Debrief: from childhood to your adult life… one person has always been your favorite valentine.
Case Notes: y’all voted fast and furious for this man, I didn’t realize the fandom yearned for mark so bad. Here you go babes 😘
At five, Mark is sitting in the child seat of the grocery cart, legs kicking while Debbie steers them down the seasonal aisle.
Everything is red and pink and white. Red paper hearts taped to the shelves. Pink foil balloons bobbing overhead. Boxes of candy with too many words that Mark can’t read yet.
Then he sees it. A small stuffed bear, no bigger than his forearm, sitting in a bin near the end of the aisle. It’s bright red, holding a stitched pink heart that says ‘Be Mine’ in curly letters… not that he can exactly read that yet. But what it says isn’t really important.
Mark’s legs stop kicking.
“Mama?” he asks, leaning forward so far Debbie has to steady the cart.
“Yes, honey?”
He points very seriously, “Can I get that one?”
Debbie follows his finger, then looks back at him with a soft smile, “The bear?”
Mark nods hard, “Yeah. For Y/N? Please?”
Debbie pauses, looking to her son’s wide puppy dog eyes, “Oh?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he explains, like this should be obvious to her, “And it’s red.”
She raises an eyebrow, amused, “And?”
“And that’s her favorite color,” Mark says, proud, grinning wide.
Debbie’s heart melts right there between the greeting cards and the Knick knacks that they sell for kids class Valentine’s.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she says gently.
Mark beams, nodding his head, “I wanna make her happy.”
Debbie reaches into the bin and hands him the bear, “Then I think that’s a perfect Valentine.”
Mark hugs it to his chest the rest of the shopping trip, refusing to let it go— even while they check out, holding the bear out for it to get scanned but not letting it out of his grip, even while Debbie loads the bags into the car.
When he finally gives it to you later that day, he shoves it into your hands shyly.
“It’s red,” he says, just in case you didn’t notice, “you love red.”
And you hug the bear tight, But you hug Mark tighter, and he giggles, hugging you right back.
💖💐🎁💐💖
At seven years old, Mark knows he probably shouldn’t.
The flowers are in a big glass vase on the kitchen table— real ones, not the grocery store kind. His dad brought them home earlier and his mom smiled so wide it made Mark’s chest feel warm.
He stares at them for a long minute, and then he very carefully takes three.
Not too many. Just enough.
He holds them behind his back as he slips out the front door, sneakers half-untied, heart pounding like he’s committing a crime.
Your house is only a couple doors down.
He knocks, shifting from foot to foot until the door opens and there you are, wearing fuzzy socks and a sweater that looks like it belongs to your dad.
“Hi,” he says, suddenly shy.
“Hi,” you smile.
He pulls the flowers out from behind his back and holds them up. They’re a little wind blown now. One petal has fallen off.
“They’re for you,” he says quickly, “It’s Valentine’s Day.”
Your eyes go wide, “Mark… are those real?”
He nods. “Yeah. My dad got them for my mom but there was a lot, so I thought it was okay if I shared.”
You take them like they’re something fragile and important, giving them a sniff.
“They’re really pretty,” you say.
His ears turn pink.
“They’re not red,” he adds, apologetic, “But they were the nicest ones.”
You grin and step forward, hugging him with one arm, careful not to crush the flowers.
“They’re perfect.”
Later, when Mark gets home, Debbie notices the bouquet looks… smaller. She looks at him. Slowly.
“Mark,” she asks gently, “do you know what happened to my flowers?”
He nods, honest, “I gave some to y/n.”
She doesn’t even pretend to be upset— just laughs and pulls him into a hug.
“That’s very sweet,” she says, “Next time, though, we’ll get her her own.”
Mark smiles to himself, already planning it.
💖💐🎁💐💖
By nine, you’re really into art.
You’re always drawing— on scrap paper, on the backs of homework sheets, on the sidewalk with chalk. You talk about colors like they have feelings. You show Mark your sketches and explain them very seriously, and he listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.
So when Valentine’s Day comes around, Mark doesn’t even think about candy.
He wants to make you something.
Debbie sets him up at the kitchen table with paints and thick paper. He sticks his tongue out while he works, brow furrowed in concentration. There’s red— your favorite— obviously. But there’s blue too, and yellow, and way more pink than he meant to use.
It’s not perfect.
The lines are shaky. The paint is uneven. He accidentally smudges one corner with his thumb and almost starts over—but then he decides it’s okay.
Because it’s his.
When it dries, he writes on the back in careful, crooked letters:
To Y/N
Happy Valemtimes Day
—Mark
He practices giving it to you in his room. Twice.
Then he bikes it over, holding it flat like the paint may run if he tilts it wrong.
You’re sitting on the floor when he shows up, surrounded by pencils and paper.
“I made you something,” he says, quieter than usual.
You turn, and he holds out the painting.
It’s a heart— but inside it is the two of you, stick figures holding hands. One of you has a cape. He pretends not to notice the way you smile at that part.
“You painted this?” you ask.
Mark nods, suddenly nervous, “Cause you like art. And I thought… maybe you’d like one someone made for you.”
You stare at it like it’s a masterpiece.
“I love it,” you say immediately, “I’m gonna keep it forever.”
💖💐🎁💐💖
By thirteen, Valentine’s Day is… different.
There are balloons taped to lockers and whispered conversations in the hallways. People actually care now. It’s not just about candy— it’s about who gives it to you.
Mark still gets you something, of course.
He spends way too long in the drugstore aisle with Debbie, staring at boxes of chocolates like they’re written in another language. He finally picks one with a red ribbon on it— simple, not too big. Safe.
When he gives it to you before class, you smile like you always do.
“Thanks, Mark,” you say, warm and genuine.
His chest does that thing it always does around you.
Then, later that day, it happens.
Another boy— some guy from your art class— walks up to you at lunch and hands you a small bag of chocolates. He’s awkward about it, cheeks red, mumbling something about liking your drawings.
You thank him and smile at him in a way Mark recognizes.
Mark watches from across the table, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Something tight and unpleasant twists in his chest.
He tells himself it’s stupid. Of course other people are going to give you Valentines. You’re nice. You’re talented. You’re… you.
Still.
When you sit back down, he doesn’t say much. Pokes at his food. Doesn’t meet your eyes.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Fine.”
But his jaw is tight, and when you reach into your bag and pull out the chocolates later, he looks away like it hurts to see.
That afternoon, as you walk home together, he finally blurts, “You don’t have to eat those.”
You blink, confusion settling into your features, “What?”
“The chocolates,” he says, frowning at the sidewalk, “From that guy.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs, shoulders stiff, “I dunno. He’s… he’s kinda annoying.”
You stop walking.
“Mark,” you say gently, “are you jealous?”
He freezes.
“No,” he says immediately, before huffing, looking away as he admits, “Maybe a little.”
Your heart stutters but you just smile, soft and fond.
“That’s kinda sweet,” you say.
His ears turn red all the way to the tips.
“I just—” He sighs, frustrated with himself, “I just don’t like thinking about someone else giving you stuff.”
You bump his shoulder with yours, “You’ve always been my Valentine, don’t worry so much.”
💖💐🎁💐💖
Seventeen
Valentine’s Day doesn’t disappear. It just… shifts.
Mark tells you he’s dating Amber a few weeks before, awkward and careful, like he’s worried you’ll be upset. You smile, tell him you’re happy for him— and you mean it. Amber’s great. You like her.
Still, the day itself hurts more than you expect.
There’s no bears, or chocolates, or flowers. No nervous smile with a gift hidden behind his back.
Instead, Mark texts you sometime in the afternoon:
‘happy valentine’s day 🙂’
You stare at it longer than you should before replying:
‘you too.’
Later, you see him in the hallway with Amber’s hand in his, and you feel something small and sad settle in your chest.
It sucks. But you understand.
💖💐🎁💐💖
Eighteen
You have a boyfriend now.
Mark knows him. He’s nice enough. Treats you well.
Mark is… somewhere else most of the time. Busy. Tired. Sometimes bruised in ways you don’t ask about. Amber is gone. Eve isn’t— not yet— but things are complicated between them in ways you don’t fully see.
Valentine’s Day passes quietly between you.
You exchange a look in the hallway. A smile. A familiarity that never quite leaves.
That night, Mark sends you a picture of a pink sky outside his window. But he doesn’t say anything with it.
You send back a heart.
That’s all.
💖💐🎁💐💖
Nineteen
Mark is with Eve now. Like officially.
You’re still with your boyfriend, though things feel less solid than they used to.
You all hang out sometimes— group settings, shared laughs. It’s easier that way. Safer.
On Valentine’s Day, Eve gives Mark a quick kiss in front of you, and you look away, not because you’re bitter or anything, but because some things are private.
Later, Mark catches you alone in the kitchen.
“Hey,” he says softly, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“You too,” you reply.
For a second, it feels like something unspoken passes between you— years of cards and flowers and paint and red bears folded into a single heartbeat.
Nothing crosses a line. Nothing ever has between you two.
But when you leave that night, Mark watches you go like he’s trying to remember something important.
💖💐🎁💐💖
You haven’t done this in years.
A real Valentine’s Day. Not the polite texts. Not the careful distance. Just… you and Mark.
You know now. About Invincible. About everything.
So when there’s a knock at your door that evening, you already have a feeling.
You open it— and there he is.
Mark looks a little nervous, hovering on your porch with his hands full. There’s a paper bag tucked under his arm, a bouquet of flowers in the other, and something red peeking out between them.
“Hi,” he says, smiling like he’s thirteen again and terrified.
“Hi,” you breathe, soft and steady.
“I, um— can I come in?”
Inside, he sets everything carefully on your table like it all matters too much to be careless with.
“Okay,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck,
“So. I know this is… a lot.”
And you giggle because that’s a bit of an understatement. He pulls things out one by one.
First, the wine, “Champagne. From France. I flew there this morning. It’s supposed to be good, sweet like you like— I asked.”
Then a small paper-wrapped bundle, “Italian pastries. I remembered you said you liked the ones with the cream.”
Your eyes are already burning, tears welling up because you can’t remember the last time you felt this scene, much less by him.
Then lastly he sets it down gently, A red stuffed bear.
Not the same one. But close. Same color. Same size. Holding a little stitched heart.
“I couldn’t find the exact one,” he says softly, “but I tried.”
He adds the flowers. Real ones. A familiar mix.
“And chocolate,” he says, sliding the box toward you. “I know you still don’t love it, but I figured—tradition.”
Finally, he hands you the card.
It’s folded wrong. The paper is thick. Handmade.
Inside, in careful handwriting:
To my first Valentine,
My longest Valentine,
My favorite Valentine.
Thank you for every kept gift, for pressing the flowers, for always smiling at me like sunshine; and letting me love you every year since we were kids, even when I didn’t know that’s what I was doing.
I wanted to remember all of them.
Love,
Mark
You don’t even realize you’re crying until he steps closer, worried.
“Hey— hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
You drop the card and hug him.
Tight. Familiar. Safe. And he exhales like he’s been waiting years to do this.
“You flew around the world,” you whisper into his shoulder.
He laughs softly, “Well, Yeah. Kinda felt like the least I could do.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mark.”
He smiles, warm and certain.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says softly, his hands coming up to cup your face before leaning in and kissing you soft and tender and warm.
🪐Invincible Masterlist🪐 🦇Return To The Batcave🦇
If you enjoy my work and want to support me, conder buying me a coffee?☕️
I hope you like it. Sorry for the mistakes. English is my second language.
I take an uncertain step back when I see the blond guy get off his motorcycle and start walking toward me. Damn it… I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Looks like I really pissed him off.
“You think you’re brave, huh?” he snarls, getting closer and closer.I can’t even say a word. My throat locks, my mouth won’t open from fear. I’ve never been in a situation like this before. What am I supposed to do? Run?
“What, you deaf or something?! Tch—whatever.” He glares at me, slowly looking me up and down.Not like I’m a person.Like I’m something he can take.His gaze lingers on my earrings. Then the thin chain around my neck. Then my bracelet.
I instinctively move my hand, like I can hide them. Too late.He smirks.
“Yeah… figures,” he drawls. “Knew it.”
He takes another step closer, and my heart starts pounding faster.—“Take them off.”
I blink. “What?” I raise an eyebrow. Is he seriously trying to rob me?He rolls his eyes, like I just said something stupid.
“Your jewelry. All of it. Now.” He grins, sharp and mean. “Call it your apology for talking back.”
I freeze, my fingers curling around my gold chain with the small angel pendant.What a bastard. I’m not giving him anything.
“I’m not—”
“I wasn’t asking,” he cuts in sharply. His voice drops, colder now. Dangerous.He leans in slightly.
“You want trouble, princess?”
I take a step back—
—and suddenly something hard presses against my lower back.I turn my head slightly.The other one.When the hell did he get behind me?!The smaller guy presses a bat into my back, not letting me move an inch.
Bastards. No way out.
I clench my hands, forcing myself to stay steady.
“They’re mine—”
He suddenly grabs my wrist.I flinch. “Were yours,” he says quietly, tightening his grip. “Everything here is shared.”
His grip is rough.It hurts.I press my lips together so I won’t show it—but my eyes give me away.
He notices.Of course he does.A crooked smirk spreads across his face.
“Come on, princess,” he mocks. “Don’t make me take them off myself.”
My hands start to shake.Slowly, I reach for my earring.Damn it… what do I do?I’d run, but the one with the bat won’t let me.I yank my hand out of his grip.
“Fine, fine—I’ll give it!” I say, rolling my eyes.
He smiles wider.Of course. That’s exactly what he wanted.
“That’s better, princess,” he drawls.
I lower my gaze, buying time. My thoughts race, crashing into each other.Run? Not an option. The one with the bat is behind me. Him—in front.
Damn it.Slowly, I raise my hand to my earring.Stall. Think.I can feel their eyes on me, like they’re burning straight through me. They’re waiting. Confident. Certain they’re in control.I hate that.
My fingers touch the clasp.They’re trembling…but not from fear.From adrenaline.Just a moment.
Three…
Two…
“One!”I shout and drive my knee up as hard as I can, straight into the blond’s groin.He doesn’t even manage a sound—he just freezes, then doubles over with a strangled gasp.
No time to think.I spin and slam my elbow backward, blindly.I hit something.The pressure of the bat against my back disappears.
That’s enough.
I break free and run—
—but it’s not enough.
Something suddenly yanks me back.
“Ah—!”
I lose my balance and almost fall, turning around.
Him.
The smaller one.
His hand clamps around my ankle like iron, fingers digging painfully into my skin.
“Let go!” I snap, trying to pull free.
I kick, twist—but he doesn’t budge.Stubborn freak.He looks up at me.Cold. Empty. No emotion at all.What the hell is wrong with him?A chill runs down my spine.
“I said let go!” Panic starts creeping in.
I try to kick him with my other leg, but I’m off balance, nearly falling.He suddenly yanks me toward him.I cry out as I drop to one knee. Dirt, pain—sharp stones cutting into my skin.Damn it!I reach forward, trying to crawl away, but he won’t let me go.His grip tightens.
And then—
a sharp, searing pain.
“AAH!”I jerk violently.He bit me.Actually bit me.
“Are you insane?! What the hell is wrong with you?!”Something snaps inside me—adrenaline surges through my body, burning everything else away.I yank my leg with all my strength.Again.And again.
And again.
My skin slips against his grip.
It hurts. Bad. Really bad.
But—he can’t hold on.I wrench my leg free.And the second I’m loose, I run.
Behind me, I hear the blond shouting curses, yelling every insult he can think of—but I don’t care.My leg burns. Throbs. Pulses with pain.Every step hurts.
But I don’t stop.
The ground is uneven, my heels catch on trash—I almost trip with every step, but I keep going.My heart is pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.
cut between piles of garbage, slam my hand against a piece of rusted metal—
skin tears.
“Ah—!”I slow down for just a second.
Stupid.So stupid.Because the next moment—I hear it.
An engine.Their motorcycle.Closer.Faster.
Not just catching up—it’s already almost here.
“Shit…” I breathe out and push myself forward again.My leg aches, burns, like there’s fire pulsing inside it. Every step sends a jolt of pain through me—but I force myself to move.
Faster.
Faster.
I turn again, nearly slipping, grabbing onto something to keep from falling.My fingers slide over dirt.I steady myself.Keep running.
But damn it—they’re getting closer.
I don’t even understand from where—
when the motorcycle suddenly cuts in from the side, blocking my path.I stop short, almost crashing into it.The wheels scrape against the ground. Dust rises into the air.I cough, waving it away—and finally see them.
The blond.
And his psycho friend
Still on the bike.
They really won’t let this go, will they?
He looks down at me.And now there’s no trace of amusement in his eyes.Only anger.
“Going somewhere?” he says, breathing heavily.I step back.Once.Twice.
“Get lost,” I rasp.
He smirks and slowly gets off the motorcycle.
“After that?” he drawls. “I don’t think so.”
He steps toward me.I want to run—but I have no strength left.
Damn it… damn it…
“Enough, Phinks.”The voice comes from behind.
Low.But oddly boyish.I blink and turn my head.A guy steps out from behind a pile of trash.Tall.Broad.
His hair is short, dark—cut unevenly, like someone used whatever scissors they could find in a dump. No real shape to it.
His face is rough. Angular.Bruises. Scratches.
I wince without meaning to.He frowns, jaw tight—like he’s always angry.Or always ready to hit something.
And honestly… I don’t doubt it.
He’s wearing an old white sleeveless shirt. Worn out, stretched, nearly torn in places.Wait… Phinks?That’s his name?Weird. Just as weird as his hair.
The big guy looks at them.Not at me.Only at them.Phinks rolls his eyes.
“Oh, of course…” he drags out. “Another one.”
But he doesn’t attack.Just stands there.Watching.
The other one—the quiet one—goes still too.I can feel it.Their attention shifts.Off me.Onto him.
“She’s not from here,” the big guy says calmly. “It’s obvious.”
“So what?” Phinks scoffs. “Makes it easier.”
The guy doesn’t react.Not at all.
“I said. Leave her.”Same calm voice.But there’s something heavy in it.Something that even I can feel.
Phinks clicks his tongue, annoyed. Looks at me.Then back at him.
“You serious right now, Franklin?” he says with a frown. “I’ve got unfinished business with her.”
At that, I frown.
Excuse me—I’m the problem here?
The big guy—Franklin—doesn’t answer.Just looks at him.Straight.Silence stretches.Tension hangs in the air.I don’t even breathe.
Phinks stares at him for a few seconds, irritated—like he’s deciding if it’s worth it.Then he clicks his tongue.
“Tch… fine. Whatever.”
He turns away—but before getting back on the motorcycle, he looks at me again.Right into my eyes.And smirks.Not playful.Dangerous.
“We’ll meet again, princess.”
A chill runs down my spine.
The smaller one—the one who bit me—glances at me too.Brief.Quiet.But there’s something in it.
Like he’s already memorized me.Phinks starts the motorcycle.The roar of the engine cuts through the silence.
I hope you like it. Sorry for the mistakes. English is my second language.
The limousine glides down the night road almost silently. The interior is warm and soft, filled with the faint scent of my mother’s perfume mixed with the smell of polished leather and expensive wood. Inside, the world feels untouchable, protected from all the chaos outside.
I stretch my legs across the soft leather seat. In front of me is a small folding table with a crystal glass of juice that I haven’t even touched. Our driver, Mr. Han, is behind the wheel, sitting perfectly straight and calm. He has been driving our family for so many years that he almost feels like a part of the car.
“Sweetheart,”— my mother says quietly but firmly, lightly tapping my knee, —“your piano concert is tomorrow. You have to be flawless.”
I lazily turn my head toward her and smile with a hint of arrogance.
“I know, Mom. I’m always flawless.”
Her eyes narrow for a moment.
“Not just flawless,” she says. “Perfect. We cannot afford mistakes.”
I roll my eyes as if it’s just a formality. Of course I know how to perform. The audience, the stage lights, the slight nervous feeling before the first note — all of it is as familiar to me as breathing.
My fingers move across the table unconsciously, tracing invisible piano keys and repeating difficult passages. I can almost feel the weight of the piano beneath my hands. I hear the music in my head, spreading through the hall like a soft wave.
Everything has to be perfect.
I have to be perfect.
Am I nervous?
A little.
After all, many of my father’s important friends will be there tomorrow.I have to play perfectly, the thought crosses my mind.Outside, the city flows past in glowing streaks against the tinted windows. Somewhere ahead of us there should be a security car.Another one should be behind us.
Like walls around a castle.
Suddenly, my father stops typing.
“Where’s the escort?”
The driver presses the radio button.
“Escort vehicle one, come in.”
Static.
Hissing.
Silence.
He presses it again.
“Escort vehicle two, respond.”
Nothing.
I roll my eyes slightly.
“Maybe they just fell behind. It’s not the end of the world.”—But Dad is already staring out the window.And his face changes.I can almost feel the shift in his mood. Mom tenses as well and leans slightly toward him.
“Dad?”
I don’t even have time to react.
I hear the shot before I understand that it’s a gunshot.
I flinch and lift my head.
The driver suddenly jerks forward. His hands tighten on the steering wheel for a second, and then they go slack. The limousine drifts slightly to the side.
“Han?”— Dad leans forward.
No answer.
The limousine begins moving strangely now. Not straight like before — it starts to sway. No one is holding the wheel anymore.
“Han!” Dad says louder.
The driver is still leaning forward.
He doesn’t move.
Now I notice it too — there’s a small hole in the windshield. Thin cracks spread from it like a spiderweb.
Dad reaches forward over the seat.
“Damn…”
The car drifts again.
Mom grabs the door handle.
“What’s happening?”
Dad tries to reach the steering wheel, but the seat blocks him. The limousine is heavy and keeps rolling forward, slowly drifting out of the lane.
The wheels hit the shoulder of the road.
I feel the whole car begin to shake.
“Hold on!” —Dad shouts.
Everything happens very quickly after that.
The limousine hits something on the road. There’s a loud impact, and the car spins violently. I’m thrown forward as the seatbelt digs painfully into my chest.
Then another crash.
The glass cracks, and somewhere in front of us metal screeches loudly.The car doesn’t stop immediately.First it spins again, then it slams into something once more, and suddenly everything flips.
For a moment, the world turns upside down.When everything finally stops, I realize the limousine is lying on its side.The seatbelt is still holding me, so I’m almost hanging in the air. My head is spinning, and there’s a loud ringing in my ears.Somewhere in front of me, I hear metal quietly creaking.
“Dad…?” —I say.
No answer.
I turn my head. The front of the car is badly crushed. My parents are still in their seats, but they’re not moving.
“Mom…”
Silence.
I reach for the seatbelt buckle. My fingers shake a little, but the lock finally clicks open.I drop onto the side of the car, hitting my shoulder against the door.For a moment, it’s hard to breathe.
Then I start moving. Because the car is lying on its side, the door is almost above my head. I reach for the handle and push it.
It doesn’t open right away.From outside I hear a quiet hissing sound, like something is burning.I push the door harder.It finally opens.Cold air immediately hits my face.
I carefully crawl outside. My legs are shaking a little, so I almost slide down onto the ground beside the car.When I reach the road, I turn around.The limousine is lying on its side. The front is completely crushed, and smoke is rising from under the hood.
“Dad!” —I shout.
I take a step toward the car.And at that moment, there is a dull thump.
Then a flash.
Flames burst out from under the hood, and a second later the car explodes. The hot wave of air throws me backward. I fall onto the ground.When I lift my head again, the car is already burning.I stare at it and realize that Mom and Dad are still inside.
“Mom! Dad!” —A piercing scream tears out of my throat as hot tears run down my cheeks. My heart is beating wildly, like it’s about to jump out of my chest.
Why? How?
I can’t even stand up from the pavement. My legs won’t listen to me. My whole body feels numb.All I can do is scream and call for help.
“Help… someone, please… Mom… Dad…”— My voice becomes hoarse from screaming, and only weak, broken sounds come out of my throat.
Behind me, I hear a heavy sigh.
Not sharp. Not frightened.
More like… tired.
I freeze.
Slowly, very slowly, I turn my head.
And I see him.
He’s standing a few steps behind me, a tall, dark silhouette against the fire. The flames reflect in his eyes, but there’s no panic in them, no urgency. Only calm.
I try to stand, but my knees refuse to lift off the asphalt. I can feel my thin tights tearing against the rough ground.
“Help…” My voice cracks, coming out hoarse.
He looks at me.
Not at the car.
Not at the fire.
Not at my parents.
Only at me.His gaze moves slowly from head to toe, cold and assessing, as if checking something.If I’m alive.His brows knit slightly.Then he exhales quietly.
Disappointed.
“Not good,” he mutters under his breath.
I freeze.
There’s something… wrong about the way he says it.
He takes a step closer.Instinctively, I crawl back, pressing my hands against the cold asphalt.
“Y-you… you’ll help me?” I ask, but my voice isn’t as confident anymore.
He stops.
Looks at me for a few more seconds.Too long.As if deciding what to do with me.A chill runs through me.
“I expected this to be over immediately,” he says calmly. “Without complications.”
My heart tightens.I don’t understand.And at the same time… I understand everything.My fingers curl into fists.
“You…” My voice trembles. “Did you do this?”
He doesn’t answer.But he doesn’t deny it either.His gaze turns colder.
“You weren’t supposed to survive.”
The words hit hard.Right in my chest.I inhale sharply.
“No…” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, that’s… that’s not…”
I start crawling back faster, almost dragging myself across the asphalt.He sighs again.As if I’m just an inconvenience.
“Extra work.”
He steps closer.I try to stand, but my legs give out. My body won’t listen.
“Don’t come any closer!” I shout, but my voice is weak.
He stops right in front of me.Looking down.No anger.No emotion.Like I’m just a task.I look up at him.And for the first time, I’m truly scared.Because there’s nothing in his eyes.He tilts his head slightly.
“I don’t work with children,” —he says.
For a second, hope sparks inside me.Then it dies.
“But I don’t leave witnesses either.”—The world starts to spin again.My vision darkens.Too much at once.
Fire.
Pain.
Screams that won’t come out anymore.He looks at me for one more moment.Then he steps forward.His hand rises.I don’t even have time to react.A blow.
And everything goes dark.
🪽🪽🪽
I didn’t open my eyes right away. At first, there was a smell—horrible, unbearable. It hit my throat like a physical force—thick, heavy, inescapable. I gasped for air… and instantly regretted it. I wanted to cough, to turn away, but there was nowhere to escape. It was everywhere. Rot. Smoke. Something sour, decayed, alien. I couldn’t help but grimace. I had never… never in my life smelled anything like this.
I closed my eyes again, hoping it might help. It didn’t. Slowly, I opened them.
It wasn’t a ceiling above me. Not a car interior. Not the light from a chandelier.
A gray sky. Empty.
I sat up sharply, and my head spun. My entire body ached as if I had been beaten. I looked around—my bag was gone! My wallet, my phone, nothing! My hands were filthy. The fabric of my nylons had torn on my knees, leaving jagged lines, and beneath it, red, raw skin.
I dropped my gaze. And froze.
Around me… garbage. At first, I couldn’t make sense of it—just shapes, colors, strange objects. Then it hit me. Bags. Torn boxes. Pieces of plastic. Dirt. Rusted metal. Rotting matter.
I slowly turned my head. It was everywhere. I was sitting right in the middle of it.
“…What…?” My voice was quiet, almost a whisper.
This couldn’t be real.
I tried to stand, but my foot slipped on something sticky, and I jerked it back, grimacing in disgust. My breathing grew uneven. This place—it was literally a dump!
I looked at my hands again—caked in grime. My clothes… no longer looked perfect. My eyes fell to my shoes. Black, polished, flawless… once. Now, they were covered in mud, sticky goo clinging to the soles. I grimaced and took a cautious step. I stood fully, shaking off some of the filth, as if that could fix anything.
“No…” I whispered. “No, no, no…”
My heart pounded. Where was I?
I glanced around again, faster this time, almost panicking. The piles of trash stretched into the distance. Rusted structures. Smoke curling through the air. Not a single familiar landmark. Not a person. Only that smell—it wouldn’t leave. It had soaked into the air, into my skin, into my breath.
I pressed a hand to my nose, trying to hide from it somehow.
“…Dad?” I whispered.
No answer. Only the wind, rustling through the trash, and this alien, repulsive world around me.
I realized then. I had no idea where I was. And this place… it was nothing like the world I knew.
I started walking uncertainly, more like trying not to fall face-first into the filth. I kept tripping, watching every step, careful where I placed my heels. I glanced sideways, hoping to see anything beyond the trash, but it was useless—this garbage seemed endless, like a maze.
“Damn it!” I muttered, finally snapping at the unbearable stench. It was revolting. Luckily, I had a handkerchief in my jacket pocket. At least that could help me block some of the smell.
I must have walked for twenty minutes—or maybe more. Time felt impossible. I kept feeling like I was going in circles.
“This is useless!” I shouted in frustration, kicking a small metal piece. It clattered loudly into something else, sending echoes through the wreckage.
Then, from somewhere far off, I heard a sound. It reminded me painfully of an engine.
Where was that coming from?
I looked around, and the answer came quickly. A vehicle—if you could even call it that—suddenly stopped nearby. “Motorcycle” didn’t seem right; it was more like a pile of scrap metal somehow moving. Dust rose as it halted, choking the air.
“Seriously?” —I heard a harsh, sneering voice. Rough and unpleasant. I lifted my eyes and saw two boys sitting on the moving heap. The first—the one at the controls…
He looked… rough. His blond hair stuck up, too straight, too stiff, like it was done on purpose to look provocative. His face was sharp and angular, and he seemed… harsh.
His eyes were narrow, squinting. He looked at me as if he had already decided he didn’t like me.
He was wearing a hoodie. Old. Worn-out. With uneven stitches, like it had been sewn by hand. I noticed it automatically. Cheap. Everything about him… cheap. But that didn’t make him any less dangerous. He looked like a thug.
The second boy…
I turned my gaze and froze for a moment.
He was different. Shorter. Thinner. Quieter. His dark hair was pulled up, but messy—strands sticking out everywhere, like he didn’t care how he looked. His face was calm. Too calm. His eyes were half-closed, narrow, he looked Asian. At first, it seemed like he wasn’t paying attention to me at all. But he was. I could feel it.
He was looking. Just… not like the first one. Not openly. It was like he was analyzing me. No emotion. No words. And that made it even worse.
“Hey, princess, what are you doing here?” the blond drawled, not taking his eyes off me from the motorcycle.
“Lost?” —He glanced at the smaller dark-haired boy.
I could feel that they were not friendly. I had to think fast. But at the same time, a little hope appeared—if these boys were here, maybe there were other people too?
“Where am I?”— I asked, looking at the blond.
He seemed slightly surprised by my question, then scowled.
“I’m the one asking questions here!!” —he said irritably, leaning toward me.
I sighed in annoyance. This blond was playing with my nerves! Damn it… I had to calm down. Calm down…
“Answer when asked!” —the jerk shouted again.
What a bastard. How dare he speak to me like that?
“I’m not telling you a damn thing, idiot! Take your trash and go!” —I snapped.
For a moment, the blond lost his words. He clearly didn’t expect that answer. Then he ground his teeth in anger. I must have made him really mad.
I received a message asking me to elaborate on Meteor City and what kind of place it is. Which, first off, thank you for that, kind Tumblr user! I love an excuse to type away about Hunter X Hunter (///ω///)♪
Originally I planned to just message them back but because I am a professional yapper my reply got so long that I figured I should just make it into a post to avoid spamming them (and because it might be of some use/interest to others as well? Hopefully? lol)
Also, I may have accidentally neglected to mention a number of things in this post, which I apologize for beforehand. Feel free to add any of those things, if you want to! I was writing most of this off the top of my head while waiting for my boat so I'm likely even more knuckleheaded than usual jhkmtl
Anyway here's my post about why Meteor City sucks and why you wouldn’t want to live (or God forbid grow up) there
Now, we don't get a ton of detailed information about MC. Mostly snippets and clues. But I think the pieces are enough to put together a less than pretty puzzle, to put it mildly.
Not even the city's beginnings were pleasant. It was set up over a millennia ago as an internment camp by some unnamed dictator. Somewhere along the way it became the world's disposal site, and has been for 1,500 years. Other countries toss whatever they want to get rid of there (bodies and babies included) – to the point that it literally is a big garbage dump more than a place to live at this point.
Whenever Togashi draws MC, the literal mountains of trash are what's most prominent.
That being the case, it's easy to imagine the dirty and unsanitary living conditions this entails. Citizens are sometimes seen wading through the stinking trash in full protective gear, likely to protect themselves from the fumes. But those are select adults. The kids are exposed to this stinking and harmful filthy air daily. Perhaps they get used to it, but it's telling just how foul the stink must be when Phinks' first thought upon entering the Black Whale's waste disposal room is that it reminds him of the smell back home. So the smell of feces from hundreds of thousands = the fragrance of Meteor City, basically. Yikes.
While we're still on the topic of living conditions, one thing you'll notice is that we don't (at least in the flashback) see actual houses. Only haphazardly put together huts (amidst the ocean of garbage). Living in those would be tough in any circumstances, but just picture the winters or stormy seasons. I honestly would not be surprised if people froze to death there during particularly hard times (I don't for a second imagine those shabby little huts having radiators etc). The sole exception to this is the elders' surroundings, which are shockingly lavish and opulent in contrast. Whatever comforts or money/material gains the city receives seemingly go straight to the elders.
Another visual detail that sticks out to me is that many of the PT members we see in the flashback have torn shoes/sandals. It seems they only have the one pair. Another contrast to the elders fine clothes.
Then we are also told (during Chrollo and his friends' first performance) that basically everything in Meteor City breaks down. "All we get is junk". And that is literal. That's why Chrollo's dubbing shows made such a massive impact on not only his future comrades, but everyone else. This – a simple dubbing act – was the best thing that ever happened to these kids.
The main thing we learn early on about Meteor City (and the most crucial) is that it's citizens do not exist in the official sense. They have no registered names, birth records, nothing.
The children that end up there are usually dumped there as babies or toddlers (Phinks and Feitan for instance don't have data on their birth dates or bloodtypes). This lack of identity would probably fuck with anyone's head a bit (I hypothesize that this laid the groundwork for Chrollo's identity crisis). But worse than that, outsiders use their lack of documentation as a way to dehumanize them in the worst of ways. MC residents (mostly kids) were trafficked and/or killed in the hundreds every year while the PT were growing up. New little graves popping up outside of the church was tragically common, and something Chrollo remarks upon.
And none of these atrocities was against the law. Because legally MC citizens don't exist. That's why the place was a hotspot for killers, pedos, traffickers.
Basically the PT grew up being taught they had no worth in the eyes of the rest of the world (laying the groundwork for their "us vs them" mentality, their tribalism if you will. Chrollo and Shalnark we know don't even see themselves as belonging to the same species as non-MC humans. This is likely true for the other PT members as well). And this lack of humanity was directly and conclusively demonstrated to them in the way Sarasa was disposed of – strung up in a literal garbage bag to hammer home what her killers saw her as. The message couldn't have been clearer to Chrollo and his friends. The little sister figure they loved and valued was no more than disposable trash to outsiders. (And, again, Sarasa was one of likely thousands of kids being brutalized like that atp. She was the final straw for the PT though, because of what she meant to them).
These factors (and also the likely numerous snuff videos the PT watched as teenagers to find Sarasa's killers), to my mind, likely cemented the PT's attitude (that being hatred or utter apathy) toward outsiders. The world either hunted, tortured and killed them for sport, or turned a blind eye to their suffering. So in return, the PT don't care about the world (apart from themselves and their home).
But it's not just garbage or poverty or outsiders that made MC a horrible environment for the young PT. The adults around them did nothing to protect or nurture them. On the contrary the ones we see are either neglectful or seem to have done active harm.
Let's look at the elders for the latter example. I already talked about how they appear to selfishly hoard whatever wealth and comfort that come in their way. Additionally it seems little was done to actively shield children from being kidnapped (on the contrary they have – or used to until the PT wrecked that in Yorknew – a deal with the mafia where they traffic their own citizens to them in exchange for money and weapons). But not only that, the way they spoke of Chrollo in chapter 395 is highly concerning. They want an 11 year old child to solve Meteor City's problems, and I believe they've made Chrollo aware of that. That's why he is so quick to take on responsibility for things like Sarasa's disappearance and murder. Something that was in no way shape or form his fault. What the elders did to Chrollo as a child is a form of grooming.
It says more than enough about what sort of individuals they are imo.
Then there is the lack of parental figures. We only hear of wet nurses, but only in Sarasa's (the youngest's) case. It's telling though that neither they nor the elders appear to actively help search for Sarasa when she disappears, instead leaving it to the kids. Hell, Sarasa's wet nurses didn't even clock that she was missing until the following day when Chrollo and Sheila came looking for her. Like wtf? It's almost as if they don't care that there is a child abduction spree going on...
It's also pretty telling I think that Chrollo (who clearly loved and was close to Sarasa, enough so that her murder changed the whole trajectory of his life and traumatized him forever) had never once met Sarasa's wet nurses prior to her disappearance. Nor do said wet nurses show up for her funeral.
From this we can conclude that MC kids are mostly left to fend for themselves in an objectively dangerous environment.
Really the only "good" thing to come out of growing up in Meteor City is the bond between its citizens. "Thinner than water, thicker than blood". There is very clearly real and fierce love between the PT members, and they've dedicated their lives to avenging Sarasa and to protecting Meteor City (because let's be real no one else did while they grew up). Needless to say the Troupe went way overboard, lost their way, and are now arguably as bad as the people who killed their friend.
But even this bond between citizens is at times extremely harmful. Let's look at this example from chapter 102.
This tells you everything about just how extreme and how destructive their mentality is. Suicide bombings and revenge killings (for the most minor of offences) are applauded in Meteor City.
So in summary, Meteor City is a hellhole. An objectively damaging place to grow up in.
Now, does this excuse the PT's numerous atrocities? No. Not at all. Nothing ever can. But their background and "upbringing" does help to explain how and why they came to be who they are.
Warnings: yandere,mentions of obsession,possessiveness, stalking, violation of personal boundaries
English is my second language, sorry for any mistakes.
Well, my sweet angel, it’s February 14th, and your secret admirer has been waiting for this day with bated breath. Let’s see what madness he has prepared for you.
School today was way too noisy. Valentine’s Day. Pink ribbons, boxes of chocolates, laughter, whispers, confessions… and you—right in the center of it all. Popular. Loved. Bright.
You accepted the cards with a smile, thanked people, sometimes laughed, sometimes blushed. People were naturally drawn to you… as if it were their right.
Peter stood by his locker, clutching a small heart-shaped box in his hand. He had been preparing for this day for months. This gift had to be special, just like you.
Peter himself was barely making ends meet. Anyone could tell by his worn-out sneakers and old backpack that he was poor, and there was no way he could afford an expensive gift. But that didn’t stop Parker.
For months, he took extra jobs, skipped meals, walked instead of taking the bus… and sometimes just leapt across rooftops. He counted every penny, even the tiniest coin, saving everything until the very last cent.
The months passed. And finally, he bought what he had wanted to give you for so long.
But now Peter stood frozen, like a statue, watching you from afar. His legs seemed to stop listening. All his courage vanished the moment he saw you.
The words he had rehearsed countless times at home, imagining this moment… simply disappeared from his memory. As if they had never existed.
To make things worse, there were so many people around you. A whole crowd had gathered. Laughter, voices, the rustle of gift wrap—all merged into one noisy, joyful background. Everyone held bright boxes tied with ribbons, shiny bags, carefully wrapped surprises. Some handed enormous bouquets, others expensive jewelry, others—something carefully chosen, surely not cheap.
And suddenly Peter realized… even if he approached now, his gift would just get lost among the rest.
It wouldn’t be special anymore.
It wouldn’t be the one.
His little box would become just one among many—like the others, nothing remarkable. Another gift. Another person. Another voice in the noisy crowd.
And at that thought, his fingers gripped the package even tighter. So many months of effort… sleepless nights… saved coins…
And now it seemed like it could all dissolve into the crowd—unnoticed, quietly, as if it had never mattered.
No. No. No!
He had to give you the gift somewhere with no one from school around. Somewhere you would really open it. No… not here.
Definitely not here.
Peter clenched the gift tighter, feeling his palms grow damp. Too noisy. Too many people. Too many voices, too much laughter, too many bright boxes… His gift would simply be lost among them.
You would smile, say your soft “thank you”—and place it with the rest. As if it were just the same. Ordinary. Nothing special.
No… he couldn’t do that.
You had to open it where it’s quiet. Where no one is watching. Where you’re not in a hurry. Where you would truly look… feel… understand.
And he knew such a place.
Your room.
There you were always yourself. There you opened gifts slowly, sitting on the bed or the floor, carefully untying ribbons, examining every little thing. There, no one distracted you with questions, laughter, or hands reaching for the wrapping. There, everything… was real.
Yes. Only there. He would give it to you where no one from school could see. Where you would definitely open it. Where it would matter.
In your room.
So… it’s decided.
Peter looked at you one more time from afar, as if trying to memorize every detail—how the light fell on your hair, how you laughed, how you received yet another gift. Then he quietly exhaled and turned away.
Not now.
He turned and left the school, trying not to look back. Each step weighed heavily in his chest—a mixture of excitement, fear, and stubborn determination.
It was chilly outside. Peter ducked around the corner of the building, where no one could see him. With a quick, practiced movement, he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a neatly folded suit.
A few seconds later, Peter Parker was gone.
Only Spider-Man remained.
He checked to make sure the gift was secure—carefully fastening it as if it were the most fragile thing in the world. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he shot a web upward and soared effortlessly between the buildings.
He knew exactly where he was going.
He knew where you lived.
Had known for a long time.
He knew the exact moment the light in your room came on. Knew which window you opened most often. Knew where the frame creaked… and how to open it silently.
He… just watched. Sometimes. Just to make sure you were okay. That was all. Nothing strange. Not at all.
The wind whistled in his ears as he leapt from roof to roof, moving with confident ease, almost on autopilot. His heart raced faster with every second.
There it was—the right house. The right floor. The right window.
Peter landed softly on the windowsill. For a moment, he froze. His chest felt so tight he could barely breathe.
Okay… just stay calm… just give the gift…
He carefully lifted the window and slipped silently into your room.
“Here I am…”
Peter knew exactly when you’d return from school, so there was no rush. Sure, he could have just placed the gift on your bed and left—but damn it, he couldn’t resist lying down there himself.
He collapsed onto your bed, lifted his mask slightly, and breathed in through the fabric of the sheets, letting your scent fill him completely.
“Ah… it smells like lotus…”
Peter buried his face in your pillow. He couldn’t control himself.
Spider-sense kicked in instantly. She… came home early?
“Damn… I still had twenty minutes! Did she leave school early?”
Peter scrambled off the bed, hastily straightened the sheets for a split second, and placed the gift carefully on her pillow.
Without a second thought, he leapt through the window.
🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🎀🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽
“Spider-Man?”
You swung the door open just as your favorite hero was leaping out the window. What was he doing here?
Your heart skipped a beat, and almost without thinking, you ran toward the window, your purse left forgotten somewhere in the hallway. You hadn’t imagined it—the red-and-blue silhouette soaring between buildings, cutting through the air with a flash of web. But… why?
You glanced around your room, searching for a clue. And then you saw it—a red, heart-shaped box, carefully placed on your pillow.
Your heart jumped again. You froze, staring at it… Then, finally, you walked over and sat on the bed, gently picking up the box.
You opened it and stopped cold. Inside lay a beautiful bracelet—neat, sparkling, as if made just for you. Next to it was a small note, folded neatly, with barely legible handwriting: a confession of love.
“I love you. Every time I see you, the world feels better.”
But… no name.
You frowned. Could it really be… Spider-Man himself?
Thoughts swirled through your mind, but no name came to you. Your heart inexplicably raced, and a soft blush spread across your cheeks.
And then it hit you… Spider-Man.
He had just jumped from your window. He had placed the box on your pillow. He had left the bracelet and the note.
You looked at the gift again, a surprised smile spreading across your face.He had done it…
Spider-Man.
————————
My sweet angel, it seems Parker was so caught up in preparing the gift that he forgot the most important thing… to write his name.
The heavy, metallic scent of the basement always clung to the back of your throat, making the craving sharper
Lying on the mismatched sheets of the bed Feitan had “given” you, you stared at the cracked ceiling and closed your eyes. You didn't want the cup noodles or the lukewarm caned soup he usually provided, you wanted a plum, an apple, something cold, something that would have juice running down your chin while you ate it, or watermelon, cold and clean enough to wash away the stagnant air of this windowless prison, your mouth is watering at just the thought of it
The heavy iron door groaned on its hinges, you assume it wasn’t just there for you as this is also where Feitan brings victims of the troupe, but the sound isn’t any less unsettling, you don’t move though your body automatically tenses into a familiar stillness
Feitan enters, his footsteps light but deliberate. He doesn’t speak, he rarely did unless he was agitated or mocking you, He tossed a grease stained paper bag onto the small wooden table beside the bed. The smell hits you almost instantly, the salt, old frying oil, it sickens you, feels as if you can feel the oil running down your throat
"A treat" he says, his voice muffled but understandable through the high collar of his coat.
You sit up slowly, heart sinking as you look at the bag, you slowly reach out and lean it towards you, just barley peaking inside, you could see the sheen of fries and the box of a cheap burger inside, It was heavy, salty, and exactly the opposite of the vibrant, juicy fruit you had been dreaming of
A wave of disappointment washes over you, it makes your chest tight, you look at the bag, then up at him, For a fleeting second your lips part the request for a simple apple or a handful of grapes almost slips past them
But then you look at his eyes
He’s watching you with that unnerving, predatory intensity, his eyes narrowed as he searched for any sign of ingratitude. He had gone out of his way to bring this to you, and in his warped mind (though not as warped as he seems, he knows he’s got you in an unwilling situation) this was a gesture of "care" a treat as he said, you remember the last time you had complained about the cold, he had burned your old blankets and forced you to stay close to him for warmth, To Feitan, a lack of appreciation was a challenge to his ownership over you, and challenges were met with pain and humiliation more often then not
You swallow the lump of sadness and replace it with a mask of submission, before reaching for the bag fully
"Thank you" you all but whisper, your voice barely audible above the crunch of the bag
you pull out a fry. It was limp and oversalted, but you force yourself to chew, the dry starch sticking to the roof of your mouth, your didn't look at him, but you could feel him standing there, a dark silhouette against the peeling wallpaper, waiting for you to finish
The silence in the room grew thick as always, suffocating and humid. The only sound was the crinkle of the paper and your own forced swallowing. Feitan didn't leave. He pulled up a chair and sat, leaning forward with his chin on his hand, watching your eat the food like a scientist observing a specimen, or more fitting, a prison guard monitoring a rowdy inmate, waiting for the slightest slip so he could jump in and inflict punishment
The air felt pressurized, as if the oxygen was being sucked out of the room. You felt sick, the grease coating your tongue, the image of a fresh peach still flickering in your mind like a taunt. You finish the burger in silence, keeping your eyes downcast, the atmosphere between you two heavy with things you’re too terrified to say and a "love" he expressed through control and cruelty
When the bag was empty of everything beside the discarded boxes his stands, taking the bag from you without a word his hand briefly brushing your cheek a touch that felt more like a brand than an act of affection of any kind
"Good" he murmured
He walked toward the door without another word, the heavy latch clicking into place behind him, Left alone in the sudden silence, your curl back into the thin blankets, still hanging onto the thought of fruit you may never get
same tw as always: Toxic romance, dark romance, implied abuse, emotional/mental conditioning.
You didn’t sleep that night. Not really at least. You dozed, here and there, drifting in and out of a half-sleep. Every time your eyes slipped shut, you saw Mark. How he had scared you, the look on his face that terrified you.
Every time you blinked, you saw Mark’s hand around your wrist.
You woke up around 2 in the morning, fingers still wrapped around the stuffed animal that Mark had left behind. You stared at the ceiling, listening to the house as if it would tell you secrets. You could hear parents snoring in the room nearby, the fridge humming back to life between blackouts, the wind outside.
You tried not to think about your window. You tried not to think about how it had been cracked open when you hadn’t touched it. You tried not to think about how the stuffed animal had still been warm when you had gotten to your room. It didn't make any sense to you, your brain didn't allow any logical thoughts to form. Mark had clearly left this to make you feel better. It was to help you. You wanted to believe that.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged you to sleep much to your own dismay. The last thing you remembered was clutching the toy a little tighter and your mind drifting back to the memories of Mark before he became.. who he was now.
Far above the planet, away from the sirens and the blackout zones, Mark and Nolan hovered above the air.
“It’s begun,” Nolan said as if that wasn't obvious by now.
Mark didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on Earth below them, as if he was waiting for someone to do something or say something.
“You’re quiet,” Nolan noted, glancing at him.
“I’m thinking,” Mark said.
“Thinking,” Nolan repeated, like he was testing the word on his tongue. “About strategy?”
“About loose ends.”
Nolan’s mouth twitched. “Ah.”
Mark’s hands were fists at his sides. His fingers painted with old, brown dried blood. From the last confrontation that he had to handle with Nolan.
“She’s becoming a problem,” Nolan said, without preamble. “The mother.” He corrected.
“No,” Nolan said. “Fear is useful. This is defiance.”
He floated a little closer, posture relaxed, voice almost casual. “You let her speak to you like that. In her home. In front of the girl.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You let her tell you to leave.”
“She’s human,” Mark said. “She doesn’t understand I am protecting my Pet.”
“That’s what makes it dangerous,” Nolan replied. “Ignorance and conviction. The most volatile mix.” He turned his gaze back to the world below them. “She’s already attempting to separate you from her. Grounding, rules, taking her phone away. If she had any actual power than she'd probably becalling the cops on you by now. Rules.”
Mark clicked his tongue in annoyance. Annoyed that Nolan was right.
“She’s not alone,” Nolan continued. “Her father will follow. Weak men cling to their wives’ instincts. The two of them together will fight you until their last breath. Not because they see truth, but because they refuse to.”
Mark throat tightened slightly. “They’re her parents.”
“And?” Nolan looked genuinely puzzled. “You speak like that matters.”
“It matters to her,” Mark snapped.
Nolan tilted his head. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It does. Exactly. That’s why we’re having this conversation.” He paused. “You’ve always been too sentimental about these things.”
Mark scoffed. “You’re the one who told me to keep her. To build something stable. To avoid unnecessary conflict at home to keep her on my side.”
“That advice hasn’t changed,” Nolan said. “I told you to build stability. Not let two frightened humans chip at your foundations.” Nolan folded his arms across his chest. “Imagine this from her parents’ perspective. The world is collapsing right before their eyes.” He flicked his eyes toward Mark. “And their daughter clings to one of those monsters even if she's still in denial that you're doing involved at all.”
“She doesn’t see me that way,” Mark said quietly.
Nolan gave him a look. “Of course she doesn’t. You’ve been careful. That’s good. But they see something else. They see dependency and they see bruises. Most of all, they see their daughter slipping further and further away.” He shrugged. “They will fight that. As long as they’re breathing, they’ll keep pulling on the leash.”
“She’s not a dog,” Mark muttered.
“No,” Nolan agreed. “She’s worse. She’s a human with opinions and attachments and a belief that she knows what love is.” He shook his head. “They will try to pull her from you. And you’ll waste time, and energy, and focus fighting them instead of doing what needs to be done.” He lifted a hand, gesturing down towards the earth. “We don’t have time for that. Not anymore.”
“I know the the timeline, if we don't hurry it up then we're going to have the Viltrumite armies coming and-” Mark said.
“- And they will kill your pet. See it as a weakness,” Nolan reminded him. “But if you just listen to me and my ideas of what you can do about your pet's parents, then it will be oka.”
Mark exhaled slowly. “I can manage them.”
“No, you can’t,” Nolan said sternly. “You think you can reason with them. You can’t. You think you can prove yourself to them. You can’t. Their worldview is crumbling. They will cling to whatever pieces they have left, and that includes each other.” He looked at Mark. “You’ve made a fatal error.”
Mark’s eyebrow rose towards Nolan. “What error?”
“You’ve allowed them to exist as a unit,” Nolan said. “Two humans bound together. Two humans who love their offspring more than they fear you. That’s a problem.” He turned back toward the planet again. “Remove them,” he said simply. “Quickly. Before they make more trouble than they’re worth.”
Mark’s stomach lurched, in a tiny traitorous flicker. “You’re talking about killing them.”
“Yes,” Nolan said. “Obviously.” He said it so.. calmly. No cruelty behind his voice, simply a suggestion for Mark.
“They’re her parents,” Mark said again.
“You keep saying that like it absolves them of being in our way,” Nolan replied. “Think it through. Right now, their existence divides her loyalties. She belongs to three people instead of one.”
“She doesn’t belong to-”
“She does,” Nolan cut in sharply. “That’s the entire point of all this, isn’t it? You chose her. You’ve been molding her. Training her. Conditioning her.”
That made something twist in Mark's head. Because to him, he didn't feel like he was making you any less.. yourself. Just simply protecting you. Helping you in a way that you didn't really understand right now.
Nolan’s voice softened just slightly. “You’ve done well. She’s adapted faster than I expected. She comes to you after conflict. She defends you against her own family. She defies them for you.”
Mark’s jaw locked. Even when you weren't nearby, he could still feel your hands shaking when you’d clutched his shirt. He could still hear you saying that you trusted him. How you loved him no matter what. He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to believe that until last night.
“But,” Nolan went on, “as long as they’re alive, they will continue to be an anchor. They will pull her back to weakness. To human morality. To fear of you.” He paused. “And fear of you becomes fear of us.” His eyes sharpened. “That, I will not allow.”
Mark said nothing to Nolan.
“Your hesitating,” Nolan commented.
“I don’t want to hurt her,” Mark said.
“Emotionally, you mean,” Nolan said. “You don’t want to see her break.”
Mark thought of you on the couch, staring at the tea you wouldn’t drink. He thought of you flinching when the front door opened. How your eyes had gone wide when your mother walked in. How quickly you’d scrambled to insist you were fine when you weren’t.
He thought of your mother’s voice, your mother’s eyes dropping to the bruise on your arm. He thought of your father looking at him across the dinner table with wary disapproval.
“They’re not soldiers,” Mark said. “They’re not… enemies. They’re just… parents.”
“And when has that ever stopped reality?” Nolan asked. “Weakness is weakness, regardless of how it justifies itself.” He drifted a little closer, “Let me ask you something more important. Do you want her to choose you?”
Mark’s head snapped toward him. “She already has.”
“Partially,” Nolan said. “She runs to you, yes. But she still feels guilty for hurting them. She still wants their approval and understanding. You saw it. She fights for you, then softens for them. Splits herself in half every time she steps over their threshold.” He lifted his chin towards the planet. “You can’t afford someone who lives split in half.”
“She’s adapting,” Mark insisted, but it was even hard for him to believe.
“And she will adapt faster,” Nolan said, “if she’s not being pulled in two directions.” He shrugged. “Or three, if you count whatever primitive morality she’s clinging to.”
Mark’s mouth felt dry.
“They’re part of the old world,” Nolan said. “We’re building a new one. Sometimes you don’t get to bring everyone with you.”
Mark didn't say anything, his eyes just staring towards the planet before Nolan spoke again.
“If you’re struggling, I’ll handle it.”
Mark’s head turned. “What?”
“I’ll do it,” Nolan repeated, as if offering to run an errand. “If this attachment is interfering with your focus, then I’ll remove the obstacle. No mess you have to see.”
Mark stared at him. “You’d just… kill them.”
“Yes,” Nolan said. “Why are you so surprised? You know what we are.” His voice dropped, almost gentle like a parent explaining a math equation to their child. “You’re hesitating because you’ve muddled love and utility. That’s understandable. You’re young. You still think the two have to be in conflict.” He studied Mark’s face. “They don’t.” He lifted a brow. “Think of the outcome. They die. She grieves. Who does she have left?”
Mark’s stomach clenched slightly.
Nolan didn't wait for a response, he answered himself. “You.”
Images flashed unbidden in Mark’s mind: you crumpled on the floor, sobbing into his chest. You clinging to him like he was the only thing left in the world. Your hands fisting in his shirt, begging him not to leave. Your voice, whispering how you needed him.
It made him feel sick yet at the same time It made something deep in him hum with vicious satisfaction.
Nolan didn’t miss the conflict written on Mark's face. “You swoop in,” he said softly. “You comfort her. You tell her you’ll protect her. And you will. No more arguments. No more groundings.” He tilted his head. “She will finally understand what you’ve been trying to show her. That you’re the constant. You’re the one who shows up when everything else disappears.”
Mark’s hands tightened into fists. “She’ll be devastated,” he said.
“For a while,” Nolan agreed. “Then she’ll adapt. Humans are remarkably resilient when properly guided. Debbie did.” Nolan’s gaze sharpened slightly. “You don’t trust me?” he asked.
“That’s not it,” Mark muttered.
“Then what is it?” Nolan pressed. “You’re afraid she’ll hate you? She won’t know. You’re afraid she’ll associate the grief with you? Good. She should. You’ll be the one who holds her together.” His tone hardened. “You’re not a boy with a high school girlfriend anymore. You’re a Viltrumite. You have a duty. If you want to keep her, you need to commit fully. Not halfway. Not with apologies tucked behind your teeth.” He frowned. “This is how you prove you’re ready,” Nolan said softly. “To me. To the Empire. To yourself.”
Mark looked at Earth. He could see your city from here, if he focused hard enough. The slight cluster of lights that would flicker on and off. The thin little line of highway. Somewhere in all that mess was your house. Your bedroom. The stuffed animal he’d left for you.
He could hear your heartbeat, if he tried hard enough. Even from here. It was written in his mind.
He thought of you on the couch, his hand over the bruise he’d left. He thought of you whispering, I understand, when you clearly didn’t.
“What if she breaks?” Mark asked quietly.
“She already is,” Nolan said. “You’re just choosing what for.” Nolan sighed. “This isn’t about cruelty, it’s about efficiency. Necessity. You want to keep her? Then keep her. That requires eliminating anything that tries to take her away from you.” He drifted a little closer toward Earth now. “And if you can’t do what needs to be done, then you were never ready to claim her in the first place.”
For a long time, Mark said nothing. He remembered the first time you’d laughed at one of his terrible jokes. The first time you’d kissed him. The first time you’d looked at him with that soft, shining trust like he’d hung the moon. He remembered how you had stayed with him even when he began to change. He remembered how you stared at him, forgave him whenever he hurt you on accident. He wondered what you’d look like with nothing left but him.
And slowly, slowly, something inside him shifted. “I don’t need you to do it for me,” he said.
Nolan’s eyes glanced over towards you. “No?”
Mark shook his head, never looking up towards Nolan. “I started this,” he said. “I’ll finish it.”
Nolan watched him for a moment. Then a small, satisfied smile came to his face. “That’s my son,” he said proudly.
The words didn’t make Mark feel proud.
Nolan turned away, already moving. “We’ll coordinate the timing,” he said. “You’ll need to tell me when this is done so that I can ensure there is room on the ship for her. I want to make sure that your pet is safe.”
In his mind, he could already see the aftermath. Your face, streaked with tears, voice cracked and broken as you sobbed out for parents that no longer lived.
He could see himself, too. Arriving just in time to pull you from the wreckage. Holding you while the world burnt around the two of you, telling you it was going to be okay. That you still had him no matter what.
He stared down at the little patch of Earth where your life had been. Where your childhood photos hung on walls. Where your mother kept your favorite mug. Where your father pretended not to be sentimental about you growing up.
They were in the way.
They loved you.
They were a threat.
They loved you.
“I’ll do it,” Mark said to himself.
He'd do what he needed to do in order to keep you as his.
Warnings: mentions of obsession,possessiveness, stalking.
English isn’t my first language, so please forgive me if I make any mistakes.
_____________________________
Well sweet angel, if destiny was kind enough to let you meet this man, or even fall into his arms, you must realize that from that moment on, there is no way back.
Parker had fallen for you long ago. His awkward, nerdy heart stood no chance against you. Popular, sweet, beautiful, and kind to everyone—unlike the other cheerleaders, you were never mean. You were an angel in his eyes.
At that time, before the spider bite, Peter didn’t have the courage to come up to you or even start a conversation. Instead, he poured his feelings into his camera. He took photos of you everywhere, in every pose, every emotion, every outfit—never realizing how his innocent crush was quietly becoming an obsession.
He literally knew everything about you—your schedule, your preferences, your habits, your family, your friends, your address. He had stalked your social media. He knew you so intimately that even you might not know yourself as well. If someone asked him to recite your daily routine three years from now, he could do it without hesitation. He had mapped every part of your life.
Your first conversation happened because of you. Peter remembers that day so clearly—how you turned to him in class and spoke to him for the very first time. You only wanted to copy the test, since you hadn’t done it yourself, but to Peter, that moment meant the world.
And that’s how it began—your interactions. Peter did your homework for you, solved your tests, let you copy so you wouldn’t fail your exams. At first, he didn’t mind—being the friend who was always there for you, even knowing that you could be using him. He didn’t care…
But, of course, over time, everything changed. Peter himself had changed after the spider bite—he had grown more confident, bolder. And slowly, he began to dislike the way you brushed him off, how you laughed and lingered with those idiots from the basketball team. It gnawed at him, a quiet jealousy eating him from the inside. Every time he saw you so close to them, he would bite his lower lip, a spark of frustration and something darker simmering beneath the surface.
«Maybe you could come over to my place today? I’ll explain the topic so well that during the test you won’t even need my help.»
Of course, Peter’s words immediately drew your attention—the exams were coming, and you barely knew anything about the topic. Besides, you had nothing else to do that day. Your friends were busy, your parents were home, and they practically encouraged you to go. The moment they heard that Peter had invited you over to help with the lesson, they were thrilled—after all, Parker was the top student at Olympia High, a gold medalist in the olympiads. They were delighted that their daughter would be spending time with such an extraordinary young man.
And there you were—in his house. Sitting at the table, covered with books and little snacks Peter had set out just for you. His chair was pulled unusually close to yours. He explained the topic, often glancing at you, quietly asking, ‘Do you understand?’ And you nodded, even when you weren’t fully listening, occasionally reaching for the snacks, lost somewhere between his voice and your own thoughts.
Every time you tried to stand up and leave, Peter would find some excuse to keep you there a little longer, his eyes lingering on you, his voice soft but insistent, as if he couldn’t bear to let you go just yet.
«Wait, I made some tea—here, have a sip. I promise, it’s really good.»
Or
«Wanna see my photo collection? I think… you’re gonna like it.»
You had little choice but to agree with him, out of politeness more than anything else. With his help, you avoided repeating the year, and so you learned to quietly endure his presence.
You stepped into his room. It was small, and the unnatural neatness of the place made it obvious—Peter had prepared the entire house for you, down to the smallest detail.
At last, you began looking through his photo collection, the ones he had taken with his camera. You were mesmerized—Peter had captured flowers, landscapes, and even ordinary objects in a way that made them look extraordinary. It seemed to you that he could do anything well. As you praised his work, he flushed, trying to hide it, but the faint blush only made him look more endearing.
«I… I just really love photographing beautiful things.»
To your surprise, you saw yourself among his photographs. In the picture, you looked incredibly beautiful—the sunlight falling perfectly on your face, as if you had just descended from the heavens. On the back of the photo was a little poem, which you read. When Peter noticed that you had seen it, he grew shy and ran a hand through his hair. He watched your face closely, trying to catch your reaction.
«I’m here beside you—silent, like a shadow,
My heart screams, but my lips remain still.
You smile—and every single day,
I hide my love, a secret too vast to reveal.»
As soon as you finished reading, it felt as if a warmth had melted over you. It struck you as incredibly sweet. Yes, you had always known Peter cared for you—you weren’t naive enough to miss it—but until now, it hadn’t mattered. Now everything felt different. Your view of him shifted, from just a regular nerd to a boy who had always treasured you, quietly noticing every little thing and going out of his way to help.
He wasn’t like the other boys you had been close to—no, he was different.
Finally, it was time for you to go home. But before leaving, you kissed Peter on the cheek to thank him. Peter literally froze—his tongue tangled in words he couldn’t form. When he realized you had gone, he was on cloud nine, overjoyed that you had kissed him. It meant his plan had worked. Yes, Peter had planned everything from the start—he had hidden all your other photos in his room and placed just one so that you would notice it. He had planned it from the very beginning—and it had worked.
He kept orchestrating everything, carefully weaving it so that you would want to be with him yourself—forgetting those idiots who could never value you the way he did, who could never protect you like he could, who could never truly know you as he did. You were meant to be his, and he would make sure of it, watching over anyone who even dared to think about taking you away..
Angel, you have no idea what he’s planning. You have to be careful, or you’ll get tangled in this spider’s web—and once you do, there’s no way out.
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