Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[. . .]

"They say that I'm on a roll,

Maybe I just lost control."

[. . .]

Chapter 1

A Scrap of Hair

[. . .]

Held in the air by the throat, your body locks in on itself with pink, defeated energy, legs dangling limply, bleeding head cocked sideways as you stare vacantly at the man you fell in love with. Teen Team is gone. Robot has fended off the best of him, but ultimately failed, lying unceremoniously on the ground with only a wire of frequency indicating any sort of life.

Markus Sebastian Grayson, or preferably called, Mark, with his grip vindictive and lost, looks into your vulnerable gaze with wild, assessing eyes.

Those very same eyes had once cradled your very skin. Fleeting moments, really, when he'd fight to his heart's content and finally subdued into the restless hours of summer nights. There had been touches, too, shameless in every attempt, and hard punches when he'd delight his time in sparring with you, for old time's sake. Every time he'd take sadistic delight, just to switch up and hold you against him in the aftermath like a sorry sod who’s broken his one and only toy.

But this was before he'd decided to become a dictator and take over the world.

He'd always been detached. Eccentric and cold in nature, yet blunt and scorching the next second.

He was supposed to be your forever.

But now your father is dead. Your nation, gone. Life as you knew it has become an unforgivable wasteland.

All that's left is you and the boy in your memories.

"Are you gonna scream?" He whispers conspiratively, gently—in his case, at least, not for you—bringing your face closer to his own. His head tilts, eyes growing lidded, groping your hip harshly with his free hand. Something sincerely sad paints his face just for a moment, before it's wiped completely by a terrifying blankness.

You reach for his arm slowly, watching as he too, observes your next move with unhidden trepidation. "Maybe," You whisper back, curling your fingers onto his wrist. A thrum of energy encapsulates him, sizzling the cuts and bruises across his face. With his ridiculous hairstyle, he paints a funny picture, otherwise. It feels right to see him sneer and twist uncomfortably, knowing that you are the main reason for his disastrous appearance.

"Is that a promise?" He murmurs, shamelessly skimming his eyes across your body before finally landing on your lips.

Your lips part.

You wonder, tragically and emptily, if this night will be your last.

"Maybe," You return with a shaky exhale.

His stare is intense. Demanding.

Vulnerable, even.

"Last chance," He lets go of your hip to raise a bloodied fist. It shakes. His hand has never shaken before. "Do you want to join me?" He asks, sounding like his tongue is lathered with the discomfort of tar. His eyes search your face frantically.

You swallow.

Your eyes close.

What else do you have to lose, besides your dignity?

"Okay."

[. . .]

It all begins at the tender age of seven when you meet a boy.

There you are, situated safely within the monitored sandbox of a local playground, idly gliding your fingers through the vacant dunes before you in repetitive, bored motions. Just a few feet away lingers a PTGN agent and a few invisible drones hidden among the leaves of the trees surrounding you, monitored by your Uncle Donald who, at your father Cecil's kind request, followed protocol and allowed some sentimental hours outside for playtime.

It had been a while since you were able to enjoy some time in the sun away from the confines of your father's agency. You don't ask much from him, thus you never speak outwardly for wants when you're so busy perfecting your powers otherwise—yet he always knows the right times when you need something—like now, letting you get some air.

He's attentive like that.

Since as far as you can remember, Cecil and Donald have been the only familial faces in your life.

According to Uncle Donald, he'd rescued you from a breeding camp and nurtured the powers given to you by your mother. He'd fabricated an elaborate story that you hadn't quite believed, but the kindness and acceptance of your erratic powers overthrew any negative testament about that.

He loves you. His friends are your friends, and everyone in your father's agency treats you kindly. That's enough for you.

It's a little lonely, with nobody else your age around, sure. But that's fine. You do well focusing on yourself and the lessons ingrained in you by your tutors.

Right now, you're learning the complexities of hand-to-hand combat. Simultaneously, you're also being shoved several books about the elements and the general constitutions of matter, and all its mysteries. He doesn't tell you, but you can tell your father is hoping to uncover some answers through you.

That's why you're outside.

You know your father is a bit obvious—pavlov conditioning isn't exactly subtle. But if this is your reward for how hard you're working, you think he may have succeeded to a certain degree. Being outside is mundane but fun enough. An insecure part of you feels like you're being used. The other, child-like, more wanton, part of you doesn't care.

Cecil Stedman is a kind man. If he needs something done, if he needs help reconstructing certain parts of his most treasured projects, if he feels like pushing you to your limit and training you to your full potential as an ultimate weapon against a dire threat as he's discussed with Donald when he thinks you're asleep at night, then you'll do it.

You'll do it.

Maybe this is wrong. To be so devoted to someone that you know hides things from you.

But he's your dad.

There's nothing so wrong in loving the parent who does their best to care for you.

So while you pick up tiny fistfuls of sand and morph them into other objects, looking back at the PTGN agent for any reproach in your funny craft, you try to enjoy your time outside while you can. It's nice out here. The breeze is soft and the shade is lovely. Your legs, embedded within the sand, feel their velvety prickles in careful brush-like strokes.

Everything is great.

Until you feel several strands of your hair being yanked away by a tough hand.

"I want your not ugly hair," says a snotty voice from behind you, "Gimme it."

You let out a quiet hiss and quickly seize the hand harming your scalp, twisting it at an angle that startles a cry from the perpetrator, before subtly enhancing your strength enough to flip them forward.

You hear several footsteps right as you lock eyes on the face of your new enemy.

A boy with two missing front teeth and a buzzcut stares at you with a nasty sneer. He looks pained and mildly dazed, hand holding several ripped sections of your precious hair. His brown eyes are alight with something angry while you stare at him incredulously, for once in your somewhat empty existence, feeling an emotion outside of beneficial boredom.

Disbelief.

"Mark!"

You're firmly pulled away from the boy by a gloved hand, and you let go of the boy automatically, turning your head away to gauge the reaction of the PTGN agent speaking lowly into the mic by his ear. You hear his request for immediate extraction, and you sag lugubriously at the realization that your lovely afternoon outside, among nature, will be cut short.

I didn't mean to, lies at the tip of your tongue, but you stay silent. He's not your father. He won't try to comfort or assure you that your honed instincts are okay. That they are natural.

You scowl over at the boy, possessively cradling your hair against his chest, glaring at his scolding mother.

All because of him.

Mark.

Stupid name, you think, catching his eye.

He gets up and waves your parted hair around mockingly, sneering. His mother is quick to pull him back, face stern.

Stupid, stupid boy. I hate you.

The mother then tries to talk. To apologize.

Another agent, one you hadn't seen, approaches her to deal with the situation while you're taken away.

You teleport in a flash of sizzling light not even seconds later, meekly rubbing the affronted part of your head in odd thought.

Why did he do that?

What will he use your hair for?

And why had he been so fast, that the agent hadn't stopped him from hurting you?

Cecil is waiting for you with crossed arms by the time you come to a computerized room.

You stay quiet as the agent departs from you, explaining the situation to him while your father leans with one ear. His neutral expression doesn't contort with what he's told and you relax significantly. This may not be the first time you've interacted with the outside world and its citizens, but this sure as hell is the first time you've been hurt by them.

"Alright," He sighs eventually, causing you to stiffen. "Important thing is you did your job. Tell Wednesday to take back the hair the boy took, just in case."

"Right away, sir," The PTGN agent provides, walking away and leaving the two of you alone.

You cradle your hands to your chest. "...am I in trouble?" You ask neutrally, studying his expression.

He softens slightly. "No," He pauses, "Do you want to tell me your version of the story, or is what Monday said the truth?"

You consider. "...The truth. I was harmed randomly by a boy who wanted my hair."

His eyes look considering. "...Do you suspect any foul play or intentional targeting involved?" He asks, approaching you and crouching to be at your level. He reaches over to rub your sore spot.

You think about it while you lean into the touch.

It had been sudden. But does this warrant suspicion for a potential kidnapping? No, likely not. You hadn't been paying attention. There is no way for you to know if the hair attack was premeditated. The boy is someone you don't know, clearly annoyed by his mother's attempts to get him to apologize to you for his actions. That's as much as you assessed. "No," You admit with a frown. "I think..." You scowl, "I think he was just being stupid. A bully."

Cecil hums, processing your answer, before leveling you with a nod. "And how are you feeling, after this ordeal? Do you want me to press charges?" He unfortunately stops petting your head.

You wrinkle your nose. "On a stupid boy? No. He was just being dumb."

He smiles slightly. "Very mature of you."

"So you say," You drawl sarcastically.

"Are you okay, then?" He asks carefully, eyeing you. "You have a bald spot," He comments, looking over your head.

You soften. "I'm okay," You lift a finger and twirl it in the air, restoring your missing hair with a pink flash. He looks at you approvingly. "It's not a problem. Hair can grow back."

He straightens, fixing the wrinkles in his suit. "Okay, then," He looks off to the side, toward the open window of the facility. "How about we go out for some ice cream, hm?"

Your heart jumps, "Really!?"

At the sight of your enthusiasm, his small smile broadens. "Why not? Could use the break."

You hop excitedly in place, sending sparks of energy flying everywhere. He barely bats an eye at the display, unlike everyone else (sans Uncle Donald) who grows wary at your excitable nature. "Can we get chocolate? And oh—a sundae! With a real banana!"

Cecil chuckles, walking toward the exit. You fly next to him to follow, twirling around him. "Sure, kid. Get whatever you want."

Your eyes squeeze with glee.

I couldn't stay in the park today, you think, but I get to have ice cream, instead.

With dad.

[. . .]

Eleven years later, you stare at the mutilated corpse of one Cecil Stedman smeared against various other bodies. Including the robotic pieces of your Uncle Donald, laying motionless after years of use.

Your eyes want to water, footsteps skidding across the blood-soaked tiles of the hallways you once roamed free in.

Dad, you think, fists coiling. A heavy, agonized ache pierces your chest.

I didn't even get the chance to say sorry.

"Hey."

You snap your head forward.

Mark is staring at you expectantly, arms crossed and left foot tapping impatiently. "Hurry the fuck up. I don't want Dad to kill you for being late." His eyes naturally slide to where you were looking at, ever curious and suspicious, and his face scrunches in confusion. "Ugh. Cecil. I forgot I killed him here." His hands squeeze his biceps warily.

You breathe in carefully.

He notices—his face twists in disapproval. "You miss him, or something? I thought you hated him."

You catch up to him slowly, rubbing your eyes. They're dry.

"I do," You lie.

"Then?" He scowls. "Stop being sad. It looks fucking stupid on you. Being happy looks better."

You sigh. You're not even going to dignify that with a proper response. He can never compliment well, can he? Normally, a comment like that would promote fond exasperation, knowing that it was Mark’s horrible attempt at trying to make you feel better. But these aren’t normal circumstances. This is life or death, now.

As much as you can relievingly tell that Mark still wants you around, for whatever reason, it’s not exactly his call. There’s still his father to face.

You know that if his father disapproves, you’re dead.

The reminder presses a weight on your shoulders. “Can we move?” You mutter, rubbing the marks on your neck. Mark’s eyes linger on them. “I'm tired, Mark."

He huffs. "Yeah, whatever." He looks unsure and angry for a moment before he snatches your hand and pulls you closer. His fingers tremble as you stare at his blank face in confusion. "Come on, already," he murmurs, his thumb sliding against your palm.

You do.

You wonder how his face can redden at a time like this.

Chapter Text

[. . .]

"I'm sore. My heart is so, so sore."

[. . .]

Chapter 2

Isn't Believable

[. . .]

Mark's father lets you live, surprisingly enough.

It's not out of the mercy that you are Mark's toy, nor is it due to a fear of your abilities being unleashed to their full, lethal potential that he chooses to spare you. Not even out of usefulness. Nobody except your father knows just what you're capable of.

If he saw me now, you think dismally, he'd hate me forever for letting myself get captured this way.

Nolan Grayson spares you simply because Mark asked.

He takes one look at you, listening to his rambling son with one bored ear, and then waves dismissively. Mark quiets quickly just as you let out a breath at finally being out of the madman's eye. "If you find pleasure with it," Nolan Grayson says mercilessly, turning around with a flare of his cape toward the darkening skies, "I won't deny you your fill, just as long as you know that the Viltrimute Empire takes priority."

Mark crosses his arms with a roll of his eyes. "Uh, duh? Why the fuck would I let a hole ruin an entire 20-year-old operation of utmost importance?"

You carefully glance at Mark, looking through your locks of hair in vacant contemplation. A hole? Seriously? Mark is stupid. He's never once been interested in sex, the asshole. The fact that he thinks he can play you off as a concubine or some shit has got to be the most idiotic thing you've heard. There's no possibility Nolan will believe him in the long run, especially without evidence. Sex has evidence. Plenty.

Smell, primarily. Hickeys won't convince his father of shit. Viltrumites have an extraordinary sense of smell. If Mark doesn't smell like you, or if you don't smell like him...

You resign yourself to your fate with an internal sigh. You'll live an extra week, at most.

Enough time to escape, you think to yourself. But maybe you don't have a week. Maybe you have three days. Or one. Or none at all.

That's enough. Even an hour is enough.

With a mere snap of your fingers, you possess the ability to transform into anything. You could alter their suits into something entirely different, perhaps even slow them down sufficiently to allow yourself to merge with the ground and become one with the Earth. Your father never discovered the method to eliminate a Viltrumite, but he never really had to. He had you as his fallback. His Ultimate Weapon. You, along with your significant absence of limiters, which have diminished over the years due to advancements in neurological technology.

Anger burbles inside your chest cavity, threatening to burst the gargle of hate rippling in your throat like condensed acid.

That's all I ever was. Just a weapon to him. A weapon against Mark and his shit father.

Uncle Donald tried insisting otherwise, all those years ago. You were aware he was in on it, in this... fucked up way of thinking, but. Uncle Donald had been used, too. A robot with the original's memories of every death endured. Truly, it was one of the most shit things you found out about your father.

He had to do what he had to, your childish brain wants to argue. For Earth. For Humanity.

Bullshit, argues the hurt part of you. I wanted Love. But what he gave me was conditional.

Fuck Humanity. Fuck everyone. They aren't you. They didn't have to undergo controlled experiments that posed a risk of mortality. They never had to do anything for Cecil, never had to fly around and rebuild, reconstruct, remake, create. Constantly, forever, all the fucking time, far from home and with no time to enjoy your life. They were just... humans. With nothing special about them except the freedom they had in a lamb pen.

You hate Cecil. You hate him for leaving you to think this way. This is what he feared. He was always so fucking scared.

But I love Dad, your heart pleads. The little girl in you never went away. Not even after his betrayal. I miss him.

And now you'll never get the chance to let out your anger to his face ever again.

Because he's dead. Long gone. Too late, for you to reach with your fingers and tap him alive just before he goes.

His death was instant, anyway. Assuming. Mark never liked him.

That's my fault, you know. Ultimately, it was Mark to whom you confided your feelings. He frequently expressed his annoyance at your complaints, even ridiculing the triviality of your concerns. Yet, he remained present. While you recognize that his presence was the bare minimum expected, he did listen—truly listen. Others often seemed at a loss for words or diverted the conversation to their own issues, neglecting your attempts to discuss your trauma. As the young and impressionable therapist for Teen Team, you had not particularly objected to this dynamic; it was simply part of your role. So you kept it to yourself.

But with Mark, no. He commented on tidbits in his own Mark way, hurting you more often than not, but with the truth.

You found yourself without anyone else to turn to. His mother had passed away from cancer shortly after your initial meeting with him, as Mark recounted, in that significant park eleven years prior. At the age of thirteen, he had shared this with you on a quiet impulse. He went on to reveal his genuine emotions, explaining how his father had changed drastically following his mother's death, and how Mark himself had grown distant, as no one else in his life showed him kindness.

He claimed he didn't care by the end of it. That it was fine by him, to not have his mother's nagging by his ear.

But you understood. You knew he was burying feelings the only way he knew how.

Nobody else understands Mark as you do. He doesn't have any friends besides William, though you have a feeling he's gone now.

Mark never liked Teen Team, and Teen Team never liked Mark. They were scared of him.

For good reason, you think. Mark is... sadistic. To an extent. At least, he's only held back when it came to you.

DupilKate would inquire how you could tolerate being in the company of someone as unpleasant and thoughtless as Mark. Rex was covertly jealous for never getting a chance with you because Mark was there to threaten him away, Robot was Robot, and you...

You never had a solid answer.

You still don't.

Is this love you feel, for him? For Mark? It feels... distinctly wrong, but right at the same time.

Up until a few hours ago, Mark never tried to kill you. That's special treatment, according to the distinctions of behavior you've studied on Mark and socialization. He hates everyone else. But with you...

He doesn't hate you completely.

And if he does, he can't really do much to kill you.

You can't exactly die. Therefore, despite any potential threats to your life, your body will gather its fragments and repair itself. The sole method of ending your life is through a fatal injury to your head. One spatter of brain matter and you're done. Gone.

Dead.

But you have a funny feeling Mark won't go for the head.

It's scary to think about.

Mark is going to live a long time. You can too, if your theories are right. You can change yourself. You can be as ageless as you want.

But this means he's never going to let you go. If you're right, if Mark cares about you the way you think he does...

Mark won't let you leave.

Mark is impulsive, obsessive, possessive...

You straighten slightly when Mark finally turns around to face you. He has a shit-eating grin on his face, momentarily marred by debris and ash, as his father gestures with a wave of his hand, attempting to prevent a crawling, legless human from making their escape and thus causing a gust of wind to go prattling against you.

"Come on, slave," Mark sneers at you, seizing your arm in an act of control. You feel Omni-man's eyes on the both of you. You play along and whimper at the knowing bruise that'll form there, watching in slight amazement as Mark's pupils dilate instantly at the sound. He pulls you harshly against him until your arms wrap themselves willingly around his neck, and his own circle your waist in an inescapable hold.

His breath hits your ear and you shiver at the probing sensations of his fingertips against your hips and sides. "I've got you," He murmurs.

In one go, he flies into the air.

And you cling to him, tired eyes closing.

[. . .]

You're ten and you're staring at the same boy who tore your hair out of your head.

In a different sandbox located in a different state on the day of your supposed birth, you stand confidently in the cherished ruby dress your father gifted you for this special occasion. Your gaze is fixed on the boy whose hair is styled in an absurdly unappealing manner, perceiving him as resembling a mental patient, with his hair disheveled in a way that evokes the appearance of a clown. Beneath his bulbous, purple eye, there is a noticeable scratch, a mark that you inflicted after he attempted to get your hair again.

There are no PTGN or GDA agents close by, as promised by your father. Just a mere monitor ball, per Uncle Donald's fretful request.

You're very aware there are several hidden somewhere out here. Your father knows that you know this, and despite that, here you are, technically hurting a civilian. It goes against your protocol, but nobody else is around. Just you. And this stupid boy who tried to rip out your hair again.

Mark, the boy, stands while brushing off the sand from his Seance Dog shirt. You cock your head in a challenging gesture, wondering if he's a fan of the comics or if he's wearing that shirt because he has nothing else to wear. It looks new.

He sniffs. He eyes you up and down disdainfully. "So. You're not weak."

You shrug at his nonstellar observation. "I guess not."

His eyes scamper from your face to your hair briefly. "...I'm still takin' your hair."

This again? You make a face. "Why?"

"S'not as ugly as your face," He retorts, limbs twitching with intent to strike.

You blink at him dispassionately. "Was that meant to be a compliment?"

"Don't care," He spreads his legs apart in a method reminiscent of a preparation for combat. You do the same and put your fists up on instinct, watching with intrigue as he studies you for a second before copying you. Typical. "Gimme your hair. Stupid girl."

"You're going to have to take it by force, then," You challenge. "And your insults are lacking. If you're going to insult me, start by being better than me."

He pauses, widening his eyes.

You wait. Either his momentary freeze-up is a tactic to get your guard down, or he's genuinely thinking about your words. It's hard to tell with a face as goofy as his.

You ultimately get your answer when he lets out a warcry and pounces on you. You effortlessly evade him, sidestepping so that he crashes face-first into the thorny dunes. These dunes had not been cleared of vegetation since last autumn, and you had intended to address that today, as walking through them is quite uncomfortable. However, you're relieved that you postponed this task, as it now benefits you. As a result, this Mark fellow now has sharp twigs protruding from his busted face.

The fight is anticlimactic.

When he groans and sits up, he rubs at his face, ridding himself of the small pinecones, prickles, and twigs attached to the sand.

He doesn't try to attack you again.

He goes back to studying you like a predator watches its prey, instead. "You're fast," He acknowledges with a reluctant tone of awe, pressing hard against his purple eye. You wonder if it hurts him at all, for him to be picking at it like that.

"Yeah," You say in lieu of something meaningful. "So what?"

"So," He mocks, "Let's fight."

Ugh. "No," You snap.

He scowls at you. "Why? Too scared?"

You roll your eyes. "No. You're just not worth my time."

At that, his eyes flash something resembling hurt. Insecurity, perhaps? "I'll show you!" He stands quickly with a wobble, teeth bared at you in promised hostility. "Once we're through, you'll wish you fought me for real!"

"That makes no sense," You drone.

"Don't care!" He yells and jumps at you again with no thoughts whatsoever. He fails, evidently, as you jump over him, simultaneously using his back as leverage and pushing him down to the ground. He groans at the weight you exude as you nimbly land behind him.

You look down at him. "Told you. If you want to fight with me, get better."

He gets up again, spitting out sand with a wince. "Ugh," He frowns, "No one's around to teach me."

"Can't your parents sign you up for self-defense classes?" You offer neutrally, looking around for his mother. She's not around.

"...Dad's busy, so he can't," Is his vague answer. His face twists with something akin to grief and anger.

Something about that statement resonates with you. Cecil is always busy. Family time is so rare, nowadays.

You make a face at him. You're going to regret this, probably. Maybe for forever. "...If I teach you stuff, will you stop trying to tear my hair out of my head?" You ask, sniffing.

He scoffs. "No. Your hair's not ugly."

Whatever the hell that means.

You turn around, arms crossed. "Fine. Then we're not fighting."

The boy scrambles up, "W-wait! Hold on, stupid girl!"

You side-eye him with a sneer, "My name is Eve." Technically. That's your middle name. You rarely use your first name, and it'd be weird for someone your age to call you Stedman. It sounds like you're some old man.

"Stupid girl Eve," Mark acquiesces, smirking at you.

You huff. "You're not helping your case. If you want to fight me, and learn and get better—"

"I never said all that stupid stuff."

"You implied it," You retort scathingly. He quiets, jaw clenched. "Anyway. You're going to want to be nice to me if you want to know what I know."

Inside your head, your father's voice warns you not to make empty promises. There's no way you'll be able to see Mark again after this, not if there's any way for you to contact him.

Luckily for you, Mark seems to get the memo. "Fine. I'll be nice," He mimics a gag, and you just stare at his childish antics until he's done. "But you're gonna teach me. Or else."

He's so ridiculous. "You're already failing," You murmur.

He throws his hands up, "I just started!"

"You sure did."

"Whatever, screw you!" He falters a second, "Wait no. Hold on."

You wait despite yourself. You were about to leave.

He rubs the back of his head in mild frustration. "...You're just gonna disappear or somethin'." So he's not that idiotic. "So. Come to my place. Or whatever."

You raise an eyebrow. "And that would be...?"

"Chicago..."

"Real descriptive," You deadpan.

"I don't know my address, okay? My... Well, the documents are all somewhere. I just gotta find them," He grumbles, kicking at a pinecone. It flies and hits your knee. Ouch.

You sag your shoulders. You don't even know if your dad will let you go. "I'll see what I can do to find you," You pause, furrowing your brows as a thought comes to you. "We're not in Chicago right now. So how'd you get here?"

"Dad," He tells you blankly.

"...We're in California...?"

"So?"

"What, your dad drove you here or something? Airplane?"

"Airplane," Mark replies too fast to be true. He keeps his eyes on you, though, so maybe he's not lying.

You hum. "Kay, then. I'll find you, maybe, in Chicago."

"So, what, you're leaving now?" He sounds disappointed.

You kick at some sand, pondering whether you should lie or not. This is the most fun you've had if you're being honest, even though Mark is super annoying. Plus, it's your birthday. Your dad said you could stay outside for several hours rather than the usual two. That counts for something, right? And it's not like you're alone. You have the GDA spies following you. You inhale and exhale, deciding. "I don't have to."

He perks. "For real?"

"What do you want to do, if I stay?" You tilt your head curiously.

His smile turns lecherous. "To fight."

Oh my God. "No, I told you already," You rebuke.

He groans. "Fine, whatever. Can you fly?"

You wonder. Should you tell him? "...Maybe."

His grin turns genuine, and the little jump he gives is adorable. You immediately dismiss the thought. "Cool, then! Let's fly to New York for some pizza."

You stare at him. "Uh? That's on the other side of the country."

"So?" He scrunches his nose, "That's easy for you, right? Or are you a little stupid princess?"

He's failing miserably in the kind department. Why are you even putting up with this?

Because you're lonely, your brain supplies unhelpfully. Right. That.

How embarrassing.

You let your arms drop limply at your sides. "...Fine. But you can't pull my hair."

He bristles. Then sags in defeat. "Fine. You're so boring."

"And you're annoying," You mumble, walking closer to him. He shifts back, confused. You stop. "What?"

"What are you doing?" He demands.

"I'm picking you up?" You gesture to yourself.

He looks nervous. "...Oh. Yeah. I knew that," He clears his throat, "So... How am I..."

"Piggyback ride," You say, like it's obvious.

He nods, unsure.

You turn your back to him and lower into a crouch. He comes closer, and you tense, wondering if he would dare break his promise and tear out your hair. Fortunately, he doesn't, instead placing his gangly body on your back. You holster his legs on your hands, inhaling sharply when his arms come around to nearly choke you. He quickly fixes that, though, before you can comment.

"...Ready?" You rasp, angling your head back.

He looks deeply into your eyes.

"...Yeah."

You nod. "Hold on tight."

You face the sun.

And fly.

[. . .]

Eight years later, you don't let go of Mark until he does first.

"That was the most boring shit ever," Mark mumbles as he touches down on the ground, gently separating himself from you. His hands twitch against your hips before he turns around and walks toward his makeshift throne, sitting himself down on the soft cushioning with a petulant sigh. He leans his arm against the throne's sides, putting his head against his fist. "At least you didn't cry."

You gently part your hair away from your face. His eyes, as always, are intensely honed on you and your movements. "Why would I cry?" You ask, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs. "Weird thinking on my part, I guess. Chicks cry over stupid shit all the time."

"That's misogynistic," You point out. You walk toward him.

He sits up a little more at your approach. "Hey. Does it look like I care?" He throws one of his hands up in mock offense, "Besides, I hate everyone equally. Everyone's a whiny bitch."

"Sure," You agree. You sit yourself down by his leg, tired. Your throat still hurts. You should probably fix that. "So, what was that about?"

"What?" He looks bored.

"The thing you told your dad, obviously," You grunt. Your hands poke at your bruised skin, lightly touching the handprints left on your neck. Something about it feels satisfying despite the unruly vulgarity you feel emanating from the concept of his hand around your throat. It feels... intimate. And the soothing way his thumb rubbed there while he choked you doesn't leave your mind.

Probably another mental hazard of mine, you think. Cecil would've probably fixed that.

"Oh, that. What about it?"

His voice brings you to the present. You angle your head to look at him, unimpressed.

He rolls his eyes at the sight. "What, are you offended by it? S'not like it's true. For you not to die, the solution was obvious. I keep you as my little whore, and boom, Dad never suspects a thing!"

You shake your head. "I don't care about being offended or not, I was aware of that. The problem lies in how believable it is."

He furrows his brow. "What are you talking about?"

"Nobody's going to believe I'm your whore, Mark," You deadpan.

He looks genuinely offended about that. "Why not?"

"For someone so smart, you sure are stupid," You grumble, turning your head away to examine the royal room in frustration. Cushions are everywhere, including various golden items you'd seen in museums. What catches your eye isn't that, however, but the small golden Seance Dog statue you'd given Mark for his fifteenth Birthday.

Huh.

The sudden forceful tug of your other arm causes you to startle and look up at him. He stares down at you coldly, and the memory of a smiling Mark is swothed away. "Explain," He rumbles lowly, squeezing. It doesn't hurt. "I wanna know."

You sigh at his dangerous tone. "Mark. We don't... We've never done that stuff before."

"So?"

"So," You emphasize as you pull your arm free with a subtle zap, "Others will tell. Your dad will know. If I'm around without any telltale signs of hardcore sex, your dad will put two and two together and realize you're..." You trail off, biting your lip.

His eyes are a little sharper. "I'm...?" He goads.

Your heart beats faster. He must be able to tell because his eyes narrow on you further. "I'm fucking what, Eve?"

Your cheeks color and you huff. "That you care about me, asshole," You blurt, ripping off the bandaid.

The room enters a suffocating silence.

Then, "...I guess." His face darkens slightly, scowling.

"And I..." Fuck, it's not anything new, so why is it hard to say it?

He looks at you. Is that hope you see?

"I..." You clench your teeth, "Oh, for fuck's sake. I care about you too. And I don't want you to... be alone. In this."

"That's what you're worried about?" Is his shit question, eyes wide. You look away in defeat.

"No shit, Mark. Even though you're shitty, I care. I want you to have someone. Not just... I get it, you know?" You rub your face. "I get it."

"I have my dad," He scoffs. Your heart drops. "I don't need you, really. I just like having you around."

And there it goes.

Your heart shrivels then and there, creating an inevitable, aching, void.

That's how it is.

You stand. "Fine, Mark."

"Huh?"

You walk away. You don't dare glance back, in fear that you'll let emotions spill on your face. "I'm... heading to bed. Feel free to discuss how we'll be fixing that problem. Otherwise..." You leave it at that and head through the automated doors that open at your will.

Mark doesn't follow you.

Typical, you think.

Chapter Text

[. . .]

"It's like I waited too long."

[. . .]

Chapter 3

When a Boy Wants It

[. . .]

After all these years, Mark has reached a tenuous understanding with the depraved observations of the assholes in high school he once called his 'friends'—when they'd talk about how hot it was to see you leave.

He'd been sixteen when you sought him out for the first time during the school hours of lunch, nonchalantly calling out his name beside a closed locker just across from him. He turned his head, his brow furrowed, the laughter from one of Todd's poor jokes fading as he searched for the source of the call, instantly captivated by the intensity of your gaze fixed upon him.

You lifted your hand in a casual wave after his notice.

Before he could jog over to you and curiously demand to know why you were here, in school, in public, his friends immediately began to shove at him with jibes and hissing whispers about scoring the attention of a 'babe'.

He had no idea what the fuck that meant. The only thoughts occupying his mind were the overwhelming rage he experienced from being touched without his permission, coupled with immense confusion as to what the fuck he was looking at.

To him, you had always been creepy as all fuck. You never seemed to blink, you have the eerie strength of ten men, and you were always wearing something fitting for a funeral. Your boring personality needed some work, clearly inept at socialization, though somehow you knew what the hell everyone was thinking—which makes sense to him as he was already aware of your extensive study of various governmental psychology texts. Or whatever.

In the limited opportunities he had to witness your interactions with others, you consistently drew them away with your enigmatic greetings and cryptic comments that he found greatly amusing. Perhaps this was intentional, as you seemed adept at performing and feigning interest in dire situations he drew inspiration from; however, it was evident that you struggled significantly with interpreting social cues.

(He did too—and still does. But this isn't about him.)

So, no. He didn't find you 'hot' at all.

But maybe it needed someone else, outside of him, to acknowledge the beauty his selfish eyes deprived him of.

Because when you realized he wasn't going to approach you in the short ten seconds of eye contact, you'd taken matters into your own hands and walked to him with clothes he'd never seen you in before.

You looked... like an actual teenager rather than the astrophysicist or morgue attendant he was used to—with a jean skirt Principal Winslow would have a heart attack from and a tightly-fitted, short-sleeved baby pink shirt that left a slim section of your abdomen exposed, various golden and silver bands on each of your wrists clinked together as your pink, heeled sandals echoed amidst the sudden hush of the hallway. Your ears were adorned with shiny, probably diamond, dangling golden earrings shaped like hearts, and your hair was let loose from its usual ponytail, swishing tantalizingly past your shoulders in tandem with the sharp jut of your hypnotizing hips. There was a thick dose of lip gloss on your inviting lips and a color that boldened your eyelashes, leaving you looking like a teenage boy's wet dream.

Mark blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

By this point, his friends' jaws were on the floor and you were poised just a few inches above him, standing before him rather menacingly. Wafts of your soft perfume coated his insides in a mushy high. "Clothes," You told him in that same bland tone of yours, and Mark had to suppress the slight shiver that went down his spine. "I was texting you. It's lunch. Why didn't you answer?"

Mark side-eyed the state of his friends briefly—they were whispering to each other, pointing at you like they knew you or some shit—before addressing you. "I lost track of time," He mumbled, clenching and unclenching his fists upon realizing that it wasn't just him who was looking at you.

It was there when one of Mark's favorite memories came to fruition. Todd, for all that he pranced around trying to be his friend, was real shit at it. He thought himself better than him, despite Mark beating his ass multiple times in the past. He stepped himself away from the group of idiots, putting on his 'suave' face as he called it, though Mark thought it was corny as fuck. He'd told him so. Multiple times.

"Hey," Todd said, running a hand through his balding head, "Eve, right? Amber talked about you."

Mark made a face. Who the fuck is Amber? And why does she know you?

You didn't look at Todd. His shitty attempt at an introduction went entirely ignored. An unknown glee sparked within Mark at this. "Mark," You scowled at him, and the sound of authority in your voice was a slap to the face. A good one. "We're meeting up after school for practice. I'm letting you know because you can't opt out of it. It's important."

"You could've just called and told me this," Mark deadpanned.

You stared, hard, "I did."

"Oh?" Todd made the mistake of pushing him aside, eyeing you hungrily, "Practice? For what, babe? Can me and the boys come?" At the question, several of the guys huddled closer to you with various voices chiming in agreement.

Mark's hands were inches away from wringing Todd's neck when he heard the most delightful word from you.

With the most exaggerated valley-girl accent he's ever heard, you scrunched up your nose in an expression he'd only seen you use when you'd stepped in dog shit, and declared, "Ew."

Todd bristled.

You regarded Mark again, narrowing your eyes with an acrylic nail poking at his chest. "I'll find you. Don't be late."

Mark's extensive murder plan for Todd was set aside to indulge in the satisfaction of reminiscing Todd's utter failure. This wasn't his first, but because the rejection came from you, Mark thought he was in heaven. "Sure," He had a shit-eating grin on his face, one that softened your expression, "Whatever you want, babe."

Your eye twitched at his mocking jeer, yet he enjoyed the privilege of feeling your hand brush against his shoulders (though it felt more like a painful bruise than a gentle touch) as you walked away.

After you left, Todd was clowned on. Severely. Right after several of his friends began howling at Mark for finally 'getting some', too. Mark assumed it to be another one of their pornographic phrases he hated very much (because he'd attempted to watch porn, and it just wasn't hitting) and dismissively agreed to their claims of finally being tied down.

Todd was pissed off, so he decided to objectify you like he does every woman he comes across, except worse. The fact that he had the balls to talk shit about you in front of him, thinking that you were Mark's girlfriend, was bold, Mark had to give him that. His friends joined in on it too, while others wisely stayed silent upon witnessing the murderous intent expelling from Mark.

Mark had given him a black eye and busted jaw that day, right before he was said to meet up with you. He'd gotten suspended. It was great.

Some of what he—and the other shitheads—said stayed with him years later, though.

Their description of your ass was severely lacking, something he'd never taken notice of before until they started to point it out on the rare chances they'd see you following that mess. They'd dubbed you as his girlfriend, and Mark never corrected them on it—and even then, they didn't respect you.

When he'd gained his powers for the first time, he killed them first. One by one, he'd hunted them, laughing in profound joy at the screams tickling his ears as his hands twisted their limbs in all the wrong directions.

Now, as he sits on his throne reflecting on the good old days, their raunchous words come to mind.

Your body sways something distinctly fierce and angry, riddled with the scent of disappointment as you walk away from him without a scratch on you.

The fact that you don't have a hole through your chest, with your beating heart in his hand, is something wild. Because if you were anyone else, you'd be dead for thinking you could walk away from him just like that.

But you're alive.

You're alive, and the satisfaction he should feel for watching someone as beautiful as you walk away isn't there.

Mark is confused.

You're acting in that complicated way of yours again, whenever things are out of your control. It's not anything he isn't used to (after all, he'd been there to witness your breakdown against that bald piece of shit father of yours he'd enjoyed killing before he had a chance to call you and make you his enemy) but, he knows something is different this time.

For one, the random conversation you brought up about being his pretend plaything didn't end in one of those long-lasting embraces he loves. Usually, when he comforts you, you hug him and let him have you pressed up against you. Your scent is beautifully asphyxiating, like a fatal drug he's been begging to overdose from. That's why he comforts you. To have you near him, to be your helping arm, to have you all to himself because he gets it. He knows. He understands.

But this time...

He lets out an annoyed sigh.

No hug. No little kisses to tingle his cheeks for a job well done. Nothing.

You'd just... walked away. Like he didn't just exude effort in trying to assure you he wouldn't let anything or anyone get to you!

There's something wrong with you. Clearly, he has gone underappreciated, and he has no idea how to feel about that. There's an aching chasm in his chest, similar to how he felt when his mom died, except maybe ten times worse, somehow. Because now he has no one to go to for some answers on why he feels this way.

You're better with human shit. He's... not. His mother was good at that too, and if she were here...

He lets out a harsher and more drawn-out sigh into the empty throne room, rolling his eyes upward in vexation.

Whatever. He'll think it out some more, and try to see the situation from your angle before he goes off to find you. There's something he's missing, evidently.

He hates it when you get like this. Granted it's only the second time in the span of a twenty-four-hour watch, which, ridiculous, but. He hadn't thought you'd cared enough about Humanity to start acting out like this.

The worst part is, is that he doesn't hate you necessarily. He hates himself for not understanding something you think is simple.

Mark is angry, now. You've always been smart. Better than him, in every way. And though he'll never admit it, he knows he's lacking compared to you.

You're just so... so you. He's never met anyone else so... strong.

Well. Everyone else is fucking weak in this shit planet, so there's that. But you know how to fight. How to threaten. Your powers are no joke, and he knows you can take him and his father down with just a flick of your finger. Changing sentient matter is insane like that.

(If his father knew, he would've killed you in a heartbeat.)

That's why he almost killed you when you raised a hand at him after what he'd done to Teen Team and their resident outcast, Robot. That fuckhead is still alive, just barely, per your unexpected request to keep him that way. He'd been scared for once in his life, feeling... wrong and, and sick? yeah. Sick as hell, stomach hurting, head pounding, when he'd held you by the throat like that. It was nothing like how it was in his fantasies.

(His bloody, horny, fantasies.)

All because he almost killed you, for hurting a wasteful piece of turd shit. Ugh. Robot.

He pauses. He sits up slightly.

Huh.

Maybe keeping Robot alive had been a good idea. He knows you too, right? Mark can just ask him what's up with you, and get an opinion to compare with his own.

He stands from his throne, grinning.

That's so simple!

By the time he returns, he'll have everything he wants.

[. . .]

Looking at Robot has to be some form of torture.

Compared to normal humans, he looks like an evil little shit.

Mark brushes past several wailing cages, eyebrow raised condescendingly at the arms reaching out to him. They must be desperate, Mark thinks, to ask me for an escape. Humans are dumb like that. Then again, the humans he'd captured are a few floors above literal lava, so he understands their quandary. They're slowly cooking alive at this proximity. He's surprised the humans have any fight left in them.

He pauses mid-way, considering. He collected these humans for a specific reason. If they die...

He runs a frustrated hand down his face.

Mark will need to go through the hassle of finding more humans with the same qualifications.

He huffs. He'll talk to Robot first, and then move them to a more air-conditioned facility. It's more than they possibly deserve, but you're particular with your likes, and so he cannot get rid of the various establishment workers you've gone to throughout the years, to which he has also extensively studied. He could just kill them all as punishment for your walk-out earlier, but you don't know he has them here, stationed like dirty mutts. It's supposed to be a surprise. A gift, so to speak.

Tangents in his mind unknot themselves.

Maybe you'll be more willing to talk if he gives you the gift as an apology? He's seen various couples makeup with that tactic.

We're not really dating, his mind supplies unhelpfully.

He scowls.

His eyes catch sight of Robot's shitty tank, just before him.

Right. He's here for a reason.

Grumbling about your attitude under his breath, he stalks forward toward Robot's floating form, eyes savoring the sight of the healing bruises on the side of his head. He'd hit him pretty hard, hah! Serves this fucker right. He'd always heard how bossy he'd been with you during Teen Team's glory days.

He'd wanted to pop his brains out.

"Yo!" He bangs his fist against the glass, careful not to break it. Robot, who'd been asleep, startles awake and stiffens with fear when he sees who's at his metaphorical door. Mark smirks at the sound of his heart accelerating. "Heeey, Robot! It's so nice to see you again!" He drawls sarcastically, tapping against the glass. Robot makes no indication of his discomfort, but the brief twitch of his injured eye gives him away.

"...Anyway," Mark's expression hardens, "Talk to me, Ru-dy. I've got a few questions of utmost importance!"

Rudy waits in horrified silence.

Mark rolls his eyes. Kill your friends once, and all of a sudden everyone is shitting themselves. They're so annoying. "Chill. I won't kill you. Not yet, at least..." He taps his chin with his gloved index finger in mocking thought, "Buuuut. I do have a bit of a proposition for you if you're willing?"

Rudy swallows audibly. Mark perceives various gestural noises emanating from him because of it. "...Invincible," Rudy starts cordially, robotic voice surprisingly steady. No stutter for a machine, then. "What is your request?"

Mark grins. "Excellent! So. Let's say, right, I maybe, kind of, sort of, made Eve a bit..." He pinches his fingers with a sneer, "...angry at me. As her little human friend, what do you think could help me remedy that?"

A silence follows.

Then, "...I was under the impression you were indifferent to Eve's ire."

Mark hums. "I used to be. But. Well. You know. Things change." A total lie. It's just... different this time. There is a pressure in his chest that's growing by the minute, one he doesn't like whatsoever.

Rudy looks pensive. "...What caused her anger, this time?"

Mark likes Robot, contrary to popular belief. A little. He's smart. He knows just what to do, the right questions to ask, for his utmost benefit. Survival is the key for someone as objective as him. That's why, currently, for his little dilemma, Rudy is perfect for the job. "That's confidential information," Mark answers cryptically, eyeing him. "All you need to know is that I pissed her off. Simple as that."

Rudy floats for a few minutes in contemplative silence while Mark patiently waits for results.

Eventually, he responds. "Eve has always enjoyed nature. She carries an extensive knowledge in the language of flowers, thus selecting the appropriate floral arrangements can convey your desire to mend a fractured trust."

Mark almost scoffs. "Trust? She trusts me just fine, Rudy." But Mark can't deny that the flower idea has some merit. Flowers may seem trivial for his intentions, though. They lack the significance he wishes to convey, prompting him to consider venturing into the Amazon Rainforest to select a tree instead. This way, you can utilize the tree in any manner you desire. Trees offer lasting value, making them a more meaningful choice, as opposed to flowers that will eventually wilt.

He crosses his arms, thinking.

Fuck it. Maybe he'll bring you some flowers, too. All the flowers, even, from every part of the world. You have to forgive him then.

He tilts his head at Rudy, "And if that doesn't work?"

Rudy's answer to his challenge is quick. "Food. Due to her recent expansion of botanical energy and infrequent levels, she is more prone to hunger. If she is exhausted, she will appreciate a warm, balanced meal. A nice picnic outing will do."

"Huh," Mark scratches at his forming stubble he'll need to shave off soon. "That's not a bad idea. Anything else, in case that fails?"

Rudy blinks. "If all else fails, Eve appreciates a listening ear. Engage with her in therapeutic remedies for her plight. Communication and comprehension are key in maintaining a healthy relationship."

Mark's lips quirk at the generous insinuation. "You think we're dating?"

Rudy falters. "...Are you not?"

Mark nearly laughs. "Anyway," He dismisses Robot's question, "This was useful. I'll have you moved to another room since you're not stupid like most humans." He turns back to look at the dozens of humans in cages, now dwindled into silent, dying bodies. He's going to have to move them. Ugh. "I'll move them too, I guess. Since they're for Eve. Don't want her complaining about her lack of hair products and shit."

"That may not be a good idea."

Mark scowls at Rudy's unwelcome intrusion. "What?"

Rudy clears his throat, somehow. Mark will not ask about that. "Eve may feel overwhelmed with guilt if you do. Instead, consider relocating them to areas that align with their work ethic, and collect their completed products as a present for her."

Mark cocks his head, considering.

Maybe Rudy's right. You're sensitive, like that. He understands. You're human too and it's only fair that you'd feel upset about your enslaved species. He'd be upset if his father died.

"Alright," He gives Rudy a nod. "I'll get a construction crew to deal with all that. Any idea where any of them may be hiding?"

Rudy stays silent.

Mark sighs. "Fine, fine. You'll want to build your own shit, right?"

"Correct," Rudy acknowledges.

Mark waves him off. "Go on, then. Activate that protocol shit you have."

Wordlessly, just as Mark suspected, Robot's fatass tank slowly emerges with two claw-like arms and four, tiny spider legs that easily support the weight. Mark watches on, wondering if letting Rudy go without a threat is a good idea.

It's fine, Mark thinks with a shrug, zipping to the human cages and opening them. If he does anything, he's dead. Robot doesn't have enough resources to do anything, right now. "Deal with them, yeah?" He gestures to the unmoving humans laboring for breath. "Don't kill them. Just... put them somewhere they won't escape."

"...Affirmative," Is Rudy's tentative response.

Mark doesn't hear it. He's already zipping away, goal in mind.

[. . .]

Gathering his 'apology' gifts takes him a total of five hours. He's not as fast as his father just yet, so it takes him a good amount of time to seek out the designated areas where his objects of desire lie. There's also the mass destruction of Earth's forces going on, so it's taking a bit to find everything he needs among so much debris and carnage.

Luckily, his father hasn't destroyed everything, so there's more than enough clear areas. Just most of the world's governments are gone—which reminds him. He's needed tomorrow for the meetings with the visiting Viltrumites and the kidnapped world leaders.

Something, something, about executing them if they don't provide all information willingly or some shit. Who knows.

Mark doesn't care. That's tomorrow's problem.

Today, he has you to make up with. For whatever reason.

As he puts down the last of the trees he took right on the balcony you'd created in the building he decided to make his new throne home, Mark still hasn't figured out the real reason for your walk out. He's taken generous time contemplating it, trying to piece together rational motivations as to why it went down the way it did. The most he has gathered is that you must be worried about leaving him alone, somehow, but that makes no sense, so he has scrapped that reason entirely.

You said you weren't bothered with how he referred to you—as a hole. A stupidass idea taken from one of Todd's old sayings, an unfortunate panic-induced response to his father's question about what exactly you are to him.

(You're not a hole. You're a person. Obviously.

Obviously.)

You're not a liar, either. He doesn't think you have ever lied to him.

(He doesn't know why he feels warm at the realization that you hadn't lied to him because of your fondness for him, rather than from fear, as has been the case with others.)

So you couldn't have been lying when you said you weren't bothered by what he said. You understand that it's necessary. His father won't accept him harboring anything or anyone remotely close to a genuine connection.

Are you worried the plan will fall through? It's understandable, but his father is easy to trick. The man has rarely ever been around, hence he doesn't know how good of a liar Mark is. There's also the manner in which his father takes to show vulnerable moments, just to close himself off the next. A habit he hadn't understood in his youth, but thanks to you and your mandatory therapy lessons, he has come to recognize his father's patterns. Mark isn't stupid. He knows his father cared immensely for his mother. There used to be a weakness, and surely, that must mean something...

Mark sighs.

The point is, you're fine. He's fine. Everything will be fine because he's—he's here to fix it. Whatever 'it' may be.

Mark has things under control. He'll build his strength. Take over, if his father decides to fall victim to...

Mark shakes his head. Not possible.

Stupid. He's being stupid. You're definitely the cause.

Stupid, stupid, he repeats, lowering from the air to hover in front of the sliding glass door. He reaches forward to tentatively knock on the glass.

He doesn't see the inside. There's likely a paper plating to occult the privacy of the room he'd chosen for you not even a day ago. He wonders what you have in there. Do you like it? You better. He hadn't killed anyone inside so that you could find it clean. It takes effort to do that with useless cretins who decide to piss their pants rather than run away from him in a panic.

You take some seconds to open the window for him, seconds that he spends agonizing that you aren't hurrying the fuck up, anxiously keeping track of the gifts that keep suspiciously moving when he's not looking. His turmoil only heightens when you finally open it to reveal your face.

Still beautiful, his mind supplies needlessly among all the irritating haywire. That thing has a mind of its own, sometimes, just like his dick. Hah.

(Especially his dick, nowadays. What the hell. You've just come out of the shower. Have you installed one? How do you make your supple, dewy skin look so sexy? You smell really fucking good. Shit.)

"We're having a picnic," He blurts, making it come out as an order. If Robot's advice goes to shit, he knows exactly who to kill.

You stare at him.

He taps his foot anxiously, trying to keep a blank facade.

Your face suddenly colors a pretty hue.

His heart leaps with hope. No way this worked.

"Yeah," You croak, looking away and to the pile of gifts behind him, "Why not."

He wonders if you'll finally let him have some of your pretty hair.

Chapter Text

[. . .]

"PARASITE, I feel like something isn't right,

I fantasize about being LOBOTOMIZED,

Don't wanna be perceived, I wanna live above the skies.

Don't get too close, or this might turn into a HOMICIDE."

[. . .]

Chapter 4

For Himself

[. . .]

You sit down on the red and white checkered blanket covering the grass clippings of an untouched park in California.

Around you, the surroundings are quiet, shrouded in devastation, with structures left in chaos by the actions of the guy sitting impossibly close to you. Mark. He's rummaging through several large plastic bags that smell like your favorite fast food, humming to himself without an ounce of guilt premating on his being. You watch in tired silence, dressed in your most precious sundress, wondering vacantly why he has suddenly decided to want a picnic when he has expressed his immense distaste for them time and time again in all the years you've known him.

"So, are we feeling Subways or Applewasps?"

You consider his question carefully, nitpicking any hidden messages. Nothing that makes sense comes to mind. "Subways," You respond, boldly reaching for one of the bags at his side. He stills his searching to watch you closely, eyes alight with an emotion you can't decipher. His expression is gentle, for a change, yet the intensity remains unwavering even as you create some space once you drag the bag over to your lap. Much like you, the bag is hot against your skin.

You can almost forget the coldness you felt when he'd said he didn't need you.

"Do you like Subways better?" Mark's inquiry comes across as unusual. It seems as though he is assessing your response to leverage it for another purpose or context. It's difficult to articulate precisely.

"Sure," You reply, picking at the bouquet just by your folded legs. Flowers of every color and poison paint in contrast to the knitted cover beneath you. That’s right. You forgot about the piles and piles of gifts he’s left out on your balcony. Gifts you are stupid enough to hope will mean something. "Why?"

Mark stares at you for a hot second before shrugging. He leaves the bag alone, finally. "Just askin'. You don't really have a favorite for... anything."

That's not true, your mind quips in sad desperation. I have a favorite. Just one. Just you.

You don't say that. Instead, you marvel at his sudden docile nature, eyes gliding across the casual clothes he'd quickly changed into for some odd reason. (You also changed into something else, rather than your ready superhero suit. Seems that the two of you had the same wavelength going on.) "I guess not. Is there any particular reason you got me food for a picnic?" You dare ask, tilting your head in what you hope is a cute manner. It's not often you try to make yourself more wanton than usual, but with Mark, it's hard not to. He brings out a pathetic, girlish side of you that makes you want to rip your larynx out and force him to eat it just so you can shut up.

He hums. "You said not to talk to you unless it was for what I told my dad, remember?"

The thrumming, hopeful part of you suddenly dies.

You draw back.

Right.

"Yeah." The dispassion is heard in your voice, though you do very little to hide it. You don't miss Mark's narrowed-eyed confusion that follows.

Rather than dismiss it, he catches you off guard by asking about it. "What's with the tone?"

You curl a finger on the plastic bag's handles, something Mark doesn't miss, as his eyes dart to the motion sparingly. "...Nothing, really. I did say not to talk to me unless you had an alternative solution in the works," You mumble, feeling disappointed in yourself. Why had your compulsive mind jumped to the conclusion that Mark's various conventional and unconventional gifts, including this very random outing amidst the end of the world, meant something else? Of course, he'd have a reason other than...

Other than. You.

"You sound pissed off. Again."

You're not going to repeat yourself. "Okay," you say dismissively.

Silence reigns.

Then, "Look. I'm..." He stops himself with a huff of frustration, looking away. His fingers pick at a thread on the fabric of his black dress shirt. "You're mad at me. I get it."

You blink at him, leaning closer. Is he saying...?

"But I don't know what I did wrong. I brought up the only solution available."

He can't be serious.

"Mark," You feel the need to interject with a scathing tone, "I don't care about what you called me. I know it was a solution." A pretty stupid one, you don't say.

He turns to you, baffled. "Then? What the hell is it?"

You scowl, drawing as far away from him as possible. Immediate hurt echoes in your chest in palpable waves, venturing across your body and pulling at your veins circulating with boiling blood. Is he acting stupid again? Is he trying to meddle with your emotions all over again? You take a steadying breath. "Mark. Do I mean anything to you?"

The question gives him pause. "...Is that meant to be a stupid question?" He bites, looking bewildered.

You stare at him. You try to breathe through your bubbling anger. "Guess."

He closes his eyes and tilts his head like a stupid dog thinking about what vomit to eat next. You wait patiently despite this, waiting, hoping, just to get—"You mean nothing to me."

Oh, this piece of shit. You throw your hands up, shoving the food off your lap and rolling to the side, "Fucking forget it, Mark! My God!" You yell, unable to stop the flummox of anger prickling from every pore of your body. Mark's eyes shoot open and he gapes at you, frightened that you're yelling at him for being a fucking idiot, and the sight of his stupidity is so unbearable that you get up and prepare to get the fuck away from here.

Stupid, stupid, boy, you seethe, letting out zaps of intense pink energy out your flexed fingertips.

How hard is it to understand? You'd get it if it was literally anyone else. Every other teenage boy your age doesn't know things. They're idiots. Mark is his own brand of idiot, but he's smart. He's supposed to be...

You clench your fist.

Here I am, putting him on a pedestal again.

Forget it. You're done. You're done expecting things from him. It's been years, and he still doesn't realize it. You've thrown yourself at him quite enough times to be rejected and get the embarrassing memo.

You don't budge an inch from where you are.

Mark's warm hands are pinning your shoulders roughly against the blanket in the next second, his body slanting against yours and your precious means of escape—your legs. His own legs encircle you possessively, and his weight renders any attempt to move futile. His eyes are wild as hell, and for a moment, you falter, helplessly lost within their proximity and the fervor that seeps through your skin at his touch.

And then his mouth opens. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?

You scowl at him. "Away from you."

"Why?" He insists dangerously, and you know he's making an effort to reign his anger in because his voice is subdued into a tone of cold calculation. It makes you swallow. "I tell you what you want to hear, and you decide to leave. What, exactly, am I doing wrong?"

You struggle to let your hands free, but he refuses you. "What I want to hear?" You ask him incredulously, hiding the wince when his hand slides lower on your arms for a possessive squeeze. It makes something crazy stir in your naval. The marks on your neck you got rid of in your earlier shower just before Mark's unprompted visit flash in your mind. "Mark. Why in the fuck would I want to hear about how little I mean to you?"

Finally, finally, you think, watching Mark's face slack into indifference, an expression he often conveys when he's just realized something.

You feel the means to repeat to him your reasons now that your claws of comprehension seize his skin. "Your plan wasn't the problem here. It's the execution that's the problem, and—" You close your eyes and let your head fall against the blanket lazily in defeat. Oh, bother. Why do you bother? The two of you have been at this for too long. "And what you made 'clear' is that I mean nothing to you. When I—"

Your jaw hinges on your tongue as soon as you clamp it shut to prevent yourself from saying the rest. Blood coats the insides of your mouth, and you push it down.

Mark, evidently, notices, and his eyes suddenly flare a flame of something distinctly vulnerable.

"What, Eve?" He croaks, and he looks...

Your blood runs cold.

Scared?

You swallow the acrid taste. "I'm not saying shit. Not until you fix whatever gaslighting you have going on."

It's harsh. But this is the only way he'll learn anything.

He narrows his eyes.

You look down, past the peek of his pectorals and collarbone. "And let go of me," You mutter, weakly budging against his strength. He takes a moment, studying you impassively, before doing as you ask. He tentatively puts enough distance for you to sit up, positioning you in a way that nearly bumps your lips with his when you do.

You stare at each other again. Close, too close, enough that he nearly steals the very air you need to breathe. It provokes illogical thoughts, such as the desire to press your lips to his and shut him the fuck up, or wanting to punch his stupid, idiot face before you can kiss him just as stupid—impulses that are only restrained by the self-control you've trained to keep a hold of for your entire life.

That, and your anger.

Your anger is your saving grace.

Anger that you are being treated the way you are, anger that you are bound yet again, anger that you have to sit here and take a man's shit excuses at face-value a second time. It's not fair. It's not fair, not at all, and it never will be.

That's just how things are with Mark, you remind yourself pathetically. Nothing with him has ever been easy.

You're just—you're tired. You yearn and yearn with no results, so why should you—why do you—why is it never easy?

Why can't he just fucking realize!

(Is it my fault?)

The little space between you is crackling with a vibrancy so electric it whizzes across your sensitive skin, inducing the chills of goosebumps and a heady frisson that drags like the tip of a pointed nail down the ridges of your spine. Your breathing picks up as you foolishly glance down at his lips just at the same time he does. For just an explicit moment, your anger gives way to realization.

His hand slides against the blanket, lifting to settle against your thigh. A bold, estimated move.

Your body tenses. His touch is like lava, chafing leather. You shift slightly in an attempt to get his hand to slide off so that you can get out of here—

"Wait," He murmurs, and your breathing stops altogether with an embarrassing hitch as his eyes take on a dangerous lilt, head inclining perilously close to yours as your body stiffens further. "I think I know what you're saying."

You know damn well he doesn't.

You jolt when one of his hands comes to seize your chin a little too roughly. He drags your face forcefully so that it's poised in a manner that allows him easy access to your mouth, keeping your eyes engaged with his as his thumb rubs against your cheek, pressing onto the corner of your lips in a manner he doesn't realize comes off as threatening. "Don't move."

Move? Move for what? For what? For what, for what, for what?

Carefully, the most careful you've ever seen him, he leans forward.

It clicks right then and there.

That this anger—this fury you have carried heavily on you for years—is to beseech for mercy for your yearning of an elusive reality currently unfolding.

Your eyes close quickly as your breaths mingle with each other for just a riveting second—your palpitating heart becomes a hummingbird, your body an earthquake of spurred anticipation—a second that ends when he finally closes the distance and kisses you.

(It's my fault.)

Immediately, your body quivers, alight by the erotic tingle induced by his mouth on yours. He shoves himself a little harder than you expected, and your teeth, through your lips, painfully clink together. The metal of his snakebites drags and pricks your skin in tandem with it. When you try to pull away after the Princess moment is ruptured by inexperience, he does it first instead, blinking in confusion with his big doe eyes centered deeply onto yours.

You can't help but think his eyes are so innocent for hands that carry atrocities.

You exhale roughly, licking your lips in a daze. He does the same, simply basking in the moment, before he flinches out of nowhere.

He nearly backs away. You can tell by the way he lets go of you completely, with shaking hands, searching your face frantically with lost eyes. His breathing picks up drastically and though he does his best to hide what he feels, the subtle contortions of the muscles on his face give him away.

To fear.

The same look he gets when he mentions—

You freeze.

His father comes to mind, he's scared of his father.

The realization from earlier—of his lies stemming from fear—all connect to one conclusion: that Markus Sebastian Grayson cannot will himself to admit to caring about you because his groomed indoctrination forced upon him by his genocidal father means betrayal if he does.

You nearly laugh in euphoria from the hysteria.

How fucking sad.

Mark is. A sad little boy. A sad, sad, pathetic loser with no friends except for you.

Because you are all he has left. And if he can preserve you by any means necessary, he will.

"Stupid fucking idiot," You let out with a crazed puff of laughter. Mark looks angry now, outraged even, but the fear he's allowed to show can't hide anymore.

Before he does whatever he'll do next, you throw complete caution to the wind and dive in for a proper, painless kiss.

A startled noise comes from the back of his throat that kick-starts your pumping organ as your shaking hands capture the back of his head, arms circled around his neck possessively.

His lips are warm and chapped. They slot against yours gently at first, terrified before they become something deep, profound in a way that has you unsure of what the fuck you need to do next just to have him stay and sort this shit out.

Warm, probing touches hold the back of your head, fisting your hair, trapping your waist, and you know it's Mark's way of accepting this. Of accepting you.

Messily, even completely lost, mouths meld together in a pathetic imitation of proper lovers. It's awkward, it's weird, but the sensations of finally being able to express what you can't say into words spark illicit, nicotine-addled hormones in your brain. It's addiction the way you can taste him even slightly when his mouth parts sloppily or how your noses bump against each other painfully. Your head is full of sticky cotton, and your hands clamp tightly on the bunched fabric of his clothes, pulling at hair, pulling at him just to keep his heat possessively with yours.

Soon you need to pull away for air.

I don't want to, your heart pleads even as your lungs pray for oxygen. You want this stupid moment to last forever. You want, you want, and you want so viscerally that you can't fathom anything else. Mark isn't perfect, he never was, nor will he ever be, but you have him, right here, right now, in all the ways you have ever wanted.

A kiss, another, slick with avarice, and you can't get enough.

You fight your body. You fight.

But you lose.

You lose because sounds are muffled, static forms behind your eyelids, and your organs feel dangerously close to collapse. You pull away reluctantly, taking in a gratituous lungful that has you seeing stars. You slump forward desperately as your eyes open with his, and the two of you are at a panting stalemate again.

Your heart beats so fast you're scared it'll fail on you. Your body shakes so much that you think you may even be getting a fever, since your muscles also feel like jello, weak in comparison to Mark's biceps huddled around you.

Through all these sensations, you realize, are tears.

Your tears.

Fucking shit.

Mark is holding you, staring at you, doing nothing. His lips are bruised, and the lighting of the sun casts the slippery slopes of spit on his cheeks. His face is so red and the pupils in his chocolate eyes are dilated to impossible levels. He isn't as out of breath as you, being an alien, but it's a close thing.

Your heartbeat throbs in your ears. "Do you get it now?" You croak, voice steady, surprisingly. Your eyes dry up quickly from exposure of your emotional transcendence.

He doesn't move.

The two of you hold each other like lovesick teenagers for a passing time.

He finds his voice amidst your testing patience, just a minute later.

"No," He whispers, and your heart drops—

Before he's kissing you all over again.

[. . .]

You're twelve, and Mark is eating Subways for the first time ever.

"Do your parents prevent you from eating outside of home?" You ask, holding your head in your hand while you watch Mark destroy his third sandwich you bought for him in under thirty minutes. You shift your gaze from the booth you occupy together to the queue of customers placing their orders, remaining alert for a man with a mustache and white hair at the sides. Mark said he'd be picked up by his father soon.

"Nuh uh," Mark says in between bites, looking up at you. Mayonnaise, mustard, and some other sauces stain his stuffed cheeks, slopping onto the bunches of parchment paper on the small in-seating green basket. "'Says bad fo' me."

You sniff at his lack of table manners but do not comment. "I get that," You tell him, thinking of Cecil as you lean back and stretch your arms. The unfinished portion of your sandwich lays in front of you, eyed occasionally by Mark. "My dad shares the same sentiment. But it's for my own good, I think, since my powers are uncontrolled as of late." Because of puberty, you don't say.

"'Cuz of girl stuff?"

His comment catches you off guard. "Huh?"

He swallows a particularly large bite before continuing. "Girl stuff? When you bleed, or whatever." He gazes at you with an eerie focus. He's been doing that lately.

You stare at him. How odd for him to make that connection. "...How'd you know that?"

He shrugs, picking at his teeth with his pinkie finger. "'Cuz girls talk about it at school all the time."

You raise an eyebrow. Not entirely a suspicious statement, but it's unusual of him to care about what others have to say. He doesn't like people besides William. "And you just... listen to them?"

He shrugs again. "I'm supposed to study people. My dad told me, so... I'm doing that. It's not that hard to understand. Plus, William doesn't shut up about it."

You nod. That makes sense. William seems the type to listen in on the gossip from the stories Mark has told you. Maybe he mistook it for a trend of some sort? Though William isn't stupid enough to think that. "That's... useful?"

Mark nods sagely. "It is. Helps me know things, I think, as boring as it is. Like, you wear your hairclips a particular way, you know? Or that you don't smell as bad as other kids in P.E after we work out."

You tilt your head at him, curious about his comment. You don't ask him why he keeps track of your smell. Nor do you ask why, of all things, he said something about it, as much of a compliment as he makes it sound. Instead, you ask, "What do I smell like?"

He makes a face at you. "Like shit," He snickers.

"Thanks," You deadpan. You take a moment to contemplate what further questions to pose to him, particularly regarding his belief that your menstrual cycle is linked to the volatility of your powers. It makes sense that he would draw that connection, given the surge of hormones and the physical transformations that could either diminish or enhance your abilities in specific aspects. However, you wonder if Mark possesses the insight to make such a connection. Or perhaps you have underestimated him throughout your years of acquaintance? It's accurate that your interactions primarily revolve around dining out or focusing on his martial arts training, other than anything else that's meaningful. Your probable friendship is unconventional, different from others. He's the only friend you have that's your age.

Maybe you've been looking at Mark wrong this whole time. Maybe you never knew Mark at all.

That makes you feel... terrible.

He's your friend. You should know more, shouldn't you?

Before you can go through with your plan, to ask if he wants to do anything else other than work out for a chance, he speaks before you do.

Mark points at your uneaten sandwich. "You gonna eat that?"

You stop and peer down at the glass table. You suppose not. Sharing food may open suggestions for further friendship, maybe. You shake your head and push it toward him.

Mark takes your sandwich greedily. "So," He bites it, makes a face, before chewing thoroughly and downing it. "Ugh. Why's there so little meat?"

Your eye twitches. "That's the normal amount. You're just a carnivore."

"Whatever. You have no taste." He bites again, "We gonna figh' lat'ah?"

It's your turn to roll your eyes. "Sure, if you're not going to throw up all the food you ate."

He scoffs, and nearly chokes because of it. You keep measure of your pleased grin. "No! S'fine. Lemme finish. Wai'." He chews sadly. "Dad comin' to pick me up."

Oh right.

You forgot about that.

You look out the windows, at the door, for another search. Nothing.

You look back at Mark. He's looking a little sick.

You sigh.

"You want a drink with that?"

He considers you blankly, before nodding slowly. "...Yah..."

You buy him a soda.

Chapter Text

[. . .]

"You know I'm the only one who will love your sins."

[. . .]

Chapter 4

But a Kiss

[. . .]

"Do you get it now?"

You're hilarious. The funniest person alive, he thinks.

He had held your face when you'd asked him that dumbass fucking question, mind taxing itself with the absurd realization that it wasn't friendship you wanted, after all. He thought he was doing something wrong for so long. What the fuck was he supposed to think when you never told him anything about all of this? That you, you, what the fuck, what the fuck, whatthefuck—you want him.

You want him back.

Even after all these years, you dare doubt anything and everything that ever happened between both of you. You still don't get it.

There is no one else. There never will be. You are the only one worthy of his presence. The only person worth anything to him, anymore.

Mark can't stop kissing you.

He dives in, again and again, learning the art through the rush of having you to kiss. One kiss after another, and Mark can't say he has had enough. He will never have enough. It's just not enough, and he needs—you. He needs you.

The food has gone cold. Needy noises spill past your swollen lips, and Mark is fucking drunk off them. He lets slip maniacal little giggles between each nip to the lip, feeling high with every ragged breath. He's so up in the clouds that it feels like he's convulsing every time your fingers yank on his hair, clutching a little too hard, suffocating on your scent just a bit too greedily.

He doesn't plan to stop.

Not until every moment, from every year, from every hour, every second of his absolution and agony spent trying to make sense of you in his head is poured onto the torn cavity of your chest he's made for himself there. All these years, he's feared, he's denied. Because why would he indulge in a fantasy beyond limits? Why would he pursue something so risky, so distinct—something that shakes the very foundation of his father's wishes?

He presses harder, clings tighter.

He kisses like a man who thinks he might wake up any second, like every press of his mouth is proof that you're real.

Because this can't be real.

If it's real, then that means you're a weakness. It means that his father was right. It means you'll die. It means that he'd been nothing but a filthy liar, that he cares, that he—

But it is.

It is real.

It has to be, and Mark will take and take and take until he can't anymore.

Because the truth of the matter is that he doesn't give a fuck. Not anymore.

You want him.

You did this. You started this. You cut through his ribcage and shoved your hands into his chest, yanking, yanking, and yanking until he was bare and open. You took from him the only damn he could ever give to a pathetic world like this. Nothing else matters. Nothing. Just you. You and him, forever, what was always meant to be from the moment he'd seen your pretty hair and wanted to take it for his own.

He did everything, all of this, for you.

Mark mouths against yours like he's trying to write the confession on your lips. As if he can brand the truth into your skin so it'll make sense, so that you'll realize just how much he's done. His teeth graze, his laugh shudders into your mouth, but in his head, words pound louder than heartbeats.

Destruction wasn't a path he wanted. He never cared for conquest, never gave a damn about subjugation.

His hands fist tighter into the fabric of your dress, dragging it higher, anchoring himself, searching for the wound you left inside him.

He knows what this planet means to you—you're a native, for fuck's sake. Of course you'd hate the tragedy unfolding around you, loathing that you're powerless to do anything against it.

But that's the thing: he made sure it wouldn't touch you.

He made sure.

He's making sure.

His tongue presses into your mouth, inexperienced and needy, yearning for a taste of you. Between breaths, he thinks about how carefully he carved out exceptions, how entire swaths of land were spared simply because you'd mentioned their beauty once. Your favorite parks, your favorite streets, your favorite restaurants—all preserved in the wreckage like shrines only he understands.

Mark's father had told him, ever since his mother's death, that the Earth would be his to prepare. A duty. A certainty.

Mark hadn't really understood at the time. And he still doesn't. He always thought it was some far-off shadow, a timeline he'd never let cross into reality.

He breaks off to laugh again, manic, half-dizzy from you, pressing his forehead to yours as his chest heaves. He looks deeply into your eyes, the luminosity of them he's never seen so bright until today.

But then he did it anyway.

For you. To secure a future where you'll never have to worry about Viltrumite punishment, where you'll never be touched by the consequences you never asked for.

His mouth crashes back onto yours with feverish insistence, trying to prove it in the force of every kiss.

He can't tell you this—not yet, maybe not ever. But in the press of his body, the jerk of his hips against yours, and the tremor in his laugh, the truth bleeds through: the Earth may have fallen, but you... You're the only thing he refuses to let break.

Because Mark has you.

He has you.

And you are everything he ever wants.

Not money, or subjects, or any of that bullshit his father spews like religion.

If it means—

If it means having you, forever, then—

You probably don't even realize how much you mean to him. Do you know? He never intended to tell you about just how deep his pathetic feelings go. He'd been content with just having you hovering by his side, whether it be as a friend, an ally, a comrade, fucking whatever.

His mouth lingers, trembling against yours, as if pulling away might undo him completely. It makes you pull away slightly, and Mark resists the urge to recapture your lips as you take another breath, fogging over the metal of his piercings, and it sears against his skin in seconds, burning hotter than it should.

He'll never tell you. He'll never tell you just how gutted, how rabid with fury he was when his father finally moved with his plans to tear Earth apart. Mark had been sent to eliminate every other threat, a soldier following orders, and the only steady thought in his chaos had been you. You, you, you.

So he followed instinct. His hands, still wet with rage, led him to the Teen Team's Tower. He'd thought you'd be there. He'd needed you to be there. Needed your arms around him, grounding him with those stubborn words about doing better. He would have snarked at you, been an asshole like always, but he would have felt better. Because it was you, and you always knew what to do.

But.

It wasn't you.

Instead, the first thing he saw in the lobby was that fucker, Rex Splode.

And in that moment of hysteria, of betrayal by absence, Mark killed him. Just like that. Fingers now tangled in your pretty hair are the same fingers that crushed bone, and he shivers, half-mad, driven by the thought that you still want him.

Because it hadn't been you, he found.

It hadn't been you, and his rage had nowhere else to go.

(And he has wondered these last twenty-four hours, late at night when his head won't quiet—would he have fought his father if he'd found you first? If you had looked at him, told him to fight, would he have done it?

The thought terrifies him.

Because the answer might be yes.

And that means your hold on him is greater than the empire, greater than blood.

Greater than his father.)

From there, everything was a hazy blur. It wasn't until he got to you that he felt true fear for the first time.

Because you were staring at him with a resigned sort of expression, arms lifted for combat. You were in front of Robot, hands glinting that lovely pink. You stood defiant, against him even before he had a chance to explain himself.

And in that moment, he was desperate. Because if he didn't give you a choice, if he had to fight you, if it meant he had to kill you, then his life—

Then nothing would ever matter again.

But no.

No, no, no, he refused. He wouldn't have killed you. No, absolutely not. He'd have kept you, at least, right? Hidden you away, but—

He couldn't do that to you.

You had always valued freedom above all.

And Mark was a damn fool for respecting everything you ever were.

So he'd given you a choice. Either you died, free at last, or you joined his side. Simple, right?

And you—Mark felt as if a weight had finally lifted from his soul. You'd joined him. Even after everything.

And it was at that moment that Mark realized that you did care about him, after all this time. That you do care about him, that you consider him a friend, soul and all.

And now.

Now, Mark returns to his selfishness.

Because he wants more. He always wants more from you.

How can he be content with just looking at you? With light, friendly touches?

No.

No, not anymore.

He wants you.

All of you.

You don't question it. You're just as eager, he can tell.

He can tell because you won't stop clawing at him. You've maneuvered yourself onto his lap, a vixen coaxing further, pliant with suave movements now and then that make his head coil up like magma. You're both clothed, but he can feel you—your warmth, your everything—and the sensation is so visceral. Your dress gathers around your hips, fistfuls in Mark's wandering hands. His hips jolt without thought, seeking more of the pressure between your thighs, eliciting erotic yips past the very same mouth he drinks from like a man dying of dehydration.

His fingers dig into your skin, molding the plush softness, the tendons beneath, the bones he can so easily break. You're warm, shaking in his hold, holding onto him so tightly that if it were any other man's skin, it would tear.

He acts out every touch in his fantasy, uncaring of whether he looks stupid or not.

This is a once-in-a-lifetime moment.

And he intends to indulge.

"Mark."

The sound of his own name in his father's voice cleaves through him with horror. His heart drops, blood running cold, with his every muscle locking tight.

In his arms, you freeze too.

He forces his eyes open. You're there. You're looking back at him with his hand possessively around your throat, when he was just about to push you onto the blanket and do what the tent in his pants wants. For one raw second, he sees the primal fear flashing across your face before your blank mask shutters it away. But Mark still hears your heart spike in his ears, feels the tremors under your skin. All caused by the predator behind him.

He carefully pulls away slightly to look behind him, seething with unbridled rage.

His father hovers above the grass just a few feet away, wearing that damn cape drenched in blood.

Mark breathes in the measured and slow way you taught him to keep secret, though rage burns his chest. "Yeah?" he rasps, bitterness dripping from his voice.

Nolan's gaze snaps to you. Instantly, Mark shifts, nudging you behind his frame, spine taut, eyes never leaving his father. He keeps his eyes trained and his muscles coiled for combat, mind running with expectations. Every possibility detonates in his mind: Does he know? Is his father here to make another lesson out of him, using you? Is something else the matter, things that Mark forgot to do? Is he going to force him out again?

Too many variables. It's pissing Mark off.

His father doesn't land. That's good. Means he's not going to linger long. His father studies the scene instead; the rumpled picnic blanket, the rows of bouquets he hadn't made a second thought of, just picked them because they reminded him of you, the food that's somehow spilled and made a mess far too close to his favorite pants to be liked. That's not good. Mark swallows thickly, using your warmth to ground him from panic.

His father isn't stupid.

He isn't stupid.

Mark doesn't know what to expect. He's going to have to kill you, isn't he?

"The Viltrum Officiants have arrived a day early," Nolan Grayson declares at last, voice like stone. He finds his gaze. His eyes are hard, but no twitch of his crossed arms indicates any immediate action will be taken.

Mark doesn't let his guard down just yet, though. His father likes to do things when the victim thinks everything is safe.

"Okay," His tone is flat. "You want me to welcome them?"

Nolan softens slightly. "As per protocol." His eyes narrow again onto you. "So finish whatever this is, up. I want you to be on your best behavior."

Mark rolls his eyes. No fucking shit. That's all his father keeps telling him now: be good, behave, demonstrate the potential of your strength. Potential, pah. Mark is working on that. They won't know shit of what'll hit them, in the long run. Mark knows when to listen. And patience is key. Impulsive he may be, but Mark knows when the time is right.

And right now, he needs to get you away.

"Yeah, yeah," He grumbles, shoving you off of him without preamble. To your credit, you don't make a sound at the abruptness of his hostility, but it doesn't stop Mark from feeling a tad guilty. And angry. He wanted to spend his fucking time with you, damn it! Now here his father goes, ruining another good fucking thing for him!

He gets up from the blanket and hovers next to his father, his boner killed completely. Fucker.

His father is still not moving.

Holy shit.

Mark puts himself between his father and you. It's not obvious, he thinks. His father doesn't care about you at all. You're nothing but a slave. You're not important. Nolan Grayson doesn't see the daughter of Cecil Stedman.

"Well?" He snarks, making a show of looking his father in the eye and keeping his nerve. In his peripherals, he notices you remain on the ground, legs folded pliantly and head tilted down submissively. Your hair frames your face, occulting whatever mask you've put on. It's so wrong seeing you like that. There's none of that bravado he likes, or the softness of your sickly smiles. It's not a turn on, seeing you so obedient, not if it's not him doing it.

Mark hates it. "Let's go, already."

Nolan arches an eyebrow. "And leave your slave here?"

Mark waves it off. "Doesn't matter. She knows where home is."

His father looks at you again, over his shoulder. Mark's jaw works, tense and frigid.

Nolan lets out a low hum before taking off.

Mark doesn't waste time; without a glance back at you, he follows. The wind roars in his ears, but inside him, there's only the heavy thud of guilt, disappointment, and something nameless stabbing hard against his chest—a chest that only a moment ago had felt like it might burst from happiness. For once, full of a depth other than dread.

That's so pathetic. It's kind of funny.

Stupid, really.

Mark can't help it.

He hopes you get back to his place safely. If the rest of the Viltrumites are here, you'll need to hide. Just in case they're putting their asses in places they shouldn't. Who knows if they'll compete with him for you, or some other barbaric, stupid shit. Mark doesn't know shit about their customs. His father's practices went through one ear and out the other.

Mark wants to kill something.

Stupid, stupid. His father saw.

Would he tell them?

Mark needs to make a plan and fast. A new one. A better one.

Fuck. You were right.

He really doesn't think shit through.

"...Don't get distracted, Mark."

The words are sudden and cut sharp enough to make him blink. Mark glances sideways.

His father isn't looking at him. His expression is strange. It's not the usual tight anger, or suspicion. It's something else, more quieter. Odd, Mark thinks, because the only other time he's seen that face is when Mom...

"I'm not," Mark answers, voice dull and kept from being too defensive lest he give himself away.

At that, Nolan finally looks. His eyes are unreadable, layered enough that it makes Mark's stomach twist. They're not accusing or approving. Just... strange.

So Mark forces a slow, insincere smile. Mocking, because Mark knows better. "It's just me and you, yeah, old man?" He says lightly, gauging his reaction.

Something loosens in Nolan's face at that. The wrinkle between his brows smooths. He doesn't smile back, but it feels like the closest thing Mark will ever get. The last time he saw his father smile was when his mother was still around. Mark counts it as a success.

"Good," Is all his father says.

The word settles over Mark uncomfortably. It rips all fronts of appeasement he had in mind, rotting from the inside. He doesn't know if it's reassurance or a warning. He doesn't know if it means his father believes him or if he's already being measured, weighed, and prepared for some test Mark doesn't yet see. He hates this. He wishes you were here. You'd know what to say.

But it's fine.

Mark will handle it.

As he's always done.

The rest of the flight is silent.

The silence suffocates.

And Mark doesn't pray.

[. . .]

The meeting was shit.

Mark didn't listen to half the things they said. Blah, blah, blah, recreating human civilization, blah, blah, blah, potential in the workforce, rebuilding their armies using human breeding camps, etcetera. Nothing of use to Mark. Not anymore.

Maybe before he'd taken you out today, he may have been slightly intrigued at the whole idea of them. Sue him, he's curious about how the Viltrum Empire works, and whether or not there are weaknesses he can exploit to remain above everyone else. Just the typical tyrannical rule, mostly because Mark hates being at the bottom of the food chain. Ask his dead shitty friends, he was the 'group leader'. Which, now that he remembers, sounds incredibly corny.

Anyway.

Mark doesn't care for much of what went down.

(He has you. That's all that matters.)

The meeting itself wasn't great, and the path to it was even worse. There'd been a lot of bloodshed streaked around the landing area and inside the metal hallways. First impression was that they didn't keep shit clean. Then came the echoing cries so pronounced that they sounded like they were being shrieked into a megaphone.

Too shrill and desperate. Kind of like pigs in a slaughterhouse.

Disgusting.

His ears felt like they were bleeding once he was finally far enough away from it. He never did like the bitching and whining of everyday life. Pathetic losers.

Then there was the smell. It reminded him of a hospital. Antiseptic, empty, and riddled with the dead. A lot, also like the fake-clean stench of your room in the Pentagon, so embedded with an off-sense of chlorine that it burned the back of his throat.

Not a fan.

There was also a lot of unnecessary pro forma intimidation played on Mark's face about submission. Viltrumites came at him with a challenge. They'd backed off when they saw how he laughed it off or said something worse, like a mindless speculation that got under their skin, somehow. Mark was surprised to say the least. The way his father praised the Viltrumite Empire, Mark had imagined them as strategic, ferocious tanks. Not whatever jokes he'd seen, who easily let their tempers get the best of them. By someone hundreds upon hundreds of years younger than them.

He clocked every slip, though.

Mark paid attention, as much as you liked to say otherwise.

He noted the way one clenched a fist too tight when mocked, another's voice cracked when he teased their bloodline, and the gnashing of teeth when Mark managed a quick quip about having an ugly mustache.

It wasn’t much information.

That was fine, though. Mark can use that.

His father had chuffed him hard in the head after, which is another reason why the meeting sucked. He'd had to go in with a concussion. Nolan's hand lingered a little too long that time, too. For a second, Mark wondered if he knew about you and was planning to pull him aside to threaten him with your riddance.

Just for a second.

Before he buried it under anger.

So, not great. One of the women was eyeing him weirdly, too. Some bitch named Anissa, he thinks. He hadn't kept track of names, honestly. But the way her stare lingered a fraction too long was something. Leverage, for later, if needed.

Mark wasn’t going anywhere near that creepy ass woman if he couldn’t help it. Dumb bitch.

The only thing that stuck out to Mark as interesting was the Leader of the Viltrumites. Emperor Thragg.

He's tough, that's for sure. Even had his father bowing down to him, whom Mark had found out was about the fourth or third strongest Viltrumite.

(And wasn't that a surprise.)

Thragg is insane. That's Mark's verdict.

The man commands with just his presence alone. There'd been pressure in the room he'd entered so suffocating that Mark had to stop breathing just to look normal.

Thragg is absolute. It's a niche quality Mark can respect because it's no-nonsense and to the point. From the get-go, Mark noticed that the beefy fucker didn’t care for weakness. He'd killed every Human leader who had cried for mercy or soiled their pants as soon as he walked in, and Mark hadn't even seen him move. Just a breath and boom, gone.

The silence that followed was worse—no one dared breathe until Thragg gave them permission by speaking.

Good thing you weren't here. You'd hate this shit. Or worse, Thragg would notice you.

Mark doesn't dare entertain the thought.

Thragg is interesting, though. The man is unreadable, but Mark will make the assumption anyway; he doesn't care about his subjects. Just about control. Every Viltrumite was pissing their pants in there. The only one who wasn't was a balding, huge old man named Conquest with a blind eye and a mechanical arm. He'd been staring at Mark intensely the entire time.

That, and his father. His father had been calm. He hadn't spoken a word, and when Emperor Thragg finally met Mark's eye, his father didn't bat an eye when he declared that in order for Mark to be welcomed by the Empire, he needed to win a trial by combat.

Which is tomorrow.

So, yay. Fun.

And it is. Mark likes to fight. His father had been the only person he could practice with, since he could handle his strength. You could, too, sort of, not really. Not after he gained his powers, at least. It'd been a shame, but then his father began to train him, so all was well. He doesn't pull his punches just as you did, which is another quality Mark likes. It hurt like a bitch, and he almost died dozens of times, but it was worth it for the adrenaline.

But.

He doesn't care about that much. Not right now, at least.

Right now, as he soars through the dark, star-dusted skies with Thragg's condemning words in mind, Mark is eager to come home to you.

You're probably bored out of your mind. Or mad at him, for having to leave things unfinished.

Well. He doesn't intend to die tomorrow, but if he does, he doesn't want to die with regrets.

He has you now.

And he wants to have all of you, if you let him.

His lips stretch into a lecherous grin.

And then his grin drops when he comes to your balcony window, just to find your room empty.

His heart drops. Alarm bells ring through his mind. His immediate thought is that someone took you. Had you been kidnapped while he was distracted with the one-sided dick measuring contest?

He swoops around with sudden desperation, eyes scrutinizing the premises for any sign of foul play. Nothing is out of place.

Your room glows in the transcendental light of the moon, almost mocking him with its serenity.

The canopy bed, dressed in soft fabric that spills like starlight, sits perfectly untouched—still carrying the faint impression of where he'd once lounged as he watched you get ready like a scene from a movie. The crystal chandelier glitters faintly, casting fractured light over the patterned wallpaper and the dainty dresser whose drawers remain pulled just slightly ajar, as if waiting for you to return.

The plush carpet is unmarked, pale, and pristine. Your perfume lingers near the vanity mirror, where various other hair and makeup products rest. Your brush lies on the nightstand beside the princess-like bed, strands of your hair caught in its bristles. The giant, unnecessary mirror he'd checked himself out in earlier is flawless, opposite the bed, without cracks. He'd noticed at the time that you were quick to make yourself at home here and felt warm.

But he is not warm now.

The room itself feels alive with your presence, but you are nowhere to be found.

The discovery of your absence triggers an incensed anguish that compels him to expand his search beyond your room.

He flies through hallways, making note of every stain and crack, seeking answers. He starts to get angry when he continues to find nothing out of the ordinary. Every material and architectural mold is accounted for, just as he left it.

So where the fuck are you?

He runs into Robot's creepy ass after a few minutes.

Mark stops mid-air, silent, staring at him with wild, suspecting eyes. He goes unnoticed, and Mark nearly breaks his tank open for his unintentional insolence. "You haven't seen Eve around here, have you?" He murmurs dangerously low, fisting and unfisting his palms.

Robot is quick to respond. The thing stops working on whatever it is he's scheming with, startling as he whirls around to face Mark. Rudy looks as fucked up as ever and seems surprised to see him. "...No, Invincible. My last recorded observation of Eve coincides with your picnic departure: seven hours, twelve minutes prior."

Mark doesn't have time for this shit.

He looms closer. "Are you sure, buddy?" He offers a sardonic grin, draping a casual hand above his tank. "No sign of her? At all?" He bites out.

"No, Invincible."

Mark taps the metal. Tap, tap, tap. "I know when someone's lying, Rudy. I'll ask again. Where's Eve?"

"I have no record of Eve's presence here. Probability suggests she is still located at the designated picnic area."

At that helpful hint, Mark draws back, significantly calmer. "Well. Why didn't you say so?" He lets out an airy laugh. That makes perfect sense, even if he's questioning what the hell prompted you to stay out there in the open.

"Current positional information on Eve is unavailable." Robot deadpans. He somehow makes himself sound sarcastic.

Cheeky bastard. "Uh-huh." Mark cares very little now, turning away. If you're out there, he'll come get you. Simple as that. "If you're wrong, it's your head, got it? Or. Body. Hah! You're the size of a head!" He lets out another, mocking laugh. He hears Robot sigh. Can someone like him do that?

He'll forgive the sass.

He has you to collect.

[. . .]

When Mark finally locates the special park he'd taken you to, the first thing he hears is the soft, uneven rhythm of your snores.

He lands silently, taking you in.

You're face-down on the fuzzy picnic blanket, cheek smushed against your folded arm with half a melted chocolate bar slipping loose from your fingers. You're wearing different clothes, now: an airy, lighter dress with shorter sleeves and longer laces. Your hair sticks to the side of your face, smothered in your drool, and the coat of color on your eyes and lips has smudged and smeared both the skin of your arm and the whites of the checkered fabric beneath you. Adorned on your head is a pretty bow.

His eyes linger on your hair. Then your face. Then what he left of you.

Your lips are still a bit swollen. There are... hand marks around your neck, around a thigh, peeking out. You changed for a prettier look, even if you'd been just as beautiful the first time.

You still smell like him.

He stares for a while.

Just. Stands. Watching you sleep, drinking in the sight of your peaceful slumber as the breeze of the night ruffles his uneven clothes. The cold seeps through the unbuttoned collar of his black dress shirt, poking around the white of his Converse, pressing indents against his dark gray pants.

He has only one thought.

Just one.

You waited for him.

The realization hits harder than any blow he's taken in weeks. Something inside his chest slowly contorts—warm, uncomfortably warm. His throat is tight, tongue in tar with words unsaid.

You...

You really sat out here for hours, for him.

How stupid.

You're so stupid.

You're so, so stupid.

Mark can't... think? He feels like yelling and laughing at the same time. But, not... no. Not that. Something else squeezes the blood in his heart and tugs at his esophagus. It's heavy. His head feels compressed but empty at the same time. It's... sad. But not sad, either.

Mark can't articulate what he feels into words.

You're just.

Stupid.

Here you are, quiet and serene without a care in the world. You give him a heart attack—disappearing from your room like that, making him tear through the compound, convinced that someone had snatched you. You could've been seen, captured, and dragged off by one of the Viltrumites crawling all over Earth right now. Humans aren't supposed to even be outside this late, much less lying exposed in the middle of a park.

And worst of all—Mark scowls, crouching beside you—you weren't waiting in your bed where you belonged. Where he could've found you safe and quickly. Where maybe he could've kissed you again, to pick up where he left off.

Instead, you're here.

Sleeping in the dark like an idiot.

Mark exhales, tired. His hand twitches, itching to brush your hair back from your face. "Stupid," He mutters, too softly for you to hear.

The warmth in his chest keeps growing.

It's suffocating him.

He doesn't know what to think.

He feels happy.

But also... not. Guilty? No, not that either. Or maybe a little bit of that, too.

There's a lot he's feeling. He doesn't quite like it.

You waited.

You waited out here, in the heat, the cold.

You waited for him.

Why?

He reaches forward, curling a strand of your hair on his fingers. Testing, testing, resisting an urge.

Why?

Is there a motive behind acting this recklessly?

Mark tugs a little. You don't budge.

No.

That's not like you. You do things for reasons he can't comprehend. That's just as you've always been.

His expression softens. He stops messing with your hair, tucking his finger back to his fist and laying his hand contemplatively on his knee, using his limb as leverage to rest his head and continue to watch you some more.

You.

You're...

You're very silly.

Doing this. Sleeping here. Staying awake, maybe. Eating all of the food like a fatty because you're so tired. He noticed that you'd tucked the bouquets closer to your body, afraid they'd drift away and never come back. This is all so trivial. None of it matters. It doesn't, because your existence is enough.

The date was over as soon as he left. His dad ruined it. Time ruined it.

But you stayed.

Isn't that so silly?

Mark doesn't laugh. His gaze strays past you for a moment, toward the ruin in the background. A building is still on fire, a beacon in the night. Birds and the usual critter aren't singing. Overturned cars and several corpses remain motionless on the cracked pavement. Streetlights flicker and torn cable wires spark, soon to die just like everything else under his hand. All of this destruction.

Just for you to sleep in it, waiting for him.

How... sad.

Mark shifts closer to you and carefully slides his hands under your weight. He lifts you into his arms with practiced ease. You're quick to open your eyes, reminding him that you're a light sleeper, and Mark waits for your eyes to land on him before he does anything. But rather than wake further and push him away like every other time he's caught you sleeping under the mercy of the moon, you take one brief look before slinging your arm over his shoulder and letting yourself go dead weight. Your head lolls, snuggled into him.

Mark hums, raking your eyes over your form.

You must be really tired.

That's okay.

You can sleep.

He'll take you home.

[. . .]

He doesn't understand what it is he feels. He cannot form a thought around why the emptiness in his chest is suddenly overfilled with syrupy, sick fondness. He can't say why he wants to hold you until he's dead, why he wants to protect you, feed you, spoil you.

He doesn't.

Mark is lost.

But you're very sweet.

The very sweetest person in his whole world.