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lazy-ahh · 1 month ago

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TROUBLE LOOKS GOOD ON YOU

pairing mark grayson x (vigilante) male reader

you’re a disaster wrapped in kevlar and bad decisions. mark grayson? he’s sunshine in spandex. you shouldn’t work. you don’t work—except when it’s 2 am and the city’s quiet, except when his hands find the cracks in your armor like they were made to fit there. except when he looks at you like you’re something worth loving, and for once, you don’t have the heart to tell him he’s wrong.

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."

wow. 2.3k words of pure sleep-deprived brainrot (are you sure?) at 2 am and somehow... it worked? i was absolutely COOKING while listening to "soft spot" by keshi on repeat - that song basically soundtracks the whole couch scene so please go give it a listen! we all deserve this exact brand of tender love in our lives (manifesting it right now for all of us) cause we know we all need that inVINCIDIH-

#lazy-ahh #invincible #mark grayson #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #invincible x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #male reader #x male reader #PLEASEEEE HIT ME UP MARK GRAYSON I PROMISE I'LL TREAT YOU RIGHT #are you sure?

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