#cha writing

Bullets, bombs, and most explosives barely leave scuff marks. A knife gets bent and most weapons break on impact. Punches work though. Bludgeoning damage makes him bleed out his mouth or break his nose. Which absolutely baffles you to no end. Granted, the people hitting him were strong. Like, really really strong, but it wasn't like he was hurt when a reinforced boot smacked him square on the jaw.

Mark Grayson and the limits of his invulnerability were an enigma to you. As one of the many many scientists working in the GDA, you were tasked with understanding Viltrumite physiology. How they heal, what could hurt them, if they could be hurt at all. Admittedly, the job was fun when Cecil wasn't hounding you for the reports that you barely did.

Despite your job, you didn't like exploiting the poor guy. This was purely... curiosity to be honest. A very morbid part of yourself would have loved to dissect that pretty face and see how he ticked. The reasonable part of you reminded yourself how a scalpel would sooner turn to dust before it pierced his skin.

Once, you had slapped him across the face—the moment was heated and sometimes he just said things that would really piss you off. Regardless, his shoulders had jerked and his face turned in the direction your hand swung. Despite his parted lips from the shock and the stinging on your palm, there was barely any warmth on his cheek. Of course, regular human strength could only do so much to a guy who was safe from a stabbing. But the look on his face and the rising heat on his cheek only after the moment had registered made you want to test things further.

For Science! You had claimed all too enthusiastically when you tried to persuade him. Emphasizing even that everything would be "off the record" and "never to be used against him." You meant that promise too. And maybe Mark believed the conviction in your voice because he seemed just as excited when he agreed. For the sake of science.

Now, the scientific method would tell you that empirical evidence was important. Which is why you had to take a very hands-on approach in this experiment. Yes, science never said anything about taking Mark to your bed and straddling him—a notebook by his head and your butt pressed comfortably on his pelvis—while you collected data but this was necessary!

Firstly, you needed a private place so it was off-record. Ergo, why you did this at your place. Second, it was only polite to have your test subject comfortable as you measured his pain tolerance. Obviously, the most comfortable place that would fit him lying down would be your bed. And lastly, you were straddled because you needed to observe every detail and walking around a queen sized bed took too much time.

It was all very rational.

And besides, Mark was way too pretty for you to not at least get a bit of a good look at him. You had the best seat in the house. Mark Grayson, under you, body sunken slightly into your plush sheets, chest rising and falling nervously in an uneven stutter. Inhaling deep to even his breath, the release too quick and shuddering to calm himself down. It was understandable that he was nervous, being scrutinized so intently.

Big brown eyes stared up at you through his lashes and the light from your window hit his eyes just right to see the pattern of his iris. The swirls and webbing that made up the varying shades of mahogany and maple. If you stared long enough, you could see the tremble of it, how his pupils dilate. You might have stared at it for a moment too long.

"Uhm- I'm ready," a shaky voice spoke up, those same eyes blinking, unsure now if this was a good idea. Granted, he had his own ulterior motives, but the long silence had him thinking too hard. His initial motivations clouded by doubt and worry. What if you lied about keeping this a secret? Was he sure you weren't planning to dissect him? What if you realized he also had intentions beyond helping in your experiment? That maybe he wanted to feel the way your hands snap against his skin aga-

"Alright," you nodded, reaching down. You could've sworn Mark held his breath when your hand hovered near his face to grab the notebook. Pages flutter across until you settled on an empty sheet, scribbling the time and date of the experiment. "You sure I'm not too heavy? I can adjust."

The question was more out of courtesy than concern, knowing he could bench entire icebergs. A part of you also hoped to stay seated, the warmth beneath you quite cozy. The quick nod and mumbled 'mhm mhm' was all you needed before beginning your experiment.

"Mind if you," you gestured to his shirt, wanting to have as much skin to work with.

Mark looks down, eyes wide as if he was surprised he wasn't already undressed. "Oh- yeah, hold on," hands that were unconsciously gripping the sheets moved to tug his shirt off in one motion. Hurried movements turn clumsy and a rip is heard before you see the hole between the collar and the rest of his shirt. His head was still trapped, indents on his face pressed on the fabric as he fumbled to get free. "Shit, wait just-"

Your hands were quick and careful in helping him take off his shirt. It was hard to bite back a laugh and you were certain you were making a face when you tried to hold back the smirk and snicker. A quick tug , the shirt was off, and your hands felt warm against his chest. You had always been heavy handed and even now you exerted more than the necessary effort to push him back to lie down. As expected, there was resistance when you pressed down but he had fallen back so quickly someone would have thought you knocked him down.

"Try to relax," you whisper, trying to come off as soothing but the husk in your voice makes it sound sultry. Not that you noticed. Mark did though, felt his stomach flip and his muscles did the opposite of what you instructed. "I won't be using tools since the running theory right now is that physical contact seems to work better."

The lump in his throat bobbed when your hand touched his chest and fingers spread to try and get a feel. Trying to decide where to start. Your hands were cold compared to how warm he felt. And they would not stop roaming. The tips of your fingers pressed and prodded, pushing down as hard as you can and leaving the faintest red mark as blood rushes to where you'd applied pressure. So it wasn't like his skin was hard steel. You pinch the skin at his sides and he flinches.

"Ow- hey," the yelp came out automatically, the feeling reminiscent of being tickled or poked at the side. He figured he should let you know lest you mistake that for damage dealt. "That tickled more than hurt."

A nod and quick "noted" was your only response before continuing. The process was slow but you needed to cover all your bases. One hand moved to write notes, your body leaning forward and closer to him. The view was nice and the boy in him couldn't help but glance, ogle really, at the gap between your shirt pulled by gravity and the torso hiding underneath. Nice.

Your other hand began dragging nails across his bare chest and that brought his attention back to you. Normally, for some people at least, scratching just hard enough would leave white or raised lines. You definitely feel skin dragging against your nails but see no indication that you'd done anything. Somehow, you don't notice how his diaphragm contracts and stays there when he holds his breath. Eyes too trained on the contact between your nails and his skin to see his lips trembling. You inform him that you were going to apply more pressure.

Nothing hurt, not right now at least. But the sensation of your cold hands on his skin felt refreshing. Especially against his warm skin. Then your nails scratched his skin just right that he'd nearly hummed in satisfaction. He started wondering if you could break skin when he felt you dig into him. He could almost convince himself that you were strong enough to do it.

There was just something so disarming about you on top of him. Watching him with such fascination that he felt completely exposed. Like he had no choice but to surrender under you. Your eyes wide with curiosity, your nails dragging against him heavily. Sharp, steady, trying so hard to cut-

A stuttered gasp choked in his throat, breaking his thoughts as the stinging registered in his mind. You looked equally surprised to see the scratch on his pec, like red dotted lines outlined in white. A thumb tentatively pressed on the slash and Mark couldn't stop his lips from parting for the broken whine to escape.

Now, you were never one to bask in other people's pain, so you decided to blame his squirming hip jerks.  The way the firm bulge in his pants rubbed up between your legs, the pleasure it shot straight up your spine coupled with that little cry was almost pavlovian. A professional would have gotten up and saved him the discomfort of having something so sensitive be put under pressure. A certain someone doing this out of the lab had decided it felt really nice when you sat yourself down firmly.

Mark was strong, you wouldn't be able to hold him down on your weight alone and by that breathless whimper, it seemed like he was okay with the way you readjusted and slid yourself against the hill on his pelvis. It was especially nice when he'd squirm underneath you, clumsy friction rubbing between you as your finger pressed harder on the wound. Your eyes nearly rolled back as you got lost in the slow carousel ride before he sighed out and finally relaxed.

Close. So close. Beneath your thumb was smooth skin, pristine and unblemished. Wide eyes stared at the newly formed skin and he swore he saw your gaze twinkle. He had healed. So fast, yet you couldn't help but miss the choked whines as he struggled to cope with the pain. You had expected him to have better tolerance than that but perhaps having tiny cuts compared to gashes and bruises felt different.

Mark inhaled lightly, breath finally steady as the stinging pain subsided and he wasn't forced to focus between his chest and the rubbing on his erection. "A-ah..." his voice cracked as you dug your nails in again and left three pretty scratches in your wake. Your eye twitched as you struggled to keep your gaze trained on him when his hips bucked again. Seeing the red flesh peek out had you holding back from leaning down and dragging your tongue over it. You needed to see it yourself.

A part of you was impatient, needing to observe every detail of his healing abilities. The other part was impatient for other things as you fidgeted. Hips rocking slowly only to incite tight-lipped grunts when you pressed on the open wound again. You don't know when his hands made their way to your sides, just that you were now pressed firmly enough that you couldn't lift up.

Then his hands grip and direct your lower half, moving you back and forth in his pace. You feel that ticklish sensation between your legs again as you watch skin merge back together, too fast to leave even a scab. Lips that had curled into an enthralled grin trembled when your eyes fluttered and the body below you lifted up slightly, pushing up as you were pressed down.

You looked good. Like, really good when you were watching him. Something almost manic in your eyes when you saw his body heal in real time. It made him go crazy thinking about what you probably wanted to do to him. The ill intent in your gaze as the corner of your lips twitched upwards in morbid interest, showing your teeth. It looked just as good when your eyes lost focus as he had you hump him, mouth hanging open to let out a surprisingly pleased moan.

The pleasure seemed to cloud any logic or reasoning left in you because you had forgotten to explain the next steps. No, you wanted to get straight to it apparently as you leaned down. Wordlessly, your chest pressed against his and if he wasn't holding onto you, you might have slipped off. Lips inched closer to his neck and your warm breath wafted against his already heated skin.

His eyes fluttered closed, expecting lips or a tongue to touch his neck. Instead, he felt pointed canines before you took a hard bite.  His hips stuttered mid grind, once again caught off guard by your actions. His groans matched yours as you found yourself enjoying the sounds and sensations of grinding your teeth against his collarbone. You knew he was sturdy and the fact he got off on your teeth rather than recoil only spurred you to clamp down harder. 

Nails dug into his shoulders as you held onto him. Hips gyrated and bucked against each other, your clothed sexes edging closer and closer to what you both needed. Mark couldn't take much more as he sat up, dipping you onto your mattress as he held onto your thighs and had you wrap your legs around him.

You didn't seem to relent either as your jaw refused to unclench. Not that it mattered to him. Moans muffled behind your teeth, hot air hitting his neck in quick puffs from your breathing. That and the faint ache on his skin had him rutting harder against you.

Strong hands moved up, stopping at your waist as a careful yet firm grip held you in place. Then he thrusted forward again, the movement quick and desperate and needy. He needed it, really really bad. Wanted it as much as you, whose attention was being taken away by the growing intensity of the body dry humping you. Jaw and abdomen equally as tight.

A stuttering slam against your pelvis has you seeing stars and you finally unclench your jaw to cry out. The crash of pleasure has you bucking back up into him and if that didn't do him in, the long scratches down his back and your legs locking him sungly into you does.

Mark collapses on top of you, spent and breathless and you both have most likely needed a change of clothes. Vision hazy, you try to crane your neck and see the damage you should have dealt on his collarbone. The disappointment on your face could be seen a mile away.

Despite your best efforts and rattling you'd felt in your teeth, all you had to show for it was indents from your canines. Already raising back up as if it had never happened.

"I nearly lost a tooth for nothing," you mutter, saving the fact you wanted to leave a mark at all to unpack for another day. A breathy laugh came from beside your head, feeling the vibrations against your chest. His hair tickled your cheek as her turned to look at you, eyes twinkling in the afterglow of climax.

"I mean, it's not bullshit that I'm called-"

A/N: yeah ofc I'd make that fuckass joke.

"Why even wear white when your whole culture is bloodbaths?" He snarked, arms crossed and standing over the lookalike that couldn't give two shits about him. No, he was still staring at you. And it miffed him to no end.

"Why're we even housing him? Did you forget what he did in New York?" Technically, it wasn't much since he completely bailed halfway through the fight to cling to you. Mark continues to talk to apparently himself while you remained preoccupied with making breakfast.

Fate and soulmates must really be a thing if he was this whipped in several universes. The fact this one didn't even live on Earth, didn't grow up with you, but was this obsessed with you? Inconceivable, incomprehensible, didn't make sense one bit.

"We're going on a comic run today, right?" You opt to change the topic, finally turning towards him with a sizzling pan. Disapproval plays on your expression when you see the table not yet set. When your lips part to complain, the air rushes and suddenly the tableware is placed neatly in three sets. A chair is pulled back and a white clad Markus stands behind it waiting.

Oh now he's done it. Was he trying to one up him right now? Your pleasantly surprised expression only furthers his bubbling need to evict this evil copy.

Pettiness prevails and suddenly Mark is sitting in the pulled seat. His reflection meets him from above, pulling the same resentful scowl. If only your laughter didn't defuse the situation, then maybe they could've duked it out and he'd have a reason to end this evil twin bullshit.

Your words finally register, and he's perked up like a dog hearing the word "treat." Comic day was your thing together. Where you two would just go to the comic shop and he'd pick up any new updates while you pray that the obscure niche you like magically gets stocked. And the best part, no stupid straight faced super soldier version of himself.

"You probably need to wear something more casual," you regard the aforementioned super soldier and suddenly Mark is slack jawed.

"No he doesn't, he's not going outside."

"Mark, we can't just leave him here alone."

"I'll leave some food and water, we're not gonna be gone for too long," he snickers at his own sass only get a look from you.

Your voice hushes slightly, rudely excluding the Viltrumite much to the human-raised Viltrumite's delight. "You want him unsupervised in our home? What if he like- ransacks the place?" Now it was your turn to treat him like a dog.

The realization instantly dawns on Mark and now he's agreeing. Too easy. Always too easy for you. But, you're right. What if he goes through his stuff? What if he goes through your stuff? What if he's just as much a creep and he tries to steal- The thought makes him glare at the man sitting across him in accusation. It hadn't happened, but if they were alike enough, he knew this guy wasn't to be trusted with even the concept of you.

Without further request, he's already standing and picking out jeans and a shirt to loan. When he comes back with a basic white tee, he's pissed again to see the chairs have inched closer together while he was gone. The shirt flies straight into "his" face and the sound of wood scraping on wood echoes as you're pulled closer to the empty chair he was in.

The look you gave him mixed between baffled and entertained. As you began to speak, someone decided to change his clothes at the dining table.

"Privacy- go aw- change somewhere else!" Mark exclaims, feeling like he was the one being indecent as he's made to watch himself give a strip show to the both of you.

"I was not aware that you have yet to couple." The variant says with a gloating lilt, eyes squinting as a smile that's charmed you since you were young played on his lips.

This only sets Mark off further. "Oh, we've coupled plenty!"

"Mark!"

"He started it!"

"This is quite tight," the unwelcome intrusion cuts in. From the beginning, you'd both believed that the variants were exact copies. Granted some had different haircuts and accents. Some were totally shrill too. But this one he'd believed just had a costume change.

No, apparently Viltrumite training and stone cold discipline made him leaner. Muscles rippled as he moved his now exposed arms and the fabric clung like he was in a wet Tshirt commercial. Mark had half a mind to actually throw water at him. He ultimately decided otherwise when he caught you staring at the variant's chest and chose not to further the thirst trap.

"Hey..." He tries to redirect your attention back to him with a whine, only for you to stand up and examine the other man up close. It vexed him to see such an expression on your face. Intrigued, curious, the same look you gave him when he first admitted, because you already guessed as soon as you saw that stupid haircut, to being a hero.

His alternate was obviously not opposed to the attention. Ignoring him completely, he was preening and ever so slightly flexing as you examined him. Markus, you had found out was how he went by, stared at you with a gentle adoration that Mark was very familiar with. Nothing could console him about the fact that you actually put your attention to another man. Regardless of whether he was identical.

A roughened hand reaches to touch your hair only to meet a baggier than his usual sweater. Petty, petty, but no way was he letting anyone near you. Not even himself. Throwing his arm over you shoulder, you're suddenly directed and marched out of the apartment. He didn't care to look back, feeling those eyes still glued to you.

"Won't people notice that an Invincible is walking around the city?" He half whines, still sulking even after you wrap an arm around him.

"They don't seem to mind when you walk around," was your rationalization.

"But how do we explain two exact copies of the same guy?"

"He's your hot younger twin brother."

"Why is he the hot one?" Mark scowls for the umpteenth time today.

"Okay, you're the hot one," your smile disarms him and in an instant he's clung to you like a velcro dog.

"You think I'm hot?"

The shit eating grin makes you laugh and he melts. He liked this the most, he thought. Just the two of you bantering. Teasing and close like you were all there was.

He catches his reflection through the comic shop's window and feels confusion when it glares back at him. Was he glaring? Wait-

Looking over his shoulder, there was his other self rippling with the same jealousy he had burned with earlier. Was he going empathize with him? Hell no. But he could almost understand the frustration. Markus didn't have what Mark had. Not with you at least. And with the way he flew straight for you, it was kind of obvious that's what he'd wanted most.

So boo hoo to that guy. He wasn't going to let him ruin comic run day.

•~•~•

You were always surprised when Mark relents to you. You'd grown up with his stubborn ass and knew he was so bullheaded. It still had yet to click that you were the exception. The unawareness of it all didn't stop you from trying. Which only pleased you every time he huffs with a defeated "fine."

This was no exception. You believed it was an absolute longshot that he'd actually allow Markus to stay, much less live with you. Contingencies were already being made. Would Cecil take him? Was he safe there?

For all the destruction he'd caused, you couldn't deny the lost puppy look he had. You were weak to it with Mark and there was no way you could pretend the variant couldn't make the exact same look. You were absolutely stupid for Mark Grayson.

For all his grumbling and nitpicking, you couldn't completely disregard his concerns. This was a dangerous person. This was a born and raised Viltrumite living with you now. He surely had a mission back home. What was stopping him from continuing that mission with the galaxy conquerors here?

But then he'll stare at you with a nostalgic, almost lonely look and suddenly you remember the kid with a missing tooth. The same one who'd come over to watch cartoons with you. The one who took you to comic conventions. The one you fell in love with after years of being the one you were stuck to. Then you're wondering what you were like in Markus' universe. Were you human? Were you like the Debbie to his Nolan? Why does his gaze hold so much devotion but underlies forlornness?

The bell chimes as Mark walks ahead, greeting the usual clerk with familiarity, before making a beeline to the new releases section. You turn to greet the same person as well, pausing at the glass counter to check on any new booster packs.

"Hey, do I know you from somewhere?" The clerk asks, looking not at you but the man ever hovering behind you.

You're quick to reply, with a snicker, pointing towards your boyfriend who's hunched over a line of Seance Dog issues. His eyes squint in scrutiny as if he isn't going to splurge on every last one he hasn't picked up yet.

"Didn't know he had a brother," was the almost astonished tone in reply.

"He doesn't want anyone to realize he's the evil twin," you joke.

"I heard that," Mark calls over, eyes refusing to look over and see his stoic face again. You can only laugh it off as always.

Roaming the store, you see the usual line up of publishers. The popular ones, some manga, a couple new names. The presence behind you never disappears and you can tell he wasn't looking at the titles.

"What are you looking for?" He makes small talk, breaking the quiet. You wonder again what he was thinking. What his intentions were.

"Nothing really, just browsing."

"Why come here, then, without intention?" He tries not to hide the crinkle of his nose in judgement but he was definitely judging.

"It's called hobbies and having a personality," Mark interjects from two shelves away. Still snarky and not wanting to be excluded despite separating from the group first.

You couldn't help but tease Markus a bit too. "Not much leisure time back where you come from, huh?" Your eyes drift down and see a copy of the first issue of Seance Dog that Mark had obsessed over since you two were in middle school.

Markus shakes his head, "in Viltrum, we maximize the time with training and discipline-"

"-lame," a voice coughs out and you finally scold him. Despite his act, Mark had managed to inch his way to where the two of you were.

"Well, on Earth, there's nothing else but time to waste," you continue the conversation. Reaching past the two of them, you finally pick up the reprinted issue of Seance Dog and hand it over to Markus. Your boyfriend makes a face of snobbish disapproval.

The sound of papers flutter as the hesitant variant skims through the story. "It's... pretty juvenile."

The grumpy one scoffs in response. "You just don't get-"

"Wait, that's how it ends? But they just introduced a new development." Suddenly, the cover is flipped on its back and pages are reskimmed in search for a conclusion.

Hook, line, and sinker. You didn't expect him to actually enjoy it. This was a pleasant surprise. "Mark has the other issues back at our place."

"I am not lending him my copies-"

"You gonna buy him his own?" you cut in before giving him your own puppy eyes. You notice Markus trying to keep an aloof expression but there was just an obvious sliver of desperate hopefulness on his face while waiting for Mark's verdict.

And once again you hear the relenting huff and you know you've won. While ringing up what you'd both picked up, you listen to Mark lay down all the ground rules about handling his comics. In between, there's a surprisingly lively conversation about the first issue and the set ups Markus has yet to see.

It's satisfying watching Mark have someone gush about Seance Dog with other than you and Kyle. Even if it's technically himself. The animated conversation gives you time to observe the both of them. Very much appreciating the eye candy. Who knew you were into twins. Variants?

In exchange for lending him the comics, Markus was designated pack mule for the shopping. A total of three comic books and an already opened booster pack. He didn't seem to have any complaints seeing as he contributed to nothing financially.

You stayed next to Mark as you walked home. Eyes glance up at him then forward at his lookalike. You linger just a bit lower.

Mark Grayson was Invincible.

When he first got his powers it was a matter of testing his limits. Bullets, lasers, punches. Everything bounced off and nothing left a permanent scratch on that perfectly untarnished body. You were skeptical but relieved when a black eye healed overnight.

"Hormones and puberty," was the lamest excuse Mark could give. He was terrible at keeping secrets and when you're as close as you two were—12 years and an awkward introduction—it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Heroes hid in plain sight but you never did think he was ordinary.

When the Graysons first moved next door, you were peeking into their backyard. Tool boxes, chests, and several cereal boxes propping you up to just barely get a glimpse of a father, who was much bigger than yours, and his son. When the boy turned towards your direction and your eyes met, you felt the world spin. Probably because the cereal boxes collapsed and you were falling backwards into grass and cornflakes.

The next day, the lady—you very soon learned was named Debbie—had to explain to her husband that it wasn't an attack or threat when a note was left on their front porch. Messy handwriting on a ripped out slip of a notebook, a cartoon character printed out on the corner of the paper. "Get out of my neyburhood," scrawled in marker, letters written backwards because they had to give you some slack. It was impressive for a five year old to be writing full sentences, mistakes and all.

When you jumped the gun and asked Mark out before Amber could, you wished an alien crashed its UFO into the school. You hit it off easy as friends, sure, but dating was different. It was easy to claim how worrying about ruining the friendship was dumb. "Just confess," was easier said than done now that your mouth ran faster than your inhibitions.

Alien invasions didn't happen until later that week. At the moment, you were faced with the boy you grew up with. Awkward smile pressed into a thin line on his lips. You were ready to punch him and claim it was all a joke. Hurried words stopped your clenched fist from swinging, coupled with reddening cheeks that were quickly matching yours.

The second confession came as soon as the Flaxan fiasco ended and Nolan had come home. You told Mark you knew about his powers as soon as you heard him eat shit and leave a crater in his backyard.

When his father beat him to a bloody pulp, it was envying that his teeth grew back. It would've been funny. Maybe it would've been better if he had gone a moment with missing teeth that reminisced his childhood photos. You could almost smile at the idea of cyan and yellow zip by. Too fast for hellos lest someone notices the gaps.

It was hard keeping him in high spirits at that time. Most of the healing process was him saving the world and going on missions. It was a distraction more than a solution. You did your best to be supportive but months upon months of him leaving and coming back only to be sent to space again was getting too much.

When Mark disappears into the portal one last time, you wished you got to talk to him more. Regretted that you didn't tell him how hard it was. How much it hurt that you were left behind every time. You wished you had the chance to scold him and complain about everything because at least you had the chance to be with him for longer.

Mark came back in clean clothes but was devastated. Gone for barely a few minutes but had looked like he aged by months. He never told you what happened after he killed Angstrom Levy. But whatever it was had him jumping the gun just like you did in highschool. Relief, fear, regret, and determination all swirling in those surprisingly bright eyes despite the trauma. A desperate voice with an even more desperate question.

You were both too young but had gone through too much for two eighteen year old idiots. Somehow too young with too much time lost. You said yes.

You would've preferred him in a black suit. Selfishly, you wished he was next to you instead of across. White didn't suit him. He looked good in darker clothes.

Mark Grayson was Invincible.

But your husband was not an immortal.

When the old Guardians died, Mark needed you to come with him. It was raining that day. It rained just as hard today that the scene was nearly identical. Only now, it was you next to Debbie and Eve and that bastard Nolan wasn't around to recite a eulogy bullshitting about friendship and honor.

You considered pulling an Olga. Falling to the ground and sobbing. Cursing the corpse for staying pristine. For closing the wounds that kept your husband looking young and beautiful but not enough to wake him up. You understood what she meant now, two years ago. God, it had only been two years since everything went to shit. You were barely married a year.

No, you were luckier than Olga. You got to see him in the casket. Him and all his unblemished glory. It wasn't right that your brain played tricks and made you think the body was breathing. As if to give you hope that this was some morbid, tone deaf prank. That any second now he'd open the closed casket and tell you it was all a joke.

Debbie's devastated cries practically chastised you to keep calm. She had been so levelheaded during the first funeral. Then again, she didn't have to shed tears when her husband and son were alive and well. Now she had neither and a one year old tween to care for. You weren't going to take away her only moment to breakdown and grieve. Because Debbie was too strong and kind. If you started crying she could very well wipe her tears and comfort you.

You held her close, both to comfort and hold her up lest she fall and get her clothes all muddy. It was Eve's turn to speak as you held Oliver's hand. The Graysons lost too much in such a short span of time. Lose one gain another. Add one and end up subtracting a member. You should've known the family was cursed to fit only three.

Slowly the box was lowered and you hoped Oliver didn't mind how tight you squeezed his hand. Maybe he'll see it as you trying to comfort him too. Holding Debbie was keeping you standing, and Oliver's small hand squeezes in return kept you from crawling towards the descending coffin and following Mark down.

Black didn't suit you. You wished you were wearing white instead.

...

It was hard coping with the loss. It would always be hard to cope with loss. Having something to distract her, Debbie managed to go day by day. Oliver kept growing in significant rates that she couldn't really risk neglecting or shutting him out. And he needed the support. Maybe Debbie needed it more in the form of Oliver.

Apparently, he had really good memory. This wasn't technically his first death in the family. You had a talk with him about death and loss and he was surprisingly mature about it. It was relief if not a bit of a concern at how fast he was maturing. You'd always wished for a quiet life—nearly begged Mark on occasion to retire for the mundane. You hoped Oliver had the chance to at least get some semblance of childhood without the hero baggage. He proved to be the best in coping with the situation.

You had stayed living with the two of them. It was the most logical thing and you knew Debbie needed all the help she could get. Eve and William came by often as well to pitch in however they could between classes—you took a leave of absence to grieve. Meals were lively, no one ever letting things go quiet for too long. You all needed the noise. Needed something to keep your attention from the empty seat next to you. Recently, you had a feeling Oliver got into a few extra scrapes just so everyone else worried about parenting instead of...

It was getting a bit hard living in the house. Not to anyone's fault. You all tried to cope and grieve in your own ways. Debbie kept that practiced smile despite her brows knitting in worry. But in the dead of night, when it was too late for Oliver to still be awake, you could hear muffled sobs through the wall. You didn't blame her. She had barely just gotten over her grief with Nolan. And now with-

You used to come to her room, comfort her, and wipe a few of your own tears. She seemed to appreciate the gesture, grateful for your hugs and the shoulder to cry with. After all you, were her kid too, by law. She was elated to have you call her "mom" even before you got married. But you noticed the sobs get quieter, that they would come later in the night. It didn't take much for you to realize she was hiding the grief from you too. You understood that she didn't want you to worry or see her so devastated so often. It was why you didn't cry in this house either.

You knew Oliver would hear it, super hearing and all. Had a feeling he heard his mom's cries too. The kid, for all his maturity, wouldn't know how to comfort someone. Let alone the woman who raised and showed only strength around him. He needed a solid support and you wanted to be that for him until Debbie got better. He listened to you well and went to you to talk about things after all. Despite the grief, you could see things heading to some form of normalcy.

Three months. Usually, that was the benchmark for broken up couples to move on. You were nineteen and if things were different you technically had the right to date someone new. But did the same rule apply for married couples? Despite the vows "til death do us part," you had no intention of parting with anything.

The house was quiet when you got home, a very rare occurrence. A regular teen would use the chance to indulge. You used the same chance to make as much noise as you could. The problem with an empty house meant it was quiet. So quiet that your brain had to compensate with thoughts. Thoughts of things you hadn't stopped thinking about since- since the funeral. Since the all too sudden death. Since Mark.

Tears well up in your eyes faster than you were planning. Just his name had your heart aching. You couldn't tell if it was good or bad luck that you could still vividly remember him in white. Of all the things seared in your mind, it was the most recent image of him instead of the best. You had pictures, looked at the wedding photos so often that the pages were starting to discolor. But whenever you lied in bed it was his sleeping eyes that stared back.

It started with shallow breaths. Choked whimpers trapping in your throat because for a while you'd forgotten how to wail. You'd tried so hard to keep it all in that now you were struggling to get it out. You slept in his room, on his bed, in his sheets that still smelled like him even after you lived here for a year. Despite trying, you could not ignore that everything reminded you of Mark Grayson.

The whimpers turn to sniffles that give you enough air to babble words of sorrow. The ring on your finger was a reminder that you would never forget. It was a shackle you insisted on wearing. Heavy and painful but the one thing you had left of him that mattered the most. It was hard to scrape together money for a ring. It was even harder to plan a wedding on such short notice. The romantic man that he was, insisting on a celebration instead of just going to court.

The ache in your throat got worse as you cried loudly, screaming like you were being tortured. Because you were. Because you spent your entire life loving one man and losing him so soon. Not even an eighth of your life. Not even a fraction of his.

You collapse on the floor of your shared room, clutching the sheets of the bed. You felt the sound echo back at you when your face pressed on the mattress. You were a total mess. But you needed to cry. You needed to let this out before it made you crumble. Before someone gets home and sees that you weren't moving on at the same pace as them. Before anyone realized that this destroyed you more than-

The knock on the doorframe was drowned out by your wailing but you still heard it. It made you stiff, fear jumping in you that it shocked the grief of the moment right out. Thoughts ran through your head faster than you had the time to process. Fear curled into shame and you turned to apologize after wiping what was admittedly a really snotty nose.

Lips part to talk but a voice spoke first that had you turning faster. It was familiar. Painfully, horribly, impossibly familiar. You hadn't stopped hearing the voice that you would have thought it was a hallucination if you didn't see him standing at the doorway. Alive, healthy, not a single scratch or bruise in sight, smiling at you so sweetly. He wasn't in the white suit that haunted your dreams and you were too relieved to care what color he was wearing.

"Why're you crying, beautiful?"

A/N: idk what dead people wear in America during their funerals tbh. Cos where I'm from they wear white. Truly a not American moment bdjsbsn.

In any case, yes. Major character death indeed. Idk if I should expand more on this cos the idea is very much a set up for variant x reader

Idk if I've seen this concept before but Like- in which the variants meet a Y/N who lost their Mark. Because I love a replacement and unhealthy rebounds lmao.

It's 1 am and I got work in the morning but I really wanted this out before I gotta lock in. I still need to edit the animatic too