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lazy-ahh · 1 month ago

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I DONT MEAN TO REQUEST SO MUCH STUFF IM SORRY but i’m thinkingggg. mark with a reader who works out and is muscular (maybe a little beefier than him) i wanna see him drooling though it can be mainstream or mohawk i think of them similarly

BUILD TO HOLD

pairing mark grayson x male reader

mark swears he’s strong—until you pin him to the mat with ease, muscles flexing under your shirt, and suddenly he doesn’t mind losing. not when it means getting this close.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

you’re sparring with him again. and mark’s losing. bad.

it’s not that he’s not trying—he is, he swears—but you’re just so damn strong. your muscles flex under your tight workout shirt, the fabric straining over your broad shoulders, the defined curve of your biceps, the way your chest heaves with every controlled breath. every time you block his punch, he catches a glimpse of your abs tightening beneath the damp material, and god, it’s distracting. you shove him back with a grin that’s all teeth and no mercy, your biceps bulging, veins popping along your forearms as you effortlessly overpower him. he stumbles, catching himself before he faceplants onto the mat, and you laugh—rough around the edges, a little mean, and it makes his stomach flip. his face burns, and he can’t tell if it’s from exertion or the way your sweat-slicked skin glows under the headquarters' gym lights, your body moving with a lethal grace that leaves him breathless for all the wrong reasons.

"c’mon, markus," you taunt, rolling your shoulders. "thought you were supposed to be-"

he huffs, wiping sweat off his brow, his eyes dragging helplessly over the way your shirt clings to your torso, the fabric stretched tight across your chest, the outline of your abs just visible beneath it. "shut up," he mutters, but it comes out weak, his throat dry.

you don’t. instead, you lunge, grabbing him by the waist—god, you were so much more muscular than him—and flipping him onto his back before he can even blink. the air rushes out of his lungs as he hits the mat, and then you’re straddling him, pinning his wrists above his head like it’s nothing. your thighs squeeze his hips, thick and powerful, and mark’s brain short-circuits, his pulse hammering in his ears. fuck. you’re heavy in the best way, all solid muscle and heat, and he can feel every shift of your weight, every flex of your quads as you keep him trapped beneath you.

"y’know," you murmur, leaning down, your biceps bulging as you hold him in place, "for a guy who can fly, you’re pretty easy to take down."

he should be offended. he should be scrambling to get you off. but all he can focus on is the way your biceps strain against your sleeves, the veins in your arms standing out as you tighten your grip. your chest presses against his when you shift, and christ, he can feel the hard planes of your body even through the fabric, the heat of your skin searing into him. your breath is hot against his lips, smelling faintly of mint and something dangerous, and mark’s pretty sure he’s gonna pass out—or do something really stupid, like arch up into you just to feel more of that crushing strength.

"you’re such an asshole," he breathes, but there’s no bite to it—just a shaky exhale, his pulse hammering in his throat.

you smirk, rolling your shoulders, the fabric of your shirt pulling obscenely tight across your chest. "you love it."

and god, he really, really does.

it wasn’t always like this. a year ago, you were strong—superpowers and all—but leaner, built for speed, not raw power. then you decided you wanted to look like a hero, too, and mark had to watch, helpless, as you transformed. those early mornings in the gym, sweat dripping down your neck while you grunted through deadlifts, the way your arms flexed when you adjusted your grip on the barbell. he’d pretend not to stare, but fuck, it was impossible. the first time you came back from a workout with your shirt clinging to your abs, veins snaking up your forearms, mark nearly short-circuited.

now? now you’re a nightmare—in the best way. every time you move, he notices. the way your thighs strain against your shorts when you shift your stance, the thick curve of your biceps when you cross your arms, the deep v of your hips leading down to—shit. his mouth goes dry.

you tilt your head, catching his gaze lingering, and your smirk widens. you know. heat floods his face, but he can’t stop imagining it—your hands pinning him down, your body crushing him into the mat, the way your muscles would ripple as you—

"mark." your voice is low, teasing, curling around his name like smoke. your lips tilt into that smirk of yours—the one that’s half amusement, half challenge, all sharp edges and knowing glints. sweat beads at your temple, your chest still rising and falling from the fight, and your eyes lock onto his with that same unshakable confidence. "you’re staring."

he swallows hard. yeah. yeah, he is. "can you blame me?" he mutters, voice rough, before he can stop himself. his face burns the second the words leave his mouth, but he doesn’t take them back. can’t, not when you’re looking at him like that, like you already knew exactly what he was thinking.

"well, i think that's enough training for today," you say, pushing yourself up with effortless grace. your muscles flex as you roll your shoulders, dusting off your hands before extending one toward him, palm up. your fingers are still slightly curled from the fight, knuckles faintly reddened, and your grin widens just a fraction—like you’re enjoying this, like you live for the way his breath hitches when you loom over him. "wouldn't want you to get yourself actually hurt from being... too distracted."

"i—shut up," he grumbles, but he takes your hand anyway, letting you haul him up with embarrassing ease. your grip is firm, calloused from years of fighting (you were a hero for far longer than him, having to tend to you and cheer you up as kids when you'd visit him and crumble about the expectations that the world is crushing you with), and he tries (fails) not to linger on the warmth of your skin against his. god, you’re ridiculous. strong enough to throw him across the mat without breaking a sweat, but your smile—sharp, crooked, always like you’re in on some joke he doesn’t get—that’s what really ruins him.

and you know it, too.

a memory flickers in the back of his mind—both of you as kids, sticks for swords and bed sheets tied around your necks like capes. you’d always played the hero, the reckless one who’d dive headfirst into trouble just to pull his ass out of it. "c’mon, mark," you’d grin, bloody-kneed and bright-eyed, "i got you."

some things never change.

except the roles are swapped now.

mark’s the reckless one who’s diving in front of you, shielding you from the villain’s energy blast with a grunt. the impact sends him stumbling back into you, but your arm is already around his waist, steadying him before he even hits the ground. the two of you are bruised and battered, having spent the last twenty minutes evacuating civilians while trading blows with the bastard—him taking the hits you couldn’t dodge, you covering his blind spots like second nature. it’s effortless, the way you move together. no hesitation, no missteps. just the silent understanding of two people who’ve been fighting side by side since they were kids pretending to save the world in their backyards.

you’d always had each other’s backs—when bullies tried to corner him after school, when you were both drowning in the mess of teenage hormones and high school hell, and now, here, in the middle of a battlefield where the air smells like smoke and the pavement’s cracked under your boots. some things never change.

"don’t worry," mark forces out, his voice rough as he smiles down at you in that dorky way you’ve always loved—the same one he’d give you when he’d scrape his knee as a kid and pretend it didn’t hurt. "i got you."

you laugh—bright and startled, like you can’t believe he’s pulling this shit now, of all times—and shove him sideways just as another blast sears past where his head had been. "you’re such an idiot," you wheeze, but your grin is wide, wild, alive. "we’re gonna die because you’re trying to be chivalrous."

"worth it," he shoots back, breathless, and when your shoulder bumps against his, it feels like home.

the villain snarls something unintelligible from across the ruined street, charging up another blast, but neither of you flinch. you don't need to. you already know mark's moving left before he does, just like he knows you're reaching for the discarded pipe at your feet without looking.

your fingers close around cold metal at the same moment mark feints right, drawing fire. "missed me," he taunts, rolling behind overturned concrete as the blast scorches the air where he'd been standing half a second ago. you're already moving, using the distraction to flank—just like when you were kids playing tag in the woods, when he'd bait the neighborhood bullies into chasing him so you could pelt them with rocks and pebbles from the trees.

the pipe connects with the villain's ribs with a satisfying crack, but they backhand you with their gun hard enough to make your teeth rattle. you barely register the pain before mark's there, catching your elbow to steady you while simultaneously kicking out the villain's knee. "still fight like you're twelve," you gasp out, spitting blood but grinning as you regain your footing.

"you really think i'm the only one?" he retorts, and goddamnit, he's right. the villain staggers up, furious, but you're already moving together—mark vaults onto your interlaced hands without needing to ask, and you launch him forward like it's second nature. his boot connects with their jaw at the same moment your pipe swings low, sweeping their legs out. they go down hard.

for a heartbeat, there's just silence and the sound of your ragged breathing. then mark's hand finds yours, squeezing once—a wordless check-in, just like when you were kids hiding in his room after a scrap, pressing ice packs to each other's bruises. one of his goggles is shattered, the cracked lens revealing a warm brown eye that's soft in a way only you ever get to see. his gaze flicks over you—the way your torn shirt clings to your heaving chest, the definition of your arms still tense from the fight, the stubborn set of your jaw even now—and something unbearably fond twists in his expression. "told you i got your back," he murmurs, thumb brushing over your scraped knuckles with a tenderness that belies the blood smeared across both of you.

you knock your forehead gently against his shoulder, laughing despite the ache in your ribs. "never doubted you, dumbass." above you, the first responders finally arrive, sirens wailing, but for this moment—sweaty, bleeding, exhausted—it's just the two of you again. his arm slides around your waist automatically, taking your weight as easily as he did when you were teenagers sneaking in through his window after curfew. the world could be ending around you, but it wouldn't matter. not when you're standing together like this, like you always have, like you always will.

hahahah see what i did there with the title card? bro i've always wanted to do that but worried it might ruin the immersion for my more serious one-shots. so today i finally said fuck it! no angst here anyway, so why not? hope you enjoyed this 1.8k words of pure fun—i definitely had a blast writing it lol. special thanks to you for requesting this, honey (heheh) <33 and can we talk about how i totally pictured jason todd's ridiculous physique for reader? like... have you seen that man? the arms? the shoulders? the pecs? the abs? the waist? the thighs?? god help me-

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