lazy ahh

WELCOME ! ! !

STATUS open! [writing mostly gender neutral readers]

ABOUT ME ! filipino , they/yours/them ;) , 18 , likes to play marvel rivals (cheaper town hall 😔😛) , if you're funny then i might just follow you home- kidding! unless…?

masterlist. art dump.

hello! thank you so much for your sweet little note—i’m really glad you loved the one-shot, he deserves all the tenderness in the world CAUSE WE KNOW THE DC WRITERS AREN'T-

anyway, thank YOU for reading and leaving this adorable message, it fuels my motivation and enjoyment for writing (also AAAAAH THANK YOU FOR THE ART LOVE??? you’re too kind mwah mwah 😭)

aaaAAAAAH HI ANON ILYSM 😭😭😭 THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REQUESTING and i’m so happy you loved mohawk mark’s gremlin ass!! knowing you’ve been re-reading it all day has me kicking my feet like a dumbass teehee—honestly though thank YOU for the amazing request!

ME? CARE? LOL. LMAO.

pairing mohawk! mark grayson x male reader

the warehouse is dark, smells like motor oil and regret, and you’re really wishing you hadn’t gotten captured today. like, seriously? it was your day off. you could be bed-rotting right now. scrolling through dumb videos. eating cereal straight from the box like a feral raccoon. anything but this.

but no. instead, you’re tied to a chair in some crusty villain lair, your favorite hoodie probably getting dust stains, and your only entertainment is the fact that this dumbass in front of you actually thinks he can use you as leverage.

"you really think this’ll work?" you mutter, testing the ropes around your wrists. they don’t budge—not that you’re trying too hard. you could get out if you wanted. but where’s the fun in that?

the villain—some guy with a fancy energy glove that probably cost way too much for how ugly it is—grins at you like he’s just won the lottery. "oh, it’ll work. invincible cares about you. he’ll negotiate."

you blink. then you laugh—a sharp, disbelieving sound that echoes off the warehouse walls. "invincible? negotiate? dude, he’s gonna rip your spine out through your nose."

glove-guy’s smile flickers. "shut up."

"no, no, i gotta know," you continue, leaning forward as much as the ropes allow. "who even told you this was a good idea? like, did you see him at all before you decided ‘yeah, kidnapping his whatever-i-am is a solid plan’? because—and i cannot stress this enough—that guy is fucking feral."

glove-guy’s eye twitches. "he won’t risk your life."

"oh my god," you groan, tipping your head back. you don't deny it, though. "you actually don’t get it. he’s not gonna risk my life because he’s gonna erase yours before you even blink."

"enough!" he snaps, raising his stupid glove like it’s intimidating.

you roll your eyes. "bro, i’ve literally seen that guy bite someone’s ear off for looking at him wrong. you’re toast."

before you could get another taunt in, he decides to punch you on your side. hard. you cough, eyes wide, before you glare at the motherfucker. you ignore the way your side actually stung. oh, he's about to get put on a t-shirt once you're out of this chair. glove-guy opens his mouth to retort—

—and then the wall explodes.

concrete shrapnel flies, dust clouds billowing up in slow-motion like the universe itself is screaming oh shit. and then—there he is.

mark.

silhouetted against the moonlight like some kind of feral, bloodthirsty angel, floating in the wreckage of the wall he just obliterated because subtlety was never in his vocabulary.

not that you’re looking or anything.

okay, fine, you’re looking. who wouldn’t? mark’s all lean muscle and barely-contained violence, his stupid skintight suit doing nothing to hide the way his body moves—like every inch of him is built for destruction and looks good doing it. his shoulders are broad enough to throw a car (and have, multiple times), tapering down to a waist that’s stupidly narrow for someone who eats entire pizzas in one sitting. his arms are corded with muscle, veins standing out along his forearms as he cracks his knuckles, and his thighs—god, his thighs—could probably crush a watermelon. or a skull. whichever’s more convenient.

his mohawk’s sticking up in every direction like he just stuck his finger in an outlet (again), the shaved sides of his head only emphasizing the sharp cut of his jaw. his grin’s all teeth—sharp and way too pleased with himself, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you and is loving every second of it.

and god, his eyes—locked onto glove-guy with the kind of unholy glee usually reserved for kids in a candy store. or maybe a cat who just knocked a glass off the table. same energy, really.

oh, and the piercings.

because of course mark’s the type to have them—two little silver studs on each side of his eyebrows, catching the light when he tilts his head like he’s considering the best way to ruin someone’s day. two more at the corners of his mouth, glinting when he smirks (which is always), drawing attention to the way his lips curl when he’s about to say something especially shitty. and if you happen to notice the flash of metal on his tongue when he licks his lips—well. that’s your business.

not that you care.

"ohhh," mark croons, voice dripping with the kind of mock sympathy that absolutely means someone’s about to lose several internal organs. "you thought taking him would work?" he tilts his head, the way a wolf does right before it goes for the throat. "that’s adorable."

"ohhh," mark croons, voice dripping with the kind of mock sympathy that absolutely means someone’s about to lose several internal organs—messily. he tilts his head, the movement sharp enough to make the silver studs in his eyebrows glint under the flickering warehouse lights.

"you thought taking him would work?" he asks, sweet as poisoned honey. he takes a single step forward, the crunch of broken glass under his boot sounding suspiciously like bones snapping. his shoulders roll, the fabric of his suit straining over the muscle as he cracks his knuckles—one by one, slow, like he’s counting down to disaster.

"that’s adorable," he taunts.

you snort. "told you."

glove-guy’s face does this fantastic little journey from confident to oh no to full-blown panic in about half a second flat. "i—i have your partner!" he yelps, shoving the glowing end of his stupid glove against your temple like it’ll help. "i’ll kill him!"

you sigh, long-suffering. you don't even bother to try and deny that you aren't his partner (yet). "mark, please don’t monologue."

"you don’t monologue," mark shoots back, pointing an accusing finger at you like you’re the problem here.

"my bad," you deadpan, "you just looked like you were about to start your boring ted talk again. this is a very uncomfortable chair, you know. if this was any other time, i wouldn’t have minded falling asleep."

mark’s eye twitches. "falling asl— you’re literally at gunpoint."

"eh." you shrug. "technically it’s a glove-point. and honestly? after the week i’ve had? this is almost relaxing."

"relaxing," mark repeats, flat.

"y’know, aside from the whole potential death thing. but hey, at least the company’s entertaining." you grin up at him. "speaking of—you gonna do something, or are you just here to hover dramatically?"

mark’s grin goes sharp. "oh, i’m doing something."

then he moves.

one second, he’s floating there like an overgrown, pissed-off bumblebee. the next—

crunch.

glove-guy doesn't even get a scream out before mark's got him by the wrist, squeezing until the metal creaks like a soda can under a hydraulic press. the guy makes this hilarious squeaking noise, halfway between a deflating balloon and a stepped-on mouse, and you would feel bad for him—

—if mark wasn't currently laughing, wild and unhinged, the sound bouncing off warehouse walls as he yanks the guy forward by his own stupid glove hard enough to hear something pop. "hey. hey." his voice drops to a purr, all rough edges and promised violence, while his free hand comes up to pat the guy's cheek—harder than necessary, his eyebrow piercings catching the dim light as he tilts his head. "you took my favorite nuisance. you really thought that'd end well?"

you gasp, jerking forward so dramatically the chair legs screech against concrete. "favorite? mark, i'm blushing." you try to press a hand to your chest before remembering your arms are still tied behind you, so you just flop your whole upper body forward instead, nearly toppling the chair. "wait till i tell everyone you finally admitted it—"

"shut up," mark hisses, but his ears are pink under the shaved sides of his mohawk, the flush creeping down his neck. he definitely squeezes glove-guy's wrist harder just to distract from it. "you're barely above tolerable on your best day."

"aw, you do pay attention to my good days!" you beam, kicking your feet again for emphasis. "that's practically a love confession in mark-speak. should we get matching bracelets? couple's tattoos? maybe—"

"i will throw you into the sun," mark growls, but there's no heat behind it—not when he's still got that stupid pink tinge to his ears, not when his grip on glove-guy has loosened just enough to show he's distracted.

glove-guy whimpers. "can i—"

"no," you and mark say in unison. you grin; mark scowls. it's beautiful.

glove-guy whimpers. "p-please—"

mark pats his cheek once more. "aw. no."

then he punches him so hard the guy spins mid-air before hitting the ground like a sack of wet flour.

silence.

you blink. "…that was almost cool."

mark immediately flips you off. "you’re welcome."

"i could've handled it myself," you say, just to watch him scowl, your voice dripping with that special mix of smugness only someone who regularly bench-presses sedans can pull off.

"oh, really," mark deadpans, crossing his arms so hard his biceps strain against his sleeves. "really. you, tied to a chair by fucking dollar store rope, were totally about to—"

you wiggle your fingers just enough - a quick twist of your wrists, that specific angle you've practiced a thousand times - and snap, the ropes explode into fibers like someone set off a party popper full of disappointment. the frayed ends flutter to the ground in slow motion, one sad strand landing directly on mark's boot.

"ta-da," you deadpan, shaking out your hands like you've just performed some grand illusion instead of literally just flexing. "any requests? maybe saw a lady in half? make your boring personality disappear?"

mark blinks. once. twice. his nose scrunches up like he's smelled something rotten. "...you sat there the whole time."

"magic tricks," you sing-song, shaking out your wrists with exaggerated flair. "who knew?"

"i hate you," mark announces, so vehemently it makes the unconscious bad guys twitch.

"you love me," you correct, standing up and brushing nonexistent dust off your pants just to annoy him further. "admit it. you think my 'sit still and look pretty' strategy is inspired."

mark growls, grabs you by the back of your hoodie, and takes off into the night before you can even yelp.

"rude!" you shout over the wind, flailing dramatically as the city blurs into streaks of neon and shadow beneath you. your hoodie flaps like a demented cape, nearly smacking you in the face.

"you’re welcome!" mark shouts back, grinning like the little shit he is—all sharp teeth and way too pleased with himself.

you groan, twisting just enough to yank his hand off your hoodie (gently, because you like this hoodie, and mark has the grip strength of a hydraulic press). with a quick burst of energy, you steady yourself mid-air, falling into pace beside him.

the city sprawls below, a mess of glittering lights and jagged rooftops. for once, it’s quiet—or as quiet as it gets when you’re floating a few thousand feet up with wind screaming past your ears. when the two of you are in a room together, silence is rare. usually, it’s all snark and shoving and mark actively trying to set things on fire. but this? this is… nice.

you glance over at him.

moonlight cuts across his face like liquid silver, softening the usual manic edge in his expression - the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the permanent crease between his brows when he's plotting murder. he looks calm. almost peaceful, if you could ever associate that word with a guy who once bit a drone out of the sky for fun and then spat out the shrapnel like sunflower seeds.

his mohawk’s a disaster in the best way, strands defying gravity like they’ve personally rejected the concept of physics, each one a tiny rebellion against order. it shouldn’t suit him—but it does, the same way a lit fuse suits a stick of dynamite. beautiful in that dangerous, unpredictable way that makes your throat tight.

and his mouth - god, his mouth. chapped from the wind, always twisted into some variation of a smirk or a snarl, but right now just... still. the moonlight catches on his teeth when he exhales, turning them into tiny blades of ivory. not that you're thinking about how they'd feel against your skin. definitely not.

(you're absolutely thinking about that.)

you look away, throat weirdly tight. "...thanks."

mark immediately side-eyes you like you just confessed to secretly being a llama. "what."

"you heard me," you mutter, suddenly very interested in a random skyscraper.

"no, no, hang on—" he flips mid-air to face you, hovering like an overexcited hornet. "did you just—thank me?"

"oh my god, forget it—"

"no, no, this is historic," mark cackles, zooming in closer like this is the best thing he’s heard all week. "was that gratitude? from you? do i need to check for a concussion? did glove-guy poison you?"

you shove at his face. "shut up. i take it back. i regret everything."

mark dodges, still grinning. "too late. i’m framing this moment. putting it in a museum."

"i hate you," you announce, flipping him off for good measure.

"you love me," he shoots back, smug as hell.

"i tolerate you."

"bullshit," mark says, but his voice is weirdly soft. then, like he can’t help himself, he adds, "...you’re welcome, though."

there’s a beat.

then—

"awww, was that sentiment? from you?" you gasp, clutching your chest. you try to ignore the way your cheeks feel warmer. you blame it on the cold wind. "do you have a concussion? should i check for—"

"i’m going to punch you."

"liar."

mark growls, but he doesn’t deny it.

(and if he flies a little closer the rest of the way home, well. that’s nobody’s business.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the two of you touch down on a rooftop, still bickering, when your foot catches on the ledge. you stumble—hard—and suddenly, your vision whites out in a burst of pain.

"ow, what the—?" you glance down.

oh.

oh.

there’s a gash in your side, deep enough that your hoodie’s soaked through with blood. huh. that… probably should’ve hurt more earlier. maybe the adrenaline wore off. maybe you’re just that good at ignoring pain. or maybe—

"what the fuck."

mark’s voice is wrong. too quiet. too flat.

you look up, grinning weakly. "hey, so, fun story—turns out glove-guy’s stupid glove was kinda sharp—"

mark moves faster than you can blink. one second, he’s across the roof. the next, his hands are on your shoulders, shoving you down onto a ventilation unit. his fingers are trembling.

"why didn’t you say anything?!" he snarls, but it’s not anger in his eyes—it’s panic, raw and unfiltered.

you blink. "uh. forgot?"

mark chokes on a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. "forgot. you forgot you were stabbed."

"to be fair," you wheeze, "you were really distracting. all the—hnng—exploding walls and… and the smug face—"

"shut up. shut up." mark’s hands hover over your wound like he’s scared to touch it. his usual swagger’s gone, replaced by something terrifyingly fragile. "you’re bleeding out and you’re joking?"

you open your mouth. close it.

…oh.

oh.

he’s actually scared.

the realization hits you like a punch to the gut. mark—your mark, the guy who laughs while flipping cars, who grins when he’s covered in someone else’s blood—is terrified.

your throat tightens. "hey. hey. look at me." you grab his wrist, squeezing. "i’m not dying over some glove-related incident, okay? that’s embarrassing."

mark shudders, his free hand clenching into a fist so tight you hear his knuckles pop. the veins in his forearm stand out like live wires, that stupid black sleeve of his straining over muscle. "not funny."

"kinda funny," you wheeze, even though your vision's going spotty at the edges. the blood soaking your side is definitely not ideal, but hey—if you pass out now, you'll miss mark's mental breakdown. worth it.

"not. funny." his voice cracks on the last word, raw in a way you've never heard before. not after fights, not after nightmares—never. his other hand's still pressed to your wound, warm and sticky with your blood, trembling like he's the one going into shock.

silence.

then, so quiet you almost miss it: "i can’t lose you too."

your chest aches worse than the gash in your side.

you reach up—ignoring how your arm shakes—and poke the spot between his furrowed brows. "too? wow. you do have friends." you swipe your thumb over the silver eyebrow piercing he definitely doesn't let anyone else touch. "should i be jealous?"

mark huffs, but he doesn’t pull away or swat your hand off like usual. his breath hitches when your fingers trail down to brush his cheek. "asshole."

"yeah," you agree softly, your palm lingering against his jaw. "your asshole."

mark freezes. for one terrifying second, you think you've broken him. then, with a groan that sounds suspiciously wet, he drops his forehead against your shoulder, his mohawk tickling your neck. "i hate you so much." his arms slide around your waist, careful but desperate, like he's trying to put you back together through sheer willpower.

(he holds you the whole way to the medbay.

and when the medics try to pry him off you, he growls like a feral dog.

you don't let go either.)

I THOUGHT OF YOU BETWEEN THE BLOODSHED

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

"you taste like gunpowder," you murmur against his lips, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer. his breath is warm, a little ragged, like he’d sprinted up the stairs just to get to you.

"that’s ‘cause i was shootin’ people," jason huffs, but there’s no bite to it—just that low, rough voice curling around the words like smoke. his hands are big where they settle on your waist, thumbs pressing into the dip of your hip bones like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

you hum, tilting your head to kiss him again, slow and lazy. his mouth is chapped, the faint metallic tang of blood lingering from where he’d bitten his own lip too hard earlier. but he sighs into it, lets you lick into his mouth like you own it, like he’d let you take anything from him if you just asked.

when you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, dark with something that makes your stomach flip. the white streak in his hair is mussed from your fingers, and you reach up to smooth it back, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. he leans into the touch like a cat, a quiet rumble in his chest.

"missed you," he mutters, like it’s a secret. like he’s embarrassed by it.

you snort. "you saw me this morning."

"still missed you."

his nose bumps against yours, clumsy with affection, and you can’t help but smile. jason todd, red hood, the crime lord who’d put a bullet through six men’s kneecaps tonight, is nuzzling into your hand like he’s starved for it.

his fingers trail up your sides, over your ribs, like he’s counting them. when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "thought about you. when i was out there."

"yeah?" you tease, but your heart stutters anyway. "what, in between breaking bones?"

"especially then," he admits, and his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, catching on the swell of it. "kept thinkin’ about how you’d laugh if you saw me. how you’d roll your eyes at me for bein’ dramatic."

you do roll your eyes now, but he just grins, that crooked, boyish thing that makes him look younger. makes him look like jason, not the red hood, not the ghost of robin. just yours.

"you’re such a sap," you tell him, but your hands are gentle where they frame his face, where your thumbs trace the scars on his cheeks.

he turns his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. "only for you."

and god, if that doesn’t make your chest ache.

for some reason, tonight felt more... intimate. more warm and safe. soft and right. so right. the two of you sitting on the couch, with you situated on jason's lap as you cuddled and shared soft, tender kisses.

and you can’t help but stare.

because up close, he’s beautiful.

the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks when he blinks, long and dark like ink smudged on paper. the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, a story he’d shrug off if you asked but you love anyway. his nose, slightly crooked from one too many fights, and the way it brushes against yours when he leans in, clumsy and sweet.

his lips are chapped, but they’re warm, and they part so easily under yours—like he’s been waiting for this, like he’d let you take and take until there’s nothing left.

and his hands. god, his hands. big and rough, knuckles bruised and fingers calloused from years of gripping guns and knives and the edges of his own rage. but right now, they’re gentle. one cradles the back of your head like you’re something precious, the other tracing idle patterns on your hip like he’s memorizing you.

you reach up, thumb brushing over the white streak in his hair, the strands soft between your fingers. he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second—like he’s savoring it, like he’s starved for it.

and you think, this. this is the jason no one else gets to see. the one who sighs into your touch, who lets you trace the scars on his skin without flinching, who kisses you like he’s trying to say something words could never hold.

"what?" he murmurs, catching you staring.

"nothin’," you whisper, but your fingers don’t stop tracing the curve of his jaw. "just thinkin’ about how pretty you are."

his breath hitches, just a little, and you watch the way his throat bobs when he swallows. "pretty?" he echoes, voice low, disbelieving. like no one’s ever said it to him before. like he doesn’t know what to do with the word.

"yeah," you murmur, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. "so pretty it hurts."

his cheeks flush, just a little, and he ducks his head like he’s trying to hide it. but you catch it—the way his lashes flutter, the way his grip on your waist tightens, just for a second. like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

"shut up," he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. just that quiet, aching vulnerability he only ever shows you.

your hands reach for his face, cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing over the high curve of his cheekbones. his skin is warm under your palms and you tilt his head up just enough to see the way his lashes flutter, the way his lips part—just slightly—like he’s already waiting.

and god, he’s beautiful like this.

you press the first kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft and teasing, feeling the way his breath stutters against your lips. the second lands on the bridge of his nose, right over that little scar he never talks about. the third finds the dip under his eye, where his skin is unfairly soft, and he lets out a quiet, shaky exhale, his fingers tightening where they grip your waist.

"fuck," he whispers, voice rough, and you can feel the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips.

you don’t stop. you kiss the crease between his brows, the spot just below his ear, the sharp line of his jaw—every touch feather-light, reverent. and jason melts, his shoulders slumping, his head tipping back against the couch like he’s surrendering. like he’s letting you take him apart piece by piece.

when you finally press your lips to his, it’s slow. sweet. his mouth is warm, yielding under yours, and he makes this quiet, desperate noise in the back of his throat when you suck gently on his bottom lip. his hands slide up your back, fingers trembling just a little, like he’s not sure whether to pull you closer or hold himself back.

you pull away just enough to murmur against his lips, "let me worship you, dearest."

his breath catches, and for a second, he just looks at you—eyes dark, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and parted. then he’s surging forward, crashing his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it, like he’s trying to say yes, yes, yes without words.

and you let him. you let him take, let him press you closer, let him kiss you like he’s drowning and you’re the only air left in the world.

he kisses you like a man starved, all rough edges and clumsy hunger, but you slow him down with a hand fisted gently in his hair. "easy," you murmur against his lips, and he whines—actually whines—high in his throat, his hips jerking up against yours like he can’t help it.

you swallow the sound, kissing him deeper, slower, until his frantic movements still and he’s just shaking beneath you, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. his breath comes in ragged bursts against your mouth, his chest heaving, and when you pull back just an inch, his eyes are blown black with want, his lips slick and parted.

"please," he gasps, and it’s wrecked, broken, like he’s begging for something he doesn’t even know how to name.

you shush him with another kiss, this one lingering at the corner of his mouth, then trailing down to his jaw, his throat. he tilts his head back with a groan, baring the column of his neck to you like an offering, his pulse fluttering wild under your tongue. you bite down—just a tease, just enough to make him curse—and he arches off the couch, a strangled "fuck—!" tumbling from his lips.

his hands scramble at your waist, tugging at your clothes, but you catch his wrists, pinning them gently to the cushions above his head. his breath hitches, his thighs tensing beneath you, and when you finally meet his gaze again, he looks ruined.

"let me take care of you," you whisper, and his throat works around a swallow, his lashes fluttering.

he nods, once, sharp and desperate. "yeah. yeah, okay—please."

and so you do.

HAHAHAHHAH THANK YOU ANON!!! 💞 if you want, you can send me a request and i'll gladly write it

currently less busy this week than last week so i think i can pump out a few one-shots or two 💪

oh my gosh stop it you're making me blush- I'M SO GLAD YOU'VE BEEN ENJOYING THE THINGS I WRITE THINGS LIKE THIS LITERALLY BRIGHTEN MY DAY SO THANK YOU 🥹🫴💝💝

thank you for feeding my daily consumption of mark grayson teehee

TROUBLE LOOKS GOOD ON YOU

pairing mark grayson x (vigilante) male reader

the crumpled hood of the villains’ getaway van makes a decent chair, if you ignore the broken glass. you’re sprawled across it like it’s your personal throne, watching mark hover nearby like an overprotective shadow. the would-be thieves are zip-tied in a groaning pile, one of them still half-stuck in the dumpster you gracefully introduced him to earlier.

"wow," you drawl, kicking your boots up on the shattered windshield. "you guys really thought this plan would work? even i have higher standards, and i once fought a telekinetic badger with a crowbar."

mark continues to hover near you, arms crossed. "you drop-kicked a guy into a dumpster," he says, like it’s some kind of crime.

"correction: i tactically repositioned him into a dumpster," you counter, grinning as he rolls his eyes. "and hey—" you gesture to the defeated goons. "—no guns, no hostages, just a little creative problem-solving. admit it, vincible. you love having a partner who keeps things interesting."

he opens his mouth—probably to whine about "excessive force" or whatever—but stops when you flick a crumpled soda can at his chest. the way his frown fights a smile? priceless.

mark sighs, defeated, before finally floating down, landing with a stupidly heroic thud. he offers you a hand, and you take it, if only to mock his gentlemanly gesture. except he doesn’t let go. and—weirdly—you don’t pull away either. his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and you have to fight the urge to yank your hand back just to spite him. (who does he think he is, melting your edges like this?)

"you wanna come to my house for dinner?" he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosts over your ear. "mom says she’s cooking your favorite dish to entice you. her words, not mine."

you can hear the smirk in his voice. bastard. "wow, bribing me with food now? you’re getting desperate, vincible," you shoot back, but your traitorous fingers tighten around his anyway.

he huffs a laugh, warm and close. "is it working?"

(yes.)

"depends," you lie. "what’s she making?"

"pork sisig."

"sisig?" you deadpan, raising an eyebrow. "damn, aunt debbie’s playing dirty. she knows i’d crawl through hell for that crispy pork."

mark’s grin is obnoxiously smug. "yep. she also said if you say no, she’ll save the leftovers for me instead—"

"over my dead body," you snap, already dragging him toward the street. his laugh is stupidly bright for someone who just witnessed you yeet a man into a dumpster ten minutes ago.

(and okay, fine—maybe you like that sound. maybe you’ve memorized the exact way his nose scrunches when he’s trying not to cackle at your bullshit. maybe you’ve even stopped "accidentally" stealing his hoodies because his scent clinging to you is… whatever. not the point.)

"knew you’d cave," mark sing-songs, swinging your joined hands like an overexcited golden retriever. the sidewalk crowd parts around you two—not out of fear (though your rep should warrant it), but because invincible is practically skipping down the street with a guy who once put a batarang through a drug lord’s windshield as a warning shot. the stares burn into your back. great. tomorrow’s headlines will be invincible’s mysterious boyfriend revealed! with some paparazzi shot of mark grinning like an idiot while you glare at the camera like it personally offended you. you think it's funny (and endearing) that mark doesn't seem to care.

you shove him with your free hand. "shut up. i’m tolerating you for the food."

"uh-huh," he says, voice dripping with the kind of smugness that makes you want to strangle him. or kiss him. annoying. "that’s why you also agreed to movie night after. and let my dad teach you viltrumite chess last week—which, by the way, you cheated at—"

"vincible," you growl, "i swear to god—"

he kisses your gloved knuckles, slow and deliberate, just to watch your brain bluescreen. asshole.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"aunt debbie, i don’t think i can eat anyone else’s cooking of sisig anymore," you say around a mouthful of rice, already reaching for your third serving. "this is illegal. you’re gonna ruin all other food for me."

debbie beams, refilling your plate before you can even ask. "good. that means you’ll keep coming back," she says, flicking your forehead lightly. "mark said you punched a guy through a wall today. again."

"he deserved it," you mutter, shooting a glare at mark—who’s too busy laughing into his soda to defend you. his knee knocks against yours under the table, warm and steady, and fuck, you hate how your body betrays you by leaning into it. like some pathetic magnet. like you’re not the guy who once made one of the most notorious villains flinch.

nolan leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "you know, when mark said he was dating someone ‘intense,’ i didn’t realize he meant ‘frequently commits property damage.’"

"oh please," you scoff, pointing your fork at him. "you literally leveled a city once. i’m tame compared to you."

the table goes quiet. mark chokes on his drink.

then nolan laughs—deep and booming—while debbie shakes her head like she’s already drafting your apology to the mayor. "he’s got you there, honey," she says, patting nolan’s arm.

mark kicks your shin under the table, grinning. "stop impressing my dad. it’s weird."

"make me, vincible," you shoot back—just as debbie slides another heap of sisig onto your plate.

you don’t miss the way mark’s fingers brush yours when he steals your spoon to eat your food, though. or how his thumb lingers on your wrist for half a second too long, calloused and sure. bastard. he knows what he’s doing. knows the way your pulse jumps under his touch, knows you’ll let him take whatever he wants from you—food, space, the last shreds of your reputation as chicago’s most unshakeable bastard.

and the worst part? he gives it all right back. in the way he leans into your space like he’s trying to fuse your skeletons together. in the way his laugh softens to something private when you grumble "fine, take it," pushing the plate toward him. in the way he tugs you into the couch later, his nose buried in your hair like he’s trying to memorize the scent of gunpowder and cheap shampoo.

(you’ll never admit it, but you’d raze cities for this guy. and he knows. he knows.)

you lay there, ear pressed to his chest like it’s the only compass you’ve ever needed, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. it’s too much. it’s not enough. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid the universe will yank this away any second—because it always does. because you’re the kid who crawled out of a battlefield that could've been his grave, the soldier cecil left behind, the ghost who burns too bright to keep. you don’t get this. not soft blankets on your back, not warm hands in your hair, not mark’s stupidly perfect ribs rising and falling beneath your cheek like some kind of prayer.

but for someone who’s never stayed in one place longer than a mission briefing, this feels like home. and that’s the most terrifying part.

the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever, mark combing his fingers through your hair like you’re something precious instead of something broken. your arms lock around his sinfully thin waist, pulling him closer with a quiet huff of contentment. you, who’ve bitten off threats with bloodied teeth and called it a smile, who wear your scars like armor—you melt against him. your usual sharp edges (the furrowed brow, the tension in your jaw, the always-ready-to-bite smirk) smooth out into something peaceful. something safe.

mark’s chest rumbles with a silent laugh beneath you. ha. knew you were a softie. he doesn’t say it out loud, but you feel it in the way his fingertips trace your scalp, in the way he presses his lips to your forehead like he’s sealing a promise.

and damn him for it, because he’s right. damn him for the way his hands fit against the notches of your spine like they were carved to hold ruin. damn him for how easy he makes it—to breathe, to stay, to believe the impossible truth that a heart as shattered as yours could still be something worth kissing.

damn him for the way his stupidly perfect smile slots between your ribs and into your heart every time he looks at you. those soft brown eyes that don’t just see you, but keep seeing you—past the bloodstains and the body count, through every lie you’ve ever worn like armor. his dark hair spills across the pillow like a piece of the night sky you’re allowed to touch, and isn’t that the cruelest joke? that someone made of starlight and second chances would choose to orbit a black hole like you?

damn him most of all for how he loves you. reckless and relentless, like his heart didn’t get the memo that yours is a crime scene. he pours love into you like it’s something you could deserve—overflowing and endless, while all you can give back are jagged pieces and residues of warmth and love, scraped raw from the ruins of you and in-between the cracks of your broken heart.

and the worst part? you’d let him ruin you like this forever.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it’s 2 AM, that cursed hour your body insists on waking to like clockwork, some leftover survival instinct from a life that demanded you sleep with one eye open. but tonight, the reason you’re awake is softer. warmer. mark’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his breath steady as a metronome. you push up on one elbow, slow and careful, just enough to see his face in the blue-dark of the living room—all the daylight tension smoothed out of his features, his lips slightly parted, his stupidly long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

you stay like that, frozen in the quiet, staring with the kind of naked devotion that would’ve made your younger self sneer. pathetic, he’d have said. weak. but here, now, with no one to witness except the moon through the curtains, you let yourself look. let yourself want. your fingers itch to touch, so you do—trailing through his hair like you’re mapping the shape of something holy. his strands are stupidly soft between your calloused fingers, and when he sighs in his sleep, nuzzling unconsciously into your palm, your chest does something embarrassing.

you’re so fucked.

you should stop. you don’t. minutes stretch like taffy, sticky-sweet and endless, your thumb brushing his temple, the shell of his ear, the dip behind his jaw. you’re a thief memorizing the contours of a treasure you’ll never deserve. mark shifts, and for a heartbeat you think you’ve woken him—but no, he just turns his face into your wrist, his lips grazing your pulse point like an accidental kiss.

then his eyes flutter open.

and god, the way he looks at you—like you’re the first thing he wants to see every morning for the rest of his life, like he’s already dreaming and you’re the best part. his groggy smile is a knife between your ribs.

"morning, sleeping beauty," you murmur, your voice rough with something too close to worship. your fingers don’t stop moving through his hair, even as his arms tighten around you, pulling you down until your foreheads touch.

"what time is it?" he slurs, already half-asleep again.

you press a silent kiss to the corner of his mouth. "you don’t need to know." your hand slides down to cover his eyes, playful. "just... go back to sleep."

"no, no... it’s fine." mark’s voice is still thick with sleep, but his grip on your wrist is sure as he pulls your palm to his lips, pressing a kiss to the scar that cuts across it—the one you got the night you two met, back when you still pretended you weren’t impressed by him. he pushes up onto his elbows, his hair sticking up in every direction, and kisses your forehead like it’s a habit. "i know you wanna go for a ride. i’ll come with you."

and fuck. you’ve spent your whole life being looked at, not seen—except by him. your breath stutters, eyes wide as you stare at him like he’s just peeled back your ribs and counted every broken piece. what did i ever do to deserve you? you don’t say it, but your face must scream it, because mark just laughs softly, already tugging you off the couch with that stupidly chivalrous "up you go" grip he’s had since day one.

a year together, and it still hits you like a sucker punch: how easy this is for him. how he knows you better than you know yourself—knows that when the nightmares or the restlessness claw at you, your first instinct isn’t to talk, or fight, or drink. it’s to vanish into the city’s veins on your bike, let the wind rip the thoughts right out of your skull. and mark? he doesn’t ask. doesn’t lecture. just straps on his helmet like it’s the most natural thing in the world to chase your demons at 2 am.

"you’re buying the coffee after," you grumble, shoving his shoulder as you grab your keys off the counter.

mark grins, already toeing on his sneakers like a man who’s done this a hundred times. (he has.) "uh-huh. and you’re not gonna speed just to feel me cling to you like a scared koala."

"no promises, grayson."

aaah thank you so much anon!! 💌 it means everything to me since i'm kind of unsure whether or not my writing is worthy enough to be posted here hahahah

YOU WERE ALWAYS IT FOR ME

pairing mark grayson x gender neutral reader

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.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

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.)

ORBIT (YOU BURN BRIGHTER WITHOUT ME)

pairing (slightly older) mark grayson x gender neutral reader

you loved him in the way people love stars—from a distance, knowing they’re already gone by the time the light reaches you.

mark grayson was always made of collisions. you learned this the first time he kissed you: his hands trembling against your jaw like he was afraid you’d disintegrate. (you didn’t. not then.)

it happened on your rooftop, the city lights smudged across the sky like a half-hearted constellation. he’d just stumbled back from a fight, his suit clinging to him in torn patches, his breath still uneven. you reached out to wipe the blood from his lip, and he caught your wrist. his palm was warm. his voice was cracked open.

"why do you always let me come back like this?"

you didn’t say because i love you or because i’m afraid one day you won’t. you just shrugged. "someone’s gotta keep you in one piece."

and then he kissed you.

it wasn’t sweet. it was a collapsing thing—his mouth desperate against yours, his fingers pressing into your skin like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. when he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. his whisper was rough. "tell me i’m not gonna wreck you."

you stayed quiet.

later, tangled in your sheets with his heartbeat under your fingertips, he nudged his nose against your hair. "you’re thinking too loud," he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

"just memorizing," you lied.

"memorizing what?"

"this." your thumb traced the scar on his shoulder—the one he got saving a bus full of strangers he’d never meet. "you."

he laughed, soft and tired, tugging you closer. "i’m not going anywhere."

(you never told him the truth: that you were counting the seconds until the universe remembered he wasn’t yours to keep.)

the hospital ceiling is white as a tomb when you wake.

(mark remembers the sound your body made when it hit the ground. the viltrumite’s fist cracking into your ribs like they were nothing. like you were nothing. he was screaming your name, but his feet were rooted to the pavement—why couldn’t he move, why wasn’t he faster—)

he sits at your bedside now, his knuckles split and healing too slowly. he doesn’t cry. (heroes aren’t supposed to.) but his breath hitches when your fingers twitch—like even that small movement is a miracle he doesn’t deserve.

"hey," he says, voice frayed at the edges. "you’re okay."

(lie. you’re not. he isn’t either.)

(he replays it in his head every night: the way you looked at him right before it happened. you’d shoved him out of the way—always sacrificing, always so stupidly brave—and for one terrible second, he thought this is it, i’m going to watch you die.)

before, he’d trace constellations between your scars and call them beautiful.

now, his eyes skip over the wheelchair beside your bed like it’s a ghost he can’t face.

"you don’t have to stay," you tell him one night, watching his reflection warp in the rain-streaked window. the glass turns him into something fractured—all sharp edges and trembling hands. his shoulders tense, like you’ve struck him. another impact he couldn’t stop.

"i’m not leaving," he says, too fast. his voice cracks down the middle. it sounds like a prayer, not a promise. like if he says it enough times, it might become true.

(you wonder if he knows you can hear the guilt in his pulse. viltrumite-strong, and yet—)

his fingers twitch toward you, then curl into fists. "just—tell me what to do," he whispers. "tell me how to fix this."

you don’t answer. the silence between you grows teeth.

somewhere, a monitor beeps. outside, the city burns. mark grayson stays perfectly, painfully still—like if he moves, you might finally see him for what he is:

just a boy. just a liar. just another thing that couldn’t love you gently enough to matter.

the weeks pass in a blur of bruised knuckles and sleepless nights. mark trains like he’s trying to outrun the sun—punching through concrete walls, flying until his muscles scream, staring at the sky like it might crack open and give him a second chance. he hovers near you constantly, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but forgot how. (or maybe he’s afraid his touch will leave bruises now. maybe he’s right.)

one night, you catch him watching you from the doorway, his eyes hollow in the dim light. the shadows carve him into something sharp and unfamiliar. you take a breath.

"you don’t look at me like you love me anymore," you say, voice softer than the hum of the streetlights outside. "you look at me like i’m a mission you failed."

something in his face shatters.

for a long moment, there’s only the sound of his ragged breathing. then, quietly, like it’s being torn from his ribs: "every time i see you, i remember how weak i am." his hands flex, useless. "i don’t know how to love you without drowning in it."

the admission hangs between you, thick as blood.

(you think this might be the most honest he’s ever been.)

you leave.

(not forever. just for now. just long enough to remember how to breathe without the weight of his guilt pressing into your lungs.)

mark doesn’t stop you. he stands in the doorway of your shared apartment, his fingers leaving crescent moons in his palms. "i’ll be better," he says, like it’s a vow. like he can carve the weakness out of himself if he just bleeds enough.

you don’t say i know. you don’t say i’ll wait.

(but you press a kiss to his cheek—chaste, fleeting—and for a second, his pulse stutters like it used to.)

months later, you find him on your fire escape, his knees pulled to his chest like a child. the city sprawls beneath him, all neon and noise, but he’s staring at his hands like they’re still empty.

"i think," he starts, then stops. the words come out cracked: "i think i’m learning how to miss you without it feeling like a punishment."

you sit beside him. his shoulder brushes yours—warm, familiar.

(neither of you mention the way his comms device buzzes incessantly in his pocket. the way his eyes flicker toward the skyline every few seconds, braced for disaster. the way love, for him, has always been a countdown.)

but for now—

for now, his fingers lace through yours, tentative. "stay?"

you squeeze back.

(and somewhere, a star collapses in silence.)

guys... i used to have two one-shots in the queue ready to go.

now i have five-

FIRST JASON TODD PRACTICE ART

heads up: this is my first attempt at like... everything? jason todd fanart, coloring, shading/rendering, and using gradient maps all in one go, so please be gentle with your feedback 😭 my art reference was from @twalxx (their art is STUNNING, go show them some love!!) and i was this close to losing my mind trying to figure out how to get that perfect green lighting on his skin—only to realize way too late that they’d done the whole thing in grayscale first and added color with gradient maps. pain.

if you’ve got tips, i’d love to hear them! just remember i only started seriously drawing last month, so PLEASE be gentle 🫠

NOOO PLEASE DON'T *rizzes you away from the edge*

but yeah i'm so excited but scared to write for jason cause HE DESERVES TO BE WRITTEN RIGHT HE DESERVES ALL THE GOOD THINGS IN THIS WORLD I NEED TO DO HIM JUSTICE-

ahhh thank you so much!! 🫴💝 and honestly you're so right—william is absolutely enjoying watching on the sidelines, seeing idiot #1 and idiot #2 being dumbasses in love.

i have a headcanon where him and debbie have bets on who would make the first move and slowly more people start betting too lolol. so glad you enjoyed it!