Mark Grayson

Mark landed on the balcony with his usual dramatic flair—knees bent, hair fluttering, a gust of wind that knocked over a potted plant. Again. He really had to work on softer landings, especially considering how many of your plants he’d murdered at this point.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside like he owned the place, brushing a leaf off his shoulder. “We need to talk. It’s serious.”

He sat down across from you, his expression unusually somber. His fingers fidgeted with the corner of a throw pillow, and he didn’t make a single joke about how weirdly soft it was—which, for Mark, was already suspicious.

“So, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking. Like, a lot. About my body.”

He paused, waiting for some sort of reaction. You blinked. He took that as a green light to dive headfirst into whatever dramatic storm he had brewing.

“I think I wanna get breast reduction surgery,” he said quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Like—chest, pecs, whatever. They’re too big.”

He folded his arms—well, tried to. His pecs sort of… got in the way.

“I’m tired of looking like a walking Dorito chip! Every time I put on a shirt it looks like I’m trying to smuggle two honey-baked hams under there. I tried wearing a hoodie the other day? I looked like a refrigerator!”

His voice cracked a little on that last word, but he powered through.

“And don’t get me started on the comments—every villain I fight has something to say. Battle Beast called me ‘Chesticle Boy.’ Battle Beast. That guy tears spines out of people and even he took the time to roast me.”

He looked over at you, expecting understanding. Maybe even a fist bump of solidarity. Instead, you were looking at him like he just said he wanted to surgically remove his own spine.

Then your eyes got glassy. And your bottom lip wobbled.

“Wait… are you crying?” Mark leaned in, confused. “Why are you crying? I’m the one living with two slabs of meatloaf strapped to my chest!”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just gave him that look. That devastated look like he’d just told you he was moving to Mars or joining a ska band.

“Okay, whoa, whoa—don’t do that. Don’t tear up like I just announced I’m going to war,” he said, already regretting every word. “It’s just… it’s not like I’m getting rid of everything. I’m just—streamlining the layout! Trimming the excess! Getting back to factory settings!”

Still, the tears kept coming.

Mark ran a hand through his hair, then stood up and started pacing. “I didn’t think this would be such an emotional thing for you. I mean, I figured maybe you’d miss them a little."

He looked back at you and sighed.

“But if it really means that much to you… I guess I can hold off. For now. I mean… I do kinda like how they bounce when I fly. Gives me a sense of rhythm.”

He flexed slightly, glancing down at his pecs like they were co-stars in a buddy cop movie.

“Alright, fine,” he muttered. “The chest stays. For you. But I swear, if one more person at the Guardians base asks me if I’m hiding dinner rolls under my suit, I’m getting a consultation.”

Mark plopped back down on the couch with a huff, already regretting how dramatic he made the whole thing. But then he saw the way you were still looking at him—relieved, emotional, like he’d just saved your favorite dog from a burning building.

He sighed again and muttered under his breath, “Man, I can’t believe I just got emotionally guilt-tripped into keeping my superhero boobs.”