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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

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𓊆ྀིMY HERO ACADEMIA DAD EDITION𓊇ྀི

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꩜.ೃ࿔ Note: made this for the ones living through Father’s Day with a lump in their throat. if you’ve ever felt like you were raising yourself, or like no one was really proud of you—this is for you. i thought about us while writing it. i am one of us. you deserve softness. you deserve to be protected. consider this a little gift, from someone who understands.

⤷ Happy Father’s Day.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

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⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … wakes you up for school by knocking on your door with a mug of tea and a quiet “five minutes.”

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … never says ”I love you” out loud, but always slips a pack of your favorite snacks into the grocery bag without you asking.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … teaches you how to stitch up a cut before teaching you how to ride a bike.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … tells you “You’ll figure it out” and then stays awake all night reading manuals in case you don’t.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … swears he’s not emotionally available, then covers you with a blanket when you fall asleep studying and tells the cat “Watch them for me” like you’re made of glass.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … sighs whenever you mess up, rubs his temple like it physically pains him, and still shows up early to every school event—even if he spends the whole time pretending not to be proud.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … isn’t great with affection, but teaches you how to patch wounds, how to stay calm under pressure, and how to protect people without becoming someone else.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … lets you nap in his sleeping bag during storms, and rests his hand on your head for just a second longer when he thinks you’re asleep.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … tells you “I’m proud of you” exactly once, quietly, casually, mid-conversation, and then immediately changes the subject like it didn’t wreck both of you.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … complains about noise, chaos, and how kids nowadays don’t listen—but lets you drag him to a crowded arcade just because you asked. And he wins the claw machine prize on the first try.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … teaches you how to fight not because he wants you to get hurt, but because he won’t always be there.

⟢Aizawa Shōta! who … hates the thought of losing you more than anything.

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⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … packs your lunch with post-it notes that say things like “YOU’RE AMAZING.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ” and “GO BEYOND♡.ᐟ” in all caps and too many exclamation points.

⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … cheers a little too loud at your school events, waving both hands even when no one else is clapping yet.

⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … buys you gifts like a “World’s Best Kid” mug or a novelty All Might pen and gives it to you with a proud grin like it’s worth a million dollars.

⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … over-explains everything—how to cross the street, how to make tea, how to lock the door—because what if something happens when he’s not there?

⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … calls everything you do a “plus ultra effort.ᐟ” even when it’s just folding laundry or remembering to feed the pet.

⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … makes awkward dad jokes, gives clumsy hugs, and still looks at you like you’re his greatest little hero he’s ever known.

⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … gets confused by apps and emojis but still texts you every night with a “Sleep well.ᐟ.ᐟ💪💤” because that’s what dads are supposed to do.

⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … tells you he’s proud of you even when you fail. Especially when you fail. Because that’s when he knows you need it most.

⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … tries to give you space but always knocks gently on your door when it’s been too quiet for too long, just to ask, “Everything okay in there?”

⟢Yagi Toshinori! who … can’t carry the weight of the world anymore—but would still try if it meant keeping you safe. You’re his whole world.

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⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … greets you every morning with “RISE AND SHINE, SUNSHINE.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ” at full volume and somehow still means it genuinely.

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … cries at every graduation, every birthday, every moment you even slightly grow up—and tries to blame it on allergies every time.

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … teaches you how to scream-sing in the car and encourages you to throw up peace signs out the window like you’re in a music video.

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … makes you personalized mixtapes titled things like “YOU KICK ASS VOL. 3” and insists they’re medically necessary for confidence.

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … makes the worst dad jokes known to man, laughs at them harder than anyone, and then fist bumps you like he just ended world hunger.

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … gets genuinely offended when you say you don’t like a band he recommended but still puts their album in your backpack “just in case you change your mind.”

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … takes you to karaoke nights and gives you the mic during his set just so he can cheer the loudest when you sing.

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … says “metal as hell.ᐟ” about your report card, your outfit, your art project, and the way you stood up for someone—even if you stuttered through it.

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … is the kind of dad who’d wear matching sunglasses and call you his “number one sidekick” in front of all your friends without shame and mean it with his whole chest.

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … makes noise where silence would do, but goes quiet the second he sees you need space.

⟢Yamada Hizashi! who … always, always notices.

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⟢Todoroki Enji! who … knocks before entering your room now. Every time. Even when you say it’s okay, he still waits a beat—just to be sure.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … tries to talk about his feelings and ends up handing you a brand-new phone or a limited-edition figure instead, because he doesn’t know the words yet.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … watches you from across the room like he’s waiting for permission to care out loud. Like he’s scared you’ll flinch if he gets too close.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … apologizes through action—drives you to school in silence, makes your favorite dinner and pretends he didn’t google the recipe.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … keeps every crumpled drawing you made as a kid locked away in a desk drawer like it’s sacred. Even the ones where he’s just a stick figure labeled “fire man.ᐟ”

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … doesn’t know how to laugh right yet. But he tries. He tries when you joke with him. He tries when you make fun of his scarf. He tries for you.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … stands in the hallway outside your room for a full minute before knocking, practicing what he wants to say and never quite getting it right.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … tells you “Good work” like it’s the only phrase he knows how to give gently—and it means more than any “I love you” he can’t quite say.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … holds every single mistake like it’s still burning in his hands.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … keeps a photo of you in his wallet, not because he’ll forget your face, but because he’s still learning how to carry you gently.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … once tried to bond by watching your favorite show with you, but sat stiff as a board the entire time and muttered “That’s not how fire works…” every ten minutes.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … doesn’t believe he deserves your love. But still shows up. Every time. With too much food. Too many apologies. And a heart that keeps trying anyway.

⟢Todoroki Enji! who … thinks loving you quietly is safer—for both of you.

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⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … always greets you with a “Hey, sunshine.ᐟ” and a bear hug that lasts just long enough to fix your whole day.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … buys your favorite snacks before you even realize you’re upset.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … lets you nap on his stomach while he watches late-night TV with the volume turned down low so you don’t wake up.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … teaches you how to cook not because he expects you to remember it, but because he wants to spend more time with you in any way possible and it just so happens to be the kitchen.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … always walks on the outside of the sidewalk.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … prints out your essays and hangs them on the fridge next to coupons and ramen menus like they’re priceless masterpieces.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … says “I’m proud of you” with zero hesitation, five times a week, in five different ways—because you deserve to hear it until you believe it.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … always has emergency gummies in his jacket pocket like a certified dad doctor.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … makes you hot pot when you’re sick and lets you pick the movie, even if it’s one he’s already seen ten times and cried through twice.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … doesn’t ask what’s wrong—just scoots over on the couch, pats the spot beside him, and says, “You don’t have to talk. Just stay.”

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … keeps tissues, hand warmers, and backup mittens in his bag just in case.

⟢Toyomitsu Taishirō! who … believes in soft strength. In second chances. In staying. And he never lets you forget that he’s not going anywhere.

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⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … keeps a file on everything you like—books, foods, habits—not because he’s obsessive, but because he doesn’t want to forget the parts of you that matter.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … buys gifts months in advance, wraps them in crisp paper with clean edges, and leaves them on your desk without saying a word. The tag always just says: “For when you need it.”

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … watches over you like a strategist, but listens like someone who’s afraid you’ll vanish mid-sentence.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … adjusts his tie before every parent-teacher meeting, even though he knows the teachers fear him more than you do.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … reads your favorite book quietly on the train to work, dog-ears a page and doesn’t tell you, but quotes it during dinner and watches your face light up.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … doesn’t say “I’m proud of you” until it’s written in the margin of your notebook—faint, small, in blue pen. The kind of ink that fades too fast.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … makes sarcastic comments when you cry so you’ll laugh first. Then passes you a tissue without meeting your eyes.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … never raises his voice, never demands your attention, but always knows when something’s wrong and always has a solution ready before you ask.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … schedules your dentist appointments months in advance and reminds you the day before with a sticky note shaped like a star. You find it on your toothbrush.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … has exactly five secret inside jokes with you. None of them are funny to anyone else. One of them involves the phrase “statistically speaking” and a very bad drawing of a cat.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … nearly had a heart attack when you once said All Might was kind of overrated. He muttered about “historical revisionism” under his breath for a week.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … can’t protect you from everything but still tries to plan for the hurt.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … used his quirk on you more than once—just enough to keep the worst parts of the future from touching you. And maybe that’s why, even now, it still feels like he’s here.

⟢Sasaki Mirai! who … loved you through systems. Through silence. Through certainty. Even after death.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

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❝Nostos❞

⚜️Odysseus!Mark Grayson x Penelope!Reader⚜️

𓊈Part II — ”Epistrefó”𓊉

࣪ ˖ ࣪ ⊹˖ ࣪ 𓂃﹏﹏𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓊝﹏﹏𓂃𓂁﹏﹏𓂃 ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖ ࣪

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

📜 summary: he left. not with cruelty. not with goodbye. mark just vanished—and you stayed. it’s hard to stay normal. you try to move on. you really do. but mark’s jacket still waits on the chair. his name is still pinned in your phone. the coffee still brews for two. and the letters? they pile up. this isn’t about hope. it’s about absence. you’re not hoping. just staying, even when no one asks you to. (aka. grief without a grave. love without closure. devotion without return.)

📜 contains: sfw. slow burn. heartbreak. memory as a character. one-sided presence. two-sided ache. grief without death. love in limbo. emotionally repressed!reader. odysseus-coded!mark. penelope-coded!reader. messy handwriting vs neat black pen. polaroid keepsakes. lots of flashbacks. debbie grayson being a mother figure to reader. soft domesticity haunted by absence. boxes of unsent letters. a jacket no one can move. a girl who stays. a boy who doesn’t come back (yet).

📜 warning: emotional themes. ambiguous grief. depressive routine. unresolved love. emotional repression. survivor’s guilt. mentions of blood/injury (light). isolation. loneliness. ambiguous trauma. post-battle exhaustion. implied memory loss. existential ache. quiet breakdowns. longing dressed as daily routine. no happy ending (in this part). read gently.

📜 wc: 6100

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently for this story. i had a very specific ache in mind when writing this, and it wouldn’t leave until it was posted. “Nostos” is the first half of a two-part heartbreak duology (the second part, Epistrefó, is in the works). remember that sometimes, love doesn’t vanish—it just lingers in doorways and folds itself into jackets we simply can’t put away.

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You don’t check your phone anymore. Not at all.

Not for him.

Sure, you check the battery. The time. The weather. The signal bars in the top corner that say you’re still here, and he’s still not. But you don’t expect anything.

You don’t hope.

Not anymore.

Not since Mark disappeared one night and never came back. Not since his contact slipped further down your recent list with each passing day, replaced by bills, deliveries, and people who went back to normal too quickly.

Still, you charge it every night. Still, you leave the phone ringer on. Still, you wait.

Maybe that’s not hope. Maybe it’s just routine. The kind that sneaks in and settles behind your ribs when life starts to rot slowly. The kind that whispers—if I just do this one more time, maybe…

You wake before your alarm.

The morning light creeps in like a slow apology, filtering half-heartedly through the curtains. Your hand finds the phone instinctively, thumb brushing the screen without really looking.

No missed calls. No new messages. One software update.

You ignore it all.

The house is quiet. But it’s not peace. It’s absence. The faucet drips every six seconds. The kettle clicks on. You don’t remember pressing it. The hum of heating water sounds too loud in the silence you’ve been pretending doesn’t suffocate you.

You sit at the table with your legs folded underneath you, the mug pressed between both palms. The steam curls upward, ghostlike like something leaving.

No movement, no noise, no presence.

You scroll anyway.

His name is still pinned.

“Mark 💫”

You don’t remember what the emoji was supposed to mean.

He added it himself like it was hilarious. Said it made him look mysterious. Said he was “a riddle in human form” and you had laughed so hard you actually snorted.

Mark grinned like he liked the sound of your laughter too much.

That was before.

Now the last message from him still sits there like a paperweight you never moved or never dared to.

be there soon

You didn’t respond. You never got the chance. And you remember—

It was late.

You were at your front door, holding it open with your socked foot, arm crossed over your chest, just watching him from the hallway. His jacket was unzipped, hoodie strings uneven, hair still wet from the shower he’d apparently taken somewhere else.

Mark didn’t say where. You didn’t ask.

You always meant to ask more questions. You never did.

“I’ll be quick,” he’d told you.

You frowned. “Isn’t that what you said last time?”

He gave you that look.

The one that said ’don’t ruin this’. The one he always pulled when he was five seconds away from pulling you into a hug and ten seconds from disappearing entirely.

He kissed the side of your head instead.

“You’ll see me soon.”

A look. A promise. Nothing more, nothing less.

You’d watched him walk off with his hands shoved in his pockets, like he didn’t know what to do with them when they weren’t on you.

And then Mark never came back.

Back in the present, you unlock your phone again. Not for anything, really, just for some motion.

The drafts are still there.

You don’t even know how many you’ve written now. Some are seconds long. Some are full paragraphs. All unsent. All useless.

U alive or what lol

Remind me again why ur hot when ur annoying

It’s raining and you’re missing it. Again

Mark where are you

I should’ve told you not to go

Just say you miss me already. Coward

You promised, you promised, you promised

Just say something… anything

I hate you for this.

Your fingers tap a new one open without a second thought. Blank screen. Blinking cursor. And you type away.

Hey. You probably won’t see this. That’s fine. But I saw someone yesterday who almost looked like you. He smiled. You don’t really smile like that, but I wanted it to be you so bad I didn’t really care. Just thought I’d tell you that. That I thought it was you.

That I wished it was

You stare at it for a long time. Long enough that your eyes start to feel dry.

Then you lock the screen. Set it facedown. You don’t delete it. You don’t send it. You don’t do anything, really.

The ringer stays on.

Because maybe tomorrow, the silence will break. Maybe tomorrow, he won’t still be gone. Or maybe because that’s what you do when you love someone.

You wait.

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You didn’t mean to hold it.

Today was supposed to be about cleaning. Supposed to be about moving things around—there were sheets to wash, shoes to line up, that one drawer that collects things nobody owns.

You were supposed to finally put away the pieces of him that stayed even when he didn’t.

But the chair stopped you.

The jacket was still there. Still slung across the back like he just left it yesterday.

Like Mark might still come back for it.

It hangs exactly where he used to sit, where he’d tip backward on two legs and pretend he wasn’t breaking the chair every time. You used to scold him for that. Not seriously. Not like you meant it.

Now, there’s no one left to play pretend-annoyed with.

Your hand brushes the sleeve as you pass. And then you pause. Fingers curling into worn fabric that still holds his shape. You lift it gently, not all the way, just enough to hold it against your chest.

It smells like dust now.

But beneath that—beneath time, and distance, and everything he didn’t say—there’s still a trace of him.

That warm scent of something musky and clean and entirely Mark.

Something you only noticed the first time he hugged you and it stuck to your hoodie for days. Something that crept into your sheets and your sweaters and your bloodstream without permission.

You breathe it in. Then again. Slower this time.

It’s not grief, exactly.

It’s something duller. Something quieter.

You keep the jacket in your arms as you move to the kitchen. You don’t even realize you’re actually wearing it until you catch your reflection in the microwave—shoulders swallowed by dark fabric, sleeves dragging. It’s too big. Always was.

He used to joke about that, too.

“That’s the point,” he’d said once, tugging it over your shoulders when you were shivering outside. “If it fits, it’s not boyfriend-coded.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

He’d shrugged, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “Yet.”

You hadn’t answered. But you hadn’t taken it off either.

It was cold that night.

Not freezing, just sharp in the kind of way that nipped at your fingertips and made you hug yourself tighter.

You’d both been walking back from something—food, maybe. You don’t remember the details. Just that your arms were bare and your voice was quieter than usual.

Mark had slowed beside you, watching the way you rubbed your arms. He didn’t say anything yet. Just unzipped his jacket and handed it over like it was instinct.

You hadn’t asked. He hadn’t offered. He just did it and you took it.

He didn’t make a joke after that. Didn’t even flirt. Just kept walking beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

But it changed everything.

Not right then, not obviously, but something shifted.

You remember the way your stomach twisted and your heartbeat picked up. You remember thinking—

Oh.

He didn’t touch you again that night, not once. But you felt him everywhere.

You slide the jacket off and drape it over the back of the same chair again.

Smoothing the collar down. Adjusting the shoulders like he might sit there again. Like maybe if you leave it just right, he’ll feel it.

You keep it where you’d reach for him if he were here.

Right there. In arm’s length.

Because if you moved it—if you packed it away in a box or folded it into the back of your closet—it would mean he’s not coming back. And you’re not ready for that.

You stir the tea. One cup. Steam rising.

Mark’s chair stays empty.

But the jacket waits.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It just… happens.

You measure out the coffee, same as always. Scoop. Scoop. Pour. Wait.

The rhythm is muscle memory now—something buried into the mornings like breath, like heartbeat, like him. Then you finally catch yourself.

Two mugs. One for you. One for Mark.

It’s like the whole room freezes.

You’d promised yourself you stopped doing this. That you finally broke the habit. You even shoved his mug to the back of the cabinet.

You swore you were done waiting.

But it’s still there.

Still chipped on the side where he knocked it against the sink one morning and said it gave the mug “character.” It’s still black with those stupid yellow stars.

Still his.

You should’ve noticed when your hands reached for it before your head did.

Still him.

You pour the coffee anyway. Two mugs. No sugar in either. Just the way he drank it and the way you learned to drink it too. And you leave the other warm, just in case.

You sit at the table.

Mark’s cup across from you. Untouched. And you remember—

It was a mess of a morning.

You were late. He was somehow later. The kitchen was a disaster, and Mark was shirtless for absolutely no reason. You were trying to make toast while he danced barefoot on the tile to a song you couldn’t stand.

You’d told him to stop being annoying.

He’d winked. Stole the toast off your plate.

You’d shrieked, actually shrieked, and chased him around the counter, barefoot and giggling so hard you nearly slipped on the corner rug. Mark dodged you once. Twice. Then finally let you catch him.

Hands on your waist, your breath in his mouth, laughter tangled between your fingers as they clutched the front of his hoodie like it meant something.

It didn’t mean anything yet somehow meant everything.

He kissed you on the cheek. And you kissed him back. Mark whispered, “Keep the mug warm for me.”

And of course, you do. Every morning.

You lift your own cup, blow on it, sip and it burns your tongue. The second mug cools across the table. Quiet. Still. Full.

You rinse it out before you leave the kitchen. You always do.

Not because it’s dirty. Not because it was used. Just because that’s what you do.

When you’re still hoping.

Even if you won’t say it out loud.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

Stay productive.

That’s what people say, right? Structure helps. Routine is good. Keep busy.

Keep moving. Keep going. Keep making plans. Keep pretending you’re fine.

Like motion can patch what memory keeps splitting open.

So you write lists now. Groceries. Cleaning. Meal plans. Things you need. Things you might need. Things to make it look like you’re okay.

Tiny tasks that make up a life—yours now missing half of what made it feel like one.

Today’s list starts the same way as always. Blank paper. Black pen. You write the date at the top like it matters. Like it’s going to mean anything in a week.

Monday:

• Bread

• Tea

• Paper towels

• …

You pause after the third item. The pen hovers. Eyes drift toward the drawer to your left. You shouldn’t open it. You do it anyway.

You rifle through receipts and extra takeout menus, an old flashlight that barely works and then you find it.

Folded. Yellowed at the edges. Paper soft from time and… something else.

Your fingers unfold it slowly. You already know what it is. You know how it ends.

Mark’s handwriting stares back at you—lopsided and confident, faded blue color with that kind of controlled madness that always looked better on him than it had any right to. Like even his grocery lists didn’t know how to sit still.

• eggs

• bananas

• that almond milk you swear tastes different but doesn’t

• granola (get the one you like, I don’t care)

• more tea, we’re out again

• the cookies you pretend you don’t eat at 1am

• trash bags

• shampoo (the purple one)

• soap

• strawwber strawberry toothpaste

• something sweet (if you’re still mad at me)

Underneath that, at a slight diagonal across the corner—

’get flowers if she still looks tired.’

Drawn beside a doodle of what might be a dog, big heart eyes, lopsided ears, tongue out, and just next to it those three words…

’Love You…♡’

You laugh. Or maybe choke. You don’t know the difference anymore. The sound comes out somewhere in between.

You remember this list.

You’d been teasing him for writing everything on paper instead of using his phone. He’d argued phones were ”soulless,” and that “real men use Post-its.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Mark kissed your temple. Said lists were how he kept you with him when you weren’t there.

You press your thumb into the little heart he’d drawn beside your name. The blue ink’s slightly smeared—maybe it got wet once. Or maybe you just touched it too many times.

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, the way it still folds exactly the same.

The way the creases fall into place like they know how to find their way back. Like him.

You think about throwing it away. You even fold it once, just to unfold it again.

You stare at it until your eyes blur, until you stop seeing the letters and only see the way he handed it to you, smug and soft and so full of quiet affection you didn’t know what to do with it.

You don’t throw it out. You just slide it back where it came from. Like it belongs in the drawer. Like it still has a purpose.

The new list started on a different page.

And you don’t write your name on it.

You don’t add cookies or shampoo or flowers. You just… let his list stay.

Right where it was. Blue ink intact. Doodle untouched.

Like maybe it’s not a list at all—maybe it’s a letter. A timestamp. A small, stupid way to say Mark was here.

And maybe that’s enough.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It starts like they all always do.

Somewhere between a joke and a lie. Between habit and hope.

You sharpen the black pen you always use—neat, intentional, boring—like if your handwriting is steady enough, your heart will be too.

The paper is folded once, creased twice, tucked behind the tray of teas and old receipts in the kitchen drawer.

There’s more where that came from. This isn’t the first. It won’t be the last.

You press the pen to the page, and let your hand lead.

﹏﹏

Hey, idiot,

I saw a guy today with the same shitty walk you have. Thought it was you.

Wasn’t. Obviously. He was taller.

And had better posture. So now I’m mad.

Not at him.

At you.

﹏﹏

You exhale.

It’s stupid, you know it is, but it doesn’t stop your fingers. Doesn’t stop the ache curling behind your ribs like something left too long in the cold.

﹏﹏

I made coffee.

You’d say it was too sweet. You’d drink it anyway. And lie.

Like you always did.

Like I let you.

﹏﹏

You swallow hard. Blink twice. Don’t stop writing.

﹏﹏

I keep the jacket on your chair.

The mug near the kettle.

You’re not here. But yet you’re everywhere.

﹏﹏

The pen presses harder now. The strokes sharper. Angrier.

﹏﹏

You said I’d see you soon.

You never said it’d be the last time.

I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I don’t even know if this is goodbye.

I don’t know anything.

Except that it still smells like you when I open the closet.

And I haven’t changed the sheets. And I keep forgetting how your voice sounds when you laugh. But I remember how it sounded when you said my name.

I hate that.

I hate you for that.

﹏﹏

The paper blurs.

You don’t notice the first tear until it hits the corner of the page. A soft smear like watercolor. Like proof.

You don’t wipe it away. More come. Slow. Heavy. Quiet.

Your body doesn’t sob. Doesn’t heave. You just… leak. Like your heart sprung a hole somewhere too deep to find.

And still, your hand moves.

﹏﹏

I remember the first time you touched me like you meant it.

Not the kiss. Not the teasing.

I mean your hand on my back. Just resting there. Just… there. No pressure. No agenda.

I think that’s when I knew.

You brushed my hair off my forehead the night you stayed late. We weren’t even together. You didn’t ask. You just did it.

And I wanted to cry, even then.

﹏﹏

You’re shaking now, just a little. Just enough for the words to tilt downward, slope off-kilter like they’re falling away from you.

Like he did.

﹏﹏

You used to hum when you thought I was asleep. Through the bathroom door while brushing your teeth.

I never told you I heard it. I just listened. It made me feel safe.

You made me feel safe.

﹏﹏

You pause.

And for a second, your mind goes completely blank.

You sit in it. The silence, you mean. The space where he used to be.

The world moves on. The faucet drips. The light buzzes. Somewhere outside, a car starts.

You look down at the page.

﹏﹏

I’m scared you’re gone, Mark.

But I’m more scared I’ll learn how to live with it.

﹏﹏

That’s the last thing you wrote. No signature. No goodbye.

Just a confession.

You fold it slow, with care. Then you rise, move across the apartment like sleepwalking. Like prayer.

You kneel by the closet. Reach behind the stack of scarves and that one box of photos you haven’t opened since fall. There’s a shoebox there. Faded cardboard, tied with a string. You lift the lid.

Letters.

Dozens of them. Maybe more. Some are bent. Some warped at the corners. Some tear-stained.

All unopened and all unsent.

You place the new one on top. Neatly, lovingly—like it belongs.

Then you close the lid. Tug the string taut again. And push the box gently back into the dark. You don’t say anything. But in your head, you whisper,

If you come back… I’ll give you all of them.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It was raining.

Not the cinematic kind. Just grey, steady, apathetic—like even the sky had given up.

You hadn’t spoken to anyone in two days. Hadn’t opened the blinds. It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday. You didn’t care anymore.

There was a knock at the door. Three short taps.

You knew it was her before you even looked through the peephole. There was a pause. Then the sound of the key turning in the lock.

Debbie didn’t wait. She never did.

She stepped inside with the same quiet confidence she always had—like someone used to walking through grief. Like she already knew the shape of it.

You stood barefoot in the doorway. Hoodie too big, eyes tired and puffy.

“I brought soup,” she said simply.

Her voice was gentler than the rain. You didn’t reply, just nodded. Let her set the bag on the counter and pretend the room wasn’t full of things neither of you could say out loud.

“Tea, too,” she added. “The one you like. With the weird little flowers in it.”

You didn’t remember ever telling her that. Maybe Mark did. You didn’t ask.

The kettle clicked on. The air started to fill with steam and silence. You sat at the table while she moved around the kitchen with quiet ease—like it was still hers too.

Debbie walked like she knew where everything was. Because she did, in a way.

You sat on the chair, watching her stir the broth like it was a spell. She didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t mention him. Just placed the bowl in front of you and cupped your shoulder in one hand, soft but steady.

“Eat,” she said. “You don’t have to talk.”

So you didn’t.

The soup scalded your mouth, and maybe that was the point. You blinked too hard once. Looked down instead of up. Debbie sat across from you, elbows on the table, tea in hand.

She looked tired too. But not the same kind of tired. The kind that comes from knowing too much and saying too little.

She let the silence stretch. Let it fill every corner of the kitchen without trying to sweep it away. She sipped her tea, slow and steady, like the world wasn’t breaking apart right in front of her.

At one point, she opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it again.

You looked up.

Her eyes were fixed on the jacket. Still on the chair. Still untouched. Still his.

Her jaw tightened, just a little.

“You keeping it there on purpose?” she asked, like it didn’t mean anything, like it wasn’t the first time either of you had acknowledged it.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Debbie nodded once. Almost like she understood. Like she was doing the same thing in a different house.

“He used to leave his socks everywhere,” she said quietly. “I found one under the couch last week.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Eventually Debbie started cleaning while you ate. Folded the dish towel. Organized that one drawer you kept forgetting about. Hummed a song you didn’t recognize under her breath.

At some point, she slid the other tea towards you.

You blinked. “I don’t—”

“I know,” she said. “But you need it today.”

You obeyed.

It was awful. It tasted too sweet, too floral. Like comfort where it didn’t belong. But you drank it anyway. Because Debbie was right.

When she left, she kissed the top of your head and pressed a folded napkin into your hand.

“I’m may not be him,” she said, quiet and steady, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t open the napkin until the door clicked shut behind her. Inside, in her neat cursive, it just said—

Eat. Sleep. Let yourself be loved.

Below it, smaller,

Call me if you forget that.

You blinked hard again. This time, it wasn’t because of the soup. You tucked it in the drawer. Right under the first letter you ever wrote to him.

And you never threw it away.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It’s not hard to lie.

You thought it would be. You thought the shape of his name in your chest would make it catch somewhere between your teeth, twist your mouth into something unreadable—but no.

When people ask if you’re okay, your voice doesn’t crack. Your face doesn’t fall. You just smile. Tight and bright and fine.

”I’m fine.”

It rolls off your tongue like water. Like breath. Like maybe, if you say it enough, it’ll start being true.

You say it at the coffee shop. At the pharmacy. To the neighbor with the loud dog and the judgmental eyes.

And you say it tonight, too.

You weren’t planning to go. You don’t remember saying yes. Don’t remember texting back. But somehow, you’re here anyway.

Same bar. Same table. Same people. Same everything, except the part that matters. The seat next to you is empty. No one takes it. They don’t even try.

It used to be Mark’s. Always.

He’d sprawl too far, take up too much space, nudge your knee under the table like it was a secret only you two knew.

He’d make jokes too loud, smile too wide, say your name in that ridiculous sing-song tone that meant he wanted something.

You look around.

Someone laughs, you think it’s William. A real sound. Loud and open and bright.

You wonder how he can do that so easily without his best-friend but you mimic it perfectly. And it almost feels real.

Almost.

They’re his friends.

But they became yours too, at some point.

Somewhere between group dinners and stupid game nights and Mark dragging you along even when you said you were tired.

Now they invite you without him. Pretend it’s the same.

Maybe they also don’t know what else to do.

You nod at the right times. Ask the right questions. Sip the drink Amber handed you earlier and pretend it doesn’t taste like guilt.

Eve tells a story you’ve heard before. You laugh.

It feels like theft.

On your way home, every man you pass looks a little like him.

A curl of dark hair. A familiar height. A walk that’s too casual to be a stranger’s. And every time, your heart stutters. Then sinks.

You’re not even surprised anymore. You barely blink. It’s like your brain keeps pressing the bruise just to make sure it still hurts.

It does.

There’s a couple ahead of you on the sidewalk. The guy lifts his girlfriend’s hand and spins her around. She laughs, off-balance, clutches his jacket.

Mark did that once.

You’d told him to stop being cheesy. He said you needed more magic in your life. That he could be that for you. That he wanted to be.

You’d called him stupid.

Mark had grinned and spun you anyway.

You’d laughed.

And believed him.

It’s late when you get back.

The apartment smells like lemon cleaner and leftover memory.

You peel off your jacket, toss your keys in the bowl by the door. Kick your shoes off. Shrug.

The chair still holds the jacket.

The mug is still clean.

The box of letters stays untouched in the closet, tucked beneath everything else. Like muscle memory. Like something sacred.

You flick on the lamp, just one, the soft one by the couch. It doesn’t light the whole room—just enough to see by. Just enough to remember.

You sit.

No sound. No movement. No laughter through the wall or door slamming shut or Mark calling, “I’m back!” with a grin in his voice like he never left.

The couch is too quiet. Your hands too still.

You don’t cry.

You’re not even sad, not really. Not tonight, not yesterday, not tomorrow. You just feel… empty.

You wonder what it means to miss someone without being abandoned.

Because he didn’t leave you. He just left. And you stayed.

That’s what you’re good at.

Staying.

Even when everything else doesn’t.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

You don’t know how long it’s been.

You could count the days. You could scroll through the calendar, trace your finger back through mornings and meals and missed alarms—but you won’t.

You already know time doesn’t move right anymore.

Not forward, not backward, just around. Looping like bad weather—like a door that won’t shut all the way.

You clean the kitchen for the third time in two days. It doesn’t need it. The counter gleams. The stovetop is spotless. You scrub anyway.

The rag smells like citrus and ache.

The music you put on in the background stops three songs in. You don’t notice until the apartment goes still again, until the silence feels too loud, too final, like a punchline that never came.

You breathe and stretch.

Decide today is drawer day.

You start with the junk one. Pens, batteries, some keys that don’t fit anything anymore. You find a single glove. Three twist-ties. A coupon that expired last year. And, tucked in the very back—

A pen. Blue.

You freeze.

Not yours. You only use black.

It’s scratched along the clip like he chewed on it. There’s a tiny smear of ink dried at the tip. The weight of it in your hand is so stupidly familiar your chest hurts.

You test it against your palm.

It still works.

You set it down like it’s fragile, like it might vanish if you breathe wrong. And for a second, you just… stand there. Hands on the counter, eyes on the pen.

It’s nothing. It’s just a pen. But it’s his.

Still here. Like you.

You think about burning them. The letters. The box. Everything unsaid.

You even set them out once.

One night when the air felt too heavy and your body buzzed with something desperate—something like grief or anger or just plain madness.

You pulled the box from the closet. Untied the string. Stacked the envelopes like firewood. You think there are thirty-seven now. Maybe more. You don’t count anymore.

And then you stared.

You imagined the flame. Imagined the way the ink would curl and vanish. How the words would finally mean something if they disappeared.

But you couldn’t do it.

Not because you believed he’d come back. Not because you were hoping. But because letting go would feel too final.

Too loud and too much.

So you put them away again. Tucked them back in the dark. You didn’t even read them. Just stayed.

The jacket’s been on the chair too long. You know it. The collar’s starting to droop, the sleeves are dusted in sunlight and stale air.

So you fold it.

Not like packing it away. Not like forgetting. Just gentle, careful. A quiet kind of reverence.

You press out the creases with your palms. Smooth the fabric like it’s skin. Like it’ll wrinkle if you look at it too hard.

Then you hang it.

Not deep in the closet, not hidden. Just inside the door where you could still reach for it, if you needed to.

You do that a lot.

Not need. Not want. Just reach.

The call wasn’t planned. It’s not even brave. Just an impulse. A moment where your thumb hovers over that name and you press down before you can talk yourself out of it.

Debbie Grayson.

It rings once, twice and then came her voice.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You freeze. You didn’t know how much you missed being called that. How much you missed her warm voice.

The conversation is short. Gentle. Careful in all the places that still hurt. You talk about the weather, groceries, some show she’s watching. You tell her your heater’s been acting up and Debbie says she’ll send someone.

The call went quiet for a few seconds. You could hear a bird outside her window, maybe. The soft clink of glass.

“How are you… really?” she asked gently.

“Fine.”

Too quick and too flat but a he didn’t challenge it.

“Me too,” she said. A pause. “Liar.”

You laughed once. It came out quiet, bitter.

“Still keeping his jacket out?” she asked.

You nodded before realizing she couldn’t see you. Coughing in your hand you whispered, “Yeah.”

Debbie hummed. “Me too. It’s his hoodie, though. The one with the dumb band on it.”

You smile. “He loved that one.”

“He stank in that one,” she corrected, and you laughed again, this time without choking on it. “Wouldn’t let me wash it for two weeks.”

“He said that ruins the ‘vibe’” you added.

“I swear, he made up half of his vocabulary.”

You fall into silence again but this time, it doesn’t feel crushing. Just familiar.

Debbie sighs softly.

“If he could’ve called… he would have.”

You know what she means. You also know it doesn’t help. But you’re glad she said it anyway.

“I know,” you whisper. And before you hang up, her voice goes soft.

“Call me anytime if you need anything, okay?”

„Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Debbie hangs up and you’re left alone again. But not quite the same.

You say you would call. You both know you won’t.

After that call, your hands are shaking. You go to the bathroom. Not because you need to but because it’s something to do.

The faucet hisses. The water runs warm.

You scrub your hands harder than you need to. Focus on the spaces between your fingers, the creases in your palm. Like if you scrub hard enough, maybe you’ll find something still yours underneath it all.

When it happens, it doesn’t feel like a breakdown.

It’s not messy. It’s not loud. You don’t drop anything. You don’t scream.

You’re just staring at the sink. At your own reflection in the mirror. You don’t recognize the girl looking back.

She’s too still, too tired. Her eyes are lifeless, hair messy, lips chapped and—

Not you.

And suddenly, the weight of your own body feels like too much to carry.

Your knees fold before your heart does. You sit on the floor, palms flat to the tile, breath shallow. The water still running behind you.

Your chest stays quiet but your eyes don’t.

It’s not the ugly kind. No heaving, no sobbing, no gasping for air like you thought heartbreak was supposed to look like.

It’s just tears.

Fast. Full. Final.

You don’t stop them. You don’t wipe them away. You let them fall. Don’t curse them. Don’t name it healing. Because it doesn’t feel like healing. It just feels like staying.

Still here. Still.

You crawl to the couch eventually. Turn off the faucet. Leave the light on.

The pen’s still on the counter. The jacket’s still by the door. The box stays closed in the closet. The chair is empty. But you’re not… not really.

You sit in the same corner of the couch where Mark used to throw his legs across your lap. Rest your head on the same pillow he once stole for himself.

You breathe.

And in the stillness—in the ache, in the quiet, in the thing that doesn’t have a name yet—you can’t help but think that,

Mark was always good at leaving… you just never got better at staying.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The rain had stopped hours ago, but the ground still glistened.

Mud clung to his boots. Blood dried in thin lines along his ribs. The air smelled like iron, smoke, and burnt-out stars.

Mark didn’t feel any of it.

He sat still and quiet. Shoulders hunched beneath the battered weight of his suit. Eyes unfocused. Breathing steady, but shallow like he didn’t want to take up space. Like he didn’t deserve to.

He’d stopped keeping track of time weeks ago. Or maybe months.

There was no sun where he’d been—no moon, no clock, no human-made markers to tell him whether the world still turned without him.

He guessed it did. It always did.

The cold crept in first, through his gloves, up his spine, but he didn’t shiver. He hadn’t in a long time. Everything about him was different now.

Everything except…

His hand moved, slow but careful. Fingers brushed against the hidden seam in his suit—just under the chest area, where fabric frayed from wear and war.

Mark peeled it back. And there it was.

A folded square of photo paper. Faded at the corners. Edges curled with time and sweat and memory. He unfolded it with the kind of care he didn’t show to anything else anymore.

The Polaroid was creased, smudged, soft in places where his thumb had held it too long. But your face—your face was still there.

Captured in half-light and joy.

One of those accidental shots, mid-laugh, hair messy, your eyes looking somewhere off-frame like someone just said something ridiculous and you couldn’t help but smile.

He didn’t even remember who took it. Just that you hadn’t wanted to keep it and he had.

He kept it when he left. He kept it through everything. Buried it in the lining of his suit like it was armor. Like if he held it close enough, he wouldn’t forget how you looked when you were happy.

When you were his.

Mark stared at it now like it could answer for everything. For the silence, the distance, the cowardice.

He’d nearly lost it once.

The suit got torn in some place he didn’t have a name for. He hadn’t even noticed the rip until hours later, bleeding from the mouth and limping through someone else’s wreckage.

When he found it again—caught in the lining, damp but whole—he almost broke. He’d never let it out of his sight again.

Now, it rested against his palm like a heartbeat.

His fingers trembled, not from the cold, not even from the pain. Just from you.

He looked at your face the way you might look at something holy. Not like forgiveness but like the memory of it. And then, quietly, so quiet it almost didn’t leave his lips, he whispered your name. It came out soft and only once.

Like prayer. Like penance.

He tucked the photo back where it belonged. Right over his heart. Pressed the seam shut like it was a secret.

Then Mark stood.

And didn’t look back.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

Note

Girl you should lowkey give us playlists for each of your stories 🌚🌚 I need something that’ll reeeally set the mood and I already know you gots good music taste from the songs you add to each of your chapters

🎤︎︎ Okay FIRST of all, love you for saying that.

I genuinely don’t have one specific music taste—I just always go by the motto: “If I like a song, then I like it.” Doesn’t matter the genre. If it hits—it hits.

As for playlists ♬.ᐟ

▸ when it comes to my multi chapter fics, I’m kinda weirdly structured about it??? I do have songs saved and ideas planned—but I like being organized. I don’t usually make a full Spotify playlist until I’ve got like 5–6 chapters posted.

Reason? I like when the playlist follows the story.

💿 prologue song ➜ part 1 song ➜ part 2 song ➜ part 3 song… ↻

It’s just more satisfying when each song lines up with a section, yk?

So yeah, once I hit that mark, I’ll drop the playlists with the current songs so far and just keep adding the new ones with each update as the fic continues!

▸ with my longform one-shots and duologies, I also pick songs really intentionally—like I want the lyrics, tone, and colors of a track to match the entire vibe of a fic.

I could make mini playlists for those too, but I’m not sure if that’s what you meant?

Anyway—should we do this?

psssst let me know—always down to talk fic + music matchups (﹙˓🎧˒﹚)

•ılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılı•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

Text

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: he keeps showing up. you keep letting him. the door stays unlocked. tea is made too sweet. silence becomes routine. bruises go unspoken. goggles go missing (oh no!). there’s a question you probably shouldn’t ask. and a room you were meant to find. he doesn’t stay. not yet. but maybe you’re done waiting for him to ask permission first.

❤︎ contains: sfw. emotionally repressed omni!mark (maskless). cupid!reader (tired). slow burn ache. tired divine girl walks. locked doors left ajar. silent truces. half-fixes. domestic ritualism. tea with three honeys. blanket tucking. casual couch intimacy. proximity tension. flinching in sleep. jaw bruises. voice cracks. the goggles are off. he lingers. he doesn’t speak. reader asks anyway. he doesn’t answer. room reveal. red blanket. pink cat plushie. near-confession. almost staying.

❤︎ warnings: emotional repression. abandonment issues. mutual yearning framed as silence. soft things made heavy. unspoken hurt/comfort. past violence (vague). exile. grief, unsaid. omni!mark. fear of being too much. fear of not being enough. self-worth in question. unresolved trauma. villain origin foreshadowing (again). silence that says too much. furniture used as metaphor. someone leaving before they’re asked to stay. no identity reveal yet. no closure either.

❤︎ wc: 5289

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i blacked out somewhere around the goggles and woke up crying in the tea aisle. also, if you’re wondering whether writing slow burn angst about two disaster beings tiptoeing around intimacy while pretending not to be emotionally codependent is healing—no. it’s not. but it is honest. anyway. if you’re emotionally devastated, that means it’s working. yay! (also yes—i am obsessed with cats).

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The air is clean.

Too clean.

Like someone ran it through a filter before letting it touch your skin.

The grass is suspiciously green, the kind that looks like it’s never learned how to die.

Every tree is perfectly upright, every shadow perfectly drawn—like this place doesn’t even know how to be haunted properly.

You walk anyway.

The boots you bought with Invincible don’t fit quite right. Cupids don’t wear shoes. They don’t need to. But you sport them like you belong here.

Like this street is familiar.

Like you’re not counting cracks in the sidewalk and silently noting that there are none.

This planet—this corner of it, anyway—feels artificial in the way all utopias do. Pretty from far away. Quiet when you need it to be.

But there’s something in the stillness that feels designed.

Engineered to feel peaceful instead of actually being it.

You’ve started taking these walks more often. Around the same time. Through the same streets.

You like routine.

Or maybe you just like pretending this one’s yours.

It started the night the door stayed unlocked.

After that last silent almost-fight—after you’d said something too bare and he’d left without answering—you found it open again a few days later.

Just slightly ajar. Like a breath half-held. A silent truce.

No message. No invitation. No apology.

But not closed either.

You didn’t question it.

You just started leaving. Not running—just walking.

Getting used to wielding your feet. Letting your legs carry you away for a while.

It’s not a door if it’s never shut.

And it wasn’t shut now, either.

You spot Invincible’s apartment up ahead, half expecting the knob to turn under your hand before you even reach it.

You pause outside like you’re trying to give the moment enough time to reverse itself.

It doesn’t.

You push the door open.

The air shifts.

And there he is.

Sprawled out on your couch like a ghost that doesn’t know how to haunt properly.

One leg hooked over the armrest. Mask off. Suit wrinkled.

Hands tucked behind his head like he owns the place—or at least like he’s given up pretending he doesn’t.

Invincible doesn’t look at you.

Doesn’t flinch.

Just murmurs, deadpan—

“Hope you don’t mind.”

You don’t answer.

Just shut the door gently behind you and toe your boots off like it’s any other day. Like this is normal.

Like he’s normal.

Your hands grab the grey fuzzy blanket from its usual place—folded on the side of the couch where he never sits but always ends up anyway—and you toss it over him without a word.

He doesn’t thank you.

You don’t expect him to.

This is how it goes.

He shows up.

Takes your silence as permission. Rests like he doesn’t trust his own bed anymore. Leaves again before the sun rises, usually bruised, always quiet.

And you don’t ask.

Because asking might make it real.

There’s food in your fridge you don’t remember seeing. A drawer that used to stick now slides open like someone greased it.

The blanket smells a little like smoke. The shampoo bottle is lighter than it should be.

Someone keeps fixing things. Replacing things.

Staying.

No one says anything.

But you haven’t been alone in days.

And for some reason—you don’t want to be the one to ask why.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The TV plays something you’re not watching.

Something with bright lighting and soft background music. A romcom, maybe. One where the main couple bickers until they fall in love.

You’re not really paying attention.

You sit at opposite ends of the couch like a rerun.

It’s the same position every time—your back half-angled toward the armrest, legs tucked up under you; Invincible’s frame sprawled out, one boot still planted on the floor, elbow hung lazily over the cushion’s edge like he might float away if he doesn’t anchor himself to something.

A safe distance.

The TV is still on, but neither of you is watching. Some late-night romcom loops gently in the background—cheesy music, quiet laughter, the sound of a couple kissing through a rainy window.

You couldn’t even name the movie if you tried.

Your eyes flick over to him.

His suit’s ripped at the neck, collar slack, the line of his throat just barely visible beneath a faint bruise you know wasn’t there yesterday.

You don’t ask about it.

You haven’t asked about any of them.

Invincible hasn’t asked about your silence either.

Or your shoulder, which still twinges if you move wrong. He noticed once. Didn’t comment.

The unspoken pact between ghosts—haunt, but don’t possess.

The flicker of the screen lights the edge of his jaw. It’s sharper when he’s tired.

He hasn’t shaved in a few days.

There’s a moment—barely a second—where your hands brush as you both shift, and neither of you reacts.

Your fingers graze his knuckles.

He moves first, subtly curling his fist like that’ll erase it.

You pretend not to notice. Invincible does too.

It feels like ritual now. An old habit you both slipped into without realizing.

His gaze is heavy when it lands on you—so you make sure to keep yours elsewhere.

At the corner of the screen.

The chipped paint on the wall. The tea cup in your hand.

He thinks you don’t see him watching.

He’s wrong.

You move before the moment can thicken—rising with quiet steps toward the little kitchen, opening the drawer that still sticks sometimes unless you tap it twice.

Invincible’s fixed it before, but only halfway. You wonder if that’s on purpose.

The tea shelf is full. Again.

You didn’t fill it.

You can’t.

Cupids don’t even know how to buy groceries. You’ve tried, once—stepping into a corner store and instantly freezing when the automatic doors whooshed shut behind you.

Everything was too loud. Too artificial. Too far from your world.

Your feet carried you out with nothing in your hands.

But the next day, there were peaches in the fridge. Almond milk. Jasmine rice in the cupboard. Your favorite toothpaste.

A thank you never left your lips.

You think he prefers it that way.

Your fingers reach for two tea bags at random—peppermint and something floral—and toss them into a chipped mug like you know what you’re doing.

Add a splash of honey. Then two. Then three.

Stirring it with dramatic flair, your shoulders squared like a chef about to present a masterpiece.

You quickly return to the couch, set the mug down beside him with a smug look.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” you say dryly—trying—and failing to suppress your excitement.

Invincible glances at the drink like it might fight him.

“…What is it?”

“Tea,” you say, like it’s obvious. “My personal blend. Extremely advanced.”

He doesn’t ask for clarification. Just picks up the mug and takes a sip like he’s bracing for poison.

He swallows once. Then again.

His jaw flexes.

You narrow your eyes, waiting. “Well?”

He clears his throat. “…It’s good.”

A hum leaves your mouth, skeptical. “You hesitated.”

“I didn’t,” he easily lies.

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

Mark takes another sip, visibly forcing it down like it’s a dare he can’t back out of.

You smirk, leaning back against the couch cushion like you’ve claimed something that was never yours to begin with.

And the movie keeps playing—but he’s not watching it.

The tea tastes like you.

Not literally—Mark wouldn’t even know what that means, not really—but it carries the same weird quiet comfort you do. Like warmth that comes in the absence of cold. Like something you don’t realize is anchoring you until it’s gone.

He watches you from the corner of his eye.

How you tuck your legs under yourself. How you pretend to care about the movie you’re not really watching. How you don’t ask why he keeps showing up like this.

You never do.

And it should make things easier. It should.

But it doesn’t.

His hand brushes the rim of the mug, and he realizes he’s gripping it too tightly. Like the ceramic is the only real thing left in the room.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

You don’t either.

And maybe that’s the worst part of all.

Mark doesn’t tell you the tea was so sweet it made his jaw ache for ten straight minutes.

Or that it tasted like someone melted candy in hot water.

Or that he drank every drop anyway.

Because you made it—and looked proud doing it.

And Mark would rather burn than disappoint you.

Even if it means swallowing something sweet enough to rot him from the inside.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The sky is darker than it should be.

There’s no real night here—just a soft, polite dimming of the artificial stars and a hush that feels designed instead of earned.

The kind of darkness that waits for permission before settling in.

Mark doesn’t fly away.

He could. Should. There’s a ripple of air along his back that says go, muscle memory in his calves aching to launch.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays.

His hand rests flat against the outer wall. Fingertips curled just slightly, like pressing hard enough might let him feel the warmth inside.

He keeps his suit on. Black goggles blocking the light.

Not because he needs to—but because he doesn’t want to see clearly. Not this time.

Not you.

You’re asleep. Again.

On that couch.

Same position he left you in. Legs curled under that grey fuzzy blanket, one arm loosely draped across your stomach like you’d planned to move but never got around to it.

You look small like that.

Smaller than you are.

And softer, in a way you never let yourself be when you’re awake.

Mark watches.

Not like a creep, he tells himself. Not hovering.

Just… lingering.

One more second.

Just one more.

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t breathe.

There’s tea on the table. That stupid chipped mug you made him drink from—still warm, left in the sink where you rinsed it out before falling asleep.

It had been way too sweet. Disgustingly so. Like candy syrup and dishwater.

But you’d smiled when you handed it over.

So he drank every drop.

Even lied when you asked if he liked it.

Because you looked proud. And he hadn’t had anyone make him anything in a long time.

Not without a reason.

Not without strings.

Not without expecting something back.

But you didn’t ask.

It’s not in your nature.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

You just made the tea. Sat beside him. Watched that stupid romcom like it meant something. And let him sit in the quiet.

Mark swallows hard.

Closes his eyes.

He doesn’t deserve that kind of quiet. Not from anyone.

Especially not from you.

His knuckles brush the wall once before pulling away. Like if he touches it too long, it’ll feel too much like home.

He hates himself a little for thinking that.

His jaw clenches.

You shift in your sleep, just slightly—one hand twitching near your chest, your face turned toward the cushions, breath soft.

Mark exhales, through his nose.

He should leave.

He always does.

But his feet stay where they are. Anchored to the cold floor like gravity’s been rewritten just for him.

His chest tightens. Not painfully. Just… noticeably.

Like something folded in half, waiting to be flattened.

His voice doesn’t rise. It barely even escapes.

But the thought is there—soft and brutal.

I should get her a real room.

Not because you asked.

Not because you need one.

But because you’re sleeping on a couch that wasn’t meant for you, under a ceiling that still echoes like a stranger’s home.

And he’s the one who brought you here.

That… realm you rarely talk about dropped you into this plastic quiet, into a planet that doesn’t know how to love gently.

Mark watches you a moment longer.

Then disappears before the sun starts to rise.

Like always.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You don’t expect him to be here.

Invincible hasn’t come by in three nights, and you told yourself you weren’t counting.

But the quiet started to feel different. Not heavier. Just… colder.

The door opens like normal—and you freeze.

He’s there.

Not lounging like usual, not pretending it’s casual with one arm thrown over the backrest and some dumb remark halfway out of his mouth.

No.

He’s asleep.

Fully out.

Curled awkwardly into the couch—the same one you claimed as your own—like he didn’t mean to fall asleep here but couldn’t quite help it.

One leg bent, the other half-draped off the cushion. Arms folded up toward his chest, almost protective.

The hem of his suit is wrinkled from tension, and you can still see faint cracks in the chest area where something—or someone—must’ve hit him too hard to dodge.

But it’s not the damage that makes you pause.

It’s the fact that Invincible’s still in the full suit—

—except for the goggles.

They’re missing.

The black lenses he never takes off—not even around you, not even in the dark—aren’t there.

No visor. No metal band curled across his brow. Just skin. Just face.

His face.

It stuns you for a moment. Not because he looks unfamiliar—but because he doesn’t.

Because without the armor of it all, he just looks… tired.

Tired in the way you’ve only felt.

Not seen.

His jaw is clenched even in sleep, like he can’t turn the tension off completely.

His lashes are long—unfairly so. Dark, fanned across the top of his cheek like someone drew them there on purpose.

There’s a faint shadow of a bruise near his temple, another one blooming just below his collar.

You spot a thin trail of dried blood near his neck, right along the seam of the suit, and the breath you didn’t know you were holding leaves your lungs all at once.

Quietly, you set your things down. Move toward the couch with practiced care.

Invincible doesn’t stir.

You crouch beside him, hands already reaching for the small, beat-up first aid kit you keep tucked next to the sofa—hidden, like it’s not just for him.

The zipper barely makes a sound.

Your hands unfold a wipe, press it between your fingers, and dab gently at the shallow wound near his collarbone.

He flinches—not enough to wake—but just a twitch, like even in sleep his body knows to brace for contact.

You move slower after that.

More careful.

When you reach to brush a stray lock of hair from his face—to better see the scrape just above his eyebrow—it’s softer than you expect.

His hair, you mean.

Less stiff. Less angry.

It falls like it forgot to spike up. Like it’s resting too.

You hesitate.

Then, without meaning to, your thumb gently traces the line of a dark lash resting against his cheekbone.

A single one strays downward, and you brush it away.

It feels like something sacred.

Like something you weren’t meant to touch.

You don’t know why you do it.

Maybe because you’ve never seen him like this. Not just unmasked—but unguarded.

Invincible looks younger somehow.

Not exactly innocent—but less sharp.

Like the blades in his voice and posture have dulled in sleep. Like the weight on his shoulders paused long enough to let him breathe.

You don’t realize you’ve whispered aloud until the words are already out.

“…What happened to the spikes?”

He doesn’t open his eyes.

Doesn’t move.

But he answers—voice low, frayed at the edges from sleep and everything that came before it.

“Didn’t feel like pretending today.”

The sentence hits harder than it should.

Your fingers still. Hovering near his temple.

But you don’t press.

You just nod once—silent—then pull the blanket from the back of the couch, tucking it carefully over his chest.

Your hands fold it at the corners. Straighten it where it’s bunched.

Avoid looking at his face again.

Not because you don’t want to—but because you might.

You settle into the other side of the couch.

Not touching.

Just… near.

Your back hits the cushion. The contact still stings, but you swallow the pain—afraid to disturb the peace he never lets himself have.

With your legs tucked beneath you—for the first time in what feels like too long—you let the silence feel safe.

Like maybe it doesn’t always have to mean something’s wrong.

You stay like that.

For a while.

Just breathing.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark wakes up slower than he should.

That never used to happen.

But now—curled half on your couch, suit still clinging to his skin like armor that forgot how to protect—Mark blinks against the dimness of the room and realizes two things at once.

First: he stayed.

Second: you’re still here.

You’re not asleep anymore. Not exactly.

Haven’t been for a while, if the stiffness in your posture is anything to go by. Your legs are curled close, arms folded under that same grey blanket he always ends up under first.

You don’t look at him.

Not right away.

Not even when you know he’s awake.

For a second—just one—he thinks maybe you’re angry.

And that’s what gets him.

You’re quiet, but not asleep. Distant, but not gone.

Still here.

Still letting him be here.

Mark shifts, the movement barely loud enough to count. His joints ache in a way that has nothing to do with injury.

He sits up, slowly—testing the weight of his own body like it might fight back.

He doesn’t say thank you.

Doesn’t say sorry, either.

“…You should’ve kicked me out,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep and something else.

A shrug is all he gets, you’re still facing away from him.

“Didn’t want to.”

Simple. Bare.

The kind of response that should make things easier.

It doesn’t.

The room quiets again—that kind of quiet that hums.

The silence between you stretches, drawn tight as a bowstring.

No TV now. No faint music. No fake laughter from some rerun about people who know how to say what they want.

Just the hush of morning pressing soft against the windows, the kind of light leaking through the blinds like it’s trying not to intrude.

You still haven’t looked at him.

And then Mark realizes why.

He’s not wearing his goggles.

He must have taken them off himself before you arrived—half-conscious, muscle memory tugging them free the way it does when he’s alone.

But he wasn’t alone.

Not this time.

And you noticed.

Of course you did.

But you haven’t said anything. Haven’t asked who he is. Haven’t turned to see what you could easily steal with one glance.

You’re giving him the space to keep it hidden—even now.

Even like this.

Mark shifts, slowly straightening his back, pushing a hand through his hair to buy a few seconds.

It feels clumsy.

Too human. Too seen.

Your body stays still.

Silent.

And then—too soft, too offhanded—

“…Are we friends?”

He hears it.

The question hits him like a pulse.

He’s sure it wasn’t supposed to.

It leaves your lips too lightly. Like a joke. Like maybe you won’t care if he doesn’t answer.

But he knows better.

You don’t turn your head. Don’t meet his eyes.

You’re giving him privacy, even now.

Letting him keep the one thing he never gave you in return.

Mark goes still.

Completely, utterly still.

The words don’t register right away.

Not because he didn’t understand them—but because there’s no version of that question that doesn’t set something inside him alight.

Friends.

He doesn’t know what that word means when you say it.

Doesn’t know how to measure what this is supposed to be—this cycle of showing up, breaking, disappearing, returning.

You don’t say it again.

Neither do you look at him.

Just keep your eyes on the loose thread at the corner of the blanket, twisting it between your fingers like you’re trying to undo the moment.

He should say something.

Anything.

But his mouth doesn’t open. His voice doesn’t come.

The silence grows heavy, like gravity forgot where it’s supposed to land.

Mark doesn’t answer.

Can’t.

Because the word doesn’t fit. Not the way it should.

Not when he’s slept on your couch more nights than he can count. Not when you’ve bandaged him up without a word.

Not when his silence hurt you, and you swallowed it anyway.

You twist the blanket’s frayed corner in your fingers.

Wait.

Then you nod to yourself, barely—just once.

“Right. Cool.” A forced, small smile he can’t see forms on your lips. “Thought I’d just ask.”

You get up.

Slow. Quiet. Practiced.

Like you’ve done this before.

Your figure moves toward the kitchen like it means nothing. Like you weren’t waiting for him to say something back.

Mark watches you cross the room, your shoulders just a little too squared.

You busy yourself with something in the kitchen. Open a drawer that still sticks. Turn your back like it’s enough to end the conversation.

Like if you don’t see him not-answer, it won’t hurt as much.

You don’t look.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

You’re protecting him from a truth he hasn’t earned.

Because he didn’t take the goggles off for you. He just forgot to put them back on.

And you—of course you—chose not to take advantage of that.

He stays where he is.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you.

Mark wants to.

God, he wants to.

But the truth sits sharp in his throat, and he’s not sure what’s worse—telling you he doesn’t know what this is, or admitting how much he wants it to be more.

Neither of those things are safe.

And by the time his mouth catches up to his guilt, you’re already gone from the room.

The only sound left is the drawer that still sticks when you open it.

And the silence that follows when you don’t fix it.

Not for you.

Not for him.

So Mark says nothing.

And watches you pull away, one careful step at a time.

Like you’re learning how to leave first.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The blanket still smells like him.

Faintly. Barely.

Not blood or sweat—not that sharp, metallic scent he drags in after every fight.

Just… warmth.

That strange, musky ozone your brain now registers as him.

Something heavy. Something lonely. Something that doesn’t know where else to go.

You don’t pick it up at first.

Just glance at it, folded over the couch where he left it. Clean enough. But used.

Like the weight of Invincible’s body still lingers in the fibers, curled between stitches like a ghost too tired to move on.

Your figure sits down slowly.

Right where he slept.

The cushion dips under your weight, like it remembers. Like it doesn’t want to forget.

With your fingertips pressing into the armrest—you let them drag along the edge, where his wrist had hooked the night he didn’t mean to stay.

Your thumb grazes the pillow he used.

It’s faintly wrinkled.

Still shaped like him.

You don’t know why that makes your chest tight.

Drawing your legs up slowly then pulling the blanket across your lap. You simply breathe in.

God… Why does everything feel softer when he’s not here?

His hair had been softer, too. You remember that.

Not just the way it fell—relaxed and flattened like he couldn’t bother—but the way it felt when you touched it.

When you brushed it from his face. When you cleaned the dried blood near his temple and saw the boy underneath the suit.

You hadn’t meant to stare.

You just hadn’t known what to do with the version of him that didn’t flinch.

And even now—days later—your fingers remember how it felt to brush the lash from his cheek.

That single, dark eyelash straying too far, waiting to be swept aside like a wish no one dared to say aloud.

You hadn’t asked Invincible who he was.

Your eyes didn’t look at his face again.

Because if he didn’t want to be seen—really seen—then maybe that’s the only thing you could give him.

Silence. Space. Respect.

Even if it hurt.

The room is quiet now. Colder. Dimmer.

The kind of quiet that fills your chest too fast, settles in your ribs, and presses outward like it wants to be let out.

And for some reason, without meaning to, you find yourself whispering into the dark—

“…You’re not a monster.”

You don’t say it like a confession.

It feels more like a promise.

Like it’s a thing that can still be true, even when he’s not here to believe it.

You sit there for a while.

Breathing.

Not expecting an answer.

You ponder if he’s gone. Maybe he is.

Maybe he never came back this time.

So you let your body relax against the pillow he used. Let the blanket stretch over your legs. Let the stillness settle like it’s supposed to.

You don’t think Invincible heard.

But he did.

Mark hears you before he even lands.

He’s been hovering outside the window for minutes. Maybe longer.

He didn’t mean to come back. Not tonight. Not this time.

But the light was still on.

And your figure—small and soft on the couch—was too much to look away from.

He didn’t come in. Didn’t knock.

Didn’t press his palm to the glass like he sometimes does when he needs to feel close without getting close.

He just stayed above. Floating. Waiting.

Then you whispered it.

And it was like the world dropped out from under him.

You’re not a monster.

The words left your pretty lips so gently.

So simply.

Like it wasn’t up for debate. Like he didn’t have to earn it. Like it could just be true because you said it was.

Mark presses his fingertips to the window frame.

Not hard.

Not loud.

Just enough to ground himself.

You don’t know he’s there.

You think you’re alone.

And maybe that’s the only reason you said it.

But now it lives in him.

Pressed like a burn into his memory.

It doesn’t just stay with him—it brands him. Quietly. Like truth he didn’t think he could be worthy of.

He doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t dare.

Because if he does—if he breathes too loud or moves too close—you’ll know.

You’ll see him.

And he doesn’t think he can take that right now.

So Mark floats just a little higher. Lingers another second. Lets the weight of your words stay where it landed.

You don’t think he heard.

But he did.

And Mark will carry it for as long as he can.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The room isn’t much.

Not yet.

Just a shape. A space. Four quiet walls and a light switch he doesn’t know if you’ll ever turn on.

But Mark stands there anyway.

Motionless in the doorway, shoulders tense, flight gear still clinging to him like he forgot to take it off. Like part of him still doesn’t believe he’s allowed to rest.

There’s a blanket folded on the bed.

Pale red.

The soft kind—the one he noticed you always gravitated toward in stores but never touched for long. Like you’re afraid it’s not yours to want.

There’s no lock on the door. Not because he forgot.

Because he didn’t want there to be one. Not between you and the rest of this place.

A drawer’s already half full.

Mark filled it.

Quietly. Clumsily.

Things you might need.

Things you mentioned once, offhandedly—like the brand of lip balm you didn’t think they made on this Earth, or the socks with clouds on them, or the one book you kept pretending you weren’t trying to find in this dimension’s upside-down library system.

They’re all there now.

No explanation. No receipt.

Just… waiting.

He doesn’t know what this room is. Not really.

It’s not a bedroom. Not a guest room. Not even a safe house.

It’s a maybe.

A pause.

A space between questions neither of you are brave enough to ask yet.

He swallows.

There’s a plush toy on the shelf. A dumb one—round, pink, vaguely cat-shaped.

Mark picked it up as a joke, some impulse buy on a night when he couldn’t sleep.

Now it sits between a lavender-scented candle and a folded hoodie that still smells a little like you.

He didn’t mean for it to look lived-in.

But it does.

And that’s what scares him.

Because this isn’t supposed to be a home.

He never let himself build one.

But now he’s standing in the doorway of something soft.

Something yours.

Something that says stay in a voice he’s never let himself believe in.

Mark’s fingers curl against the frame.

He should close the door.

Should walk away, fly off, burn the room down with distance before it turns into something real.

But the air is warmer here.

And for the first time in forever, he lets it be.

Leaves the door ajar.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And disappears before you see him do it.

You walk the neighborhood with quieter steps now.

More sure-footed. Not confident, exactly—but less foreign.

Less like a thing that doesn’t belong.

The grass still looks too green. The sky still shifts a little too smoothly from day to dusk. But you’ve stopped flinching at the sound of hovercars overhead.

Stopped pausing when the air hums wrong.

You’re slowly getting used to it.

Not by choice.

Just by necessity.

Because you’re here.

Because the realm you knew is gone, and this one—their world, Invincible’s world—is the one you’re learning how to breathe in.

You’ve started calling the route familiar. Not out loud. Not even in your head.

But your feet follow it anyway.

And today, when you reach the apartment, you don’t brace yourself before opening the door.

You hadn’t meant to go inside.

It was meant to be just a pass through—you would drop your shoes off, maybe pour some tea, pretend like this wasn’t the fourth night in a row you hoped Invincible would be here.

He’s not.

But something’s different.

The apartment feels warmer. Not lived-in, exactly—but less borrowed. Less like he’s waiting to vanish.

You toe off your boots, run your fingers along the wall out of habit.

Pause.

There’s a door that was never open before.

Always locked. Or maybe just… closed. Out of bounds in a space that never really felt like yours.

But now it’s cracked open.

Slightly ajar. Like a secret held too long.

You hesitate only for a second.

Then step forward.

Your fingers graze the edge. Push gently.

The door opens without sound.

And everything freezes.

Because the room—

—it’s made for you.

You don’t need confirmation. Don’t need a note or explanation.

You just know.

The bed isn’t too big, but it’s made. With soft sheets. The kind you’ve only ever touched in stores and never dared take home.

There’s a nightstand. A little drawer half-filled with things you haven’t seen in weeks.

That lip balm. That one book. Your socks. The hoodie you thought you lost after only wearing it twice.

Your steps are slow.

Like you’re afraid it’ll vanish if you breathe too loud.

Plushies line the shelf. Some you recognize. Some you don’t. A ridiculous pink cat with crooked ears stares at you like it’s been waiting.

There’s a small lamp on the desk. A candle that smells faintly like lavender and something you can’t name.

You run your hands over the blanket.

Red.

Warm.

Your chest tightens, just a little.

This is not a room for someone passing through.

This is not a room for a ghost.

It’s for someone who stays.

And for the first time since landing in this strange, too-perfect version of Earth—you feel like you have a place to belong.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, you let your fingers curl around the blanket’s hem. Let your breath settle in your lungs like it knows how to stay now.

Invincible’s not here.

But somehow, it still feels like he is.

And that makes your throat ache.

Your eyes sting.

You look around one last time—taking in every softness, every intention he didn’t say out loud.

And your lips form into a smile.

Not because it’s funny—but because it’s real.

Because you don’t have to ask if this is for you.

You already know.

And for now? You will keep sitting quietly in the room he didn’t think he could give you.

And maybe let yourself feel wanted—just a little, just this once.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ongoing TAGLIST: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @pumpkin-toffee @aloflapse @helloimamistake @brokeaesthetic @mileskisser @lonely-entity @coquette1core @w-starshine @demonsvessel @feminii @marinefreaakk @moleannan @amidrinksti @irlandajacquelinne-blog @beep-boop-baby @flowerwithnomind

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

Text

ALL WORKS LISTED BELOW ARE WRITTEN BY ME

𓊈please don’t copy, translate, steal, or post without credit𓊉

@alive-gh0st

. ݁₊ ⊹. ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.⟡. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ .⊹ ₊ ݁. ⟡. ݁

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

✰ ❝Afterglow❞ 𓊈Mark Grayson x Med!Reader𓊉

✰ ❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞ 𓊈Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader𓊉

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

✰ ❝Always You❞ 𓊈Mark Grayson x Childhood Friend!Reader𓊉

✰ ❝Corruption Complete❞ 𓊈Mark Grayson x Brainrot Girlfriend!Reader—feat. Oliver & Debbie Grayson𓊉

✰ ❝Marked❞ 𓊈Veil!Mark Grayson x Trouble!Reader𓊉

✰ ❝Lipstick Theory❞ 𓊈Eve x Reader x Amber𓊉

✰ ❝Nostos❞ 𓊈Odysseus!Mark Grayson x Penelope!Reader𓊉

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

✰ ❝Too Far Gone❞ 𓊈Mark Grayson x Brainrot Girlfriend!Reader—Part 2 of ”Corruption Complete”𓊉

✰ ❝Epistrefó❞ ✍︎ 𓊈Odysseus!Mark Grayson x Penelope!Reader—Part II of ”Nostos”𓊉

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

✎ᝰ section coming soon .ᐟ.ᐟ

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

. ݁₊ ⊹. ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.⟡. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ .⊹ ₊ ݁. ⟡. ݁

ᯓ★ anons, requests, fandom ramblings, or general unhinged thoughts? all are free to float in—just hit the “submit your sins” button and launch them into orbit… i’m always watching the stars!

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

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˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨..ـ...

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not sure what’s worse—the blood on your floor or the fact that you haven’t stopped thinking about him since. not his voice, not his abs, not the way he looked at you like he knew—like he meant it. like patching him up meant something. and now he’s texting. calling. walking too close. sending selfies that absolutely do not count as medical updates. you’re spiraling. he’s flirting. someone’s gonna snap. (it might be you.)

⛨ contains: sfw. slow burn disaster. hallway tension. trauma ward flirting. professional denial. room 9 violations (emotional). med!reader. soft!mark. sarcastic longing. touch-starved moments. shirtless mark. shirtless selfie mark. late-night texting. phone calls with voice-induced heart damage. mark being cocky and so gone. reader saving photos “for medical reasons.” emotional whiplash. one stairwell sit-down that feels suspiciously like a date. william being the only emotionally regulated person here.

⛨ warnings: mild language. blood + bruises. injury aftermath. delusional thoughts. hot boy delusion. longing. denial. accidental touching. intense blushing. emotionally compromised medical professionals. phone call tension. slow descent into future-boyfriend-core. reader exhibiting early signs of cardiac distress. mark’s voice. mark’s waist. mark’s everything. reader is unwell.

⛨ wc: 3918

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: so here’s the thing—this wasn’t supposed to exist. originally, what is now chapter five used to be chapter four, but it started escalating way too fast and emotionally i panicked. like. reader was on his lap. already. so i wrote this version instead—slowed it down, let them spiral. chapter five picks up right where this leaves off… and yeah. it’s worse. thanks for being here. hold on tight.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You don’t mention it.

Not the late-night knock.

Not the blood on your floor that you forgot to clean and now might technically be a biohazard violation.

Not the fact that you stitched a shirtless Mark Grayson together with trembling hands and a heart rate that could’ve qualified as a cardiac emergency.

Instead, you show up to work early the next morning like a very normal, very emotionally regulated adult who definitely didn’t spend half the night replaying every inch of exposed skin she touched.

Professionalism.

That’s your thing.

You’re back in your scrubs. You’ve triple-checked vitals on three different patients before 9 a.m.

You smile. You nod.

You document chart notes like your life depends on it.

Which is exactly why it’s so annoying when your brain keeps glitching every time someone says the word “boyfriend.”

You’re halfway through explaining post-op care to a very sweet elderly woman when she says it.

“My granddaughter’s boyfriend is a doctor. They met in the ER—ahh romantic, isn’t it?”

You nearly drop the clipboard.

Later, you catch yourself hovering by the breakroom doorway for a full thirty seconds because someone inside is laughing and—for a second—you think it’s him.

It’s not.

Of course it’s not.

He’s not even supposed to be here today. You know that. You checked the schedule.

(But you inspect Room 9 anyway. Just in case.)

You’re tired. That’s all.

Your brain is short-circuiting from lack of sleep and maybe mild trauma. Totally normal symptoms.

Not at all related to the fact that your body still remembers the feeling of Mark’s sculptured waist under your fingers.

Definitely not related to the way he looked at you before leaving.

You tell yourself it was just adrenaline. Patch-up protocol.

A one-off thing.

And then you bump into a tall guy in the hallway and go, “Sorry, Mark—”

Only to realize it’s not Mark.

It’s Dr. Halvorsen. From radiology.

He stares.

You stare back. Internally combust.

Mutter something about caffeine withdrawal and keep walking like you’re not actively considering faking a fainting spell just to be left alone with your thoughts in the supply closet.

You are fine.

And no, you are not opening Room 9 again on your lunch break.

(You are. You absolutely are.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark Grayson is not on your rounds.

He’s not listed. He’s not scheduled. You’re ninety percent sure he has no medical reason to be here at all.

And yet—

There he is.

Leaning casually against the nurses’ station, scrolling something on his phone like he’s got a reason to exist within five feet of your workspace.

His jacket’s unzipped. His shirt is black. His arms are crossed.

And he is grinning.

You almost drop the patient file in your hand.

“Hey, doc,” he says, eyes flicking up. “Miss me?”

You don’t answer immediately.

You’re too busy pretending your pulse hasn’t just done something clinically concerning.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at his non-injured body. “You’re upright. That’s a shame.”

He hums. “You’re disappointed I’m okay?”

“I’m disappointed I can’t legally sedate you.”

He chuckles, and something about the sound makes your ears warm. You quickly bury your head in the chart you’re holding, flipping pages like you’re actually reading.

From the corner of your eye, you see him leaning in slightly. Just enough to invade your space.

“I was just in the neighborhood,” he says.

“This is a trauma ward.”

“Exactly.”

You snap the chart shut. “Grayson.”

“What?”

“You’re not a patient anymore.”

His smirk doesn’t budge. “You sure about that?”

And of course—of course—this is the exact moment a coworker rounds the corner and glances between the two of you. You step back instinctively. Mark, naturally, doesn’t move at all.

The nurse looks between your faces. The space between your bodies. Your visible effort not to look at him.

Then she raises an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”

Before you can answer, Mark says with a wink—

“Just her favorite.”

You don’t punch him. You deserve a medal.

You escape into the hallway as soon as you can. But fate—traitor that it is—has other plans.

Because two corridors and one very long hallway later, you feel the unmistakable brush of fingers grazing the back of your hand.

Just a second. Barely enough to count.

But warm. Deliberate.

You freeze.

So does he.

Your fingers are still tingling. You glance up, eyes wide—and find his face closer than you expect.

He doesn’t look smug now. Just still. Quiet. Like he’s not sure if he meant to do that either.

“…Mark,” you say, voice low.

“Wasn’t on purpose,” he quickly lies.

“Uh-huh.”

A beat passes.

His gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly, and something flickers behind his pretty eyes.

You step back first.

“I’ve got patients,” you mutter.

“I’ll let you get to it, then.”

You don’t look back until you’re two turns away.

You shouldn’t have.

Because he’s still standing there. Watching.

And smiling.

Mark doesn’t move.

Not for a while.

Not even after you disappear around the corner with that practiced, clipped stride you use when you’re trying too hard not to run.

He stares at the space you left behind—at the air still warm from where your hand brushed his.

He exhales through his nose.

Quietly.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not the visit. Not the way your fingers felt.

Not the fact that he still wants to reach for you again, right now, like it’s some kind of reflex.

Mark’s not sure when this stopped being casual.

Or maybe it never was.

And that smile on his face?

Yeah… it’s not smug this time.

It’s defensive. Helpless.

Hopeful.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You don’t know when it started.

Or—fine, you do.

It started with the patch-up. The silence after. The breathless moment he left your apartment and didn’t look back.

It started with your heart doing something extremely inappropriate for a medical professional.

But now? Now it’s gotten ridiculous.

Because it’s 11:42 p.m., and your phone buzzes.

You’re in bed. Lights off. Blanket cocooned. Absolutely not waiting for a text.

Except—you are.

You glance at the screen like you’re bored. Like you didn’t immediately perk up at the ridiculous name.

✆ Future Boyfriend

you said to ice it.

look.

*attached image*

There’s an image attached.

You hesitate before clicking. Maybe for one second. Maybe for less.

And then—

You regret every life choice that led to this moment.

Because Mark Grayson is shirtless.

Again.

Laid back on what is very clearly his bed, arm thrown behind his head, smug smile in place with black sweatpants slung way too low. One hand raking through his hair.

His torso is lean, bruised, but distractingly toned. A bag of frozen peas rests just above his hipbone.

There’s a red scratch across his shoulder and a faint bruise trailing down his ribs, proof he did get hurt—but otherwise? Fine.

Infuriatingly fine.

Which is objectively responsible.

Medically sound.

Practically admirable.

And completely uncalled for.

You zoom in.

For clinical assessment.

Obviously.

Your thumb hovers over the screen like it might catch fire.

You click out of the photo. Pause.

Click back in.

Your keyboard pops up, but you stare at the blinking cursor like it’s a threat. Type something. Backspace. Type something else.

The typing bubble on his screen probably flashes.

Disappears. Reappears.

Disappears again.

You actually have to lock your phone and unlock it again just to compose yourself enough to type back.

The bruising looks superficial.

Unfortunately for you, so does your brain.

The reply is instant.

✆ Future Boyfriend

wow. cold.

and here i was about to say you missed a spot on the stitch job. want me to come back?

You groan. Thumb over your face.

You don’t know if it’s the late hour or the shirtless photo or the fact that this is now a thing—this weird middle space between flirting and something else—but you find yourself typing back without thinking.

Do you text all your doctors like this?

There’s a pause.

You know he’s still holding the phone because you can see the ’typing…’ appear. Then vanish.

Then it rings, your phone buzzing in your hand.

You freeze.

The screen lights up: Future Boyfriend is calling.

Your heart skips. Once. Twice.

You answer.

“…Seriously?” you say, voice low.

There’s a rustle on the other end. A quiet shift of fabric. When Mark speaks, his voice is soft. Almost lazy.

“I wanted to hear how mad you sound.”

You sink further into your blanket. “You’re the one who sent a thirst trap.”

“Thirst trap?” he repeats amused, like it’s a new word. “I was showing my injuries.”

You scoff.

“You were showing your abs.”

“Same thing.”

There’s a silence.

Not awkward. Just… close.

You can hear his breathing. The dull creak of his bed as he shifts.

Then, lower—

“…Did you look?”

You don’t answer.

Your fingers tighten around the phone.

And before he can finish saying your name in that soft voice of his, you interrupt.

“I’m hanging up now,” you mutter—and do.

The phone drops somewhere beside your pillow and you cover your face with both hands.

You are not thinking about the photo again.

You are not replaying the sound of his voice in your ear.

And you are absolutely not scrolling back up to check out his selfie, either.

Narrowed eyes stare at the image.

You really should delete it.

…

You don’t.

You save it. Put it in a hidden folder.

Rename it something misleading and professional like “patient reference materials” and pretend that makes it less of a problem.

You are not smiling.

You’re not.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark doesn’t mean to follow you.

Not really.

He’s not tailing you through the stairwell like some kind of creep. He just happens to be going this way.

Just happens to catch a glimpse of your hair whipping around the corner.

Just happens to trail behind a second too long before you notice.

You glance back over your shoulder, breathless from laughing at something—probably a nurse joke or a sarcastic comment—and stop short when you see him.

“Oh,” you blink. “You again.”

Mark shrugs. “You’re everywhere.”

“You’re following me.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re loitering.”

He grins. “You like it.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s probably a medical concern, but the corner of your mouth twitches.

That’s the only win he needs to keep walking.

You’re headed toward the service stairs—the quiet ones no one uses unless they’re sneaking naps or venting over vending machine breakdowns.

And maybe he is following you now.

But it’s not stalking if you both sit on the bottom step, back against the same wall, like it’s not weird.

You stretch your legs out in front of you. Mark mirrors it. Neither of you say anything for a moment.

Then you start talking.

It’s not groundbreaking—some half-annoyed commentary about patient charts, new hospital software updates, a guy who coded in the middle of an elevator transfer and still made it through—but it’s animated.

Real.

You talk a lot with your hands.

Your eyes practically light up when you’re annoyed.

And at some point, somewhere between a complaint about hospital coffee and a sarcastic jab at budget cuts, you genuinely laugh.

Like… really laugh.

No filter. No attempt to keep it professional.

Just joy—sudden and unrestrained and so beautiful it knocks the air out of his lungs.

Mark stops pretending to listen.

He just… watches.

You’re not even looking at him. You’re mid-rant. And he’s sitting there, stunned silent by the fact that something about you feels more like home than anything has in years.

You don’t notice at first.

You keep going.

Until eventually, you pause—take in that weird dreamy look he has on his face.

And your pretty lips turn into a soft frown.

“…You’re not even listening, are you?”

Mark’s mouth opens. Closes. His brain tries to reboot.

Then, softly—

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Seriously?”

“You were just—” he falters. Swallows.

“It was cute.”

That shuts you up for a second.

He watches as you blink, like your own brain just dropped a file you didn’t mean to open.

You look away, mumbling something that sounds vaguely like shut up under your breath, but your ears are red.

He grins.

Not smug this time.

Just a little bit in love.

You shove his knee lightly as you get up. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re gonna say something stupid and sweet.”

“I was going to say you should talk more,” he teases. “But I think your heart rate just spiked.”

You huff. “Not every reaction is medically relevant.”

“Says the one who checked my blood pressure with her hands last week.”

You turn to leave.

Mark watches you go.

This time, he doesn’t follow.

Not yet.

But he will.

Eventually.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The room has been quiet for a while.

Unless you count William’s occasional humming as a real sound—which Mark does not.

It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t feel peaceful. Just heavy. Pressurized.

Like the longer it stretches, the more likely something is going to slip.

He hasn’t spoken in five minutes.

William doesn’t press.

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Mark doesn’t mean to bring it up.

Really. He doesn’t.

He’s just sitting on the floor of William’s room, halfway through a half-warm energy drink and actively losing a battle against his own brain.

The light haired boy scrolls through something on his laptop—housing applications, maybe, or some absurd quiz titled “What Type of Friend Are You Based on Your Go-To Hangover Cure”—and still humming like Mark isn’t currently having a small crisis in the corner.

“You’ve been weird,” William settles on that, not looking up.

Mark glances over. “I’ve been normal.”

“That’s even weirder.”

William finally lifts his head, squinting at him.

“You came in all… sighy,” he says, wiggling his fingers like ‘sighy’ is a scientific category.

“Then you stared at my wall for ten full minutes, and I swear I saw you smile to yourself. Which? Deeply upsetting.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “I didn’t smile.”

“You did,” William insists. “It looked like you were thinking about the seance dog. Or a very specific person who patched you up recently.”

Mark stiffens. “I’m fine.”

William’s voice shifts. Playful. Razor-sharp.

“…Bro.”

Mark groans. “Don’t.”

“No, no—don’t backtrack now. This is the best thing you’ve said in weeks.” William sits up straighter, eyes gleaming. “Is this seriously about your mystery medical hookup?”

“She’s not a hookup.”

“Oh no,” he says slowly, eyes going wide with mock horror. “You caught feelings.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I didn’t catch anything—”

“Mark. You’re a walking CDC warning right now.”

Mark groans. “She’s just—”

“Ah!” William points. “So it is a she.”

Mark scowls.

William grins like he’s just uncovered a federal secret. “Let me guess. Hospital girl? The one you keep… coincidentally running into?”

Mark rubs a hand over his face. “I just needed stitches. Twice.”

“Three times.”

“…Fine. Three.”

William leans forward, fully abandoning his laptop. “So… Nurse? Resident? Hot trauma surgeon with a grudge and a clipboard?”

Mark exhales, defeated. “She’s a… med tech. Kind of.”

William stares. Waits.

Mark shifts. Drinks. Doesn’t elaborate.

“You like her,” William says flatly.

Mark shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Yeah?” William raises an eyebrow. “Then why do you look like someone killed your puppy every time she doesn’t text back in five minutes?”

Mark says nothing.

Which is already too much.

“…Oh my God,” William breathes. “You do like her.”

Mark throws a pillow at his head. Misses. “I didn’t mean to.”

William cackles. “That’s not a normal sentence.”

Mark tips his head back against the wall, eyes shut. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure.”

“No, like—actually complicated. She thinks I’m just some guy. I can’t tell her about the other stuff. I can’t—”

He cuts himself off. Opens his eyes. Focuses on the ceiling.

“I can’t get used to her. That’s how people get hurt.”

William’s quiet for a second.

Then he says, “You really like her.”

Mark doesn’t answer.

His fingers tap against the side of the energy drink. His mouth opens. Closes.

And then—too quiet—

“She looked at me like I wasn’t a threat.”

William frowns, the teasing ebbing just slightly. “You’re not.”

“Yeah,” Mark says. “But she doesn’t know that.”

Another silence.

Then William exhales and stands, grabbing a bottle of something off his desk and tossing it toward Mark.

Mark catches it without looking.

“Here,” William says. “Drink something that isn’t radioactive.”

Mark blinks at the bottle, then looks up.

William’s leaning against the desk now, arms crossed.

“I’m not saying fall for her,” he says.

Mark waits.

William smirks. “But if you do—don’t make it worse by pretending you haven’t.”

Mark tosses the bottle back. It hits William in the stomach. He grunts.

“I’m not falling.”

“Sure,” William says a bit breathless. “Then don’t fall harder.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The clock says 12:17 a.m.

You haven’t moved from the couch in over an hour.

You’re still in your scrubs, sort of.

The top half is off, tied around your waist, and your tank top has a very suspicious-looking stain from a post-shift noodle incident you’re choosing not to acknowledge.

You’re curled up like a burrito of denial. Blanket over your shoulders.

Face illuminated only by the dim, blue-white glow of your tablet screen—because obviously, the smartest thing to do when emotionally unstable is WebMD your own brain.

And yet, here you are.

Tabs open. Stethoscope draped across your collarbones like a fashion statement. Notepad in hand.

“Symptom onset: approximately five to seven days ago,” you mutter to yourself, uncapping your pen with a medically concerning amount of purpose.

“Initial trigger… unclear. Possibly trauma-related. Or… proximity-related. Possibly… proximity-induced trauma?”

You frown. Cross that out.

Beneath it, you write—

ᝰ PRESENTING SYMPTOMS:

• Elevated heart rate (unprovoked)

• Intermittent dry mouth (triggered by voice exposure)

• Blushing at inappropriate stimuli (see: abs, jawline, sustained eye contact)

• Hallucinations?? (unclear if real or imagined: he did wink at me once…)

• Loss of professional focus

• Impulsive decision-making (e.g., selfie saving. shirtless selfie. marked shirtless selfie.)

You tap the pen against your lips, nodding grimly like this is a peer-reviewed clinical trial and not you spiral-diagnosing yourself like a lunatic in heat.

You flip to the next page.

ᝰ DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS:

• Dehydration?

• Exhaustion?

• Hormonal imbalance?

• Early-onset stroke?

• Rabies???

• Grayson.

You freeze.

You’ve just written it.

His name.

In ink. Centered.

As if it’s the most logical conclusion to a list of actual pathologies.

You exhale through your nose. Circle it.

Then, under it, you write—

Possible cardiac involvement. Neurological signs questionable. No fever. Just… Grayson.

You stare at the sentence.

The silence in your apartment is deafening.

Even the fridge stops humming, like the universe itself is giving you a moment to really think about what you’ve done.

“…This is not happening,” you mutter.

You tear the page out.

Pause.

Realize that somehow feels worse.

So instead, you shove the whole notebook under a pillow like it’s contraband.

Then you curl deeper into the couch, blanket pulled up to your chin, muttering like a cursed woman trying to deny the obvious.

“I’m fine. It’s not serious. Probably just a virus. A 6’0”, sarcastic, abnormally hot virus.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“…with really good bone structure.”

The pillow over your face muffles the scream that follows.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Mark doesn’t usually take selfies.

Scratch that—Mark actively avoids taking selfies. Something about them always feels stupid.

Forced.

Like he’s trying too hard, or smiling too much, or doing that weird thing where one eyebrow goes higher than the other and suddenly he looks like he’s having a stroke.

But here he is.

Standing shirtless in his bedroom, holding a bag of frozen peas against his ribs, cycling through front cam angles like his life depends on it.

This is humiliating.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, flicking through the last twenty attempts.

“Not that one. Definitely not that one. Why do I look like I’m constipated in that one—what the hell.”

He pauses on one that’s almost decent.

Hair messy. Lighting okay. Abs… definitely present. Peas still visible. Smile not too cocky.

He doesn’t look too injured—but that’s kind of the point.

Just enough bruising to be believable.

Just enough smugness to be annoying.

He exhales.

Thumb hovers.

Then, like he’s ripping off a goddamn band-aid, he hits send.

you said to ice it.

look.

*attached image*

The moment the message delivers, he chucks his phone across the bed like it’s burning in flames.

Immediately regrets it.

He lunges after it a second later—like you might reply within 0.3 seconds and he needs to be ready to act cool, composed, definitely not like a guy who just spent fifteen minutes flexing in front of a mirror for a girl who technically hasn’t even kissed him yet.

The screen stays dark.

Nothing.

Mark exhales through his nose.

Sinks back dramatically onto his bed, frozen peas still in place, and stares up at the ceiling like it personally wronged him.

God, he’s losing it.

It’s not even about the photo. Not really.

It’s about the way you look at him now.

Talk to him.

Brush his hand in the hallway and then walk away like you didn’t just detonate something in his chest.

It’s about the fact that you keep showing up in his head—and under his skin—and that this stupid game of pretending not to want more is wearing him down.

His phone buzzes.

He fumbles to grab it so fast he nearly pulls a muscle.

Typing bubble.

Disappears.

Typing bubble again.

Gone.

He blinks. Mouth parts.

And then—again.

Just flickering in and out like you’re pacing on the other end—backspacing, second-guessing yourself.

Mark stares.

And he grins.

Slow. Lopsided.

Because that?

That means it worked.

You saw it.

You zoomed in.

You’re flustered.

He sits up a little straighter, thumb skimming across the screen.

His heart’s beating faster now—just slightly—and he’s not sure if it’s from nerves or the fact that this is you.

That you’re thinking about him at midnight, in the dark, probably biting your plump lip and mumbling something like shut up.

The image of it goes straight to his head.

And maybe a few other places.

He hesitates.

Then, without giving himself time to doubt it—he hits Call.

The ring tone barely starts before you pick up.

“…Seriously?” you say, voice low and accusing.

Like you know.

Mark grins wider, even though you can’t see it.

“I wanted to hear how mad you sound.”

He imagines you curled up, lights off, hair messy, wearing that stupid sweatshirt you always change into when you’re done pretending to be emotionally regulated.

“You’re the one who sent a thirst trap,” you mutter.

He bites his bottom lip.

“Thirst trap?” he echoes, playing dumb. “I was showing my injuries.”

“You were showing your abs.”

“Same thing.”

There’s a pause.

Quiet.

Not awkward.

Just heavy.

Mark shifts, voice dropping an inch lower.

“…Did you look?”

Silence.

No answer.

But he can hear your breath.

Slight hitch.

Your fingers must be tight around the phone.

Maybe you’re closing your eyes. Maybe you’re still staring at the picture. Maybe—

“I’m hanging up now,” you whisper.

Then you’re gone.

Mark blinks at the screen.

And he laughs—quiet, warm, almost proud.

He drops the phone onto his pillow and covers his face with both hands.

Yeah. He’s so screwed.

But God, it’s worth it.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice @planet-venusoflove @angelbelles @wasitforrevenge @scarletdfox @hungrynessforfics @mexxs-xs

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

Note

Your writing is SO creative and absolutely adorable. I can’t stop reading so please don’t stop creating ! ♡

THANK YOU???? ˚₊‧୭̥⋆*｡♡

I literally had to sit down. (Not that I wasn’t already sitting because I’m sick asf—but still. The emotion knocked me over.)

You calling my writing “creative and adorable”???

That genuinely did something to me. I read it, blinked real slow, and had to go stare at the wall for a minute.

There’s something so tender about being seen that way—like someone looked at the things I made and went, hmmm yes, this brings me joy.

That means more than I can explain.

I get in my head a lot about what I write—if it’s too weird, too much, if it even matters.

So messages like this??

They remind me why I keep going. They remind me that somewhere out there, someone is smiling (or sobbing) because of a silly little ghost blog.

I’m so, so grateful you’re here—and

I’m not going anywhere.

♡~٩(˃▿˂)۶~♡

Also… just so you know… I am working on more.

New fics. New chapters. New emotionally devastating lore being prepped in the back—but I’m kinda like that waiter avoiding eye contact with the customer calling out to me (aka my drafts).

I see them. I fear them. I will serve… eventually.

(I’m gonna haunt y’all forever ‹𝟹 I’m an alive ghost after all—can’t die or whatever.)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

Text

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: you survive in a silence that doesn’t feel neutral anymore. he’s gone. or avoiding you. maybe both. you try to stay unbothered but absence has a shape and it looks a lot like him. and when he finally shows up, he doesn’t apologize. you argue. quietly. like you always do. and for a moment, he almost stays. almost reaches. almost tells the truth. but the door still closes. and this time, you’re the one who whispers after him.

❤︎ contains: sfw. emotionally repressed war criminal x emotionally repressed divine being. omni!invincible (barely). cupid!reader (tired). slow burn agony. mutual silence as mutual yearning. isolation. exile. ANGST. dinner avoidance. return of the stupid orb. jokes to cope. watching the sky like an idiot. protective body language. quiet returns. the ribbon. proximity tension. hand brushing. voice cracking. flash of vulnerability. him not staying. not yet.

❤︎ warnings: emotional repression. abandonment themes. unresolved trauma. exile (ongoing). past violence (vague). mutual denial. hurt/comfort (but mostly hurt). soft things framed as dangerous. unresolved grief. being wanted by someone who doesn’t think they’re allowed to want. someone who leaves before they’re left. parent issues. childhood disappointment. unhealthy expectations. crushing silence. villain origin foreshadowing.

❤︎ wc: 3959

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: did it seriously take me this long to write anything—just for it to turn out to be heart-crushing angst? hell yeah. also, i’m actually sick. rotting in bed. you’d think that means i had more time to write—wrong. turns out illness doesn’t make you productive, just dramatic. anyway, if i suffer—you suffer. that’s the deal. enjoy the emotional damage 💔

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You notice it in the quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. Not the kind people write songs about or daydream into.

No—this kind is sharp around the edges.

Suspicious.

It hums under your skin like a sound you’re no longer hearing.

There’s no faint gust of wind against your bedroom window tonight—brushing past your cheek like it belonged to someone. No shift in the air. No flicker of motion behind your shoulder.

No faint static buzz to warn you that someone with a God complex and boundary issues has landed nearby again.

You wait anyway. Still. Like muscle memory.

But nothing comes.

Not the red-and-white blur at your window. Not the too-loud sighs echoing from the hallway… neither the hovering silence above your bed that you used to pretend not to hear.

So you breathe.

Roll your eyes at yourself. And mutter something stupid like, “Guess even war machines need days off.”

You tell yourself it’s normal.

That he’s probably just busy.

Invincible things.

World-ending, time-sensitive, bigger-than-you things.

Maybe the government kidnapped him for a diplomatic mission. Maybe he got distracted by a meteor or—

Or maybe—just maybe—he’s doing this on purpose.

The thought comes uninvited.

You don’t like it, but it lands hard anyway. You try to laugh it off. Try to play it cool.

You’re Cupid, after all.

Happy, fearless, emotionally unbothered. That’s the brand, right?

So you crack a joke under your breath as you slam a cupboard shut.

Something biting and dumb, like, “Sorry if emotional vulnerability was too radioactive for you.”

Besides, it’s not like you miss the eye-rolling. The grunting. The barely-there don’t touch that whenever you got too curious around his weird anti-people gadgets.

And then pretend you’re fine again.

You last a full twenty minutes before you’re watching the sky like an idiot.

Head tilted just enough to catch movement if it comes. You lose track of how long you sit like that—waiting for a shadow to ripple through the sky.

It’s pathetic.

You hate it.

Hate how often you’ve been pacing the apartment, checking the time even though you know he doesn’t live by clocks.

How you keep catching yourself listening for wind—like you’d somehow hear him land if he didn’t want you to.

The worst part?

You miss him.

Not just the awkward hovering, or the overbearing “do not touch that” energy, or even the weird way he always acts like you’re two seconds from stealing military secrets.

You miss his presence.

The unshakable, unyielding weight of it.

Like gravity had favorites and his name was first in line.

And now—it’s just empty.

The food still appears. The lights still auto-dim when you yawn too loudly.

But the air feels different. Hollow. There’s no sound. No tension.

No one breathing down your neck like you’re one bad day away from becoming an interdimensional threat.

No him.

You almost call out his name once.

Almost.

You fall asleep curled on your side, curled into the blankets, with the soft, fluffy fabric up to your chin, barely blinking at the ceiling.

The hallway beyond the room glows soft with distant light—the one that still smells like ozone and blood and—him.

The same hallway Invincible always appears from.

Or used to.

Your throat tightens. Just a little. Just enough.

It slips out before you can stop it. So quiet you almost don’t hear it.

“…Where the hell are you?”

And this time, even the silence feels like it’s avoiding you.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Days stretch like bad dreams.

You work, sort of.

Fiddle with the medkit on the counter. Try not to break anything else in Invincible’s Very Important Anti-Everything Home.

You almost knock over some kind of vibrating green orb again.

You don’t even try to guess what it does this time.

You just offer it a stiff little bow and whisper, “Apologies, Supreme Orb of Probably Nuclear Consequences.”

Mature. Dignified.

Cupid-coded.

The food still shows up.

You don’t ask how. You stopped trying to figure it out after the third day when a perfectly toasted croissant and imported guava juice appeared on the kitchen table with no sound, no fanfare—just mocking normalcy.

You’re pretty sure it’s him.

His version of still taking care of you.

As if feeding someone counts when you’re not there to look them in the eye.

You try to leave the apartment once.

Just once.

You reach the front door.

Twist the handle. Push.

Nothing.

You’re locked in again.

Great.

You stand there for a second, staring at the door like it personally betrayed you. Debate flipping it off. Maybe slamming your fist against it.

Maybe calling him a tyrannical tin can with trust issues.

But you don’t.

Cupids don’t flip.

They flourish.

(Still. You do mutter something spicy under your breath in ancient celestial. That counts.)

You try to change the dressing on your back later that day—wings still torn, bones still not bones anymore—but it stings in a way it didn’t used to.

It’s not the pain.

It’s the absence.

His hands always knew how to avoid the worst spots.

Always a little too gentle for someone who calls you a security risk.

You stop halfway through and leave the bandages loose.

Everything feels… off.

Too quiet. Too still.

Like you’re living in a version of the world that got paused while you weren’t looking.

Even the light feels wrong. Too golden. Too soft.

You’ve been counting the ceiling tiles just to stay grounded. 142 of them. One of them’s cracked in the corner. You stared at it for six minutes today.

You sit by the window again that night.

Legs tucked up, forehead resting against the glass. You’re on your 18th sky-watch of the week.

Something moves overhead.

Your heart skips, stutters.

But it’s not him.

Just a bird. Or a plane. Or—whatever.

Not him.

You let out a breath that feels like it was holding something inside it.

And then you laugh. Bitter. Too sharp. Too tired.

“What, did I short-circuit him that bad?”

The words echo around the room. Bounce off the high ceilings. Come back quieter.

You shake your head. Stretch. Stand.

Tomorrow, maybe you’ll try to escape again.

Or maybe you’ll just learn how to break the stupid green orb and hope for the best.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You don’t hear him land.

No sonic boom. No shift in air pressure. No warning.

You just turn—and Invincible’s there.

Standing in the middle of the living room like the past—almost 2 weeks—hadn’t unspooled you at the seams.

Same suit. Red and white, spotless. Same red cape and those black goggles hiding too much.

Same sharp, unreadable posture that always walks the line between calm and coiled.

Your heart stutters.

But your face doesn’t move.

He doesn’t say anything for a second.

Just watches you from across the room—like you’re a mission he forgot he accepted.

Then—

“Have you eaten?”

You blink.

Seriously?

You stare at him. Just… stare.

And he just stands there like a statue with an attitude problem.

Like this is normal.

Like this is how people re-enter each other’s lives after vanishing into the sky for a week with no explanation and locking them in a floating apartment.

“Have I—?” Your voice cuts off. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“No, actually. I’ve been too busy playing twenty questions with your security system and writing apology poems to radioactive looking things.”

A beat.

He tilts his head slightly. “So… no.”

Your eye twitches.

He walks past you toward the kitchen, like nothing’s happened. Like this is any other day.

You don’t follow. You don’t move.

You just stand there.

Stuck in place.

Like your body is waiting for him to say something that sounds like the truth.

He doesn’t.

You hear the fridge open. A drawer slide. The soft clink of utensils.

Normal sounds.

Fake sounds.

You lean against the doorframe and let out a breath through your nose. “Are we gonna talk about it,” you ask, voice flat, “or just skip to pretending again?”

Invincible doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t answer, either.

Just keeps his back to you. Steady. Untouchable.

And it’s almost impressive—how someone that powerful can shrink a room with silence alone.

You cross your arms.

Wait.

The air feels too still again.

You hate it.

But you don’t leave.

Not yet.

Because maybe, just maybe, if he’s here—then this means something.

Even if he won’t say it.

Yet.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

He shouldn’t be here.

Mark knows that the second he steps into the room and hears the way your breath stutters—soft, surprised, hurt.

He doesn’t need super-hearing for that.

You’re sitting on the couch, a fuzzy blanket tangled around your legs, eyes already narrowed like you knew he’d eventually show up and were preparing to hate him for it.

You don’t say anything.

And he doesn’t either.

Because if he opens his mouth, he’s not sure what will come out.

An apology? A reason? A lie?

No.

So he asks if you’ve eaten.

It’s stupid. He knows it.

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to claw them back. Wants to say something real instead.

Something that sounds like the weeks he spent avoiding your voice.

Your eyes.

Your touch.

But you just blink at him.

Then roll your eyes and say something about radioactive objects and apology poems.

And he almost smiles.

Almost.

Instead, Mark turns away.

Retreats into routine.

Opens the fridge. Pours juice. Makes sure the knife hits the counter at the exact right angle—controlled.

Detached.

The longer you stay quiet behind him, the harder it gets to breathe.

And he doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to see the way you’re watching him now.

Because you always look like you see too much.

The second night back, Mark catches himself hovering near your door.

Listening.

Hoping you’ll say something first—anything that would make it easier.

But you don’t.

Not until day two. Not until he’s walking past the living room and you stop him with four words that slam straight through his chest.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

He freezes.

Doesn’t face you. Doesn’t blink.

You keep going. Calm. Cold.

“You disappear. Then act like it never happened. Like I imagined the part where you locked me in a weaponized apartment and didn’t show up for almost two weeks.”

He exhales slowly. Still doesn’t turn around. His fingers curl slightly at his sides.

You wait.

Then—

“Say something, Invincible.”

His alias name sounds strange coming from you now. Like something old and soft being scraped clean.

Mark turns—finally.

And the look in your eyes almost makes him wish he hadn’t.

You’re not mad.

You’re disappointed.

That’s worse.

His voice is too quiet when he speaks. Too raw.

“You touched me like I was human.”

The air shifts.

He watches your expression crack—just for a second.

“Why?” he asks. “I’m not. You don’t know me.”

That’s the part that’s supposed to hurt.

That’s the push. The thing that gets you to stop trying.

But you don’t flinch.

You step closer instead. Just enough to make the space feel too real.

Too fragile.

“Then show me,” you say. “Or don’t. But stop blaming me for seeing more than you want me to.”

It’s too much.

Mark scoffs. Shakes his head.

Tries again, sharper this time.

“You think this is a storybook? I’m not some tragic hero. I’ve torn entire cities off the map. I’ve made this planet kneel.”

You don’t move.

Just blink.

“Cool,” you say. “So did half of my love targets back when I was a Cupid. Try again.”

He almost laughs.

It sounds like a broken thing in his throat.

And then, finally—his voice cracks.

Just for a second. Just enough.

And you catch it.

Of course you do.

You don’t say anything. Don’t press.

But your eyes stay on him. Steady. Soft.

Like you’re waiting for him to stop lying to himself.

Mark looks away.

And for the first time in years—he doesn’t feel invincible at all.

The silence stretches.

This time, it doesn’t feel empty.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The night stretches long after the silence settles. The dinner has been served. But—

Mark doesn’t leave.

He thought he would. Thought he should.

But his feet never move.

You don’t say anything else. You just go still—arms crossed, back straight, watching him like the quiet might shake something loose.

He should go.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Mark lingers.

At the edge of the room. At the edge of something else he won’t name.

The floor feels too loud under his boots.

And when he finally steps closer—it’s slow.

Careful.

Measured like a threat.

Not close enough to reach you. Not far enough to pretend he doesn’t want to.

Just enough to feel the heat of your presence again—without letting it swallow him whole.

His gaze doesn’t meet yours. It hovers somewhere near your shoulder.

Safer that way.

Less lethal.

You’re still watching him. Quiet. Waiting. Not demanding answers.

Just existing in that unbearable way you do—like you see everything and won’t say a word until he says it first.

He stops when the space between you is thin enough to feel. Not touch. Just feel.

You shift.

Your fingers move. The air does too.

And then—your hand brushes his.

It’s accidental. It has to be.

But it’s real.

Skin to skin. A second. Maybe less.

Mark tenses.

Instinct coils fast in his spine, in his jaw, in the base of his throat.

His body reacts like you hit a nerve.

He jerks—then stops.

Doesn’t move away.

You notice.

Of course you do.

But you don’t look smug. Don’t say anything clever. You just breathe out steady and say—

“You think I don’t see it. But I do.”

His jaw clenches.

His eyes flick to yours. That’s a mistake.

Because you’re looking at him like he’s not made of blood and violence. Like he’s something worth staying for. Even now.

Even still.

“You’re not what you think you are.”

The words settle between you like a secret.

And it’s not a declaration. Not a plea. It’s just truth—quiet and solid.

And that makes it worse.

Mark doesn’t answer.

Just looks at your hand like it’s a flame and he’s not sure if he deserves to burn or not.

His own hand lifts.

A little.

Halfway to yours.

Then—stops. Folds.

Drops.

And the distance stays.

But something else lingers there too.

Something unsaid.

Something unfinished.

Something he doesn’t push fully away this time.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You don’t chase him.

Not when Invincible steps back.

Not when his hand drops like it never meant to reach for yours in the first place.

You don’t say a word.

You just breathe through it—through the ache in your chest and the way your fingertips still hum from almost touching him.

Because you felt it.

Even if he didn’t say it—you felt it.

That split second of want. Of weakness. Of maybe.

The silence after feels louder than anything he could’ve said.

It presses against your ribs, makes your pulse ring in your ears.

You’re alone again, technically.

But not really.

Because his silence is still here. Sitting beside you like a ghost with perfect posture.

You don’t look back as you leave the room.

Your feet carry you into the hall, down toward the shadows and the softer light and the quiet that doesn’t try to explain itself.

Each step feels heavier than the last. Not because he’s gone.

But because he almost stayed.

Your hand curls tight at your side.

You shouldn’t feel like this. You know better than this.

You’re a Cupid.

But still—your heart pounds.

Loud and uneven. Like it wants to remember the almost instead of the nothing.

You pause in the doorway to your couch.

The table beside it is different.

You notice it immediately.

Something small. Familiar.

A ribbon.

Not just any ribbon. Yours.

One of the ones Invincible stole.

Or borrowed. Or kept. You never figured it out.

You stare at it.

It’s been placed there deliberately—neat, centered, soft in the low light.

Like an apology that can’t speak. Like a note without ink.

Your throat catches.

You reach out, pick it up gently.

It’s light.

Lighter than the silence, at least.

But it folds over your fingers like it knows how tired you are.

You hold it like it might bleed.

And then, too quietly, like a secret just for the walls to hear, you whisper into the night.

“…Why do you always leave me with the soft parts?”

No one answers.

Not that you expected one.

You clutch the ribbon tighter. Like it means something. Like he meant to leave it. Like that matters.

And then—you turn.

Climb onto the sofa. Curl in on yourself without thinking.

The blankets wrap around you easy, familiar.

Like they know how this part goes.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You just go still again.

Like maybe if you’re still enough, he’ll come back and finish the gesture.

But Invincible doesn’t.

So you pretend it doesn’t matter.

Again.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark almost makes it out without waking you.

Almost.

The apartment is quiet. Dim.

Lit only by the lazy gold haze spilling through the windows. The kind of morning that pretends it’s softer than it is.

You’re still curled on the couch where you fell asleep.

Blankets half-kicked off. Cheek pressed against your arm. Breathing steady, unaware.

He stares too long.

Lets himself pretend, for a moment, that you’ll stay asleep—that you’ll never know he was standing there.

That maybe if he leaves without the goodbye… it won’t count.

Won’t hurt.

His fingers hover over the door panel.

Ready. Close.

Mark doesn’t mean to linger.

He meant to be gone before you woke up. Quiet. Clean. A clean cut never bleeds as much.

But you shift before he can actually open the door.

It’s soft—barely a sound. Just the faint rustle of blankets against fabric. But it slices through him anyway.

Your eyes flutter open. Groggy. Unarmored.

That makes it worse.

You sit up slowly, couch creaking beneath you. Hair sticking up in the back. One of your sleeves has slipped down your shoulder.

It shouldn’t make his breath catch.

But it does.

He turns before you can speak—like maybe if he just leaves now, you’ll forget he was ever here at all.

But your voice stops him.

Low. Still half-asleep. But steady.

“…You were really gonna leave without saying anything?”

Mark doesn’t answer at first.

The door in front of him hums softly.

Unlocked. Open. Waiting.

His black goggles gaze at it like it might do the leaving for him.

“I thought it’d be easier,” he says eventually.

His voice is flat—hollow. “If you didn’t see.”

You exhale. Slow. Careful.

“Easier for who?”

Silence.

It stretches again, thin and tight, wrapping around the both of you.

He closes his eyes.

“You always look at me like you’re waiting,” he mutters. “Like I’m gonna be something I’m not.”

Your feet hit the floor.

“You mean something you don’t think you are.”

That makes him turn.

Slowly.

You’re standing now, wrapped in the same blanket you fell asleep under. You don’t look angry.

You just look tired.

And soft.

And a little hurt.

Mark hates how much he wants to stay.

His fists clench by his sides. Then release.

“I’m not what you see,” he says. “And I don’t want to watch your face change when you realize that.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t have to.

Because Mark knows the truth.

You already see him.

Somehow—

You’ve always seen him.

You just won’t say the thing he’s not ready to hear.

So instead—you smile.

It’s faint. Barely there. Almost cruel in how kind it is.

But it doesn’t break.

It doesn’t beg.

Just waits.

Mark exhales once. Sharp.

Then—

He turns back to the door.

Hand reaches for the control panel.

And just before the metal peels open, he says it. Not loud. Not soft either.

“Don’t wait up.”

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

You let the door open.

Let the wind rush in, colder than before.

And just before he disappears into it, your voice finds him—light as thread, soft as knives.

“…I will.”

But he’s already gone.

And the door shuts behind him like it always does.

Too loud. Too final.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌A long time ago, before he knew what leaving felt like.

The living room is too quiet.

Too clean.

Not a single cushion is out of place.

The floor gleams. The air smells like whatever the Graysons use to wipe down glass—chemical and lemony, with an undertone of sterilized order.

But Mark’s standing in the middle of it like it’s a battlefield.

Barefoot on the rug. Chest puffed.

A red bedsheet draped around his shoulders—safety pinned in the front like a real cape.

He tugs it tight with both fists. Stands taller.

He even spiked up his hair a little with water so it would fall the same way his dad’s always does after a mission. Sharp. Heroic.

Omni-man.

Mark grins at his reflection in the mirror near the hallway.

It’s a little crooked because of the missing tooth—leaving a gap. It’s also a little too small, but it does the job.

He flexes once. Poses.

Then rushes back to the couch and grabs the sheet of printer paper he left there—crayon scribbles in red and white and blue.

Their family.

Mom. Dad. Him.

Except—this time, he drew himself with the cape.

Not his dad.

Just him.

He hears the door.

The front lock shifts with that signature mechanical click—the one Omni-man’s key always overrides.

Mark freezes, heartbeat picking up.

The good kind. The kind that means he’s home.

A second later, Nolan steps in.

And he’s not alone.

Blood streaks his arms. His cape is torn, ripped at the edges. His face is shadowed—tired in a way Mark doesn’t quite understand yet.

But he’s here.

Mark lights up. Practically launches across the room with the drawing in hand and cape trailing behind him.

“Dad! Dad—look!”

Nolan doesn’t say anything.

Just closes the door behind him. Slowly. Methodically. Drops his keys on the table without looking up.

Mark rushes forward anyway, breathless. Holding the paper up like it’s gold.

“I made this—I made us! But like—if I was a hero too. Like you.”

The little boy spins once, proud.

“I’ve been practicing my landing pose. You know. For when I can fly.”

Finally—finally—Nolan looks.

His eyes scan the cape. The safety pin.

Then the drawing.

He doesn’t blink.

And something changes.

Something behind his tired eyes shift—something Mark won’t understand until he’s older.

“…Where did you get that cape,” Nolan says, voice low.

Mark startles.

“It’s just a sheet,” he says quickly, adjusting it. “Not a real one. I just thought—”

“You don’t get to wear that.”

The words hit too hard.

Too sharp.

Not loud. But not soft.

Mark’s mouth stays open. Drawing still in his hand.

Nolan steps closer.

“Not yet. Not until you’ve earned it.”

Mark’s arms drop.

He doesn’t ask what earning it means.

He just looks down.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Right. Sorry.”

Nolan doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look angry—not really.

Just… detached.

He walks past Mark without another word.

His boots thud once against the hardwood. Then he disappears down the hallway.

Mark’s left standing there.

Cape slipping from his shoulders. Drawing creased in his fingers.

He looks down at both.

Then lets the paper fall.

The cape slides off. Pools on the floor.

He stares at it for a long time.

Doesn’t cry.

Doesn’t move.

Just breathes.

Then—quietly, like it’s a vow—he bends down, picks the cape up, folds it in half.

Presses it to his chest.

And whispers—

“Then I’ll earn it.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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alive-gh0st · 3 months ago

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this post is so real actually.

idc what anyone says—i love fanfics where the grammar is proper, the punctuation is clean, and the em dashes are em dashing. like… let me breathe in the rhythm of your sentences please. it just reads smoother?? idk maybe that’s just me.

and while i’m here—i had to say this because the way some people are treating actual writers lately is getting out of hand. i’ve seen SO many takes (especially on tiktok, but also here) about how using things like commas, semicolons, or—god forbid—em dashes apparently means you used AI to write it??

the amount of hate some creators are getting just for knowing how to write?? or for using proper structure?? it’s actually disgusting. EVEN if someone does use AI—when did that become a free pass to start throwing threats and insults?

look… i write, yeah—but i also draw. so i get the frustration of AI mimicking art (because writing is art, too) and people claiming it’s theirs. it sucks. it hurts. BUT i’m not gonna jump straight to tearing someone apart for it.

when did we get so violent?

just because you can hide behind a screen doesn’t mean your words don’t hit. and the worst part? the logic doesn’t even make sense.

punctuation = AI?? be serious. like huh??? maybe they just paid attention in class. maybe they just know how to write.

the truth is: AI copies us.

it mimics our writing, our fandoms, our rhythm. SO if something sounds “too good”… maybe it’s just someone who actually knows how to write???

where do you think AI learns from?

In my humble opinion

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alive-gh0st · 3 months ago

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✎𓂃 more people need to hear this tbh… perfect stories are forgettable—weird little messy ones live forever!!! (this genuinely makes me feel way better about all the mess i leave in my drafts)

"If my book is not perfect then-"

Then what? People will actually discuss it? fill your plotholes with fanfiction and headcanons?

People dont care about perfection. perfection is boring. if your story is perfect people will forget about it. its how we are wired. we remember the strange, the weird and all things left open.

Perfection isnt the goal, interesting is

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alive-gh0st · 3 months ago

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˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

……ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ...

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you weren’t supposed to let it get this far. he wasn’t supposed to matter this much. but then his mouth is on yours like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. and yours is on him like it’s the only way to forget. it’s not just patch-ups anymore. not just jokes and silence and tension. now it’s hospital closets. breathless shifts. secrets. now it’s you on your knees. him on your couch. and one night—you touch him like he’s something to be held. and he looks at you like you’re something to lose. (it was never just once.)

⛨ contains: nsfw (18+). mutual yearning in absolute denial. stress-relief sex that isn’t just sex. mark being on the edge of a spiral. reader being flustered over waistlines and happy trail and muscle and pain reactions. oral (f!receiving, m!receiving). praise kink. reader going feral. mark going soft. supply closet moments. couch tension. eye contact. jealousy. soft!mark being stunned into silence. confessions that aren’t confessions. the long-awaited descent into horny. emotionally complicated head. slow burn officially left the building.

⛨ warnings: explicit sexual content. injury mentions. bruising. blood treatment. fingering. reader on knees. mark on knees. overstimulation. oral fixation. desperation sex. possessive tension. dangerous feelings. reader spiraling. mark spiraling harder. someone absolutely catches feelings. maybe both.

⛨ wc: 4603

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: okay so—plot twist. this chapter used to be chapter four. but then i accidentally escalated things way too fast (oops) and realized they needed a little more time to spiral first. so i wrote a whole new chapter four, shoved this one forward, and now we’re here. chapter five picks up exactly where the new version of chapter four left off—right in the middle of poor decisions, emotional repression, bla bla. thanks for bearing with me guys.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You don’t hear the knock at first.

Mostly because you’re elbow-deep in a mug, aggressively scrubbing out the remains of something you’re pretty sure what was once coffee but now qualifies as a biological threat.

There’s a dramatic sigh, a clatter of porcelain, and then—

Another knock. Heavier this time.

You freeze. Blink. Glance at the clock.

It’s past midnight.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

When you crack open the door, you already know who it is—and almost shut it again.

And yeah.

There he is.

Bloody knuckles, probably bruised ribs, that same sheepish tilt to his mouth, like he’s sorry for showing up but not sorry enough to stop.

Like he tripped—and somehow landed on your doorstep.

You narrow your eyes. “What, no blender story this time?”

Mark lifts his brows. “Didn’t wanna disrespect the blender.”

You snort. Step aside.

“Lucky for you, I’m bored and mildly codependent.”

He winces as he walks in, and you watch—closer than you mean to—how his breath catches when he lowers himself onto the couch.

This time, your sarcasm stays in your throat. It doesn’t land right when he’s actually hurting.

You grab the med kit.

It’s quiet, for a while.

Not silent.

Just… still.

You kneel beside him, start cleaning the cut along his collarbone. Your fingers linger a second too long when they brush his skin.

Mark doesn’t flinch.

He watches you.

Not like a patient. Not even like a friend.

Just… watches.

And it does something to your chest.

Something stupid.

“I swear you’re trying to die dramatically on my couch,” you mutter, cutting through the tension.

Mark smiles at that. Barely.

“Would make a good headline. ‘Local idiot bleeds out in hot doctor’s home.’”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“You’re hot, though.”

You don’t look at him. If you do, you might hesitate.

Because he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world not currently on fire.

You don’t meet his gaze. You focus on the blood. The gauze. The rhythm of your hands.

The tension coils in the silence.

But then—

Your fingers slow.

The space shrinks.

And suddenly he’s closer, or maybe you are, or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the next thing you know—

Your lips are on his.

It’s messy. Brief. Desperate in a way that makes your heart stutter.

You both pull back like you’ve been burned.

“…Just once,” you mutter. It’s not a promise. Not really.

You don’t know why you said it.

Maybe you meant it. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you’re just scared of what it means to want more.

Mark doesn’t move.

Just nods like he heard you. Quietly.

Like that’s a fair trade for whatever’s breaking open in his chest. Like that didn’t hurt him.

But you both know it’s not just once.

Because then he leans in again, and kisses you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane.

The only thing keeping him.

And you don’t stop him.

This kiss is different.

Rougher this time. Hungrier.

His hands find your waist and he lifts you like you weigh nothing—like he wasn’t just bleeding out on your cushion.

You gasp when your back hits the sink behind you, fingers curling into his hair as your legs wrap around him on instinct, dragging him impossibly closer.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s starving for something he doesn’t know how to name.

Like maybe if he kisses you hard enough, you’ll finally understand.

You kiss him like you’re trying to forget everything else.

With his mouth on yours, your hands in his hair, your pulse somewhere in your throat.

It’s not careful. Not planned. It just happens—like breathing.

Like gravity.

When you finally break apart, you’re breathless. Flushed.

You clear your throat. Slide off the sink like it didn’t just happen.

“Well. That was… medically inadvisable.”

Mark’s still leaning against the counter, dazed. He looks at you like he’s scared to speak.

So you speak again.

“Don’t make it weird.”

Mark just laughs—soft and hollow.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And that’s the last either of you says about it.

You clean him up in silence. Neither of you mentions what just happened.

But neither of you forgets it. Not that night. Not the one after.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You’re not expecting to see him.

Not today.

You’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone think—three codes before noon, a patient screaming in recovery, and Carla threatening to staple someone’s hand to the breakroom fridge.

You duck into the supply closet just to breathe.

Just to breathe.

And Mark’s already there.

Leaning against the far shelf like a sin waiting to happen. Hoodie unzipped, bandage peeking from beneath his collar.

That same unreadable look in his eyes.

“I didn’t think you were coming in today,” you say, not looking at him. Your voice is too sharp, too casual.

It doesn’t fool him.

“I didn’t think you’d look like you’re one dropped pen away from losing it.”

You scoff. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

You close the door behind you.

Silence.

Thick. Pressed between you like a secret.

And then—

You step forward.

One hand to his chest.

Push.

Mark stumbles a little, catching himself against a shelf, a little wide-eyed but not protesting.

His voice is still hushed, caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan.

”Is this how you treat all your patients?”

You don’t smile.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t ask.

Just watches you with that look again—like he’s daring you to pretend you don’t want this.

You just grab a fistful of his hoodie and kiss him like it’s the only way to keep from unraveling.

It’s hot, messy, almost frantic—the kind of kiss that carries teeth and frustration behind it.

The kind that’s been brewing in sideways glances and middle-of-the-night texts, and now, in a cramped hospital closet that smells like antiseptic and secrets—you finally snap.

Mark doesn’t fight it.

Doesn’t even pretend to.

He lets you back him against the wall, lets your fingers ghost under his shirt like you’re checking for damage.

Lets you grind against him like friction is the only thing tethering you to reality.

“You have good hands,” you breathe against his throat. “Might as well put them to use.”

And that’s it.

That’s all it takes.

Mark groans.

And he does.

Suddenly it’s a blur of movement—your back against the opposite wall, his mouth on yours, his hands already slipping under your scrubs.

You pull him closer, grind against him like you’re trying to burn through him.

It’s fast. Messy. Quiet, but not really.

Your breath stutters. His grip tightens.

One hand on your waist. The other sliding lower.

Mark’s fingers slide beneath your waistband—confident, precise.

His touch is warm and reverent, like he’s done this a thousand times in his head already and now he’s finally allowed to catch up.

You gasp when he finds the spot that makes your knees buckle. One hand clutches his shoulder for balance, the other tangled in his hair.

His mouth finds your neck and doesn’t let go.

You suck in a sharp gasp, hand flying up to muffle it against his shoulder.

Mark exhales like you’re killing him.

Like you’re the only thing that feels real.

And when your hips buck against his palm—when your head tips back, lips parted, neck bared—he almost falls to his knees right there.

But he doesn’t.

He holds still.

Breathing heavy.

Mark doesn’t say anything for a while—not until your breathing stutters and your hips twitch against his hand and you curse under your breath like you’re mad at yourself for liking it this much.

That’s when he leans in close—forehead pressed to yours, voice low and rough.

A little croaked. A little too honest.

“Is this really all I get?”

He whispers, like it costs him something to say it out loud.

You freeze.

Don’t answer.

Can’t.

Because it’s not about the sex. Not really.

It’s the way he says it—like he’d take anything you gave him. Like he wants everything.

Like he’s hoping this isn’t just stress relief or a mistake you’ll chalk up to hospital tension.

That you won’t call it a mistake in the morning. That it meant something.

Instead, you pull him down again.

And kiss him again instead—rough and grateful and silent.

Like it’s all you can offer.

Even if it’s not.

Even if it never was.

And neither of you mentions the question again.

Not tonight.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It’s a quiet shift.

Too quiet.

No trauma calls. No frantic pages. Just the buzz of fluorescent lights and the dull ache of knowing something’s coming.

Something always is.

You’re halfway through your coffee when Carla pokes her head into the breakroom.

“Room 9. He’s back.”

You don’t have to ask who.

You set the mug down without a word.

The door clicks shut behind you, and there he is.

You don’t ask questions anymore. Not the ones that matter.

You just sigh, pull the curtain around the empty exam bay, and point to the bed.

“Shirt off. Again.”

Mark obeys, peeling fabric from his chest with a wince.

Blood drying on his ribs. A few bruises shadowing his side.

That familiar look on his face—equal parts smug and sheepish, like he doesn’t know if you’re about to stitch him up or stab him.

“You’re gonna run out of organs to damage at this rate.”

Mark hums.

“You’d miss me if I did.”

You glance up. He’s watching you again—like he always does.

Like you’re not just stitching him together.

Like you’re the only one who can.

You just stare for a while.

Because this time… yeah. You’re looking.

At the slope of his shoulders. The cut of his waist.

The way his jeans sit low on his hips, dipping just enough for your gaze to catch the faint trail of hair leading down from his stomach.

Mark’s unshaven too.

Messier than usual. A bit flushed.

Like he rushed here without thinking—like showing up to you mattered more than appearances.

You inhale through your nose. Slowly.

He smells warm.

Not cologne. Not soap.

Him.

Sweat, blood, heat—something raw and real and sharp-edged.

Like tension and adrenaline baked into his skin. And it shouldn’t smell good, but it does.

It does.

“Lie back,” you say, voice too soft.

Mark watches you.

Watches the way your eyes won’t stop moving.

Then does what he’s told.

You clean him up in silence—careful hands, cold wipes. Fingertips trailing skin a second too long, just to see if he flinches.

He doesn’t.

He breathes heavier instead.

And when your hand dips lower to adjust his waistband, to clean around his hipbone, he twitches.

Not from pain.

Not exactly.

“You’re… different today,” Mark says, voice low.

Your eyes flick up. “You showed up bleeding in my hospital again.”

He smiles.

“I always do.”

You toss the cloth away. Step between his thighs.

Still wordless.

Still staring.

And Mark—god, poor Mark—he barely has time to process it before you’re on your knees.

You undo his belt with clinical precision. He hisses in surprise but doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t even blink.

The snap of his waistband. His breath stutters.

The brush of your fingers.

The sharp, unfiltered breath he lets out when you finally wrap your hand around him.

“You don’t have to—” he tries, but you just shush him.

“I want to.”

And that’s the last thing either of you says for a while.

You take your time.

He’s already hard. Maybe from the tension. Maybe just from your gaze.

But the way he groans when your lips wrap around him? It’s reverent.

Mark’s head hits the pillow behind him.

One hand fisting in the sheet. The other hovering near your cheek, not quite touching.

He tastes like sweat and salt and need.

Like someone who’s been craving this without saying it.

He doesn’t make much noise.

That might be the worst part.

He just breathes—harsh and uneven—as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, as your tongue traces the kind of path that makes his hips jerk forward before he can stop himself.

You set a pace that’s slow, cruel. You want him to squirm.

And he does.

With each pull of your mouth, he gets louder. Needier.

His thighs tense. His breath turns ragged.

You moan a little. Just to feel the way it wrecks him.

Mark bites down a curse.

Like if he doesn’t hold on, he’ll break apart.

“Fuck—” he breathes, one hand finally tangling in your hair—tight, trembling, not pulling, just anchoring. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hum in response. The vibrations make him curse again.

His hips stutter—just once—before he forces himself still.

You don’t stop.

You want to watch him fall apart.

And then—he shudders.

Hard.

You feel it before you hear it. The way his thighs tense, the way his breath catches like he’s drowning in you.

And when he does—when his mouth falls open in a silent gasp and his hips twitch helplessly and he moans your name like it hurts—you don’t flinch.

You swallow.

Wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand and exhale like you’ve just survived something—he still hasn’t moved.

Just breathes—shallow, awestruck, wrecked.

Mark stares up at you like you’ve just broken him. Like you’ve rewritten the sky.

And then—

He kisses you.

Just once.

Gentle.

Soft.

Like he needs to taste what’s left of himself on your lips.

You flinch.

Not from disgust.

From the way it makes your chest ache—sharp and stupid and real.

Mark pulls back a little, eyes still dark.

“Sorry.”

You stare at him.

He laughs, barely. “Couldn’t help it.”

You don’t speak.

You just go back to patching him up.

But your hands shake. Just a little.

And neither of you pretends it didn’t happen.

It lingers. Quiet. Heavy.

Like the taste of his name is carved into your mouth and you’ll never get it out.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You’re not sure who started the rumors.

Maybe it was the way you always seem to know when he’s in the building.

Maybe it was the handprint someone found on the inside of a closet door.

Or maybe it was the way his hands keep finding your hips.

Even now.

You’re in the breakroom.

Carla’s ranting about hospital vending machines like they’re a personal attack on her dignity, and Mark’s standing behind you, way too close, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles at the curve of your waist.

He’s not even trying to hide it.

And you?

You should pull away.

You don’t.

“Mark,” you mutter, under your breath.

“Yeah?”

“People talk.”

“Let them.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “We’re at my work.”

His smile is barely there. “So?”

“So,” you say, voice lower now, “if Carla sees you palming my ass while she’s microwaving her lasagna, I’m going to let her believe I killed you.”

Mark leans in a little closer, breath brushing your ear. “Noted.”

You’re about to shove him away when—

The door swings open.

“Hey, do you guys know if—” Carla stops mid-sentence.

Blinks.

You and Mark spring apart like you’ve been electrocuted.

—Too late.

She eyes you both. Slowly. Suspiciously.

You clear your throat. Pick up a clipboard. “Looking for Room 4’s chart.”

Carla raises a brow. “Didn’t realize charts were kept on his hip.”

Mark coughs into his fist. You glare at the ceiling.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just walks past you with a knowing smirk.

The silence after she leaves is deafening.

“You think she’s gonna tell anyone?” Mark asks quietly.

You exhale sharply. “She doesn’t have to.”

And it hits you then.

The shift.

The weight of something growing too big to contain in closet walls and exam rooms.

Because the truth is—rumors don’t happen in a vacuum.

They grow where there’s tension. Where people see what you’re trying not to admit.

And the worst part?

You feel it too.

Whatever this is—

It’s starting to feel like more.

And that’s dangerous.

Because if you give it a name, you might not be able to let it go.

And letting go? That was never part of the plan.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The first time you say it, you’re joking.

You’re in his lap, half-draped across the couch like it’s an afterthought—like kissing him for twenty minutes straight wasn’t a declaration of war on his self-control.

Your fingers are idly tracing shapes on his shoulder, his hand resting against your bare thigh like it belongs there.

Like it always has.

And then you say it. All casual.

“Y’know no one’s ever gone down on me?”

Like it’s funny. Like it doesn’t make him freeze.

Mark’s brain short-circuits.

“You’re joking,” he says—flat, disbelieving.

You grin. Shrug.

“Guess I’ve been sleeping with cowards.”

He blinks. Stares.

“Are you kidding me?”

You laugh. Try to shift away—but he’s already cupping your jaw, already tilting your face back toward his, already looking at you like you just dropped the goddamn gauntlet.

“What kind of assholes have you been sleeping with?”

You laugh. “The efficient kind?”

“That’s not efficiency, that’s—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Because all he can picture is you—arched and breathless and wrecked—and not a single one of those assholes ever bothered?

Not once?

That’s unforgivable.

Your breath catches.

Just slightly.

And Mark—he’s already decided.

This? This is happening.

You’re stretched beneath him before you can offer another smartass reply, your thighs pressed together, your chest rising a little too fast—and he just stares.

Stares like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you before doing something reckless.

Which he is.

He kisses you first. Slowly.

Like he has all the time in the world.

And when your lips part under his—when your hand curls around his bicep and your breath gets uneven—he starts moving down.

Mouth on your throat. Teeth grazing your collarbone.

You gasp when he bites, and he grins against your skin.

“You’re serious?” he murmurs, lips at your sternum.

You nod—barely. “Yeah.”

Mark slides lower.

Lower.

“You know I’m not stopping, right?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Nod again.

That’s all he needs to make you his mission.

He kisses your stomach. Nuzzles along your waistband. Drags his mouth down like he’s starving and you’re the only thing on the menu.

You arch a little when he tugs your clothes down—slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping something he’s wanted for a long, long time.

And he has.

God, he has.

But when he kisses the inside of your knee—when his fingers slip beneath your waistband and pull—you stop breathing.

Your thighs shift. A little shy. He just settles between them.

You try to crack a joke. Something about bedside manners.

But then his mouth is on you.

And you go silent.

Thank god.

Because Mark’s not sure he could take another quip right now.

Not with your thighs pressed around him. Not with you looking like that—half-flushed, half-scared, all beautiful.

He takes his time.

Not to tease.

To honor.

Because no one else ever did, apparently.

Fucking idiots.

His hands settle on your thighs.

His thumb brushes your skin—soft, tentative. Like he’s asking permission he already knows you’ll give.

You’re already open for him—bare, waiting—and still, he doesn’t rush.

He breathes you in first.

Like he needs to memorize the scent of you. Like he’s not allowed to forget it.

You smell warm. A little sweet. A little sharp. Head-spinning.

Real.

And then—he licks a slow stripe up the center of you.

You gasp.

Loud. Unfiltered.

His eyes flick up just in time to see your head fall back, your hand twisting in the couch cushion.

A little shocked. A lot overwhelmed.

Good.

He does it again.

This time slower. With more pressure.

Your hips twitch.

He groans against you, the sound low and rough, like your taste is dragging something raw out of him.

Like he’s been waiting to do this his whole life and now it’s the only thing he ever wants.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, locking you in place, anchoring you to him like you might float away otherwise.

And then—he really starts.

Long, languid strokes of his tongue.

Pressing. Flattening. Curling.

Your thighs tremble. Your breath hiccups.

You curse—soft and broken—and it makes him ache.

He shifts closer.

Mouth greedy. Hands steady.

And when he finally finds that spot—when you jerk so hard your knee knocks into his shoulder—he grins against you.

“Oh,” you gasp.

It’s barely a word. More a sound.

A realization.

Like you didn’t know it could feel like this—like anyone could ever want you this much.

Mark hums in response. Keeps his mouth there. Keeps going.

And that hum? That vibration?

You cry out.

One hand flying to your mouth like you didn’t mean for it to escape.

Too late.

He moans into you. Encouragement.

Worship.

Your thighs try to close around his head. He doesn’t let them—just holds firmer.

Just grips harder. Stays exactly where he is.

Devoted.

Your body keeps twitching. Reacting. Trying to process something it’s clearly never been given before.

And he doesn’t stop.

Won’t.

Because now he knows what you sound like when you lose control.

What you taste like.

How your hips start to rock into his face, desperate and instinctive, like you’re chasing something even you don’t understand.

And when you finally start shaking—

When your voice breaks into a shattered “Mark—fuck, Mark—” like a prayer and a warning—

That’s when he pulls out all the stops.

His tongue moves faster. Deeper. His lips seal over you and suck.

You fall apart.

You break open under his mouth like a dam—trembling, gasping, writhing against his grip as everything in you tips over the edge.

He doesn’t stop until you beg him to.

And even then, he kisses you through it.

Soft and slow and open-mouthed—tongue lazy now, just helping you ride it out, helping you breathe through the aftershocks like he’s trying to give you every last drop.

When you finally stop shaking—when your hips slump and your arm drapes over your eyes like you can’t bear to look at him—he kisses your inner thigh.

Once.

Then again.

Then rests his cheek there like it’s the only place he belongs.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, breathless.

He smiles.

You try to speak. Fail. Try again.

“You—you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he says.

Quiet. Fierce.

Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You go quiet again.

And after a moment—when your breathing slows and your eyes meet his—he crawls back up your body and kisses you.

Long. Gentle.

Like he’s sealing something between you.

Your mouth still tastes like him.

And his? Still tastes like you.

You flinch a little when he pulls back.

Not from disgust.

From something else.

Something dangerous.

He sees it.

But instead of pretending it didn’t happen, he lets the moment hang between you.

Soft.

Loaded.

And then—

He whispers it. Barely.

“If you tell me to stop wanting more…”

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“…I will.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It’s late.

The kind of late that bleeds into morning, where the city hum softens and the light outside your window turns faint and gray.

Mark’s still here.

Not by accident. Not because he’s bleeding. Not because he’s broken. Not because of bruised ribs or bloodied hands.

He’s just… here.

And you let him be.

You didn’t say the words. You can stay. You didn’t need to.

He didn’t ask.

He just stayed—because his hand never left yours, and you never made him go.

Now?

He’s on your couch.

Stretched out. Soft-breathed. Almost peaceful.

His shirt’s gone. One arm slung over his eyes.

The other curled lightly beneath the hem of your blanket—one you’d tossed over him in silence, pretending the gesture wasn’t intimate.

You’re in the armchair beside him.

Still.

Watching.

Your legs are folded beneath you, your coffee long since cold. But you don’t move.

You’re too busy staring at the way his chest rises. Falls. Rises again.

Like he’s alive because you let him.

Like he wants to be.

And that should be comforting.

It’s not.

It’s terrifying.

Because you know what this looks like.

What it means.

This isn’t tension. This isn’t friction in the dark or adrenaline in a hospital closet.

This is comfort.

Warmth.

Something like… tenderness.

You swallow.

Shift forward—just a little.

Your fingertips ghost along the edge of the blanket, then stop.

You don’t mean to reach out. But you do.

Your knuckles graze his cheek.

Barely there.

He doesn’t wake.

You trace the edge of his jaw. The curve of his mouth. His lashes.

You memorize him like this.

Soft. Quiet. Unaware.

Because if he were awake, you’d never have the courage to touch him like he matters.

But he is.

He does.

God, he does.

You take one more breath.

And then—when he shifts—when his brows pinch and his arm stirs—you panic.

You drop your hand. Curl up like you’ve been asleep this whole time.

Mark blinks.

Turns.

Looks at you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you sleep.

Even if he knows you’re faking it.

He smiles to himself. Faint. Crooked.

And stays exactly where he is.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌You don’t think too much of it at first.

The text goes unsent for a minute, just sitting in your drafts while you hover.

You up?—feels too obvious.

Come over?—feels too vulnerable.

Bored. Kiss me.—is way too honest.

Eventually, you settle on something in between.

Alive?

Simple. Playful. Vaguely accusatory.

You hit send. Wait.

Nothing.

The read receipt doesn’t pop up. The typing bubbles don’t appear. The little “delivered” icon sits untouched, like it’s mocking you.

You toss your phone aside.

This isn’t the first time.

He’s done it before—disappeared like smoke, only to reappear a day later with a bruise and a shrug.

Usually, you don’t care.

Usually.

But now… now it’s different.

Now you’ve kissed him half a dozen times, let him curl around you like he belongs there.

Now you’ve touched him like you wanted to stay.

Now it’s getting serious.

And he still feels like a stranger.

You sigh.

Curl deeper into the blanket.

Your TV is still playing in the background—some breaking news special about another city under siege, another battle in the sky.

Something about Invincible.

Your eyes start to close.

The phone stays silent.

You try not to take it personally.

You fail.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark doesn’t see the message until hours later.

His phone’s been buried somewhere under rubble, cracked screen and all, barely holding on.

Like him.

There’s dried blood on his knuckles.

Another busted rib. A ringing in his ears that won’t stop.

But still—when he finally gets back to the GDA facility, when he drags himself toward the nearest surface and collapses—he checks it.

Just in case.

And there it is.

✆ Dr. Heart Attack

Alive?

It’s supposed to be a joke. A tease.

But it twists something in his chest anyway.

Because you don’t know.

You don’t know why he disappears. Where he goes.

Who he is.

And he hasn’t told you.

Not yet.

Because if you knew—

If you knew what he really was, what kind of promises he can’t keep—

You might stop texting.

Might stop letting him crawl into your bed like he has a right to be there.

Mark stares at the message for a long time.

Doesn’t type.

Doesn’t answer.

Not yet.

Instead, he leans back against the wall, bruised and quiet and stupidly full of regret.

And wonders how long you’ll keep waiting before you stop.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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