worn. He might kiss your lips a little too hard, deliberately biting them to draw a bit of blood, relishing the taste as a reminder of his connection to you.

-He revels in the fear he instills, often letting you see the darker sides of his nature. When he whispers twisted fantasies to you, he may lean in close and trace the cut on your lip with his tongue, ensuring you know that your pain and pleasure are intricately linked in his mind.

----

Target/Striped Mark

-He revels in his superiority and constantly reminds you of your place beneath him. Calling you lowlife is a power play, a way to assert his dominance while simultaneously being drawn to you.

- In rare moments of vulnerability, he might let his guard down, but it’s often laced with condescension. When he calls you my dear, there’s a mix of arrogance and genuine fondness, a battle within himself.

- He enjoys keeping you close, but it’s always with an agenda. He’ll use you as a pawn in his plans, making it clear that your existence serves his interests above all else.

----

No Goggles Mark 

- Mark thrives on chaos and enjoys provoking reactions from you. His wild grin and giddy laughter reveal how much he relishes the destruction around him, and he finds joy in scaring you just as much as he enjoys the thrill of battle. He might playfully challenge you to hit him, genuinely excited about the pain, seeing it as a game to push your limits.

-He has a twisted sense of affection, mixing playful teasing with darker impulses. When he holds you close, it’s with an intensity that’s both possessive and thrilling. He’ll laugh off injuries, encouraging you to hit him or even react violently, finding a strange delight in the way you both navigate fear and excitement together.

-Despite his unpredictable and dangerous nature, Mark possesses an unsettling charm. He can switch from terrifying to oddly sweet in an instant, making it hard to decipher his true intentions. He might grip your shoulders tightly, leaning in close with a mischievous glint in his eye, leaving you both intrigued and unsettled by his unpredictable behavior.

---

Viltrumite Mark

- He tries to suppress his feelings for you, believing that emotions are a weakness. But beneath that facade lies a man who’s torn between duty to the empire and his desire for you.

-He views his love as a weakness, and though he tries to push you away, he often pulls you closer when it suits him. Your presence is comforting, but he sees it as a distraction from his greater goals.

- When he admits feelings for you, it’s in a way that reflects his indoctrination. He may see you as a potential ally in his conquest, complicating your relationship with his ulterior motives.

----

Unmasked Mark

- Your presence serves as a reminder of what he’s lost, and he often feels unworthy of your affection. He fights against his darker instincts, wanting to protect you but fearing he might hurt you instead.

- He admires you deeply, but his self-loathing often leads him to push you away. He’ll call you hope in moments of desperation, longing for the innocence you represent.

-While he cherishes you, he sees you as a light in his darkness—a burden he feels guilty about. He fears what he might become, yet he clings to you in hopes of redemption.

----

Fully Masked Mark

- He’s utterly obsessed with you and will go to extreme lengths to keep you by his side. His possessiveness often leads him to isolate you from others, believing he’s protecting you.

- He sees you as his salvation from the horrors of his world, and while he loves you fiercely, he often intertwines that love with his darker impulses.

-When he wraps his arms and legs around you, it’s a desperate attempt to feel whole. He often whispers sweet affirmations, but there’s a darkness lurking beneath his devotion—an ever-present fear of losing you to the world he’s created.

I'll make sure to stalk your page from now on, love your work ❤️❤️ (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

THANKS, ANON!!! HERE'S YOUR LITTLE CONQUEST FANFIC!!!

After the Fall

Part 2

Conquest/Reader (Conquest appreciation post)

-----

The streets of the city lay in ruins, remnants of the chaos left by recent battles scattered everywhere. Buildings were reduced to piles of debris, and the air was thick with dust and a sense of despair. You navigated carefully through the wreckage, your heart heavy with determination. Supplies were running low, and injured civilians were in desperate need of help.

As you turned a corner, you spotted a few people huddled together, whispering nervously. You approached them, ready to offer what little assistance you could muster. But before you could reach them, a flicker of movement caught your eye.

In the distance, you saw a figure hovering slightly above the ground. The person was dressed in flowing white clothing, and though he appeared old, there was something unsettlingly powerful about him. His stance was rigid, fists clenched at his sides, and you felt an instinctual wariness creep over you.

You hesitated for a moment, weighing your options. The streets were already filled with too much fear; you didn’t want to provoke anyone, but curiosity tugged at you. Gathering your courage, you stepped closer to the figure, calling out, “Excuse me! Are you alright?”

As you approached, the man turned to face you, and your heart skipped a beat. One of his eyes was blind, while the other bore into you with an intensity that made you swallow hard. “Who dares to approach me?” he asked, his voice low and rumbling.

“I’m just trying to help,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “There are a lot of injured people around. I thought you might need assistance, too.”

He studied you for a moment, confusion evident on his face. “You approach me, a being of power, without any weapon? You are either foolish or brave.”

“Maybe a little of both,” you replied, a hint of defiance creeping into your tone. “But I’m not afraid to help someone in need, even if you don’t look like a normal civilian.”

“Normal civilians tend to avoid me,” he said, his voice cold. “They know the consequences of approaching someone like me.”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling your irritation rise. “And what does that say about you? If people are too scared to come near you, maybe you should rethink your approach.”

The figure seemed taken aback by your words, and for a brief moment, his expression shifted. “You speak with conviction,” he said, a hint of curiosity breaking through his otherwise serious demeanor. “Most would cower at the sight of me.”

“I’m not most people,” you replied, crossing your arms. “What’s your name?”

“They call me Conquest,” he said, his voice steady. “And conquering... is precisely what I intend to do here.”

“Great. Another villain with a superiority complex,” you muttered under your breath, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “You really think you can just come in here and take over? Look around you—this place is already a wreck.”

“I do what is necessary,” he replied, his tone unwavering. “The weak must be ruled by the strong, or chaos will reign.”

“And what about the people who are trying to rebuild?” you challenged. “They need hope, not fear. You think conquering is the answer? You’re wrong.”

“Hope is a fleeting emotion,” Conquest stated, his voice steady. “It crumbles in the face of reality. Fear ensures compliance and order.”

“Order based on fear isn’t true order,” you argued, feeling the heat of the moment intensifying. “People need to feel safe, not terrorized. If you keep using fear as your tool, you’ll only create more enemies.”

He floated closer, and you felt a surge of adrenaline. “You presume to lecture me on how to rule? I have faced countless foes, and none have stood before me with such audacity.”

“Someone has to challenge you,” you said defiantly, refusing to back down. “People can’t live like this, and I won’t let you dictate how things should be.”

Conquest studied you, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You are intriguing, human. Most would have submitted to my power, yet you confront it directly.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of all the villains thinking they can walk all over us,” you replied, a mix of frustration and determination fueling your words. “You think strength comes from terrorizing people, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Strength is all that matters in this world,” he said, his tone firm. “You are naive if you believe otherwise.”

“Maybe I am,” you admitted. “But I’ve seen what happens when fear reigns. It doesn’t unite; it divides. If you want to conquer, you’ll only create more chaos.”

He took a step back, the tension between you thickening. “Your conviction is commendable, but it may also lead to your downfall.”

“Maybe,” you replied, feeling a mixture of defiance and uncertainty. “But I’d rather fight for what’s right than submit to someone like you.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, and you could see the conflict brewing in his expression. He stepped closer again, looming over you, and your heart raced.

“I have seen many come before me, and they all feared what I could do,” he said, his voice low. “And yet, you stand here, challenging me. It’s… amusing.”

“Glad I can entertain you,” you replied, crossing your arms defiantly. “But I’m not just here for your amusement.”

“You are certainly more resilient than most,” he mused, his tone shifting slightly. “But you should understand that I do not play games. I am here to conquer, but I shall find Invincible first. Tell me where he is located.”

“And if I refuse to help you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Then you will remain in the dark,” he replied, his tone cool. “I will not hesitate to act, and you will find that I am not a force to be trifled with.”

“Great, just what I need,” you said, feeling a mix of annoyance and determination. “Another villain thinking they can control everything.”

He tilted his head, clearly intrigued by your boldness. “You are quite feisty for someone so vulnerable. I find that amusing. Do you truly believe you can stand against me?”

“I don’t have to stand against you,” you replied, your heart racing. “But I won’t let you hurt anyone in the process. People deserve better than to live in fear of you.”

With a flicker of movement, he was suddenly in front of you, towering over you with an intensity that made you stumble back slightly. You caught your breath, looking up at him in surprise.

“Such spirit,” he said, almost admiringly. “But do not think that your bravado will shield you from the realities of this world.”

Before you could respond, Conquest leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a startling kiss. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and he pulled back just enough to draw blood. You felt a jolt of shock and confusion, your cheeks flushing as you processed what had just happened.

He groaned at the taste, an unexpected sound that sent a shiver through you. “You are intriguing,” he said, his tone shifting slightly. “But I have a mission to complete. I will find Invincible.”

You stood there, stunned and blushing, unsure of what to say. Conquest straightened, his demeanor changing as he returned to his more imposing self. “I will return for you after I deal with him.”

“Wait, what?” you managed to stammer, still trying to wrap your head around the kiss. “You can’t just—”

“I can and I will,” he replied, turning away, leaving you bewildered in the ruins. “Consider this a warning. You may find yourself drawn into a world you do not yet understand.”

As he floated away, you felt a mix of emotions swirling inside you—anger, confusion, and an unexpected thrill at the encounter. You had confronted Conquest, a being of immense power, and now you found yourself entangled in something far greater than you had anticipated.

OHHHHH this is such a fun concept, anon!!!

A Kryptonian s/o for Sinister Mark would be such an interesting dynamic, especially with how powerful and independent she’d be......

Heres a mix of headcanons and a short fic snippet :D

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Sinister Mark x Kryptonian!Reader Headcanons

Power Show-Offs (heh...) – Mark isn’t used to anyone being able to match him, let alone challenge him. The first time he realizes you’re Kryptonian, he’s genuinely impressed. He’ll never admit it out loud, but it’s rare for him to meet someone who isn’t fragile in comparison. He still assumes he’s stronger, though. You may have to prove him wrong.

Fighting for fun – Fighting with you is one of the only things that makes him feel alive. You can take his punches without turning into paste, and it’s honestly exhilarating. He plays dirty, but you give it right back. Sometimes, you two get so lost in fighting that entire city blocks suffer.

Ego Clashes – He’s Mark Grayson, and he’s not used to people questioning his authority. But you? You’re not afraid of him. You challenge his decisions, make him rethink things. It pisses him off so much, but deep down, he likes it.

Dark Temptations– You’re not just powerful, you’re intelligent. Mark sees potential in you, and part of him wants you on his side. He’s constantly pushing to see just how much you’re willing to bend. “You could rule this world with me,” he muses once, watching you carefully. You only scoff in response—for now.

Possessive Tendencies – Mark doesn’t trust easily, but with you, there’s a different kind of paranoia. You’re his equal, and he knows what that means. If anyone ever tried to take you from him, he wouldn’t just be angry—he’d be ruthless.

Late-Night Conversations ; ) – When he’s not being the terrifying ruler of the planet, there are rare moments of quiet between you two. He’ll sit with you in the stratosphere, just floating in silence. He doesn’t need to fill the air with empty words—you’re one of the few people who gets it.

---

Short Fic Snippet!!!

The punch sent you both crashing through three buildings before you caught yourself mid-air, eyes glowing red-hot. Below, Mark wiped blood from his lip, grinning.

"That all you got?" he taunted, voice edged with amusement.

You rolled your shoulders, hovering just above him. "You want me to actually try?"

Mark launched at you, but this time, you were faster. You twisted in the air, catching his wrist and slamming him into the pavement so hard it cracked open like shattered glass. His laugh was breathless, almost exhilarated.

"Not bad," he admitted, glancing up at you through tousled black hair. His eyes gleamed with something dangerous. Interest.

You landed beside him, arms crossed. "You enjoy getting your ass kicked, or is this some kind of Viltrumite mating ritual?"

He chuckled, sitting up. "If it was, you’d know by now."

Your lips twitched, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile. Instead, you extended a hand, which he took after a beat. The moment he was upright, he leaned in, voice dropping lower.

"You ever get tired of playing hero, you know where to find me."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny the way his words lingered in your mind longer than they should.

---

PART 1 -- PART 4 -- (Ao3)

'Ant' Tenna/Reader

Summary: After a rough show, Tenna begins to unravel. The reader doesn’t fix him — just stays. In the quiet aftermath, they suggest letting the show get messy and real. Tenna doesn’t push them away. By the end, something shifts — a small moment of trust.

---------

The studio felt heavier in the morning light. Not dark, not dramatic—just quiet in a way that settled under your skin. Yesterday’s chaos had scrubbed through the space and left it drained. No stagehands yelling over each other, no costume racks rolling across the floors, no soundtrack cues looping too loud from the speakers. Just silence and the low, ambient thrum of equipment left on overnight, humming like it was trying to fill the space left behind.

You were in one of the smaller production rooms, the kind used for early auditions and cast reviews. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. Your tablet sat on the table beside a half-drunk can of soda, its screen scattered with contestant profiles. Most of them were the usual junk—wannabe influencers, college kids trying too hard to be edgy, people clearly just looking to get a clip on the air. But a few looked like they might actually be worth something. One girl listed her only skill as "causing problems on purpose," and for once, that didn’t feel like a red flag. At least she’d match the tone of the show.

You were highlighting her file when the door opened behind you. No knock. Just the slow creak of hinges and the soft scrape of shoes on tile. You didn’t have to turn to know it was him.

Tenna stood in the doorway, still. Not posing, not performing. His screen was on—bright, flat white—but dimmer than usual, like someone had turned the contrast down. No flicker, no glitching. Just... dull light.

“Am I canceled?” he asked.

You paused. “What?”

He stepped into the room, hands deep in his coat pockets, the way he got when he didn’t want to look like he cared too much. “Yesterday,” he said. “The show. I assume it tanked. Viewers hate when something real slips through. They want the act. The flash. Not... whatever that was.”

You set the tablet down slowly. “No one’s canceling anything.”

Tenna didn’t sit. He leaned against the table near the wall, screen angled toward the screens playing silent cuts of the episode. He watched without really watching—familiar images, half-processed. Static danced faintly across his screen for a second, then cleared. His voice was quiet when he spoke again.

“They booed. I haven’t heard a crowd turn like that since the stunt episode where we dropped a guy into a pit of glitter and he didn’t come back up.”

You glanced at him, but his expression didn’t change. “They didn’t boo you. They booed the moment. The pacing. Maybe the contestants. But not you.”

“That’s generous.”

“It’s true.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched the looped footage for a while, jaw tense. You could feel the weight pressing on him, the kind that builds when a performer who’s built their entire world out of a persona starts to doubt the foundation. Tenna wasn’t just the host. He was the show, its identity, its tone. And when the crowd turned, when the laughter gave way to discomfort—something cracked.

Eventually, he said, “I spent the whole night wondering if I should’ve just stayed in character. Thrown a chair. Cut to commercial. Screamed at the camera until the lights fried out. Something. Anything.”

“That wouldn’t have fixed it.”

“No,” he said. “But it would’ve been on brand.”

You leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “You’re not just a brand, Tenna.”

He scoffed, but it didn’t land right. The sarcasm had no heat behind it.

You picked up the tablet and slid it across the table toward him. “I went through the applications this morning. Found a few who might actually work. Not plants. Not polished. Just... strange. Raw.”

Tenna didn’t take the tablet, but he glanced down at it. Read a name or two. One eyebrow lifted slightly. “This one just wrote, ‘I want to make noise and break things.’”

You nodded. “She’s already more honest than half the people we’ve put on the floor.”

He was quiet for a moment, then pushed off the table and finally sat down. His posture was slouched, screen still dim, but there was movement again—thought behind the silence. You could see the gears starting to turn, even if they were slow.

“And what?” he said. “We just throw them in and let the show unravel itself?”

“Maybe. Maybe we stop chasing the version of the show that everyone expects. No more fake twists. No more forced drama. Let things actually go wrong. Let the show be real.”

“You say that like it’s revolutionary.”

“It kind of is. For this place.”

He tapped the edge of the tablet, not looking at you. “You think that’s what they want? The audience? Real?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I think it’s what you need. And I think people can tell the difference.”

The screen stayed white. Still quiet. But you thought—just barely—you could hear the low, rising buzz from within it. Like something rebooting. Not loud. Not fast. Just enough to know that something hadn’t broken completely.

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and let out a breath. “Alright. Let’s see if we can make a mess worth watching.”

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him. Something about the line sat in your ribs a little longer than you expected — not deep or profound, just… tired, in a way you recognized. Like someone who knew the show must go on but had stopped caring whether anyone clapped. That made it easier to breathe, strangely. You leaned back a little, hands still loosely knotted in your lap, and let the quiet stretch out.

Eventually, you shifted. “Mess is already halfway made,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “Might as well try to steer it somewhere.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t laugh. But there was a small twitch — shoulder or head, you weren’t sure — like maybe he’d heard you and didn’t completely hate the sound of your voice. You’d take that. You weren’t expecting trust. You barely expected conversation at this point. But the lights were still on, the static hadn’t come back, and he wasn’t sending you out of the room with some manufactured PR smirk. It was the quiet kind of progress. The kind nobody clapped for.

The silence wasn’t as tense as before. It sat between you like an old coat thrown over a chair. There, but not pressing. You exhaled and let your posture go a little slack. You weren’t here to fix him. You couldn’t. That wasn’t the job. Or maybe it was — it was hard to tell. Nobody had given you a real definition for “emotional liaison,” and frankly, the people who coined the term probably didn’t know either. They just needed someone who wouldn’t crumble the second Tenna glitched out on them. Someone who wouldn’t run. You weren’t sure if that meant you were brave or just too stubborn to leave.

Tenna stood up eventually, slow and deliberate. The screen stayed white — not glowing, not dead, just... there. He didn’t look at you. Not directly. But he hovered a second longer than you thought he would before heading to the door. Hand on the frame, head turned just slightly.

“If they sent you to keep me from falling apart,” he said, “they should’ve started a lot sooner.”

You swallowed a response. Not because you didn’t have one, but because most of what came to mind would’ve sounded either too soft or too smug. Instead, you stood too, brushing off the back of your pants out of habit.

“They didn’t send me for that,” you said. “They sent me because they don’t know what else to do with you.”

A pause. A small one. Then a low sound — not quite a laugh. Not quite static either.

He left the office, and for the first time all day, it didn’t feel like you were being shut out.

You didn’t go straight back to your desk. You wandered the halls for a while instead, giving the building time to settle. Tenna moved fast when he was onstage, but off it, everything felt like waiting. Like the whole place held its breath until he made the next move. Even now, it felt like the walls were listening.

You ended up in one of the green rooms — not the fancy ones meant for guests, but one of the half-forgotten corners where unused props went to die. Beige walls. Stained couch. A coffee table that looked like it had seen things. You dropped into the cushions without grace, legs stretched out, and pulled your badge off your neck. It hit the floor with a soft plastic clack.

You didn’t want to think about what just happened. Not in a big dramatic way — just in the way your brain starts poking holes when it’s too quiet. You’d shown up here thinking maybe you’d sit Tenna down, talk him through whatever spirals he kept trying to mask with ratings and glitter and half-scripted rants. Help him “stabilize.” That was the word they’d used. As if he were a tower with a crack in the middle. But he wasn’t a structure. He wasn’t even something you could brace. He was sharp edges and ancient tape reels and burnout with a spotlight baked into his bones. And honestly, you weren’t sure you were any more stable than he was.

Still. You were here.

You didn’t see him again until the next day.

He didn’t acknowledge you when you walked into the studio. Not right away. He was already pacing the main set, notes in hand — except you were pretty sure they weren’t even real notes. Just a prop clipboard. Some days he liked pretending things were organized. Maybe that was part of the act. You didn’t interrupt. Just leaned against the wall off-stage and watched as the crew moved like background noise around him. Most of them didn’t talk to him, just took their marks and waited. You saw one of the interns flinch when he walked by, even though he hadn’t said a word.

You sighed, then pushed yourself off the wall. Stepped out toward him.

“New suit,” you said, nodding the… different shade of red suit. “Going for hostile game show host or vaguely threatening bank manager?”

Tenna didn’t look at you. But he paused, the barest hitch in his steps.

“Figured I’d try competence for once,” he said. “You should try it sometime.”

You almost smiled. “I’m more of a chaos intern, personally.”

Another beat of silence. Then, barely audible over the hum of equipment, came the sound of him exhaling through his nose. Not a laugh. But not nothing.

The shoot that day was rough — the crowd was flat, the guest was worse, and the writers clearly hadn’t slept. Tenna handled it like he always did: sharp, fast, aggressive enough to keep things from collapsing completely. You stayed off to the side, not jumping in unless you had to. That felt like the deal now. You weren’t there to smooth things over or take over the controls. You were just there. An extra presence in his field of view. Something he could bounce off if he wanted. Or ignore. It was a weird job, but weird felt normal now.

When the lights finally went down, he stayed in place for a few seconds. Not dramatic. Just... unwilling to move. Like if he kept still long enough, maybe he wouldn’t have to go back to being whoever he was when the cameras stopped rolling.

You crossed over without saying anything. Handed him a bottle of water you’d swiped from catering. He took it, didn’t thank you — just cracked the seal and drank like someone trying to fill the silence in his chest.

Then, softly, almost like he was testing the shape of the words in his mouth:

“You’re still here.”

You looked at him, not smiling, not smug. “Should I leave?”

A pause. His screen flickered — faint static, like a single breath caught in the wires.

“No.”

Not a command. Not a plea. Just a simple, honest refusal. It was enough to crack the armor he usually kept wrapped tight around that flickering head of his.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting that word hang between you. It wasn’t much, but it was something—less a promise, more a truce. The kind you make with someone who’s not quite ready to give up but isn’t quite sure they want company either. You could see it in the way his screen settled back into that dull white glow, the static fading like a slow exhale. It wasn’t victory or defeat. It was just... presence. And maybe, for the first time, that was enough.

You shifted on your feet, feeling the weight of the day settle deeper into your bones. This wasn’t a story about quick fixes or pep talks. There was no magic phrase, no brilliant plan that could stitch up whatever was fraying inside him. You both knew that. You weren’t here to patch a broken machine—you were here to stick around while it sputtered and, maybe, figured itself out. That was your job now. And while you still didn’t know what it really meant to be an “emotional liaison,” you were starting to understand it was less about fixing and more about showing up.

He finally looked over, just a flicker of motion, but enough to catch your gaze. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. Not a question, not a statement of fact, but something softer, almost vulnerable. Like admitting it felt less like a sentence and more like relief. You met his screen with a steady look. “No plans to.” You wanted to say more—something about sticking through the mess, through the noise—but the words felt too big, too forced. So you let the silence say what you couldn’t.

For a long while, you both just sat there, two figures caught in the quiet after the storm. Outside, the studio was waking up again, lights flicking on and the distant murmur of footsteps and voices. But in this small room, time stretched differently—slower, deeper. You weren’t sure where this fragile truce would lead, or how long it would last, but for now, it was enough to break the silence without filling it with empty noise. Sometimes that was the hardest part: just being there, steady and unyielding, while everything else spun out of control. And somehow, sitting there with Tenna, watching his screen settle into something less hostile, you felt a flicker of something close to hope. Not the kind they sell on TV. Just the quiet kind that holds, even when the signal’s weak.

He stayed quiet for a long moment, the faint buzz inside his screen the only sound between you. Then, like a crack in the static, he finally said, “You’re... my Patch.” The words came out almost like a confession, and you caught that slight hesitation in his tone, like he was saying something he didn’t quite mean to admit. “My Patch.” He repeated it, slower this time, as if tasting the weight of the nickname, the unexpected warmth it brought despite the usual coldness he wore like armor.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Your…Patch?” You raised an eyebrow, a smirk creeping onto your lips. “Well, isn’t that cute.”

His screen flickered—just a little, a subtle blush in digital form—and for a second, he looked almost flustered, like he wasn’t used to letting something so... human slip through. He shifted on his feet, then muttered, voice low and reluctant, “I-It’s because you’re… the fix. The patch that keeps me from cr – Don’t make it weird.”

You grinned, standing up to meet him halfway. “Too late for that. But hey, I’ll take it.”

He shifted again, like the weight of the day was still there but somehow lighter now. “Go home and rest,” he said quietly, the words almost an order but soft at the edges. The flicker in his screen felt like a small, shy smile.

You gave him a cheeky look, pushing off the wall as you headed for the door. “Can’t rest without watching some TV first.” The grin stayed on your face long after you left the room, and you thought maybe—just maybe—Tenna wasn’t so alone in the quiet after all.

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