#lazy-ahh

[lazy-ahh]

Hi, Lazy-ahh! Can I ask for main Mark x AMAB reader? In another universe, reader lost his Mark. He somehow travels to main Mark’s universe. Out of desperation, reader murders the other version of himself to take his place and have a second chance with his boyfriend. But it’s only a matter of time before Mark finds out.

REPLACEABLE

pairing mark grayson x (alternate dimension) AMAB reader

in another dimension, you lost mark. now, you'll destroy anything—even yourself—to get him back. but when mark starts noticing the blood under your nails, you realize: some ghosts can't be buried. and some loves aren't yours to keep.

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

you miss him.

it’s a hollow, gnawing thing, chewing through your ribs like a starving animal, leaving behind nothing but an ache so deep you swear it’s carved into your bones. you miss the way he laughed, loud and unguarded, the way his nose scrunched when he teased you, the way his fingers tangled in yours like he never wanted to let go—like you were something precious, something worth holding onto.

but your mark is gone.

you don’t remember much about how it happened, the memory too traumatic to remember yet too painful to forget—just screaming, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the way his body hit the ground too hard, too still, the sickening crack of impact that still echoes in your nightmares. you remember clutching his face, your fingers smearing red across his cheeks, begging him to wake up, to breathe, but his eyes stayed empty, staring past you into nothing.

you weren’t fast enough. you weren’t strong enough.

and then, somehow, you weren’t in your world anymore.

you weren’t even given the chance to grieve yet, to mourn, to scream into the void until your voice gave out. one second, you were kneeling in the wreckage of your life, and the next, you were standing on a sidewalk under a sun that felt too bright, too cruel.

this universe is almost the same. the same streets, the same sky, the same stupid posters of omni-man and the guardians of the globe plastered on bus stops, their smug faces grinning down at you like some sick joke. but then you see him—mark, your mark, alive and whole and laughing, his voice ringing through the air like a punch to the chest. your breath stutters, your chest cracks open, and suddenly you’re drowning all over again.

he’s right there.

you watch him for days, a ghost haunting the edges of his life. he goes to class, he texts his friends, he flies off to fight bad guys like nothing’s wrong, like the world hasn’t ended. it seems like he had just recently gotten his superpowers, his movements still a little unsteady mid-air, nothing like the effortless grace of your mark. your mark had gained his while he was trying to save you during a villain attack, his body slamming into yours as he shielded you from debris, his eyes wide with panic and determination as his powers finally sparked to life. you’d been walking toward a comic store to buy the latest issue of seance dog, his hand warm in yours, his voice teasing as he argued about which volume was better—as cliché and romantic as the scenario was, it was yours. but this mark wasn’t your mark. he didn’t have the memories you two shared, the inside jokes, the quiet nights pressed together under the glow of his laptop screen. he just lived his life happily and heroically, like he didn’t die in your arms. like you didn’t lose everything.

and then you see him. no—not him. you.

the other version of you in this dimension. it seemed like you didn’t get superpowers, didn’t go through the intense training that carved your body into something sharper, something meant to survive. you were... normal. soft in a way you hadn’t been in years. this version of you didn’t get to go on dates where you and mark just flew through the vast, endless night sky, the air cold and biting as you clung to him, the world below reduced to scattered lights while above you, the cosmos sprawled out in all its glory—endless stars, streaks of auroras painting the dark in rippling greens and purples, depending on where the two of you decided to go that night. you didn’t get to fight side by side, didn’t get to know the rush of battle, the way mark’s laughter would cut through the chaos as the two of you pulled off some stupid, reckless stunt, the way he’d press his forehead to yours after, breathless and bleeding, whispering, we make a good team.

but this you—this soft, powerless, ordinary you—was the one who still got to hold mark’s hand. who still got to kiss him goodnight. who still got to exist in a world where he was alive.

it’s not fair.

you don’t plan it. at least, you don’t think you do. but when you see them together—mark’s arm slung around his shoulders, his smile so bright it hurts, like looking directly into the sun—something inside you snaps. something dark and cruel and selfish, something that’s been festering deep inside you, rotting you from the core, finally consumes you whole.

he was walking home alone. it’s easy. he was normal. you were not.

you remember not even letting him scream. every time the memory comes crashing back, it’s like watching a scene play out from somewhere outside your body—like you’re floating in the back of your own mind, numb and detached, as the darkness in your veins pulls your strings, as your hands move without your permission. you let it happen. you let yourself drown.

you had gracefully landed behind them, silent as a shadow. your reflection in the dim streetlights would’ve been horrifying if they’d turned around fast enough to see it—your eyes sunken, bruised with exhaustion, your lips chapped from biting back screams, your hair a mess from nights spent clawing at your own scalp just to feel something. you looked like a ghost. like something already dead.

you remember the way they turned around, playful and fond, expecting it to be mark, only for their expression to twist into surprise. then—wonder? awe? you remember feeling perplexed, watching as this other version of you lit up, rambling in passionate excitement about how cool it was to see another version of himself. you had explained, briefly, that you were a superhero in your dimension, that you fought alongside mark, and their face had glowed with admiration, with playful jealousy, with this aching, innocent want—god, i wish i could do that. i wish i could be out there with him.

then, you remember telling them, voice hollow, that your mark died. because you were too weak. too slow. too human to save him.

and their expression—it falls. their smile shatters like glass, their eyes widening in something like grief, like understanding, because they love mark too, and the thought of losing him—

you watch the exact moment realization creeps in. their breath hitches. their fingers twitch, like they want to reach for you, or maybe run. their lips part—wait—

but you’re already moving.

"but... don’t worry," you whisper, and your voice doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. "you’ll be able to fight alongside him too. it’s just... it wouldn’t be you." your hand brushes their cheek, almost tender. "but then again, we are the same person anyway, right...?"

their face twists in horror.

you don’t let them scream.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark notices something's off.

not at first. at first, you're perfect—maybe too perfect. you know all his favorite foods (the way he likes his burgers slightly pink in the middle, how he picks the mushrooms out of his pasta but will eat them if they're chopped small enough). you remember every stupid inside joke, every embarrassing childhood story his mom told you that one thanksgiving. your hands find all the right places—the spot behind his ear that makes him shiver, the way his shoulders tense after patrol that requires just the right amount of pressure to melt away. you curl into him on the couch like a dying star collapsing inward, pressing your face into the warm hollow of his neck, breathing him in like he's oxygen and you've been drowning for months.

maybe he is. maybe he's the only thing keeping you from dissolving completely.

"you've been clingy lately," he murmurs one night, fingers tracing idle circles along the knobs of your spine. you've lost weight. his voice is fond but there's something else there now—a question. "not that i'm complaining."

you tighten your arms around him like he might vanish if you loosen your grip. "just missed you."

he laughs, soft and warm, but it doesn't reach his eyes the way it used to. "i was gone for, like, two hours."

you press closer instead of answering, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

silence stretches. then his hand stills on your back. "...y/n?"

"mhm?"

"look at me."

you don't want to. but you do.

his brows are furrowed, thumb brushing under your eye where the shadows have grown darker, more permanent. "you look like shit." it's supposed to be a joke but his voice cracks. "when was the last time you slept? actually slept?"

you try to smile. it feels like tearing open a wound. "'m fine."

"bullshit." his hands frame your face, calloused and warm and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache. "you're shaking. you've been—i don't know, jumpy? like you're expecting something to—" he cuts himself off, swallows hard. "talk to me. please."

the concern in his voice is worse than anger would've been. you want to laugh. you want to scream. you want to tell him everything—how you wake up choking on his name, how every time he leaves the room you're half-convinced he won't come back, how sometimes you still smell blood when there's none there.

instead, you press your forehead to his and whisper, "bad dreams."

it's not entirely a lie.

mark exhales, long and slow, his breath warm against your lips. "okay," he murmurs, like he doesn't believe you but won't push. not yet. "okay. but you gotta eat something, alright? and sleep. actual sleep. i'll be right here." his arms tighten around you. "not going anywhere."

you close your eyes.

(you don't tell him that's what your mark said too.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it's the little things that give you away.

the way you flinch when a car backfires two blocks away—too loud, too sudden, too much like that day. how you forget cecil's name during dinner when mark mentions him, even though the other you had known him since freshman year. the way you sometimes stare at mark across the room like he's a miracle, like he's already gone, your fingers twitching with the need to touch him just to prove he's real.

and then there are the nightmares.

you wake up screaming more often than not, sheets tangled around your thrashing limbs, your throat raw like you've been swallowing glass. the images never fade—blood on your hands, mark's vacant eyes, the way his body had felt so heavy when you cradled him. you scrub your skin raw in the shower until it's pink and stinging, but the phantom stains remain. you see them in the dark, in the flicker of streetlights through the blinds, in the rust-colored water swirling down the drain.

mark always wakes when you do.

his arms are around you before you can choke out another sob, pulling you against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat—steady, alive, here. "hey," he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with sleep but achingly tender, "it's okay. i've got you." his lips press against your damp temple, your forehead, the corner of your eye where tears still cling. "breathe, baby. just breathe."

you want to sob harder at the pet name. the other you had loved it too.

your fingers clutch at his shirt like a lifeline, nails digging into the fabric as you try to anchor yourself in the present. mark doesn't complain, just holds you tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "was it the same dream?" he asks softly.

you nod against his collarbone, unable to speak past the guilt lodged in your throat.

"wanna talk about it?"

you shake your head.

he doesn't push. just shifts until he can tuck you under his chin, your ear pressed over his pulse point. "listen to that," he whispers. "i'm right here. not going anywhere." his fingers card through your sweat-damp hair, gentle and sure. "you're stuck with me, y'know?"

a wet laugh escapes you, half-hysterical. if only he knew.

when you finally drift off again, it's to the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his hand still tangled in yours—like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

(you wish you could tell him he's holding a ghost.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he finds out on a thursday.

you don't know how. maybe he followed you when you slipped out before dawn to scrub blood from under your nails in a gas station bathroom. maybe he found the shallow grave you dug behind the abandoned church, the dirt still loose after three weeks of rain. maybe the other you's friends noticed their texts going unanswered, their calls ignored, the way you'd flinch whenever someone said their name.

but when you push open the bedroom door—still smiling, still pretending, still holding the takeout bag from mark's favorite burger place—he's standing in the middle of the room. the blinds are closed. the lights are too bright. his face is pale as milkglass.

"where's y/n?" he asks. his voice is too quiet, too careful, like he's holding back a hurricane.

your stomach drops through the floor. the bag slips from your fingers, greasy fries scattering across the hardwood. "i'm right here."

"no." his hands are shaking now, clenched at his sides like he wants to hit something. or you. "the real y/n. where are they?"

you open your mouth. nothing comes out but a thin, wounded sound.

mark's eyes drag over you—the too-sharp angles of your face that don't quite match the photos on the fridge, the way your fingers twitch toward your pockets where bloodstained gloves are hidden, the defensive hunch of your shoulders like you're waiting for the world to end. again. his breath hitches. "oh my god." his voice cracks down the middle. "you—you're not them. what did you do?"

the grief in his voice is a knife between your ribs. you can feel yourself splitting open at the seams.

"i had to," you whisper. your voice sounds shattered, like you've been screaming for years. "i couldn't—i couldn't lose you again."

"again?" his face twists like he's tasting something rotten. "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"you died." the words pour out of you like pus from an infected wound, thick and putrid with guilt. "in my world, you died in my arms—your blood soaking through my clothes, your eyes going blank while i begged you to stay—and i—" your voice fractures, "i wasn't fast enough, i wasn't strong enough, and then i was here and you were alive but you weren't mine and i just—" your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack, but you don't feel the pain. "i just wanted you back."

mark stumbles back like you've physically struck him, his shoulders hitting the wall with a dull thud. his hands fly up to clutch at his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands until his knuckles bleach white. "so you killed him?" his voice is barely recognizable—raw and shattered. "you killed yourself just to—to what? replace him? wear his face like some fucked-up mask?!"

"i didn't want to be alone!" you scream so hard your throat tears, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. "you don't understand—you're alive here, breathing and whole and—" your voice breaks into a whimper, "and i couldn't—i couldn't keep waking up to a world where you don't exist—"

mark's crying. really crying—the kind of sobs that wrack his entire body, tears streaming down his face in hot, silent rivers. you've never seen him cry before, not even when he broke his arm during a fight, not even when his dad disappointed him for the hundredth time. his breath comes in ragged, wet gasps as he slides down the wall, his legs giving out beneath him.

"you're a monster," he chokes out, the words barely audible but cutting deeper than any blade. his red-rimmed eyes meet yours, and the look in them—horror, grief, betrayal—makes your stomach twist violently.

you collapse forward, your forehead pressing against the cold floor as your body convulses with silent sobs. the weight of what you've done crushes you into nothingness, until you're not sure you even exist anymore. the last thing you hear before darkness swallows you whole is mark's broken whisper:

"i loved him."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he doesn't turn you in.

you don't know why. maybe he pities you—sees the hollows under your eyes, the way your hands never stop shaking, and thinks you've suffered enough. maybe he's too horrified to think straight, his mind still reeling from the blood under the floorboards, the missing person posters plastered across town. or maybe, in some terrible, twisted way, he understands. because he's lost people too—nearly lost himself a dozen times over—and that kind of grief does things to a person. makes them desperate. makes them dangerous. especially if that person was the love of your life. your soulmate. your heart. your everything.

but he doesn't look at you the same.

he doesn't touch you—no more casual brushes of fingers, no more sleepy cuddles on the couch, no more pressing kisses to your scars like they're something precious. doesn't smile at your stupid jokes, doesn't light up when you walk into the room. doesn't say your name like it means something, just avoids it entirely, like the syllables burn his tongue.

you broke him.

(and you wonder, with a sick sort of clarity, if this is how your mark felt when you died in your world. if he'd screamed himself raw, if he'd begged some higher power for a second chance, if he'd have done something just as monstrous to get you back. the thought makes you nauseous. you understand now. you wish you didn't.)

you leave before he can.

you don't belong here. you never did.

the last thing you see is mark's face—angry, grieving, alive—his mouth forming words you'll never hear, his hands reaching out like some part of him still wants to catch you. then the portal swallows you whole, and there's nothing but static and the phantom feeling of his fingers slipping through yours.

(you hope, wherever you end up, that there's a version of him who still loves you. but you know, deep down, you don't deserve it.)

3.1k words and I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMOREEEE WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS TO MYSELFFFFFF AHHHHHHH thank you so much to the lovely anon who requested this! <33 hopefully you didn't cry as hard as i did when you read this...

[its-elioo]

POV: they are judging you

[tinfoil-jones]

Jerk Ford may not be a massive jerk to his Stan, but he must still push his buttons a little from time to time like healthy siblings do, right? So what does he do to annoy him?

Mabel: Great Uncle Ford?

Jerk Ford: What is it, runt?

Mabel: Grandpa asked me and Dipper once if we could feel what the other one was feeling! Did he ask because you and Grunkle Stan can do that?

Jerk Ford: Ah, yes. Sherman called it a 'Twinstinct'. Before I was in the Nightmare Realm, yes, we could feel each others pain.

Mabel: Really?

Jerk Ford: It did not seem to function while I was outside of this dimension.

Mabel: ...Does it work now that you're back?

Jerk Ford: Hm, I suppose the only way to find out is to approach this with the scientific method. First, I need to gather data.

Jerk Ford: *punches himself in the stomach hard*

*Surprised, angry shout from the kitchen*

Stan: SONUVA-!

Jerk Ford: The data is pointing to a yes.

[wyllaztopia]

if ur taking requests may i kindly request a geno x nm.. theyre such freaks i lovehate them

"I will write you a lousy epitaph."

[redbowkid-27]

Naughty frisk freak

[cartoonguy08]

the way you draw spy,, like get the fruity mosquito looking ahh off my dispenser (affectionately)

Foiled again 😔

[kroosluvr]

spare bento [ part 1 / you are here! / part 3 ]

"kasumi was always so insistent about that. ...and, thinking about it now, i guess she was right all along."

[vallirxxo]

bachira x usagi 🤝🤝

[meloooooonade]

Forgot i drew this ngl

[kindaasrikal]

I

Got lazy

Sorryw dbwjzhj

[drowninnoodles]

IT TOOK SO LONG

[lazy-ahh]

i hope you don’t mind a request 😔 mark and reader sitting in his college dorm and explaining everything that happened on thraxa. he briefly mentions the clothing they gave him to wear (that toga thing) and gawd if i were his bf/parter i would go ham asking to see him in it so i can call him pretty and spin him and kiss him silly

THRAXAN DRESS CODE: SMASH OR PASS

pairing mark grayson x male reader

mark grayson has survived battles, aliens, and the horrors of thraxa—but none of it prepared him for the real threat: you, utterly obsessed with how good he looks in that stupid, shimmering thraxan outfit.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

you’re sitting cross-legged on mark’s dorm bed, the cheap college mattress squeaking under you as you lean forward, elbows propped on your knees. the sheets are rumpled beneath you, still warm from where he’d been sitting moments before. your eyes are wide, lips quirking into a grin as you press, "okay, wait—so they just gave you a… what, like, a dress-looking thing? and expected you to just know how to wear it?"

mark snorts, rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he’s embarrassed. "dude, it was so awkward," he says, flopping back onto the bed with a huff. his arms flail a little as he reenacts the moment. "picture this—i’m standing there, still covered in, like, dry blood or whatever, and this thraxan—they look like giant blue praying mantis, by the way—just drops this flowy fabric into my hands." he sits up suddenly, gesturing wildly. "no instructions, no 'hey, human, here’s how you tie this,' just boom. alien laundry."

you bite your lip to keep from laughing as he mimics his own confusion, hands fumbling in the air like he’s trying to fold an invisible sheet. "i swear," he groans, "i looked like a toddler trying to put on a cape for the first time. just spinning in circles until someone took pity on me. i was literally wearing a mini skirt the whole time i was there."

you snort, shaking your head hard enough that a few strands of hair flop into your eyes. "i need to see this. like, right now," you demand, kicking your legs a little against the mattress for emphasis.

"what? no way," mark groans, letting his entire body go limp as he flops backward onto the bed. the springs creak under him, and he throws an arm over his face like he’s trying to hide. "it was so embarrassing. like, ritualistically embarrassing."

"oh, come on," you whine, immediately scrambling over him���knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as you loom above him. you poke his side, right where you know he’s ticklish, and grin when he jerks with a half-stifled laugh. "you can’t just drop ‘i wore a sexy alien toga’ and not show me. that’s, like—intergalactically illegal."

mark peeks out from under his arm, squinting up at you. "sexy? you don’t even know what it looks like," he mutters, but his voice cracks just enough to betray him.

"yes, sexy," you insist, dragging out the word as you shift your weight, settling more firmly against him. your fingers sneak under the hem of his shirt, tracing idle circles on his waist just to feel him shiver. "now please? for me?" you bat your eyelashes obnoxiously, lips puckered in a mock pout—but then you soften, leaning down to nuzzle your nose against his. "c’mon, grayson. don’t make me beg."

mark rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick, but you feel it—the way his breath hitches when your arms tighten around him, the warm flush creeping up his neck.

"ugh, fine," he grumbles, dragging the word out like it physically pains him as he pushes himself upright. the bed creaks in protest as he swings his legs over the side, bare feet hitting the dorm’s scuffed linoleum with a soft thud. "but if you laugh," he warns, jabbing a finger in your direction, "i’m breaking up with you. permanently."

"noted," you say, pressing a hand to your chest like you’re taking a sacred vow—before immediately ruining the solemn act with a poorly-suppressed giggle that escapes through your nose in a tiny snort.

mark’s eyes narrow into a look—the kind that says you’re lucky you’re cute—before he turns and stomps the three steps to his closet. he yanks the door open with more force than necessary, making the hinges whine, and starts shoving aside hoodies and crumpled laundry with aggressive rustling. after a minute of muttering ("where the hell—? oh, come on—"), he finally pulls out the thraxan outfit—a cascade of delicate, shimmering fabric that spills over his arms like liquid moonlight, so stupidly elegant against his sleep-rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants. he holds it up by the shoulders, nose scrunched in hesitation, and you have to physically clamp your lips between your teeth to stop yourself from cooing like an overexcited pigeon.

"okay," he huffs, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "turn around."

"what? no!" you protest, scrambling to kneel at the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress like a kid at a candy store window. "i wanna see the whole—process." you wiggle your eyebrows for emphasis.

"absolutely not," mark says, pointing at you with the kind of exaggerated sternness usually reserved for misbehaving puppies. "turn. around."

you sigh like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, slumping forward until your forehead thunks against the cinderblock wall in defeat. behind you, there’s more rustling—fabric whispering against skin, a frustrated "how does this even—? ugh, stupid alien clothing—", the muffled snap of a waistband. then, after a beat of silence:

"...okay. you can look."

you spin around so fast your socks nearly skid on the dorm's cheap linoleum—and then your brain completely flatlines.

mark stands there, the thraxan outfit clinging to every unfairly sculpted inch of him like it was made to highlight his stupidly perfect body. the sleeveless design puts his arms on full display—those obscene biceps that flex when he shifts his weight, the defined ridges of his shoulders that you've bitten marks into more times than you can count. the fabric cinches snug around his waist, emphasizing how narrow it is compared to his chest, and holy shit, you could probably span it with your hands if you tried. but the real crime is the skirt—riding up just high enough on his thighs to show off the muscle there, thick and powerful from all those hours of flying, and you have to physically swallow around the sudden dryness in your throat.

the material shimmers under the crappy dorm lights, catching every shift of his body like liquid silver against his warm skin. he's blushing hard, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the skirt like he's torn between tugging it down or ripping the whole thing off. his biceps tense as he crosses his arms—god, why does that make his chest look even broader?—and the way the fabric stretches across his shoulders should be illegal.

"so…?" he prompts, voice cracking a little, and it's adorable how nervous he sounds when he looks like that.

you don’t answer. can’t. your mouth is hanging open like a broken hinge, your pulse roaring in your ears loud enough to drown out coherent thought. all you can process is: mark. thighs. waist. arms. holyfuckingSHIT—

your brain helpfully supplies an image of grabbing that skirt and yanking him closer, feeling all that muscle under your hands, and wow, okay, maybe you should lay down before you pass out.

"uh... you good?" mark waves a hand slowly in front of your glazed-over eyes, fingers snapping twice near your ear. his eyebrows pinch together—and yeah, okay, you get the concern, because your heart is hammering so violently you can feel it in your throat, your wrists, even your damn eyelids. it's like your entire nervous system just blue-screened the second you saw him.

"pretty," you finally choke out, the word punched out of you like you've been sucker-punched by how unfair he looks.

mark blinks, nose scrunching. "huh?"

"you're so pretty," you breathe, and then you're moving—launching off the bed so fast the sheets tangle around your ankles, nearly tripping in your haste to get to him. your hands are already reaching, trembling slightly as they skate up the shimmering fabric, over the hard curve of his shoulders—god, you can feel the heat of him even through the material—then higher, thumbs brushing the delicate dip of his collarbones. "oh my god, mark," you whisper, voice wrecked, "you—how are you real? how is this legal?"

his skin is warm under your palms, the blush spreading down his neck in real time as you trace the lines of him like you're trying to memorize every inch. the outfit clings to his waist like it was designed to taunt you, the skirt riding up just enough to make your mouth water, and you're this close to dropping to your knees right then and there.

mark's breath hitches when your fingers curl into the fabric at his hips. "okay, you're really overreacting—"

you cut him off by grabbing his face and kissing him hard, one hand fisting in his hair to tilt his head just so. mark makes a startled noise against your lips before melting into it, his hands sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. you can feel the muscle of his thighs through the thin fabric, the way his stomach tenses when you nip at his lower lip, and fuck, it's so much—

when you finally pull back, you're both panting, foreheads pressed together. mark's pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen, and the way the thraxan outfit is just disheveled enough from your hands on him? devastating.

"so pretty," you murmur again, unable to stop the words from spilling out like a prayer as you press kisses along the warm curve of his cheek. your hands slide up his bare arms—god, the way the thraxan fabric leaves them exposed like this should be criminal—feeling the shift of muscle under smooth skin as he tilts his head for you. you linger at the sharp angle of his jaw, breathing in the familiar scent of his stupid citrus body wash mixed with something uniquely mark, before catching the corner of his mouth with your lips. it's barely a kiss, just a teasing brush, but it makes him shiver.

mark laughs, low and breathy, his fingers tangling in the back of your shirt to tug you closer. "you're such a dork," he says, but his voice is fond, roughened at the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"uh, excuse me—your dork," you correct, punctuating it with a deliberate nip at his neck, right over the pulse point you know drives him crazy. the choked noise he makes—half gasp, half moan—sends a thrill down your spine, and you can't resist laving the spot with your tongue in apology, tasting salt and warmth.

"okay, okay—" mark's grip tightens on your shoulders, pushing you back just far enough that you can see the flush spreading down his chest, pink and perfect under the shimmering fabric. his breathing is uneven, lips parted, and fuck, the way the outfit clings to him now—rumpled from your hands, the skirt riding up even higher on his thighs—makes your brain short-circuit all over again. "as much as i'm really enjoying this," he says, voice dropping to that husky register that does things to your insides, "i do have roommates who could walk in literally any second."

you pout, letting your hands slide down to grip his waist—so narrow under your palms, you could probably circle it with your thumbs touching—and whine, "so? don't you and william have that sock rule thing, anyway?"

"so," mark grins, leaning in until his nose brushes yours, his breath warm against your lips, "maybe we save the rest of this for when we're not in a shared dorm." his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, teasing, and you nearly groan at the implication. "unless you want an audience for whatever that face was about. and besides, william still hasn't forgiven us for how long we took last time..."

(you definitely do not want to have an audience. you're trying to enjoy the full experience of mark grayson, not trying to perform and act, thank you very much. but the mental image of dragging mark into the nearest closet the second william and whoever he brought with him comes in? yeah. that’s staying.)

you groan dramatically, dragging your palms down your face like this is the greatest injustice you’ve ever endured—but you relent, stepping back just far enough that your fingers have to slip reluctantly from his waist. “fine,” you huff, jabbing a finger at his chest (and trying very hard not to get distracted by how the fabric stretches taut over his pecs). “but you’re keeping this stupidly hot outfit on for at least five more minutes. i need to memorize this.”

mark rolls his eyes so hard you worry they’ll stick, but he doesn’t argue—just lets you grab his wrists and tug him backward onto the bed with a yelp. the mattress squeaks in protest as you both collapse onto it, and you immediately burrow into his side, throwing a leg over his thighs like a possessive octopus. your hand finds the bare skin of his arm again, thumb tracing idle circles over his bicep just because you can, because the thraxan fabric left it gloriously exposed and god, he’s so warm.

you can’t help but sneak another glance up at him—the way the dim dorm light catches the shimmer of the outfit, how it pools around his hips like something out of a fantasy, the faint blush still dusting his cheekbones—and the words tumble out before you can stop them: “still pretty.”

mark sighs, long-suffering, but you feel the way his chest vibrates with a suppressed laugh, the way his arm tightens around your shoulders to pull you closer. “yeah, yeah,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head that lingers just a second too long to play it cool. his lips brush against your hair as he adds, softer, “love you too, weirdo.”

(and if you nuzzle your face into his collarbone to hide your grin, well—that’s between you and whatever poor superperson who has telepathy.)

2.3k words full of MARK LOOKING GOOD IN THAT GODDAMN THRAXAN OUTFIT, like okay mark WE SEE THE FIT WE SEE THE FIT, AND THE FIT IS LOOKING SO GOOD- TOO GOOD, in fact. to the point that we need to see that fit OFF OF HIM LIKE COME ONNNNN

[deezii69]

Cyber man

[sxyves]

🏷️ - overwhelmed!reader. afab!reader. sub!reader. softdom!hyunjin. cockwarming.

“close your eyes baby, i’ll take care of you.” are the last words either of you say as he enters you.

you’re tired, that’d be an understatement for what you’re feeling like right now, on hyunjin’s lap, him inside of you. you were too lazy to really do anything right now, all you wanted was to feel close around him.

eyes fluttering shut as you rest your head on his shoulder, his hands caressing your back and rocking you back and forth.

“don’t worry about anything, just relax.” he whispers softly in your ear,

relax

that’s all you had to do, nothing was wrong, just you, him, and the soft taps of the rain on your guys’ roof.

coming home tired and wanting nothing but to be right next to him, you couldn’t think of anything else right now, just you and him.

“hyunjin” you mutter out quietly after a while, he responds with a small hum.

“i’m sorry.”

“don’t be.”

“no— i just feel like i’m being too sensitive and annoyi-”

he interrupted you,

“shhh”

“don’t be sorry for anything, i’m not upset at you, __.”

“i know, i just- felt so—”

“__, did you not just hear what i said?” he said, a little more stern now. you went silent. “i said it’s okay, you don’t have to worry about anything right now, just.. calm down, focus on yourself.”

you nod slowly, sinking into his lap again,

he was right, calm down.

[kwnnys]

scaramouche would rather die than admit how much he really enjoyed little spooning.

the feeling of your arms wrapped around his waist and your head buried in the crook of his neck, it drives him insane.

not to mention the feeling of your hand resting on his stomach, drawing circles on the soft skin as you mutter sweet nothings in his ear.

press kisses at his neck. nibble lightly on the shell of his ear and listen as his breath hitches, shooting you a side glare as a warning. (to which you pay no mind to.)

his body instinctively curls up the moment he feels your touch, and a low sigh escapes his lips. scara loves these moments, coming home after a long day and being held by you. because it is the most nourishing affection he could ever experience.

[nestedfeathers]

your my dad! dad! boogiwoogiwoogi.