Fictional Character Lover HQ

he could already see it—debbie grinning, oblivious, while you slowly turned to him with that razor-sharp look of yours, the one that said "i will never let you live this down." your eyebrow would arch, just slightly, and mark would have to resist the urge to phase through the floor in embarrassment.

but instead, you surprised him. you shook her hand with that same quiet confidence you carried everywhere, offered her a rare, barely-there smile, and said, "it’s nice to finally meet you, mrs. grayson." your voice was even, polite, but there was something underneath it—respect, maybe even warmth.

and just like that, debbie’s eyes lit up. "oh, sweetheart, call me debbie," she said, already pulling you into a hug you didn’t stiffen away from (which, coming from you, was basically a declaration of love).

mark exhaled, watching as you let debbie fuss over you without so much as a sarcastic remark—which, coming from you, was also basically a miracle. there was something painfully tender about the way you tolerated her motherly instincts, how you didn’t pull away when she fixed your collar or how you actually listened when she started rambling about mark’s childhood like it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing in the world.

his chest felt too tight. you were always so guarded with everyone else, all sharp edges and dry comebacks, but here you were—letting his mom drag you into the kitchen to "help" (which really meant her talking your ear off while you chopped vegetables with terrifying precision). and the worst part? you liked her. he could tell by the way your shoulders relaxed just a fraction, by the barely-there quirk of your lips when she laughed.

god, you were going to be insufferable about this later. not because you’d tease him (though you definitely would), but because now you had leverage. now you knew exactly how to make him melt—just by being nice to his mom, of all things.

mark was so, so screwed.

mark leans against the doorway, watching the way your hands move with knife-sharp efficiency against the cutting board. the afternoon light catches the silver band of your watch—the one debbie gave you for your birthday—as your wrists flick in perfect rhythm. there's something intimate about seeing you like this, sleeves pushed up to reveal those faint scars across your forearms, the ones you never explain but he's traced with his lips countless times. your brows knit together in concentration, but your mouth is softer than usual, not quite smiling but... settled. at peace. it's a good look on you, mark thinks.

debbie bumps her shoulder against yours, flour-dusted fingers gesturing wildly as she recounts mark's pancake disaster. "the smoke alarm went off three times," she giggles, and you make that sound—not quite a laugh, just air rushing through your nose as you keep chopping carrots with military precision. but then you surprise mark by muttering, "he still burns toast at least twice a week," without even looking up, and debbie gasps like you've just handed her classified information.

mark's mouth falls open. you're gossiping. with his mom. the same you who usually communicates in grunts before coffee is now quietly adding, "last tuesday he tried to make grilled cheese in the microwave," and debbie leans in closer as if you were whispering the secrets of the universe. "let's just say i have to buy a new one."

"markus sebastian grayson!" she shrieks, while you finally glance up just to shoot him that smug, knowing look—the one that should annoy him but just makes his pulse stutter instead.

it's terrifying how easily you fit here, between the chipped tiles and his mom's laughter. the same way you fit into mark's life without him even realizing—leaving his favorite energy drinks in the door pocket of the fridge where he always looks first, or how you "accidentally" buy too many of those awful snacks he likes whenever you grocery shop. you pretend it's coincidence when you throw his wrinkled shirts in the dryer before school the next day, when you leave ibuprofen and water on his nightstand after particularly rough patrols.

and god, the way you take care of his mom too—replacing her favorite spatula when it breaks before she even notices, memorizing how she takes her tea (two sugars, splash of milk, in the robin egg blue mug because it "tastes better" that way). you roll your eyes when she hugs you but never actually dodge it, and mark's pretty sure you've developed some kind of silent communication system where you just know when the other needs coffee or space or someone to listen.

your knife hits the cutting board with steady thunks, the rhythm syncopated with debbie's laughter as she dramatically recounts more of mark's childhood failures. you're not smiling, not really, but there's something unbearably soft in the way your shoulders relax, in the quiet "tch" you make when she tries to sneak more vegetables onto your cutting board. mark presses his temple against the doorframe, overwhelmed by how badly he wants to freeze this moment—you in his mother's kitchen, sunlight catching the silver in your watch, looking for all the world like you belong here.

mark presses a palm to his sternum like he can physically hold in the swell of emotion threatening to crack him open. it's too much. you're too much. this version of you that exists between the space of his childhood home and his mother's affection, this you that lets yourself be soft in ways no one else gets to see. it makes him want to fold you into his arms and never let go, makes him want to kiss the frown lines between your brows until they smooth out forever.

debbie wipes her hands on her apron, glancing at the clock. "oh! i almost forgot! i need to send some documents to a client," she says, already moving toward the stairs. "don't burn the kitchen down while i'm gone." the wooden steps creak under her hurried footsteps, leaving just the two of you in the warm, spice-scented kitchen.

the rhythmic tap of your knife against the cutting board fills the silence. mark watches the way your fingers curl protectively around the onion, how your wrist flicks with each precise slice. he pushes off the doorway and drifts closer, drawn to you like gravity. when he reaches to steal a piece of carrot from your neat little piles, you smack his hand away without even looking.

"you're staring," you mutter, the knife flashing as you dice the onion into perfect slices. your tone is flat, but mark doesn't miss the way your ears have gone slightly pink.

"can't help it," he grins, crowding into your space anyway. his chest presses against your back as he peers over your shoulder. "you're cute when you're all domestic. look at you, so caring and nurturing."

you elbow him in the ribs, but there's no real force behind it. "shut up. if you're just going to stand there, make yourself useful." you jerk your head toward the pile of unpeeled potatoes in the sink.

mark makes a show of sighing dramatically but grabs the peeler anyway. he bumps his hip against yours as he takes up position at your side, close enough that your sleeves brush with every movement. "so," he says, scraping at a stubborn potato eye, "you and my mom, huh? trading my deepest secrets even though i'm right here?"

you huff, but he sees the corner of your mouth twitch. "she started it." the admission comes grudgingly, like you're confessing to a crime. your knife stills for just a second before you add, quieter, "she's... nice."

the simple words make mark's chest go tight. he watches the way your shoulders relax when you think no one's looking, the careful attention you pay to making each vegetable slice even. when he bumps your shoulder gently, you don't pull away—just grumble something about "personal space" while continuing to let him lean against you.

the potato peelings pile up in the sink as mark works, his movements slower than yours but just as focused. every so often, he'll "accidentally" flick water at you, grinning when you scowl but don't actually move away. the kitchen fills with the sounds of sizzling oil, the scrape of knives, and the quiet, comfortable silence that only comes when two people know each other down to their bones.

mark's voice comes out softer than he means it to, fingers stilling against the half-peeled potato in his hands. "i wasn't lying though," he murmurs, letting his temple rest against the curve of your shoulder. he can feel the warmth of you through the fabric of your turtleneck, can smell that stupidly expensive cologne you pretend you don't care about. when he tilts his head up, you're already looking down at him—and there it is. that fleeting, unguarded expression you only ever wear when you think no one's watching, all quiet wonder and something painfully tender. your knife has stopped mid-chop, fingers frozen around the handle.

"you look relaxed and handsome like this," mark whispers, watching with delight as your ears go pink. you open your mouth, no doubt to deliver some scathing remark, but all that comes out is a flustered huff before you pointedly return to decimating the vegetables. mark doesn't miss how your shoulders hunch slightly, how you're suddenly very invested in making sure each carrot slice is perfectly even. he grins, pressing a quick kiss to your flushed cheek before going back to his potatoes, cheeks warm.

the moment shatters when debbie sighs dramatically from the doorway, arms crossed over. "look at the two of you," she coos, leaning against the counter with a smirk that spells trouble. "peeling potatoes together like some old married couple. should i start calling you my son-in-law now, [y/n], or do i have to wait for the official paperwork?"

you nearly slice your finger clean off. "mrs. grayson," you hiss, voice strangled, while mark chokes on his own spit. but debbie just waves a hand, eyes sparkling as she takes in the way you're both flushed to the tips of your ears, how mark's fingers have tangled unconsciously in the hem of your shirt.

"i'll be looking forward to the day you two get married," she continues breezily, nudging mark with her hip as she steals a slice of cucumber. "that way [y/n] can't make any more excuses as to why he can't call me mom." she pops the vegetable in her mouth with a wink, utterly pleased with herself when you make a noise like a deflating balloon.

mark watches, equal parts horrified and endeared, as you stare at debbie with wide eyes, knife dangling limply from your fingers. your mouth opens and closes several times before you finally manage a strangled, "that's—you can't just—" before giving up entirely, turning back to the cutting board with enough force to worry about the structural integrity of the vegetables.

"mark," you finally grit out after a long pause, shoulders tense, "control your mother."

but mark's too busy pressing his face into your back to muffle his laughter, arms wrapping around your waist as debbie cackles in the background. he can feel your heartbeat rabbiting against his cheek, can feel the way you're trying (and failing) to suppress your own smile. and when you eventually elbow him halfheartedly, muttering something about "insufferable graysons," it's with the same careful gentleness you reserve just for them.

his mom's words echo in mark’s head long after she’s left the kitchen to relax and drink wine. married. son-in-law. the concepts should feel too big, too soon, but they slot into his chest like they’ve always belonged there. the knife slips in his grip, nicking his thumb—invincible, brought to his knees by the mental image of you rolling your eyes at him over shared tax documents.

and that’s when it hits him, sudden and certain as sunrise:

i need to husband him up asap.

because you’re it for him. the way you patch up his wounds after missions with clinical precision but trembling fingers, how you always know exactly where to aim your grapple hook to catch him when he’s falling. the way you pretend to hate his terrible jokes but he’s seen the way you scribble them down later in that little black notebook of yours. you fit against his life like a puzzle piece he didn’t know was missing—grumbling through morning patrols together, bickering over takeout containers in the fridge, your pinky secretly linking with his under movie theater armrests.

mark wants it all. wants to memorize the exact shade of your scowls and loving looks at 6 AM, wants to keep finding your bobby pins (for emergencies like picking a lock according to you) mixed in with his spare change, wants to grow old—

the thought stutters like a skipped record.

because he can't.

you can. you're human—all fragile bones and fleeting heartbeats, temporary in ways that make his ribs ache. the knife slips again, drawing a thin red line across his knuckle, but he barely registers the sting. not when the realization crashes over him like a tidal wave: he'll still look like this when time etches silver into your hair, when laugh lines frame your mouth like parentheses around all your secret smiles. he'll order your stupidly complicated coffee (double shot, chocolate dusting, exactly three ice cubes) for centuries after you're gone, and the weight of that knowledge leaves him breathless.

but then your hands are there—always there—pressing a bandage over his careless wound with that familiar scowl. "idiot," you mutter, but your fingers linger against his pulse point a second too long. and mark thinks—if forever isn't written in the stars for them, he'll carve it into every moment you share. he'll love you with the desperation of a sunflower clinging to sunlight, memorizing the way your eyelashes cast shadows at noon and how your throat moves when you swallow your too-sweet tea.

"what's that look for?" you grumble, swiping a thumb across his cheekbone. there's flour in your hair (from you helping with baking dessert earlier), he notices, dusting your strands like premature gray, and the sight punches a wounded noise from his chest.

mark catches your wrist, pressing his lips to the delicate bones beneath your skin. "nothing," he murmurs against your knuckles, tasting salt and dish soap. "just thinking about how much i love you."

you make that tch sound he adores, but your fingers slot between his like they were made to fit there. "sentimental fool," you mutter, but the way your thumb strokes absent circles against his wrist betrays you.

he chuckles, nosing at the sensitive spot behind your ear—the one that makes you shiver—and you immediately shove at his face with your free hand. "don't you dare—" but it's too late; he's already mouthing at your jugular, teeth scraping just hard enough to make your breath hitch. you taste like home and that bergamot shampoo you pretend you don't carefully select. when he soothes the bite with his tongue, you groan but tilt your head to give him better access, fingers tightening in his hair like you can't decide whether to push or pull. good thing for you (and for him or else you would've kicked his ass), your turtleneck can hide the love bite that was forming.

"asshole," you mutter halfheartedly, but you're leaning into him anyway, the side of your head resting against his when he finally settles for wrapping his arms around your waist and his chin on your shoulder. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, steady and alive and here.

after a quiet moment, you clear your throat awkwardly. "i... reserved that table at le bernardin. tomorrow. seven sharp." you won't meet his eyes, focusing very intently on rearranging the chopped vegetables into unnecessarily precise lines. "don't be late. again." the unspoken 'i know you've been stressed lately so i got us a table at your current favourite restaurant' hangs between you, soft and vulnerable in ways you rarely allow. good thing mark's good at speaking your language.

mark's throat tightens. this is how you love—in practical gestures and gruff concern, in remembering his favorite comics and hyper fixations and pretending it's no big deal. he presses his smile into your shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of your detergent and that faint metallic hint from your throwing knives. "yes, dear," he teases, just to watch your ears turn pink. now he's thinking if gold would look good on you. of course it would, everything would look good on you. he just needs to find out which one you'd prefer.

and as he watches you meticulously wipe down the counter—always cleaning up his messes, always staying—mark thinks, yeah. he's definitely going to put a ring on it.

Mohawk Mark - Cockatoo

Target Mark - Peacock

Omni Mark - Secretary bird

Sinister - Breaded Vulture

Mohawk Mark - Cockatoo

A Cockatoo seems like a good fit for Mohawk as their quite similar in looks and personality. These birds attract mates by bird calls and the bright colours of their headdress.

Target Mark - Peacock

Peacock are often associate with royalty and are seen as elegant. They are famous for their beautiful array of features

Omni Mark - Secretary bird

As for why i choose a Secretary bird for Omni it isn't just because of the colours but these large bird symbolism protection against enemies. The courtship ritual for the Secretary bird involves both partners bowing to each other and display aerial acrobatics to impress the partner.

Sinister - Bearded Vulture

Maybe in another life, another dimension, you would have met him in different circumstances. He would have swooned you and you would have loved him instantly. He would have been charming and would have smiled at you in a way that made you melt. 

You stepped into the small living space. The early sun started to rise over the horizon. A mix of orange and purples casting a warm glow across the room. The scent of food caught your attention first. You turned to the small table. Trays of food sat on the table. Fruit, coffee, breads, meats, eggs. A small smile tugged at your lips. 

He was sweet. 

You turned back to the window admiring the view, you had only been up this early a handful of times. This planet held so much beauty. At first it was all foreign, unnatural, but now it was comforting. 

“You’re up.” 

You jumped, a hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart. You turned towards the voice. 

Mark lounged on the couch, pillows under his head. He braced himself against his forearm. He was shirtless. His bruises looked worse in the light. Deep shades of purple and green blotting over his skin. His hair was tousled, his eyes soft. 

Your gaze betrayed you, slipping down the broad planes of his chest down to a small patch of hair that ended at his waist band. His jaw was tense, like he was trying to ground himself. His muscles flexed under your gaze. He was so similar to something that used to be familiar to you, and yet he was so different. This Mark was a true weapon, crafted and honed into an emotionless killer. Something to be feared. The boyish nature of what you knew in your past was now replaced with brute strength and brutality. 

“Do you like the view?” 

Your cheeks burned, heat flooding your face. You caught his gaze, his brown eyes dark. 

You stammered, tearing your eyes again from him. “I-” 

Mark’s lips pulled into a smirk, his eyes playful. “The sunrise, I mean. They’re always beautiful here in the summer.” 

You tried to regain your composure. “Right. Yeah, it’s…breathtaking.” 

He smiled at you, pleased with your answer. Your face heated. How embarrassing. 

You cleared your throat, your eyes flickering to the breakfast table. “Did you…do this?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips. 

Mark stood from the couch, a groan leaving his lips. It was raw and it came deep from his chest. The pained sound oddly sent a wave of warmth through you. He smiled at you shyly as he nodded. “I thought it might be nice to have breakfast here this morning. Just us.” 

The admission disarmed you. He came to stand near you, the heat of his body seeping into you. “Thank you”, you said softly, and you meant it. 

Mark tilted his head, his eyes soft, a small smile on his lips. “You’re welcome.” 

You reached out, your finger tips grazing his bruised ribs. “How are you?” Your voice held concern. 

Mark stared down at you, grabbing your hand, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. “I’ll heal. I don’t break so easily.” 

You smirked at him. A playful glint sparking in your eyes. “We’ll see about that Commander. Seris has been training me while you were gone.” 

He smiled at you. He stepped closer, shortening the distance between you. “You’re happy to try and take me out.” 

The air shifted between you. You stayed where you were, fingertips grazing against his ribs. The warmth of his skin sent an electric buzz throughout your body. His thumb grazed your hand, threatening to pull you closer. 

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The soft morning glow of the light caught his eyes, engulfing them in a golden brown. He was gorgeous. Even in his bruised and broken state, he still radiated power. Despite the bruises, he was still an Emperor. Strong and unyielding and yours…if you wanted it. 

You stared at him through your lashes, “Maybe I will.” 

The air thickened between you. The corner of his mouth twitched, a smile forming on his lips. He wasn’t touching you anywhere but your hand, but it felt like he was everywhere. He shifted closer to you and your palm flattened against his chest. Your eyes betrayed you, slipping down the line of his throat, to the sharpness of his collar bone, and down to the muscles flexing on his torso. 

Your eyes flickered back up to his. He reached for your free hand, lacing his fingers with yours. He tugged you towards him, his chest hard against your body. Your mind drifted to how it felt to be under him on the mat a few weeks ago. The heat and the weight of his body, how you ached to have him close like this again. 

Your thighs pressed together. Mark tilted your head up, his fingers under your chin. His eyes were dark when they met yours. “How much longer do you want to play this game?” 

His question caught you off guard. Every nerve lit on fire in your body. His forehead grazed yours, his mouth so close that you could taste him. 

You swallowed hard. Heat coiling low in your stomach. 

Stop. Stop wanting him. You were emotional, upset, now wasn’t the time to be feeling this way. But he was looking at you in that way that made every cell in your body set on fire. It was wrong. It wasn’t right to be feeling this way. But if it was wrong, why did it feel this way? Why did it feel right? 

The truth was, there was nothing for you back in your dimension. This was your home now. Mark could be yours now. You didn’t have to feel guilty about it anymore. 

You swallowed hard, your lips parting. Your eyes held the same intensity of his. “What if I don’t want to play anymore?” It was just a hush of a whisper, but he heard it. 

Mark stilled. His jaw flexed and his nostrils flared. His grip tightened against your palm. 

You wanted him. God, you wanted him so bad. And the worst part, the most terrifying part, was that there was no resistance in your brain anymore. You knew somewhere deep down that in the time that you had been here, you had fallen for him. That it was the truth. 

Mark leaned away from you. Your heart leaped in your chest, before sinking down to your stomach. Did you say something wrong? 

“Y/N,” he said your name with so much reverence. “I want things to be clear about what it means if you stay here.” 

You nodded, listening to his words. 

Mark let go of both of your hands and reached up and cupped your cheeks, “If you stay,” his voice cracked slightly, nerves creeping through him. “If you stay, you will be the Empress of this Empire. You will attend court meetings, change laws. Many things will be expected of you. There will be no chance to return to your world. You will become a Viltrumite. You will be one of us.” 

It was the truth. He was telling you the truth, giving you a way out before you made a commitment to his Empire. 

His thumb stroked your cheeks, his eyes boring through you. “You will have responsibilities that you will have to carry, but I promise that you won’t carry them alone.” His voice was soft. “I promise that I will always be by your side to support you. I promise that I will always treat you as an equal.” 

You leaned into his hand, “You mean it?” Your throat tightened. His words were heavy. 

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I lost you once,” he said, his voice soft and tender. “I’ll never make the mistake of treating you like anything less than everything. You are everything to me. You are my sun. You are everything I orbit. Everything I burn for. You're the one that pulls me back when I am lost.” 

Your world tilted. You could feel his warmth against you, his heartbeat hammering under his skin. 

His voice cracked again, “But if you decide to leave-” 

“No,” you whispered. 

“No,” he echoed, a sliver of hope holding onto the words. 

“There’s nothing left for me there,” you confessed, your voice trembling. “I thought,” you paused. “I thought that there was. I thought that someone, that he, was looking for me. But he isn’t. And now…” 

“Now what?” Mark whispered, bracing himself for your words. 

“Now,” You breathed, trying to hold your composure. “Now I am consumed by you, and I am falling for you. Despite everything, I miss you when you are not around. Despite how wrong it feels at times and how much it terrifies me, I fell for you. Slow at first, and then all at once.” You took a breath, trying to stop the tears from falling. Your emotions overwhelming you. “I don’t know how, but it happened. And now I feel like I can't breathe without you, and that terrifies me.” 

Mark tensed, his hand slipping down your cheek to brush against your lower lip. The sunrise spilled molten gold and rose around you both, bathing you in its glow. 

You breathed, bracing your hands against his broad shoulders, steading yourself. “I choose you.” 

It was just a hush of a whisper, but Mark heard it. 

Mark leaned into you. Your eyes closed, tilting your head up. Mark’s hand cupped your cheek, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. You leaned  into him, his breath fanning your face. He closed the last sliver of space between you, his mouth pressed against yours. 

The kiss was searing, hungry, raw. Mark’s hand held your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. His other hand found your hip, fingers digging in just enough to pull you flush against the solid heat of his chest. He kissed you like a man who’d been starved for air and had finally found oxygen. He kissed you like it was going to be your last. Like you could change your mind at any moment. 

You gasped against his mouth. Mark swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding over yours, deepening the kiss. The taste of him sent a low ache curling through you. You pressed into him, wanting him closer. He hissed when your palm pressed against his ribs. He shivered at your touch. Heat pooled low in your belly, sharp and consuming. This wasn’t gentle. It was raw, desperate, real. Your hands roamed over the broad planes of muscles sliding up his chest, gripping his shoulders. The hard lines of his muscle flexing under your fingers, anchoring you. 

Mark pushed you back until your hips bumped the breakfast table. With a single sweep of his arm, he sent the trays clattering to the floor, cups shattering, fruit rolling. He didn’t care. He hoisted you up, your breath catching as the edge of the table dug into your thighs, his hips pressing between your knees.

You moaned at the feeling of him caging you in, your hand flying to his hair. Your fingers threaded through the dark strands at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly. He hooked one of your legs up on his torso, the movement opening you to him. His fingertips grazed the inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

For a heartbeat, there was no council, no past Mark, no Eve. There was only him.

Your hand slid down his chest, trailing over the ridges of his stomach. His muscles flexed under your touch, taut and warm. Your fingertips dipped lower, skimming the edge of his waistband. His hand caught yours, stopping you.

He pulled away, his breaths ragged. You chased him. “Why did you stop me?” you whispered, your voice soft. 

“Because,” he breathed, holding you by the wrist. His eyes were molten, and his voice was low and rough. “I intend to worship every inch of you before I even let you lay a hand on me.” 

White hot heat flooded your veins. Your breath hitched as he pinned your hand next to you, holding it steady. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes half-lidded. “I want to take my time with you.” 

Mark’s lips devoured yours again, rougher this time, as if the very act of kissing you might undo him. His hand stayed firm at your wrist, pinning it to the table, while the other traced fire up your thigh. Your leg hooked around his waist, drawing him in until there was nothing left between you but heat and want.

The kiss deepened, tongues clashing, a low growl escaping from Mark’s throat. You pulled at his hair, tugging him closer, your chest pressed flush to his. His hips pressed forward, grinding into you just enough to make your head spin. The weight of him, the heat of him, everything, it was intoxicating.

You gasped into his mouth, your body arching. Mark broke away only to trail his lips down the line of your jaw, hot kisses searing a path to your neck. Your head fell back, a shuddering breath leaving you as his teeth grazed your pulse point.

“Mark…” you whispered, breathless, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He froze for half a second at the sound of his name falling from your lips like that, raw, desperate, but then he surged back up, capturing your mouth again, swallowing the sound, owning it. His free hand slipped higher, skimming dangerously close to where you ached for him most. 

Oh my god. Yes. 

The world had narrowed to the heat of his body, the press of his lips, the promise of what was about to come. His fingers trailed up your inner thigh, sliding under the loose thin fabric of your shorts. You panted against his lips. The heat of his fingertips setting you on fire. 

You moaned softly, tilting your head back. Mark fingers grazed the edge of your underwear. You gasped tugging him closer. Mark’s frame trembled above yours, restraint pulling all of his muscles tight. 

A sharp knock on the door caused Mark to tense and pull away from you. 

You pulled away from him, breathless, lips swollen, your chest heaving against his. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, and his eyes dark and his pupils blown wide. 

The knock sounded again. Irritation flashed in his eyes. Mark reluctantly pulled himself away from you, heading from the door. The heat of his body leaving you cold. He punched in his key and the door opened revealing a short man in a light grey uniform. 

“Commander,” he greeted. 

Mark tilted his head in acknowledgement. 

“The council requires your presence.” he said, his voice clipped. He was just a messenger. 

“Tell them we’ll start in an hour.” Mark said, his voice sharp and commanding. 

The messenger’s voice still echoed off the walls when the door hissed shut, sealing you and Mark back into the quiet. The footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving only the sound of your breathing and the steady hum of the palace’s systems.

Mark’s gaze stayed fixed on the door for a heartbeat longer before swinging back to you. 

“It’s Seris, isn’t it?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

Mark nodded, “Her trial is today. She’ll be tried for treason.” His voice cracked at the word treason. “The council will decide if she’s guilty… and they’ll execute her if they do.”

You stepped back, your chest rising and falling sharply. “No,” you whispered. “That’s not fair.”

His jaw flexed, his tone sharpening like a blade. “The council doesn’t judge on fairness. They judge on strength, obedience, and how someone serves the Empire best.” Even saying it seemed to weigh on him.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Seris, loyal, steady Seris. would be standing in a room of predators with no mercy, no softness. “I’m coming with you,” you said, the words spilling out like a vow.

“No.” His answer was immediate, firm, the Emperor in him snapping to the surface.

“Yes.” Your voice didn’t waver. “I need to be there for her. I owe her that. She protected me while you were gone. She risked everything for me.” The lump in your throat burned, tears threatening to spill over. “If they want to call it treason, then I’ll stand beside her and share the blame.”

Mark opened his mouth, his eyes dark with protest, but you cut him off before he could speak.

“I am the Empress of this Empire now.” The title landed cold and heavy between you, but you didn’t take it back. “And if I can’t stand beside you, beside her, then I don’t deserve it.”

For a long moment, Mark only stared at you. His jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as if he were holding himself together. Then, slowly, the storm in his eyes softened. He reached for you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small and intimate gesture amid the tension.

“The council will see you as defiant of our ways,” he said quietly.

“Then let them see,” you shot back, sharp and sure. “I won’t condemn my friend to death.”

Silence stretched, taut and electric. Finally, Mark exhaled, sharp and resigned, but there was pride in the way his gaze lingered on yours, like he was seeing you anew. “Fine,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’ll be back in an hour to get you.” He paused, his thumb still tracing your skin, something unspoken heavy in his eyes. “And I’ll send something for you to wear. It’s the first time the council will truly see you. We need to make a good impression.”

Your chest tightened. Underneath his command, you could hear it, the crack of fear in his voice. Fear of losing you, fear of what this would cost.

Mark leaned forward, brushing a kiss against your forehead, lingering for a moment before he pulled away. The warmth of it stayed even as he stepped back toward the door.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The hour passed in a blur. You didn’t even notice when a woman entered the room. She was a slender, older woman, with a gown draped carefully over her arms. She didn’t speak much, only offered short instructions as she helped you dress. The fabric was heavy, cool against your skin, layers of grey and silver shimmered faintly in the low light. Intricate embroidery ran along the bodice and down the sleeves. Your hair was braided tight and woven into a regal crown on top of your head. 

The gown didn’t feel like clothing. It felt like armor.

When she finally stepped back, her hands clasped, she gave a single, satisfied nod, bowed and left the room. You turned to the mirror in your closet, you barely recognized yourself. You looked like an Empress. A blade disguised as beauty.

You weren’t playing pretend anymore, this was real. You were the Empress of this Empire now. 

The door hissed open behind you.

Mark stood there, his presence filling the room immediately. He was dressed in his full regalia, the dark uniform tailored to his body, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders. He looked every bit the Emperor now. He looked cold, cruel, and dangerous. But when his eyes found you, the steel cracked.

For a moment, he only stared. His jaw flexed once, his throat bobbed, but he didn’t speak. Not until he crossed the room. 

“You look…” His voice trailed off, softer than you’d expected. His eyes lingered on your face, your frame, the fabric that clung to your body “…beautiful.”

Your lips curved in the faintest smile. “Thank you.”

He didn’t give you time to say more. His hand found yours, his grip firm, grounding. He tugged you toward the door, his stride long and sure.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice pitched low, only for you.

You swallowed, your fingers curling tighter into his. “I’m nervous.”

He nodded once, not dismissing the truth of it. “Good. It means you understand the weight of what’s coming.” His eyes flicked down to yours, steady and sharp. “But you don’t face it alone. I’ll be at your side the entire time.”

The way he said it wasn’t just reassurance, it was a vow.

And as the door slid shut behind you both, the echo of his promise settled in your bones like armor of its own.

The corridors seemed longer than usual. Each step echoed against the stone walls, the sound sharp in your ears. Mark’s hand rested firm at the small of your back, guiding you through the winding hallways with measured precision. 

Whispers followed you everywhere. Advisors, soldiers, attendants, eyes tracked your every move, wide with shock, sharp with suspicion. The Empress was not supposed to be here, walking into a trial that reeked of treason. And yet, here you were, chin high, refusing to falter.

Mark’s stride never wavered. He didn’t look at them, didn’t acknowledge the murmurs. He was a wall, unshakable and immovable, and the only thing grounding you as your heart thundered in your ribs. The only thing standing between you and the whispers that followed you through the corridors. 

The heavy doors to the council chamber loomed ahead, steel towering over you. They opened with a low groan, the sound echoing like thunder through the tense silence inside.

Every council member stood as you entered. The room itself was massive, large windows filtering in the mid-morning light.The tension was thick, suffocating, as eyes shifted from Mark to you, whispers flooding the chamber like a rising tide.

Mark’s hand pressed firm at your back, steadying you as he led you forward to the dais where two high-backed chairs awaited. You sat together, side by side, his presence wrapping around you like armor.

Your heart hammered in your chest. Everyone was watching you. Whispers from the council members flooded the room. Your eyes drifted to Mark’s watching him. His face was like stone, his posture rigid and cold, but his thumb was soft as it brushed over the back of your hand. 

“Silence.”

Mark’s voice cut through the room like a blade, deep and commanding. At once, the whispers died. The chamber stilled.

General Valcove rose from his seat. You remembered him from the training hall.  He was massive, broader even than Mark, his presence filling the room like a storm. His dark eyes flicked to you briefly, then settled back on Mark with something sharp, something dangerous. 

“Bring in the accused,” Valcove ordered.

The doors slid open again. Guards entered, flanking Seris as they escorted her forward. The sight made your stomach twist. Her face was bruised, purple blooms spreading across her jaw, a crust of dried blood still visible under her nose. Her wrists were bound in cuffs, though you knew it was more for show than necessity.

You clutched Mark’s hand tighter, the ache in your chest growing unbearable. You leaned forward in your chair, trying to get a better glimpse of her. Seris’s gaze lifted, and for the first time, her eyes found yours. Her face was stone, unreadable, but you saw the faintest flicker there, recognition, resolve, shock. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw you sitting next to Mark, her eyes drifted to your linked hands. She wasn’t expecting you here, not yet. She wasn’t expecting you to run to her defense. 

Mark’s voice was steady, clipped, each syllable heavy with authority. “What are the charges?”

Valcove’s gaze shifted from Seris to Mark, his tone deep, resonant, carrying over the silent chamber. Something flashed in his eyes, you tensed when you saw it. Valcove was smirking, almost like this was fun for him, almost like he was enjoying this. 

“Seris, Commander of Quadrant One, you stand accused of treason against the Empire. Of aiding the Empress in defiance of council order, of conspiring to undermine the authority of the council, and of using the portal without sanction.”

The words cracked through the air like lightning, and the chamber hummed with murmurs again. Your heart sank at the mention of you. 

Valcove’s eyes narrowed, his smirk sharp. “How do you plead?”

Seris straightened, her shoulders squared despite the bruises and restraints. Her voice was cracked, hoarse, but carried the weight of iron. “Not guilty.”

The word cut through the silence like a blade, and for a heartbeat, you swore the whole empire held its breath.

The chamber was silent after Seris’s words. Not guilty. The sound echoing through the vast hall like a challenge hurled at the Empire itself.

Valcove’s lips curled into a sharp smirk, his voice rising as he turned to address the other council members. “Not guilty, she says. And yet we all know the truth. The Commander abandoned her post. She acted without order. She aided the Empress in leaving the confines of this palace, and worse, crossed into another dimension without sanction. If that is not treason against council rule, then what is?”

Seris spoke up again, “I was just doing my duty to protect the Empress.” 

Valcove turned on her, “You believe that protecting the Empress is carrying her through several different dimensions?” 

“You are a danger to the Viltrumite rule.” Valcove spat. 

Murmurs rippled through the chamber, whispers of agreement, sharp nods, narrowed eyes. These weren’t judges weighing justice. They were predators, circling the wounded, scenting blood. Sensing weakness. Seris weakness, her loyalty to you, to Mark, not to the Empire, to the council. 

Mark’s grip on your hand tightened. His voice cut through the noise, deep and commanding. “This is ridiculous. Seris has served this Empire longer than most of you have drawn breath. She has fought battles you could not imagine, crushed enemies that would have slaughtered you in seconds. And now you would call her a traitor for her loyalty? To me? Your Emperor?”

One of the older council members leaned forward, his voice dry and cruel. “Yes, her loyalty was not to the Empire, but to you. To her friendship. To your wife. That is a weakness. It must be snuffed out.”

The words struck you like a slap. The distaste evident in their tone. Wife. Yes, you were the Empress, but you had been gone for months now. Any and all respect you may have had in another life, was gone. You being “sick” was a weakness in their eyes. You were a weakness to Mark.

Another slammed his fist on the stone table. “Viltrum is not ruled by sentiment! We are ruled by strength. If she cannot follow the orders of the council, then she is nothing but a liability.”

The chamber hummed with agreement. The words stung. You could feel the disdain in their voices, the way they dismissed Seris not as a warrior, but as a threat to their order.

Your chest ached as you looked at Seris, bruised and bloodied, standing tall despite it all. Her eyes flicked to you for a fraction of a second, calm, steady, like stone.

Valcove spread his arms, his voice booming. “The evidence is clear. She conspired with the Empress, undermined the authority of this council, and risked destabilizing our Empire. I call for execution.”

Gasps rose from some corners of the room, while others nodded grimly. The word itself, execution, seemed to hang in the air, heavy and sharp.

You felt your breath catch, horror clawing at your throat. You turned to Mark, but his expression was unreadable, carved from stone, though his hand was crushing yours so tightly you thought your bones might break.

“Enough,” he growled, his voice echoing. The chamber stilled. His eyes cut to Valcove like daggers. “Enough of this nonsense.You dare call for the execution of my Commander? Of my oldest ally? Do you think you have that authority? That any of you really have a say of what happens in this Empire.”

His voice was cold, commanding, deadly.

Valcove didn’t flinch. His eyes narrowed, sharp and cold. “We all know that even Emperors must answer to the council.”

The chamber trembled with the weight of it. The truth of Viltrumite law, an Emperor was feared, yes, but bound by the council’s judgment welcomed or not. This was the game. Not justice, not fairness. It was power. Control. This was a power play against Mark’s rule. 

You could feel your pulse in your throat, your nails biting into Mark’s hand. If you stayed silent, Seris would die. If you spoke, you would risk everything, risk a mistake, risk a life, risk Mark’s reign. 

Mark rose to his feet, towering above the rest of the council, his hand releasing yours. 

“You presume too much, Valcove,” he snarled. “You speak as if you carry the weight of the Empire on your shoulders, but I don’t see your blood staining its soil. I don’t see your hands breaking our enemies in half. Seris has done more for this Empire than you ever have, and you would spit on her name to advance your own?”

His posture was rigid, deadly. “I see this for what it really is, Valcove, and I suggest you choose your words carefully before they are your last.” 

Valcove didn’t flinch. He smiled, cold and sharp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t see you, Emperor, abiding by our ways. You let sentiment cloud your judgment. You let your Empress,” his eyes flicked to you, dark with venom, “dictate your rule. Perhaps you have forgotten who holds the true power here.”

The chamber erupted with murmurs again, the tension swelling like a storm ready to break. Some nodded in Valcove’s direction. Others whispered of defiance, of weakness. Others were shocked at the display of disrespect. 

Mark’s fists clenched at his sides, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “Careful, Valcove. There are lines even you should not cross.”

“And yet here we are,” Valcove countered, his voice rising, commanding the room. “Your Commander defies orders, your Empress plays with power, and you, our Emperor, shield them both. If this is not corruption, then it is weakness. And weakness cannot be tolerated.”

Your heart hammered in your chest. You could feel it, the tide was turning against Seris, against Mark. Against you. If you stayed silent, Seris would die. If you let Valcove’s poison spread unchecked, everything would unravel.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you rose to your feet. The chamber stilled. A hush rippled through the room as dozens of eyes locked on you, the Empress who had no right to speak in their presence. Not anymore. You were a ghost to them now. 

Your voice was steady, though your blood roared in your ears.

“Enough.”

The word cracked through the silence, sharp and commanding. Your own tone shocking you. 

“You all dare to sit there and judge our rule.” Your eyes flickered to Mark. “I will not let Seris be condemned for her loyalty. She acted on my behalf, because I asked it of her. If there is blame to place, then place it on me.”

Whispers surged, the chamber alive with shock. No one moved. No one dared.

Mark turned to you, his jaw tight, his eyes burning, not with anger, but with something fiercer. Pride. Fear. Love.

The whispers surged again, louder this time, venom threading through the chamber like smoke. The councilors leaned toward one another, their voices sharp and cutting.

“She admits it herself.” “She undermines the council.” “Mark has allowed her to infect the throne.”

Valcove’s smirk widened, his dark eyes glinting as he seized the opportunity. He spread his arms, his voice carrying above the crowd. “You see? Even she confesses her hand in this betrayal. If loyalty to her outweighs loyalty to the Empire, then she is no Empress at all. She is a danger. A weakness”

Your pulse thundered. Mark’s gaze cut like fire as he turned on Valcove, his voice low, dangerous. “Choose your next words carefully, General. It would do you well to remember where your loyalty lies.”

The murmurs swelled, eager knives.

“You sit in that chair and make decisions for the Empire because you are beloved?” Valcove kept going, voice smooth and poisonous. “You call yourself Empress, but what is an Emperor’s consort who courts favor? A bedwarmer, playmate perhaps?”

Heat seared through you. His words were an old trick: attack competence, not origin. They painted you as nothing more than Mark’s whore, someone who was inexperienced and dangerous, a woman untested who would let the Empire fall. 

“You brand me a distraction because I do not match your image of power,” you said, standing before the tide of whispers. Your voice was tight, but steady. “You call my concern softness when I ask for mercy. You call Seris’s loyalty treason because the loyalty was to a friend. But I see you for who you truly are. You have no loyalty for your Empire, but for power and brutality. If your measure of a leader is cruelty disguised as strength, then call me what you must. I will stand with Seris anyway.”

Mark stepped forward shielding you from Valcove, the statue of the Emperor snapping perfectly into place. “You mistake cruelty for strength, Valcove,” he said, voice like iron. “You cling to a world where fear rules because it keeps you safe at the top. This council will not decide what is best for the Empire by tearing down those who serve it well. Seris is a commander. She has bled for you. You would set her up as a sacrifice to your politics? I will not stand for it, and if it were truly my choice I would strip you from every title and remove you from this Empire. My Empire. Permanently.”

His eyes swept the chamber, sharp and deadly. “If Seris falls, if the Empress is cast aside or so much as disrespected in my presence again, then every one of you will answer to me. And I promise you, you will not survive it.”

The room fell into tense silence. Valcove’s smirk widened as he looked past Seris and fixed his eyes on Mark. “You see, Emperor, this is what happens when you allow sentiment to rule your hand. A commander who abandons orders, an Empress who defies the council, it is rot, spreading from the throne down. If you do not cut it out, it will destroy us all.”

Valcove turned towards the council, “We need an Emperor who is not so easily corrupted by the warmth of a woman.” 

Mark’s body trembled with rage, his eyes burned into Valcove, sharp and cold. “And what would you know of rot, General? You’ve sat behind these walls while Seris has led campaigns across the galaxy. She has bled for this Empire. Tell me, Valcove, where were you when her blood watered the ground?”

Valcove’s jaw ticked, his composure slipping for the barest fraction of a second before he straightened, his voice booming. “I was where the council required me. Not sneaking soldiers into portals and bending rules to satisfy the whims of one woman. A woman we didn’t see for months because of a sickness.”

The chamber stirred with whispers again. Valcove’s words were poison, dripping into every ear. You could feel the tide turning, the hunger in their eyes for blood.

You stepped forward, opening your mouth before Mark could speak again. The sound of your voice cracked across the chamber, steady and cold.

“It’s true,” you said. The whispers died, every head turning toward you. “I have been ill. I was dying. And Seris, ” your eyes found hers, steady, even as her own widened at the lie. “Seris saved my life. Without her, you would not have your Empress. Without her, the Empire would be without its figurehead, and without the stability I provide at Mark’s side.”

The words left a hush in their wake. It wasn’t the truth, but it was enough. A story the council could accept. A reason for Seris’s disobedience that was not treason, but for the Empire. For the protection of the throne. 

“She protected the best interest of the Empire,” you continued, your chin lifting. “If she is guilty of anything, it is loyalty to the throne. And if that is treason, then every Viltrium in this chamber and on this planet is guilty.” 

Valcove slammed his fist down. “This is ridiculous. You would twist her crimes into virtue? This is a mockery of Viltrumite law!”

You turned to him, your voice sharp enough to cut through steel. Tired of this argument. “Seris is pardoned.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Valcove’s eyes went wide with fury, his chest rising and falling like a caged beast. “By whose command?” he spat.

Your chin lifted higher, your voice like a blade. “Mine.”

The words echoed through the chamber, final and immovable.

Mark stepped forward, his presence flaring beside you. “You heard your Empress.” His voice was deadly calm. “Seris is pardoned. The matter is closed.”

The chamber sat in stunned silence. 

Valcove snarled, “It is not your command to give.” 

You whirled on him, your words dripping venom. “It is now.” 

Valcove froze the length of a heartbeat, then forced composure like a man adjusting a mask. He drew himself up with a slow, dangerous bow and turned his hard eyes out toward the council, as if daring anyone else to speak.

Mark did not lower his voice. “If anyone questions the rule of this Empire or the Empress again,” he said, and the timber of his words carried to every corner, “they will lose their head.”

The words landed like a hammer. The murmurs that had swelled seconds before collapsed into a brittle silence. Even those who had wanted to test the new order swallowed it down. You felt the weight of every pair of eyes, the recalculation in the room: this was no longer some private quarrel to be exploited. This was a command.

Valcove’s jaw worked; he bowed shallowly, the smirk gone, replaced by a coldness that didn’t reach his eyes. “As you wish, Emperor,” he said, every syllable measured.

Someone, an elder councilor with the easy habit of smoothing troubled waters, inclined his head toward you with a stiffness that was almost a bow. Other members followed, some hesitant, some relieved to end the spectacle. The chamber resumed its business with the nervous rhythm of predators that had been startled and found their place again. 

You stepped away from Mark, and made your way to Seris’s side. The guards parted as you approached her. “Uncuff her,” you commanded. The guards stepped forward and removed her cuffs, she rubbed her wrist. You stepped forward and looped your arm in hers. Guiding her to the doors. You turned back to Mark meeting his gaze, he watched you navigate the room, giving you a soft nod. A silent command, he had more business to attend to here. 

Outside the council doors the air felt colder, thinner somehow. Servants and attendants cast sideways looks, mouths folded in new, cautious respect. Seris walked with steady grace. She caught your eye. There was gratitude in the hard line of her mouth, and something like relief. You guided her through the hallways toward your room, where she would rest and recover under watch, not captivity.

By the time you reached your chambers, Seris’s strength was faltering. She didn’t complain, didn’t show pain, but you could feel it. The heaviness in her steps, the tremor that rippled through her frame. You opened the door and helped her inside, easing her toward your bedroom. 

“You’re an idiot for going against Valcove.” Seris groaned. 

“You’re welcome.” You said, not wanting to fight with her too. 

You guided her toward your bed. She tried to refuse at first, muttering that a commander did not lie in an Empress’s bed. But you silenced her with a look, pulling the sheets back and guiding her down.

“Rest,” you said, your voice soft leaving no room for argument.

Seris exhaled, her pride fighting her weariness. Still, she relented, sinking back against the pillows. Her eyes closed almost instantly, her body surrendering where her spirit would not.

You stood at her bedside, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, your fingers brushing lightly over the sheets to make sure she was covered. When you were satisfied with her state you turned quietly and left the room. 

- - - - - - - - 

Your heart was still pounding when Mark arrived three hours later. His eyes were weary and frustration was etched across his features. Seris was still out.

Mark stepped inside, his presence heavy, filling the small room instantly. His armor was gone, but he still carried the storm of the council chamber with him, the rigid line of his jaw, the fire still smoldering in his eyes.

You stood when you saw him, “Hey.” 

“Hey.” His voice held exhaustion. 

“Where’s Seris?” He asked, stepping towards you to grab your hand. 

“She’s asleep.” 

Mark stepped around you and headed for your room, you followed him. The door opened softly as he stepped inside to check on her. 

His gaze went first to Seris, then back to you. The sight of her in your bed, her face bruised but peaceful, softened the hard edges of his expression. But only for a moment.

You straightened, bracing yourself. His eyes lingered on you, unreadable, as the silence between you stretched.

“She needs rest,” you said, your voice quiet, careful.

The tension in his body was still there, rigid, but it wasn’t fury radiating from him, it was something quieter. He looked tired, older somehow, though he would never admit it. He stepped back through the doorway, letting it close behind you both. The small hallway was suffocating as he focused all of his attention on you. 

“You defied the council,” he said finally. His voice wasn’t sharp. It was steady, almost careful.

You lifted your chin. “I saved her.”

Mark’s gaze held yours, unreadable for a long moment. Then he exhaled, the sound heavy, the fight draining from his shoulders. “You could have been destroyed in there. They are circling like wolves. Valcove was waiting for you to slip, for me to falter. One wrong word, and they would have torn you apart.”

Your chest tightened. “Then let them. I won’t sit by and watch Seris executed for protecting me.”

His jaw clenched, but his eyes softened. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You think I don’t understand that? You think I don’t want to defend her? But if they decide you’re unfit, if they strip you from my side, I lose you both. Do you understand?”

You blinked, startled by the rawness in his tone. It wasn’t anger, it was fear.

“Mark…” you whispered.

He reached for you then, his hand curling gently around your arm. The warmth of his touch sent sparks up your skin, but the way he looked at you stole your breath.

“I don’t care what they whisper,” he said. “I don’t care that they think you are a weakness, because I know that you are my strength. I don’t care what they say about me, if they defy me. If they question my rule.” His voice was soft, and he was looking at you in a way that made your knees buckle. “But if they ever took you from me again, I don’t know that I could survive it. I wouldn’t survive it. You are the only reason that I didn’t rip everyone’s spine from their body for questioning you, for disrespecting you.”

Your heart swelled and cracked all at once. You searched his face, seeing not the ruthless Emperor the council feared, but the man who had bled and fought and lost, the man who had almost broken without you.

And for the first time, you wondered if he was right. Maybe it wasn’t anger driving him now, but the fear of losing you again.

You smoothed your hands over his shoulders, grounding yourself. “Let them speak. Let them whisper.” Your voice was soft, but it held the same command as his. “Let them call us weak. Let Valcove play his games.” 

Mark’s jaw ticked at the mention of his name, a muscle fluttering there. His eyes darkened, but he stayed still under your touch. You slid one hand up the back of his neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape. You tugged him closer until your foreheads nearly touched.

“I don’t care,” you whispered. “I don’t care about them, or their rules. I care about you. About what we build. About the people who stood for me when they didn’t have to.”

Mark’s eyes flickered, a storm of things he never said out loud. His breath hitched, his hands sliding to your hips, fingers digging into you just enough to anchor himself. You felt him tremble, not from weakness, but from restraint.

“I…” His voice was rough. “I’m terrified of what they’ll do to you. Of what Valcove will do if he thinks he can take you from me. If he finds out the truth.”

You tilted his face up with your palms, brushing your thumbs along the hard lines of his jaw until his eyes met yours. “Then don’t let him. Don’t let them. I’m not going anywhere, nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m yours now” Your voice was quiet, dropping at the confession. “I’ve been yours for a while now.” 

Something in him cracked then. His forehead dropped to yours and he let out a shaky breath, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “You’re going to ruin me,” he murmured.

“Then let me,” you whispered back.

And before either of you could think, before the next doubt could creep in, you closed the small gap between you. The kiss that followed wasn’t soft or tentative; it was searing, claiming, the two of you breathing each other in like the world was burning down around you.

His hands tightened on your hips, drawing you flush against him. Your fingers curled into his hair, your breath breaking against his mouth. He kissed you like a man who’d been waiting, starved, who’d thought about this moment for far too long.

For a heartbeat there was no council, no Valcove, no throne. Only the heat of his body and the sharp, dizzying weight of the choice you’d just made, to stay, to stand, to be his equal.

You had won the battle today, but the war was just beginning. 

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Hello! First off I am so sorry that this part took me forever to get up, I was really struggling with the writing and the direction of it. I didn't want the reader to fall too fast, but I just kept continuously struggling with it. I'm trying to dive into the political tension and how the reader will navigate that. I hope you like it!

Second thank you so much for the continued patience with my updates as of recent. I have been struggling with some writers block lately.

As always thank you so much for reading, commenting, liking, the reblogs, and all the messages! Truly it makes my day to know that people are enjoying this series!

Please let me know what you think and if you want to be added to the tag list!

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— mark grayson who's only ever thought of you as a childhood friend. someone you went to school with, shared classes with, helped eachother cheat on tests, and hung out outside of school on the weekends. sure, maybe he had missed going to the movies with you as friends, or maybe he missed the way you laughed whenever he would make a joke about one of the teachers you mutually hated. and sure, okay, maybe he thought you were kind of pretty at the coffee shop he saw you at exactly two weeks and a day ago. but that doesn't mean anything. he just thought you were pretty, nothing more.

— mark grayson who doesn't realize he's obsessed with you even when he sees you conversing with a guy on your college campus during one of his patrols a short time after he'd stopped working for cecil. hed only stopped by due to pure chance. the route he was taking back to his house wasnt too far off from your college, so why not just stop by? whether he chooses to shove it down, or just mistook the jealous pang in his gut for something else entirely is unbeknownst to even him at this point. all he knows is that he needs to find out who this guy is. out of pure curiosity, nothing else.

— mark grayson who then goes home that day and spends the rest of his afternoon searching him on the internet, social media, going down a rabbit hole of his friends and family. he's able to find out quite alot in a short amount of time; the guy practically has all his information for everyone to see. it's almost too easy. and... okay, maybe he used his his connections with the government to find out alot more than he'd be able to if he were just using the internet. —like his home address, for example—ahem cough who said that. but, c'mon, cut him some slack! he's a superhero, you can't expect him to not use his resources when it comes to stuff like this. and it's not like he's actually gonna show up at the guys house or anything, right? that would be crazy.

— mark grayson who finds himself out way later than he should be one night, hovering outside of this guys bedroom window. it wasn't intentional, him being here. he just saw you out late with your friends and you split off from them to leave with this guy, he just wanted to make sure you got home safe. but he finds out pretty quickly that you're probably going to be spending the night here when he accidentally spots you two doing alot more than just kissing. okay, how was he supposed to know that's what you two would be doing?? its not like he wanted to see that, anyway. it's not like he likes you. he shakes his head and zips off before he has the chance to witness anything that he won't be able to scrub his mind clear of.

— mark grayson who denies his feelings at first; brushing them off and telling himself that he's only curious. you two haven't spoke in a while, your lives took over and he just wants to make sure you're doing okay, ignoring the anxious twist in his stomach when he finds himself in bed with his thumb trembling over the call button on his cell. why was he so nervous all of a sudden? he just wanted to catch up with you. plus, it would be kind of weird if he just followed you around without ever actually speaking to you.

— mark grayson who doesn't even realize he's practically treating your date—hang out— like an interrogation, asking you all sorts of questions like "so, what class do you take?", "that's cool, sounds exhausting, though. when do your classes end?" masking each question behind a casual tone until eventually he has your whole schedule written down on the sticky note in the back of his mind for him to remember.

— mark grayson who doesn't even realize what he's doing when he somehow ends up at your college campus, following you around from the sky above, out of sight from everyone else, but with his gaze fixed entirely on you and the two people you occupy yourself with; ready to zip off in a yellow and blue blur if any one of them were to glance up. they're your friends, he's come to know them quite well despite not ever directly talking to them. he's made himself familiar with everyone you regularly talk to, and at this point would recognize immedietly if you were to start speaking with someone new.

— mark grayson who can't help but peer over your shoulder whenever you open your phone. faux careless sounding "who're you texting?" 's, and an indifferent tone when he asks "who's that?" every time you got a notificafion. despite the fact he really did care, maybe too much, because he soon finds himself snapping at william when he accuses him of liking you. "she has a boyfriend, no way." he states with a roll of his eyes, effectively shutting the situation down despite the grin he bites back when the thought that 'what if you did like him back?' pops into his mind.

— mark grayson who wants to make the decision to break up seem like your choice, despite all the snide remarks and comments he makes on your relationship. "hm. if i were you, i wouldn't let someone treat me like that." whenever you'd vent to him about your struggles. part of him didn't even realize he was doing it, either. maybe he really did think he was just trying to be helpful and offer you some advice. i mean, really, why would you let anyone treat you like that? why couldn't you just see how shitty of a person your boyfriend was? mark could treat you better, he was sure of it.