STRAWBERRIES SHOULD BE ADMIRED, NOT EATEN
feat: mark grayson x self ship!reader
contains: divider credit to @dividers-are-us , injured!reader (broken ankle), reader is an actor, assistant director and choreographer (fml), established relationship, bfe/he literally worships the ground you walk on and I say so verbatim
summary: mark is reminds you, in the way only mark can, that unlike him, you are most certainly not invincible
warnings - mdni: reader has a broken ankle. this is literally written about me cause my ankle is broken and i’m binging invincible. rent lyrics— catch them if you can. short one so no ‘read more,’ sns.
mark has you caged against the wall, arms on either side of your shoulders. if he stepped any closer, he’d have you completely pinned. for once in his life, he doesn’t want to do that, not if he doesn’t have to.
“the doctor said four to six weeks in the boot. and! crutches! crutches for the rest of the week!”
“it… it doesn’t even hurt!” you avert your gaze. it’s a lie, a big ol’fat lie, and you didn’t even do a good job of putting it together!
you’ve been with mark grayson for almost two years now, and he worships you, as an actor and as his girlfriend, but heaven and viltrum and mark, of all people, know you are not a good liar.
to prove his point, mark taps just his toes against your ankle, a feather-light touch, and when you wince he lets out a frustrated grunt.
“you’re mean,” you spit. “let me out of here.”
“you’re hurt,” he whines. “your ankle’s broken!”
“you said that,” you retort.
“mark!” you try again, slamming your little fists against the reinforced steel wall that is his chest.
he rolls his eyes. yours widen. you know that look. you know what’s coming next. you know you lost.
in less than a millisecond, rather than up against the wall, he’s got you in his arms, but for just a moment. next thing you know, you’re on the bed, booted up and your leg now elevated. he even put an ice pack in the boot.
“you big, stupid viltrumite,” you grumble.
“c’mon now,” he laughs against your hair after kissing your forehead. “i know it’s not exactly chic or whatever but you’re adorable! and it’s only four to six weeks! maybe less! see? you’ll be able to get your blocking done!”
“but not the choreography,” you remind him. the show you’re ad’ing doesn’t start rehearsing until september. it’s mid may now, but the sooner you get your shit together, the sooner you can polish it so it’s in tip-top shape to teach.
“you’re a very lovable control freak, ya know that?” he sits on the bed beside you.
he looks at you, with his big brown eyes in an expression that warms you from the inside out, one that makes you feel like you hung the moon. he looks at you like this every day, but today, and for the next four to six weeks as your fragile human body heals, it’s exactly what you need.