William Clockwell - Blog Posts
i'm sorry for the shitposts recently but i needed to post this
hi willmark fandom on tumblr
invincible yuri for class
https://archiveofourown.org/works/64075063/chapters/165141025#workskin
More WillMark based on the slow fanfic I'm writing 😗
it's about time
sequel-ish to this
Literally the best couple *holds them gently*
They never argued (well at least we didn't see it so it counts)
They saved each other multiple times
William took care of Rick after the incident with Sinclair
They were studying together
AND THEY LIVE TOGETHER OH MY GOD (well at least in the comic)
And I just love them
Yayy more headcanons no one asked for because I have no friends :D (most SFW, but a few NSFW at thr end)
My new victims will be these two lovebirds
Okay, I already talked about how William would top maskless Mark abd all that stuff so I want to make this clear: William would top any of his bfs. Mark, Rick, whoever. William's the top
Also I think that William always takes the big spoon position when they cuddle with Rick. Just because he can
We know that because of PTSD (or whatever the fuck it is) Rick's having nightmares. So, I think that he feels more comfortable if he falls asleep on William's chest or just pressed to him as close as possible
They share clothes. Idc, they just do it because it's cute
William yells literally at anyone who he sees as a threat (a.k.a. any Caren at the store) and Rick's always "please calm down, lets go home, it doesn't worth it"
They make each other something for breakfast if any of them has to leave earlier. And they leave funny notes for each other
Well, since I love breaking standards, William's the one who's always warm and Rick is the one who's always cold (idgaf if he's a cyborg). William's practically a walking heater for his bf (so they always hold hands when its cold...or not cold..they don't care)
AND Rick cries A LOT. Sad scene in a movie? He'll definitely cry. Cute scene in a movie? Well... again... He's a sensitive guy, you can't blame him (William always holds his hand or/and hugs him)
Speaking about tears... Rick also cries when they fuck. Because it feels good, because William is beautiful and because he's just an idiot in love.
William bites him. Every single time he acts like a goddamn dog and he stops only when Rick starts whining (which almost never happens)
William clearly has a fetish for Rick's thighs, so he uses any chance to grab/squeeze/just touch and always make Rick blush like an idiot
his ass is NOT listening
William, we can see everything
guys can you PLEASE recommend some fics with them
I want something ANYTHING with them (and maybe willmark too)😩😩
Okay, I have something else.
We all know MarkRexEve, but what if... RickWillMark????? (With maskless Mark ofc)
I had a few thoughts about them and it's really funny and kind of cute 'cause Will and Rick already have experience with eachother and then Mark shows up like a small innocent kitten and just ends up under (or between) them..
Okay, hear me out
I think that in his universe William would (or did) top him. Like there's no way that this guy was the top. Look at him! He's so...idk kitten coded. He would be a pillow princess bc he only dated girls and then William was just "yeah, you will date me"
It's really funny for me that this little guy just figured that Mark is Invincible in a few seconds and he was like "yeah man take me flying or I'll tell everyone lol"
The creators of Invincible will never know what “I miss William” has done to me.
“You’re not mark…”
Join my friend’s Discord if you wanna have a community that also likes Invincible!
Like this is uncharted territory and I AIN’T MAD ABOUT IT 😻😻😻
Ho did u just stab me?
William and Gayvincible? (Aka Maskless Mark)
🤨🤨if you say so/j
I finished watching Invincible and I got this theory that there's a gay Mark in my head.
I find this concept interesting, because the Viltrumite are made to PROCREATE and take over the world. Imagine Mark's father finding out that Mark is in love with A MAN.
Maybe that's why William is dead in this universe. 👀
❝Too Far Gone❞
Mark Grayson x Brainrot Girlfriend!Readerᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
˗ˏˋ 𓉘 Part 2 of ”Corruption Complete” 𓉝ˎˊ˗
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🦈 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.
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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.
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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.
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What started as a casual group hang spiraled—as most things in your social circle did—into chaos within twenty minutes.
Amber had stopped by under the innocent promise of “a chill night.” She brought wine, even wore slippers. Her guard was down.
Eve was already there. Cross-legged on the rug, hoodie half-zipped, energy drink in hand like it was liquid law.
Amber settles in with a sigh. “I was promised snacks and serotonin.”
Eve flops down beside her, stealing a chip from Mark’s bowl. “And yet you walked into psychological warfare.”
The TV is paused on a cursed slideshow. The image? A freeze frame of Shrek photoshopped into a Renaissance painting, holding hands with a pixelated Garfield.
The caption reads: “when you and your emotional support cryptid walk into therapy”
Amber groans. “No. Absolutely not.”
Eve perks up. “Why not? That one’s a classic.”
“It’s blasphemy.”
“It’s art.”
“It’s Garfield in a toga.”
“Exactly.”
Amber throws her hands up. “Why is he glowing?”
Mark, exhausted from the last three meme dissections, doesn’t even look up. “Symbolism.”
“Thank you!” Eve beams.
“Don’t encourage her,” Amber mutters, taking a swig of wine.
You sit smugly between them, remote in hand, before asking. “Next slide?”
“Absolutely.” The red-haired girl encouraged.
“I will scream.” Amber promised.
The next image pops up—a tier list ranking internet boyfriends. At the top? Invincible, labeled: ‘tragedy-coded, would cry during WALL-E’
Directly beneath him—Paddington Bear and that guy who fixed his crush’s WiFi in a TikTok once.
Amber squints. “What does this even mean.”
Eve leans in like a scholar. “It’s a commentary on emotional vulnerability in male-coded narratives.”
“You just made that up.”
“I did, and I stand by it.”
William mutters, “I’d date Paddington. He’s stable.”
“That coat? Immaculate.” His boyfriend adds.
Amber glances at you. “Are your friends okay?”
“Absolutely not.”
Oliver, feeling slightly left out, stirs up some drama. “Mark’s at risk of joining the list if he cries during Finding Nemo.”
“I DIDN’T CRY.”
“You sniffled,” Debbie says from the kitchen.
By the end of the night, Eve and Amber are locked in a passionate debate about whether or not liking Remy from Ratatouille is a red flag, William is drawing diagrams to explain meme evolution, and Mark’s soul has visibly left his body.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿
It was supposed to be harmless.
A passing moment. A flicker in the chaos.
You hadn’t even meant to record him. Not really.
You were filming Oliver’s dramatic reenactment of the “I’m just a baby!” audio using sock puppets and half of Rick’s hoodie when Mark walked by in the background—bored, hoodie half-on, sipping orange juice straight from the carton.
And then, with zero prompting, he did it.
He hit a trend pose.
Perfectly.
He didn’t even notice he’d done it. Just sipped, blinked, walked off like nothing happened.
Everyone stared.
“…Did he just—?” William whispered.
Oliver stood frozen mid-puppet grab. “Roll it back.”
You did.
And there it was: textbook trend behavior. Down to the head tilt.
“Put that on the internet,” Eve said, eyes wide. “Now.”
“No,” Mark said immediately, from the kitchen.
“Yes,” everyone else said in unison.
You posted it. You didn’t even try to be subtle. The caption?
’when the trauma makes you trendable. #tragedyboy2.0’
By the end of the night, it had 40k views.
By morning, 200k.
╭┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╮
ြ The comments were chaos:
➤“he’s so emotionally charged I could fix him AND he’d thank me”
➤“when you cry to Mitski but still hit a clean pose?? king”
➤“tragedy boy 2.0 just dropped and I’m obsessed”
╰┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╯
Mark stared at your phone, expression blank.
“I didn’t even do anything,” he muttered.
“That’s the point,” Rick said, nodding.
“Tragic aura,” Amber added.
“It’s the silent suffering that sells,” William confirmed, sipping his smoothie.
You handed Mark your phone with a smile. “Congrats. You’re a meme now.”
He stared at the screen.
Then at you.
“…I’m deleting all of your editing apps.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You need help.”
“YOU TREND IN SILENCE.”
From the hallway, Debbie called out. “Make sure to tag me next time. I’ve got burner accounts ready!”
Mark buried his face in his hands.
Somewhere, a comment called him “WALL-E coded.” Another simply said, “blink twice if you need therapy, blink once if you already went and it didn’t work.”
He blinked once.
The internet cheered.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿
It started out as a joke.
A throwaway mention. A cursed sentence uttered in the depths of a late-night scroll session:
“Imagine if there was a Gacha Life video of Nolan betraying Earth.”
You had said it. Mark had groaned. Oliver had gasped.
And twenty minutes later—you were all gathered on the couch, screen mirroring a Gacha reaction video with a thumbnail that read:
“Invincible Characters React to Nolan’s Betrayal (SAD/CRYING/REAL)”
The title card was Comic Sans. The music was royalty-free piano tragedy. The vibes? Devastating.
Mark looked like he was about to walk into traffic.
“Why is my Gacha self crying in the corner?” he asked, horrified.
“Character depth,” you replied.
The video played.
Pixelated Gacha!Debbie gasped in slow motion as Gacha!Nolan punched Gacha!Mark into orbit. A single animated tear rolled down her face and sparkled. The screen flashed:
“TO BE CONTINUED…?”
“Oh my god,” Rick whispered. “They gave it a cliffhanger.”
“Of real history,” William added. “This is art.”
Debbie blinked at the screen. “Wait. That’s supposed to be me?”
“She looks twelve.” Amber said.
Eve raised her martini drink. “I respect the commitment.”
Meanwhile, Gacha!Mark lay motionless on the screen, sparkles and red overlay blood pooling dramatically as a voiceover whispered: “He was just a boy.”
Mark put his head in his hands. “This should be illegal.”
Oliver patted his shoulder. “That’s what makes it so powerful.”
By the end, there was a montage of Gacha!Mark’s “best moments” set to a slowed-down nightcore remix of “My Heart Will Go On.” The subtitles read: “Mark… you were the light in our darkness.”
No one spoke for a solid fifteen seconds.
Then you wiped a fake tear and said, “They got your trauma arc better than the actual writers.”
Mark muttered, “I’m moving out.”
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•∘˙○˚.⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨🪼୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ∘˙○˚.•
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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.
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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.
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With Love, @alive-gh0st
˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗
Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི
….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ... ﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
⛨ summary: you were in a surprisingly good mood, which should’ve been the first red flag. your coworkers weren’t being annoying, the coffee machine was actually working, and not a single patient had tried to self-diagnose off WebMD yet. the universe clearly saw that and went “hmm, too peaceful.” because hours later, the clinic was rubble, a child was almost lost, and you met invincible for the first time. and of course—you yelled at him.
⛨ contains: sfw. local clinic setting. first meeting with invincible. medical professional!reader. civilian chaos. reader being a bad bitch. immediate tension and banter. subtle foreshadowing of their future dynamic. fire/explosion sequence. hands-on first aid moments. mark being surprised-reader-ain’t-scared. small emotional undercurrent under sarcasm.
⛨ warnings: brief injury description (scrapes, blood). explosion/fire trauma. smoke inhalation. nurse carla. mild trauma response (panic, adrenaline). implied danger to a child (rescued safely). some profanity.
⛨ wc: 1093
prologue, part one, part two
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: reader has a license, a savior complex, and zero chill. mark shows up for five minutes and gets emotionally wrecked. enjoy the chaos.
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It’s a quiet Tuesday. The kind of quiet that should’ve tipped you off. The kind of quiet that doesn’t last.
Your shift starts at 8:00 AM sharp, and somehow, you’re early. The sun’s out, the sky’s obnoxiously blue, and someone brought donuts to the clinic—for no reason.
You even got your favorite one—the last one—which felt like a small miracle… until you realized the coffee was good.
Not just drinkable. Good. Fresh. Hot. Non-bitter. Suspicious.
You’d joked with Nurse Carla that the universe was trying to butter you up.
“You just wait,” she said, stirring her tea like some all-knowing, scrub-wearing oracle. “It’s always the good days that get you.”
You’d laughed.
Now you’re pretty sure she hexed you.
The clinic hums with calm, the low rhythm of patients being called back and phones ringing occasionally at the front desk. In room three, you patch up a skateboard accident. Room five brings in an elderly man who insists his blood pressure is fine—even as the cuff nearly bursts. You remain patient, calm, even friendly—somehow.
You’re not usually this chipper.
Maybe it’s the sunlight. Maybe it’s the donut.
Either way, you don’t realize you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop—
Until it does.
Loud. Violent. Apocalyptic.
The explosion shakes the floor beneath your feet.
It’s not real at first. Just a sound—an echoing blast that shatters windows and hurls you out of your good mood like a ragdoll. You slam your coffee on the counter (RIP—it was actually decent) and bolt toward the door before anyone can stop you.
Smoke is already curling above the skyline. Across the street, a building is on fire—its middle floors cracked open like a broken jaw. Glass rains down. People scream.
You don’t hesitate. You just move.
“Call 911!” you shout over your shoulder as your feet hit the pavement. Your heart kicks into overdrive. The calm is gone.
The illusion shattered.
“Evacuate the lobby!”
You don’t wait for acknowledgment. Your feet are already pounding pavement, shoes slipping slightly on the sidewalk as your mind flips into crisis mode.
You’re already halfway in before your brain catches up.
A woman collapses near the curb—shock. You steady her, get her seated, check her breathing. Alive.
You keep moving.
A teen stumbles out of the smoke, blood on his jeans. You direct him to sit, tear open your kit.
Tourniquet. Gauze. Stabilize. Move.
You don’t even notice when your stethoscope vanishes off your shoulders—just that your hands are moving and your brain’s already triaging in real time.
And then you see her.
A little girl—no older than nine—trapped beneath a chunk of concrete by the crosswalk. Her arm’s twisted at a bad angle. Blood smears her cheek. She’s trying to cry but doesn’t have the energy for more than a breathy whimper.
Before your brain can even catch up, your legs are already sprinting.
Someone grabs your arm—an older man with watery eyes and a voice wobbling from terror. “Don’t!” he begs. “That’s suicide! You’ll die trying to—”
“Move,” you snap, not bothering to look back. “Or piss yourself somewhere else.”
You don’t wait for a reply.
Your knees hit pavement. You’re beside the girl before the guy can finish a follow-up plea, hands already assessing her pulse, breath, injuries. You try to lift the debris. Nothing. It doesn’t budge. Your arms shake, muscles strain, lungs burning from smoke.
You try again.
Still nothing.
Panic rises sharp in your throat. The little girl’s eyes flutter—too pale, too quiet.
“Stay with me,” you whisper. “Hey. Look at me, alright? You’re gonna be okay.”
You lie. But your voice is steady.
For a horrible moment, you actually think this is it. That you’re about to die here, buried with this kid—and no one will know why you didn’t wait for backup.
The wind shifts.
Fast. Sharp. A blur of motion and force that sends your hair whipping around your face.
And then the weight’s gone.
You jerk backward, pull the girl free, and curl around her automatically—heart hammering like a drumline. You blink through the smoke and ash.
That’s when you see him.
Invincible.
In the flesh. Blue and yellow suit smeared with ash and blood, goggles cracked at one side. Kneeling beside you like some kind of comic book punchline—if comic books ever showed their heroes looking that tired.
“She’s okay,” you breathe, adjusting the girl in your arms, “but you’re not.”
He blinks like you just insulted him in four languages. “I’m—”
“Don’t say fine.” You eye him critically. “You’re favoring your left. Blood. Concussion-level pupils. You probably shouldn’t be standing, let alone flying.”
“…Are you a doctor?”
“Closer to nurse practitioner. Also not blind.”
You stand, legs shaky but functional. He watches you like he’s never been spoken to like that in his life.
“You should go,” you add, motioning to the kid in your arms. “She needs a hospital. Fast.”
He hesitates.
You frown. “What?”
“…Nothing. Just—” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re calm.”
You actually snort. “You mean I didn’t cry and fangirl? Tragic.”
“That’s not—”
“I’m not scared of you,” you say, quieter now. “If anything, you’re just another bleeding idiot who didn’t let someone check him out before playing hero.”
You’ve seen enough broken ribs and bad priorities to know most capes aren’t invincible where it counts.
His mouth opens. Closes. Still stunned.
You sigh and hand him the girl, a little softer now. ”Take her. That’s the only reason I’m not yelling more.”
He nods, carefully taking the child into his arms like she’s glass. Gives you one last look—
And he’s gone.
Wind howls. The air cracks.
And you’re left standing there, covered in soot and adrenaline, alone in the wreckage.
You don’t know he’ll remember your voice. The glare. The cracked joke.
But he will.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Somewhere, sometime after…
Nurse Carla sits in her living room, lit by the flicker of a dusty lamp and the glow of a muted rerun. A cat—large, black, and terrifyingly still—curls in her lap like it’s plotting something.
His name is Lucifer. You know this because she whispers it like a prayer when chattering about him.
She sips her tea. Doesn’t flinch when thunder cracks outside, even though it hasn’t rained in weeks.
On the table beside her: a newspaper folded open to an article about the explosion. A blurry shot of Invincible in flight.
Carla hums. Calm. Unbothered. All-knowing.
She sets the teacup down with a soft clink, leans back in her chair, and strokes Lucifer’s head.
“I told her,” she murmurs, half to herself, half to the void. “Never trust a Tuesday.”
She smiles.
Lucifer purrs.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: nurse carla is two steps from world domination. the cat knows things. be aware.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ With Love, @alive-gh0st
˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗
Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི
…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ….
FULL MASTERLIST + PLAYLIST
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ ⛨ summary: he’s supposed to be invincible. but every time mark grayson shows up bloodied and breathless, you’re the one putting him back together. you don’t have powers. you don’t wear a cape. but in his quietest moments, when the pain settles and the city goes silent—he never looks at you like you’re less. because with you, he isn’t saving the world. he’s just trying to be a person again.
⛨ contains: nsfw (18+). longform slow burn. civilian x hero dynamic. hurt/comfort. mutual pining. domestic intimacy. shirtless medical care. late-night phone calls. first aid as foreplay. hospital closets (eventual). soft!mark. snarky-but-kind!reader. emotional undressing before the literal one. tender dom vibes. smut that earns its place.
⛨ warnings: blood/injury (canon-typical). emotional baggage. strong language. healing trauma. eventual explicit sexual content w/ emotional depth. vulnerability. pining so intense it might combust your soul. a very tired mark trying not to fall in love (and failing miserably).
⛨ wc: TBD (multi-part).ᐟ.ᐟ
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: this is not just a fic. this is a bandage, a bruise, and a breath shared in the dark. also yes. there will be smut. eventually.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
╰┈➤ 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