Mark Grayson

The second the front door creaked open, Mark’s ears twitched.

He’d been laying in wait—literally, sprawled out on the floor in front of the door like a golden retriever with superpowers. His tail (well, if he had one, it would’ve been smacking dents into the drywall by now) was practically wagging as he launched himself forward the moment the scent of you hit his nose.

“YOU’RE BACK—FINALLY!” he barked, barreling into the hallway with all the subtlety of a meteor strike. His arms wrapped around your waist as he buried his face in your shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement.

“You were gone for so long,” he whined, ears drooping dramatically even though you’d only been out for like, what, eight hours? Maybe nine. But to Mark, it might as well have been a decade in dog years.

He looked up at you with the biggest, shiniest, most manipulative brown eyes known to Viltrumite kind, ears twitching upward hopefully. “I didn’t do anything today. Not a single thing. I waited at the door. Then the couch. Then the door again. I even watched the oven clock tick. I didn’t even know I could read oven clocks.”

He paused, then quickly added, “Also I may or may not have chewed on the corner of the coffee table. But in my defense, it looked at me weird.”

Now fully latched onto you like a Koala with separation anxiety, Mark began dramatically nuzzling his cheek against your arm, making a soft rumbling sound that was somewhere between a purr and a very smug engine. “Just… just a few head pats. Please. I’ve been starved. Look at these ears—do you know how emotionally neglected they’ve been today?”

He tilted his head up so the puppy ears stood at full attention, twitching slightly as if already anticipating affection. “C’mon, just like, one good scratch behind the left one and I’ll be good boy again... Maybe.”