MASTERLIST ! ! !
welcome, welcome! this masterlist currently features mark grayson (including his invincible variants), jason todd, phainon/khaslana, and vergil. to make things easier, you can use the search bar—just press ctrl + f and type the name of the character you're looking for. take your time, and i sincerely hope you enjoy your time here. thanks for stopping by!
one-shots
in amphoreus, pushing someone on a swing is the oldest love confession—so when phainon takes you to a cliffside swing adorned with ribbons and charms, his heart hangs on your reaction. too bad you had no idea.
after hundreds of cycles—lifetimes spent chasing each other through death and rebirth—you wake one night with the weight of every memory crashing down at once. the battles. the blood. the way phainon’s hands always found yours, even in the dark. you remember dying for him. you remember him dying for you. you remember the wheat fields, the promises, the way he kissed your forehead like a vow.
sometimes, love feels like déjà vu. phainon isn’t one to believe in past lives—until he meets you. from the first moment you laugh at his jokes, something clicks into place, like a half-remembered melody. battlefields become stages, market strolls turn into something sweeter, and suddenly, he’s rewriting all his old rules.
phainon has always been the sun—bright, untouchable, dazzling everyone in his orbit. but when you gift him a handmade bracelet (a moon to his sun, a silent confession woven in thread), he realizes for the first time what it’s like to burn.
(they never teach you how to survive being loved by the moon.)
phainon talks to himself. a lot. and when his muttering habits accidentally reveal a carefully planned surprise for you, he’s left scrambling to salvage the moment—or at least his dignity. but you don’t mind. you never do. because hearing his unfiltered thoughts, even the silly ones, just reminds you how terribly (adorably) bad he is at hiding how much he cares.
in the quiet between resets, between the halcyon days of wheat fields and the inevitable pull of the vortex, there exists one fragile cycle where things are different. where you, who have always been khaslana's constant, now bear the weight of a coreflame in your chest.
phainon and you are all sunshine—except when you're together. then, it's all bickering, teasing, and playful challenges. but somewhere between the rivalry and the reluctant smiles, something shifts. phainon falls first, loud and obvious; you're slower, softer, but just as hopeless. two idiots, one love—neither of you knows how to act normal about it.
phainon has grown used to your playful, flirty nature—always teasing, always lingering a little too close. he tells himself it’s just how you are with everyone, so he brushes it off. but when you keep giving him little gifts—things he’s only mentioned in passing, things he never expected you to remember—he starts to wonder. maybe it’s not just friendliness. but you’re not exactly the most trustworthy person, and the rumors about your shady dealings make others keep their distance. phainon doesn’t care, though. not when you’re the one who teaches him about antiques, who laughs at his jokes, who looks at him like he’s worth sticking around for.
phainon knows he shouldn't sneak into your room at night, watching you sleep with his heart in his throat. but how could he resist when you look so peaceful? over time, his touches grow bolder—brushing your hair, tracing your lips, memorizing every detail like a man obsessed. he's prepared to love you from the shadows forever... until the night you grab his wrist and yank him close. turns out, you've known all along. and as your fingers card gently through his hair, whispering "took you long enough," he realizes something terrifyingly wonderful—you've been just as obsessed with him this whole time.
in one of the endless cycles, phainon’s love for you twists into something darker—an obsession he can’t control. he tries to hide it, to stay the sweet, devoted companion you know, but when someone dares to flirt with you, he snaps. blood stains his hands, and when you catch him, he expects horror, rejection… but instead, you’re smirking. you find his desperation for you thrilling, intoxicating—maybe even a little hot. and as he realizes you don’t just love him, but want him like this, his devotion takes on a whole new meaning. after all, if you’re happy, then who’s to say this is wrong?
everyone has a soulmate—even a god who bends galaxies to his will. when khaslana discovers his fated one was never born into any world, he does the unthinkable: he creates a planet just for them. decades later, he descends in mortal form, drawn to the holy city of okhema, where fate finally intertwines their paths. you save him from a skirmish in the marmoreal market, unaware that the moment your hands touch, the marks on both of you vanish. but while khaslana knows instantly, you remain oblivious—your mark was on your back, after all, and you never thought to check. now, the god who shaped stars for you must wait, watching, yearning, until you realize the truth written in your own skin.
phainon has always been yours, and you’ve always been his—best friends since childhood, inseparable in every way. but when you start socializing with others in okhema, his possessive, puppy-like jealousy flares up. he catches you laughing with a stranger in the gardens, and though he keeps up his friendly deliverer act, inside, he’s unraveling. you, however, secretly love seeing him like this—obsessed, desperate, yours. because at the end of the day, no one else matters. not really.
in the holy city of okhema, people have been vanishing without a trace—and phainon, the ever-dutiful deliverer, is determined to uncover the truth. too bad he’s the one behind the disappearances. well, half of them, at least. the other half? that’s your doing. childhood best friends and hopelessly obsessed with each other, the two of you have been stalking one another’s every move for years, memorizing routines, lingering just out of sight—completely unaware that you’re both equally unhinged. phainon watches over you like a lovesick guard dog, convinced he’s protecting you from the city’s dangers. meanwhile, you leave a trail of blood in your wake, grinning like it’s all just part of the adventure you promised him long ago. neither of you knows the truth. neither of you cares. after all, what’s a little murder between soulmates?
a shared obsession, forged in childhood, reaches its boiling point when a random citizen gets too close. when a stranger dares to lay a hand on phainon and laugh too long at his jokes, your 'carefully maintained' control shatters. but he doesn't want your calm—he's been patiently cultivating your beautiful, violent devotion for a lifetime, and he’s eager to reap what he's sown.
for eons, khaslana has been the silent warden of his world, a god deafened by the roar of prayer. then, he meets you. you are no pious follower, just a bone-tired mortal who mends the world's wounds with cynical remarks and weary hands. from the shelter of his mortal disguise, he finds himself composing a new, silent liturgy—not of worship, but of devotion. he paints the sky to match your moods and guides creatures to your side, all for the simple, terrifying hope of earning a place in the orbit of a heart that asks for nothing.
one-shots
for years, they were arch-nemeses. now, they share a breakroom. robert robertson finds himself constantly disarmed by you—his former rival, now a member of the z-team. between shared coffee, quiet balcony nights, and a constant, simmering game of eye-tag, the line between a long-standing rivalry and a slow-burning attraction begins to irrevocably collapse.
(·•᷄ࡇ•᷅ )
one-shots
a moment of respite in a rain-soaked van finds vergil observing the one who travels with him. he is a man of cold calculation and brutal power, yet he is quietly perplexed by your ability to find simple beauty in a world he views as flawed and chaotic.
after saving a stubborn human from a demon, vergil finds himself with an unwanted shadow. they are an inconvenience, a weakness he cannot afford. but as he reluctantly trains them, their persistent light begins to chip away at the ice around his heart, forging a bond he never asked for and never knew he needed.
one-shots
you loved him in the way people love stars—knowing the light is already dead by the time it reaches you. mark grayson was made of collisions: his hands, his heart, his promises. you didn’t mind the bruises. not until the day you became one of them.
(or: in which love is not enough to save you, but it’s the only thing either of you knows how to bleed for.)
in which you hear something you weren’t supposed to. too bad mark grayson doesn’t know you’re awake. too bad you’ve loved him just as long.
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.
you just wanted a snack—was that too much to ask? but with mark grayson's warm, shirtless body pressed against yours, his hands tracing lazy patterns over your hips, and that stupidly perfect smirk ghosting your shoulder... maybe hunger can wait. after all, who needs food when your clingy, ridiculously hot superhero boyfriend is determined to keep you in bed forever?
you've spent months pretending mark grayson is just some awkward comic book nerd—until one conversation about seance dog ruins everything. now you're stuck noticing things: how his stupid sweater hugs his arms, how his laugh sounds like a dying seagull (...in a cute way? and also why is his voice kinda hot-), and worst of all, how he might actually be the only person who gets you. william is suffering. you're in denial. mark is, as always, a disaster. this is war.
debbie grayson has two sons—one by blood, one by choice. mark grayson has known this since he was ten, when you first started tagging along after school and never really left. seven years later, nothing's changed: you're still her favourite, still folded into their family like you were always meant to be there. and mark? well. he's just desperately in love with his best friend, watching you move through his house like it's yours, wondering if you'll ever realise his heart has been yours just as long.
what started as a silly tiktok trend quickly spirals into something far more intimate when you convince your superhero boyfriend to try the viral "bow challenge." but between mark grayson's effortless strength, his flustered giggles, and the way he melts under your touch, you quickly realize this is about so much more than snapping a piece of silk.
mark grayson purrs. it’s a secret only you know—something between a biological quirk and a love language, vibrating against your skin every time you touch him just right. and god, do you love finding new ways to draw it out of him.
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.)
in which you’re just trying to finish your damn homework, but mark grayson keeps being distractingly… mark. (leaning into your space. bumping knees under the library table. accidentally reciting love poems like they’re about you.) it’s fine. you’re fine. (you’re not fine.)
in every world, you'd choose mark grayson. even when he's not yours. even when he's broken. even when it destroys you both.
you died a hero. you fought your way back from the grave. but the worst part isn’t the scars—it’s watching mark grayson live a life without you in it.
you’ve waited weeks for him to return from his mission, and now he’s here, warm and insistent against you, while your ranked match blares ignored on the screen. the worst part? you don't mind losing. despite the weeks of hard work. you want his lips on yours, his weight pressing you into the chair, the way he murmurs "i missed you" between kisses like it’s a confession. but you’ve clawed your way to this rank-up game, and you never quit—even when mark grayson’s tongue is lapping up the precome leaking from your tip and your fingers are trembling on the keyboard.
in which mark grayson realizes two things: (1) his sharp-tongued, emotionally constipated boyfriend is absolutely husband material, and (2) he might actually combust if he doesn’t put a ring on it soon.
mark grayson 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.
what if you got a second chance to fix everything? when your fear kept your heart locked away, watching helplessly as mark grayson slipped through your fingers and loved someone else, the universe offers you an impossible gift—a journey back to where it all went wrong. this time, the words you swallowed will spill from your lips. this time, your trembling hands will reach for his. this time, you'll rewrite your story without regrets. because some loves are worth fighting for, even across time itself.
the weight of the world is crushing you—vigilante work, university, the endless noise of expectations. you’re so tired of holding it all together. but when mark grayson finds you breaking apart, he doesn’t flinch. he just holds you, whispering the words you’re too afraid to believe: "you don’t have to do this alone."
mark grayson has loved you for years—quietly, hopelessly, with every stupid joke and lingering touch. you’ve loved him just as long, though you’d rather die than admit it. but when a rooftop confession under the stars finally cracks your walls open, neither of you can pretend anymore. idiots in love, indeed. a love story inspired by the song 'fantasy' by bazzi.
for as long as you can remember, it's been you and mark grayson. two troublemakers, partners in crime. but lately, something has changed, and you're left staring at your ceiling, wondering when your best friend started making your heart race.
when a mysterious illness leads to a terrifying self-diagnosis, you prepare to face this end alone, too afraid to burden your loving partner, mark grayson. meanwhile, mark is convinced the distance means the end of their relationship. a trip to the doctor reveals a shocking truth that shatters both their fears.
defeating an army of evil versions of yourself is exhausting. so when a portal dumps an unbothered guy at his feet, mark grayson expects a fight. he didn't expect a sardonic fan who seems weirdly invested in the fabric of his suit and is a little too eager to watch him get punched.
series
childhood best friends aren't supposed to stare at each other's lips. they don't linger in quiet moments, hearts pounding, stealing glances that last a second too long—close enough to cross the line, but too scared to take the leap, scared of ruining the one good thing close to perfection in their lives. mark grayson knows this. you know this. yet here you both are... two idiots who'd rather choke on their words than admit the truth.
a hundred almosts. a hundred times mark grayson nearly tells you—with his hands brushing yours a second too long, with his voice cracking when he says your name, with the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in his chaotic, superhero life. but ‘almost’ doesn’t change anything. not until one quiet night, when the air between you crackles with everything unsaid, and the line between friendship and more feels thinner than ever.
(or: mark and reader are disasters in love, dancing around the truth until neither can pretend anymore.)
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.
a follow-up to the thraxan outfit debacle, only this time, mark grayson is the one helping you get dressed. and he finally, truly understands why you went so feral over him.
flash fiction
okay, we’ve all seen stalker! mark grayson x reader, right? but what if… it’s the other way around? what if it’s you who’s been watching him—long before he ever became invincible? what if your obsession started when you were both just kids, a slow-burning fuse that you carefully lit, nurturing it into an inferno over years, almost a decade even? a plan so meticulous, so perfect, that mark grayson never even saw it coming—he just fell, helplessly, right into your waiting hands.
-
GOGGLE-LESS! MARK GRAYSON
one-shots
they say violence is a love language—and yours is practically poetry. mark grayson knows this better than anyone. (or: the one where you punch him in the face daily and he still looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.)
-
one-shots
you memorized the exact shade of brown in mark grayson’s eyes. the way his laugh crinkles his nose. how his hands always tremble after a fight. he memorized the way your body went limp in his arms when the kryptonite hit. how your blood looked smeared across his suit. the exact second your heartbeat stopped. (he’s not your mark. but when he kisses you like he’s drowning, you let him.)
-
one-shots
imagine the most unhinged version of mark grayson—now give him a mohawk, piercings, and exactly zero self-preservation instincts. this is that fic. (also maybe some feelings. but we don’t talk about those.)
you always imagined your grand exit would be more dramatic—maybe a hail of gunfire, a building collapsing in slow motion, at least a decent fucking punchline. instead you're testing a theory: if you disappear now, will mark grayson (your idiot, your disaster, the love of your shitty life) even notice? were you gonna be a tragic loss that haunted him forever, or the weird stain on the couch he learned to ignore?
mark grayson is seventeen, stupidly powerful, and completely incapable of handling you—his childhood rival, his best friend, the person who drives him absolutely insane in every way possible. you fight, you shove each other into lockers, you steal the last fry off his tray every damn day. and yet, somehow, you're the only thing he can't seem to live without.
when a tamaranean crash-lands on earth with his powers locked behind strange cuffs, the last person he expects to meet is mark grayson—mohawk, piercings, and all the attitude of a pissed-off superhuman. but after a very unconventional first encounter (involving lips, language barriers, and zero personal space), the two find themselves tangled in something neither expected. now mark’s stuck babysitting an alien who follows him like a lovesick comet, touches him like he’s something sacred, and looks at him like he’s the entire damn universe. worst part? mark’s starting to like it.
what do you get when you mix a snarky kryptonian with a mohawk-sporting, emotionally constipated invincible? a whole lot of bickering, brutal takedowns, and unresolved sexual tension that could power a city. you and mark grayson have been dancing around each other for years—fighting villains, fighting each other, and definitely not thinking about what his hands would feel like under your shirt. but when a simple mission leaves you both bruised and breathless, that thin line between rivalry and something else starts to blur. and maybe—maybe—you’re both finally ready to cross it.
you saw the man behind the monster that is mark grayson. now the monster sees you everywhere—in the curve of a stranger's smile, in the defiance of his latest conquest. none of them are you. none of them ever will be. but he'll keep searching, keep destroying, because hope is the cruelest thing left inside him.
-
one-shots
they’d call it toxic. you call it love. mark grayson decides what you eat, what you wear, when you come—and you wouldn’t have it any other way. after all, who needs freedom when you have him?
winter always made your bones ache. the cold seeped into old scars, the silence pressed too close, and patrols felt longer without someone to share the quiet with. until him—until mark grayson, with his sharp edges and sharper tongue, started showing up uninvited. until his cape became your blanket, his gloved hands your warmth, and his presence the one thing that made the cold feel worth enduring.
-
one-shots
you’re bleeding out. you’re definitely bleeding out. but hey—if you play it cool, maybe mark won’t notice? (keyword: maybe.) turns out, hiding a gaping wound from your superpowered, hyper-observant boyfriend, mark grayson, isn’t exactly your best idea. especially when said boyfriend is the kind of guy who swears like a sailor, fights like a berserker, and somehow still manages to be the most overprotective idiot alive.
mark grayson is your rival. at least, that’s what the headlines say. what the fans chant. what you snarl at each other between bloody lips and broken bones. but the truth? the truth is in the way he hovers too close during fights, how his hands twitch when you’re hurt. the way you both pretend this—whatever this is—won’t ruin you in the end.
-
one-shots
you’d follow mark grayson anywhere—even into the dark. when he asks you to betray everything you once stood for, you don’t hesitate. not when his hands are the only ones that still feel like home.
what happens when you're the only one left alive across every dimension? ask the eight broken mark graysons trailing behind you—or better yet, ask your mark, the one who saved you. the one who watches with a smirk as his variants crumble at the sight of you: breathing, laughing, his.
the bedroom is vast, the sheets are silk, and the blood on his hands is yours to worship. mark grayson comes home to you—not as the hero the world thinks he is, but as something far more devoted. something far more dangerous. and when he presses his bloodstained lips to your skin, murmuring about the cities he burned in your name, you don’t flinch. you never do. (you love him too much for that.)
series
mark grayson, also known as invincible, is a sinister conqueror who decided to kill thousands of people alongside his father. they call him a monster. you call him yours. (and when he smiles at you—all sharp teeth and ruined cities—you don’t flinch. you smile back.)
love is a weak human thing—until it isn’t. until it’s mark grayson’s hands around his father’s throat, his lips stained with viltrumite blood as he gasps ‘mine’ like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. (or: the one where legacy means nothing, and you mean everything.)
a chillingly sweet one-shot where mass murder is just foreplay, where pet names are whispered between executions, and where the only thing more terrifying than mark grayson’s power is how desperately he’s adored by you. when a foolish hero tries to stand against you both, they’ll learn the hard way: this couple kills together—your hands just as bloody as his, your smile just as sharp. after all, why should the world get to keep its heroes when you could keep mark all to yourself?
-
one-shots
this one wants you back. the problem? you don't belong to him. you belong to the mark grayson who loves eve, the mark who will never know you loved him first, the mark whose laugh still echoes in your dreams. now, as his fingers wipe blood from your face with terrifying gentleness, reality splits open: stay and die for a love that was never yours, or let him steal you away to a world where you were his—where you'll always be second to a ghost of yourself. (he promises to be better. you almost believe him.)
rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.
in a broken world conquered by the viltrum empire, you swing through the ruins as the last thorn in their side—cracking jokes through the pain, stealing hope from the ashes, and refusing to bow. until mark grayson finds you. not the boy who shared your childhood, your secrets, your promise to always have each other's backs, but the soldier molded by his father's hands. he's here to recruit you or break you. the problem? you still see the ghost of your best friend in his eyes, and that might hurt more than any punch he could throw.
one-shots
when you saved your dimension by essentially telling eight war criminal mark grayson variants "guys, fellas, no need to fight—you can all share me," you proved one universal truth: nobody's pull game hits harder than yours. now you're stuck herding your emotionally constipated boyfriends to the beach, where the only things stronger than their urge to conquer continents is their inability to resist you. between mohawk mark's bitching, sinister mark's possessive hands, and viltrum mark watching from the shadows like a kicked puppy, it's a miracle the ocean's still standing. but hey—if anyone can keep eight genocidal maniacs from drowning each other (and maybe sneak in some cuddles), it's you.
tags: [reader] has rizz that transcends dimensions, beach day with your war criminal harem, "why choose when you can have all of them?", mark grayson variants being disasters (affectionate), somehow this is cecil's problem now.
you spent years loving a boy named mark grayson who never looked back. now you’re surrounded by men who won’t look away. (their hands are bloody. their love is suffocating. and when your mark finally reaches for you—it’s too late. you’ve already fallen.)
one-shots
the blood on jason todd's gloves isn't yours. the ache in his chest is. it's been there since the first time you kissed him - this relentless, terrifying need that claws at his ribs whenever he's away from you.
in the quiet hours between nightmares and dawn, jason todd lets himself be vulnerable—just for you. tracing scars instead of reopening wounds, sharing breath instead of bullets, he learns that some things are stronger than the past.
you'd recognize jason todd anywhere—even through the armor, even through the years. the arkham knight moves like a ghost, but you know the weight of his footsteps, the hitch in his breath when he lies. and when he saves you from a bat to the skull, you do the one thing that might break you both: you pretend not to know him, the boy under the armor who still wears your old hoodie beneath his kevlar.
twenty five times jason todd warned you not to love him, and one time he begged you to stay.
jason todd doesn't ask for hugs. he asks you to punch him instead. it's your job to read between the bruises.
"you stayed," you murmur, voice cracking like the childhood promises you both broke. jason todd doesn’t answer—just holds you tighter, as if his arms could undo years of hurt. (they can’t. but tonight, with your laughter muffled against his chest and his fingers tangled in yours, maybe "broken" doesn’t have to mean "unfixable.")
a love that’s more teeth than tenderness—jason todd doesn’t know how to love you quietly. it’s in the traps he rigs around your apartment, the way his hands shake when he pulls you close, the growl in his voice when you’re five minutes late. he’d raze gotham to keep you safe, and the worst part? you’d let him. you’d help him burn it down.
jason todd has always been yours—through scraped knees and robin stunts, through death and what came after. and when he finally says it out loud (awkwardly, over cold takeout, like the emotionally constipated bastard he is), you don’t let him take it back. because some things are just inevitable. like batman’s no-kill rule. like gotham’s shitty weather. and like you loving him, no matter what.
series
jason todd comes home to you with bruised knuckles and a heart too full to name. the red hood is all sharp edges and violence, but with you? he's just jason—achingly tender, disarmingly soft, hands that break bones cradling your face like you’re something sacred.
the red hood is all sharp edges and violence—but with you? he's just jason. aching. tender. hands that break bones cradling your face like you’re something sacred. and tonight, jason todd doesn’t want worship. he wants to be ruined by it.
