YOU WERE ALWAYS IT FOR ME
pairing mark grayson x gender neutral reader
in which you hear something you weren't supposed to. too bad he doesn't know you're awake. too bad you've loved him just as long.
tonight’s sleepover starts like any other—junk food, bad movies, playful bickering, even a little tickle fight that leaves you both breathless and grinning. you’ve had countless sleepovers before, so this one feels familiar, safe. you let out a content sigh through your nose, unconsciously curling closer to mark on the couch, the fluffy blanket tangled around both of you like a nest.
you're starting to struggle with keeping your eyes open, your eyelids getting heavier and heavier with each second of bad acting and lack of plot as you and mark watch the second bad movie of the night.
there's a particular scene in the movie that makes the two of you snort and chuckle. you nudge mark's side, shooting him a playful smirk. "if we're both still single by the time we're thirty, i say we just marry each other. what do you think?"
mark grins, tilting his head like he's actually considering it. "hmm. tough sell," he says, tugging lightly at the blanket that's mostly wrapped around you - not that he minds. "first you'd have to stop stealing all the covers every night. then you'd have to promise not to laugh at me when i inevitably ugly cry at the wedding. i've seen those tiktoks."
his tone is joking, but there's something warm in the way his fingers linger near yours in the blanket folds. he shrugs, trying too hard to sound casual. "but sure, deal. not like i've got better offers anyway. though i should warn you - i leave socks everywhere."
"oh please," you huff, nudging him again. "as if you could do better. face it, grayson - i'd be the best thing to ever happen to you." you cross your arms, feigning offense. you try ignore the way your heart skips a beat when you see his expression soften, as if he agreed. "and we both know without me, you'd die alone and maidenless surrounded by your comic books."
"ouch," mark laughs, pressing a hand to his chest like you've wounded him. but his smile softens, just for a second, before he adds, "guess i better start saving for a ring then." it's teasing. mostly. probably.
the two of you continue watching the movie, tossing out terrible impressions and adding to your ever-growing list of inside jokes. with twenty minutes left, your commentary slows, then stops. mark feels the exact moment you drift off - your breathing deepening, your body going slack against his side. your head settles heavy on his shoulder, and without thinking, his arm curls around you, pulling you closer. his own head comes to rest gently atop yours.
he's hyperaware of everything about you - the soft flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat, the quiet huffs of breath through your slightly parted lips. he can hear the rustle of fabric as your chest rises and falls, the faintest creak of the couch springs beneath your combined weight. it's overwhelming in the best way, this symphony of you. the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his side feels like the most natural thing in the world, syncing up with his own until he can barely tell where he ends and you begin.
for a long moment, he considers staying exactly like this forever. the warmth of you pressed along his side, the familiar scent of your shampoo filling his senses, the comforting weight of your trust in him - it's better than any movie, any superhero moment. but then he notices the slight strain in your neck, the way your breathing hitches just slightly when you shift in sleep. he knows that position will leave you sore tomorrow, and that thought alone is enough to break the spell.
with painstaking care, he disentangles himself, one slow movement at a time. his hands are impossibly gentle for a guy as strong as him as they slide beneath your knees and shoulders, lifting you with the same reverence he'd give something infinitely precious. he barely breathes as he carries you, hyperaware of every shift in your heartbeat, every soft sigh you make in your sleep. the stairs creak underfoot, but you don't stir, just nuzzle unconsciously into his chest as he adjusts his hold. it takes everything in him not to press a kiss to your forehead when he finally lays you down in bed, settling the blankets around you with hands that shake just slightly.
the bed dips under his weight as he carefully settles beside you. propped up on one elbow, he watches the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks with each dream, how your lips part just slightly with each exhale. his free hand drifts to your side, fingers skating beneath the hem of your t-shirt to trace idle patterns against warm skin. he maps the curve of your waist like he's memorizing it, fingertips catching on the faint ridges of your ribs when you breathe in. you're so warm. so alive. so perfectly you.
"god," he whispers, voice cracking. the words come tumbling out before he can stop them. "this is— you're— okay, this is gonna sound stupid, but." he huffs a laugh at himself, thumb brushing your hipbone. "you're kinda... perfect? like, stupidly perfect. the way you laugh at your own jokes even when no one else does. how you always steal my fries but replace them when you think i won't notice. that stupid face you make when you're concentrating—"
his breath hitches when you shift closer in your sleep, your forehead nearly touching his. "and now i'm talking to you while you're asleep. that's... that's a new low, even for me." but he can't stop. not when the moonlight catches the slope of your nose just right, not when his fingers have found the steady heartbeat at your waist. "you have no idea, do you? that i'm yours. that you're it for me. always have been."
he finally lays down properly, scooting closer until your shared breath mingles in the scant inches between you. his nose brushes yours, hesitant. "would you hate me," he murmurs, so quiet even he barely hears it, "if i kissed you right now?" the question hangs in the air, vulnerable and raw. "just once. just to know what it's like before i lose my nerve tomorrow. before someone else takes you away from me."
"god, what am i doing?" mark pulls away abruptly, like he's been burned. his cheeks flush that pretty pink you love—the one that starts at the tips of his ears and bleeds down his neck, visible even in the dim light. his soft brown eyes dart away, lashes fluttering like he can't bear to look at you while his own confession hangs between you. his fingers flex against the sheets where they'd just been tracing your skin, like he's physically stopping himself from reaching back out. the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard makes your own breath catch.
he doesn’t kiss you. (he wants to. god, he wants to—can see the exact spot on your lips where his mouth would fit, can already imagine how you'd sigh into him.) but his lips brush your forehead instead, feather-light and lingering, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of your skin against his. it lasts a second too long to be casual, his breath shaky against your hairline. “i’ll try my best,” he murmurs, voice thick with something aching, “to enjoy the last few times i can quietly love you like this.”
his thumb swipes once under your eye—catching a lash you’ll never know fell, a secret wish he'll never speak aloud—before he carefully peels himself away. the bed creaks like a protest as he stands, his silhouette hovering for a heartbeat like he might crawl back in. then he's gone, padding softly downstairs to chug a glass of water like it'll douse the fire in his veins. (it won't. nothing ever does.)
what he doesn’t know: you felt the dip of the mattress when he climbed in. you heard the hitch in his breath as his fingers traced your ribs. you’ve been clinging to the edges of sleep like a lifeline, terrified he’d hear the way your heart pounded the second he whispered you’re it for me.
he loves me. HE LOVES ME. the realization thrums through you, electric and dizzying. your fingers clutch the sheets to keep from reaching out, from ruining this fragile moment where the truth hangs between you like a secret. you wait until his footsteps fade completely before letting out a shaky breath, pressing your burning face into the pillow. last few times? as if.
when the door creaks open later—mark returning, still flushed, still yours—you don’t pretend to be asleep. and for a suspended second, neither of you breathes. his lips part—to apologize? to flee?—but you’re done pretending. your hand shoots out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring him there. no more running. not tonight.
"don't you dare think you can say things like that and just—get away from me, grayson." your fingers fist in his collar before he can retreat, fabric crumpling in your grip as you yank him down. he makes a punched-out noise, going down willingly — perhaps too willingly. his breath comes ragged, lips parted in shock—close enough that you taste the mint of his toothpaste, see the flecks of gold in his blown-wide pupils.
"fuck," he chokes out, throat bobbing as your nose brushes his. his entire body runs hot under your touch, heartbeat jackrabbiting against your knuckles where they press into his collarbone. you can feel the way his resolve unravels when you whisper: "why don’t you just stop quietly loving me? you know i prefer the noise anyway."
his hesitation lasts exactly three heartbeats. then he’s moving—clumsy with want, knees bumping yours as he folds himself back into the space he never should’ve left. his restraint snaps. one hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face up as his forehead drops to yours with a shaky exhale. "louder, it is then," he corrects, voice rough. and then he’s proving it, mouth crashing into yours like he’s been starving for it. (he has. for years.)
this one’s a little shorter than the last—just 1.7k words of pure, self-indulgent fluff. i had way too much fun writing it (mark grayson being a pining idiot? sign me up forever). hope you enjoyed the ridiculous cheesiness of it all—no apologies for the ending, because let’s be real… we all deserve some soft, gooey moments sometimes.
