Hello everyone! There are a lot of new faces here so I think it’s time for a reintroduction:
I’m Sights! I’m 37 years old and I use any pronouns. I literally don’t care enough to choose.
I’ve been writing since I was a child. It’s definitely my “purpose,” if there is such a thing. I love all things spooky, monstrous, and disgusting. I write for most of the slashers, as well as inhuman creatures, aliens, the supernatural, etc. If you’re curious about something, don’t hesitate to send me an ask!
Commissions are currently closed. Requests are rarely open. However, I will reblog a few writing prompt lists or games here and there so keep your eyes peeled!
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Thank you for following! Stay awhile, check out the links below, and remember:
Cross over fic with my other series, Blood and Asphalt. Also a The Hitcher and Joyride fic.
“You’re not human…”
Their voice was barely above a whisper, frozen behind the thin layer of a shower curtain. They didn’t dare to move, not until they were certain they were alone within the dimly lit motel bathroom. John stood before the mirror, his icy blue eyes staring back at him- his pupils a pair of slits. Gingerly, he reached behind his ears- gently pulling a layer of skin that hid his scales. Blood and what appeared to be a clear slime oozed down and pooled around at his feet, along with his skin draping around his ankles.
He huffed, a look of relief crossing his face as he turned the knobs of the sink- splashing water onto his now white, scaly skin. Flint held back the bile threatening to leave them, if their heart was alive it would have been racing. Meanwhile John was casually maintaining himself, as if he was a normal occurrence. Mid brush he looked into the mirror; “You’ve been in the shower for awhile, kid.”
Their stomach dropped as fear gripped them- yet John resumed brushing his teeth, spitting into the sink and turning the faucet on again. “Its okay Flint, I’m still dad-”
He finished, stretching himself as bones audibly cracked. Gingerly, Flint opened the shower curtain- their own eyes meeting John's familiar icy blue. “You…you're a monster- I mean, I'm a monster, but you're a-”
“An alien, Flint. I come from beyond the stars…” He smiled with his sharpened teeth, extending his claws to caress Flint's cheek. “I wanted to die, and thought I'd find death here on Earth- yet I found you.”
He clicked, just like Flint. Yet it reminded the vampire of cicadas. His other hand caressed their face as he gently pulled them close to his own, his breath smelling of blood and the cheap cigarettes he smoked. “You don't know how special you are, kid…”
Gingerly, his lips pressed against their forhead- before pulling them to his torso, stroking their dark hair with his claws. Not human…it explained a lot for the young vampire. “You’re not human either, you’re just like me.”
Flint awoke with a start, gasping for air as they shot out of bed and bolted for the bathroom- their heart pounding in their ears, drenched in a cold sweat. Staring into the cracked mirror, Flint’s eyes were black. They shook their head, returning them to normal before splashing their face with cold water.
“Kid, you okay?” John stood in the doorway, leaning against its frame with his arms crossed.
“Y-yeah, just a real bad dream.”
He frowned, taking a step towards Flint. “Was it about me being an alien again?”
Flint nodded, turning to face him. John was still human, the same icy blue eyes and blond wavy that had grown longer. Still their dad. They sighed in relief. “Well, yah really shouldn’t have watched that Alien movie.”
John smirked, wrapping his arms around Flint to stroke their damp hair. The child sighed, relieved that it was only a nightmare. “C’mon Sparky, look up- we gotta go meet yer Uncle Rusty today.”
Flint finally smiled, their pointed ears perking up. Even tho Rusty was more serious to be around- his daughter was one of the few friends they had on the road. “Oh great, another lecture.”
Flint rolled their eyes as John huffed, ruffling their hair. “Well he don’t gotta know about our recent fun on the highway.”
—---------------------------------------------
Slaughter Alley was desolate, evening setting in as the bugs began screeching around Rusty’s lone trunk. He leaned against his rig, taking a draw from his cigarette, occasionally looking up at his daughter perched upon the hood. “You be careful up there, lil’ girl.”
He sighed, watching with careful focus- as if she would fall over at any second. The girl would roll her eyes, staring ahead with a pair of binoculars. “I see a pair of headlights on the horizon daddy, yah think its them?”
Rusty reluctantly tore his protective gaze from his daughter, and took in the sight of an older car heading towards them- slowly to a crawl before stopping only a few feet away. Flint bursted from the roll downed window, yelling for Robin who nearly fell from her perch. “Robin!”
“Hey-HEY!” In a swift motion the trucker caught Robin before could reach the ground, growling as he set her down. “I told yah to be careful up there lil’ girl!”
Yet Robin paid no heed, hugging Flint tightly. “The hell have you been, Dracula?”
She laughed, prompting Flint to rattle their spines excitedly; “Out in the desert! Where else?”
Robin rolled her eyes, smiling. “Bestie yah need to get your phone back in service, I miss hearing from you.”
As the two chattered away, John would slowly make his way to Rusty before crossing his arms- only for Rusty to grab him by the bicep and pull him for a one armed hug. “Yah don’t gotta be a stranger, Johny- yah know I enjoy hearing whether yer alive or dead every now and then.”
“I haven’t forgotten, figured you were busy these days.” His eyes motioned towards the girls, before offering Rusty a cigarette. The taller of the two would take it, lighting it before taking a long draw. “Yer right in that sense, got a lil girl to raise and highways to travel, but sure gets mighty lonely yah know.”
John nodded, taking a cigarette himself to light. “Now why don’t you two go see what I got in the trailer? And don’t make a huge mess!”
Once the two were gone, Rusty’s demeanor changed. He furrowed his brows- “Now why don’t you tell me about them amber alerts bein’ up about Flint?”
‘What about em’?”
“Yah know what I’m talkin’ about, John, I told yah to get rid of that bitch in New Mexico.”
John growled in reply; “Why is it any of your damn business?”
He sighed; “Cause you’ll go back to wantin’ to die again, and I don’t feel like findin’ and burying your corpse.”
An uncomfortable silence fell on them both, but John knew he was right. And it wasn’t a risk to take lightly. Finally, John spoke, but his voice was soft- “Rusty, I’ll be fine…we’re not in the same unit anymore.”
Rusty shook his head; “That has nothing to do with putting your kid, or mine at risk.”
John knew he was right, yet his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit it. “I had to go and slaughter the remainin’ family Robin had before me, didn’t want to but it had to be done- even if she don’t remember them, I still can’t leave loose ends to haunt us later.”
“Hate to admit it Russel, but you’re right.”
Rusty’s serious face fell as he sighed, grabbing John’s shoulder. “Its the both of us against everybody else, John, Remember that- Now you and I have somethin’ to fight for.”
—--------------------
“You did what to that lady?”
“Yeah I tore her to pieces, John was pretty proud- heh.”
Flint took a crow bar into their hand, staring down at the man bound and gagged on the floor of the trailer. Robin sat on a box, grimacing at the sight. “She had it coming, I mean-”
Flint paused, thinking of an excuse for their actions- the apparition of detective Elliot glaring down at them. They growled, gripping the crow bar hard enough for their knuckles to turn white. “She almost took my dad.”
Before Robin could speak, Flint slammed the crowbar down into the screaming man’s skull, blood and brain matter splattering against them both. With a rage Robin hadn’t seen before, Flint tugged the curved end from his skull and continued to bash him over and over.
‘Its us vs them, Flint- their only goal is to take you away from me, so what will you do?’
‘Fight’
Fight
Fight.
Flint found themselves kneeling in a gory paste they’ve created, Continuing to bash the now obliterated head of the poor bastard who crossed Rusty. Robin couldn’t help but watch in fascinated horror.
“Is this who you want to be?”
They came to a halt, breaking out of a trance. Robin was now kneeling beside them, taking the crow bar into her hands. Her blue eyes looked into their own, innocence still in them...reaching into Flint. “This isn’t like you, you know.”
Gingerly, Robin placed her hands on Flint’s shoulders. “I mean, you can be a killer- its a part of life…like a role someone’s gotta fill, yah know- like our dads.”
Flint gave a slow nod, looking down at the mess they made. “But there’s other roles to fill too, if you get that that is.”
“Yeah, Yeah I think I do.” Flint sighed. Robin softly smiled, brushing their hair away from their face. “I think you’re great the way you are.”
She helped Flint up, before hugging them rightly. Flint couldn’t help but hug her back.
“You’re not a monster, Flint.”
“I’m not human either.”
Their nightmare flashed in their mind, the alien that claimed to be John staring into their soul with its black eyes. Unhuman, unfeeling- a mirror to the monster Flint was becoming.
I've been in a serious writer's block, and after seeing all three movies so many ideas came flooding in my head, so I wrote a blirb or two on a vague idea I was talking to a friend about.
----------------------------
“Look at your wings lil’ bird, they’re all broken to hell.”
A deep, growling voice mused, its owner crouching down to get a better look at the slumped over body at the side of the road- lying in a pool of their own blood. Rusty tsked, shaking his head; “Such a young lil’ thing, now don’t you worry-”
He carefully lifted them into his arms, watching their eyes flicker for a moment. “Ol’ Rusty got you now, and you’re gonna have to pay for bein’ stupid and runnin’ in front of my truck like that.”
He looked around, his eyes laying on a trailer settled at the end of a winded drive way. His returned to the broken body in his arms, that was now stirring- moaning as she slowly opened her eyes- her vision blurry. “D-daddy….”
Rusty grinned, barely hesitating. “Yes, honey…daddy’s here, and he’s going to take you home and get you all better now.”
She leaned her bloody head against his chest, closing her eyes as Rusty carried her to his truck- kicking a mangled bike out of his way. “Daddy is going to take real good care of you now.”
—-------------------------
Present day.
Days like this were the worst, the blazing sun and the desert heat that was as hot as hell. The cab of the truck was no better, stuffy and cramped- which didn’t help her pounding head ache either. Groaning in annoyance, Robin finally opened the door of the cab- a gust of hot air hitting her as she groaned. “C’mon old man, what’s takin’ yah?”
She was about to jump out when a large hand grabbed her by the collar, yanking her back in and slamming the door shut. “Now what the hell have I told you about leavin’ the truck?”
A familiar deep voice growled, prompting Robin to roll her eyes. “Not to leave without yah.”
Rusty huffed, before tossing her a pill bottle. “Damn right, or else I’ll remove another one of yer fingers.”
Robin couldn’t help but look down at her right hand, its pinky finger missing- with only a stump in its place. She had learned long ago that Rusty never bullshitted. Gingerly, she opened the bag to find a bottle of pain killers- before being handed a water bottle. “And what took this old man forever was the fact that the damn cops were scoping around.”
He sighed, starting up his truck as it roared to life. Robin would melt in relief upon feeling the cool air hit her as Rusty took off for the highway, the cab shaking. It was yet another close call, too close for Rusty’s comfort. He couldn’t lose the only thing in his life that he loved.
“Was it over killing those guys in Wyoming?” Robin asked, staring ahead onto the desolate road. “Nothin’ for yah to worry about, kid.”
That was always his answer- It was none of Robin’s business, and he vowed to keep it that way.
Gingerly, Rusty reached to ruffle her hair, smiling softly. “How yah feelin’ now hon?”
“Shitty still.” She rubbed her forehead, her vision blurring once more. It had been a year since the incident- the bastard who hit her was still out there, yet Rusty promised to find him.
—---------------
She stood on the front porch, waiting, engulfed in her red hoodie that stood loose against a thin, frail frame. The silence of the dessert evening was serene, something she wasn’t used to quite yet- a far cry from the places she’s haunted before. Her exposed skin had bruises, old bruises that yellowed around her chest and neck- even her face. There was a sudden crackle, prompting her to run back into the kitchen where a CB radio was set upon the table.
‘Rusty Nail to Lil’ Red, over.’
‘Red speaking, are you almost here yet?’
There was a pause, silence falling upon the old house once more- before another crackle broke it. ‘Get some warmer clothes on before yah stand out in the cold like that, kid.”
She rolled her eyes, before squeezing the piece in her hand. “I’m fine, I promise.”
“Yah better be, cause I got yah a surprise.”
Her stomach dropped, as if knowing what it was before Rusty pulled in.
—----------------
“C’mon kiddo, you got this.”
“I….I can’t, I mean this is wrong.”
Rusty gave a deep chuckle, before taking her hands into his own, aiming the nail gun for the bound and gagged target- his eyes glazed over in fear as he begged for forgiveness. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with given’ an eye for an eye- now put yer finger on the trigger.”
Robin reluctantly complied, feeling his rough index finger over her own. “Now we’re gonna aim for his knee caps, don’t want yer shots goin’ to waste after all.”
Robin slowly nodded, feeling her finger pushed down on as the tool was aimed for the man’s right knee. “Atta’ girl, now one…”
Robin gave an apologetic look, before focusing on the target. “Two….”
“I’m sorry! It was just a stupid joke!”
Rusty didn’t take calling his daughter slow as a joke.
She closed her eyes. “Three.”
There was a bang, a scream of agony erupting from their prisoner. He couldn’t help but grin, planting a whiskery kiss against Robin’s head. “That’s my girl, now you’re gonna aim fer the otha’ knee.”
Gingerly, he allowed her to hold the gun on her own- trusting her aim, proudly chuffing mid bang.
(A/N: No warnings or summary yet because I have no idea where this was supposed to go.
Thank you to @ajarofpickledtears for asking to read ❤️)
~~
“….This, uh, doesn’t seem very fair, to be honest.”
Sweat drips from your forehead to sting your eyes, but you don’t dare reach up to wipe it away. Looking away for even a second would give the man before you an opening. In your hand, the iron pipe squeaks from the force of your grip.
The man—Father Murder announced over the intercom this one was called Doom-Head—raises an eyebrow in response. Your panicked gaze flicks from the twin switchblades gripped loosely in his palms to his dark eyes, shadowed by a grease-painted brow.
Physically, he’s not as intimidating as the other “Heads.” He’s tall, yes, but slender, almost skeletal. His eyes, however….
The others had been over-the-top, psychotic circus performers. Monkeys dancing for a treat. Caricatures. But Doom-Head? In his eyes is ice cold murder. There’s a deep, wretched certainty about him, a ruthless competence.
You will die, and he will be the one to finish you off.
“Care to elaborate?” The roughness of his voice grates against the low, dripping ceiling. All around, pipes hiss and steam to fill the space with suffocating heat.
Your tongue darts out to lick away the sweat dotting your upper lip. Tasting salt, you stammer, “Well…I’ve been at this for almost ten hours now. No food, no sleep.” You motion to him with your pipe, your lifeline, “And you just got here. You’re in tip-top shape. It’s like shooting—well—stabbing fish in a barrel.”
Bloody teeth are revealed, one at a time, as a manic grin stretches across Doom-Head’s face. He slowly tips his head to the side and asks, “What gave you the impression this game we’re playing would be fair?” You’re about to answer, but his next shouted words startle you so bad you almost drop your only weapon. “At the risk of sounding cliche, I will remind you what THEY-“ he violently jabs his knife toward a speaker, “-what the WORLD is so keen on drilling into that pretty fucking head of yours: Life, little girl, isn’t even in the same realm as FAIR!” Spittle flies from his lips when he snarls the last word.
You tremble on the spot, heart slamming into your ribs. “It should be.” Your voice breaks when you speak. “It should be fair. It’s a game. They-“ you mimic his movements and point the pipe toward the speaker, “-Want a good show, right? How…entertaining could it be when it isn’t even a challenge for you?”
“Your naïveté,” Doom-Head speaks low and slow, a complete shift from just a moment ago, “Leads me to wonder how you made it this far. But who am I to judge a book by its unassuming cover?” His blade gleams in the low light when he holds it aloft and points the tip straight at your chest. “Words keep us from our purpose. Come hither and allow me to ease your suffering.”
You turn on your heel and bolt. The slapping of your shoes on damp concrete and your gasping, haggard breaths ricochet off the walls of the small hallway. God, you’re so tired, so scared, your legs ache, your head pounds. What’s the point? Where will you go that he won’t find you? All outcomes lead to those knives buried in your guts. All this fleeing and evading will be for nothing.
It takes a moment for you to realize the only footsteps you hear are your own. A quick glance over your shoulder confirms you are alone. Doom-Head doesn’t pursue, and you can only imagine this means he’s going to pop out of the next doorway like the goddamned boogyman.
I have this barely started reader insert fic with Doom Head from 31 just chillin in my WIP folder. I started it like a year ago. I’m really proud of the beginning and then I just lose all fucking momentum.
Would anyone just want to read what I have? Maybe that would give me the kick in the ass I need to finish it or finish something at least.
tumblr is so funny within my mutual circle ppl will be like cannibalism as a metaphor for sex is honestly so overdone 🙄 like it’s not even transgressive anymore it’s just vanilla atp 🙄 and then you go a little too far outside that circle and people are trigger tagging memes about infidelity
sinister!invincible x fem!reader (no pronouns used but mentions of afab body + wearing fem clothes)
warnings: dark romance, murder, obsession, stalking, manipulation, mild body horror, blood, injury, possessive behavior, mentions of afab body + wearing fem clothes, TW!! kidnapping, unconsented touching (reader is bathed by mark without permission), and onset of stockholm syndrome
summary: the days now pass, and mark tries to make this all your new "normal". you start to lose yourself in the haze.
a/n: hey yall... so sorry for ghosting </3 im back though!! hopefully this long part will feed yall <3
-
The eggs were still hot.
You sat back on the bed, plate balanced on your lap, staring down at the neat arrangement. Perfectly scrambled, toast browned just right, even the coffee sweetened exactly the way you usually took it. He knew. He knew too much.
Your fork hovered, unmoving. You weren't sure if you could eat it without gagging. Not because it smelt bad, no. It smelt like comfort. Like mornings you used to have in your own apartment. But here, in this locked room, it only made bile burn in your throat.
You set the fork down and pushed the plate away.
Silence settled back over the room, broken only by the faint creak of the house in the wind. You sat with your knees pulled to your chest, staring at the lace curtains swaying. Every sound made your nerves spike: a floorboard popping in the hall, a bird hitting the siding, even the faint groan of the pipies.
He wasn't here right now; you could feel that. But, that only made things worse. You didn't know when he'd be back. Didn't know what he'd do when he finally came through the door again.
Your thoughts spiraled. What if he'd been watching you longer than you realized? What if this house wasn't his, but some place he picked because no one would look for you here? What if he didn't even plan to let you go at all?
The clock on the nightstand ticked. The minutes bled into an hour. Then another.
By the time you finally heard the footsteps again, the daylight had shifted, painting the walls in a pale gold.
Your breath hitched. The lock clicked. The door eased open.
Mark stepped in, carrying nothing this time, no tray, or soft offerings, just himself. He had changed clothes, his shirt clung faintly to his shoulders, hair damp like he'd showered. He looked... ordinary. Normal. Too normal. He looked like any other twenty-something guy. He had that same boyish face you would smile at in the stairwell.
"Afternoon," he greeted, voice casual, almost cheerful. Like, this was a routine. Like you were just roommates.
You didn't answer, your throat was too tight.
His eyes flicked down to your untouched plate. He frowned faintly, closing the door behind him. "You didn't eat."
Your pulse spiked. "I'm... um. I'm not hungry."
He crossed the room slowly, his steps deliberate. He looked like a hungry wolf. You were the meek sheep. "You need to eat. You hurt your ankle. You'll need your strength."
At the mention of your ankle, your body tensed, instinctively pulling it back against you on the bed.
His eyes followed the motion. Then, without warning, he reached forward and caught your leg.
"Don't-!" you yelped, trying to yank away.
His grip was iron. He didn't look angry, not at first... just focused, studying you the way a scientist might study a specimen. Then, he pressed his thumb against the swollen joint.
A white-hot bolt of pain shot through you. You cried out, your hands flying down to push at his wrist.
"Stop... Mark, stop!"
He leaned in closer, his expression unreadable. "See how easy it is?" His voice was soft, almost coaxing. "You're so fragile right now. One wrong twist..." He pressed harder, making your vision spark with tears. "...and you wouldn't be walking anywhere."
"Please," you gasped, your voice cracking.
At that, he finally eased his grip, though he didn't let go entirely. He traced his fingers lightly along your ankle instead, the shift from pain to tenderness making your skin crawl.
"I don't want to hurt you," he murmured, his eyes lifting to meet yours. They had that look. Like he cared. Like you were the most precious thing in his life. "But, you have to understand... you're not leaving until I know you won't run from me. Until I know you see me the same way I see you."
His thumb brushed against the bone again, this time gentle. The ghost of the earlier pain lingered all the same.
You sat frozen, trembling, afraid to move.
Mark finally released your ankle and sat back, almost satisfied. "Good," he said simply, like you'd passed some unspoken test. "We'll get there."
He bore a soft smile. But, his eyes held a cold stillness. You'd seen that look before. It was there in the hallway that one night... He was so close now. Close enough to smell that faint citrus on his skin. That same scent that lingered in your apartment weeks ago when you'd come home to find things just so slightly off.
"You saw something you weren't supposed to," Mark spoke to you softly. "and, instead of running to the police again, and never looking back, you kept looking at me. Kept noticing me... doesn't that make this your fault too?"
Your mouth went dry. "I didn't-"
"You did." Reaching out, he brushed a stray hair from your face with such gentle care. It made you flinch. His fingers were so warm. Steady, too. You wanted him to touch you more. This wasn't like you.
"What happened to that girl that smiled at me in the stairwell? You borrowed my screwdriver once, do you remember that?" You tried to look away, but he followed you. His head stayed in front of yours, keeping a steady locked gaze. "You were so kind to me."
Then he stood, straightening his shirt, and left the room as if nothing had happened.
He didn't lock the door this time.
The house felt bigger when he left you alone. Every creak of the old wood seemed louder, every draft slipping through the windows sharper.
You couldn't bare to sit in this room anymore. Maybe there was a means of escape outside of it. Maybe this was your only chance.
You wandered the rooms slowly, your bare feet cautious on the faded rugs. The farmhouse had a lived-in stillness to it; a place abandoned but carefully kept from decay.
The living room was arranged neatly, like a family might return any moment. A sofa worn at the cushions. A wooden cabinet filled with dusty china no one had used in years. A quilt draped over the armrest, soft but faded. You touched it absently, heart sinking at how human it all seemed.
But every door that should have led outside refused to open. You tested each one: the back door near the kitchen, the front door by the stairs, even the mudroom tucked off the hallway. All locked. Not flimsy locks either, but heavy bolts that rattled when you tugged them.
Then it dawned on you, he wanted you to roam, but not escape.
By the time the light began to slip into that hazy gold of late afternoon, you found yourself back upstairs, sitting on the edge of the bed you woke up in. Your ankle throbbed dully with every step you'd taken, the ache a reminder that even if he left the doors wide open, you wouldn't make it far. The thought left a pit in your stomach.
You didn't know how much time had passed when you heard the front door open. The sound jolted you upright. His footsteps were unhurried, steady. Familiar in a way that made your skin crawl.
The door clicked open, and there he was.
Mark leaned casually against the frame, as if he lived here, as if this had always been his home. In his arms, he carried a small pile of folded clothes; soft fabrics in muted colors. Jeans, a couple plain shirts, a sweater. Clothes that would fit you.
"I thought you might want something clean," he stated simply, stepping in and setting the bundle on the dresser. "It's not much, but... it's yours now."
You stared at the pile, bile rising in your throat. Clothes. Like you were staying. Like he was building a life for you here without ever asking if you wanted it.
"I don't want them," you said quietly.
His head tilted, eyes narrowing just a fraction. He didn't move closer, but the weight of his stare pressed against your chest. "You will," he murmured, his voice too calm. "Trust me. You'll feel better once you change."
He moved across the room then, not asking permission, just existing in the space with you as though he owned it. You stiffened when he sat in the chair across from the bed by the window, his gaze never leaving you.
The silence stretched, too thick. He broke it with a deceptively casual question: "Did you explore the house?"
You swallowed hard, hesitating. "...Yes."
A faint smile touched his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Good. You should know it. Get comfortable. This is home now."
The word 'home' made your stomach turn. You wanted to shout at him, to demand he took you back, but fear pinned your tongue.
He leaned back in the chair, sighing softly like this was just another ordinary evening after work. "You'll see.. once you stop fighting it, it'll be easier. For both of us. I can give you everything you need here. You won't have to worry about anything ever again."
The gentleness of his tone was worse than shouting. It was like he believed it. Every twisted word.
You forced yourself to meet his eyes. "And if I say I don't want that?"
His expression shifted then, the softness tightening, hard edges flickering across his face. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Instead, he stood, his height suddenly looming as he stepped closer.
Your heart slammed against your ribs when his hands came to rest on your shoulders. Heavy. Steady.
Without asking, he guided you up from the bed. His grip wasn't violent, but it was unyielding, firm enough that you knew resistance would only make it worse. He turned you toward the door and slowly walked you forward, his hands directing you like you were some fragile thing that might break if he let go.
The hallway stretched long in the dim light. Your pulse roared in your ears.
"I don't want you to be afraid of me," Mark spoke softly behind you, voice low by your ear. It gave you goosebumps. "But, I need you to understand... you're mine now. You don't get to walk away from this. From me."
Your ankle wobbled under his forced pace, a sharp flare of pain up your leg. You hissed, stumbling, but his grip only tightened.
"Careful," he murmured. And then, almost as if to remind you who controlled every step you took, his hands slid briefly down your arm before settling on your side. Not comforting, but anchoring, holding you upright when your body wanted to crumple.
He turned you back toward the room and eased you down onto the bed again, as if nothing had happened. His touch lingered on your shoulder before he finally pulled away.
"That ankle of yours," he said, tone dropping into something colder, almost a warning. "It makes you weak. Vulnerable. Don't test me by trying to use it to your advantage. I'll always be faster. Stronger. You understand?"
Your throat worked, but no words came.
"Good." He smiled faintly, like a parent pleased with a child. Then, he gestured to the clothes folded neatly on the dresser. "Change. I'll be back later."
And just like that, he left. The lock clicked this time.
The house fell silent again, leaving you trembling, your skin still buzzing where his hands had been.
The night passed in fragments. Sleep came shallow and restless, broken by every groan of the old farmhouse, every brush of wind against the shutters. You didn't know when you drifted off, but the sound of a door downstairs creaking open dragged you upright again.
You froze, listening. His footsteps carried through the floorboards, unhurried, deliberate. He wasn't hiding his presence; he wanted you to hear him coming.
Moments later, the lock turned. The door swung open.
Mark stepped inside carrying a tray; two bowls of something steaming, a plate with bread, and glasses of water. He balanced it with casual ease, setting it down on the dresser. The simple food should have been comforting, but in his hands it felt staged, wrong.
"Dinner," he said, voice almost light. "I thought we could eat together."
He lifted one bowl, holding it out to you with an expectant look. "You must be hungry."
You didn't move. Didn't reach for it.
His smile faltered just slightly, the corner of his mouth tightening. "You've barely eaten since you got here," he said, his tone shifting lower. "You need to take care of yourself. I'm trying to help you."
"I don't... I don't want anything from you," you whispered, throat tight.
The silence that followed was so thick you could cut through it. His eyes, so dark in the low light, stayed fixed on you. Unreadable for a moment before the calm cracked just enough to show the steel underneath.
Setting the bowl back on the dresser, Mark closed the distance between you in two steps. His hand caught your arm, not brutally but firm enough that you knew you couldn't pull away.
"You don't get to refuse me." His voice was low, cold, threaded with something that made your stomach knot. "I brought you here because you need me. Because, without me, you'd be nothing but another body in the street. Another victim no one saves. You think you're scared of me?" He let out a breathy scoff. "You should be more afraid of the world without me in it."
His eyes flickered back and forth to yours. His other hand pressed to your shoulder, steering you off the bed. The force in his grip gave no resistance. He guided you down the hall again, slower this time. The wooden boards creaked under your steps, your ankle trembling with each movement.
When you faltered, his pace didn't stop. If anything, he pressed harder, as though daring you to stumble. And stumble you did. Your foot caught unevenly on the rug, sending pain through your twisted ankle. A cry tore from your throat.
Mark caught you easily before you fell, his grip iron. But instead of steadying you with kindness, his hand slid down your leg to your ankle, squeezing hard.
Yo gasped, jerking against him, but his hold was unrelenting.
"See? he murmured, close to your ear, voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "You can't stand without me. You can't run. You can't leave. I am the only thing holding you together."
The squeeze tightened just enough to make your vision spark before he released you abruptly. You sagged against the wall, breath shallow, skin crawling.
He straightened, brushing off his hands as though he'd only been adjusting something minor. "Dinner," he said again, this time without warmth. "You'll eat, and you'll thank me."
His eyes cut back to you, sharp and cold. "Or next time, I won't be so gentle."
You followed him back to the bedroom, your ankle aching with each step. You returned to the bed. The bowls of food sat waiting, steam curling into the air between you like a cruel joke. A domestic scene painted over the reality of a prison.
He sat across from you, lifting his bowl and spooning a bite with ease. Watching. Waiting.
"You'll get used to this," he said between sips, almost conversational, as if he hadn't just threatened to crush your ankle. "One day, you'll see this isn't a cage. It's safety. You'll be grateful."
His gaze cut into you over the rim of his bowl, and the message beneath his words was clear: refuse him again, and the price would rise.
When the plates were finally empty, one because you forced yourself to choke down mouthfuls under his sharp gaze, and two because he ate with calm, unhurried confidence, Mark collected them without a word. He stacked the bowls neatly back on the tray, as though you had just shared an ordinary meal, and carried it out into the hall.
You heard the slow creak of the stairs as he descended, then the faint clink of dishes in the sink below. Running water. For a moment, you imagined yourself as someone else. Someone who had chosen to be here, in a quiet farmhouse with someone who loved them. Dinner together, dishes washed afterward. A quiet life.
The lock clicked again when he came back. This time, he didn't linger in the doorway. He didn't sit. He only looked at you for a long moment, the shadows making his face unreadable. Then, he spoke, almost casually:
"Sleep. You'll need your strength."
The door shut. The lock slid home.
For a long while, you didn't move. The silence pressed in on you, heavier than before. The whole house seemed to breathe with Mark; the faint sounds of his steps downstairs, the muted thump of a drawer closing, and then nothing.
You crawled under the blanket, curling onto your side. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender. It made your stomach churn. He had prepared this place. This bed... He had planned for you to be here.
Every time your ankle throbbed, you remembered the way his fingers had dug into the tender joint, the cruel pressure, the soft voice whispering how you couldn't stand without him. It echoed in your head, over and over, until you could almost feel his hand still on you.
The farmhouse was quiet, but sleep didn't come. When your eyes finally fluttered shut, you dreamt of doors that never opened, windows that showed only endless fields, and hands on your shoulders steering you down a hallway you couldn't escape.
When you startled awake, heart hammering in your ribcage, the room was still dark. A shape shifted in the chair. Silent. Waiting.
Mark. Watching.
Morning crept in through the farmhouse windows in pale strips of light. You had drifted in and out of restless sleep, your body ached, and your mind was fogged from fear. Every sound from downstairs, the clink of a cup, the low hum of movement, had you tense and waiting.
The lock clicked. The door opened.
Mark stepped inside, sleeves rolled up, carrying a towel draped over one arm and a small basket in the other. The faint smell of soap and clean linen drifted into the room with him.
"Up," he said, voice calm, but leaving no room for argument. "You need to bathe."
Your body stiffened. "I... I can do it myself."
HIs eyes narrowed, and the smallest flicker of something dangerous passed across his face before he masked it again. "Your ankle won't let you. You'll hurt yourself worse." He set the basket down on the dresser and met your gaze, steady and unblinking. "I'll help you. You don't get a choice."
The knot in your stomach twisted.
He moved closer, extending a hand to pull you up. When you hesitated, his patience vanished. His fingers curled firmly around your arm, and he pulled you to your feet. You stumbled, the ache in your ankle flaring sharply, but his grip only tightened.
"Careful," he murmured, almost mockingly gentle, as he steered you down the hall. His hand pressed into your shoulder, guiding you like before. The firm weight of ownership in every step.
The bathroom was small, plain, but the tub was already filled, steam curling from the surface. He had prepared it. He had known you'd resist, and he'd taken that choice away from you before you even woke.
"Clothes off," he said simply.
Your breath caught in your throat. "No."
Mark's jaw flexed. In two strides he was in front of you, his hand catching your chin, tilting your face up so you couldn't look away. His voice was low, each word deliberate.
"I'm not asking. I'm keeping you clean. Safe. You don't get to refuse me when I'm trying to take care of you."
Tears stung your eyes as you fumbled with your clothes, your fingers shaking. He didn't look away. He didn't offer privacy. He watched, and when you moved too slow, he stepped in, unbuttoning, tugging fabric away with steady hands that felt more like shackles than skin.
He lowered you into the tub carefully, almost tenderly, as if the act itself dissolved the violence of his control. The water lapped warm around you, but it felt suffocating. You tried to shrink into yourself, arms folding around your chest.
Mark knelt beside the tub, dipping the cloth into the water before running it slowly across your skin. Your arms, your shoulders, your neck, your chest. His touch was firm, deliberate, stripping away layers of you until you felt raw.
"You've been through a lot," he spoke, quietly, as though comforting you. "You don't realize how much you need this. How much you need me."
The cloth slid over your back, down your legs, lingering at your ankle. His eyes flicked up when you flinched. A faint smile touched his lips.
"Hurts, doesn't it? But it will heal. I'll make sure of it."
When he was satisfied, he helped you out of the tub, wrapping the towel around your body himself. The softness of the fabric was jarring against the cold finality of his control. He dried you with the same thoroughness. Slow. Unhurried. For a moment, you hated yourself for noticing the gentleness in his hands.
He carried you back up the stairs and to your the bedroom. He sat you on the bed and sunk down himself on the edge. He lifted your injured ankle into his lap, his thumbs brushing over the swollen skin. His touch was unexpectedly careful, his brows furrowed in concentration as he rewrapped it.
"You see." he whispered softly, almost lovingly. "I take care of you. No one else will."
He tied off the bandage neatly, smoothing the cloth with the flat of his palm, and for a moment the room was filled with silence. Heavy. Expectant.
His hand lingered on your ankle, the warmth of his touch seeping into the skin that still ached from his cruelty.
Then, slowly, Mark's gaze lifted to your face.
"You're still a mess." he murmured, his tone almost thoughtful. He reached for the towel that had begun to slip from your body, pulling it tighter around you before reaching into the basket he had carried in. From it, he produced a folded cotton dress. Simple, modest, like something that belonged to the farmhouse itself.
"I brought this for you." He shook it out, the fabric whispering softly. "You'll look good in it."
You wanted to snatch it from his hands, to shield yourself from his gaze, but he didn't give you the chance. He slipped the dress over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves, tugging it down until it settled against your skin. His fingers brushed down your sides, deliberate, lingering longer than they needed to.
When the dress was in place, he leaned back, tilting his head as though admiring a painting he'd hung on the wall. "Better," he sighed, with a faint smile that made your stomach twist.
He stood, making his way to the dresser. He fumbled in a drawer for a moment before pulling out a comb. It was a simple metal one. It looked... new? It didn't match the old farmhouse at all.
He returned to you, this time sitting behind you, and without asking, began to comb through your damp strands. The steady drag of bristles against your scalp would've been soothing in another life, but here it made you feel caged, trapped in his control.
The comb moved in slow, methodical strokes. Each pass pulled through your damp hair with a rhythm that felt just too intimate. Mark's breath was steady behind you, warm against the nape of your neck. Every so often, his fingers would brush against your scalp, or the notch of your ear as he worked out a tangle. Each touch sent a fresh wave of revulsion down your spine.
You sat rigid, staring at the faded floral wallpaper across the room, trying to detach yourself from the moment. But, your body betrayed you. Goosebumps crept up your arms as the comb passed through your hair, and the faint scent of his citrus soap mixed with the lavender on the sheets made your stomach twist.
“You have such pretty hair,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I noticed it the first time I saw you in the stairwell. The way it caught the light when you smiled at me.” Mark's voice was soft, conversational, like he was reminiscing about a first date instead of the nightmare he’d dragged you into. “You don’t smile like that anymore. But you will. I’ll make sure of it.”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to go down. The comb caught on a stubborn knot and he tugged a little harder, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to remind you he could. You winced.
“Careful,” he chided gently, as if you were the one being clumsy. He set the comb aside and gathered your hair in his hands, twisting it loosely before letting it fall over one shoulder. His fingertips traced the line of your collarbone where the simple cotton dress had slipped slightly. “There. Much better.”
Mark stood, placing the comb on the dresser instead of in. A reminder. He did that on purpose. He did everything on purpose. It drove you mad.
Mark circled around to face you, tilting his head as he studied his "work". His eyes dragged over you slowly... from the way the dress clung to your still-damp skin, to the bandage that wrapped around your ankle. There was something hungry in his gaze; something that went beyond just mere obsession. It made your skin feel too tight, like you wanted to crawl out of it and disappear.
Mark reached to you, cupping your chin again. He forced your eyes to meet his. "You're shaking," he observed. His thumb stroked over your jaw. "Are you still scared? After everything I've done for you today?" His tone held a note of genuine confusion, as if your fear was an insult to his many "efforts".
You didn't answer, you couldn't. Your tongue felt glued to the roof of your mouth.
He sighed, almost disappointed, and released you. “It’s okay. You’ll learn. Fear is just the beginning. Once you understand how much safer you are with me, the shaking will stop.” He glanced toward the window, where the morning light had strengthened into a soft, golden haze over the endless fields surrounding the farmhouse. “The world out there is ugly. Cruel. People like you disappear every day and no one cares. But here…” He gestured around the room with a sweep of his hand. “Here, I care. I’ll always care.”
His words settled heavy in your chest.
Part of you wanted to scream that this wasn’t care... this was a cage dressed up in domesticity and false tenderness, but the memory of his fingers digging into your swollen ankle kept the words locked behind your teeth. You knew he could switch from gentle caretaker to something far worse in a heartbeat.
Mark moved back to the dresser and pulled out a pair of thick wool socks. He knelt in front of you without asking, lifting your injured foot into his lap again. His touch was careful this time as he eased the sock over the bandage, then did the same with the other foot. The fabric was soft, warm. Another small mercy wrapped in control.
"Maybe you should get some more sleep," and with that, Mark left the room.
The lock didn't click.
You waited three days after he left the door unlocked.
Three days of pretending to be docile. Three days of eating the meals he brought, of letting him sit on the edge of your bed and talk about the weather or some old comic book while his eyes studied every micro-expression on your face. You smiled when he smiled. You answered when he asked questions. You let him brush your hair back from your face without flinching.
On the second day, you found it. An old, rusted box cutter tucked behind a loose board in the closet. It was just too good to be true, but you took it anyways. The blade was dull, but still sharp enough to slice skin, if you put enough force behind it. You tested it on your forearm. Just a tiny nick that bled instantly. Good enough.
You hid the blade inside the pillowcase, right where your hand would naturally fall if you were lying down.
Now you waited.
It was late afternoon when you finally heard the familiar sound of the front door opening downstairs. Footsteps. Calm, unhurried... moved through the house. You quickly climbed into bed, and pulled the covers to your chin. Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard, you were sure he could hear it from the hallway. The blade rested in your right hand, hidden beneath the pillow, thumb already on the slider.
The footsteps climbed the stairs, and paused right outside your door.
Then, the knob turned.
Mark stepped inside. His hair was slightly wind-swept, as if he'd been flying. He scanned the room once, and you saw the exact moment he registered you were "asleep." His mouth twitcted. Not quite a smile, but something amused and knowing. Your heart fluttered, then sped up.
He closed the door softly behind him.
He took a slow step toward the bed. Then another.
Your heart could jump through your chest right now.
You kept your breathing shallow and even, eyes cracked just enough to watch him through your lashes. Your grip on the box cutter tightened until the plastic dug into your palm.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, head tilted slightly.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low and almost playful, “it’s cute that you think I can’t hear your heartbeat from downstairs. It’s racing right now. Like a little rabbit hiding in the grass.”
Your blood ran cold.
Mark chuckled softly, a warm affectionate sound that made your stomach twist. "Go on then. I know you're waiting for something. Don't disappoint me."
He took one more step, now close enough that you could smell the faint citrus on his skin.
You moved.
You exploded from underneath the covers, lunging with every ounce of desperate strength that you had left. The box cutter slashed upward, aiming for skin. The blade connected at his throat. You felt it catch skin, felt the slight resistance as it tore through flesh just below his jaw.
For one glorious, terrible second, you thought it might actually work.
Blood welled instantly, a bright red line against his skin.
Mark didn’t flinch. He didn’t even stop smiling.
Instead, he caught your wrist mid-swing with terrifying ease. His fingers closed like a vice, bones grinding together until you cried out and the box cutter clattered to the floor.
“Nice try,” he said gently, almost proud. “You actually drew blood. Most people don’t manage that.”
You screamed and kicked, clawing at his face with your free hand. He let you land one solid scratch across his cheek before he moved.
In one fluid motion, he yanked you forward and slammed you down onto the hardwood floor.
The impact was brutal.
Your head cracked against the boards with a sickening thud. Pain exploded behind your eyes. White, hot, and blinding. The room spun violently. You tasted blood in your mouth where you'd bitten off a chunk from your tongue.
Mark stood over you, the cut on his neck already starting to close, the blood slowing to a trickle. He looked down at you with a soft, disappointed expression.
“See what happens when you fight me?” he said quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you. But you keep making me.”
The edges of your vision were darkening. You tried to crawl away, but your limbs wouldn’t obey. The last thing you saw before everything went black was Mark crouching down beside you, gently brushing hair out of your face as blood dripped slowly from the shallow wound you’d given him.
“Sleep now,” he whispered. “We’ll talk about trust again when you wake up.”
You woke to darkness and the metallic taste of blood.
Your head throbbed with every heartbeat. The room was dim, lit only by the thin moonlight filtering through the lace curtains. Mark sat in the chair beside the bed, watching you with calm, unreadable eyes.
The punishment came quietly, almost kindly delivered.
“No food for three days,” he told you the next morning when he brought only a glass of water. His voice was gentle, reasonable. “Water only. Maybe then you’ll understand how much I do for you.”
The hunger that followed clawed at you. By the second day your stomach felt like it was eating itself from the inside. Your hands shook. You screamed at the locked door until your throat was raw. You banged on the walls until your knuckles split and bled.
On the third day, Mark opened the door.
You were curled on the bed, weak and hollow-eyed. He brought soup. It was warm. The smell of the broth filled the air. Your stomach growled embarrassingly loud. You didn't care. The hunger was too much to be self-conscious anymore.
Mark fed you himself, spoon by spoon, murmuring praise when you swallowed.
"There we go... Good job. See how much better it is when you just let me take care of you?"
Afterward, he held you while you cried. His arms felt like the only solid thing left in the world.
“I forgive you,” he whispered against your hair. “I know you’re scared. But you have to stop fighting what’s best for you. I’m not the monster here. The rest of the world is.”
very cute how a huge theme in Invincible is how human love and kindness and empathy can save the universe, and in the real world instead of celebrating Conquests death and cheering that one of the most violent and brutal and cruel characters in the show is dead a large portion of the fandom said "hey what if Conquest experienced kindness. what if he was given a chance. what if he was able to lead a good life?" and made a bunch of art and memes and fanfic of Conquest doing normal stuff like fishing and hanging out with friends and eating ice cream and being happy.
who knows, maybe Invincible has a point...maybe we aren't so bad after all.
