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lazy-ahh · 16 days ago

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Have you ever thought how Mark would react if he had a boyfriend that's husband material? 🤔

Imagine the reader likes to help Debbie out whenever he feels like it, and Mark is watching him help Debbie and thinks to himself, " I NEED husband him up ASAP. "

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This is kinda related to the fic that was about my request but eh!!

– Number 1 fan!! 🌊 anon

HUSBAND MATERIAL

pairing mark grayson x male reader

in which mark grayson realizes two things: (1) his sharp-tongued, emotionally constipated boyfriend is absolutely husband material, and (2) he might actually combust if he doesn’t put a ring on it soon.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

the first time you met debbie, mark was a mess. not because he thought you wouldn’t like her—no, he knew you’d love her, because debbie was impossible not to love—but because his brain kept conjuring up worst-case scenarios. what if she brought up that time he cried during titanic when he was twelve? what if she mentioned his weird phase where he tried to grow a mustache and failed spectacularly? what if she pulled out the baby photos?

he could already see it—debbie grinning, oblivious, while you slowly turned to him with that razor-sharp look of yours, the one that said "i will never let you live this down." your eyebrow would arch, just slightly, and mark would have to resist the urge to phase through the floor in embarrassment.

but instead, you surprised him. you shook her hand with that same quiet confidence you carried everywhere, offered her a rare, barely-there smile, and said, "it’s nice to finally meet you, mrs. grayson." your voice was even, polite, but there was something underneath it—respect, maybe even warmth.

and just like that, debbie’s eyes lit up. "oh, sweetheart, call me debbie," she said, already pulling you into a hug you didn’t stiffen away from (which, coming from you, was basically a declaration of love).

mark exhaled, watching as you let debbie fuss over you without so much as a sarcastic remark—which, coming from you, was also basically a miracle. there was something painfully tender about the way you tolerated her motherly instincts, how you didn’t pull away when she fixed your collar or how you actually listened when she started rambling about mark’s childhood like it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing in the world.

his chest felt too tight. you were always so guarded with everyone else, all sharp edges and dry comebacks, but here you were—letting his mom drag you into the kitchen to "help" (which really meant her talking your ear off while you chopped vegetables with terrifying precision). and the worst part? you liked her. he could tell by the way your shoulders relaxed just a fraction, by the barely-there quirk of your lips when she laughed.

god, you were going to be insufferable about this later. not because you’d tease him (though you definitely would), but because now you had leverage. now you knew exactly how to make him melt—just by being nice to his mom, of all things.

mark was so, so screwed.

mark leans against the doorway, watching the way your hands move with knife-sharp efficiency against the cutting board. the afternoon light catches the silver band of your watch—the one debbie gave you for your birthday—as your wrists flick in perfect rhythm. there's something intimate about seeing you like this, sleeves pushed up to reveal those faint scars across your forearms, the ones you never explain but he's traced with his lips countless times. your brows knit together in concentration, but your mouth is softer than usual, not quite smiling but... settled. at peace. it's a good look on you, mark thinks.

debbie bumps her shoulder against yours, flour-dusted fingers gesturing wildly as she recounts mark's pancake disaster. "the smoke alarm went off three times," she giggles, and you make that sound—not quite a laugh, just air rushing through your nose as you keep chopping carrots with military precision. but then you surprise mark by muttering, "he still burns toast at least twice a week," without even looking up, and debbie gasps like you've just handed her classified information.

mark's mouth falls open. you're gossiping. with his mom. the same you who usually communicates in grunts before coffee is now quietly adding, "last tuesday he tried to make grilled cheese in the microwave," and debbie leans in closer as if you were whispering the secrets of the universe. "let's just say i have to buy a new one."

"markus sebastian grayson!" she shrieks, while you finally glance up just to shoot him that smug, knowing look—the one that should annoy him but just makes his pulse stutter instead.

it's terrifying how easily you fit here, between the chipped tiles and his mom's laughter. the same way you fit into mark's life without him even realizing—leaving his favorite energy drinks in the door pocket of the fridge where he always looks first, or how you "accidentally" buy too many of those awful snacks he likes whenever you grocery shop. you pretend it's coincidence when you throw his wrinkled shirts in the dryer before school the next day, when you leave ibuprofen and water on his nightstand after particularly rough patrols.

and god, the way you take care of his mom too—replacing her favorite spatula when it breaks before she even notices, memorizing how she takes her tea (two sugars, splash of milk, in the robin egg blue mug because it "tastes better" that way). you roll your eyes when she hugs you but never actually dodge it, and mark's pretty sure you've developed some kind of silent communication system where you just know when the other needs coffee or space or someone to listen.

your knife hits the cutting board with steady thunks, the rhythm syncopated with debbie's laughter as she dramatically recounts more of mark's childhood failures. you're not smiling, not really, but there's something unbearably soft in the way your shoulders relax, in the quiet "tch" you make when she tries to sneak more vegetables onto your cutting board. mark presses his temple against the doorframe, overwhelmed by how badly he wants to freeze this moment—you in his mother's kitchen, sunlight catching the silver in your watch, looking for all the world like you belong here.

mark presses a palm to his sternum like he can physically hold in the swell of emotion threatening to crack him open. it's too much. you're too much. this version of you that exists between the space of his childhood home and his mother's affection, this you that lets yourself be soft in ways no one else gets to see. it makes him want to fold you into his arms and never let go, makes him want to kiss the frown lines between your brows until they smooth out forever.

debbie wipes her hands on her apron, glancing at the clock. "oh! i almost forgot! i need to send some documents to a client," she says, already moving toward the stairs. "don't burn the kitchen down while i'm gone." the wooden steps creak under her hurried footsteps, leaving just the two of you in the warm, spice-scented kitchen.

the rhythmic tap of your knife against the cutting board fills the silence. mark watches the way your fingers curl protectively around the onion, how your wrist flicks with each precise slice. he pushes off the doorway and drifts closer, drawn to you like gravity. when he reaches to steal a piece of carrot from your neat little piles, you smack his hand away without even looking.

"you're staring," you mutter, the knife flashing as you dice the onion into perfect slices. your tone is flat, but mark doesn't miss the way your ears have gone slightly pink.

"can't help it," he grins, crowding into your space anyway. his chest presses against your back as he peers over your shoulder. "you're cute when you're all domestic. look at you, so caring and nurturing."

you elbow him in the ribs, but there's no real force behind it. "shut up. if you're just going to stand there, make yourself useful." you jerk your head toward the pile of unpeeled potatoes in the sink.

mark makes a show of sighing dramatically but grabs the peeler anyway. he bumps his hip against yours as he takes up position at your side, close enough that your sleeves brush with every movement. "so," he says, scraping at a stubborn potato eye, "you and my mom, huh? trading my deepest secrets even though i'm right here?"

you huff, but he sees the corner of your mouth twitch. "she started it." the admission comes grudgingly, like you're confessing to a crime. your knife stills for just a second before you add, quieter, "she's... nice."

the simple words make mark's chest go tight. he watches the way your shoulders relax when you think no one's looking, the careful attention you pay to making each vegetable slice even. when he bumps your shoulder gently, you don't pull away—just grumble something about "personal space" while continuing to let him lean against you.

the potato peelings pile up in the sink as mark works, his movements slower than yours but just as focused. every so often, he'll "accidentally" flick water at you, grinning when you scowl but don't actually move away. the kitchen fills with the sounds of sizzling oil, the scrape of knives, and the quiet, comfortable silence that only comes when two people know each other down to their bones.

mark's voice comes out softer than he means it to, fingers stilling against the half-peeled potato in his hands. "i wasn't lying though," he murmurs, letting his temple rest against the curve of your shoulder. he can feel the warmth of you through the fabric of your turtleneck, can smell that stupidly expensive cologne you pretend you don't care about. when he tilts his head up, you're already looking down at him—and there it is. that fleeting, unguarded expression you only ever wear when you think no one's watching, all quiet wonder and something painfully tender. your knife has stopped mid-chop, fingers frozen around the handle.

"you look relaxed and handsome like this," mark whispers, watching with delight as your ears go pink. you open your mouth, no doubt to deliver some scathing remark, but all that comes out is a flustered huff before you pointedly return to decimating the vegetables. mark doesn't miss how your shoulders hunch slightly, how you're suddenly very invested in making sure each carrot slice is perfectly even. he grins, pressing a quick kiss to your flushed cheek before going back to his potatoes, cheeks warm.

the moment shatters when debbie sighs dramatically from the doorway, arms crossed over. "look at the two of you," she coos, leaning against the counter with a smirk that spells trouble. "peeling potatoes together like some old married couple. should i start calling you my son-in-law now, [y/n], or do i have to wait for the official paperwork?"

you nearly slice your finger clean off. "mrs. grayson," you hiss, voice strangled, while mark chokes on his own spit. but debbie just waves a hand, eyes sparkling as she takes in the way you're both flushed to the tips of your ears, how mark's fingers have tangled unconsciously in the hem of your shirt.

"i'll be looking forward to the day you two get married," she continues breezily, nudging mark with her hip as she steals a slice of cucumber. "that way [y/n] can't make any more excuses as to why he can't call me mom." she pops the vegetable in her mouth with a wink, utterly pleased with herself when you make a noise like a deflating balloon.

mark watches, equal parts horrified and endeared, as you stare at debbie with wide eyes, knife dangling limply from your fingers. your mouth opens and closes several times before you finally manage a strangled, "that's—you can't just—" before giving up entirely, turning back to the cutting board with enough force to worry about the structural integrity of the vegetables.

"mark," you finally grit out after a long pause, shoulders tense, "control your mother."

but mark's too busy pressing his face into your back to muffle his laughter, arms wrapping around your waist as debbie cackles in the background. he can feel your heartbeat rabbiting against his cheek, can feel the way you're trying (and failing) to suppress your own smile. and when you eventually elbow him halfheartedly, muttering something about "insufferable graysons," it's with the same careful gentleness you reserve just for them.

his mom's words echo in mark’s head long after she’s left the kitchen to relax and drink wine. married. son-in-law. the concepts should feel too big, too soon, but they slot into his chest like they’ve always belonged there. the knife slips in his grip, nicking his thumb—invincible, brought to his knees by the mental image of you rolling your eyes at him over shared tax documents.

and that’s when it hits him, sudden and certain as sunrise:

i need to husband him up asap.

because you’re it for him. the way you patch up his wounds after missions with clinical precision but trembling fingers, how you always know exactly where to aim your grapple hook to catch him when he’s falling. the way you pretend to hate his terrible jokes but he’s seen the way you scribble them down later in that little black notebook of yours. you fit against his life like a puzzle piece he didn’t know was missing—grumbling through morning patrols together, bickering over takeout containers in the fridge, your pinky secretly linking with his under movie theater armrests.

mark wants it all. wants to memorize the exact shade of your scowls and loving looks at 6 AM, wants to keep finding your bobby pins (for emergencies like picking a lock according to you) mixed in with his spare change, wants to grow old—

the thought stutters like a skipped record.

because he can't.

you can. you're human—all fragile bones and fleeting heartbeats, temporary in ways that make his ribs ache. the knife slips again, drawing a thin red line across his knuckle, but he barely registers the sting. not when the realization crashes over him like a tidal wave: he'll still look like this when time etches silver into your hair, when laugh lines frame your mouth like parentheses around all your secret smiles. he'll order your stupidly complicated coffee (double shot, chocolate dusting, exactly three ice cubes) for centuries after you're gone, and the weight of that knowledge leaves him breathless.

but then your hands are there—always there—pressing a bandage over his careless wound with that familiar scowl. "idiot," you mutter, but your fingers linger against his pulse point a second too long. and mark thinks—if forever isn't written in the stars for them, he'll carve it into every moment you share. he'll love you with the desperation of a sunflower clinging to sunlight, memorizing the way your eyelashes cast shadows at noon and how your throat moves when you swallow your too-sweet tea.

"what's that look for?" you grumble, swiping a thumb across his cheekbone. there's flour in your hair (from you helping with baking dessert earlier), he notices, dusting your strands like premature gray, and the sight punches a wounded noise from his chest.

mark catches your wrist, pressing his lips to the delicate bones beneath your skin. "nothing," he murmurs against your knuckles, tasting salt and dish soap. "just thinking about how much i love you."

you make that tch sound he adores, but your fingers slot between his like they were made to fit there. "sentimental fool," you mutter, but the way your thumb strokes absent circles against his wrist betrays you.

he chuckles, nosing at the sensitive spot behind your ear—the one that makes you shiver—and you immediately shove at his face with your free hand. "don't you dare—" but it's too late; he's already mouthing at your jugular, teeth scraping just hard enough to make your breath hitch. you taste like home and that bergamot shampoo you pretend you don't carefully select. when he soothes the bite with his tongue, you groan but tilt your head to give him better access, fingers tightening in his hair like you can't decide whether to push or pull. good thing for you (and for him or else you would've kicked his ass), your turtleneck can hide the love bite that was forming.

"asshole," you mutter halfheartedly, but you're leaning into him anyway, the side of your head resting against his when he finally settles for wrapping his arms around your waist and his chin on your shoulder. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, steady and alive and here.

after a quiet moment, you clear your throat awkwardly. "i... reserved that table at le bernardin. tomorrow. seven sharp." you won't meet his eyes, focusing very intently on rearranging the chopped vegetables into unnecessarily precise lines. "don't be late. again." the unspoken 'i know you've been stressed lately so i got us a table at your current favourite restaurant' hangs between you, soft and vulnerable in ways you rarely allow. good thing mark's good at speaking your language.

mark's throat tightens. this is how you love—in practical gestures and gruff concern, in remembering his favorite comics and hyper fixations and pretending it's no big deal. he presses his smile into your shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of your detergent and that faint metallic hint from your throwing knives. "yes, dear," he teases, just to watch your ears turn pink. now he's thinking if gold would look good on you. of course it would, everything would look good on you. he just needs to find out which one you'd prefer.

and as he watches you meticulously wipe down the counter—always cleaning up his messes, always staying—mark thinks, yeah. he's definitely going to put a ring on it.

heyyy 🌊 anon! finally got to your request and i’m so glad you asked for this because god, we all need more of this soft, domestic fluff in our lives. spent two hours pouring my soul into this 2.8k one-shot and loved every second of it—like, please, i need this. i need markus sebastian grayson’s dumb ahh in my life. and debbie?? absolute queen. would let her adopt me in a heartbeat. would literally lover her as a mother-in-law :']

#NEED HIM #NEED HIM SO BADDDD #not gonna lie i'd fall for male reader too-#FUCK IT I NEED BOTH OF THEM #I CAN HANDLE THEM BOTH #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #are you sure?#invincible #mark grayson #male reader #invincible x male reader #mark grayson x male reader

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