Gacha React - Blog Posts

Me waiting for the sk8/ Saiki k mfs to upload their new gcrvs

WHY DO I ALWAYS MISS THESE WHEN THEY FIRST COME OUT-

CHAT I JUST SAW A YOSANO AND DAZAI KID ANGST WITH THE PORQUE TE VAS TREND AJHDGHSGJKK I LOVE IT

IT'S IN THIS WHICH IS ALSO SO FUCKING GOOD. ALSO IT HAD SKK PARTNERSHIP VERY WELL DONE BUT NOT SUPER SHIPPY (like one vid of it being sorta romantic but honestly it was focusing on their partnership being so intrinsic and complicated)

@insufferablewhore lk was thinking of you when I saw that part (i want to show my friends the bootiful gacha reacts i find)

Watch. This.

BTW it is SKK ship-

IT'S STILL A WIP. I LITERALLY CANNOT COMMENT BCS OFC I DO NOT HAVE A GOOGLE ACCOUNT FOR IT BUT WATCH THIS

IT''S NOT EVEN 2x SPEED IT'S LITERLALY AN HOUR+ LONG

IT IS A WORK OF ART

I’ve been having the sudden urge to create Gacha reaction videos for fandoms with no reaction videos

Ive never done Gacha before

❝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.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

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.

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ြ 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