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un-killables · 8 days ago

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Hello darling 😘. Hope you don't the request but I wanted to ask if u could write on a male reader who has a powerful shape-shifting ability. Like he can shapeshift into people , objects and animals(normal and mythical) while mimicking their sounds and powers . He really likes to prank mark by turning into monsters/objects to scare him . Male reader also specializes in undercover missions so he's not always around alot but when he is , his out causing touble for the Cecil and the guardians by shape-shifting into them and doing pranks out in public . So they gotta always call mark cause his the only one who can rail him in .

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT (I'LL CALL IT LOVE)

pairing mark grayson x (shape-shifter) male reader

mark grayson has a problem: you. specifically, the way you laugh at your own pranks, the way your hands always find their way to him, the way you call him 'pretty boy' like it doesn't ruin him every single time. (he wishes it meant something. he wishes you'd mean it.)

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

you’re bored. like, mind-numbingly bored. the kind of boredom that makes shapeshifting into inanimate objects—just to see how long you can stay perfectly still before someone notices—sound like a decent way to kill time. and when you’re bored, two things always happen: 1) you start shifting into increasingly ridiculous things just to entertain yourself (seriously, you’ve been a toaster, a literal dumpster, and a disturbingly accurate replica of cecil’s coffee mug—with the chip and everything), and 2) mark grayson ends up with a new gray hair because of you. today, option 1 lost its charm after the fifth consecutive transformation (seriously, how many times can you turn into a lamp before even you get tired of it?), so that leaves you with option 2: terrorizing your favorite superhero.

most of the time, you don’t even pretend to consider option 1—you just skip straight to hunting mark down like some kind of overexcited, shapeshifting bloodhound. poor guy. you do pity him, really. but pity has never stopped you before, and it sure as hell isn’t gonna start now. you try to keep it light—when he tells you to stop, you stop. when he’s not laughing (or at least fighting a smile), you back off. because at the end of the day, that’s the whole point. ever since you were kids, you’ve been pulling this crap just to hear him laugh, to see that stupid, fond look he gets when he’s trying so hard to be annoyed but can’t quite manage it.

and okay, fine, maybe it’s also your go-to excuse when you miss him. which is… a lot. more than you’d ever admit out loud. you’ll just shrug, smirk, and say "eh, was bored," like you haven’t been watching him from across the room for the past ten minutes, cataloging every reaction, every half-suppressed chuckle, every exasperated "dude, seriously?" that sounds way too affectionate to actually be annoyed.

you’ll admit it—you try way too hard. but can you blame yourself? mark’s mark. your best friend, the guy who somehow puts up with your nonsense, the idiot who still jumps every time you sneak up on him as some eldritch horror (even though he knows it’s you). and yeah, maybe you have feelings for him. ugh. screw that—of course you have feelings for him. it’s not like you spend your undercover missions thinking about what ridiculous stunt will make him lose it next. it’s not like the thought of his laugh is the only thing keeping you going when the mission goes to hell.

…okay, maybe it is.

whatever. point is, you’re bored, and mark’s about to have a really bad day.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark’s sprawled across his bed like a starfish that’s given up on life, one hand lazily scratching out physics equations while the other flips pages of seance dog with way more enthusiasm than his homework deserves. he’s technically studying—or at least, that’s what he’ll tell his mom later when she asks why his grades are "consistently mediocre"—but really, he’s just pretending to care about velocity formulas while mentally cheering on a comic book dog that barks at ghosts. priorities, right?

his phone buzzes against the mattress, and he grabs it without looking, already grinning because maybe it’s you. maybe you’re finally back from that undercover mission, texting him some ridiculous story about how you impersonated a villain’s pet hellhound just to steal classified files (again), or how you tricked an entire squad of guards by shifting into a vending machine and then spitting out snacks at them when they tried to buy something. the thought makes his chest do this dumb little squeeze thing, equal parts excitement and "god, i missed this idiot."

instead, he gets:

"mark."

oh. cecil.

mark blinks, still half-distracted by a panel of seance dog howling at a particularly dramatic specter. "uh. hey. what’s up?" he asks, like he isn’t already mentally calculating how fast he can hang up if this is another "emergency briefing" that could’ve been an email.

cecil’s voice is as dry as ever. "i need you to retrieve something from [y/n]’s house. mission-critical intel he recovered."

mark's gaze automatically flicks to your window—because of course your rooms face each other, of course your houses have been side-by-side since you were both in diapers, and of course this whole setup feels like something straight out of one of those dumb rom-coms you pretend not to watch together (even though you totally do). he's already moving before he realizes it, one leg swinging off the bed while his free hand fumbles for his hoodie. the key to your place hangs from his nightstand, right next to yours that he keeps "for emergencies" (read: when he wants to steal your snacks).

but he pauses, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he wrestles with the hoodie sleeve. "uh, wait—why can't, y'know... he just bring it?" his voice goes a little higher at the end, the way it always does when he's trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly.

"he's already on another assignment."

mark's fingers tighten around his phone just a little too much—not enough to crack it (probably), but enough that his knuckles go white. "oh. uh. that's just—i mean, he just got back? like, two weeks? i-i mean from like, a two-week mission? and you're already—" he cuts himself off, realizing he sounds way too invested, and backpedals hard. "not that it's any of my business! or—i mean, it kind of is? since i'm the one you're making go over there? but also maybe he should, like... rest? or something?"

there's a long pause where mark can feel cecil judging him through the phone. when the sigh finally comes, it's the kind of world-weary exhale that makes mark feel like he's twelve again and getting scolded for tracking mud through the guardians HQ. "just get the drive from his desk. it's urgent."

"yeah, yeah," mark mutters under his breath, already thumping down the stairs two at a time like an overexcited golden retriever. the wooden steps creak in protest under his socked feet (because of course he forgot shoes again), and he barely remembers to grab your spare key from its usual hiding spot under the ceramic frog by the back door. the grass is cool and slightly damp between his toes as he cuts across the lawn, the late afternoon air carrying that familiar mix of freshly-cut grass and whatever weird chemical smell the grayson's neighbor insists on spraying on their roses.

he doesn't bother knocking—after fifteen years of friendship, walking into your house feels as natural as breathing. the front door groans its usual complaint when he pushes it open, that same squeaky hinge you've both promised to fix a hundred times but never actually gotten around to. "okay, so where's this—" he starts, already stepping into the dim hallway when he realizes the phone's gone quiet.

mark freezes mid-step, one sock half-off from where he's been dragging his feet. "...cecil?" he tries again, holding the phone away from his face to check if he accidentally hung up. the screen mocks him with its blank indifference.

nothing.

just the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the distant sound of a car passing by outside.

weird.

he gives a half-hearted shrug, creeping further into your room like he's walking through a minefield. the place looks like a tornado hit it—as usual. one of your hoodies is dangling precariously off the bed frame, socks litter the floor like sad little landmines, and there's a half-eaten bag of chips on the nightstand that's probably been there since before your last mission (seriously dude, that's just nasty). but what really catches his eye is the faint glow from your desk—your phone, screen lit up with an active call. to mark.

mark's stomach does this weird flip-flop thing that has nothing to do with the stale chip smell wafting through the room.

then—

creak.

that unmistakable sound of old wood protesting under weight. from directly behind him.

every muscle in mark's body locks up tighter than the time he accidentally super-glued his fingers together during arts and crafts day in third grade. okay. okayokayokay. he's invincible. he's literally a viltrumite. he's punched through alien warships and survived getting thrown through buildings and once fought a guy made entirely of bees (that last one was way grosser than scary, but still). this is fine. he's fine.

(he is not fine.)

mark sucks in a shaky breath that does absolutely nothing to calm his racing heart before spinning around so fast he almost trips over his own feet, fist coming up in what he hopes looks like a cool superhero pose and not like he's about to start crying.

empty room.

just shadows stretching long across the floor and his own dumb reflection in your slightly crooked mirror. just shadows. just the faint hum of the AC that always sounds vaguely like someone whispering his name when he's trying to sleep. just his own heartbeat pounding in his ears like some overenthusiastic drummer at a battle of the bands.

he exhales, shaky. "okay. okay. you're being paranoid. it's fine. it's totally—"

something grabs his ankle.

"HOLY SHIT—MOM! MOOOOM! [Y/N]! SOMEONE! OHGODOHGOD—"

mark's scream cracks embarrassingly high as skeletal fingers—way too long, way too pointy, what the actual fuck—clamp around his ankle like icy manacles. he's yanked backward so hard his chin smacks the floor (that's gonna bruise tomorrow), his flailing limbs doing absolutely nothing to stop his slide toward the nightmare void under your bed. the shadows twist and bubble like boiling tar, forming a face—no, not a face, a horrible parody of one—all jagged teeth and glowing eyes that seem to look right into his soul.

"nononono—[Y/N] HELP! I'LL NEVER MISS OUT ON FLYING TIME AGAIN I SWEAR! MOM! ANYBODY!" he babbles, voice jumping an octave with each word as he claws at the carpet like a cat being shoved into a carrier. his fingers leave little streaks in the fibers (sorry about your carpet) as whatever-the-hell-this-is drags him closer. tears are absolutely streaming down his face now, because screw dignity, he's about to be monster chow. "OH COME ON I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO FINISH SEANCE DOG! THIS IS SO UNFAIR! [Y/N] YOU ASSHOLE WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I—"

then—

laughter.

not just any laughter—that bright, obnoxious, infuriatingly familiar sound that's been the soundtrack to mark's life since you were both in diapers. the kind of laughter that starts in your chest and comes bursting out like you just can't contain it, loud and unapologetic and so fucking pleased with yourself.

the shadows dissolve like smoke in sunlight, and there you are—half-sprawled under the bed with your hair sticking up in every direction, eyes crinkled with amusement, grinning like you just pulled off the world's greatest heist. "oh my god," you wheeze, wiping at your eyes, "your face—i wish you could see yourself right now—"

mark just collapses onto his back, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon, elbows digging into the carpet as he glares up at you with the most betrayed expression imaginable. it's a perfect mix of "i'm going to strangle you with my bare hands" and "why do you have to look so pretty when you're being the actual worst?"

your laughter stutters to a stop when you see the tear tracks glistening on his cheeks. "…oh." your voice goes soft, all the mischief draining away in an instant. "oh, shit, mark—" you're moving before you even finish the sentence, crawling across the carpet to cradle his face in your hands. your thumbs brush away the tears with a gentleness that makes his breath hitch, your forehead pressing against his like you're trying to physically transfer an apology through skin contact. "hey, hey, i'm so sorry, okay? i didn't think you'd actually—i mean, you're invincible, i didn't think—"

"you're the actual worst," mark croaks, his voice still shaky from adrenaline, but he's already tilting his head into your palms like a cat begging for scratches. because despite everything—despite you being a complete menace to society—your hands are always so warm, your stupid smirk always so unfairly charming even when you've just traumatized him for life. "i hope you know i'm never forgiving you for this. like, ever. we're done."

you grin, already knowing he doesn't mean a word of it, and yank him forward into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of him. "awww, but you love me~" you sing-song directly into his ear, your voice dripping with playful smugness as you feel him immediately melt against you despite his protests. one hand slides up to ruffle his already-messy hair while the other rubs comforting circles between his shoulder blades—the exact spot you know makes him go all soft and pliant.

mark groans, but it's half-hearted at best, his face now buried in the crook of your neck where he can secretly inhale that familiar scent of your stupidly expensive cologne mixed with whatever shampoo you stole from him last week. "i hate you," he mumbles directly against your skin, the words vibrating through you as his arms finally wind around your waist to pull you even closer. "you're a monster. a demon. i'm telling cecil to send you to space jail. i'm sure he has one somewhere up there."

you laugh, pressing a teasing kiss to his temple—just quick enough that he can't protest, but slow enough to make his heart stutter. he wishes you'd do it more often. wishes that it meant more. wishes that you'd do more when he finally musters up the courage to ask to be yours forever.

"sure, sure," you murmur, lips still brushing his skin as you speak. "but first..." you suddenly shift, flipping both of you over until mark's sprawled on his back with you grinning down at him, his wide-eyed blush absolutely precious. "...gotta make it up to you, right?" your voice drops to that low, dangerous tone that always makes his brain short-circuit, your fingers now gently tracing the tear tracks on his cheeks. "maybe... ice cream? cuddles? that new comic you've been eyeing?"

mark's pout is almost convincing. "...with extra sprinkles?" he mutters, already knowing he's lost this battle the moment your lips touched his skin.

"whatever you want, pretty boy," you whisper, watching with delight as his entire face turns scarlet at the nickname—the same one that’s been reducing him to a flustered mess since you were fifteen. and god, fifteen-year-old mark had been a disaster—tripping over his own feet every time you got too close, face burning whenever you slung an arm around his shoulders, heart pounding so loud he was sure you could hear it.

some things never change.

he swallows hard, throat suddenly tight as his skin burns where you touch him—your knee pressed against his thigh, your fingers absently playing with the hair at his nape, your breath warm and sweet when you laugh just inches from his mouth. it's unfair, the way you do this—all easy affection and teasing touches, like this closeness between you doesn't mean anything more than best friends messing around. like your hands don't linger just a second too long, like your hugs don't hold him tighter than necessary, like your voice doesn't drop to that soft, private tone reserved only for him.

(and maybe it doesn't mean more to you. that's the terrifying thought that keeps him awake at night. because you've always been like this—bold with everyone else but suddenly so careful with him, dancing right up to the line but never crossing it. too scared to put a name to the way your chest tightens when he smiles, to the years of stolen glances and almost-confessions that died on your tongue. too terrified to admit that sixth-grade you fell first, but eighteen-year-old you is still falling, harder every day.)

the worst part? he'd wait forever if you asked him to. he's already memorized the exact shade of your lips when you bite them to hide a smile, the way your eyes crinkle when you're trying not to laugh at him, the soft sigh you make when you think no one's listening. he knows you—all of you—and still wants you with an ache that never quite goes away.

because mark? mark is ruined. he’s spent years memorizing the exact shade of your smile, the way your voice dips when you’re sleepy, the stupid little snort you make when something catches you off guard. he knows you better than he knows himself, loves you more than he’ll ever admit out loud.

and yet here you are, curled around him like you belong there (you do), whispering sweet nothings like they don’t mean anything (they do, to him), calling him pretty boy like it doesn’t carve him open every single time (it does).

he should pull away. he won’t.

(he never pulls away. not even a little. in fact, his grip around you might have tightened just slightly.)

2.8k words of mark grayson and reader being a lovesick disaster (again)! sorry if this isn't exactly what you imagined and requested, anon—i went through four different versions before settling on this one because the others just didn't feel right. really hope you still like how it turned out though 🥹

#ohhh my god #this is the cutest thing i’ve ever read #tears in my eyes as we speak 🥹#꩜ REBLOGS .ᐟ

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