hi guys

hi guys welcome to my page. my name is son brohan but you can call me bro

---

about me:

I like dragon ball z, invincible, the boys, and naruto and the majority of my content will be based on these four

Im very new to Tumblr so I might struggle with some things please be patient with me

I like to sleep and because of it, I might not always be online. If I'm awake and if I'm available, I'll probably be posting something if im feeling it.

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i only make SFW and platonic content, I can make dark stuff too with horror and other stuff but its not something I constantly create

I do not create NSFW content and please dont expect me to make any.

A few days passed.

Then a week.

It should’ve been enough time for things to settle—for Debbie to look back and realize she’d overthought it. That there was a simple explanation she just hadn’t considered yet.

But nothing settled.

If anything, it got harder to ignore.

You were still being picked up late.

Not every day—but enough for it to stand out.

Enough for Debbie to notice when she pulled up and saw you still sitting there, shoulders drawn in, eyes scanning every car that passed like you were waiting for the right one to finally stop.

“Hey, Mom?”

Debbie glanced over as she started the car.

Mark was already watching her, more serious than usual.

“Yeah, honey?”

He hesitated.

“Do you think… something’s wrong with them?”

Debbie didn’t answer right away.

“What makes you ask that?”

Mark shrugged but it wasn’t the careless kind.

“They’re just… different now.”

He looked down at his hands.

“They don’t sit with me anymore. Or anyone, really. And they don’t eat at lunch. I tried to give them some of mine but they said they weren’t hungry.”

He paused.

“And they don’t play at recess either. They just kinda… stay there.”

Debbie’s grip on the wheel tightened slightly.

“Have they said anything to you?”

Mark shook his head.

“No. I asked, but they just say they’re tired.”

Another pause.

“…They flinch a lot too.”

That made her chest feel tight.

“Flinch?”

“Yeah. Like if someone yells or something. Even if its not at them.”

He frowned.

“I think I scared them once. I didn’t mean to. I just—talked too loud.”

Debbie exhaled slowly.

“Hey. That’s not your fault.”

“I know” Mark said quietly. “I just… don’t think they’re okay.”

Neither did she.

That night, Debbie stood in the kitchen longer than she needed to.

The food sat untouched on the counter, already cooling. She stared at it for a moment, then reached for a container.

It wasn’t unusual.

Bringing food over. Checking in. Making sure someone was doing alright.

That’s all this was.

That’s all she told herself it was.

By the time she made it to your house the sun had started to dip lower in the sky.

She knocked once.

Then waited.

It took longer than expected for the door to open.

When it did, your mother stood there smiling.

Too quickly.

Too brightly.

“Oh—Debbie, hi!”

Her voice was warm, welcoming.

But something about it didn’t quite land.

“Hi,” Debbie said, returning the smile. “Sorry to stop by like this—I made a little too much and thought I’d bring some over.”

She held up the container slightly.

Your mother’s eyes flicked to it, then back to her.

“That’s so sweet of you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Debbie said lightly. “I just thought I would.”

There was a pause.

Then your mother stepped aside.

“Well, come in.”

The house felt… off.

Not messy. Not exactly.

Just quieter than it should’ve been.

Like something had been pulled out of it.

You were sitting on the couch.

Back straight. Hands folded tightly in your lap.

You looked up the second Debbie walked in—like you’d been listening for it.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said gently.

“Hi, Mrs. Grayson.”

Your voice was soft.

Careful.

Up close, it was harder to ignore.

The way your shoulders stayed tense. The faint shadows under your eyes. The way your gaze flicked between Debbie and your mother like you were tracking something invisible.

“You doing okay?” Debbie asked.

You nodded.

Too fast.

“I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you get us something to drink?” your mother cut in suddenly.

Her tone was still pleasant.

But there was something underneath it.

Sharp.

You stood immediately.

“Okay.”

Debbie watched you disappear into the kitchen.

Then, gently, she turned back.

“I hope everything’s been alright,” she said carefully. “I feel like I haven’t seen you guys as much lately.”

Your mother smiled again.

“Oh, you know how things get. Busy.”

Her hands folded together tightly.

Debbie hesitated.

“…And your husband? I don’t think I’ve seen him around.”

Just for a second—

Something flickered.

Gone almost as quickly as it came.

“He’s… not around much anymore,” she said.

Still smiling.

But it didn’t reach her eyes.

Debbie nodded slowly.

“I see.”

She didn’t push.

A noise came from the kitchen.

Something slipping—

Then shattering.

You froze.

Standing there, staring down at the broken glass.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

The shift was instant.

Your mother’s expression tightened—something sharp and irritated flashing through it before she could stop herself.

She stepped forward—

Too fast.

You flinched.

Hard.

Debbie saw it.

For a second, your mother didn’t seem to notice.

Her hand lifted slightly, like the reaction came before the thought—

Then she stopped.

Like she remembered.

Her expression smoothed over almost immediately.

“It’s fine,” she said, voice tighter now. “Just clean it up and get another one.”

You nodded quickly.

“I will.”

Debbie didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

But something had shifted.

She stayed a few minutes longer.

Long enough to be polite.

Long enough to not make it obvious.

When she finally stood to leave, her smile came easier than it felt.

“Thank you for having me.”

“Of course,” your mother said sweetly.

You didn’t say much when she left.

Just a quiet goodbye.

Eyes lowered.

“Take care, sweetheart,” Debbie said gently.

“You too.”

The door closed behind her.

For a moment

Everything was quiet.

Then—

A sharp exhale.

“What was that?”

You didn’t look up.

“I’m sorry.”

“I bring someone into this house and you can’t even act normal for five minutes?”

Her voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

It was tight. Controlled.

“I didn’t mean to drop it,” you said quickly.

“That’s not the point.”

You flinched.

“You embarrassed me.”

Each word came slower now.

More deliberate.

“In front of a guest.”

“I said I was sorry—”

“And now I have to deal with that.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“You don’t think before you do things.”

Your hands curled slightly at your sides.

“I’ll be more careful.”

A step closer.

You felt it before you saw it.

“You should have been careful the first time.”

You nodded quickly.

“I know.”

Silence stretched.

Heavy.

Uncertain.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe too loud.

After a moment, she stepped back.

“Go to your room.”

You didn’t hesitate.

---

● Outside

Debbie hadn’t made it far.

She’d barely stepped off the porch when the shift in tone carried through the door.

Muffled.

But not enough.

She stopped.

“…embarrassed me—”

Debbie’s chest tightened.

She shouldn’t listen.

She knew that.

“…should have been careful—”

Her hand curled slightly at her side.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the tone.

And the way your voice had sounded—

Small.

Quick.

Like you were trying to fix something before it got worse.

Debbie exhaled slowly.

Then kept walking.

Back to her car.

Her movements were steady.

Controlled.

Normal.

But something had shifted.

She didn’t have proof.

Not enough to say anything yet.

But she wasn’t imagining it anymore.

Something was wrong.

And this time—

● It was never meant to be a test you could fail.

Viltrumite trials weren’t designed with failure in mind.

They were designed to prove something already there.

Strength. Resolve. Worth.

You were expected to stand your ground.

You didn’t.

--

It always would have.

The first strike came from your mother.

Vaedra.

She didn’t hesitate never did. Her hand struck with precision, calculated and clean, sending you crashing into the stone beneath your feet. The ground split slightly on impact, cracks spidering outward from where your body landed.

“Get up.”

Her voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be.

You tried.

Your arms trembled beneath you, unsteady, your body slow to respond in the way it should have. That alone was enough to earn a look of quiet displeasure.

Then Kaelor moved.

Faster. Heavier.

Your father's blow didn’t just knock you down it kept you there.

● You were supposed to fight back.

That was the point.

Even children knew that.

Even you knew that.

But knowing didn’t mean your body would listen.

Every attempt to stand was met with another strike. Not reckless—never reckless. Each hit was measured, deliberate, meant to push you further. Meant to force something out of you.

It never came.

● “Again.”

Vaedra’s command cut through the space like a blade.

You didn’t move fast enough.

You didn’t move right.

And when you finally did manage to stand—barely balanced, barely conscious—it was already too late.

Kaelor’s next hit sent you back down harder than before.

This time, you didn’t get up.

● Silence followed.

Not relief.

Not mercy.

Assessment.

Vaedra stepped closer, looking down at you with something colder than anger.

Disappointment.

“Weak,” she said flatly.

The word settled heavier than any strike.

Kaelor didn’t respond immediately.

But you could feel it—the shift in him. The expectation. The conclusion they had both been raised to reach.

Weakness was not corrected.

It was erased.

● Vaedra turned slightly, already preparing to finish it.

Clean. Efficient. Necessary.

Kaelor stepped forward.

He raised his hand.

And stopped.

It wasn’t obvious.

Not at first.

Viltrumites didn’t falter—not in ways that could be seen.

But there was a pause.

A fraction too long.

His hand hovered where it shouldn’t have.

And in that moment—

Vaedra noticed.

Her gaze snapped to him, sharp, questioning.

Dangerous.

Not because of you.

Because of him.

---

His jaw tightened.

His hand lowered—just slightly.

“…Wait.”

The word was quiet.

Too quiet.

Vaedra’s eyes narrowed. “There is nothing to wait for.”

She stepped forward again.

Kaelor moved before she could finish it.

Not to strike—

But to block.

● That was when it changed.

Not because of what they said.

But because of what they didn’t.

Kaelor’s gaze shifted brief, precise as he scanned the horizon.

Once.

Twice.

Ensuring.

No witnesses.

No patrols.

No one to question why a defective Viltrumite child still breathed.

Vaedra followed his line of sight.

She understood immediately.

And for the first time

She hesitated too.

--

It wasn’t mercy.

It wasn’t softness.

It was calculation.

Risk.

And something far more dangerous beneath it.

Something neither of them named.

--

Kaelor moved first.

Not gently. Never gently.

But when he lifted you from the fractured ground, his grip adjusted—subtle, deliberate—so your head wouldn’t fall back the way it had before.

So your breathing however weak wouldn’t be obstructed.

Vaedra said nothing.

But she didn’t stop him.

They didn’t take you somewhere official.

Didn’t call for aid.

Didn’t report the outcome.

Because that would require answers.

And Viltrumites did not ask questions they didn’t already know the answer to.

So instead—

They left.

The flight was fast.

It had to be.

You drifted in and out of awareness, the rush of air sharp against broken skin, the pressure unbearable.

At some point—

It lessened.

Just slightly.

Not enough to be obvious.

Enough to matter.

--

Their home wasn’t meant for weakness.

It was built like everything else—cold, structured, efficient.

But after that day—

It changed.

Not in appearance.

In function.

You weren’t allowed outside.

Not anymore.

Movement was restricted.

Watched.

Measured.

Every action observed with the same scrutiny as the trial you failed.

Training attempts came first.

Of course they did.

Vaedra refused to accept the outcome.

“If it can be corrected it will be,” she stated.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until it became clear

It wouldn’t.

--

That was when the cage settled into place.

Not visible.

Not named.

But absolute.

Kaelor stopped initiating the training.

Vaedra didn’t.

But even she…

Reduced it.

Not out of pity.

Out of… practicality.

A broken thing couldn’t be reforged if it shattered completely.

---

They never said they spared you.

Never acknowledged it.

To do so would mean admitting the truth.

That they had chosen wrong.

That they had hesitated.

But sometimes

When you were still.

When your breathing evened out enough to mimic sleep

There were moments.

Brief.

Unspoken.

----

A pause in Vaedra’s steps as she passed your resting place.

A glance that lingered a second longer than necessary.

Her hand adjusting something—fabric, positioning—without comment.

Precise.

Controlled.

Gone just as quickly.

--

Kaelor was worse.

Or better.

It depended on how you looked at it.

He stayed.

Not close enough to be seen as concern.

Not far enough to be absence.

Always within reach.

Always watching.

--

They never called it love.

They wouldn’t know how.

But they kept you.

And on Viltrum—

That meant more than it ever should have.

Things used to feel easy.

Not perfect—but easy in the way routines usually are. You knew what to expect when you got home. You knew what your mom would sound like when she called your name, what your dad would be doing in the evenings, what the house would feel like when the day was over.

Now, it felt like guessing.

Some days, the house was too quiet. Other days, it wasn’t quiet enough.

You learned not to expect either.

At first, it was small things.

Your mom stopped asking about your day. Meals became inconsistent—sometimes overcooked, sometimes forgotten entirely. The TV stayed on longer, filling the space where conversation used to be.

You told yourself it was temporary.

That things would go back to normal if you just waited long enough.

They didn’t.

The changes didn’t happen all at once.

They stacked.

A sharper tone here. A look that lingered too long there. The way your name started to sound different when she said it—shorter, tighter, like it took more effort than it used to.

You tried to stay out of the way.

It helped. Sometimes.

Other times it didn’t matter.

You learned quickly what made thing worse.

Asking questions.

Speaking at the wrong time.

Being too loud.

Being too quiet.

There wasn’t a pattern you could follow. No clear line you could stay behind.

So you stopped trying to figure it out.

You just… kept going.

Like if you moved carefully enough, if you stayed quiet enough, if you didn’t push anything too far

Things wouldn’t get worse.

They still did.

Mornings became easier than nights.

You could leave. Go somewhere structured. Predictable. Safe in a way that didn’t ask anything from you except to sit still and listen.

Even if you were tired.

Even if your head felt heavy and your thoughts didn’t stay where you put them.

You still showed up.

“Hey.”

Mark’s voice pulled you out of it.

You blinked, realizing you’d been staring at the same page for longer than you meant to.

He was already looking at you, leaning back in his chair, pencil spinning loosely between his fingers.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

A little too quickly.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t look convinced.

But he didn’t push, either.

Mark wasn’t good at leaving things alone—but sometimes, he tried.

You got better at pretending after that.

Sitting up straighter. Paying attention when teachers called on you. Smiling when it was expected.

It worked.

Mostly.

Except for the things you couldn’t hide.

The way you flinched when someone raised their voice even when they weren’t talking to you.

The way you pulled your sleeves down, even when the classroom felt too warm.

The way you rested your head on your desk when you thought no one was looking.

Mark noticed some of it.

Not all of it.

But enough.

School ended the way it always did loud, crowded, everyone moving at once.

You and Mark sat on the bench near the pickup line, close enough to the curb to watch the cars pull in one by one.

This used to be where you left first.

Your mom was always early.

Always waiting.

Today, she wasn’t there.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Probably.

You told yourself that.

Mark nudged you lightly with his shoulder.

“Race you to my mom’s car when she gets here.”

You glanced at him.

“You always cheat.”

“I do not.”

“You start running before she even stops.”

“That’s strategy.”

You almost smiled.

A familiar car pulled into the line.

Mark perked up immediately.

“That’s her.”

He stood up fast grabbing his backpack.

Then—like he always did—he turned back to you.

He hugged you quickly. Tight, but brief.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” you said.

He pulled away, already halfway turned, waving as he ran toward the car.

Debbie stepped out just as he reached her.

She smiled the second she saw him, arms open before he even got there. Mark ran into her without slowing down, and she caught him easily, laughing softly as she hugged him.

It looked… natural.

Effortless.

Like something that didn’t have to be thought about.

You looked away.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You glanced back up.

Debbie was looking at you now, her expression warm—familiar.

“Hi, Mrs. Grayson.”

She gave you a small smile.

“Hi. You doing okay?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

She hesitated.

Just for a second.

Her eyes flicked past you toward the line of cars, then back again.

“Is your mom on her way?”

You followed her glance.

There were fewer cars now.

More empty space than there should’ve been.

“I think so,” you said.

You weren’t sure.

Debbie stepped a little closer.

Not enough to crowd you. Just enough to see better.

That’s when she noticed.

The marks along your arm—half-hidden beneath your sleeve. The faint discoloration near your wrist. Not old enough to be forgotten. Not new enough to be ignored.

Her expression didn’t change much.

But something behind it did.

“Oh—honey, what happened there?”

You froze.

Not completely.

Just enough that it took a second too long to respond.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

She didn’t move. Didn’t press.

Just waited.

You swallowed.

“My cat,” you added quickly. “I was giving it a bath and it—um—scratched me.”

The words felt clumsy.

Like they didn’t quite fit together the way they should.

Debbie nodded slowly.

“Oh. Yeah… cats can be like that.”

Her tone stayed light.

Careful.

“Make sure you clean it up, okay? You don’t want it getting infected.”

“I will.”

Another pause.

Then she smiled again—gentle, reassuring.

“Alright. You take care, okay?”

“Okay.”

She turned back toward the car.

Mark was already inside, watching through the window.

He waved again.

You lifted your hand, waving back.

The car pulled away.

Debbie POV

She didn’t say anything at first.

Mark was talking—something about school, about a game, about something small and normal—but she only caught pieces of it.

Her hands stayed steady on the wheel.

Her eyes on the road.

Something wasn’t right.

She couldn’t explain it yet. Couldn’t point to anything solid enough to say out loud.

But it sat there anyway.

Persistent.

Unsettling.

The timing was off.

The explanation didn’t quite land.

And those marks

Debbie exhaled slowly, her grip tightening just slightly on the steering wheel.

Not enough for Mark to notice.

“Hey, Mom—did you hear me?”

She blinked, glancing over at him.

“Yeah, sorry, honey. What were you saying?”

As Mark started talking again, Debbie nodded along.

Listening.

Responding.

Present.

But her thoughts didn’t stay in the car.

They lingered back at the bench.

Where you were still sitting.

Waiting.

And for the first time—

Debbie wasn’t sure you should be.

(author's note:

There wasn’t anything unusual about your family.

Not at first.

Evenings were predictable in the way most people took for granted—dinner at the table, the quiet hum of the television afterward, your parents talking over each other about things you didn’t fully understand. Work. Bills. Neighbors. Small things that filled the space without ever weighing it down.

Your father laughed easily back then. Loud, unrestrained like whatever joke he’d just made was the funniest thing in the world, even if it wasn’t. Your mother would roll her eyes, but she always smiled after. It felt routine. Stable.

Safe.

Sometimes, the Graysons were part of that routine.

Mark would sit beside you on the floor, cross-legged and restless, talking about whatever had caught his attention that week. A new game. A comic. Something small and important in the way it only was at that age. Debbie would help your mom in the kitchen without needing to be asked, warm and familiar in a way that made your home feel a little fuller.

Nolan was quieter.

He stood out without trying to—taller, stiller, watching more than he spoke. When he did talk, it was brief, measured. Polite. He wasn’t cold, not exactly. Just… distant. Like he was present, but not entirely there.

It never bothered you.

None of it did.

Because everything felt the way it was supposed to.

--

The first crack was easy to miss.

It wasn’t loud. Not at first.

Just a shift.

Your parents started talking less around you. Conversations that used to happen at the table moved behind closed doors. The television stayed on longer. The house felt quieter, but not in a peaceful way more like something was being held in place, stretched thin.

You remember the first time voices carried through the walls.

Not shouting. Not yet.

Sharp. Quick. Cut off too soon.

The next morning everything went back to normal.

Or at least, it tried to.

---

It didn’t stay that way.

Arguments came more often after that. Louder. Harder to ignore.

Words you didn’t understand were said with tones you did.

Accusations. Deflections. Silence that followed like something heavy settling in the air.

You stopped asking questions.

It was easier not to.

---

The day everything broke didn’t feel important at first.

No yelling. No slammed doors.

Just tension--thick, suffocating, sitting in every corner of the house.

Your father didn’t look at you much that day.

Your mother didn’t look at him at all.

---

You don’t remember exactly what was said.

Only pieces.

A name that wasn’t your mothers.

A voice cracking in a way you’d never heard before.

Something bitter, sharp, final.

And then

He left.

Just like that.

No long goodbye. No explanation that made sense. Just absence, sudden and complete, like something had been pulled out from the cente of everything and left it hollow.

---

The house didn’t feel the same after that.

It was quieter, but not the same kind of quiet as before.

This one lingered.

Your mother changed in ways that were harder to name.

At first, it was small.

She stopped smiling as much. Stopped talking unless she had to. The warmth she used to carry so easily felt… distant. Like it had been packed away somewhere you couldn’t reach.

Then came the frustration.

Short answers. Sharper tones. A patience that wore thinner with every passing day.

You didn’t understand why.

You only knew it was getting harder to breathe in a place that used to feel safe.

---

By the time things really started falling apart

---

Mark Grayson

At first, Mark understands.

He really does.

He doesn’t push when you flinch at the door. Doesn’t say anything when you hesitate too long before stepping outside and end up staying in instead.

“Hey, it’s fine. We can just stay here.”

Easy. Immediate.

Like the decision was already made for you.

But it doesn’t stay like that.

Because Mark isn’t good at leaving things alone especially not when he thinks you’re in danger.

So he adjusts.

If you won’t go out, he comes to you.

More often than you expect.

More often than you ask for.

You start noticing how little time you actually get by yourself.

“Thought you might get bored.”

He’s already inside by the time he says it. Already setting things down, already making himself comfortable.

Like it’s normal.

Like he’s supposed to be there.

And when you do try—

When you finally agree to step outside—

He doesn’t let it be casual.

He stays close. Too close.

Not hovering in a way that’s obvious. Not enough for anyone else to really question it.

But enough that you feel it.

Every step.

Every pause.

Every glance over your shoulder.

“You’re good. I’ve got you.”

It’s quiet. Reassuring.

But he doesn’t move away when he says it.

If anything, he shifts closer.

Just enough to keep you within reach.

And when your hand catches on his sleeve—tight, instinctive, not even something you think about—

He stills.

Just for a second.

Then relaxes into it like it’s expected.

Like it makes sense.

“Hey hey, it’s okay.”

Softer now.

Careful.

But he doesn’t pull your hand away.

Doesn’t tell you to let go.

If anything, he adjusts so it’s easier for you to stay like that.

---

Eve

Eve notices everything.

The way you hesitate. The way you keep checking behind you. The way your voice tightens whenever something outside gets too loud.

She doesn’t ignore it.

She plans around it.

You don’t even realize how much she’s adjusted things until it’s already done.

There’s a blanket draped over the couch you usually sit on.

Your favorite snacks—ones you didn’t mention—just… there.

A small stack of your favorite movies set aside.

Bandages. Pain relievers. Things you might need.

Just in case.

“I didn’t know what you’d feel up to, so I just brought a few things.”

Casual.

Like it’s nothing.

Like she didn’t think it through in advance.

She doesn’t overwhelm you with attention.

Doesn’t hover the way Mark does.

But she fills in everything around you.

Quietly.

Thoroughly.

And when you try to brush it off

“I’m fine, you didn’t have to do all this”

She doesn’t argue.

She just looks at you.

Not skeptical.

Not annoyed.

Just… patient.

“I kno.”

A pause.

Then, softer—

“Just use it anyway okay?”

It’s not a command.

It just doesn’t feel like something you’re supposed to refuse.

And when it comes to going outside—

She doesn’t push.

Not directly.

“We don’t have to go far.”

“We’ll be right there with you.”

“It’ll be quick.”

Each suggestion smaller than the last.

More manageable.

More reasonable.

Until saying no starts to feel like you’re overreacting.

---

When It’s Both of Them

That’s when it changes.

Because they stop adjusting to you—

And start adjusting things around you.

If outside makes you anxious, they shorten the trips.

If crowds make you uneasy, they avoid them.

If something feels like too much—

They remove it.

Entirely.

“You don’t need to deal with that right now.”

“You’ve already been through enough.”

It sounds like care.

It feels like care.

But it leaves less and less for you to decide.

The first time you go out with both of them, it’s… manageable.

You stay close. Closer than usual.

Not because they tell you to.

Because you don’t feel safe otherwise.

You don’t fall behind.

You don’t wander.

At some point, your hand ends up gripping onto one of them—fabric, wrist, whatever you can reach.

Neither of them points it out.

Neither of them laughs.

Mark just shifts to stay aligned with you.

Eve slows her pace without saying anything.

Like it’s natural.

Like this is how it’s supposed to be now.

Later—

“You did good today.”

It catches you off guard.

The way she says it.

Gentle. Reassuring.

The same tone someone would use for something small. Simple.

You don’t know what to say to that.

Mark just smiles slightly.

“Told you it wasn’t that bad.”

Like it was something you needed to be convinced of.

It gets easier to stay inside.

Not because you’re less afraid—

But because they make it easier.

Movie nights become routine.

You don’t even remember agreeing to half of them.

Mark picks something out before asking.

Eve sets everything up before you can help.

“Just sit We’ve got it.”

And you do.

Because it’s easier.

Because they’re already doing it.

At some point, you end up leaning against Mark without thinking.

Half-asleep. Not really aware of it.

Your head rests against his shoulder then lower.

You don’t notice when it shifts into something heavier.

Don’t notice when you stop holding yourself up.

When you wake up, everything’s quieter.

The movie’s still playing.

Eve’s voice is low, somewhere nearby.

“…theyre exhausted.”

Mark doesn’t respond right away.

You can feel the slight rise and fall of his breathing under you.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then—

“They don’t have to worry about anything right now.”

It’s not said to you.

But it still lingers.

----

Reader

You know something’s changed.

You’re not unaware.

You notice how often they step in now.

How quickly they decide things.

How little you actually have to do on your own.

At first, it helps.

You’re tired.

Still shaken.

It’s easier to let them handle things.

Easier to stay where it’s quiet.

Where nothing unexpected happens.

Where they are.

But it doesn’t stop there.

Because they don’t pull back when you start stabilizing.

They don’t ease up.

If anything—

They settle into it.

Like this version of you makes more sense.

Safer.

More manageable.

You try, sometimes.

Small things.

Handling something yourself.

Going a little further than usual.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You don’t have to push yourself.”

“Just let us handle it.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

And maybe it isn’t.

Not on its own.

But it adds up.

Until doing things alone starts to feel… unnecessary.

--

In the End

They just don’t want it to happen again.

That’s all this is.

That’s what they tell themselves.

What they tell you.

“You’re safe.”

“You’re okay.”

“We’ve got you.”

And they mean it.

They really do.

It’s just—

At some point—

You’re not sure if you’re getting better.

Or just getting used to needing them.

---

Mark Grayson

Mark doesn’t try to take you away from Todd directly.

He just makes it harder for you to stay where you are.

He’s not aggressive about it. If anything, he comes off as patient understanding, even. But it doesn’t take long to notice how often he inserts himself into your time.

He lingers.

He offers.

He waits until you feel bad enough to say yes.

It’s subtle. Easy to brush off.

“You don’t have to sit with him, you know.

I mean only if you want to.”

He says it like it’s your choice.

Like he isn’t standing there waiting for you to make the right one.

And if you don’t?

He doesn’t get angry. Not really.

He just… looks at you differently.

“Oh. Okay. I just thought we were gonna hang out today.”

Its not accusing. Not outright.

Just enough to make you hesitate next time.

---

In class it starts small.

The teacher lets everyone pick partners.

You’re already planning to work alone quiet, simple, no complications.

Mark moves before you can say anything.

“Hey, do you wanna just work together?”

He’s already next to your desk. Already pulling his chair over.

It’s quick. Casual.

Too quick.

Todd notices.

You don’t see him get up but you feel it when he stops beside the desk.

“Didn’t know you needed help that bad, Grayson.”

Mark doesn’t back off this time.

“I don’t.”

It’s not loud. Not a challenge.

But he doesn’t move either.

For a second, it’s just the two of them waiting.

Then Todd leans down slightly voice lower, out of the teacher’s range.

“Pick someone else.”

Mark doesn’t.

And now you’re stuck in it.

--

Todd Williams

Todd doesn’t wait.

He doesn’t ask.

If he wants your attention, he takes it—and unlike with everyone else, he doesn’t make a spectacle out of it.

Not with you.

He’s… calmer. Still rough, still blunt but not as loud. Not as obnoxious. Not as much as a douchebag

That almost makes it worse.

Because it feels intentional.

“Sit here.”

Not a suggestion. Never phrased like one.

But he pulls the chair out anyway, like it already belongs to you.

Like you already belong there.

He doesn’t hover like Mark does. Doesn’t linger or try to convince you.

He just decides.

At lunch, it’s more obvious.

You get there first for once.

Sit down. Set your stuff down. Try to enjoy the five seconds of quiet.

Todd shows up not long after.

He doesn’t ask if the seat’s taken—just drops into it, dragging the chair a little closer than necessary.

That’s it. Spot taken.

Then Mark walks over.

He slows when he sees Todd sitting there. You can tell he’s debating it.

Still, he tries.

“Hey—do you wanna come sit with us? I saved you a spot.”

You don’t even get the chance to answer.

Todd cuts in.

“They’re already sitting.”

Flat. Dismissive.

Mark’s expression tightens.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

Todd finally looks at him, unimpressed.

“Didn’t sound like you were asking them either.”

There’s a pause.

Mark looks at you again—but now there’s something else there. Expectation. Waiting.

Todd doesn’t even bother looking.

His hand taps once against the table, right next to yours.

Grounded. Final.

Mark exhales, annoyed.

Then he walks off.

Todd doesn’t comment on it.

Just stays where he is like there was never another option.

---

When It’s Both of Them

It doesn’t stay separate.

Eventually, they stop working around each other and start working through each other.

That’s when it gets uncomfortable.

Because it stops being about spending time with you.

And starts being about winning it.

--

It happens in small ways at first.

They interrupt each other.

Talk over each other.

Then

They start answering for you.

“They’re busy after school.”

“No, they’re not—we already talked about it.”

“Yeah? When?”

“Just now.”

You don’t remember agreeing to anything.

They don’t notice.

---

It escalates without either of them realizing it.

Mark tries to keep things even, reasonable.

“You don’t have to decide right now just come by if you want.”

Todd doesn’t give you that space.

"You’re coming. It’s not a big deal.”

Different approaches.

Same result.

---

And the worst part?

They don’t look at you when they argue.

Just at each other.

---

Reader

You notice.

Of course you do.

It’s not subtle anymore—not really.

But it’s also not something you can just shut down without consequences.

Todd isn’t someone you push unless you’re ready to deal with it.

And Mark—

Mark makes it harder in a different way.

Because he’s nice about it.

Because he makes you feel like saying no is unfair.

So you don’t.

Not most of the time.

You let Todd take the seat.

Let Mark wait you out.

Let them decide things you didn’t agree to.

It’s easier.

Safer.

Quieter.

---

You could say something.

You just… dont.

-

In the End

Theyre both trying to be the better friend.

That’s the whole point.

That’s what all of this is for.

---

They just never stop to ask if you actually want either of them to be.

---

The bathroom light is too bright.

It hums faintly overhead, flickering just enough to make your reflection feel…off. You don’t look like yourself. Not really.

Your fingers hover near your cheek before pressing—lightly at first, then with more pressure, like you’re trying to test if it still hurts.

It does.

You suck in a breath through your teeth, pulling your hand back quickly, like you’ve been burned. The skin there is already darkening, blooming into something you won’t be able to hide in a few hours. Your lip is split—just enough to sting every time you press it together.

“It wasn’t that bad,” you murmur to yourself, voice rough and quiet in the empty apartment.

The words sound wrong out loud.

You reach for your phone on the counter, hesitating as your thumb hovers over the screen. There’s a moment—just one—where you consider something else entirely.

Calling your boyfriend.

Apologizing.

Maybe if you just explained—maybe if you hadn’t pushed so much, if you’d just listened—

Your stomach twists.

You set the phone down. Pick it back up. Set it down again.

This is your fault.

…Isn’t it?

A shaky breath leaves you as you press your palms against the counter, staring at your reflection like it might give you an answer.

It doesn’t.

The silence stretches.

Then—

You grab your phone and scroll.

Past contacts you don’t trust. Past names that don’t feel safe. Past numbers that wouldn’t pick up this early anyway.

Your finger stops.

You stare at it for a long second.

“…He won’t answer,” you whisper, like saying it might make it easier.

You hit call anyway.

It rings once.

Twice.

Three times—

“Hello?”

His voice is groggy. Sleep-heavy. Confused.

“…Hey,” you manage, and your throat tightens immediately.

There’s a pause on the other end. You hear the shift—fabric, movement, something like a bed creaking.

“Hey—? What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer right away.

You can’t.

“Hey,” he says again, sharper this time, more awake. “Are you okay?”

“I—” Your voice cracks. You swallow hard. “Can you come over?”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

“…Right now?”

You nod instinctively before remembering he can’t see you. “Yeah. I just—I need—”

“I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead.

—

You barely have time to move from the bathroom before there’s a knock—too fast, too soon.

Your heart jumps.

You open the door.

And there he is.

Mark Grayson stands there in a t-shirt and sweats, hair a mess like he didn’t bother fixing it, chest rising a little too quickly for someone who supposedly just woke up.

His eyes land on you.

And stop.

The shift is immediate.

It’s subtle at first—just a tightening in his expression, his brows pulling together slightly.

Then his gaze sharpens.

Tracks.

Your cheek. Your lip. The way you’re holding yourself.

“…What happened?”

You look away.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I just—”

“That’s not nothing.”

His voice is firmer now. Not loud—but there’s weight behind it.

You shrug, trying to make it look smaller than it is. “It was just an argument, it got a little—out of hand. It’s fine now.”

“Out of hand.”

He repeats it like he’s testing the words. Like they don’t sit right in his mouth.

You force a small laugh. “Yeah. It’s—it’s really not a big deal, I just—”

“Who did this?”

Your stomach drops.

“Mark, it’s—”

“Who.”

The word is sharper now. Edged.

You hesitate.

Because you know him.

You know what he can do.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping a little closer, like that might ground him. “It’s okay. Really. I probably just—said something I shouldn’t have and—”

His jaw tightens.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It kind of does,” you try, a little more urgently now. “I mean, I shouldn’t have—”

“That doesn’t matter,” he repeats, more firmly this time.

Silence stretches between you.

You can feel it—the tension building under his skin, the way he’s holding himself back.

“…It wasn’t the first time,” you admit quietly.

You don’t know why you say it.

Maybe because the look on his face makes it hard not to.

Maybe because part of you wants someone to know.

His expression stills completely.

“…What?”

You swallow. “I just—didn’t think it was that serious, you know? And I thought if I just—handled it better, it wouldn’t—”

“Stop.”

The word cuts through your sentence.

You freeze.

His hands curl slightly at his sides, fingers flexing like he’s trying to keep them still.

“Where does he live?”

Your heart stutters. “Mark—”

“Where does he live?”

There’s something in his voice now that wasn’t there before.

Something…final.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say quickly. “It’s fine, really, I just needed someone to talk to, I didn’t mean for you to—”

“You should’ve told me sooner.”

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Your breath catches.

“Mark—”

“Address.”

You hesitate.

And that’s all it takes.

“…Please,” you add, softer this time. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Then his gaze flicks just briefly to your bruised cheek.

“…I’ll handle it.”

Before you can say anything else, he’s gone.

The window rattles slightly in his wake.

—

He finds him faster than expected.

Of course he does.

People like that aren’t careful.

They don’t think they have to be.

Mark Grayson doesn’t bother knocking.

He doesn’t make a scene, either.

Just waits.

Watches.

And when the guy steps outside—alone, distracted, phone in hand—

Mark moves.

It’s quick.

Disorienting.

One second he’s there, the next he’s not—pulled into an alley a few blocks away before he can even process what’s happening.

“What the—what the hell—?!”

The guy stumbles, panic setting in immediately as he tries to regain his footing.

Mark doesn’t let him.

Pins him back—firm, unyielding.

“Hey—hey, wait, man, I don’t know what you—”

“You do.”

His voice is calm.

Too calm.

The guy’s breathing turns uneven. “Look, if this is about—about earlier, I—I didn’t mean—”

“You hit them.”

It’s not a question.

“I—I didn’t—it wasn’t like that—”

“You hit them.”

“I said I was sorry!” he blurts, panic rising, hands shaking. “I called them, I told them I—look, I love them, okay? I didn’t mean to, it just—it got out of hand, I swear it won’t happen again—”

Mark watches him.

Listens.

Waits.

“…It already happened more than once.”

The guy falters.

That’s all the answer he needs.

“Please,” he tries again, more desperate now. “Please, man, I’ll fix it, I’ll do whatever, just—just let me go, okay? I won’t go near them again, I swear, I’ll—”

Mark tilts his head slightly.

Studies him.

Measures.

Then—

“…No.”

The word is quiet.

Certain.

The guy’s face drains of color.

Mark steps forward.

—

When you hear the window again, you flinch.

You hadn’t even realized how long it had been.

You turn.

And he’s there.

For a split second, relief hits you.

Then—

You see him.

There’s something…off.

Not obvious, not at first glance but there’s a stiffness to the way he stands, a faint darkening along the fabric of his clothes that wasn’t there before.

And in his hands

A plastic bag.

Another one.

“…Mark?”

Your voice comes out smaller than you intend.

His expression softens immediately when he looks at you.

“Hey.”

Like nothing’s wrong.

Like he didn’t just disappear for who knows how long.

“What—” You swallow. “What happened?”

There’s a pause.

Just a second.

Then—

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Your stomach drops.

“…What does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he sets the bags down carefully on the counter.

“I grabbed some stuff,” he says instead. “Ice packs. Bandages. Uh—” He pulls out a pack of mini sodas and snacks, setting it beside them. “And…these.”

A small, slightly crumpled stuffed animal follows.

You stare at it.

Then back at him.

“…Mark.”

“I’m gonna clean up first, okay?”

He says it gently. Like he’s asking.

But he’s already moving toward the bathroom.

You don’t stop him.

—

By the time he comes back he looks…normal again.

Cleaner.

Like whatever you saw before wasn’t real.

He kneels in front of you, opening the first aid kit with careful hands.

“Sit still,” he murmurs.

You do.

Of course you do.

His touch is careful. Gentle in a way that doesn’t match the tension still lingering in the room.

He presses a cold pack lightly against your cheek, watching your reaction.

“…Tell me if it hurts.”

“It already does,” you try to joke wekly.

He doesn’t smile.

“That’s not funny.”

You fall quiet.

“…He said he was sorry,” you admit after a moment, staring at your hands. “He said he didnt mean it.”

Mark’s hands pause for just a second.

Then continue.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

“…Did you talk to him”

A beat.

“…Something like that.”

You swallow.

“…Mark what did you do?”

He finally looks up at you.

There’s something in his eyes you don’t recognize.

Not angr.

Not really.

Something steadier.

“Hes not going to hurt you again.”

It’s not reassurance.

It’s a statement.

Your chest tightens.

“…Okay,” you say slowly.

Because you don’t know what else to say.

He softens a little at that.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, standing and holding out a hand. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You hesitate.

Then take it.

—

The movie plays quietly in the background, something you’re not really paying attention to.

You’re curled up under the blankets, the stuffed animal tucked awkwardly against your side.

Mark sits beside you close, but not suffocating.

Present.

His arm rests lightly around your shoulders, careful of the bruises, fingers absently tracing slow, grounding patterns against your arm.

“You should get some sleep” he says after a while.

You shake your head slightly. “Don’t think I can.”

“…That’s okay.”

Silence settles again.

Its quieter now.

Safer.

And somehow

Not.

“…Mark?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitate.

“…Thank you. For coming.”

His hand stills for a moment.

Then resumes.

“…You don’t have to thank me.”

Another pause.

“You should’ve called me sooner.”

His voice is softer this time.

Almost gentle.

You nod, even though you’re not sure if you agree.

Your eyes drift shut eventually exhaustion pulling you under.

And Mark stays.

Watching.

Listening.

Making sure you breathe evenly.

Making sure youre still there.

Long after the movie ends.

Long after the sun starts to rise.

And somewhere in the back of your min

You can’t shake the feeling that nothing about this is over.

That it’s only just begun.

--

( this is based off what actually happened in a few of the comic panels of invincible with some slight changes and it's inspired off of when Amber and Mark broke up and amber called him so she could help her deal with her abusive boyfriend who was hitting her. so in this universe, reader would be taking the place of amber)

(here is my proof:)

Anissa doesn’t understand why you won’t love her.

Not in the way she understands love.

She has given you everything that should matter.

A home. Protection. Stability.

A family that will outlive empires.

And still you look at her like she is temporary.

You don’t try to hide it.

You don’t call her anything.

Not mom. Not even Anissa, most days.

Just silence.

Or worse—

corrections.

“She’s not my mother.”

Anissa does not react.

Not outwardly.

But something in her stills.

Because that is not how this is supposed to work.

On Viltrum, children do not choose where their loyalty lies.

It is not something debated.

It is not something… refused.

---

At first, she allows it.

Your distance.

Your grief.

Your attachment to someone who is no longer here.

She studies it the way she studies everything human—

with patience.

With observation.

You notice it in small ways.

The way she watches you when you speak.

The way she tilts her head slightly when you mention your mother

like she is trying to understand a language she does not respect.

“You speak of her often.”

You shrug.

“Because she’s my mom.”

A pause.

Measured.

“She was.”

The correction lands sharper than anything louder would have.

You glare at her.

“Don’t do that.”

She doesn’t understand the hostility.

Only the resistance.

“You are holding onto something that no longer serves you.”

And there it is.

That tone.

Calm. Certain.

Like she has already decided you are wrong.

From there, things begin to change.

Not all at once.

Never all at once.

----

Photos go missing.

At first, you think you misplaced them.

Then you realize you didn’t.

You bring it up to your dad.

Scott hesitates.

Just for a second.

Too long.

“It’s... probably for the best.”

You stare at him.

“You can’t keep living in the past.”

And just like that

he chooses a side.

Even if he doesn’t say it outright.

After that Anissa becomes… more involved.

She starts answering for you.

Small things at first.

“They’re not hungry.”

“They don’t need that.”

“That isn’t what they meant.”

You frown every time.

Correct her every time.

“I can speak for myself.”

She looks at you.

Not annoyed.

Not angry.

Just… assessing.

“You are emotiona”

Like that explains it.

Like that justifies everything.

“You ar not thinking clearly.”

It’s always said the same way.

Measured.

Gentle, in a way that doesn’t feel gentle at all.

---

She starts deciding things.

Your schedule.

Your meals.

Where you go.

Who you see.

Not forcefully.

Not violently.

Just—

inevitably.

“You do not need to concern yourself with that.”

Her hand rests on your shoulder when she redirects you.

Heavy.

Unmoving.

Not painful.

But impossible to ignore.

“I’ve already taken care of it.”

You hate that the most.

It feels like shrinking.

Like every choice you try to make gets… absorbed.

Rewriten.

Simplified.

Until you don’t recognize it anymore.

---

And then—

she compares you.

“Marky does not resist like this.”

Your stomach twists.

“Molly listens when she is corrected.”

You laugh.

Sharp. Bitter.

“Good for them.”

Her gaze hardens just slightly.

“This behavior is not… appropriate.”

“You are not a child.”

You snap.

A pause.

And then—

“You are behaving like one.”

It’s not cruel.

That’s the problem.

It’s said like a fact.

Like gravity.

Like something that doesn’t need to be argued.

You step back.

Finally angry enough to stop holding it in.

“I’m not them.”

“I’m not your kid.”

“And you don’t get to replace her.”

For a moment—

something shifts.

Not anger.

Not rage.

Something colder.

Scott steps in then.

Like he’s been waiting for the exact moment things would break.

“Hey—hey, that’s enough.”

His voice is careful.

Too careful.

He looks at you first.

Not Anissa.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Your chest tightens.

“Doing what?”

“Acting like she doesn’t matter.”

That stings more than anything Anissa has said.

“She’s trying.”

You laugh again.

But it sounds wrong this time.

“She’s trying to replace her.”

Scott exhales.

Rubs his face.

“No one is replacing anyone.”

But he doesn’t sound sure.

---

And Anissa—

Anissa watches both of you like she’s learning something.

“This is inefficient.”

The word cuts through the room.

You both look at her.

“Conflict like this serves no purpose.”

She steps closer.

Not rushed.

Not hesitant.

Just certain.

Her hand comes up to your face.

You freeze.

She doesn’t force you to look at her.

She just… expects it.

“You are overwhelmed.”

There it is again.

That quiet rewriting.

“Your attachment is impairing your judgment.”

Your jaw tightens.

“Stop deciding how I feel.”

For the first time—

she softens.

Slightly.

Almost imperceptibly.

“I am not deciding.”

A pause.

“I am correcting.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

Her thumb brushes under your eye.

You don’t even remember tearing up.

“You already belong to this family.”

Scott doesn’t interrupt this time.

That’s how you know he agrees.

The first time you knock it’s just another door.

Another polite smile. Another quick pitch. Another maybe-sale.

The man who answers looks a little tired—hesitant, even—but before he can say much, something shifts behind his eyes.

A pause.

Then—

“Chocolate.”

A voice murmurs. Not quite his.

He blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You list off what you have anyway. Thin Mints. Caramel chocolate chip. Peanut butter patties. Treefoils. Lemonades. The usual.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, suddenly

“I’ll take… all of those.”

“All of—?”

“All the chocolate ones,” he corrects quickly, already reaching for his wallet.

Behind his eyes, something hums in approval.

Good. Smart choice. We like this one.

He clears his throat, trying to cover it up.

You thank him. Of course you do. It’s a big purchase.

You don’t think much of it. Not yet.

It becomes a pattern after that.

A familiar knock.

A familiar face.

A door that opens faster each time.

Sometimes he’s already there before you even finish knocking.

“You’re early,” Eddie says once.

“They are right on time,” Venom corrects quietly—only for him.

---

You start setting up a table eventually. Less walking, more waiting. A few friends, a supervising adult, neat rows of boxes stacked in careful displays.

He still shows up. Not every time. But enough. Always for the same ones. Always watching a little longer than necessary.

You learn his name somewhere along the way. Maybe you ask. Maybe someone else says it first.

It sticks.

“Thank you, Mr. Eddie!”

The words are light. Casual. Easy.

But something about them lingers.

Eddie pauses, just for a second.

Venom goes completely still.

“…They remember us.”

Eddie exhales. Something softer slips into his expression.

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “Guess they do.”

After that, he starts coming by more often.

Other people stop coming as much.

It’s gradual. Easy to miss.

A regular here. A neighbor there. Gone.

Your stock still sells. He makes sure of it.

“We do not like the others,” Venom admits one evening, voice low.

“They take what is ours.”

“They’re just buying cookies,” Eddie mutters under his breath.

“So are we.”

At home, your parents mention something in passing.

A man asking questions.

Nothing invasive. Nothing too strange.

Just… timing. Days. How long you stay out.

You might brush it off. Or maybe not.

One day, you don’t show up.

No table. No knock. No familiar voice at the door.

Eddie notices. Venom notices first.

“Where are they.”

“I don’t know.”

“You should.”

“I’m not tracking a kid—”

“You should.”

The next time you do show up, it’s like nothing happened.

But the door opens faster than ever.

“You skipped yesterday,” Eddie says a little too quickly.

A pause.

Then, softer—

“…Everything okay?”

Venom lingers closer to the surface this time. You can feel it.

The first time you really see him, it isn’t at the door.

—

It’s later. After. After the shouting. After the running. After the money is gone.

You were counting boxes when someone grabbed the cash off the table.

The mugger thought no one noticed.

Eddie had. He always does.

“Eddie.”

“I see him.”

“He took from them.”

“I know.”

The alley swallows the mugger quickly. Out of sight—but not out of earshot.

There’s the sound of frantic footsteps. Then heavier, slower movements. Something low, massive, shifting—closer than it should be. A noise you can’t quite place, wet and sudden, like… something emerging.

A struggle. Brief. Muffled. Then silence.

Your troop hears the scream. Something nasty. The alley swallows it. They don’t see. They only hear.

When Eddie comes back, it’s almost jarring how normal he looks.

Almost.

Breathing heavier than before. Hair slightly disheveled. Shirt and pants creased, edges darkened by something—dirt, something darker, maybe blood. Something under his fingernails. Not enough to notice unless you’re looking.

He doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t need to.

The money is in his hand. All of it. Held carefully. Too carefully. Like it matters more than it should. Like you do.

“You should be more careful" Eddie says.

Gentler than expected. Quieter. Concern, not anger.

Behind him something shifts. Not fully visible. But there. Watching. Content.

“They will not touch you again

----

Things settle on the surface.

He still buys cookies. Still lingers. Still watches.

Venom speaks more now. Not always where others can hear. But sometimes

“You are safe,” he tells you once.

Up close, his voice isn’t loud. Just… certain.

“We make sure of it.”

You might get used to it. Or maybe you don’t.

Maybe its the way the street feels quieter now. Or how no one interrupts when you’re talking to him. Or how he always seems to know when you’ll be there.

Or mayb it’s the way he says your name. Carefully. Like he plans on remembering it for a very long time.

“We like you,” Venom adds.

A pause. Then softer

“You are ours.”