❝Marked❞

❝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.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

•∘˙○˚.⋆ ˚｡⋆ 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♡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.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

╰┈➤ 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 ✍︎

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

♬ 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

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

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

❝Marked❞

⋆｡˚✴︎⋆Veil!Mark Grayson x Trouble!Reader⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

•. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˚₊‧⟡꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ⟡‧₊˚ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

★ summary: he’s supposed to be your handler. a monitor. a leash. but mark grayson doesn’t follow orders—not when it comes to you. when they tried to reassign you, he rewrote the rules. now you’re stuck with him: veiled, violent, and watching you like he already owns you. you don’t play well with others. he doesn’t care. because underneath the blood, the missions, the slow obsession—he isn’t trying to control you. he’s trying to keep you. marked as his.

‪‪★ contains: nsfw (18+). enemies to feral co-dependents. handler x operative dynamic. forced partnership. obsession disguised as protection. surveillance with feelings. feral!mark. dangerous!reader. veil!mark. veil!invincible. slow burn to full meltdown. soft dom vibes. unhinged loyalty. post-mission patchups. emotional warfare disguised as flirting. “say that again and i’ll ruin you” energy. knifeplay (non-lethal, very hot). panty stealing. couch sex. praise kink. sacred-name usage. quiet confessions. dirty mouths, softer hearts. extremely earned smut.

★ warning: graphic violence. blood/injury. canon-typical trauma. stalking (narratively intentional, obsessive-not-malicious). emotional volatility. intense possessiveness. nsfw content (oral + penetrative sex). manipulation of power dynamics (non-abusive). toxic attachment themes. unhealthy coping. emotional depth. explicit devotion. mark being insane about you in every way.

‪‪★ wc: 8437

ᯓ★ requested by: @hyunniestharr (your idea haunted me. now it can haunt you, too)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: this isn’t a love story—it’s a security breach with a heartbeat. a warning label on loyalty (also yes. he absolutely came untouched. twice.)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The knife slid in easy.

Too easy, honestly—especially after chasing this bastard across rooftops, sewer grates, and at least two levels of transit. Your lungs still burned, your shoulder throbbed, and your mood? Absolutely shot to hell.

The blade found its mark between his ribs, sliding in with that soft, sickening give that muscle memory never forgot. The target gurgled—wet, startled, pathetic.

“God, you’re dramatic,” you muttered, yanking the blade out with a practiced twist.

It splattered red across your boots.

“I mean, if you were gonna be this squishy, you could’ve just surrendered ten blocks ago and saved me a goddamn headache.”

He dropped like a ragdoll, face-down into the filth-streaked alley and joined the others in the room that already smelled like copper and regret. The puddle beneath him spread slowly, sluggish in the midwinter air. You stood over the corpse with a scowl, sweat slicking down the back of your neck. The quiet buzz of adrenaline had barely started to fade.

“Stubborn little shit. Had to bleed like a faucet.”

Blood—most of it not yours—stuck to your gloves, smeared across your thigh where the asshole’s last desperate swing had caught you.

“Perfect,” you sighed, inspecting the ruined leg of your suit. “Because what I really needed today was another reason to explain why my laundry bill rivals a war crime.”

The sting of shallow wounds tugged at your nerves. But you didn’t flinch. You never did.

“You better have intel worth all this laundry,” you muttered before crouching and rifling through the dead man’s pockets—only pulling out a charred disk drive and a mangled transponder. Useless. Still, protocol said bring everything, so you stuffed it into your pouch and rose.

“Dumbass bled out for nothing,” you muttered. ”Bet his last thought was about that ugly-ass tattoo he was so proud of. Shame.”

You rolled your shoulder, muscles groaning in protest, and started trudging toward the exit.

The concrete was slick from the mess. You didn’t bother avoiding the blood trail. Let Forensics earn their paycheck.

“This is what I get for volunteering for ‘cleanup duty,’ huh?” you grumbled. “Next time I see Dispatch, I’m stabbing them with this knife. Gently. Lovingly. But repeatedly.”

Your comm crackled.

You froze. Then sighed. Of course.

Swiping the screen open mid-step, you expected a location ping or evac window. Maybe even a rare “good job” if someone up top was feeling generous. Instead, you got flagged.

PRIORITY. LEVEL SIX.

UNSCHEDULED MEETING. MANDATORY.

FILE ATTACHED.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s not ominous at all.”

The folder had your name stamped on it—but nothing else. No briefing, no subject tags, just a sealed file and an address string embedded in the encryption. You squinted at the coordinates.

Underground.

Of course.

You barked a humorless laugh. “Meeting in the bunker. Creepy as hell. Classic you, Command.”

Without even trying to clean up, you took a turn off the main street, ducking into a nondescript elevator shaft hidden behind a disused courier hub.

One retinal scan and two sarcastic clearance swipes later, you were riding down into the belly of the beast.

── .✦

The bunker hadn’t changed since the last time you broke into it. Still dusty, still freezing, still lit with that flickering LED buzz that made you want to file a complaint and commit arson at the same time. You moved through it like muscle memory: two lefts, a keypad, retinal scan. A hiss of doors unlocking.

No guards. No eyes on you.

Just one metal table, and a single paper folder sitting at its center like a damn horror prop.

“Oh, great,” you deadpanned. “We’re going analog. That’s never shady.”

You peeled your gloves off with your teeth, slapping them on the table before flipping the folder open.

“Really setting the mood,” you muttered. “All that budget, and they still print shit on recycled office supply.”

The folder wasn’t marked with anything obvious—just your designation and a date. No mission summary. No ops plan. Just bureaucratic psych jargon. Something about “disciplinary structure,” “high-risk autonomy,” “unstable behavioral metrics.” You rolled your eyes so hard your neck nearly cracked.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Next thing they’ll say I’ve got commitment issues.”

Then—tucked at the very bottom—you saw it.

Reassignment. Oversight. Immediate effect.

You blinked.

And blinked again.

Your lips parted, half-laugh, half-scoff forming in your throat when—

The door hissed open behind you.

Footsteps. Heavy. Even. Slow.

You turned, instinctively reaching for your knife.

Then paused.

Because the man in the doorway?

Blue and yellow. No cape. No insignia. A form-fitting suit that clung to muscle and violence, with a strange veil that obscured his face like a curtain of secrecy—thin, sheer, barely hiding the line of his jaw.

His eyes glowed behind narrow goggles—calm, calculating.

You never heard him speak. Not really.

You’d seen him before—that’s for sure. Not clearly. Just flashes on rooftops. A distant signal you weren’t cleared to track. Everyone called him something different, if they talked about him at all. You never paid attention to other people anyway.

Until now.

He stepped inside like he owned the room—and maybe he did—and said nothing. Just looked at you. Sized you up.

He looked at you like he already knew how you fought. How you bled. Like he knew where to land a punch—or where it would really hurt.

You looked back.

What was his alias again… ?

You hated that it made you curious.

A beat lagged. Then two. No one said anything.

And then you looked back at the file, still open on the table. Read the fine print. The line that had made you scoff but hadn’t sunk in until now.

“Assigned to field partner. Behavioral reassessment ongoing. Expect prolonged oversight.”

You opened your mouth. Then shut it again.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

Invincible—or just Mark, depending on who was stupid or familiar enough to call him that—watched from the far end of the room.

Arms crossed loosely, leaning back against the wall like he didn’t have half a dozen other places to be. Like he wasn’t technically two hours behind on a recon run he’d already lied about completing.

But whatever.

You were here.

Pacing the concrete floor, muttering darkly under your breath, covered in blood that wasn’t yours. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. Currently ignoring him like he didn’t just walk in like gravity answered to his name.

Mark watched. Quiet. Still.

He liked watching you.

More than he should’ve. More than he’d ever admit out loud, even if someone held a railgun to his skull and promised painless disintegration.

Call it stalking, surveillance, an unhealthy attachment—he didn’t care. Not really.

It wasn’t just the way you moved—though that was part of it. You walked like you were daring the ground to talk back. You held tension like it was a weapon and he hadn’t been able to look away since the first time he saw you gut a guy without blinking.

Even now, you stalked around the empty room like you were half a second from breaking the table in two just because it dared to exist.

It made something in his chest tighten.

You didn’t know he’d been watching for a while. Not just today. Not even just this mission.

He checked in on you often. “Checked” was a generous word. It was bordering on surveillance. Okay, it was surveillance. He had a whole folder stashed away with flagged reports from your last five deployments. A few audio files. Maybe a grainy clip or two.

It wasn’t creepy. He wasn’t a creep.

He just needed to make sure you were okay.

(You kill people for a living.)

Still. He liked knowing where you were. So yeah. He watched. Checked in. Every day.

You were reckless. You didn’t follow orders. You acted on gut instinct, and half the time, it worked, which only made it worse. Because one day it wouldn’t work, and they’d send him in too late.

He’d seen the file before you did. Your reassignment.

They were going to put you under some no-name enforcer from another sector. Someone who thought “discipline” meant obedience and “partnership” meant paperwork.

So he said no.

Correction—he said: “If you send her to anyone else, I’ll break your fucking spine and write my resignation on the wall in your blood.”

Direct quote.

So now here he was. Assigned. Official. Watching you sulk around a room you clearly hated.

It should’ve been annoying. You hadn’t even acknowledged him properly yet. Just marched in, read your little file, stared at him for solid 6 seconds before muttering like the universe personally offended you.

He could name a dozen ways to silence you. He just didn’t want to.

He should’ve said something sooner.

But damn, you were beautiful when you were pissed.

Especially when it came with that cute little crease between your brows—like the universe had personally offended you.

Before you could actually spiral into something truly destructive—like ripping out the lights or kicking a chair through a wall (you’d done both before)—he finally decided to speak.

“Y’know,” Mark drawled finally, voice smooth, low, and way too amused, “for someone who just got a promotion, you complain like you got dumped via sticky note.”

You stopped mid-step.

Didn’t turn. Not yet.

He could see the tension coil in your spine like a loaded spring.

“You,” you said flatly. Like it was a diagnosis.

Even your voice sounded like a threat—like it could cut.

Mark’s grin sharpened under the veil.

“Me,” he confirmed.

A beat of silence.

Then, you turned to face him, arms crossed, blood still drying on your collar. “You’re my new ‘handler’?”

“I prefer ‘charming work husband’ but sure,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “Let’s go with that.”

No reaction.

(Okay. An eye twitch. That counted.)

He was delighted.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” Mark said, smile curling under his breath. “That’s the best part.”

He stepped forward, slow and unhurried, until he was just a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint smear of ash on your jaw. Close enough to catch the faint chemical tang of blood and steel clinging to you like armor.

Blood, smoke, and a faint scent of whatever damn soap you use to scrub crime off your skin—it drove him fucking insane.

“You’re pissed,” he observed lightly. “That’s cute.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you trying to get stabbed?”

“Debatable,” he said. “Depends where.”

Another twitch. His grin widened.

He didn’t mean to flirt—okay, he did. But not too much. Not yet. You were still dangerous, still vibrating with aftershock fury, and the last thing he needed was for you to go fully feral.

Not until you liked him more, at least.

“I’m not here to babysit you,” he said after a moment. “Not in the way you think.”

You arched a brow. “No?”

“I’m here because I’m the only one who knows what it’s like to do what you do and still not break.”

A beat.

“I don’t break,” you said evenly.

“No,” Mark agreed, his voice softer now. “But they’re afraid you might. And you know what they do to things they think are broken.”

That hit.

You didn’t reply. Just stared at him. Longer. Slower. More like a threat than a conversation.

He could live with that. For now.

“Look,” he said, stepping even closer now, “I didn’t come here to coddle you. I came because if someone’s gonna keep you from getting killed, it’s gonna be me. No leashes. No lectures. Just… you and me. Doing what we do best.”

You said nothing.

Mark waited.

Then, quietly, with something almost close to sincerity—he muttered his final words.

“You can hate it. But you won’t hate me.”

Your eyes darkened. But your silence wasn’t as sharp as it should’ve been.

And Mark smiled.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The rain was coming down in sheets, hammering the rooftops like it had a personal grudge.

You gritted your teeth, one arm tucked tightly around Invincible’s waist as you half-dragged, half-guided him down the dim corridor. His weight leaned into you shamelessly—dead weight, if dead weight had a smug attitude and a pulse like a drum in your ribs.

You didn’t say a word.

Not when he groaned dramatically into your ear, not when he stumbled a little more on purpose, not when you almost slipped trying to keep his dumbass from kissing the floor.

“You can walk,” you muttered through clenched teeth.

“I could,” he agreed, tone so casual it made your blood pressure spike. “But then I’d miss this beautiful team-building moment.”

You didn’t bother answering. You just pulled him harder, jostling his bruised ribs enough to earn a soft grunt from behind the veil.

Good.

His suit was streaked in blood—most of it his, some probably yours, and none of it helped your growing migraine. You were soaked to the bone, adrenaline long gone, fury in its place. The blast that tore through the wall back there should’ve hit you.

He’d made sure it didn’t.

And now you were stuck playing support for the goddamn golden boy of masked arrogance.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you hissed, not looking at him.

“Do what?” His voice was pure innocence. “Save your life?”

You scoffed. “I had it handled.”

“You were standing in front of a literal antimatter core.”

“I was moving out of the way.”

“Sure you were.” He leaned in, shifting more of his weight onto you, his breath warm behind the thin fabric of your collar. “Besides, you look better in one piece.”

Your fingers tightened where they gripped his side, and you seriously considered dropping him face-first into the nearest wall.

You didn’t.

But it was a close thing.

By the time you reached the medbay—a low-lit, sterile chamber lined with supply cabinets and outdated tech—you were seething quietly. You kicked the door open with your boot and hauled him inside like a sack of problematic groceries.

“Bed. Now.”

Invincible opened his mouth—about to reply with some flirty comeback—but one sharp look from you made him retreat.

He moved—slowly, with all the theatrical flair of a dying star—and flopped onto the metal exam table with a groan that would’ve convinced any sane person he was about to flatline.

You weren’t convinced.

“You’re not dying,” you muttered, already rifling through cabinets.

“Didn’t say I was,” he mumbled, watching you over the edge of the table. “But if I do… can I haunt your apartment?”

You threw a roll of gauze at his face.

It hit him square in the goggles.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

You turned away before he could catch the twitch in your expression.

Because pain or not, the image of him stepping in front of that blast—of the way he threw you to the side like it was instinct—was burned into your memory. You were furious.

You were also, maybe, a little bit shaken.

Not that you’d ever admit it.

Not even to yourself.

You found the antiseptic, grabbed a few packs of gauze and tape, then returned to his side. You didn’t bother asking if he wanted your help. You didn’t wait for a nurse.

You’d stitched your own thigh shut in the back of a stolen van once. Wrapped a shattered wrist in duct tape and finished a mission. You weren’t squeamish.

His suit was torn apart—and underneath—muscle, blood, bruises. He was a mess, but he’d live. Unfortunately.

You dabbed antiseptic into the worst of it without mercy. He hissed.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m tolerating this.”

His eyes caught yours—bright and unreadable under the goggles.

“You could’ve let me bleed out,” he said, voice lower now.

“I considered it.”

“Mm. That’s fair.”

You said nothing, focusing on a gash along his ribs. He didn’t flinch. But his gaze didn’t leave you.

“You’re pissed.”

You pressed harder.

“I told you I had it,” you said, quieter now. “You shouldn’t have stepped in.”

“I wasn’t going to let you get hurt.”

Your hands paused.

“I don’t need protecting.”

“I know.”

More silence.

Then, softer—closer, “But I like putting my hands on you. Even if it means getting thrown across a warehouse.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

His veil was torn at the corner. Blood trickled from his temple, and his ribs looked like someone had caved them in with a wrecking ball. And for the first time, he wasn’t grinning. Not cocky. Not smug. Just—there. Honest.

You ignored the way your stomach twisted.

You ignored that it landed somewhere deep.

And worse—you hated that part of you was glad he did it.

Even if you’d never say it out loud.

So instead, you went back to cleaning him up. And he let you.

Touch lingering just a little longer than it needed to. His eyes stayed on you, quiet for once.

But of course, it couldn’t last.

“You know,” he said, voice low, teasing—dangerous, “if you keep touching me like that, I’m gonna pop a boner.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The city sprawled beneath, a mosaic of lights flickering in the night. A hundred thousand lives in motion, none of them looking up.

The hum of distant traffic and the occasional siren were the only sounds accompanying the two figures perched on the ledge, threading through the darkness like familiar ghosts. While the rooftop offered a vantage point—both strategic and serene, if you let it be.

You rarely did.

This wasn’t your kind of quiet.

You didn’t like silence—not when it meant being left alone with your thoughts. Not when it reminded you that most of your work ended with blood on your hands and no one waiting for you when it was done.

You were good at what you did, but it came with solitude. That was the tradeoff. Had been, for a long time.

You sat with your knees drawn up, arms resting atop them, eyes scanning the horizon like something out there might change.

Invincible sat beside you—close enough that you could feel the heat of him even with the night air biting through your suit. He didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t even try to make himself useful. He was just there.

And strangely, that made it easier to breathe.

It wouldn’t last. It never did. But maybe tonight, it didn’t have to.

The surveillance gear nearby blinked and pulsed, quietly recording—but neither of you looked at it.

For once, it could wait.

“You ever think about what it’d be like to just… disappear?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out like breath. Like you hadn’t meant to say it, but couldn’t help yourself.

Invincible turned his head, veil fluttering slightly in the breeze. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I think I’d miss the chaos.”

A quiet chuckle escaped you. Dry. Amused. “Figures.”

Silence settled again—but not heavy. Not cold. Just… still. You rarely got stillness that didn’t come with tension coiled in your gut. This was different.

And that scared you more than it should have.

“You know,” he said after a beat, voice quieter now, almost careful, “we’ve been through a lot together… and I don’t even know your real name.”

You glanced at him, surprised—but not defensive. Not tonight.

You hesitated for half a second, then gave it to him. Just your name. Nothing fancy, no ceremony. Like offering up something small and fragile just to see what he’d do with it.

He nodded. A small, rare smile played at the edge of his mouth. “Mark.”

Simple as that. And somehow, it meant something.

The name felt strange coming from him. Not because it didn’t suit him—it did. More than you expected. But because no one ever shared real names with you unless they were bleeding out or trying to make peace before dying. It had weight. It had risk.

You tilted your head slightly. “Nice to meet you, Mark.”

His gaze lingered on you a second longer than necessary. You felt the heat of it, sharp and warm, brushing your cheek like a touch he hadn’t made. Then, low and easy, ”Likewise, sweetheart.”

Your heart hiccuped in your chest—and you hated that it did.

He’d called you worse. He’d called you better. But something about hearing him say it now—gentle, sincere—made your stomach twist in a way no battlefield ever had.

You looked away, pretending to study the skyline again—even though you hadn’t really been looking at it for a while.

You were thinking about the last time you sat this close to someone without bracing for betrayal.

You were thinking about how you always worked alone because it was safer that way.

You were thinking about how, for the first time in what felt like forever, being alone didn’t feel so absolute.

He wasn’t touching you. Wasn’t even looking at you anymore. But he was there. And that mattered more than you wanted it to.

The city lights shimmered below, reflecting off wet rooftops and glass towers like starlight that had forgotten its way home. And for one small, stolen moment, you didn’t feel like a weapon in waiting. You didn’t feel like the monster they kept on a leash.

You just felt… seen.

You didn’t say thank you.

But maybe you didn’t have to.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

Mark hadn’t meant to watch you.

Not like that.

Not in the beginning.

It started with a glitch in his comms. A rerouted signal. Someone else’s mission logs bleeding into his HUD. A red flag tagged with your designation, blinking across rooftops he wasn’t supposed to care about.

He should’ve ignored it.

He didn’t.

Instead, he paused mid-flight—just above Sector 4, the skyline burning behind him—and turned his attention to a grainy security feed from a busted drone two miles off-grid.

And there you were.

A blur of movement. Blood on your knuckles. Fire in your mouth.

He watched you take down five armed enforcers in less than a minute. Watched you move like violence was a second skin, like your bones had been carved to fit inside chaos.

He felt something shift in his chest.

It wasn’t lust—not at first. It wasn’t even admiration.

It was obsession—quiet, still, and cold.

It was yours.

── .✦

He told himself it was curiosity. A one-time thing. Professionals did that. Kept tabs. Cross-referenced reports.

But the next night, he checked again.

And the next.

And the next.

── .✦

You never noticed. Or if you did, you never said.

And god, that just made it worse.

── .✦

You drank your coffee black. No sugar. No milk. Always scalding.

He knew this because he’d watched you order it, three mornings in a row, from a corner shop you never paid for—just flashed a fake badge and walked off like you owned the world.

You untied your boots with your teeth sometimes—bit the laces, spat them out. It was feral.

You hummed under your breath when you cleaned your knives. Always the same tune. Off-key. He found it… endearing.

He memorized it.

── .✦

Mark knew your name before you even said it.

It was in your file—buried under layers of redacted bullshit, buried deeper than it had any right to be. But Mark had access. Mark was access.

He read it once, then never again.

He didn’t need to.

It was already carved somewhere behind his ribs.

── .✦

He knew your patrol schedule. Your blind spots. He knew which rooftops you liked. Which ones you avoided.

He knew you slept on your side, curled like you expected someone to stab you in your sleep.

He hated that.

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to sleep like that anymore. That he’d sleep beside you. That he would take first watch.

Every night. For the rest of your life.

── .✦

The first time he broke into your apartment, it wasn’t for anything weird.

Just to look.

Just to… be where you were when you weren’t there.

It was quiet. Small. Clean in some places, messy in others. Coffee cups on the counter. A half-assembled gun on the table. A pair of boots by the door.

Your scent clung to the air—warm, sharp, metallic, with the faintest sweetness underneath.

He stood in your living room for almost an hour.

Didn’t touch anything. Didn’t breathe too loud. Just existed in your space.

And then he left.

But he came back.

Again.

And again.

── .✦

Once, he barely made it out.

The click of your front door lock. The soft thud of your boots. He didn’t breathe until he was four rooftops away.

Heart racing. Hard. Excited. Terrified. Alive.

This wasn’t like how his father loved.

It wasn’t control.

It was gravity.

And you were the only thing keeping him from flying straight into the sun.

── .✦

Eventually, he started touching things.

Your mugs. Your books. Your hoodie.

Once, he sat on your couch and imagined you curled up beside him. Hair damp from a shower. Feet in his lap. Trusting him.

He got hard just thinking about it—and cursed himself for it.

But he didn’t stop.

── .✦

Then came the laundry.

Folded in a neat little basket by the window.

Fresh. Still warm. He touched a pair of panties—just brushed his fingers over the edge. Then brought them to his face.

He didn’t moan. Didn’t jerk off. Didn’t cross that line.

But he did smile, dark and private.

Murmured to himself, “Honestly? These feel way better than my veil.”

He left them exactly where they were.

Mostly.

Sometimes, he took one. Just one. Wore it like a badge under the suit—close to his skin. A reminder. A promise.

And then brought it back.

Washed. Pressed. Folded better than you ever did.

Because he wasn’t a monster.

He was just yours.

Even if you didn’t know it yet.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The air was thick with smoke and the metallic scent of blood. Neither one of you saw it coming.

Not the punch, not the burst of kinetic force that ripped through the alley like thunder. Not the split-second shift in Invincible’s stance that changed everything from strategic to savage.

The mission had been simple: recon and retrieve.

Minimal force. Bring the target in alive.

No one said anything about bait.

No one said anything about them using you.

But the second the bastard dropped your name—the second that oily voice curled your real name like venom in the air—it all went to hell.

“You really think she’s worth it?” the target had sneered, blood leaking from his mouth, grin jagged where a tooth used to be. “All that power, and you’re playing guard dog to a broken bitch with a kill streak.”

You froze, not from shock—but calculation. How close was Invincible? How fast could you—

Too late.

You barely got a word out before Invincible was on him.

You didn’t even see the punch. Just the aftermath.

The target’s body hit the wall like a meteor. Cracked brick. Concrete dust in your lungs. Something crunched that definitely wasn’t supposed to.

And Invincible—Mark—wasn’t stopping.

Not with protocol screaming in your earpiece. Not with the command feed blinking red in your HUD. Not even when you grabbed his arm and shouted his name like it was the only thing you could do.

His fist was cocked back, trembling. Veins bulging under torn sleeves. Breathing like he’d just run through war.

“Mark,” you snapped again, sharper this time, like a blade.

His eyes—those glowing, untouchable things—locked on you.

You saw it hit him then.

Not guilt.

Something deeper.

Like the thought of someone using you, threatening you, daring to speak your name out loud—was worse than death.

“Alive,” you said, jaw tight. “We need him alive.”

It took everything in you not to flinch when he finally stepped back.

The target coughed blood, slumped in a crater.

── .✦

You didn’t speak the rest of the mission. Neither did he.

The silence between you buzzed louder than the comms.

And when the drop team arrived, you didn’t look at each other. Not once.

But you felt him watching.

Still burning.

Still ready to kill the next person who dared say your name like it wasn’t something sacred.

── .✦

You didn’t storm off.

You didn’t say a word when Command debriefed, when the team cleaned up the mess, when the target got dragged off in a body bag instead of a prisoner transport.

You just stood there, fists clenched at your sides, your shadow overlapping his as you waited for someone to say it.

They didn’t.

They didn’t have to.

You could feel the way they looked at you now—like you were collateral. A variable. The reason their best weapon nearly lost control.

Again.

── .✦

You could still hear it.

Your name.

Twisted in the mouth of someone who wasn’t supposed to know it. Someone who used it like a curse—like a weapon.

And it worked.

Invincible—no, Mark lost it. You watched it happen in real time.

Not calculated. Not clean. Just rage. Unchecked. Unleashed.

And it scared you—not because he was angry, but because it felt like it was for you.

Like he would’ve killed a man for the crime of knowing you existed. And worse…

Some ugly, buried part of you wanted to let him.

── .✦

You didn’t sleep that night.

You sat on your windowsill in silence, one leg propped up, eyes on the skyline you usually found comfort in. It didn’t work tonight.

Because a small part of you knew he was out there.

Watching. Hovering. Probably furious that you stopped him.

Probably furious you had to.

But you weren’t sorry. Not really.

You’d gotten where you were by staying sharp. Staying smart. Staying in control.

And tonight?

He wasn’t.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

Mark noticed how you didn’t look at him once.

Not when they ran your vitals. Not when they shoved the corpse into containment with a glare like it was his fault the bastard’s skull split open like overripe fruit.

He stood back—arms crossed, jaw tight behind the veil.

He didn’t say anything either.

Not when you passed by. Not when you shouldered past the medic—like you were afraid to stop moving. Like if you did, you’d shatter.

He hated that.

He hated that silence lived between you now, not comfort. Not tension. Not heat.

Just cold.

── .✦

He heard it on loop.

Your voice—sharp and panicked, calling his name like a lifeline.

Not “Invincible.” Not “hey.”

Just… Mark.

It made something in his chest twist.

Made his hands curl at his sides. He could still feel the way your fingers had dug into his wrist.

Not gently. Not soft. But grounding.

It was the only reason he didn’t finish the job.

He didn’t regret it.

But he hated the look you gave him after.

Like you didn’t know who he was anymore. Or maybe like you finally did.

── .✦

He didn’t go home.

He hovered three blocks from your apartment, high enough to be unseen, low enough to feel you through the walls.

He didn’t expect to see the light in your room flick on.

He didn’t expect to see you—barely out of your gear, face hard, eyes darker than he’d ever seen them—leaning out the window, staring dead into the dark.

He stayed still. Barely breathing.

You didn’t see him.

But maybe—just maybe—you knew he was there.

Because after a long moment, you whispered to the night.

“Next time you lose control like that… I’ll stop you harder.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

And fuck—he’d never wanted anything more.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

They were doing it quietly. Behind walls. Sealed files. Passive phrasing and polite lies.

“Operative instability,” they’d said. “Emotional volatility.” “Unpredictable attachment to assigned partner.”

They meant him.

They meant you.

They meant that moment in the alley when his fist should’ve stopped—and didn’t. When he saw red and acted like a man who didn’t care about consequence.

Because he didn’t.

Because someone said your name and laughed.

Because someone tried to make you a weakness.

Because someone forgot you were his.

── .✦

Mark stood in the center of the server room like a loaded weapon someone forgot to disarm—veil pushed halfway up, breathing like he was trying not to detonate.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The lights overhead buzzed, flickering under the strain of faulty wiring. Or maybe that was him. Hard to tell.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

Deadly.

“Who signed off on this?”

No one answered.

Just the soft flick of fingers on tablet screens. The nervous shift of boots. Everyone pretending not to feel the pressure in the air—like something was about to crack.

Mark didn’t repeat himself.

He didn’t have to.

Because the next second, the console nearest him exploded. Shattered metal and sparks.

A handprint embedded in the wall behind it.

“You don’t get to move her,” he said, voice sharp as razors now. “You don’t get to touch her file. You don’t get to breathe near it.”

A senior director tried to speak. “Invincible—this decision came from—”

“Say that name again. Go ahead. Say it like it doesn’t mean something,” Mark interrupted. “Say that designation. I dare you.”

He took a step forward. The floor groaned under his boots. Not because of weight. But pressure. Because he wasn’t holding back anymore.

Because he was done playing soldier. Handler. Puppet on a leash.

He wasn’t Invincible here.

He was yours.

And they were trying to steal him from you.

They just didn’t know it yet.

The man tried again, slower this time. “You need to understand the optics. She’s compromised. She compromised you.”

Mark’s laugh was low. Joyless. A hollow thing cracked open in the dark.

“She didn’t compromise me,” he said.

“She saved me.”

He stepped in close.

Close enough that the lights flickered again.

“I was ready to kill a man for saying her name. And you think I’m going to let you erase her?”

The air pulsed. No one moved.

“Try it,” Mark whispered. “Try touching her file again. I will wipe your existence so clean no one will remember you were ever born.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, he leaned in. Veil brushing the shoulder of the man in charge. And in a voice made of smoke and control, he whispered his final words.

“She’s not the dangerous one… I am.”

── .✦

He left the room in ruin.

Half the lights were blown. Several systems fried. Three agents too shaken to speak. And when he disappeared from camera range, no one followed.

Because everyone knew where he was going.

Straight to you.

Because if they wanted to take you away—

They were going to have to kill him first.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The window rattled before the door slammed open.

You were on your feet before your brain caught up—knife in hand, blade drawn, feet planted. No hesitation.

No fear.

And then you saw him.

Mark.

Standing in your apartment doorway like a storm that forgot where it was supposed to break.

Hair damp from the wind. Veil twisted, torn halfway up. Blood running in a thin, angry line down his throat—from the blade you were still holding to his neck.

You hadn’t even realized you’d moved that fast.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.

He just stepped closer.

Closer, until your knife dug deeper, a warning meant to halt.

But he didn’t stop.

Instead, he leaned in—slow, steady, unshakable—and rested his forehead against yours.

He was trembling.

Not from pain.

From relief. From rage still clinging to the edges of his breath. From the panic you hadn’t seen on him before—not like this.

You lowered the knife, slowly.

Confused.

“Mark—” you started, voice too soft.

But his hand was already reaching for yours. Gripping it—not hard, not desperate, but anchoring. Like you were the last solid thing in a world gone sideways.

You didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak.

You just led him to the couch, never letting go.

He dropped onto it like his knees gave out—but still kept hold of your wrist.

You started to pull back—maybe to grab water, a towel, anything—

But his hand caught yours again. Tighter this time. And when he whispered, it was raw and cracked.

“Don’t go. Please.”

You didn’t.

You sat beside him.

Quiet. Still. Warm.

And for the first time in days, he exhaled.

Like the war ended. Like he finally made it home.

Like you were it.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

After that, things shifted between you two.

Not drastic. Not loud. Just enough to feel it.

A new gravity.

You joked more. He smiled more.

The air felt less like a battleground. More like a fuse, waiting. The silences weren’t sharp anymore—they held something warmer, heavier.

And when he touched you—guiding you around a corner, brushing against your arm during recon—you didn’t pull away.

Not once.

He still called you ’sweetheart.’

But now? You didn’t roll your eyes.

You answered him back—with something that sat halfway between sarcasm and a dare.

And Mark…

He took it.

Every word. Every smirk. Every sharp little comment that should’ve meant nothing—but didn’t.

You didn’t know how much it was driving him insane.

Or maybe you did. Maybe you saw the way his jaw clenched when you called him lover boy under your breath. The way his breath hitched when your hand lingered on his thigh for just a second too long in the drop ship.

You played with fire.

And he let you.

For a while.

── .✦

Until one night—

You were both heading back from an op. Low stakes. No injuries. Just exhaustion in your bones and grit in your teeth.

You made a comment—half-flirt, half-threat, maybe something about handcuffs.

You weren’t even trying to tease him. Not really.

But then—

He stopped.

Suddenly, you were pinned.

Like gravity finally decided to snap its fingers.

Your spine hit the wall with a soft thud.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You just looked up at him.

Chin tilted. Breath steady. Like this wasn’t new. Like you weren’t caught off-guard—like your heart wasn’t hammering under your ribs like it was trying to tell on you.

Mark’s hand was beside your head, fingers curled against the concrete like he was keeping himself from touching you. His body was so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him—his chest rising and falling like every breath cost him.

His eyes dragged over your face—slow and dark and deliberate. From your mouth to your eyes, then back again.

“Say something smart now,” he murmured.

His voice was velvet laced with warning. And that was all the invitation you needed.

You didn’t smile—but the look in your eyes said enough.

“You always this worked up when someone flirts with you?” You tilted your head slightly, like it was an honest question.

“Or is it just me?”

Something flickered across his bare face—heat, restraint, hunger—and then disappeared again, smoothed out like it had never been there.

“It’s just you,” he said, voice lower now.

“Always you.”

You felt it then.

The slow shift. The quiet unraveling.

His knee brushed your leg—just barely—but it was enough to remind you he could close the space between you in half a second.

He didn’t.

You leaned in, just slightly. Testing him. Letting your lips part, gaze heavy as your voice dipped.

“You gonna kiss me, Mark?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He tilted his head. Slowly. Deliberately.

The space between you collapsed inch by inch, your breath catching as his eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering like he was counting your heartbeats.

You leaned in, too.

Half a breath away.

The heat between your mouths? Maddening.

His lips barely parted—his hand flexed beside your face—and your eyes fluttered shut—

But he stepped back.

Just enough to break contact. Just enough to make it feel like a fucking cliff-drop.

You blinked—slow, disoriented, like a dream just dropped you.

And when your eyes met his again—steady, unreadable, calm as sin—he smiled.

“Not yet.”

His voice was silk. Smug. Dangerous.

“You like pushing? Good.” He stepped back fully, leaving your body cold where his heat had been. “Because now I’m going to push back.”

You stayed against the wall, breath shaky, throat tight, skin burning.

Mark turned and walked away like he hadn’t just wrecked the room with a look.

Like he didn’t know you were seconds away from grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back in.

And god, that’s exactly what he wanted.

Because now? He wasn’t going to touch you.

Not until you begged him to.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

It didn’t happen after a mission. It wasn’t triggered by adrenaline, or blood, or fury.

It happened on a quiet night.

No danger. No drama. Just you. Him. Silence.

The kind that didn’t feel sharp or heavy, but warm. Dense with everything neither of you had been saying.

You were sitting too close on the couch. Again.

Shoulders brushing. Fingers almost touching. Breaths syncing like they were conspiring against you.

The TV was on, volume low—some movie you’d both ignored since minute five. You weren’t looking at the screen.

You were looking at him.

And he was already looking at you.

── .✦

It didn’t start like a mistake.

It started slow. Desperate, but slow. Like two people who’d spent too long circling each other finally crashing in the middle.

You didn’t know who kissed who first—maybe it didn’t matter.

One moment you were breathing each other in, and the next, your mouths crashed together like you’d been starved.

Mark kissed like he fought—focused, consuming, always a little cocky. But there was something different this time.

Something fragile under all that control.

His hands didn’t grope—they cradled. His body didn’t press to dominate—it folded into yours like it belonged there.

And you let him.

Because right now, you didn’t want to be dangerous.

You wanted to be wanted.

You barely registered how you ended up on your back—couch creaking beneath you, clothes stripped away like memories he didn’t need anymore. His hands roamed like he was trying to memorize, to prove something. Not just to you—to himself. His mouth trailed heat down your throat, his hand sliding under your shirt like it belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

“You know how long I’ve waited to do this?” he murmured against your skin. “How many nights I had to stop myself?”

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him closer.

He growled—actually growled—and you could feel how hard he was already, grinding against you like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies. Your clothes were in the way. Everything was in the way.

He kissed you harder.

Then slower. Then deeper. Like he had time to worship and ruin you all at once.

His mouth kissed down your stomach, slower than you expected. Watching you. Waiting. Not asking for permission. Just offering the space for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

You curled your fingers in his hair and impatiently pushed him lower.

When he finally got between your legs, he didn’t rush. No—Mark watched you. Settled between your thighs like he’d been dreaming of it. His hands curled around your knees, pressing them apart, and he groaned like the sight of you could end him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his thumb over the wet spot in your panties. “Look at you.”

You burned under his gaze.

“Say it,” you rasped. “Say what you’re thinking.”

Mark didn’t hesitate. “I’m thinking I’m never gonna stop doing this.”

Then—his mouth was on you.

He took his time. He devoured. But gently—like worship, not conquest.

Every movement of his tongue against your panties was deliberate, controlled, cruel in its patience. He hummed against your core like it gave him oxygen. You arched off the couch, hand flying to his hair, and he moaned into you like he liked it. Like you were feeding some part of him he kept locked away.

And below, as his mouth worked you over—he was grinding into the cushion beneath him. Slow. Needy. Unapologetic. Desperate.

You felt it. The tension. The line he was walking between control and chaos.

It snapped when you said his name. “Mark—”

He tore your panties in half. His eyes didn’t even blink.

His tongue worked you open with slow strokes, teasing flicks, and just when your breath caught—then he gave you more. His fingers joined in, sliding deep and curling with impossible precision, like he already knew what would ruin you.

And ruin you, he did.

You didn’t mean to gasp. Didn’t mean to arch your back or claw at his shoulders or chant his name like it meant something more. But you did.

You shattered under him—legs shaking, hands trembling, the world breaking open as pleasure crashed through you like a flood. You didn’t expect the way your body reacted—too much, too fast.

And when it happened—really happened—when everything clenched and poured out of you, when you heard yourself cry out his name like it was sacred—

Mark groaned against you, loud, eyes fluttering shut. His hips bucked one final time against the couch.

And just like that… he came. Hard. Without you even touching him.

You blinked, dazed.

Tried to say something snarky, maybe smug. But all you could do was stare at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling like you were still mid-fall.

He hovered over you now, flushed, panting, eyes blown wide. His expression was something you’d never seen before—half in awe, half in love, and still burning with want.

And then he kissed you.

You tasted yourself on his tongue—hot, sweet, raw—and it made your stomach twist in a way no one ever had. You moaned into the kiss without meaning to, fisting the front of his shirt as if letting go would send you spiraling again. He whispered into your mouth between kisses.

“Filthy little goddess,” he breathed. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your hips rolled up against him, greedy now. Unspoken things passed between you—need, trust, maybe something scarier.

Then he was inside you. Slowly. Deeply. The stretch made your back arch, your breath catch, your hand reach for something—anything—to ground yourself. But he was already there.

Gripping your waist like you were breakable, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your throat as he filled you, inch by aching inch.

He cursed under his breath, voice ragged and worshipful. “God, you feel better than your panties ever did.”

You would’ve teased him. Called him insane. But you couldn’t. All you could do was whimper as he moved—slow, smooth, deep enough to bruise. He took his time. Let you feel every inch. Let you cling to him like he was the only thing that made sense.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned into your ear. “Made for this. For me.”

His thrusts started patient. Deep. His breath stuttering against your skin every time your body clenched around him. But he couldn’t hold back.

Not for long.

He gripped your hips and snapped into you—again and again—driving into you like he’d finally given up on pretending he could play it cool. You wrapped your legs around him. Let him have you. Let him ruin you.

And god, he did.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he panted. “You hear that? That’s you. That’s how wet you are for me.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. He kissed you through it. Sloppy, possessive. Full of need. And when you came—tight and gasping—he whispered more, somewhere near your ear. Praise. Promises.

Worship disguised as filth.

And when it was over—when he shuddered inside you, spilling so much it left you dizzy, when he dropped his forehead to yours and held you like he’d never let go—

Silence. Just your breaths. Your heart. His weight against you. Real. Heavy. Home. Neither of you moved for a long moment. When you finally found your voice—raw and quiet—

“This doesn’t change anything,” you whispered, breathless. The words weren’t cold. Just scared. Just stubborn. Just you.

Mark didn’t argue. He just nodded. Kissed your collarbone.

“Sure, sweetheart.”

But between the way he held you, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way neither of you moved to let go—

Hadn’t it changed everything?

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

•. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˚₊‧⟡꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ⟡‧₊˚ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Months later…

The apartment was warm with the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a paused screen and the lazy sprawl of citylight bleeding through half-closed blinds.

The couch sagged under both your weights—you were curled into one side of the couch, socks mismatched, hoodie too big, legs draped across Mark’s lap.

There were pizza crusts on the coffee table. A half-finished soda on the floor.

It was perfect. Stupidly, quietly, mundanely perfect.

And it made you itchy in a way you didn’t hate.

Mark reached for another slice without looking, eyes on the screen. “You’re not even watching this, are you?”

“I am,” you said, then paused. “Well, I was. I just blacked out for a few episodes.”

He snorted. “We’ve been watching this for three weeks.”

You shrugged, chewing. “I was distracted.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “By what?”

You side-eyed him over the crust. “Mostly your thighs.”

That earned a grin. “That’s fair.”

You glanced at him—barefoot, scruffed, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed and never quite bothered to fix it—and smiled. Leaning back, you let your head drop against the cushion.

“Still can’t believe this is where we ended up.”

Mark didn’t look away from the screen. “What, the couch?”

“No. I mean… this,” you said, gesturing vaguely around the room. “Living together. Sharing pizza. Watching a show we’ve both pretended to like for five episodes.”

Mark didn’t answer. Just turned. Looked at you. Offended.

“You saying this is beneath you?”

You blinked. “What? No, I just—”

“You saying I’m not a good reward?”

You opened your mouth. “Mark—” But it was too late. He pounced.

“Mark—MARK—”

You shrieked—half-laughing, half-cursing—as your plate toppled, pizza slice flopping face-down on the carpet. Your back hit the cushions, his weight pressing down, hands braced beside your head. He was smirking. Infuriating.

You glared up at him, breathless.

“I dropped my pizza,” you hissed.

His grin widened. “You’re about to drop a lot more than that, sweetheart.”

“You’re an asshole,” you wheezed, pinned.

“You’re mine,” he said, nipping your jaw. “Big difference.”

And then he kissed you. Right there—on the couch, under the hum of a half-watched show and the sound of grease soaking into the rug.

You didn’t push him off. Didn’t want to.

Not when he kissed you like that. Not when you could still taste pepperoni on his mouth and feel his heartbeat against your ribs. Because this?

This was exactly where you wanted to end up.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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

me as a writer

❝Corruption Complete❞

Mark Grayson x Brainrot Girlfriend!Readerᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

𓊆ྀིfeat. Oliver & Debbie Grayson𓊇ྀི

˗ˏˋ 𓉘 Part 2 — ”Too Far Gone” 𓉝 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

🦖 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.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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════════════════╛

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

•∘˙○˚.⋆ ˚｡⋆ 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.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

-ˋˏ❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀ˎˊ-

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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

Hello, Hello, Hello! I love the layout of your tumblr page! Absolutely stunning! I hope you’re doing well, darling! May I request something?

A Cupid reader x Omi-Mark Grayson. I would love to see the difference in personality. Maybe, Reader is excitingly telling Omi-Mark about all the couples, they’ve gotten together and Omi-Mark chuckles? Or perhaps, a simple Cupid Reader struck themselves with their own arrow and is yearning for Omi-Mark and he finally gives in? I would just love to see their contrast!

ପ(੭ ´ᵕ`)੭°• જ⁀➴

HELLO??? First of all—thank you for complimenting my layouts.ᐟ.ᐟ They take approximately 13 years off my lifespan because yes, I do all of it on my phone. With my fingers. Like a feral graphic design cryptid with a god complex.

Second—this ask appeared in my inbox like a glitter bomb full of rogue heartstrings.ᐟ.ᐟ and I am obsessed.

„Omni!Mark x Cupid!Reader”??? That concept is so deliciously insane (in the best way) it deserves its own zip code.

and YES you may request something.ᐟ.ᐟ I adore when people throw ideas my way—and let me bring them to life. Again „Omni!Mark x Cupid!Reader”??????? genius. iconic. a duality so sharp it could cut drywall.

Reader accidentally love-arrowing herself??? Omni-Mark being all stoic and meanwhile Cupid Reader is literally clutching her chest like “why is my heart doing jazz hands??”—oh i am so into this.

Also—love when people give lil extras about what they’re envisioning—it helps me build the vibe, moodboard, and maybe a shrine (casual). honored to take this on. BRB, channeling Cupid via caffeine and delusion.

Just a heads up—it might take a little time to write and post it because I’m currently buried under a small avalanche of fic drafts. But I will write it. Your idea lives rent-free in my heart now.

You’re stuck with me. 𝔁𝓸𝔁𝓸

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

HAS OFFICIALLY LANDED FROM THE STARS!!!

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

SO SORRY for the wait—turns out Cupid wings don’t grow back overnight (tragic, I know). Between threading timelines and re-editing until my drafts cried for mercy, this one took a second. But! It’s finally stitched and sealed with divine ache and stardust.

IT’S FINALLY HERE!!! It’s soft. It’s sharp. It’s 4.4k+ words of grief-glittered lore, a bruised god, a wingless love-agent, emotional inertia, cracked hearts, and maybe—just maybe—a red string starting to twitch.

Huge love-arrow shoutout to @lycheee-jelly for planting this idea straight into my writer brain like a rogue dart to the soul (Cupid-style).

You have absurdly good taste and a terrifying understanding of duality. I owe you a field of wildflowers and an emotional support arrow.

Let me know what you think! I’ll be floating in a lace-threaded cloud of feelings (and probably dreaming up Chapter 1).

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

a/n: it’s happening. ”Hearts Don’t Miss” (Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader) is officially being written! our favorite grumpy viltrumite is about to get emotionally steamrolled by a love-coded chaos alien entity with wings, and honestly? he deserves it. and—plot twist—it might spiral into a multi-chapter series. accidentally. maybe. probably. I’m just saying… the red string is getting longer. stay tuned.

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

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

FULL MASTERLIST + PLAYLIST

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: cupids never miss. you never have. until now. exiled from the threads-of-fate realm for getting too involved in a love you weren’t meant to touch—you end up stranded on a version of earth you don’t belong to—and in the care of someone who doesn’t believe in fate. this universe’s mark grayson has zero patience for cosmic nonsense, but when he finds you bloodied, wing-clipped, and somehow still too bubbly for someone with abandonment issues… he brings you home anyway. he tells himself it’s temporary. he tells himself he doesn’t care. he’s very, very wrong. especially when you accidentally shoot yourself in the chest with one of your own arrows mid-battle—and fall devastatingly in love with him. now he has a problem. because maybe… the arrow hit him too.

❤︎ contains: nsfw (18+). slow burn. yearning. banished divine being with a red string complex. mythology reimagined. omni!mark. omni!invincible. cupid!reader. emotional repression. forbidden love. heavy topics. enemies-to-reluctant-roommates-to-oh-no. accidental domesticity. self-shot with a love arrow. sudden clinginess. lots of touching. mutual pining (like, soul-aching). plot. steamy tension. eventual smut. softness earned in blood.

❤︎ warnings: emotional repression. abandonment themes. divine exile. unrequited love (at first). injury/battle scenes. mentions of blood (light). intense pining. identity crisis. self-worth themes. vulnerability handled with tenderness. cosmic displacement. one self-inflicted love arrow situation. and a very grumpy demi-god trying very hard not to fall in love with the stray romantic chaos entity nesting on his couch.

‪❤︎ wc: TBD (multi-part).ᐟ.ᐟ

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly (thank you for your patience, angel—turns out crafting a wingless cupid with a bruised heart takes more than a few missed shots. but your request never left my string. hope it hits you right in the feels (in the best way). thanks for letting me aim this story your way!)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

a/n: listen. i didn’t mean to fall this hard for cupid!reader. but she shot me too, okay?? also yes. there will be flirting. there will be emotionally repressed omni!mark being very bad at not falling in love with stray cosmic girls who talk too much. it’s fine. i’m fine.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

prologue 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 1 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 2 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 3 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 4 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 5 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 6 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 7 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 8 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 9 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 10 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter ???

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

🎧ྀི prologue song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

જ⁀➴ 𓊆ྀི”A New Kind Of Love - Demo” —Frou Frou𓊇ྀི

🎧ྀི chapter 1 song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

જ⁀➴ 𓊆ྀི”The Thrill Of Loneliness” —Honey Stretton𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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

☠︎︎𓊆ྀིbecause apparently I needed one more hobby𓊇ྀི☠︎︎

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

∘₊✧─── ⛧°. ⋆༺⚠︎༻⋆. °⛧ ───✧₊∘

⤹˚˖ 𓉸ྀི୭⋆˚࿔༄.°

⚬ you can call me Ghost

⤹˚˖ 𓉸ྀི୭⋆˚࿔༄.°

⚬ she/her ⌇ 18 ⌇ INTP

⤹˚˖ 𓉸ྀི୭⋆˚࿔༄.°

⚬ writing, drawing, crying over depressing music, and consuming media like it’s an Olympic sport

⤹˚˖ 𓉸ྀི୭⋆˚࿔༄.°

⚬ writer of both mlw and wlw content

﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾⫘⫘⫘⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆⫘⫘⫘﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾

✎ᝰ.ᐟ

⤷ requests? open! (can’t promise speed but I can promise effort)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ

⤷ I’ll write anything: one-shots, drabbles, headcanons, full long fics—you name it!

✎ᝰ.ᐟ

⤷ strictly „x reader” only—if you ask for too much physical description, I’ll vanish into the void (this space is for everyone)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ

⤷ some works may include yandere behavior, violence, or NSFW—you’re responsible for what you read!

✎ᝰ.ᐟ

⤷ taglist? open! …for ”Afterglow” currently

✎ᝰ.ᐟ

⤷ multifandom—anime, cartoons, TV, games, comics, movies, shows, real life—if I don’t know it yet, give me 24 hours and a playlist (no fandom is safe)

﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾⫘⫘⫘⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆⫘⫘⫘﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾

𓊆ྀིmore coming soon .ᐟ.ᐟ 𓊇ྀི

𓉘probably when I should be doing literally anything else𓉝

the characters aren’t mine (shocking, i know), and the reader is meant to be you—whoever you are. but everything else? the writing, the effort, the hours of procrastination turned productivity? that’s all me. i bled actual brain cells for this. PLEASE don’t copy, plagiarize, translate, steal, or post without asking. be chill—i’m literally just trying to have fun here.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾ ﾟ｡⋆ INVINCIBLE:

⟢ „Always You” (Mark Grayson x Childhood Friend!Reader)

⟢ ”Corruption Complete” (Mark Grayson x Brainrot Girlfriend!Reader—feat. Oliver & Debbie Grayson)

⟢ ”Afterglow” (Mark Grayson x Med!Reader—Multi Part)

⟢ ”Too Far Gone” (Mark Grayson x Brainrot Girlfriend!Reader—Part 2 of „Corruption Complete”)

⟢ “Marked” (Veil!Mark Grayson x Trouble!Reader)

⟢ ”Hearts Don’t Miss” (Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader—Multi Part)

﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾⫘⫘⫘⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆⫘⫘⫘﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾⫘﴿﴾

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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