Debbie Grayson - Blog Posts

I spent the entirety of Invincible wondering who Debbie was gonna end up with, and I kept latching onto everyone she had screentime with. So I imagine if Nolan comes back to earth, he's gonna return to Debbie, but she's gonna have a whole harem already. Like Olga, Donald, Cecil, Paul, Theo (he regains his sense trust), Art. let me cook here

TOO REAL

no words can describe how physically and emotionally unwell i got with this parallel:

the old switcharoo

I bet there’s an actual universe of these two swapped

oh my god for real

I need for this to be Debbie when she sees Nolan in S3 😂

GUYS

It's Viltrumite!Debbie & Human!Nolan

I have to draw this...

Okay..

Since I almost finished watching Invincible, I have an idea..

Guys...

Viltrumite!Debbie..... with human!Nolan

Guys...

I need for this to be Debbie when she sees Nolan in S3 😂

Buttercup (Invincible)

Author’s note: as someone who lost my mom, I had to write for full mask mark losing his mom. Different circumstances, but still has grief all the same

Warnings: Death, grief

(Technically a short story for the Invincible AVRP AU but can be read by itself)

Characters: Full Mask Mark Grayson, Debbie Grayson

💛🕊💫🌼☁️ 💛🕊💫🌼☁️ 💛🕊💫🌼☁️

“Mama!” His high pitched child voice squeaks out, running to her with open arms as if he forgot she was there with him. She smiles wider as he kneels down to his level, opening her arms wide. He giggles and crashes full force into her, knowing that she will always be there to catch him, to break his fall. He laughs as she hums “woah!” At his enthusiasm to ses her. She lifts him up into her arms, wrapping them around his tiny body to make sure he’s secure. Nothing will hurt him.

“Look mama!” He hands her the flower, and she gasps and takes it from his delicate hands.

“Woah, thank you, sweetie.” He beams at the praise.

“Do you know what flower this is?” He shakes his head in return.

“This is a buttercup, if you hold it under your chin and your chin is yellow it means you like butter” he gasps in return and lets his mother hold it under his chin.

“Oh, looks like someone likes butter” she teases and lightly tickles his tummy. He giggles in response before chuckling out, “now you try mama!”

She hums and holds it under her chin with a smile, the buttercup glowing a yellow hue under her chin, “is my chin yellow”

He gasps and nods, like this is some sort of witchcraft he’s never seen before.

“Let’s go see if your dad likes butter” Mark cheers as she lets him down, holding the buttercup as his tiny legs run to his dad.

—💛🕊💫🌼☁️

“Do you remember that, mom? After that I have always picked you a buttercup or two on Mother’s Day until I was able to buy my own flowers. Always of a yellow variety though, it has to be in theme,” he chuckles weakly before talking again, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom”

Mark pressed a soft kiss to her temple, as tears dropped onto her pale skin. He pulls away, as he stares at her lifeless body. He can’t let go though, they haven’t had enough time together. They never got to go on a mother-son vacation, she will never see him have children, she will never get to even reach the age of 60. In his head, he hopes by some miracle she will gasp for air again, but he’s tried all he could. CPR didn’t even work but crushed her ribs.

He carried her over to the couch, hugging her close and he pulled a blanket over her. He doesn’t want her to get cold, she always hated the cold. Out during sunny days was what she loved. The yellow lilies, daffodils and buttercups were wilted on the floor, the water spilling, the vase shattered.

He runs a hand over her cheek, feeling her body slowly get cooler. He clenches his teeth, thinking of all the times she said I love you, and he wished he said them back. Or the times he would rush out of the house to play at a friend’s house and she looked disappointed that he didn’t stay to eat her cooking. Or when he would play with his dad more than her. What if she hates him for that? He’s sure hating himself right now for that.

He hums a tune to an old song they used to play in the car as he braids her hair. He knows she’s dead, even if he doesn’t want to accept it, but she deserves to look beautiful even after she lives.

—💛🕊💫🌼☁️

“Mama?”

Debbie turns, she hadn’t heard Mark use that name in a while. He looks in shock, on the verge of tears, and he wraps her in an almost crushing hug- literally.

“Mark?! What’s gotten into you? We had dinner together yesterday. Are you happy to see me?” She chuckles it off.

“Mom, oh god- I want you to know I love you, you mean the world to me. You raised me better than this” He rambles as his voice quivers, his eyes watering and ready to overflow.

“Mark? Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“I got you these”

He hands her a bouquet of lilies, daffodils and buttercups, with specks of dirt on them like he found them and pulled them from the dirt himself.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mama…”

Aww a happy family

Artist:

tobo_katsuo on twitter

katsuoyanen on bluesky

I liked how the colors of the house in season 2 were omniman's colors and tried to play around with that

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

‎…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ….

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

TAGLIST for ”Afterglow”—y’know, so no one misses a chapter drop or surprise lore reveal.

If that’s something you’d be into, drop a COMMENT or SCREAM into my inbox—submit your sins (gently).

I’ll summon you into the chaos! (but actually comment—not just like guys—I won’t include you in the taglist if you only like. i need the notification to stand out in the chaos that’s called my phone).

Be warned: I’ve never done one of these before, so this will be powered by vibes, trial and error, and a notes spreadsheet I’ll misplace within a week.

Let me know, lovers of chaos!

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ongoing taglist: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice @maki-ki @angelbelles @scarletdfox

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

❝Too Far Gone❞

Mark Grayson x Brainrot Girlfriend!Readerᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

˗ˏˋ 𓉘 Part 2 of ”Corruption Complete” 𓉝ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

🦈 summary: mark’s corruption arc continues. he’s made it to the dark side—but the brainrot never ends. from forced meme bootcamp to cursed movie nights and chaotic friend group crossovers, mark’s peace is officially gone. and now… he might kind of like it?

‪‪🦈 contains: sfw. modern brainrot. fandom jokes. reluctant!mark, chaotic!reader. oliver returns with more menace. debbie thrives. william + rick join the chaos. wine obsessed!debbie. amber vs eve. tiktok audios. cursed AI videos. gacha reactions. passive-aggressive memes. „tragic boy 2.0”

‪‪🦈 wc: 2187

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: we’re back, baby. this was supposed to be a joke, and now it’s a saga. blame mark for folding like a wet napkin. shout-out to the “ballerina cappuccina” for lighting this fire. enjoy the chaos.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Mark stared at the whiteboard in front of him like it was written in an alien dialect. Which, to be fair, was only partially inaccurate.

“Okay,” you said brightly, tapping the marker against your palm. “Let’s review: What does it mean if I say ‘she’s giving One Direction in 2013 with a sprinkle of Tumblr Sexy Man pipeline energy’?”

Mark blinked once. Twice.

Oliver leaned forward like a predator scenting fear. “Say it, Mark. Say the answer.”

Mark sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “It… means she’s popular?”

“Popular how?” you challenged. “Contextualize it.”

“She’s… trending?” he tried.

“Wrong,” Oliver said, shaking his head gravely. “You’ve just been hit with a ✨deduction✨.”

He clicked a buzzer. Where it came from, no one knew. Where it went after that, no one wanted to ask.

You turned back to the board, adding another tally to the “Cringe Counter” in red marker. Mark’s score was now dangerously close to being labeled “culturally illiterate.”

“This is so dumb,” he grumbled. “This isn’t even a real language.”

“It is to us,” you and Oliver said in perfect sync.

Mark muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “cult behavior.”

You ignored him, moving to the next slide. A collage of pixelated TikTok reaction memes flashed onto the screen. “Okay, rapid-fire round: What’s the audio for this one?”

Mark squinted. “Is that… a raccoon in a nun outfit?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” you snapped.

Oliver gasped. “You don’t know the ‘Father, forgive me, but she was SERVING’ audio?!”

Mark opened his mouth. Closed it. “Why would I ever need to know that?”

“Because one day you might be the raccoon in the nun outfit, Mark,” you said, eyes burning with brainrot conviction.

He slumped back on the couch. “I regret everything.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

What was supposed to be a calm, relaxing day became a Friday Movie Night. Which, in your (the Graysons’) household, meant one thing:

No peace. No mercy. Only WiFi-fueled chaos.

It started innocently. You were lounging on the couch, half-scrolling and half-plotting dinner, when Debbie offhandedly said, “We should watch something tonight.”

You, of course, took that as a declaration of war.

Ten minutes later, the lights were dimmed, the coffee table was drowning in chips and half-melted gummies, and everyone had been emotionally blackmailed into joining.

(“Mark, you saved the world. You can survive one night of meme cinema.”)

Mark sat like a hostage. William arrived mid-chaos with Rick, who brought snacks and the wrong kind of emotional preparedness. Debbie brought wine. Oliver brought his entire personality.

You? You brought a curated playlist of AI-generated edits that actively offended the concept of linear storytelling.

“Okay,” you announced, remote in hand. “Tonight’s film festival opens with: Edward Cullen breakdancing in front of an explosion to Skyfall.”

“…Why?” Mark asked, already regretting being born.

“Art,” Oliver whispered reverently.

The video began. Within fifteen seconds, Comic Sans text scrolled across the screen:

‘When he says forever but leaves the Minecraft server.’

Rick blinked. “I have so many questions.”

William, eyes wide, leaned in. “And none of them matter.”

The next clip was somehow worse—or better. AI-generated Loki slow dancing with the Riddler at prom while Will Smith stood in the corner like a disappointed gym teacher. The audio? A slowed-down remix of Let It Go over Sandstorm.

No one blinked.

“I hate this,” Mark whispered.

“You’re watching it,” you replied sweetly.

“…Shut up.”

Oliver pulled out a scoring notebook. “Okay, rating time. Editing? 10. Trauma delivery? 12.”

“Is there symbolism?” Rick asked, way too seriously.

“Absolutely,” William said. “The Riddler’s bowtie was a metaphor for late-stage capitalism.”

Even Debbie chimed in with a solid, “The pacing in the Subway Voldemort edit was weird, but I respect the emotional core.”

By the third cursed slideshow, everyone had a ranking system, emotional stakes, and deeply divided opinions about whether or not Gandalf doing a TikTok dance counted as character assassination.

Mark didn’t get up. Didn’t leave. Didn’t even look away. He just sighed.

And for some ridiculously stupid reason?

He didn’t hate it.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

It happened on a Tuesday.

A simple, forgettable Tuesday. Rain outside. Soup on the stove. A blanket of rare peace over the house.

And then Mark opened his mouth.

“You’re being real ‘girl who fell off the swing in 2012 and never emotionally recovered’ right now.”

Silence.

Your spoon hovered mid-air.

Oliver, across the room, slowly turned like an animatronic coming online.

Debbie looked up from her crossword, one eyebrow arched with terrifying accuracy.

“What,” you breathed.

Mark blinked, backtracking immediately. “I mean—not like that. I wasn’t saying you were—It’s just—I saw a TikTok—”

“A TikTok,” Oliver echoed, mouth spreading into a villainous grin. “So you have been studying.”

“I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“You quoted a cultural meme tag with precision,” you gasped. “Unprovoked.”

Mark stood frozen in the kitchen doorway like a raccoon caught in the fridge light.

“I blacked out,” he tried.

“You blacked in,” Oliver corrected, dramatically pointing. “Welcome to the hive mind.”

Debbie didn’t say anything, just sipped her wine with the smugness of a woman watching her son descend into madness she fully supported.

You dramatically slammed your hand on the counter. “You mocked us.”

“I still do.”

“And yet!” you shrieked, gesturing wildly. “You knew what that meant!”

Mark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is your fault.”

“You’re damn right it is.”

Oliver held up the whiteboard from earlier and slapped a gold star beside Mark’s name. “Corruption milestone achieved: accidental meme reference in domestic context.”

“You’ve fallen,” you said softly. “You’re one of us now.”

Mark didn’t respond.

But he did mutter “she’s giving ‘delulu but functioning’” under his breath an hour later.

Oliver tackled him with a celebratory pillow.

You cried actual tears.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

What started as a casual group hang spiraled—as most things in your social circle did—into chaos within twenty minutes.

Amber had stopped by under the innocent promise of “a chill night.” She brought wine, even wore slippers. Her guard was down.

Eve was already there. Cross-legged on the rug, hoodie half-zipped, energy drink in hand like it was liquid law.

Amber settles in with a sigh. “I was promised snacks and serotonin.”

Eve flops down beside her, stealing a chip from Mark’s bowl. “And yet you walked into psychological warfare.”

The TV is paused on a cursed slideshow. The image? A freeze frame of Shrek photoshopped into a Renaissance painting, holding hands with a pixelated Garfield.

The caption reads: “when you and your emotional support cryptid walk into therapy”

Amber groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

Eve perks up. “Why not? That one’s a classic.”

“It’s blasphemy.”

“It’s art.”

“It’s Garfield in a toga.”

“Exactly.”

Amber throws her hands up. “Why is he glowing?”

Mark, exhausted from the last three meme dissections, doesn’t even look up. “Symbolism.”

“Thank you!” Eve beams.

“Don’t encourage her,” Amber mutters, taking a swig of wine.

You sit smugly between them, remote in hand, before asking. “Next slide?”

“Absolutely.” The red-haired girl encouraged.

“I will scream.” Amber promised.

The next image pops up—a tier list ranking internet boyfriends. At the top? Invincible, labeled: ‘tragedy-coded, would cry during WALL-E’

Directly beneath him—Paddington Bear and that guy who fixed his crush’s WiFi in a TikTok once.

Amber squints. “What does this even mean.”

Eve leans in like a scholar. “It’s a commentary on emotional vulnerability in male-coded narratives.”

“You just made that up.”

“I did, and I stand by it.”

William mutters, “I’d date Paddington. He’s stable.”

“That coat? Immaculate.” His boyfriend adds.

Amber glances at you. “Are your friends okay?”

“Absolutely not.”

Oliver, feeling slightly left out, stirs up some drama. “Mark’s at risk of joining the list if he cries during Finding Nemo.”

“I DIDN’T CRY.”

“You sniffled,” Debbie says from the kitchen.

By the end of the night, Eve and Amber are locked in a passionate debate about whether or not liking Remy from Ratatouille is a red flag, William is drawing diagrams to explain meme evolution, and Mark’s soul has visibly left his body.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

It was supposed to be harmless.

A passing moment. A flicker in the chaos.

You hadn’t even meant to record him. Not really.

You were filming Oliver’s dramatic reenactment of the “I’m just a baby!” audio using sock puppets and half of Rick’s hoodie when Mark walked by in the background—bored, hoodie half-on, sipping orange juice straight from the carton.

And then, with zero prompting, he did it.

He hit a trend pose.

Perfectly.

He didn’t even notice he’d done it. Just sipped, blinked, walked off like nothing happened.

Everyone stared.

“…Did he just—?” William whispered.

Oliver stood frozen mid-puppet grab. “Roll it back.”

You did.

And there it was: textbook trend behavior. Down to the head tilt.

“Put that on the internet,” Eve said, eyes wide. “Now.”

“No,” Mark said immediately, from the kitchen.

“Yes,” everyone else said in unison.

You posted it. You didn’t even try to be subtle. The caption?

’when the trauma makes you trendable. #tragedyboy2.0’

By the end of the night, it had 40k views.

By morning, 200k.

╭┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╮

ြ The comments were chaos:

➤“he’s so emotionally charged I could fix him AND he’d thank me”

➤“when you cry to Mitski but still hit a clean pose?? king”

➤“tragedy boy 2.0 just dropped and I’m obsessed”

╰┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╯

Mark stared at your phone, expression blank.

“I didn’t even do anything,” he muttered.

“That’s the point,” Rick said, nodding.

“Tragic aura,” Amber added.

“It’s the silent suffering that sells,” William confirmed, sipping his smoothie.

You handed Mark your phone with a smile. “Congrats. You’re a meme now.”

He stared at the screen.

Then at you.

“…I’m deleting all of your editing apps.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You need help.”

“YOU TREND IN SILENCE.”

From the hallway, Debbie called out. “Make sure to tag me next time. I’ve got burner accounts ready!”

Mark buried his face in his hands.

Somewhere, a comment called him “WALL-E coded.” Another simply said, “blink twice if you need therapy, blink once if you already went and it didn’t work.”

He blinked once.

The internet cheered.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

It started out as a joke.

A throwaway mention. A cursed sentence uttered in the depths of a late-night scroll session:

“Imagine if there was a Gacha Life video of Nolan betraying Earth.”

You had said it. Mark had groaned. Oliver had gasped.

And twenty minutes later—you were all gathered on the couch, screen mirroring a Gacha reaction video with a thumbnail that read:

“Invincible Characters React to Nolan’s Betrayal (SAD/CRYING/REAL)”

The title card was Comic Sans. The music was royalty-free piano tragedy. The vibes? Devastating.

Mark looked like he was about to walk into traffic.

“Why is my Gacha self crying in the corner?” he asked, horrified.

“Character depth,” you replied.

The video played.

Pixelated Gacha!Debbie gasped in slow motion as Gacha!Nolan punched Gacha!Mark into orbit. A single animated tear rolled down her face and sparkled. The screen flashed:

“TO BE CONTINUED…?”

“Oh my god,” Rick whispered. “They gave it a cliffhanger.”

“Of real history,” William added. “This is art.”

Debbie blinked at the screen. “Wait. That’s supposed to be me?”

“She looks twelve.” Amber said.

Eve raised her martini drink. “I respect the commitment.”

Meanwhile, Gacha!Mark lay motionless on the screen, sparkles and red overlay blood pooling dramatically as a voiceover whispered: “He was just a boy.”

Mark put his head in his hands. “This should be illegal.”

Oliver patted his shoulder. “That’s what makes it so powerful.”

By the end, there was a montage of Gacha!Mark’s “best moments” set to a slowed-down nightcore remix of “My Heart Will Go On.” The subtitles read: “Mark… you were the light in our darkness.”

No one spoke for a solid fifteen seconds.

Then you wiped a fake tear and said, “They got your trauma arc better than the actual writers.”

Mark muttered, “I’m moving out.”

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•∘˙○˚.⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨🪼୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ∘˙○˚.•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

By now, the “Tragedy Boy 2.0” clip had gone viral enough to birth its own ecosystem—edits, fancams, conspiracy theories.

And Debbie?

Debbie was thriving.

She’d quietly created an account under the name @markgraysondefenseunit, and she was everywhere.

╭┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╮

ြ Commenting on hate:

➥”he looks like he cries after arguments”

╰┈➤ @markgraysondefenseunit: “He resolves his trauma. Do YOU?”

╰┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╯

Debbie hit send, sipped her wine, and smiled like she just ended a war.

╭┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╮

ြ Fighting trolls:

➥“mid hero tbh”

╰┈➤ @markgraysondefenseunit: “Tell that to the asteroid he punched.”

╰┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╯

She cracked her knuckles before typing that one. Felt good.

╭┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╮

ြ Replying to thirst:

➥“me n him rn [photo of two frogs cuddling]”

╰┈➤ @markgraysondefenseunit: “wrap it up sweetie, you’re not his type.”

╰┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╯

Debbie raised an eyebrow, muttered “delusional,” and hit send without flinching.

For her defense—she did tell Mark about it, not her fault everyone thought she was just joking around.

So she stayed silent.

Until the day he scrolled through comments on his own post and paused.

“…Why does one of these accounts call me ‘my brave little meatball’?”

You smiled, innocent. “Huh. Weird.”

Oliver snorted into his juice.

From the kitchen, Debbie sipped her wine.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

a/n: this was supposed to be short. it was not. it got out of hand. again. also—did anyone clock my weird obsession with Tuesdays or are we all just politely ignoring it? be honest.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

.….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ.. .

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not obsessed with him. you’re not. but the world clearly is. strange articles. sneaky algorithms. and a voice in your head that won’t shut up. meanwhile, invincible’s got his own problem: he can’t find the girl who called him out like a scrub tech on a bad day.

⛨ contains: sfw. nurse carla’s mischief. media-induced annoyance. early emotional foreshadowing. reader in denial. mark being haunted by words and mystery. parallel narration. bonus scene chaos.

⛨ warnings: mild language. internet stalking (light). stubbornness. minor delusion. no real threats—just a very determined destiny.

⛨ wc: 2146

prologue, part one, part two

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: fun fact—i lost half of this chapter mid-edit because my wifi decided to flatline like a soap opera character. dramatic gasp, hospital monitor beep, the whole deal. one second i’m tweaking a paragraph, the next i’m staring at the void where 800 words used to be. i almost fought my router. bare-fisted. anyway, here it is—risen from the ashes, caffeinated, and slightly more unhinged than originally planned. enjoy my suffering.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You know this. You’ve always known this.

You work twelve-hour shifts surrounded by people coughing on your scrubs and trying to die inconveniently. You’ve stitched up knife wounds caused by things described as “accidents,” told grown men they’re not, in fact, dying from a sore throat, and once had to remove a Lego from a place no Lego should ever be.

But lately, it feels personal.

There’s been a shift. A pattern. A very specific, very annoying theme threading itself through your life like the world’s most persistent pop-up ad.

It’s not love. It’s not fate.

It’s him.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You tap your phone’s screen with more passive aggression than necessary, holding it to your ear even though you know your (only) friend won’t pick up.

Beep.

“Okay, listen—I’m not spiraling. I’m not.”

(Pause. Sip. Another pause.)

“But if one more news article, thirst edit, or random merch featuring that man—shows up in my general vicinity, I will commit a felony. Probably a creative one.”

(Beat.)

“And no—before you say it—it’s not a crush. I don’t have time for crushes. I have sleep deprivation and a spine held together by caffeine.”

(Silence.)

“He’s not even that hot.”

You hang up.

Regret it. Immediately.

And that’s when it hits you—

You’re not obsessed with him.

You’re not.

You’ve been into people before—celebrities, coworkers, a random guy who pronounced your name right on the first try—but this isn’t that. You’re not delusional. You’re tired. You have a full-time job, a chaotic sleep schedule, and at least two stress migraines scheduled for the week.

You’re not obsessed.

The entire world, on the other hand, clearly is.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a newspaper.

A real one. Paper and ink and everything. You’re halfway through your first sip of coffee (not bad, not cursed) when you spot it, splayed open on the front counter like it tripped and fell into your line of sight.

’Invincible saves subway commuters in mid-derailment battle.’

There’s a photo. Midair. Bloodied knuckles. Hero pose. That obnoxious blue-yellow suit.

You blink at it once. Twice. The espresso tastes more bitter somehow.

“…Carla,” you call out, slowly.

A soft shuffle from the break room. “Mhm?”

You tilt your head toward the paper. “Is that yours?”

“Nope,” she chirps, far too quickly.

You squint.

Carla reappears moments later with a tea mug that says ’I am the storm’ in passive-aggressive font and absolutely does not make eye contact as she walks past you.

She hums.

The kind of hum that implies dark intentions.

You stare at the paper like it personally insulted your scrubs.

That’s strike one.

Strike two comes via TikTok. Or… Instagram Reels. Or whatever godforsaken app the algorithm has you trapped in.

You’re lying on your couch on your one night off, a warm takeout container on your lap, the lights dimmed just enough to make it feel like self-care. You open your phone to zone out. Maybe scroll through food mukbangs. A few raccoon videos. Rewatch that one clip from ’The Bear’ for the emotional damage.

Instead, the second video to pop up is a slow-motion fan edit of Invincible. Set to a remix of a 2000s ballad.

You stare at your phone in silence as the hero who bloodied his way through your afternoon is now being thirsted after by teenagers in the comments.

You swipe up fast enough to sprain something.

Then another pops up.

And another.

And—oh, good god. This one’s tagged #invincibae.

You throw your phone facedown on your stomach like it’s contagious.

You’re not angry. You’re not even annoyed.

You’re just trying to have one singular crumb of peace in this godless world, and the masked himbo you verbally body-checked in the middle of a disaster won’t stop invading your downtime.

You eventually find a rerun of ’House MD’ and watch a patient nearly die from licking envelopes, which feels more comforting than it should.

You’re not obsessed.

(But maybe you do glare at a passing bus with his face on the side. Just a little.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

By the end of the week, it gets worse.

You’re at the pharmacy grabbing gauze, extra gloves, and the least offensive granola bar in existence when you see the merch.

Merch.

A corner display stacked with shirts and water bottles and pins. There’s a plushie. A plushie. Of him.

You pause, granola bar halfway to your basket.

A kid next to you picks up the Invincible water bottle and turns to his mom. “Do you think he drinks from this too?”

You visibly clench your jaw.

At that exact moment, your phone dings.

You pull it out with the practiced grace of someone who lives and dies by their calendar app—only to find a suggested article on your lock screen.

’Why Invincible Might Be the Most Relatable Hero Yet!’

You could scream.

Instead, you mutter, “I patched up his concussion while inhaling drywall dust. He was seeing double and still arguing with me.”

The cashier stares at you.

You move on.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The final straw?

A patient brings him up.

Middle of a wound check, nothing dramatic. A few stitches, topical numbing, your hands moving on autopilot. You’re explaining aftercare, bandage changes, when the patient—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—smiles at you and says:

“You kinda remind me of Invincible, y’know? Like, you’re calm under pressure and.. kind of badass.”

You blink.

Smile politely. “Cool.”

Inside, your soul shrivels.

You are not him.

You don’t throw punches. You don’t fly. You don’t have a theme song or fan cams or merchandise.

You have an overtime shift on Sunday and a stress knot in your shoulder that’s starting to feel like a second spine.

But the universe doesn’t care.

You’re not obsessed.

You just can’t escape.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark doesn’t remember your face.

Not clearly, anyway.

The smoke had blurred the details, painted you in silhouettes and urgency. You weren’t the loudest voice in the chaos—just the sharpest. Crisp, cutting, sure of yourself in a way that made his head spin more than the actual concussion.

But your voice?

He remembers that like it’s stitched into the inside of his skull.

Low. Stern. Half-sarcastic and half-soothing. It sounded like someone who didn’t have time for bullshit, which—given the circumstances—made sense.

He was bleeding from the ribs. The city was literally burning.

Still, the memory echoes:

“Don’t say fine.”

“You’re favoring your left.”

“You shouldn’t be flying.”

Mark exhales hard, slumping deeper into the worn couch. The TV’s on but silent. Some old action movie flickers in the corner of his vision. It’s supposed to be background noise.

But nothing is loud enough to drown you out.

He doesn’t know your name.

Doesn’t know what you do, where you’re from, if you even survived the aftermath unscathed.

All he knows is that you made him feel—briefly, dangerously—human.

Not a symbol. Not a name in headlines. Just a guy who was bleeding too much and doing too little.

And he can’t stop hearing you.

“You’re zoning out again,” Debbie says from the kitchen.

Mark flinches, barely registering the sound of the fridge opening.

“Sorry. Just tired.”

Debbie hums skeptically and tosses him a cold can of soda. “You’ve said that every day this week.”

“I am tired.”

“You’re also muttering to yourself like a haunted Victorian widow. Anything I should know?”

Mark cracks the can open with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares ahead like the wall is going to give him divine guidance.

“I met someone,” he says finally.

Debbie doesn’t react. Just leans against the counter, raising a perfectly arched brow. “Okay. And?”

“She yelled at me.”

Still silence.

“And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

There it is.

Debbie snorts into her cup. “That’s it? That’s what’s got you acting like a sad poet?”

He shifts. “It’s not just that. She—she saw right through me. In like, five seconds. Called out every injury I hadn’t processed yet. Told me I wasn’t fine before I could even lie about it.”

“And this was… romantic?”

“No!” Mark frowns. “I don’t even know what it was. I don’t know anything about her. I couldn’t even see her face.”

“Okay, now it’s giving Victorian ghost story.”

“She saved a kid.”

Debbie blinks.

“In the middle of it all. Ran straight into debris and smoke. People tried to stop her and she looked at me like I was the liability.”

He doesn’t mention the way your hands shook but never stopped moving. Or the way you lied—beautifully, horribly—just to keep that child alive a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t mention how it made something in his chest ache.

“She sounds amazing,” Debbie says, more gently now.

“She was,” he mutters. “And now she’s just… gone.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The thing is, Mark’s not usually like this.

He gets hit, he gets up. He saves people, and he moves on. Faces blur. Names fade. It’s how he copes.

But this? This isn’t fading.

It’s getting worse.

He’ll be flying over the city and see a flash of hair that looks vaguely like yours—and he’ll nearly crash into a billboard turning to check. His neck has started clicking. He’s going to need chiropractic help and therapy.

He doesn’t even know you, but he’s half-convinced he’ll know when he sees you again.

He’s waiting for it.

And that thought alone is ridiculous.

Because he doesn’t wait. Not for danger. Not for hope. Not for anyone.

Except now, apparently, for you.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

More than once, he’s hovered outside hospitals and urgent care clinics on patrol. Just a few seconds. Just in case.

He makes excuses for it, of course:

• You never know when you might be needed.

• Some med centers don’t have enough security.

• Maybe he’s being responsible.

But then he hears a nurse’s laugh and it isn’t yours.

And he flies off like a coward.

Not even a few minutes later there’s a robbery in Midtown.

Small-time. Two guys. One has a crowbar. The other trips over his shoelace trying to run.

Mark’s on it in sixty seconds flat.

It’s easy—should be, anyway—but his timing’s off. He lands too hard, shoulder twinges wrong. The guy gets one good swing in before Mark sends him flying (not too far).

It’s done in under a minute.

And still—he’s breathless. Not from the fight, but from the feeling.

The missing.

The what if you’d seen that and thought I was sloppy kind of missing.

He doesn’t say anything as he lifts the guy’s dropped phone and hands it off to the store clerk. They thank him. He nods.

Flies away.

He doesn’t go far.

Just lands on some apartment roof, crouches by the ledge, and lets his hands tangle in his hair for a minute.

The city stretches below him, loud and alive.

But all he wants to find is a blur in the chaos that isn’t there.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Later that night, he lies in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might offer closure.

It doesn’t.

It’s just drywall and shadows and everything you saw through.

His notebook lies half-open next to him—not forgotten, just untouched, like a question he doesn’t know how to answer yet.

It’s not a journal—he doesn’t do feelings that way—but sometimes, when his head’s too loud and his hands need something to do, he sketches. Nothing fancy. Just lines. Shapes. Impressions.

Tonight, it’s you.

Or, what he remembers of you. Which isn’t much.

Your face is a blur. Hair? A vague impression. Maybe dark. Maybe not. But your hands—he remembers those. Quick, steady, smudged with ash. Your posture. How you stood slightly in front of the child like a shield, chin up, like fear was something for other people.

He’s drawn the same half-profile six times now. None of them are right.

He sighs, drags a hand through his hair, and flips the page over.

Maybe he’s not trying to get it right.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to forget.

He closes his eyes.

But the voice stays with him.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Clinic break room. You. Tired.

You sneeze—violently.

Again.

You rub your nose with the heel of your palm, the tip of it already reddish from overuse, and a dramatic groan leaves your throat as you sink into the unforgiving plastic chair.

“This is some kind of karmic punishment,” you mutter to no one in particular. “Like, I must’ve offended a witch. Or touched something cursed.”

“Maybe you’re getting sick,” offers a random nurse from across the room.

You glare at her. “I’m immune to sickness.”

Then of course, Carla appears behind you, perfectly timed as always.

“Maybe someone’s thinking about you,” she says, casual as rain, not even glancing your way before walking off.

You blink. Deadpan.

Then sneeze again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ... ﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you were in a surprisingly good mood, which should’ve been the first red flag. your coworkers weren’t being annoying, the coffee machine was actually working, and not a single patient had tried to self-diagnose off WebMD yet. the universe clearly saw that and went “hmm, too peaceful.” because hours later, the clinic was rubble, a child was almost lost, and you met invincible for the first time. and of course—you yelled at him.

⛨ contains: sfw. local clinic setting. first meeting with invincible. medical professional!reader. civilian chaos. reader being a bad bitch. immediate tension and banter. subtle foreshadowing of their future dynamic. fire/explosion sequence. hands-on first aid moments. mark being surprised-reader-ain’t-scared. small emotional undercurrent under sarcasm.

⛨ warnings: brief injury description (scrapes, blood). explosion/fire trauma. smoke inhalation. nurse carla. mild trauma response (panic, adrenaline). implied danger to a child (rescued safely). some profanity.

⛨ wc: 1093

prologue, part one, part two

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: reader has a license, a savior complex, and zero chill. mark shows up for five minutes and gets emotionally wrecked. enjoy the chaos.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s a quiet Tuesday. The kind of quiet that should’ve tipped you off. The kind of quiet that doesn’t last.

Your shift starts at 8:00 AM sharp, and somehow, you’re early. The sun’s out, the sky’s obnoxiously blue, and someone brought donuts to the clinic—for no reason.

You even got your favorite one—the last one—which felt like a small miracle… until you realized the coffee was good.

Not just drinkable. Good. Fresh. Hot. Non-bitter. Suspicious.

You’d joked with Nurse Carla that the universe was trying to butter you up.

“You just wait,” she said, stirring her tea like some all-knowing, scrub-wearing oracle. “It’s always the good days that get you.”

You’d laughed.

Now you’re pretty sure she hexed you.

The clinic hums with calm, the low rhythm of patients being called back and phones ringing occasionally at the front desk. In room three, you patch up a skateboard accident. Room five brings in an elderly man who insists his blood pressure is fine—even as the cuff nearly bursts. You remain patient, calm, even friendly—somehow.

You’re not usually this chipper.

Maybe it’s the sunlight. Maybe it’s the donut.

Either way, you don’t realize you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop—

Until it does.

Loud. Violent. Apocalyptic.

The explosion shakes the floor beneath your feet.

It’s not real at first. Just a sound—an echoing blast that shatters windows and hurls you out of your good mood like a ragdoll. You slam your coffee on the counter (RIP—it was actually decent) and bolt toward the door before anyone can stop you.

Smoke is already curling above the skyline. Across the street, a building is on fire—its middle floors cracked open like a broken jaw. Glass rains down. People scream.

You don’t hesitate. You just move.

“Call 911!” you shout over your shoulder as your feet hit the pavement. Your heart kicks into overdrive. The calm is gone.

The illusion shattered.

“Evacuate the lobby!”

You don’t wait for acknowledgment. Your feet are already pounding pavement, shoes slipping slightly on the sidewalk as your mind flips into crisis mode.

You’re already halfway in before your brain catches up.

A woman collapses near the curb—shock. You steady her, get her seated, check her breathing. Alive.

You keep moving.

A teen stumbles out of the smoke, blood on his jeans. You direct him to sit, tear open your kit.

Tourniquet. Gauze. Stabilize. Move.

You don’t even notice when your stethoscope vanishes off your shoulders—just that your hands are moving and your brain’s already triaging in real time.

And then you see her.

A little girl—no older than nine—trapped beneath a chunk of concrete by the crosswalk. Her arm’s twisted at a bad angle. Blood smears her cheek. She’s trying to cry but doesn’t have the energy for more than a breathy whimper.

Before your brain can even catch up, your legs are already sprinting.

Someone grabs your arm—an older man with watery eyes and a voice wobbling from terror. “Don’t!” he begs. “That’s suicide! You’ll die trying to—”

“Move,” you snap, not bothering to look back. “Or piss yourself somewhere else.”

You don’t wait for a reply.

Your knees hit pavement. You’re beside the girl before the guy can finish a follow-up plea, hands already assessing her pulse, breath, injuries. You try to lift the debris. Nothing. It doesn’t budge. Your arms shake, muscles strain, lungs burning from smoke.

You try again.

Still nothing.

Panic rises sharp in your throat. The little girl’s eyes flutter—too pale, too quiet.

“Stay with me,” you whisper. “Hey. Look at me, alright? You’re gonna be okay.”

You lie. But your voice is steady.

For a horrible moment, you actually think this is it. That you’re about to die here, buried with this kid—and no one will know why you didn’t wait for backup.

The wind shifts.

Fast. Sharp. A blur of motion and force that sends your hair whipping around your face.

And then the weight’s gone.

You jerk backward, pull the girl free, and curl around her automatically—heart hammering like a drumline. You blink through the smoke and ash.

That’s when you see him.

Invincible.

In the flesh. Blue and yellow suit smeared with ash and blood, goggles cracked at one side. Kneeling beside you like some kind of comic book punchline—if comic books ever showed their heroes looking that tired.

“She’s okay,” you breathe, adjusting the girl in your arms, “but you’re not.”

He blinks like you just insulted him in four languages. “I’m—”

“Don’t say fine.” You eye him critically. “You’re favoring your left. Blood. Concussion-level pupils. You probably shouldn’t be standing, let alone flying.”

“…Are you a doctor?”

“Closer to nurse practitioner. Also not blind.”

You stand, legs shaky but functional. He watches you like he’s never been spoken to like that in his life.

“You should go,” you add, motioning to the kid in your arms. “She needs a hospital. Fast.”

He hesitates.

You frown. “What?”

“…Nothing. Just—” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re calm.”

You actually snort. “You mean I didn’t cry and fangirl? Tragic.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m not scared of you,” you say, quieter now. “If anything, you’re just another bleeding idiot who didn’t let someone check him out before playing hero.”

You’ve seen enough broken ribs and bad priorities to know most capes aren’t invincible where it counts.

His mouth opens. Closes. Still stunned.

You sigh and hand him the girl, a little softer now. ”Take her. That’s the only reason I’m not yelling more.”

He nods, carefully taking the child into his arms like she’s glass. Gives you one last look—

And he’s gone.

Wind howls. The air cracks.

And you’re left standing there, covered in soot and adrenaline, alone in the wreckage.

You don’t know he’ll remember your voice. The glare. The cracked joke.

But he will.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Somewhere, sometime after…

Nurse Carla sits in her living room, lit by the flicker of a dusty lamp and the glow of a muted rerun. A cat—large, black, and terrifyingly still—curls in her lap like it’s plotting something.

His name is Lucifer. You know this because she whispers it like a prayer when chattering about him.

She sips her tea. Doesn’t flinch when thunder cracks outside, even though it hasn’t rained in weeks.

On the table beside her: a newspaper folded open to an article about the explosion. A blurry shot of Invincible in flight.

Carla hums. Calm. Unbothered. All-knowing.

She sets the teacup down with a soft clink, leans back in her chair, and strokes Lucifer’s head.

“I told her,” she murmurs, half to herself, half to the void. “Never trust a Tuesday.”

She smiles.

Lucifer purrs.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: nurse carla is two steps from world domination. the cat knows things. be aware.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ….

FULL MASTERLIST + PLAYLIST

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ ⛨ summary: he’s supposed to be invincible. but every time mark grayson shows up bloodied and breathless, you’re the one putting him back together. you don’t have powers. you don’t wear a cape. but in his quietest moments, when the pain settles and the city goes silent—he never looks at you like you’re less. because with you, he isn’t saving the world. he’s just trying to be a person again.

⛨ contains: nsfw (18+). longform slow burn. civilian x hero dynamic. hurt/comfort. mutual pining. domestic intimacy. shirtless medical care. late-night phone calls. first aid as foreplay. hospital closets (eventual). soft!mark. snarky-but-kind!reader. emotional undressing before the literal one. tender dom vibes. smut that earns its place.

⛨ warnings: blood/injury (canon-typical). emotional baggage. strong language. healing trauma. eventual explicit sexual content w/ emotional depth. vulnerability. pining so intense it might combust your soul. a very tired mark trying not to fall in love (and failing miserably).

⛨ wc: TBD (multi-part).ᐟ.ᐟ

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: this is not just a fic. this is a bandage, a bruise, and a breath shared in the dark. also yes. there will be smut. eventually.

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ prologue 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 1 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 2 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 3 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 4 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 5 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 6 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 7 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 8 ✍︎

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ chapter 9 ✍︎

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

♬ prologue song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

╰┈➤𓊈”Time for Heroes”—The Libertines𓊉

♬ chapter 1 song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

╰┈➤ 𓊈”Thinkin Bout You”—Frank Ocean𓊉

♬ chapter 2 song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

╰┈➤ 𓊈”Little Bit (feat. Lykke Li)”—Drake𓊉

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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

❝Corruption Complete❞

Mark Grayson x Brainrot Girlfriend!Readerᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

𓊆ྀིfeat. Oliver & Debbie Grayson𓊇ྀི

˗ˏˋ 𓉘 Part 2 — ”Too Far Gone” 𓉝 ˎˊ˗

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🦖 summary: mark’s trying to enjoy a quiet night at home. too bad his girlfriend has just discovered a new hyperfixation—and now oliver’s in on it. debbie joins next. mark’s officially outnumbered.

‪‪🦖 contains: sfw. modern brainrot. fandom jokes. long-suffering boyfriend!Mark. brainrot!reader. tiktok trends. group roasting. oliver is a smug little shit. debbie is thriving. mark just wants peace. comedic fluff, banter, affectionate roasting, domestic vibes. silly chaos.

‪‪🦖 wc: 722

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i wrote this instead of doing literally anything productive. it started as a joke and now it’s got lore. enjoy my descent. also, yes—i know, the title is 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It started innocently enough.

You were sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to your phone, tears streaming down your face as you watched an AI-generated TikTok video.

“Mark—Mark, look!” You shoved your phone in his face. It almost smacked him in the nose, but it’s fine. He’s literally [Title Card].

Moving on.

He squinted at the screen. “Is that… a cat in a firefighter uniform?”

“Yes! It’s so tragic and inspiring. The kitten was rescued from a fire, grew up to become a firefighter, and then died heroically saving a child. And—listen to this—it reunited with its grandma in the afterlife.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “You cried over an AI-generated cat video?”

“It’s not just a video, Mark. It’s art.”

➽─────────❥

The descent into chaos was swift.

A few days later, Oliver burst into the living room (nearly crashing into a wall), eyes wide with excitement.

“Have you seen the ‘Ballerina Cappuccina’ trend?!” he blurted, practically vibrating.

You gasped, sitting up. “Yes! The one with the cappuccino-headed ballerina pirouetting into the void?”

Oliver nodded vigorously. “It’s peak brainrot.”

Mark groaned from the kitchen. “Not you too, Oliver.”

“It’s a cultural movement, Mark.” Oliver said, deadpan.

Not even ten minutes later, real chaos began…..Debbie’s curiosity was piqued.

She entered the kitchen, holding her phone while pursing her lips.

“Kids, what’s this ‘Bombardino Crocodilo’ thing?”

You and Oliver made eye contact, then—without speaking—played the audio simultaneously: “FORZA BOMBA!”

Debbie blinked. Then looked at Mark—who didn’t even look up, just slumped lower against the cabinets like the universe was personally attacking him.

“Well, that’s… something.”

➽─────────❥

A quiet evening turned into a bonding session.

With Mark and Oliver out training because let’s be real—that boy needs some serious teaching, you and Debbie settled on the couch. She sipped her wine, a mischievous glint in her eye like she’s about to drop a bomb.

“You know,” Debbie says casually, “Nolan once gave me a whole tree instead of flowers.”

You blink, taking your eyes off the TV. “Like… an actual tree?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Why bring a branch when I can bring the whole organism?’”

“I kept it,” she says. “Still in the backyard. Useless man, but decent taste in flora.”

You clutch your heart. “That’s the bar. If Mark doesn’t deliver a redwood to my house within 72 hours, we’re over.”

As if summoned Mark walks back into the house with snacks and an expression of pure betrayal. “I brought you chips.”

“Does the chip bag photosynthesize?” you ask sweetly.

➽─────────❥

The ‘Pass the Phone’ challenge ensued.

Feeling strangely inspired (which should’ve been a red flag), you declared: “Let’s do the ‘Pass the Phone’ challenge!”

Everyone agreed way too quickly.

You started the recording. “I’m passing the phone to someone who still doesn’t understand TikTok.”

Mark raised a brow, sighed like a man defeated, and took the phone. “I’m passing the phone to someone who’s been on TikTok for five minutes and already has a fan club.”

He passed it to Oliver.

The purple boy—who was just happy to be here—beamed straight up at the phone screen. “I’m passing the phone to someone who once received a tree as a romantic gesture!”

He hands it to Debbie, who only laughs.

“Guilty as charged.”

➽─────────❥

╒════════════════𝜗𝜚

ACTUAL QUOTES FROM THE EVENING:

➥ „I swear to god if you post that TikTok—”

➥ „Too late. It’s already at 40k views. You’re famous now, tragedy boy.”

➥ „You said you wouldn’t bring up Amber! And—why are people simping over my MUM!”

➥ „Because she’s a baddie, Mark.”

ꪆৎ════════════════╛

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•∘˙○˚.⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨🐊୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ∘˙○˚.•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Mark stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching his mom and little brother conspire with you over delusional fan theories and imaginary men.

“…I want in,” he said.

Everyone froze.

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I’m tired of fighting it. I need to understand the brainrot. Teach me your ways.”

Oliver threw his arms in the air. “HE’S CONVERTING.”

Debbie raised her wineglass. “To the dark side.”

You grinned, scooting over and patting the space beside you. “Welcome to hell, babe. First lesson—rank these fictional men based on how they would treat you.”

Mark sighed. “I already regret this.”

“You will,” you promised. “Now take this blanket. We’re about to watch a seven-part edit of Tim Cheese killing John Pork.”

“…and no, you can’t ask questions.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ With Love, @alive-gh0st

❝Always You❞

Mark Grayson x Childhood Friend!Reader ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

-ˋˏ❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀ˎˊ-

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❀ summary: you showed up uninvited, made his dad question all his life (and facial hair) choices, and never left. now you’re older, hotter, still annoying—and mark? very much in love. congrats.

❀ contains: sfw. childhood friends to lovers. slow-burn vibes. emotionally repressed!reader. soft!mark. reader has a difficult home life. light trauma but make it casual. fluff, banter and comedic tension. mark grayson being stupid-in-love.

❀ wc: 1899

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: first time posting just to feed y’all some mark grayson fluff.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You don’t remember exactly how you ended up in the Graysons’ house that first day.

You’d only just moved in next door, and your mom was already yelling about boxes. The man she was with—this week’s guy—smelled like beer, sweat, and no patience.

So you left.

Well… not really, but something along those lines.

You wandered down the sidewalk barefoot, dragging your backpack behind you, until you spotted a house that looked safe. Lived-in. Rich. You rang the doorbell like it owed you something.

Debbie Grayson opened the door, took one look at your face, and smiled. “Hi there, sweetheart. You okay?”

You didn’t answer. Just walked right past her like you belonged there.

Mark was on the floor with a comic book. He looked up, mouth half-open.

You pointed at his dad. “Is that mustache glued on, or is it a punishment?”

Nolan nearly dropped his coffee. Debbie choked on a laugh. Mark blinked, unsure whether to be offended or amazed.

You were five.

By the end of the day, you were sitting cross-legged on their carpet, eating cookies like you’d always been there. You told Nolan he “sounded like a guy on TV,” which earned another chuckle from Debbie and a long sigh from the man.

By the end of the week, you were staying over so often Debbie started keeping a toothbrush for you.

By the end of the month, you were helping Mark build Lego towers in his room—then immediately yelling at Nolan for knocking them over “on purpose.”

(He did. He 100% did. Nolan Grayson, Earth’s strongest man, had personal beef with a five-year-old and no shame about it.)

And before long, Mark couldn’t remember a life where you weren’t in it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Being around you was chaos wrapped in kindness.

You’d stick your tongue out at Mark and Nolan the second Debbie turned her back, then curl into her side during movie nights like you were her own kid.

You terrified Nolan with the things you said—adult questions in a child’s voice, bold and unfiltered. Like asking, “If you flew into space too fast, would your brain explode?” Or, more memorably: “Do aliens poop?”

“Enough,” Nolan muttered one night after your fifth question. “You’re worse than a Pentagon interrogation.”

“But I’m cuter,” you argued, and Debbie nodded like that settled the matter.

You were nine when you figured out Omni-Man’s identity.

You’d been watching the news over cereal, Mark beside you, both in matching Grayson hand-me-downs.

With squinted eyes at the screen, you groaned in disbelief. “Seriously? That’s your dad’s disguise? I can recognize that ugly mustache from space.”

Mark froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Wait, what?”

“Dude, it’s so obvious.”

You didn’t even flinch when Nolan walked in seconds later, fully suited up but holding his slippers like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Morning,” you said sweetly. “Nice cape.”

Nolan grunted and turned on the coffee maker without a comment.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Debbie adored you. Nolan, surprisingly, respected you—maybe because you always challenged him without fear. And Mark? Mark had someone who understood him without even trying.

Your home life, though, was never something you talked about.

It wasn’t bad, not technically, but it didn’t feel like a home. The yelling never stopped. The guys came and went. You learned early not to ask questions, and that silence was safer.

So you stopped asking.

But one night—when you were eleven—you showed up at Mark’s window with bruises on your arms and dirt on your knees. You didn’t say anything. Just climbed inside and curled up next to him on the bed.

He didn’t say anything either.

He just pulled the blanket over you and let you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

After that, the Graysons stopped asking if you were coming over. It was just assumed.

That’s how it always was.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

By middle school, the two of you were inseparable. You walked to class together, bickered over who got to name the group projects, and ganged up on anyone who tried to mess with either of you.

One day, in the cafeteria, some eighth grader bumped into you hard enough to knock your tray.

“Watch it,” he sneered, clearly expecting you to back off.

You looked him dead in the eyes while tilting your head innocently. “Try that again and I’ll make sure you’re crapping Jell-O for a week.”

The kid blinked.

Mark stepped in beside you. “She means that in a… non-lethal way.”

“Do I?” you asked.

Mark turned to you, deadpan. “Can you not threaten to rearrange someone’s insides with pudding in front of the lunch monitors?”

You gave him a shrug. “No promises.”

People thought you’d grow apart in high school. That Mark would change. That you would change.

But you never gave him the chance to drift. You clung—stubbornly, fiercely—like you knew if you let go, something in you would unravel. And Mark never wanted to be anywhere else anyway.

High school didn’t change you much. If anything, you just got bolder.

Mark got taller. You got sharper. People asked if you were dating. You both said no.

But neither of you looked too convinced when you did.

You still wore his hoodies. He still shared his fries with you without asking. You stole his blankets. He carried an extra charger in his bag just in case you forgot yours.

He never forgot your birthday. You never missed a single one of his baseball games.

It wasn’t just friendship. Not really.

Not with the way you rolled your eyes at affection from anyone else but melted instantly when Mark laid his head on your shoulder.

Not when you’d fight with him one minute and be curled up against him the next, hoodie sleeves too long, fingers grazing his under the blanket.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Mark watched you far more than he should’ve.

He noticed the way your laugh cracked just a little when you were too tired.

The way you hugged too hard, like you were making sure someone stayed.

The way you’d stand between him and anyone who dared to mouth off—like you were the one with superpowers.

He didn’t need to know the exact moment he fell in love with you. For him—it was always there, he just hadn’t been smart enough to understand.

Maybe it was that one day when you were watching cartoons on the floor, and Mark was pretending not to stare at you. You turned to him, grinning, and said something dumb like, “You’d probably get beat up in a real fight.”

But your eyes were soft.

He smiled back, and thought, God, it’s always been you.

But he never told you. Not really.

Because every time he almost did, you’d turn away. Or laugh. Or call him something close enough to a slur and throw popcorn at his face.

Maybe that was your armor. Or maybe it was his fear.

Either way, the words never made it out.

So he held onto them in silence. Carried them like bruises from a fight—but these ones never quite healed. Let them bleed out slowly over the years through lingering glances, soft touches, and unspoken understanding.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You were sixteen when he nearly told you.

It was late. You’d been watching horror movies with you curled up against him, almost half-asleep.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Mm?”

“You know I—I really—uh, care about you, right?”

You cracked one eye open. “Mark, if this is your weird way of trying to tell me you love me, just do it.”

His breath hitched.

You snorted. “Relax. You’re too chicken to actually say it.”

“Am not.”

”Then say it.”

He paused.

You reached over, poked his cheek, and mumbled, “Didn’t think so.”

And then you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, blissfully unaware of how badly his heart was racing.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Even now, sitting in his room, you’re stretched across his bed with a random comic forgotten beside you, legs tangled in his blanket like you own the place.

(Because you kind of do—not that he’d give you the satisfaction of knowing that.)

Mark watches you from his desk chair, ’Seance Dog’ comic in hand, but he’s not reading a word.

“You’re staring again,” you mutter from his bed, cheek half-squished against his pillow, voice muffled and judgmental.

“I am not,” Mark lies—incredibly unconvincingly.

You glance over with one brow raised. “You always stare when you’re thinking something gross.”

“It’s not gross!”

“So it is something.”

“…Maybe.”

You sit up, stretching your arms overhead with a dramatic yawn. “If you’re about to tell me you’ve been in love with me since we were, like, eight, just say it. Don’t do the weird broody stare like you’re in some CW drama.”

Mark blinks. “I mean… okay, not since eight. But maybe since… twelve?”

You blink at him.

Then before he can overthink like always—you let out a long, theatrical sigh and flop back dramatically again. “Ugh. Finally.”

Mark startles. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.” You shoot him a lopsided grin. “Do you know how annoying it is being the only one aware of the mutual pining in this room? I’ve been carrying this ship on my BACK.”

Mark’s mouth opens. Closes. “Wait—you like me?”

“I’m literally lying in your bed, wearing your hoodie, and insulting you in front of your anime figurines. What do you think?”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

You pause. Then smirk. “So… now what?”

Mark thinks for a second, then shrugs. “I mean, I could kiss you, but I’m 99% sure you’d just roast me for it.”

You hum. “Depends. Are you going to do that thing where you hesitate awkwardly and make a weird-ass face?”

Mark throws a pillow at you.

You cackle, catching it midair. “I’m kidding, dumbass. Come here.”

And when he does—grinning like a total idiot, heart thudding like he’s about to leap off a building for the first time—you tug him forward by the collar of his hoodie and kiss him first.

It’s warm, a little clumsy, way too long overdue.

And when you pull back, breathless and smug, grinning against his mouth—whispering, “Took you long enough, Grayson.”

Mark laughs, his cheeks tinted pink.

His fingers are still in your hair.

And for the first time in years, his heart feels lighter than air.

Because he’s always been watching you.

But now, finally—you’re looking back at him the same way.

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-ˋˏ❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀ˎˊ-

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Later, as you both lay tangled in blankets and shared warmth, Mark breaks the silence.

“…Do you think my dad knew?”

The question lingers in the air, and your mind drifts back to the old days—the easier ones—before your eyes open.

You blink up at the ceiling. “That you’re in love with me? Yeah. He always knew.”

Mark groans. “Debbie probably has a betting pool going.”

“She does,” you say without hesitation. “Amber’s in on it too. I think William’s the bookie.”

Mark gapes at you. “Are you serious?”

You grin, smug. “Dead serious. I’m pretty sure I just made someone twenty bucks.”

Mark buries his face in the pillow. “God.”

Patting his back, mock-comfortingly, you snort under your breath. “Don’t worry. You’re still the last one to find out.”

“…That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

And somewhere in the house, Debbie smiles to herself in the kitchen, sipping her wine like she didn’t just win her own bet.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

happy memories , happy family

redraw of these two images from the show !

The first one is from s2 and the other is from s1 (I hope we get to see a better quality version of it one day)

season 4 spoilers 🤗

Invincible and Dc Crossover.

Mark is Reader’s boyfriend and he comes over to visit her, only to find out how shit her family is.

In this au, Reader could even be the Atom!Eve, since Eve’s family as totally shit as well. Hey, it means she gets a sibling relationship with Oliver.

Bruce when he realises that his child’s boyfriend’s dad is a fucking maniac and so is the boyfriend: 😐

Fun fact the reason I made my last post was because I just got into Invincible and I was like “you know what? This shit slaps”

Change in Family

Okay, let’s do this one more time.

If we go for the Atom Eve!Reader route, then we know what the batfamily is like. More of the same with any other neglected!Readers. But this would be worse as you’re considered to be a Meta and we all know how Batman feels about Metas in Gotham

Let’s say we go with the similar stories of neglected readers. You were ignored and tormented by certain robins (Damien lol), you only had Alfred and/or Duke, you gained your powers in your senior year, graduate and moved away to leave your family behind, with the occasional calls from Alfred and Duke.

You joined the Guardian of the Globe to save people, and that’s where you meet Mark Grayson, this slightly awkward and shy kid who is apparently the son of THE Omni-Man. You were obviously intimidated by this dude, but soon your feelings got the better of you, and you fell for Mark.

Saving his ass was one way to get him to fall for you too. Unethical way for romance, but hey, a big win for you. He fell harder for you, and you both decided to get your feelings out of the way and had your kiss on the battlefield, immediately getting scolded by Cecil.

OR-

We have a none super story where you were the only normal kid in your family, the familiar story goes where you met Mark at college. You needed a fresh start that didn’t involve being in the shadows of the Waynes, so having all this hard work and studies is better than nothing.

You actually didn’t technically meet in college, you met when some villain was in the city and crashed into the campus, where you were almost crushed if it weren’t for Invincible. You had your fair share of attacks back at Gotham, so he was surprised when he saw your calm demeanor before getting back into fighting the villain.

After a while he caught up to you as Mark Grayson, who awkwardly stumbled next to your seat and rambling about the attack earlier, and he mentioned about seeing you almost getting killed, even more shocked to see you shrugging.

“It happens more than you think, especially in Gotham,” He was amazed you moved all the way from Gotham, and it just went on from there. You eventually found out he was Invincible after months of being friends, with in turn became dating.

No matter which path you choose

You are adored by Mark, which extends to his family. Oliver looks up to you, whether or not you’re human or Atom Eve!Reader, he sees the way Mark has heart eyes for you, and he declared you to be the best future sister-in-law ever.

You would always recreate his toys to be cooler, despite Debbie’s raised eyebrow and crossed arms at your sheepish smile while Oliver played with a heat seeking foam missile.

Of course, you kept in touch with Alfred, telling you the adventures you went on as Atom Eve, or your studies if you were human. You never told him about your boyfriend as despite being the only father figure you know (the addition of Cecil and Nolan), you knew his opinions about metas.

Your calls with Alfred eventually led you to work up the courage and confess to him that you have a boyfriend, and you don’t know by the look on the butler’s face that he was proud or horrified.

You could feel the glare of Alfred through the phone when you moved the camera to face Mark. Poor guy was sweating bullets by the stare he gave. “I-Is he going to… kill me?” He meeked asked, “I mean he almost killed Superman with not even Kryptonite… so I wouldn’t be too worried?” You sheepishly replied.

Unfortunately, your confession about Mark was being eavesdropped by Stephanie, who spat out her orange juice and tackled the phone out of Alfred’s hands, shouting into the phone -which in turn the whole manor- about; “(NAME)!! SINCE WHEN DID YOU MOVED OUT?! AND MANAGED TO HAVE THAT DORK BAG A BADDIE LIKE YOU?!”

What a snitch, now your other siblings are freaking out at the fact you moved out. “Yeah, for ONE year!! The fact you didn’t notice is very comforting!” you scoffed, all the while Mark was awkwardly laying next to you.

Bruce was distraught, not just the fact you were far away, but you have a BOY in your ROOM!! It doesn’t matter if you had a girl, boy, genderfluid or non-binary!! Why are you dating?!

“You shouldn’t be dating at your age!” He shouted through the phone, “I’m 21!!” You said in disbelief, making Mark cover his mouth to hide his smile while you elbowed him.

Dick was more distraught than Bruce if that was even possible. He was trying to tear the phone away from Bruce while crying his eyes out. “B-Baby bird!! Why did you leave us?! You shouldn’t be out there filled with overpowered monsters!! You should be inside the manor where it’s safer!! I-in fact, we’re coming right now!!”

You panicked, trying to find and excuse to sway them. If you choose Option A: Confess you have powers and is the hero Atom Eve “I’ve had powers since I was 16!!” You showed them through the phone by making one of Mark’s rock collection into a statue of a middle finger.

Or Option B: Throw Mark under the bus and say you have Invincible as your boyfriend to protect you. “He’s half-Viltrumite! He can protect me more than Batman!” You pulled Mark to your hip.

If you choose either one, congratulations!! Both were the wrong answers!! Now you either have your family freaking out that you had powers and only told Alfred, or they’re freaking out that you’re dating Invincible.

Whatever the outcome, you hid in the home of Mark, where Debbie treated you like you were her child, and Nolan? He approved of you so that’s good.

“Babe, it’s okay! Maybe they actually want to make amends with you!” Mark being the optimist he is he tired to reassure you while you shook your head. “You don’t know my family like I do, Mark! They only care now because of Steph eavesdropping! They wouldn’t even have remembered me if it weren’t for- UGH!!”

If you were Atom Eve! Reader, your frustration would’ve gotten a few items from Mark’s room turned into liquid. Human! Reader would’ve just kicked Mark’s chair to the ground. Mark frowned before holding you close.

“I’m sorry for whatever you been through. I promise you, they won’t take you away from your home. Away from me,” You wiped your tears of frustration and smiled at him, kissing him softly before hugging him again.

Mark wasn’t going to let your neglectful family to finally see you as one of their own, for they had years to do so. He confided to his dad, worried that you will be sent back to Gotham.

“If you want me to give them a total beatdown, I’m on it!” Oliver grinned while the Nolan boys were in an open field to talk about your situation.

“I don’t want to lose them, dad. I love them so much, a-and they want to take that away from me!!” He shouted before sending a boulder into the sky. Nolan simply hummed while floating next to Mark.

“Son… You know how much I love your mother,” Mark nodded, “I would do anything for her. (Name), they mean so much to you as well. They even managed to wiggle themselves into this family,” He chuckled.

“Duh! You gotta show those dorks that we ain’t gonna to let anything slide with us! (Name) is practically family!” Oliver floated upside down while attempting to land.

“They’re yours now Mark, and you can’t let others take what’s yours…” Usually, Mark would question such words his father would say, but he was right. You are his just as much as he is yours, and he’d be damned if he let these neglectful people show up suddenly.

“Don’t worry dad, I won’t let them go. Ever,” Nolan smiled softly, “Good, because between the three of us, your mother got more attached to (Name) than we did,” Mark laughed, but knew that Debbie loved you more.

There would be a dinner, hosted by the gracious Bruce Wayne to show he means no harm, (to you of course he’s going to kill this Mark). It was time to meet the family, the Nolan’s included.

Cecil is on watch with the GotG (not those guardians) as he grew attached to you as well, in case the Bats pull something, and Alfred has the Justice League on command to swoop in just in case things got ugly.

“It’s so great to have the family back together for dinner,” Bruce smiled brightly as you were forced to sit between him and Selina, who was amused by this whole ordeal, but was still happy you were back.

With the state down between Mark and Nolan vs the Bats, Debbie and Selina were casually talking and in their own vibe.

“You must be Selina Kyle. Debbie Nolan, and I must say you definitely manage to hold down this family with a lover who is… delusional,” Debbie chuckled, “No judge though, been there,” Selena grinned while clinking her glass.

“Glad you like my style, truly amazing to see how the men try to pin against each other when we could really need the extra support in keeping them safe,” They already agreed that you were the number one priority between families and that you will be protected.

“Psst, you already got dirt on them?” Steph whispered to Barbara and Tim as they typed on their tablets under the table. They nodded as they gave glared at them, to which Mark glared back before focusing his lovey dovey eyes back on you.

It made them furious to see how he touched you (holding your hand) how he pampered you (gave you a kiss) how vile he is (he blushed when you complimented him).

“Baby bird, may I ask why you’re dating a hero who has the same last NAME as me?!” Dick accused, making you and Mark look at each other before an awkward silence filled dinner. Jason had the decency to stomp Dick’s foot hard to make him shut up.

Duke at least tried to give you his blessings, but even he knew something was up with your boyfriend’s family, specifically his dad. The way he stared at them as if they were mere ants.

Cass noticed too and they both spent called for backup of the Young Justice just in case.

“(Name), I find it absurd you take amusement in this Superman wannabe. Powers only make a being more perceptible to deadly scenarios,” Damien crossed his arms while glaring deadly daggers at Mark.

“Sooo, you’re their little brother? Pssh, I can already tell you’re a spoiled brat who thinks he’s better than everyone else here really he just has mommy issues,” Oliver smiled while stabbing his steak with his fork.

“Shut it, your purple grape!” Damien snarled, slamming his hands on the table, “At least I actually learned not to kill!” Oliver quipped, “Barely!” Both kids glared as you were about to just bolt out of here.

“Nolan Grayson,” Bruce cleared his throat, causing the shouting silence, “While I do appreciate you have given a roof over my dear (Name), I highly doubt it would be safe for them to continue living at your residence. They’ll be better staying here,” He said with a steady tone.

“Bruce-,” You started, but Nolan simply hummed, “Funny, I think it’ll be better for them to be protected by someone who they actually call dad,” Ohhh that made Bruce furious.

If things so seriously bad, then let’s just say that you’ll be seeing superhumans fight to the death just for you.

Meanwhile, Mark took you away from the outright war to give some kissing times with you.

Don’t get me started about the Markverse, that’ll give Bruce a stroke seeing them looking at you with hungry eyes.

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