m☁

-

oystein "euronymous" aarseth

i soooo feel like he'd be the most jumpy and like paranoid about it

he'd prob full on scream or like yelp (lol) and clutch his pearls anytime he'd see you peaking around a corner or like standing as still as possible in the dark

i think, at first, he'd think its a little funny

the first time it happened, he was going to the fridge to grab a drink late in the night... probably around like 2 am.

he'd be half asleep, rubbing his eyes and yawning as he trudged to the fridge, grabbed his drink, turned around, and boom! there you were, just barely peeking around the edge of the fridge door, eyes wide, not moving, not blinking.

"jesus fucking christ!" he actually jumped. like foot flew off the ground. he almost dropped his drink lol

then he let out a laugh, trying to calm his heart literally beating hundreds of mph in his ribcage, "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

you stepped around the door as he shut it, smiling, but looking confused, "what are you talking about?"

he squinted at you, looking equally as confused as you did. he scoffed, "you know exactly what i'm talking about..." he was still smiling, but his brows were furrowed, "you were standing there like a ghost or something."

"i literally just walked in here? you're imagining things!" you turned around, waving him off as you made your way back to bed.

the second time... he was making his way down the hallway and he could just feel it... that heavy feeling of being watched. it stopped him dead in his tracks

you stood at the end of the hallway, half covered by the shadow... just standing

he froze for a second, and then let out a sigh when he realized it was you. "oh, come on! not again!"

he walked up to you, flicking your forehead. "you're having wayyy too much fun with this."

you cocked your eyebrow, feigning innocence. "i was just getting water. why are you being so weird?" you walked away before he could reply lol

he just stood there, dumbfounded.

after the third/fourth time it happened he began to start side-eyeing every corner, shadow, etc.

"i know its you there you little shit"

"idk what you're talking about???"

-

pelle "dead" ohlin

pelle would def out freak you i cannot lie LOL

he carries around dead animals and shit, he is like the last person i fear i'd EVER do this to...

he'd be sooo calm about it. you'd think you were scaring him but then he just stares at you all bug eyed and just says "i see you."

the first time you tried, he was on the couch minding his own

you snuck in and crept in the space between the couch and the wall, and stood there behind him, barely breathing.

after like 5 minutes you were honestly tired of just standing there and were ready to give up.

thats when he turned his head ever so slowly, looking at you with the most wide eyed blank expression, ever. dead stare. (no pun intended...) "what are you doing?"

his gaze honestly made your stomach drop. "um." (keep it up!! don't back down!!) "what are you talking about?"

you smiled awkwardly, and shuffled from behind the couch, just as awkwardly.

"you're an awful liar." he smiled to himself, dropping his bug-eyed expression, and returned to what he was doing.

the second time, you hid in the wardrobe.

you had the door slightly ajar, and your head peaked through the crack

you swore you waited maybe an hour until he finally noticed you...

when he FINALLY made eye contact with you through the crack, he just smiled and waved, as if it was nothing(????)

you stepped out, mildly offended tbf...

"i was trying to scare you..."

"yeah i know."

he just smiled at you, almost proud.

the third time, things flipped.

you were planning on hiding in the bathroom at night, peering out from the shower curtain in the dark.

pelle was out at practice, and you knew he usually used the bathroom once he came home

the second you opened the curtain, however, there it was.

staring you dead in your face.

a dead crow...

VERY dead... (maggots, the stench, etc...)

it was like he knew you'd be there.

you swore thats maybe the loudest you've ever screamed in your life

sooo that ended your little shtick prettyyyy quickly

-

bard "faust" eithun

faust is nooooot a fan. not a fan at all.

the first time you scared him, he was leaving the bathroom, still half draped with a towel and ever soooo tired from the late night.

you'd tucked yourself around the corner, and leaned out just enough where the morning light hit your face just right

the second he saw you he jumped so hard that he nearly fell backwards, slamming his shoulder into the wall in the process.

"what the fuck is wrong with you??"

you stepped out, feigning innocence, and seeming more concerned about his shoulder than anything.

you didn't really expect him to injure himself... oops.

"oh my god are you okay?"

he stared at you, pursed lips and wide eyes. he was haphazardly holding his towel up with one hand, and his other was outstretched in a "wtf???" sort of way

"why were you standing there like that? you scared the shit out of me!"

"i've literally been in the bedroom this whole time?" you pointed to the ajar door behind you, "i heard you run into the wall, and came to check on you."

faust's mouth dropped open, as if he was going to say something, and then he just pushed past you.

you heard him curse under his breath as he stormed away.

the second time was lowkey even better...

faust was walking through the dark living room at night, making his way over to turn on the lamp.

you were standing completely still by the bookshelf

faust pulled down the chain to click on the light, and the second he saw you he let out such a loud shriek

without even thinking, he reached down and grabbed a pillow, tossing it at you

you caught it as it hit your chest, "oh my god are you okay?"

he sat down in defeat on the couch, his head resting in his hands. "stop doing that shit!"

you cocked an eyebrow, looking at him like you had no clue wtf he was talking about "umm? i was grabbing my book?"

he ran his hand through his hair, looking at you dumbfounded "i literally saw you. you were standing there."

you reached up, grabbing a random book to make your case more plausible. "oystein said you've been smoking too much..." you mumbled as you pushed past him. "maybe you should slow down."

he watched you walk away, then looked around the room as if there was some imaginary crowd watching you two

"what the literal fuck...?"

from that point, anytime he suspected you were about to scare him again, he would just chase you away, threatening to "throw your scary ass out the window"

-

stian "occultus" johannsen

oookay so i think this ended pretty quickly :')

you were staring at him through the crack of the office door.

he was pretty occupied working at his desk

you swore you stood there for maybe an hour at this point...

FINALLY, he arose from the chair and in his daze, he was rubbing his eyes, and walked through the door

which inturn, meant he walked straight into you

he stumbled over you, sort of stepping on your hand as he fell into the wall across the door

"oh my god, are you okay???"

"yeah im fine! dude are you okay??"

"yeah omg i didn't even know you were there."

"umm i was just walking down the hall? wym?"

so atleast you got to girlboss gaslight!

───────────୨ৎ───────────

LOC boys

girlboss, gatekeep, gaslight... ghost?

summary: anon request: "how would the LOC boys (specifically like euro, pelle, Faust, and/or occultus) react to a partner who’s weird/scary and likes to scare them/others on purpose (like peeking around corners, standing in the dark, etc) then playing it off later like “what are you talking about, I didn’t do that?” (essentially gaslight, gatekeep, girlbossing them lol)"

-

oystein "euronymous"

memory is punishment

oystein "euronymous" aarseth x fem!reader

warnings: no happy ending, soz. some implications of sex... nothing crazy lol summary: you spend your time trying to remember where everything went wrong. how did you go from being so happy to just pure melancholy.

-

pelle "dead"

the privilege of nostalgia.

pelle "dead" ohlin x reader

-

It was pouring out.

The rain hammered against the cracked window of your small apartment like restless, impatient fingers drumming on a table.

Such a relentless rhythm... Almost mocking, each heavy drop pounded against your already aching head. It pounded into your skull.

You laid on the edge of your unmade bed, coiled into a ball. Your fingers dug into your ribs through the thin shirt you threw on that morning. Your face was awful puffy; swollen from the countless tears you couldn't stop yourself from shedding. Just when you thought you'd stop, it'd all come rushing back, and the tears just flowed like a faucet.

If Oystein saw you, he'd call you a crybaby.

Oystein... or as he'd prefer you to call him now, "Euronymous".

You pressed your face deeper into the tear soaked pillow. Your mascara was smeared across it, like a crude drawing. You laid in the same spot where Oystein would trace shapes absent mindedly onto your bare skin with the tip of a cold finger. He'd laugh, low in his throat, when you shivered.

The room stunk of old cigarettes. The sheets smelt of him. The smell made you feel disgusted. You hadn't washed the sheets yet. You just couldn't. You closed your eyes, hoping sleep would just pull you under again.

It did. You were awfully exhausted.

Mayhem was still just a fragile, half-formed idea when you first met him.

1984 bled into 1985... and the underground scene was small enough that, pretty much, everyone knew everyone. You were drawn to the intensity in his eyes. Something you just couldn't read. It was dangerous. He was so magnetic, you liked that. It was something so new in your life. Something unpredictable in the consistency.

He was nervous, you could see it. But, he hid it beneath his "look". Dark clothes, long... almost "feminine" hair (though you'd never say that aloud). His voice was carrying a slight rasp from the constant shouted conversations he'd partake in during the late rehearsals in the night. He always smelt of cigarettes. No matter how much you washed his clothes, or how often he showered.

"You get it," Oystein told you one night, after a rehearsal. You sat in the freezing garage, staying late with the band. Handing out beers, listening in as he argued with the others about the bands "look". How it needed to be more "evil"... How their sound needed to sound like "you were descending into Hell itself".

Maybe that was a sign.

A sign that he wasn't what you'd thought he'd be.

You swore that you knew how to recognize the signs. The signs that maybe, just maybe this person isn't the one for you.

That all left your mind the second you kissed him that night. You were against the cold concrete wall, his hands gripped your hips like you were the greatest prize in the world, and he just couldn't let you go. It was rough, hurried. Like a mark. A mark you were now his.

"Stay with me," he murmured against your lips. His eyes pleaded to you. God, that. That got you. You couldn't let go of how he looked at you. "This will be something, I swear." You thought he was talking about the two of you. Turns out, he was mostly talking about the band.

You dated through the early gigs, the terrible vans that reeked of diesel and sweat, and the nights spent crashing on cold floors. He was passionate then... fiercely so. You argued occasionally, but they were small. Lover's quarrels, as they say. They felt tender, somehow.

A stupid disagreement over a simple morning coffee spilt that ended with him pulling you into his lap, kissing your neck, and murmuring apologies, swearing he'd make you feel better. You let him, and to be fair, it did make you feel better.

A cold night where you spent all your change trying to get ahold of him from the motel. You cried all night, thinking something terrible happened. Turns out, he gave you the wrong number.

Another night, this time he forgot to call. You waited hours, up all night. He showed up the next morning with flowers he'd picked from someone's garden. He looked at you with those stupid pleading eyes again. It made your heart ache, and you just couldn't stay mad.

"I'm building something real," he whispered to you one night, just right before bed. His forehead pressed to yours. His voice was soft, almost vulnerable. "I want you there when it all matters."

You believed him, so you were there.

You helped silk-screen crude bootleg shirts in your tiny kitchen until your hands were stained black with ink. You spent hours late at night, typing up flyers on the old typewriter at your day job. Your fingers flew across the keys while he paced behind you, making corrections as you go.

You remembered holding his hand before the first interview, shaking all the doubt away.

The fluorescent light in the cramped back room buzzed in your ear. He'd just gotten off stage, and some underground journalist that had just started drove 6 hours just to talk to the band... some guy from Bergen? The rest of the band had already wandered to smoke outside, but Oystein stayed behind. He paced the narrow space between a sagging couch and a folding metal chair.

You sat on the edge of the couch, waiting him worriedly. His hair was still a bit messy from the show, and he kept running his fingers through it, tugging at the strands in a panic. His makeup was practically melted off from his sweat. Beneath it all you saw how badly he wanted to cry. This wasn't "Euronymous", this was the twenty-year-old Oystein. The Oystein clad in a worn leather jacket with too many patches crudely sewn on.

He stopped pacing and looked at you, his eyes wide with restlessness. "This is so fucking stupid," he spat. "What if I say the wrong thing? What if they think we're just another thrash band pretending to be dark?" That made him look away from you, his fingers raising to his eyes to rub the lids, trying to wipe the stress away.

"We're not ready. The new riff we're working on isn't even recorded yet. Pelle's lyrics are just too... raw. They won't understand."

You stood, stepping in front of him. You peeled his hands away from his face, lacing your fingers together and squeezing. His palms were surprisingly warm, just slightly clammy from nerves.

"Hey," you spoke softly, tilting your head to meet his gaze. There it was. Those pleading eyes again. "Breathe."

His eyes pleaded with you to just take this stress away.

He exhaled sharply, shoulders tensed. "I keep thinking about what I should say. Do i talk about the Satan stuff? Or the atmosphere we're going for? What if I sound like an idiot? What if this is our only shot, and I ruin it?"

You lifted one of his hands, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, right over the small scar he'd gotten from smashing a bottle during a heated argument with the band. You pulled him down to sit beside you on the couch. He followed without resistance, which told you just how deep the nerves went.

"Oystein," you cooed, your thumb tracing slow circles into the back of his hand. "You're not going to ruin anything... do you know why?"

He looked at you, searching your face like the answer was written across it.

"This isn't just talk, this is you. The way you describe the music when we're alone at night... the way you get that fire in your eyes. That's what they're going to hear."

His grip on your hand tightened. For a moment, the overthinking in his mind cleared, and you could see the boy he was beneath it all. He closed his eyes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours.

"Thank you." He spoke, quieter now, murmuring against your lips. His breath mixed with yours, the smell of cigarette smoke and metal from the cheap rings he wore filled your space. His eyes opened, looking at you again.

You smiled, satisfied with it all.

The shift started gradually, then all at once.

1989 became 1990, and Mayhem was no longer just a small name. Tapes spread across Europe, and Oystein's reputation solidified into something mythical... almost terrifying. He leaned into it. He insisted on being called Euronymous in public, now. Sometimes even at home he'd correct you.

He opened a store, 'Helvete'. It was a record shop, and it became the "hub" of sorts for the crowd of "black metal" circle...

You were proud, of course you were. At first, that it is. The absences became weekly things. Rehearsals, where you were once a welcomed guest, turned into all-night discussions that didn't include you. When he finally came home, he was distant... almost wired. His mind was still in his other world.

The arguments changed after Pelle's death.

It was April, 1991. You remember the phone call. Oystein's voice was strangely flat as he told you what had happened. You drove straight to the house. Found him standing outside with a distant look in his eyes. He saw you, but, he didn't see you. You held him that night while he stared at the wall. He was different now, you could feel it. He didn't cry. Not even once.

He took photos of the scene, and collected skull fragments. He spoke about Pelle's suicide in interviews like it was a spectacle. Turning tragedy into propaganda... almost advertisement for the "black metal" scene. Helvete became a darker place now. You stopped showing up.

The arguments started small, just like they always had. You complained he left the ashtray overflowing again.

"Jesus, can you not pick up after yourself for once?" you snapped. You hadn't meant to... you were exhausted after a long day of work.

He laughed, but there was no warmth to it. This one was cold, condescending "Sorry, princess." he emphasized the word like it was something disgusting on his tongue. "Some of us are busy creating something that matters."

Princess.

That word landed like a slap across your face. It stung.

You let it go.

But then, the small things grew... The fights lasted hours. Exhausting marathons where you circled the same wounds until both of you were raw. He knew exactly where to cut; reminding you of times you’d doubted the band, times you’d asked him to tone it down for your friends, times you cried because the late nights made you feel invisible. You struck back at his ego, at the way he treated the others like pawns sometimes, at how the “evil” persona seemed to bleed into how he spoke to you.

The last time was a missed anniversary because he was meeting with a new guitarist.

You left work early to make a wonderful dinner for the two of you. You spent hours in the kitchen, preparing his favorite meal. You even bought a bottle of semi-decent wine, even if money was tight. In the back of your mind, you hoped this would rekindle the flame between you. Maybe, just maybe, the root of your problems was because you'd gotten lazy. You swore to change that tonight.

So you spent the time doing your hair... doing your makeup. You even put on his favorite dress. The one he bought you on your first anniversary. The one he peeled off you in the late hours of the night with such care and passion.

An hour after he said he'd be home, no show. You called Helvete.

No answer.

Two hours. Still nothing.

11p.m. The food had gone cold.

12:30 a.m. You sat on the couch in your nice dress, arms wrapped around you. You tried swallowing the lump in your throat. You didn't want to ruin your makeup.

He finally stumbled in at 3:17 a.m., reeking of smoke and beer. His long hair was messy. He walked in like he had no clue today was important. He didn't even notice the carefully set table.

"You're never here anymore," you squeaked, voice cracking as you stood up. "It's like I'm dating a ghost, Oystein."

He paused in the middle of shrugging off his leather jacket, his jaw clenched. "Not this shit again..."

"Not this shit? Are you serious?" Your voice rose, you didn't mean to. You were just so hurt. So full of months of pain. You gestured sharply to the table as you spoke. "Today was our anniversary, Oystein! I left work early... I cooked for hours. I waited like an idiot while you were out doing God knows what! 3 years... and for what?"

Your fists clenched at your sides, trembling. Your nails dug into your palms as you squeezed, tighter, and tighter. You could feel your skin piling underneath your nail bed.

Oystein tossed his jacket onto a chair, and finally looked at the cold dinner. Then, at you. You in your dress. Something, almost like guilt, flickered across his face. It was gone in an instant, though. Replaced by irritation.

He clenched in jaw in frustration. "Maybe if you actually supported what I'm doing, instead of whining about dinner, you'd understand."

So that's what this was? Dinner. Not the celebration of your relationship?

The tears glistened in your eyes, but didn't fall. Your chest heaved in anger and sadness as his words hit you like knives.

"So that's what I am now?" You scowled. Tears were blurring your vision. "Just whining? Just an inconvenience getting in the way of your precious legacy?" You pointed at him. You wanted your words to hurt him, just like his hurt you.

He stomped over to you, grabbing your wrist as you pointed.

"You knew what this was," he snarled. "You knew what I was chasing. You're just a soft crybaby who wants a boyfriend who bends over your knee. I'm not that fucking guy."

You couldn't hold in the tears anymore, and they spilled down your cheeks. He scoffed as he let go of your wrist, turning away from you. Your mascara ran down your face and onto your neck. It all just melted away...

You hated how weak you felt now, how your voice shook. You just wanted him to hold you now. To wipe away your tears and promise that everything will be alright. He didn't even need to apologize, you just wanted him to hold you.

"You've changed. You're so cruel now. You've become this... this monster just for the sake of your image." You backed against the wall, using it as support to keep you standing. Your legs felt like mush. You wanted to just fall into the floor at this point.

He snarled. Snickered almost. Sharp. A vicious sound.

"Cruel? You think I'm cruel?" He turned to you again, looking you up and down slowly, as if he was seeing you for the first time in years. Truly seeing you.

"Maybe I am cruel, but maybe that's what the music needs. What the scene needs. Someone who isn't weak. Someone who isn't you. Someone who doesn't cry and whine every time you see them, just like you do."

His words hit deep. You were crying openly now, ugly sobs tearing from your chest. Your hands shook at your sides. He stepped closer. There was that unreadable look on his face again.

He slammed his hand against the wall beside your head, not hard enough to break anything, but enough to make you jump. His face was inches from yours, breath hot against your skin.

"You were useful when we were nothing." He whispered against your ear. You tried leaning away, he had you caged.

"When I needed someone to warm my bed, and stroke my ego. But now?" He gestured around the room, and back to you.

"Look at you. You're clingy. Needy. You're holding me back." One after another. Blows to your core. Your face felt so puffy and swollen from all the sobbing. You don't even know if you were crying tears anymore.

"Maybe you should go find some nice, boring boy, with a nice boring day job." He continued, his voice dripping with venom practically.

"Someone who comes home at five, eats your little dinners, and tells you how pretty you look every night. That’s clearly what you want, right?" Oystein grabbed your chin, making you look him in the eyes. A small part of you hoped, maybe deep down, that he'd wipe away your tears and kiss you. Tell you he was just joking. That never happened.

"A safe, pathetic boy. Someone soft and normal, just like you. Someone weak."

He let go of your chin and backed away. He stood there, staring at you as you sunk to the floor, your hands blocking your face as you bit your bottom lip so hard, it bled. The silence that followed was suffocating.

"Get out," you whispered through your hands, voice shaking.

For a moment, he stood there. He looked as if he wanted to say something. Regret, maybe(?) filled his face. He grabbed his jacket, and without another word, he left, slamming the door behind him.

You spent hours screaming and crying all night until your throat went hoarse.

Now weeks later, you played it all through your head like an endless loop.

You thought, "what if I did this instead?" "what if I said this?" "what if I just held on longer."

All these what ifs... as if they'd even change the inevitable.

The happy memories hurt the most. The way he'd once looked at you, like you were the most precious thing he'd ever had in his life.

The uncomfortable ones gnawed at you. The nights you spent feeling like an accessory at his shows. Smiling politely whilst he held court with younger musicians who hung on his every word. Like he was a god...

The slow erosion of his touch... the laughter you shared. Maybe you should've seen it coming.

But, even now. All you wanted was that boy you met years ago. The boy who wiped away your sadness. Was that boy ever even real?

───────────୨ৎ───────────

mark grayson.

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

invincible x reader

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

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

-

viltrumite!mark.

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

viltrumite!invincible x reader

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

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

-

the heir.

part 1

part 2

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

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

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

-

sinister!mark.

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

sinister!invincible x reader

warnings: psychological horror, cannibalism, gore

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

the wolf and the lamb

part 1

part 2

sinister!invincible x fem!reader

warnings: dark romance, murder, obsession, stalking, manipulation, mild body horror, blood, injury, possessive behavior, TW!! kidnapping, and onset of stockholm syndrome

summary: you were at the wrong place, at the wrong time. now you're a lamb being watched and played with by a wolf

-

mohawk!mark.

the anchor

mohawk!mark x reader

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

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

-

omni!mark.

omni-mark request

omni!mark x reader

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

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

mandatory beach day episode

omni!mark x reader

warnings: established relationship, thats it :)

-

The house was quiet, and cold... so cold. The walls exhaled, creaking softly under the weight of the snow storm right outside. The power had died sometime around midnight... probably a downed line or something.

You'd awoken sometime after the fact.

The moon was awful bright tonight. It poured in through the old lace curtains that you had bought from a charity shop a month or so ago. They had no coverage, and were probably better off to be used as fire kindling... but they were pretty. You liked them... so they stayed.

You rubbed your eyes as you began to process the room around you. It was early, very early in the morning. Who knows what time to be exact.

One thing for sure, it was cold as shit. The power must've been off for a while now. You burrowed deeper into the heavy quilts piled upon the bed, seeking extra warmth. The air was sharp though, and it bit at your nose.

Pelle shifted, already awake. He had been for awhile now. He pulled the quilt closer to you both without a word. He pulled you closer against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat before sleep claimed you again.

You awoke first this time, hours later. The absence of all noise was so uncanny, especially this early. The sun was rising by now, and instead of moonlight, sunlight pushed it's way through the lace curtains. The room was definitely much colder now. You could see your breath now.

Pelle's long pale hair was sprawled all over the pillow. His lips were parted slightly as he let out the occasional soft snore. He was still dressed in his clothes from the day before. Jeans and a wool sweater. You had gone to bed alone. He joined you hours later after a night of band practice.

He was shivering in his sleep. Truthfully, you don't think he minded regardless. He'd been outside often recently. You'd warn him countless times that he'd catch a cold, but no avail.

It was becoming a worry. He'd leave at odd hours, and return at even odder ones.

He looked so beautiful in his sleep; so peaceful. No furrowed brow. No sadness hung all around him. Just peace.

It didn't last long. A soft rustle of the blankets, and his eyes shot open. They stared at you with that tired melancholy. He didn’t speak at first. He simply reached out, cold fingers finding yours beneath the layers, and tugged you closer until your bodies pressed together for warmth. You let him, tucking your face against his neck where his pulse fluttered steady and slow.

Minutes passed like that, tangled together, breathing the same air. Eventually, the need for light won out. Pelle sat up, quilts pooling around his narrow hips, and reached for the matches on the nightstand. One by one, he lit the candles; thick stubs, church pillars, even that pine-scented one someone had bought from that same charity shop. Golden light danced across the room and over the faded band posters and scattered clothes on the floor that you swore you'd pick up countless times.

Pelle slid back under the mountain of quilts and drew you in tight, his cold fingers finding yours. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He smelt of dirt and a slight hint of alcohol.

"Better?" he whispered.

"Much better."

For a little while, the world was only this: the two of you, the soft crackle of candle wicks, and the wind whispering outside.

Then the noise started.

From somewhere down the hall, a loud thump echoed, followed by Oystein's unmistakable voice, sharp with irritation. "Fuck this cold! It’s like sleeping in a goddamn ice box!"

Pelle’s arms tightened around you, but he didn’t move. You felt him sigh against your hair.

Another voice... probably Jan, grumbled back, doors creaking open and shut. "The fucking heater’s dead. Of course it is. Who’s got more blankets? I’m not freezing my ass off all morning."

Boots stomped. Someone knocked something over with a crash. Laughter mixed with cursing as the rest of the band slowly woke and realized the power was still out. Their complaints bounced through the thin walls of the old house, loud and chaotic, but they stayed in their own rooms and the hallway. No one came knocking on your door. Not yet.

Pelle pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice low and private. "They’ll settle down."

You smiled despite the interruption. "Doubt it."

He was quiet for a moment, fingers tracing slow circles on your back beneath the quilts. Then, softly: “Do you remember when we first met?”

You hummed, tilting your face up to meet his eyes, the candlelight catching in them and turning them warm. "Of course I do."

A faint, almost shy smile touched his lips. "Tell me anyway."

Down the hall, another burst of noise. Someone yelling about finding more candles, followed by laughter and a loud thud as if they’d tripped over something in the dark. The house felt alive with their restlessness, but here, in this room, it felt distant. Like background static.

You inched closer to him, a leg sliding over his. "Well, we were kids, for starters. I remember moving in next door." Pelle hummed in agreeance. "I kept trying to talk to you over the fence, but you just ran inside." You continued.

"I was terrified," Pelle admitted, voice just above a whisper. Another door slammed somewhere in the house. "Not of you. Just, of saying the wrong thing..." You traced his palm as he spoke, eyes flickering to his hand and back to his eyes. He held such good eye contact sometimes. It was hard to maintain with those sunken eyes staring back at you. They were so beautiful, but so intense.

"You ignored me for years after that." You said gently, a tone of playfulness in your voice. Pelle's ears warmed up in embarrassment. He remembered very well. "I tried to talk to you for so long over the fence, or on the way to school. I thought you hated me."

"I didn't hate you." he murmured. He reached forward, fingers slithering themselves through your hair. You leaned forward, kissing his Adam's Apple. He swallowed nervously.

"I can't believe we ended up in the same classes every year. You couldn't avoid me even if you tried." You let out a quiet laugh, pulling your head upon his chest. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek.

"I was in love with you by then," Pelle admitted, quietly. He never spoke about that before. 'Love' Sure, you two had love for each other, but neither of you spoke it aloud. The word made your heart race. Maybe from nerves? You had only been a "thing" for a month now. "I think I began to like you when you first moved in."

The band's noise began again. Footsteps, some more cursing... someone demanding to know where the extra firewood was. Another cursing about cleaning "this dirty ass fireplace." A voice... (probably Jorn?) drunkenly screaming that "real Vikings don't need electricity." ...which caused more laughter and more stomping.

Holy shit they were loud.

Pelle ignored it all though, somehow. Too preoccupied with you. He'd begun to lazily draw patterns along your back. Looking up at him as he stared towards the ceiling. He was thinking, you could tell. Candlelight painted his soft features as his brow furrowed, and his jaw tightened. He was gritting his teeth.

"I felt the same, you know." You whispered back. "I was crazy about you." and it was true. You spent days talking to your friends about how you sooo badly wanted to tell him. But, the time was never right. Pelle was hard to read. You could never imagine him sharing any type of feeling for you. You stayed in touch after you both graduated. He never really socialized often, so you were his only contact for a while.

Pelle was the one who asked you out, somehow. He didn't necessarily ask you on a date. He did, however, ask you to listen to him perform to practice for shows. After the third time, he asked if he could kiss you. So gentleman of him.

Another crash from the hallway pulled you back from your reminiscing.

"I'm sorry I dragged you in all of this." Pelle gestured vaguely towards the chaos outside your door. His voice was low and sincere.

You shook your head in disagreement. "I don't mind. It's here with you." You reached up, tucking a long strand that fell in his face behind his ear.

Pelle let out a breath he truthfully didn't notice he was holding. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that made the cold and the noise and the whole world fade. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

From the hallway came a final, dramatic groan. "I'm going to bed... fuck this icebox house." Probably Oystein... and then finally, footsteps retreated to their rightful rooms.

-

The eggs were still hot.

You sat back on the bed, plate balanced on your lap, staring down at the neat arrangement. Perfectly scrambled, toast browned just right, even the coffee sweetened exactly the way you usually took it. He knew. He knew too much.

Your fork hovered, unmoving. You weren't sure if you could eat it without gagging. Not because it smelt bad, no. It smelt like comfort. Like mornings you used to have in your own apartment. But here, in this locked room, it only made bile burn in your throat.

You set the fork down and pushed the plate away.

Silence settled back over the room, broken only by the faint creak of the house in the wind. You sat with your knees pulled to your chest, staring at the lace curtains swaying. Every sound made your nerves spike: a floorboard popping in the hall, a bird hitting the siding, even the faint groan of the pipies.

He wasn't here right now; you could feel that. But, that only made things worse. You didn't know when he'd be back. Didn't know what he'd do when he finally came through the door again.

Your thoughts spiraled. What if he'd been watching you longer than you realized? What if this house wasn't his, but some place he picked because no one would look for you here? What if he didn't even plan to let you go at all?

The clock on the nightstand ticked. The minutes bled into an hour. Then another.

By the time you finally heard the footsteps again, the daylight had shifted, painting the walls in a pale gold.

Your breath hitched. The lock clicked. The door eased open.

Mark stepped in, carrying nothing this time, no tray, or soft offerings, just himself. He had changed clothes, his shirt clung faintly to his shoulders, hair damp like he'd showered. He looked... ordinary. Normal. Too normal. He looked like any other twenty-something guy. He had that same boyish face you would smile at in the stairwell.

"Afternoon," he greeted, voice casual, almost cheerful. Like, this was a routine. Like you were just roommates.

You didn't answer, your throat was too tight.

His eyes flicked down to your untouched plate. He frowned faintly, closing the door behind him. "You didn't eat."

Your pulse spiked. "I'm... um. I'm not hungry."

He crossed the room slowly, his steps deliberate. He looked like a hungry wolf. You were the meek sheep. "You need to eat. You hurt your ankle. You'll need your strength."

At the mention of your ankle, your body tensed, instinctively pulling it back against you on the bed.

His eyes followed the motion. Then, without warning, he reached forward and caught your leg.

"Don't-!" you yelped, trying to yank away.

His grip was iron. He didn't look angry, not at first... just focused, studying you the way a scientist might study a specimen. Then, he pressed his thumb against the swollen joint.

A white-hot bolt of pain shot through you. You cried out, your hands flying down to push at his wrist.

"Stop... Mark, stop!"

He leaned in closer, his expression unreadable. "See how easy it is?" His voice was soft, almost coaxing. "You're so fragile right now. One wrong twist..." He pressed harder, making your vision spark with tears. "...and you wouldn't be walking anywhere."

"Please," you gasped, your voice cracking.

At that, he finally eased his grip, though he didn't let go entirely. He traced his fingers lightly along your ankle instead, the shift from pain to tenderness making your skin crawl.

"I don't want to hurt you," he murmured, his eyes lifting to meet yours. They had that look. Like he cared. Like you were the most precious thing in his life. "But, you have to understand... you're not leaving until I know you won't run from me. Until I know you see me the same way I see you."

His thumb brushed against the bone again, this time gentle. The ghost of the earlier pain lingered all the same.

You sat frozen, trembling, afraid to move.

Mark finally released your ankle and sat back, almost satisfied. "Good," he said simply, like you'd passed some unspoken test. "We'll get there."

He bore a soft smile. But, his eyes held a cold stillness. You'd seen that look before. It was there in the hallway that one night... He was so close now. Close enough to smell that faint citrus on his skin. That same scent that lingered in your apartment weeks ago when you'd come home to find things just so slightly off.

"You saw something you weren't supposed to," Mark spoke to you softly. "and, instead of running to the police again, and never looking back, you kept looking at me. Kept noticing me... doesn't that make this your fault too?"

Your mouth went dry. "I didn't-"

"You did." Reaching out, he brushed a stray hair from your face with such gentle care. It made you flinch. His fingers were so warm. Steady, too. You wanted him to touch you more. This wasn't like you.

"What happened to that girl that smiled at me in the stairwell? You borrowed my screwdriver once, do you remember that?" You tried to look away, but he followed you. His head stayed in front of yours, keeping a steady locked gaze. "You were so kind to me."

Then he stood, straightening his shirt, and left the room as if nothing had happened.

He didn't lock the door this time.

The house felt bigger when he left you alone. Every creak of the old wood seemed louder, every draft slipping through the windows sharper.

You couldn't bare to sit in this room anymore. Maybe there was a means of escape outside of it. Maybe this was your only chance.

You wandered the rooms slowly, your bare feet cautious on the faded rugs. The farmhouse had a lived-in stillness to it; a place abandoned but carefully kept from decay.

The living room was arranged neatly, like a family might return any moment. A sofa worn at the cushions. A wooden cabinet filled with dusty china no one had used in years. A quilt draped over the armrest, soft but faded. You touched it absently, heart sinking at how human it all seemed.

But every door that should have led outside refused to open. You tested each one: the back door near the kitchen, the front door by the stairs, even the mudroom tucked off the hallway. All locked. Not flimsy locks either, but heavy bolts that rattled when you tugged them.

Then it dawned on you, he wanted you to roam, but not escape.

By the time the light began to slip into that hazy gold of late afternoon, you found yourself back upstairs, sitting on the edge of the bed you woke up in. Your ankle throbbed dully with every step you'd taken, the ache a reminder that even if he left the doors wide open, you wouldn't make it far. The thought left a pit in your stomach.

You didn't know how much time had passed when you heard the front door open. The sound jolted you upright. His footsteps were unhurried, steady. Familiar in a way that made your skin crawl.

The door clicked open, and there he was.

Mark leaned casually against the frame, as if he lived here, as if this had always been his home. In his arms, he carried a small pile of folded clothes; soft fabrics in muted colors. Jeans, a couple plain shirts, a sweater. Clothes that would fit you.

"I thought you might want something clean," he stated simply, stepping in and setting the bundle on the dresser. "It's not much, but... it's yours now."

You stared at the pile, bile rising in your throat. Clothes. Like you were staying. Like he was building a life for you here without ever asking if you wanted it.

"I don't want them," you said quietly.

His head tilted, eyes narrowing just a fraction. He didn't move closer, but the weight of his stare pressed against your chest. "You will," he murmured, his voice too calm. "Trust me. You'll feel better once you change."

He moved across the room then, not asking permission, just existing in the space with you as though he owned it. You stiffened when he sat in the chair across from the bed by the window, his gaze never leaving you.

The silence stretched, too thick. He broke it with a deceptively casual question: "Did you explore the house?"

You swallowed hard, hesitating. "...Yes."

A faint smile touched his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Good. You should know it. Get comfortable. This is home now."

The word 'home' made your stomach turn. You wanted to shout at him, to demand he took you back, but fear pinned your tongue.

He leaned back in the chair, sighing softly like this was just another ordinary evening after work. "You'll see.. once you stop fighting it, it'll be easier. For both of us. I can give you everything you need here. You won't have to worry about anything ever again."

The gentleness of his tone was worse than shouting. It was like he believed it. Every twisted word.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes. "And if I say I don't want that?"

His expression shifted then, the softness tightening, hard edges flickering across his face. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Instead, he stood, his height suddenly looming as he stepped closer.

Your heart slammed against your ribs when his hands came to rest on your shoulders. Heavy. Steady.

Without asking, he guided you up from the bed. His grip wasn't violent, but it was unyielding, firm enough that you knew resistance would only make it worse. He turned you toward the door and slowly walked you forward, his hands directing you like you were some fragile thing that might break if he let go.

The hallway stretched long in the dim light. Your pulse roared in your ears.

"I don't want you to be afraid of me," Mark spoke softly behind you, voice low by your ear. It gave you goosebumps. "But, I need you to understand... you're mine now. You don't get to walk away from this. From me."

Your ankle wobbled under his forced pace, a sharp flare of pain up your leg. You hissed, stumbling, but his grip only tightened.

"Careful," he murmured. And then, almost as if to remind you who controlled every step you took, his hands slid briefly down your arm before settling on your side. Not comforting, but anchoring, holding you upright when your body wanted to crumple.

He turned you back toward the room and eased you down onto the bed again, as if nothing had happened. His touch lingered on your shoulder before he finally pulled away.

"That ankle of yours," he said, tone dropping into something colder, almost a warning. "It makes you weak. Vulnerable. Don't test me by trying to use it to your advantage. I'll always be faster. Stronger. You understand?"

Your throat worked, but no words came.

"Good." He smiled faintly, like a parent pleased with a child. Then, he gestured to the clothes folded neatly on the dresser. "Change. I'll be back later."

And just like that, he left. The lock clicked this time.

The house fell silent again, leaving you trembling, your skin still buzzing where his hands had been.

The night passed in fragments. Sleep came shallow and restless, broken by every groan of the old farmhouse, every brush of wind against the shutters. You didn't know when you drifted off, but the sound of a door downstairs creaking open dragged you upright again.

You froze, listening. His footsteps carried through the floorboards, unhurried, deliberate. He wasn't hiding his presence; he wanted you to hear him coming.

Moments later, the lock turned. The door swung open.

Mark stepped inside carrying a tray; two bowls of something steaming, a plate with bread, and glasses of water. He balanced it with casual ease, setting it down on the dresser. The simple food should have been comforting, but in his hands it felt staged, wrong.

"Dinner," he said, voice almost light. "I thought we could eat together."

He lifted one bowl, holding it out to you with an expectant look. "You must be hungry."

You didn't move. Didn't reach for it.

His smile faltered just slightly, the corner of his mouth tightening. "You've barely eaten since you got here," he said, his tone shifting lower. "You need to take care of yourself. I'm trying to help you."

"I don't... I don't want anything from you," you whispered, throat tight.

The silence that followed was so thick you could cut through it. His eyes, so dark in the low light, stayed fixed on you. Unreadable for a moment before the calm cracked just enough to show the steel underneath.

Setting the bowl back on the dresser, Mark closed the distance between you in two steps. His hand caught your arm, not brutally but firm enough that you knew you couldn't pull away.

"You don't get to refuse me." His voice was low, cold, threaded with something that made your stomach knot. "I brought you here because you need me. Because, without me, you'd be nothing but another body in the street. Another victim no one saves. You think you're scared of me?" He let out a breathy scoff. "You should be more afraid of the world without me in it."

His eyes flickered back and forth to yours. His other hand pressed to your shoulder, steering you off the bed. The force in his grip gave no resistance. He guided you down the hall again, slower this time. The wooden boards creaked under your steps, your ankle trembling with each movement.

When you faltered, his pace didn't stop. If anything, he pressed harder, as though daring you to stumble. And stumble you did. Your foot caught unevenly on the rug, sending pain through your twisted ankle. A cry tore from your throat.

Mark caught you easily before you fell, his grip iron. But instead of steadying you with kindness, his hand slid down your leg to your ankle, squeezing hard.

Yo gasped, jerking against him, but his hold was unrelenting.

"See? he murmured, close to your ear, voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "You can't stand without me. You can't run. You can't leave. I am the only thing holding you together."

The squeeze tightened just enough to make your vision spark before he released you abruptly. You sagged against the wall, breath shallow, skin crawling.

He straightened, brushing off his hands as though he'd only been adjusting something minor. "Dinner," he said again, this time without warmth. "You'll eat, and you'll thank me."

His eyes cut back to you, sharp and cold. "Or next time, I won't be so gentle."

You followed him back to the bedroom, your ankle aching with each step. You returned to the bed. The bowls of food sat waiting, steam curling into the air between you like a cruel joke. A domestic scene painted over the reality of a prison.

He sat across from you, lifting his bowl and spooning a bite with ease. Watching. Waiting.

"You'll get used to this," he said between sips, almost conversational, as if he hadn't just threatened to crush your ankle. "One day, you'll see this isn't a cage. It's safety. You'll be grateful."

His gaze cut into you over the rim of his bowl, and the message beneath his words was clear: refuse him again, and the price would rise.

When the plates were finally empty, one because you forced yourself to choke down mouthfuls under his sharp gaze, and two because he ate with calm, unhurried confidence, Mark collected them without a word. He stacked the bowls neatly back on the tray, as though you had just shared an ordinary meal, and carried it out into the hall.

You heard the slow creak of the stairs as he descended, then the faint clink of dishes in the sink below. Running water. For a moment, you imagined yourself as someone else. Someone who had chosen to be here, in a quiet farmhouse with someone who loved them. Dinner together, dishes washed afterward. A quiet life.

The lock clicked again when he came back. This time, he didn't linger in the doorway. He didn't sit. He only looked at you for a long moment, the shadows making his face unreadable. Then, he spoke, almost casually:

"Sleep. You'll need your strength."

The door shut. The lock slid home.

For a long while, you didn't move. The silence pressed in on you, heavier than before. The whole house seemed to breathe with Mark; the faint sounds of his steps downstairs, the muted thump of a drawer closing, and then nothing.

You crawled under the blanket, curling onto your side. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender. It made your stomach churn. He had prepared this place. This bed... He had planned for you to be here.

Every time your ankle throbbed, you remembered the way his fingers had dug into the tender joint, the cruel pressure, the soft voice whispering how you couldn't stand without him. It echoed in your head, over and over, until you could almost feel his hand still on you.

The farmhouse was quiet, but sleep didn't come. When your eyes finally fluttered shut, you dreamt of doors that never opened, windows that showed only endless fields, and hands on your shoulders steering you down a hallway you couldn't escape.

When you startled awake, heart hammering in your ribcage, the room was still dark. A shape shifted in the chair. Silent. Waiting.

Mark. Watching.

Morning crept in through the farmhouse windows in pale strips of light. You had drifted in and out of restless sleep, your body ached, and your mind was fogged from fear. Every sound from downstairs, the clink of a cup, the low hum of movement, had you tense and waiting.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

Mark stepped inside, sleeves rolled up, carrying a towel draped over one arm and a small basket in the other. The faint smell of soap and clean linen drifted into the room with him.

"Up," he said, voice calm, but leaving no room for argument. "You need to bathe."

Your body stiffened. "I... I can do it myself."

HIs eyes narrowed, and the smallest flicker of something dangerous passed across his face before he masked it again. "Your ankle won't let you. You'll hurt yourself worse." He set the basket down on the dresser and met your gaze, steady and unblinking. "I'll help you. You don't get a choice."

The knot in your stomach twisted.

He moved closer, extending a hand to pull you up. When you hesitated, his patience vanished. His fingers curled firmly around your arm, and he pulled you to your feet. You stumbled, the ache in your ankle flaring sharply, but his grip only tightened.

"Careful," he murmured, almost mockingly gentle, as he steered you down the hall. His hand pressed into your shoulder, guiding you like before. The firm weight of ownership in every step.

The bathroom was small, plain, but the tub was already filled, steam curling from the surface. He had prepared it. He had known you'd resist, and he'd taken that choice away from you before you even woke.

"Clothes off," he said simply.

Your breath caught in your throat. "No."

Mark's jaw flexed. In two strides he was in front of you, his hand catching your chin, tilting your face up so you couldn't look away. His voice was low, each word deliberate.

"I'm not asking. I'm keeping you clean. Safe. You don't get to refuse me when I'm trying to take care of you."

Tears stung your eyes as you fumbled with your clothes, your fingers shaking. He didn't look away. He didn't offer privacy. He watched, and when you moved too slow, he stepped in, unbuttoning, tugging fabric away with steady hands that felt more like shackles than skin.

He lowered you into the tub carefully, almost tenderly, as if the act itself dissolved the violence of his control. The water lapped warm around you, but it felt suffocating. You tried to shrink into yourself, arms folding around your chest.

Mark knelt beside the tub, dipping the cloth into the water before running it slowly across your skin. Your arms, your shoulders, your neck, your chest. His touch was firm, deliberate, stripping away layers of you until you felt raw.

"You've been through a lot," he spoke, quietly, as though comforting you. "You don't realize how much you need this. How much you need me."

The cloth slid over your back, down your legs, lingering at your ankle. His eyes flicked up when you flinched. A faint smile touched his lips.

"Hurts, doesn't it? But it will heal. I'll make sure of it."

When he was satisfied, he helped you out of the tub, wrapping the towel around your body himself. The softness of the fabric was jarring against the cold finality of his control. He dried you with the same thoroughness. Slow. Unhurried. For a moment, you hated yourself for noticing the gentleness in his hands.

He carried you back up the stairs and to your the bedroom. He sat you on the bed and sunk down himself on the edge. He lifted your injured ankle into his lap, his thumbs brushing over the swollen skin. His touch was unexpectedly careful, his brows furrowed in concentration as he rewrapped it.

"You see." he whispered softly, almost lovingly. "I take care of you. No one else will."

He tied off the bandage neatly, smoothing the cloth with the flat of his palm, and for a moment the room was filled with silence. Heavy. Expectant.

His hand lingered on your ankle, the warmth of his touch seeping into the skin that still ached from his cruelty.

Then, slowly, Mark's gaze lifted to your face.

"You're still a mess." he murmured, his tone almost thoughtful. He reached for the towel that had begun to slip from your body, pulling it tighter around you before reaching into the basket he had carried in. From it, he produced a folded cotton dress. Simple, modest, like something that belonged to the farmhouse itself.

"I brought this for you." He shook it out, the fabric whispering softly. "You'll look good in it."

You wanted to snatch it from his hands, to shield yourself from his gaze, but he didn't give you the chance. He slipped the dress over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves, tugging it down until it settled against your skin. His fingers brushed down your sides, deliberate, lingering longer than they needed to.

When the dress was in place, he leaned back, tilting his head as though admiring a painting he'd hung on the wall. "Better," he sighed, with a faint smile that made your stomach twist.

He stood, making his way to the dresser. He fumbled in a drawer for a moment before pulling out a comb. It was a simple metal one. It looked... new? It didn't match the old farmhouse at all.

He returned to you, this time sitting behind you, and without asking, began to comb through your damp strands. The steady drag of bristles against your scalp would've been soothing in another life, but here it made you feel caged, trapped in his control.

The comb moved in slow, methodical strokes. Each pass pulled through your damp hair with a rhythm that felt just too intimate. Mark's breath was steady behind you, warm against the nape of your neck. Every so often, his fingers would brush against your scalp, or the notch of your ear as he worked out a tangle. Each touch sent a fresh wave of revulsion down your spine.

You sat rigid, staring at the faded floral wallpaper across the room, trying to detach yourself from the moment. But, your body betrayed you. Goosebumps crept up your arms as the comb passed through your hair, and the faint scent of his citrus soap mixed with the lavender on the sheets made your stomach twist.

“You have such pretty hair,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I noticed it the first time I saw you in the stairwell. The way it caught the light when you smiled at me.” Mark's voice was soft, conversational, like he was reminiscing about a first date instead of the nightmare he’d dragged you into. “You don’t smile like that anymore. But you will. I’ll make sure of it.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to go down. The comb caught on a stubborn knot and he tugged a little harder, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to remind you he could. You winced.

“Careful,” he chided gently, as if you were the one being clumsy. He set the comb aside and gathered your hair in his hands, twisting it loosely before letting it fall over one shoulder. His fingertips traced the line of your collarbone where the simple cotton dress had slipped slightly. “There. Much better.”

Mark stood, placing the comb on the dresser instead of in. A reminder. He did that on purpose. He did everything on purpose. It drove you mad.

Mark circled around to face you, tilting his head as he studied his "work". His eyes dragged over you slowly... from the way the dress clung to your still-damp skin, to the bandage that wrapped around your ankle. There was something hungry in his gaze; something that went beyond just mere obsession. It made your skin feel too tight, like you wanted to crawl out of it and disappear.

Mark reached to you, cupping your chin again. He forced your eyes to meet his. "You're shaking," he observed. His thumb stroked over your jaw. "Are you still scared? After everything I've done for you today?" His tone held a note of genuine confusion, as if your fear was an insult to his many "efforts".

You didn't answer, you couldn't. Your tongue felt glued to the roof of your mouth.

He sighed, almost disappointed, and released you. “It’s okay. You’ll learn. Fear is just the beginning. Once you understand how much safer you are with me, the shaking will stop.” He glanced toward the window, where the morning light had strengthened into a soft, golden haze over the endless fields surrounding the farmhouse. “The world out there is ugly. Cruel. People like you disappear every day and no one cares. But here…” He gestured around the room with a sweep of his hand. “Here, I care. I’ll always care.”

His words settled heavy in your chest.

Part of you wanted to scream that this wasn’t care... this was a cage dressed up in domesticity and false tenderness, but the memory of his fingers digging into your swollen ankle kept the words locked behind your teeth. You knew he could switch from gentle caretaker to something far worse in a heartbeat.

Mark moved back to the dresser and pulled out a pair of thick wool socks. He knelt in front of you without asking, lifting your injured foot into his lap again. His touch was careful this time as he eased the sock over the bandage, then did the same with the other foot. The fabric was soft, warm. Another small mercy wrapped in control.

"Maybe you should get some more sleep," and with that, Mark left the room.

The lock didn't click.

You waited three days after he left the door unlocked.

Three days of pretending to be docile. Three days of eating the meals he brought, of letting him sit on the edge of your bed and talk about the weather or some old comic book while his eyes studied every micro-expression on your face. You smiled when he smiled. You answered when he asked questions. You let him brush your hair back from your face without flinching.

On the second day, you found it. An old, rusted box cutter tucked behind a loose board in the closet. It was just too good to be true, but you took it anyways. The blade was dull, but still sharp enough to slice skin, if you put enough force behind it. You tested it on your forearm. Just a tiny nick that bled instantly. Good enough.

You hid the blade inside the pillowcase, right where your hand would naturally fall if you were lying down.

Now you waited.

It was late afternoon when you finally heard the familiar sound of the front door opening downstairs. Footsteps. Calm, unhurried... moved through the house. You quickly climbed into bed, and pulled the covers to your chin. Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard, you were sure he could hear it from the hallway. The blade rested in your right hand, hidden beneath the pillow, thumb already on the slider.

The footsteps climbed the stairs, and paused right outside your door.

Then, the knob turned.

Mark stepped inside. His hair was slightly wind-swept, as if he'd been flying. He scanned the room once, and you saw the exact moment he registered you were "asleep." His mouth twitcted. Not quite a smile, but something amused and knowing. Your heart fluttered, then sped up.

He closed the door softly behind him.

He took a slow step toward the bed. Then another.

Your heart could jump through your chest right now.

You kept your breathing shallow and even, eyes cracked just enough to watch him through your lashes. Your grip on the box cutter tightened until the plastic dug into your palm.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, head tilted slightly.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low and almost playful, “it’s cute that you think I can’t hear your heartbeat from downstairs. It’s racing right now. Like a little rabbit hiding in the grass.”

Your blood ran cold.

Mark chuckled softly, a warm affectionate sound that made your stomach twist. "Go on then. I know you're waiting for something. Don't disappoint me."

He took one more step, now close enough that you could smell the faint citrus on his skin.

You moved.

You exploded from underneath the covers, lunging with every ounce of desperate strength that you had left. The box cutter slashed upward, aiming for skin. The blade connected at his throat. You felt it catch skin, felt the slight resistance as it tore through flesh just below his jaw.

For one glorious, terrible second, you thought it might actually work.

Blood welled instantly, a bright red line against his skin.

Mark didn’t flinch. He didn’t even stop smiling.

Instead, he caught your wrist mid-swing with terrifying ease. His fingers closed like a vice, bones grinding together until you cried out and the box cutter clattered to the floor.

“Nice try,” he said gently, almost proud. “You actually drew blood. Most people don’t manage that.”

You screamed and kicked, clawing at his face with your free hand. He let you land one solid scratch across his cheek before he moved.

In one fluid motion, he yanked you forward and slammed you down onto the hardwood floor.

The impact was brutal.

Your head cracked against the boards with a sickening thud. Pain exploded behind your eyes. White, hot, and blinding. The room spun violently. You tasted blood in your mouth where you'd bitten off a chunk from your tongue.

Mark stood over you, the cut on his neck already starting to close, the blood slowing to a trickle. He looked down at you with a soft, disappointed expression.

“See what happens when you fight me?” he said quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you. But you keep making me.”

The edges of your vision were darkening. You tried to crawl away, but your limbs wouldn’t obey. The last thing you saw before everything went black was Mark crouching down beside you, gently brushing hair out of your face as blood dripped slowly from the shallow wound you’d given him.

“Sleep now,” he whispered. “We’ll talk about trust again when you wake up.”

You woke to darkness and the metallic taste of blood.

Your head throbbed with every heartbeat. The room was dim, lit only by the thin moonlight filtering through the lace curtains. Mark sat in the chair beside the bed, watching you with calm, unreadable eyes.

The punishment came quietly, almost kindly delivered.

“No food for three days,” he told you the next morning when he brought only a glass of water. His voice was gentle, reasonable. “Water only. Maybe then you’ll understand how much I do for you.”

The hunger that followed clawed at you. By the second day your stomach felt like it was eating itself from the inside. Your hands shook. You screamed at the locked door until your throat was raw. You banged on the walls until your knuckles split and bled.

On the third day, Mark opened the door.

You were curled on the bed, weak and hollow-eyed. He brought soup. It was warm. The smell of the broth filled the air. Your stomach growled embarrassingly loud. You didn't care. The hunger was too much to be self-conscious anymore.

Mark fed you himself, spoon by spoon, murmuring praise when you swallowed.

"There we go... Good job. See how much better it is when you just let me take care of you?"

Afterward, he held you while you cried. His arms felt like the only solid thing left in the world.

“I forgive you,” he whispered against your hair. “I know you’re scared. But you have to stop fighting what’s best for you. I’m not the monster here. The rest of the world is.”

-

You weren't supposed to see it.

But, you did.

It was late, just past about 10 P.M., and you were hurrying back up to your apartment after realizing you'd left your wallet behind. You lived on the fifth floor. It was a quiet building; neighbors kept to themselves. The hallway always smelt vaguely of old wood and cheap air freshener. The elevator doors hadn't even closed before the sound hit you: a wet crunch, a guttural gasp, and the thud of a body hitting the floor. the scene was burned into your brain forever.

A man, middle-aged, gray sweater soaked in red, was pressed against the beige wall outside your neighbor's apartment. His legs sprawled unnaturally, and his chest was still. His eyes were wide open, mouth agape, and a glistening red trail seeped from it like oil. A crimson smear lined the wall behind his head. His neck was twisted at the wrong angle, like someone had turned it too far.

Standing over him, breathing hard, hands trembling, and knuckles slick with red was a boy.

You felt your heart stop.

You wanted to believe you were imagining it, that this was all just a nightmare. Maybe the brain does weird things under stress and maybe this was a twisted dream brought on by too many horror movies?

Then, the boy turned his head and saw you.

Oh.

Oh...

You recognized his face immediately. That boyish face and soft mouth... The same one you'd smiled at in the stairwell two weeks ago. Mark Grayson. He was a quiet guy from three floors up. You occasionally passed him in the laundry room. Borrowed his screwdriver once. You'd never spoken more than five words to each other, though.

But now his eyes were cold. Wide. Still.

He didn't flinch, didn't run. He just stared. His bloody fingers curled slightly at his sides.

You bolted, got back in the elevator and punched the door button so hard that your nails cracked. You couldn't breathe... you couldn't even think. You dialed 911 with shaking hands and practically shrieked your address and floor number. You begged them to hurry.

But when they arrived...

The body was gone.

The blood was gone.

The hallway was clean.

Sanitized.

Quiet.

There was nothing.

They looked at you like you were hysterical. With sighs and shaking heads, they lazily jotted down your statement, asked if you'd been drinking tonight, or if you were stressed out. You knew what you saw though, and you begged in frustration for them to just listen.

You swore up and down: "I saw him! He was there, Mark Grayson from 5C; he killed someone!"

But when they knocked on Mark's door? No one answered.

And when they finally did a welfare check two days later?

The apartment was spotless. Empty. Like no one had even been living there.

That's when the nightmares started.

You barely slept, and when you did, it was flashes. Red on white walls, the squish and crunch of cracked vertebrae, and Mark's blank stare. You stopped using the elevator entirely, instead opting for the stairs everyday. You began looking over your shoulder: in the hallways, in the laundry room, hell, even in the alley behind the building.

You knew what you saw.

And someone else knew that you had seen it too.

It began slowly...

At first, you thought it was just your imagination, the feeling of being watched. The shift of shadows under your door. That subtle draft from the window you swore you locked.

Then, the calls came.

Dead air.

Every night, at 2:13 A.M.

Just breathing... heavy breathing.

One time you decided to speak, "Mark?"

The line went dead fast.

The first time Invincible appeared was sorta like something out of a movie. You were leaving the corner store after dark. You couldn't stay at home anymore for too long alone. Too afraid. That's when someone tried to snatch your purse. You screamed, ended up falling in a struggle. Then suddenly, he was there. Cape fluttering in the warm breeze of July, punches connecting with a sickening crack.

The man died in the alley.

Invincible turned to you with such gentleness, though. Like you were a scared animal cornered. His voice was gentle, alluring. It was warm. Impossible to turn away from.

"You okay?" He spoke as he handed your purse back to you.

You looked up to him, your heart still hammering in your chest.

He was handsome... too handsome. Broad shoulders and glowing skin. A kind smile.

You knew that smile.

It was the same one from the stairwell all those weeks ago. It had to be a month or two by now... It was the same smile you got when you returned his screwdriver. Mark Grayson.

You didn't say anything. You just nodded.

He showed up again the next day. And the next... Always when you were most vulnerable.

Your tire popped? He was there.

Your groceries spilled? He caught every item.

You dropped your keys down the storm drain? He retrieved them in seconds.

Each time, he acted like it was just coincidence. Like it was fate. "I guess I've just got good timing!" he chuckled, flashing a toothy grin as he perched himself on your fire escape one afternoon. You smiled back, weakly. But inside of you, dread curdled in your stomach. No one had timing that good.

It was a Tuesday night, and your shift had ran late. The building was nearly pitch black. The hallway lightbulbs had burnt out in the second floor last week. You called the landlord to fix them, but it fell on deaf ears. You fumbled with your keys as you sped walk through the hallway to the stairwell, your shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor.

Then, you slipped.

Your body hit the ground, hard. Your ankle twisted beneath you as your elbow slammed into the floor. You gasped in pain, blinking through the daze. Then, you smelt it.

Metallic and wet. Familiar.

Blood.

It coated the floor in a thin puddle, fresh and warm. It saturated your clothes and painted your hands as you tried to scramble backwards, but your ankle screamed with pain. You could suddenly feel the weight of your body as you struggled against the floor, slipping and sliding every which way. You could feel your heart pounding in your ears. You wanted to puke.

That's when he appeared. Out of nowhere, Invincible.

"I've got you," he cooed, cradling you effortlessly. His arms were strong, too strong... Like being wrapped in steel. He carried you up the flight of stairs to your apartment. His touch was careful, tender even.

He cleaned your wound and wrapped your now swollen ankle in a gauze. He grabbed a cloth from your cabinets and ran it under the cold sink water, and placed it upon your forehead. You watched as he moved around your house like he already knew the place. Like, he had been here before so many times. You never invited him inside, not even once.

The thought terrified you.

You didn't wake up in your bed that night.

You awoke to the sound of rain. Not the thin hiss of city drizzle against glass. but the heavy, steady drumming of a storm out in the open. No traffic noise, no sirens. Nothing to fill the gaps between the drops.

The bed beneath you was soft but unfamiliar. A floral patterned quit lay heavy across your legs. The sheets smelled faintly familiar. Clean cotton, faint hint of citrus. The same scent that lingered in your apartment weeks ago, when you swore someone had been inside even though nothing was taken. You should've known.

You sat up, heart beginning to pound. This wasn't your bedroom.

The walls were pale yellow, their paint slightly chipped. A small dresser stood in the corner. Lace curtains stirred at the window, swaying in the breeze from the half cracked open window that you hadn't opened. A single lamp on the nightstand cast a warm, dim glow.

You didn't remember coming here. You didn't remember leaving y our apartment at all.

You legs swung over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting the cool hardwood. Your ankle winced beneath you, causing you to suck in a sharp breath. Fighting through it, though, you limped your way across to the door. The old boards creaked underneath you.

You tried twisting the knob. It didn't turn.

Cold panic spread through your chest. You tried again, rattling the knob harder this time, but it refused to budge. You banged your fist against the wood.

"Hello?" Your voice came out hoarse. "Is someone there? Hello?"

The sound of footsteps answered. Slow and deliberate, moving toward the door from the other side. The knob clicked, but the door didn't open right away. Instead, his voice came through first.

"You're awake," Invincible said, calm, almost... pleased.

You pressed back from the door, "where am I?"

A pause, and then the door eased open. He stood in the hallway, broad shoulders filling the frame, his dark hair slightly damp from the rain. This... this was not Invincible. No, this was Mark Grayson. You knew it. You knew it from the second he smiled at you in that alley. Now, your suspicions were just confirmed.

His eyes, albeit warm on the surface, studied you like he was memorizing every twitch of your expression. "This is my place," he said simply. "A little outside the city."

You glanced past him, but the hallway gave nothing away. Just old wallpaper, a shadowy staircase, and more closed doors.

"I need to go home," you said, your voice sharper now. Mark titled his head, a small smile curving his lips. "You will. Once you've settled in."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means..." He stepped forward, and you instinctively limped back until the bed caught you behind the knees. "...you've been through a lot. You need time to adjust before going anywhere. I don't want you to make any rash decisions."

"Mark, I'm not staying here—"

"You are." His voice wasn't loud, but the finality in it made your throat close. "Atleast for now."

The silence between you was thick, broken only by the rain battering the roof. He reached toward the nightstand, switching the lamp to it's lowest setting. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we'll talk more. Once you're... comfortable."

Before you could answer, he stepped back into the hallway and closed the door. The click of the lock slid through the room like a cold blade.

You stared at the door for what felt like hours, the rain pounding on, the air growing heavier, until finally you sank back onto the bed.

You weren't sure if you'd slept at all. The night had passed in restless fragments; short bursts of uneasy dreams broken by the sound of the storm, the creak of the old house shifting around you, and the constant awareness of the locked door.

When you finally sat up, weak daylight filtered through the lace curtains. The rain had stopped, now replaced by a soft, distant wind that rattled the fields outside.

Then, you heard it. Footsteps. Slow and heavy on the wood floors, moving down the hallway. The rhythm was deliberate, unhurried, like whoever it was knew there was no reason to rush.

Your body tensed as the footsteps paused right outside your door. You held your breath.

No knock, just silence. Then the sound drifted away, replaced by something else... The faint hiss and pop of oil in a pan. The rich smell of frying eggs and butter.

It was so ordinary that it almost made you dizzy. Breakfast cooking in a stranger's house. Breakfast cooking in his house.

You went to the door, testing the knob again. Still locked. The frustration burned in your chest, but the scent in the air made your stomach twist in another way; part hunger, part unease.

You pressed your ear to the door. There was no humming, no small talk to himself, just the quiet purposeful movements of someone cooking for a reason.

A shadow passed under the crack at the bottom of the door. Then a knock, three soft taps.

"Morning," Mark's voice came, calm as ever. "You must be hungry."

You swallowed hard. "Let me out."

"You're not ready yet," he said, as if it were obvious. "You're safe here."

The scrape of a tray being set down on the floor followed. The smell of warm toast and coffee flooded into the roon.

"Eat," he said gently. "We'll talk later."

And then, footsteps retreating.

You waited until you couldn't hear him anymore before kneeling and peaking under the door. The hallway was empty, the tray sitting there like a peace offering... or a leash.

You stared at it for a long moment before finally reaching for the plate.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're wearing your costume."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They're cute!"

"They're humiliating..."

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

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

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

"You look good!" you complimented.

He scowled, "I feel unprotected."

"You are literally bulletproof."

"That is not what I meant."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Or... I could be comfortable."

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

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

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

"I am not."

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

"My skin doesn't work like yours."

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

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

"I am not flustered."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

But he watched.

Always watching.

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

Mark didn't speak about it.

He couldn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mark didn't answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He broke the commander's spine in three places.

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

And something inside Mark cracked.

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

"I'm losing myself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the middle of the night when you woke.

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

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

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

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

There was a pause.

"Didn't want to."

He said it like a confession, quiet. Vulnerable.

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

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

"Doing what?"

"Staying. Trying."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was careful. Raw.

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

There was a long silence, then:

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

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

And then he did.

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

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

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

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

There had been whispers for weeks, Conquest was approaching.

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

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

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

The attack came without warning.

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

It happened midafternoon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, no no- no..."

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

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

He moved like a weapon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mark stopped breathing.

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

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

One after another.

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

It was the baby who saved you, funnily enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body healed slowly.

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

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

Mark never left. Not once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know."

His throat bobbed.

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

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

So he did.

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

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

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

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

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

Warm.

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

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

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

But it wouldn't, not anymore.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

Then, silence.

You peeked up cautiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hm, strange.

Well atleast it took care of the wingman problem!

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a strange man...

He showed up the next day.

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

Nobody dared to skip him.

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

And then he showed up, again.

And again.

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

The days started to blur together.

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

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

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

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

You started learning his patterns.

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

But, you were persistent in your own gentle way.

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

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

"Maybe you need a muffin?"

"I don't eat sugar."

"Wow. Tragic..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stayed a little longer that night.

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

But, you did.

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

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

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

But he did stay the rest of the night.

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

And slowly, he changed.

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

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

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

-

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

He didn't listen.

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

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

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

"You could've stopped it."

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

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

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

You died, and now everything is worse.

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

"Is Invincible... slipping?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, Conquest arrived.

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

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

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

But... then he hears your voice again.

This time it's different.

"Live."

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

He owes you one.

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

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

He won't let that happen again.

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

Mark doesn't feel lucky.

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

All he dreams of is you.

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

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

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