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lazy-ahh · 1 day ago

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Oki so werid request but could you do one of the reader helping Maskless mark ( the variant) rehabilitate into a better person and it makes main mark jealous?

YOU, ME, AND THE GHOST OF HIM

pairing mainstream! mark grayson x male reader x maskless! mark grayson

in every world, you'd choose mark grayson. even when he's not yours. even when he's broken. even when it destroys you both.

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

the first time you see him, he’s slumped against the alley wall like a discarded puppet, one arm pressed to his ribs like they might give way any second. blood is smeared across his split lip, fresh and glistening under the flickering streetlight, while bruises bloom like storm clouds along his jaw. his hero suit—once vibrant, now torn and darkened with stains—clings to him, some of the blood his, most of it… probably not. his breath comes in ragged, uneven pulls, but it’s his eyes that freeze you in place—wide, almost wild, pupils blown so wide the usual brown is just a thin ring around the black.

and then he sees you.

his breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound. his lips part, but no words come—just a shaky exhale, like he’s been punched all over again. his fingers twitch at his sides, as if he wants to reach out but fears you’ll vanish if he does. for a second, he doesn’t even blink, like he’s terrified that if he closes his eyes for even a second, you’ll be gone when he opens them. and then—slowly, so slowly—his expression cracks. his brows knit together, his throat bobs as he swallows hard, and his voice, when it finally comes, is rough, wrecked.

"...[y/n]?"

it’s just one word, but it’s loaded—with disbelief, with aching hope, with something so raw it makes your chest hurt. because he knows you. knows you. and the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only light left in a world that’s gone dark—tells you everything.

in his universe, he lost you.

and now here you are, alive, standing in front of him like a miracle he never thought he’d get.

mark—no, not your mark, but another version, one carved from grief and rage—looks at you like the world just cracked open. because in his universe, he’d held you as you bled out, as your fingers went slack in his. and now here you are, alive, breathing, standing in front of him like some cruel trick or some kind of miracle.

he’s a storm of anger, regret, and raw, aching grief—a warped mirror of the boy you know, his edges jagged where your mark is soft, his fury scorching where your mark’s warmth soothes. but beneath all that, beneath the bloodstained hands and the haunted eyes, you see it: the fracture in him, the way his breath stutters when you touch him, like he can’t believe you’re real. the broken edges of him that could maybe, maybe be pieced back together, because why else would he look at you like that? like the world had been nothing but shades of gray until you stepped into view, like all the color had rushed back in a single, dizzying moment the second he realized—you’re here. you’re alive. in this universe, he didn’t lose you.

(and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to make him want to be better.)

you know this isn’t your mark. heck, this mark is one of the many variants that tore through your universe, leaving destruction in his wake, his hands stained with blood that isn’t just his own. but you can’t help it—your body moves before your mind can catch up, dropping to your knees beside him, pressing your palm against the deep gash on his side to stem the bleeding. his skin is fever-hot under your touch, his breath coming in shallow, pained gasps as you carefully lift him, his arm slung over your shoulder like deadweight. you whisper soft reassurances, half-formed words of comfort—"it’s okay, i’ve got you, you’re gonna be okay"—even though you’re not sure if that’s true. and he clings to you like a drowning man, his fingers digging into your sleeve, his face buried against your shoulder like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

when you try to pull away—just for a second, just to grab the first aid kit, some water, anything—he panics, his voice breaking as he calls out for you, his hands scrambling to keep you close. it’s pathetic, it’s heartbreaking, and it makes something in your chest ache.

at first, you told yourself it was just because he wore the face of the boy you’ve loved for years—the boy with the stupidly endearing smile, the one who laughs too loud at his own jokes, the one who always, always tries to do the right thing, even when it’s hard. the boy who looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the universe, who holds your hand like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t. the boy who, despite all his power, is so soft with you, so careful, like you’re something precious.

but as you sit with this mark, as you clean his wounds and coax him into drinking water, as you stay by his side even when you should be out there, fighting, saving people—you realize something.

this is still mark.

not your mark, not the one who makes your heart stutter when he grins at you with that stupid, lopsided smile, not the one whose fingers always linger just a second too long when he hands you things, like he’s afraid to let go. but he’s still mark—the way his nose scrunches up when he’s trying to tough out the pain, the way his voice goes all rough and cracked when he’s pushed past his limits, the way his entire body seems to sag the second your fingers brush against his skin, like he’s been starved for touch for years.

and maybe that’s why you can’t walk away.

"you don’t have to be like this," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper as you press the damp cloth to the cut on his cheek. he flinches at first—old instincts, maybe, from a world where touch only ever meant pain—but then he melts, his breath hitching as he leans into your hand like a dying man offered water. his eyes, red-rimmed and glassy with exhaustion, flicker up to yours, and god, he looks so lost, so desperate, like he’s one wrong word away from shattering completely.

his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he tries. so you do it for him—your free hand finds his, threading your fingers together, and the noise he makes is downright pathetic, a choked-off whimper as he grips you like a lifeline.

it’s not fair. it’s not fair how your pulse jumps when your fingers brush against his skin, how your breath catches when he leans into your touch like he’s been starving for it. you’ve imagined this a thousand times—finally being close to mark, finally feeling the warmth of his body, the weight of his hands on yours—but never like this. never with this mark, bruised and broken and bleeding on your bed, his torso wrapped in haphazard bandages that do little to hide the hard planes of his chest, the way his muscles tense under your fingertips. he’s wearing your black sweatpants, the fabric loose around his hips, and the sight of him like this—vulnerable, yours, even if it’s just for now—makes something hot and guilty curl low in your stomach.

you shouldn’t be doing this. shouldn’t be savoring the way his calloused palms press against yours, rough from years of fighting, or the way his breath hitches when your thumb traces the ridge of his knuckles. you’re a horrible friend. a friend shouldn’t be thinking about the way his lashes flutter when you touch him, shouldn’t be memorizing the way his ribs expand with every shaky breath, shouldn’t be enjoying how ruined he is for you, how he clings to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to this world.

but god, he’s here. he’s warm and solid and real, his skin radiating heat even through the bandages, and when he looks up at you with those gold-flecked eyes—dazed, desperate—it’s all you can do not to pull him closer.

"missed you," he slurs, voice cracked and raw, like the words have been clawing their way out of him for years. his forehead drops against your shoulder, his breath hot against your collarbone, and you can feel the way his entire body trembles, the way his fingers dig into your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. "missed you so much, please—" his voice breaks, and your chest aches. "please don’t go."

you should push him away. should remind him that you’re not his you, that the boy he’s mourning is gone, that this—whatever this is—isn’t right.

but then his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, and your resolve crumbles.

your chest aches. you shouldn’t do this. you shouldn’t.

but you tighten your grip on his hips anyway.

(just for tonight, you tell yourself. just for tonight, you’ll let him pretend. just for tonight, you’ll pretend too.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

when mark finally falls asleep, his breathing deep and even, you can’t help but tuck the blanket around him with the same careful precision you’ve always used with your mark—fingers smoothing out the wrinkles, pulling the fabric just high enough to cover his bare shoulders. it’s muscle memory, really, something you’ve done a thousand times before, back when the two of you were kids playing house and he’d inevitably pass out mid-game, sprawled across your bed like he owned it. before you can stop yourself, you lean down and press a quick, feather-light kiss to his temple, just like you used to. the second your lips touch his skin, your stomach twists—because this isn’t your mark, and you haven’t done this in years, not since you realized how dangerous it was to let yourself want something you couldn’t have.

you slip away before the guilt can settle in, pulling your hero suit back on with practiced efficiency. the window slides open silently, and then you’re gone, the cool morning air biting at your cheeks as you fly toward the chaos.

it’s early, the sky still painted in soft pinks and golds, but the city is already in ruins—buildings crumbling, smoke rising in thick plumes, the distant sounds of screams and fighting echoing through the streets. you throw yourself into the fray, pulling civilians from rubble, stopping falling debris, doing everything you can to help—but even as you work, your thoughts keep drifting back to him, to the broken boy in your bed who looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him whole.

some part of you feels pathetic for it. why should you grieve for these other marks? why does your throat tighten every time you see another variant's corpse, another version of him crumpling to the ground, lifeless? why do you keep imagining what might’ve happened if you’d found them first, if you’d been able to save them too?

the sun is dipping below the horizon by the time you finally slip away, your body aching, your suit stained with dust and sweat. every muscle screams in protest as you move, your ribs throbbing from where a chunk of debris had slammed into you earlier, your knuckles split and stinging. you just want to shower, to scrub away the grime and blood, to sink into the scalding water until your skin is raw.

but when you climb through your bedroom window, the air is thick with something electric, something dangerous—and there they are, standing on opposite sides of the room like rival wolves, glaring at each other with enough heat to set the walls ablaze.

your mark’s fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white, his jaw locked, his shoulders rigid with tension. his eyes—usually so warm, so soft when they land on you—burn with something you’ve never seen before, something possessive, something furious. and the other mark—your mark, the one you tucked in, the one you kissed—he looks wrecked, his bandages peeling away, fresh blood seeping through the fabric, his expression caught between fury and devastation. it’s clear they’d fought, but they’d held back—your room is mostly intact, save for the blankets strewn across the floor, the pillows torn open, feathers drifting lazily in the charged silence.

your stomach drops like a stone, the sudden rush of dread so heavy it makes your knees feel weak. your pulse roars in your ears, a deafening drumbeat that drowns out everything else—so loud you’re sure they can hear it, so frantic it feels like your ribs might crack from the force of it. your mouth goes bone-dry, your tongue sticking to the roof of it as your fingers twitch helplessly at your sides, curling and uncurling like you could reach out, like you could somehow stitch this disaster back together with your bare hands. but the weight of their stares pins you in place, the air between you three thick enough to choke on, every breath a struggle against the suffocating tension.

and then—

your mark’s voice cracks through the silence like a whip, sharp enough to make you flinch. his expression—god, his expression—is a wreckage of emotions, his brows pulled together in something agonized, his lips trembling just slightly before he presses them into a thin, wavering line. his eyes, usually so warm, so bright, are glassy with hurt, the gold flecks in them dulled under the weight of betrayal. his jaw works, like he’s fighting to keep the words steady, but his voice still comes out rough, frayed at the edges.

"where were you?" he chokes out, the words thick. "i—i tried calling you, like, a dozen times. kept telling myself you were just busy, that you’d pick up eventually, but…" his breath hitches, his fingers flexing like he wants to reach for you but can’t bring himself to. "then cecil told me you brought one of them here. to your house. [y/n], what the hell were you thinking?"

you cut him off before he can finish, your voice too loud in the suffocating quiet, your expression twisting with guilt. "i just wanted to help you, okay?"

mark’s face does something complicated then—his eyes widen, his lips parting in stunned disbelief, like he can’t quite process what you’re saying. his variant stays silent, but you can feel his gaze burning into you, heavy and unreadable. when mark finally speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less wrecked.

"help…? [y/n], he’s not me. you get that, right?" he runs a shaky hand through his hair, his breath coming faster now, his words laced with something desperate. "that’s—that’s the guy who leveled cities. who killed people. who enjoyed it. how could you—how could you even look at him after everything he’s done?"

"how could i not help him when he has your face?" you finally snap, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding back. the words tear out of you like they’ve been clawing at your throat for hours, raw and desperate. "how could i just leave him there to die when he’s you, mark—when i know he can be better because he’s still you—"

something in mark’s expression flickers, his defiance wavering for just a second—his lips part, his brows twitching like he’s fighting back a wave of something too big to name. but then his jaw tightens again, his hands clenching at his sides like he’s physically holding himself together.

and then—

you catch it. from the corner of your eye, a shift. the other mark goes utterly still, his breath hitching audibly. his eyes—dull with exhaustion just moments ago—widen slightly, the faintest spark of light returning to them. his lips part like he wants to speak but can’t, like the air’s been punched out of him. like he’s just realized something devastating.

your mark doesn’t notice. he’s too busy staring at you like you’ve just ripped the ground out from under him. "better?" his voice is strained, disbelieving. "[y/n], you can’t just—you can’t just say that like it’s that simple. he didn’t just hurt people, he slaughtered them. entire cities, gone. you don’t come back from that. you don’t get to just—just pretend it didn’t happen!" his hands rake through his hair, tugging at the roots like he’s trying to physically stop himself from shaking. "that’s not how this works. that’s not how any of this works."

"i’m not pretending it didn’t happen," you say, voice fraying at the edges. "but what was i supposed to do, mark? let him bleed out in some alley just because he’s not your version of you? because he made choices you didn’t?" your hands are shaking now, your nails digging half-moons into your palms. "you—you of all people should know how easy it is to fall. how hard it is to climb back out. if anyone deserves a second chance, it’s—"

"it’s not him," mark cuts in, his voice cracking like he’s the one wounded. his eyes are too bright, his chest rising too fast. "you don’t get it. this isn’t some—some redemption arc, [y/n]. you can’t just love him into being a good person."

the words hang there, sharp and suffocating. love. neither of you meant to say it like that.

a beat of silence. then—

"i don’t need to be loved," the other mark murmurs, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. both you and your mark whip around to look at him. he’s standing straighter now, his bandages rustling as he shifts, his gaze locked on you with something terrifyingly close to devotion. "i just need to be given a chance to fix what i broke. i’ll do anything. anything. bleed for it, beg for it—i don’t care." his lips curl, just slightly, at the edges. "funny, isn’t it? in my world, you were the one who always believed i could be better, too. even when i didn’t."

your mark makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat. "stop talking about him like—like you had him. like he was ever yours."

the other mark’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. "wasn’t he?"

the air leaves your lungs in a rush. "that’s not—we weren’t—"

"you weren’t?" the other mark tilts his head, all false innocence. "huh. guess some things really are different here." his gaze flicks to your mark, deliberate, slow. "or maybe you’re just slower."

your mark moves then—a half-step forward, fists clenched, his entire body trembling with something raw and furious. "get out," he grits out. "get out of his house. get out of his life. you don’t get to come here and—and poison this just because you’re too fucked up to live with what you’ve done."

the other mark doesn’t flinch. just looks at you, his voice softening. "do you want me to go?"

and god, that’s the worst part—because you should say yes. you should push him out the door and let your mark hold you and pretend none of this ever happened.

but you don’t.

you just stand there, silent, your heart splitting right down the middle like rotten fruit bursting at the seams. the air feels thick, syrupy with unsaid things as you let out a shaky exhale that rattles your ribs. your eyes squeeze shut like if you just keep them closed long enough, you might wake up from this nightmare. the pain radiating from your injuries—the cracked ribs, the split knuckles, the bruises blooming like stormclouds under your suit—is nothing compared to the way your chest caves in when you imagine opening your eyes to mark's face. you already know what you'll find there: that wounded look he gets when he's trying so hard not to cry and his voice goes all rough and broken. you're so selfish. such a fucking terrible friend.

"you..." mark's voice comes out strangled, like someone's got their hands around his throat. when you finally crack your eyes open, he's staring at you with this devastated expression, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but forgot how. "you're actually considering this?" his laugh is hollow, humorless. "after everything he's done—after everything we've—[y/n], look at me and tell me this isn't fucking killing you too."

the other mark doesn't blink, doesn't waver. his gaze burns into the side of your face as he murmurs, so quiet it's almost tender, "he doesn't need to say it. we all know the truth."

your breath hitches when you finally force yourself to meet your mark's eyes—really meet them. the tears welling up make his golden flecks swim, and god, you want to wipe them away so badly your fingers ache with it. your fists clench so tight your nails bite fresh crescents into your palms. "i can't turn my back on him," you whisper, voice fraying at the edges. "don't ask me to do that. not when i'd walk through fire for you. not when i'd still choose you—" your throat closes around the rest, but it's too late. the words already hang between you, raw and bleeding.

your words hang in the air like a guillotine blade—i’d still choose you—and mark’s breath stutters like you’ve punched it out of him. his lips part, trembling, and for one terrifying second you think he’s going to say it back, think he’s going to wreck you completely with three stupid words you’ve both been too cowardly to voice for years. but then his throat bobs, his fingers flexing like he wants to reach for you but can’t quite remember how. "you can’t just—" his voice cracks, raw. "you can’t say shit like that and then—and then ask me to watch you forgive him."

the other mark lets out a quiet, wounded noise from beside you—something between a laugh and a sob. "he’s right, you know," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over the nape of your neck. "you shouldn’t say things like that unless you mean them." his fingers brush your wrist, feather-light, and your mark’s eyes snap to the contact, his jaw clenching so tight you hear his teeth grind.

you swallow hard, your pulse rabbiting in your throat. "i mean it," you whisper, turning to face your mark fully, your voice trembling but sure. "i love you. but that doesn’t mean i can’t care about him, too."

the silence that follows is deafening. your mark looks like you’ve carved him open—his eyes wide and glassy, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon. "that’s not fair," he chokes out. "you don’t get to—to love me and then—"

"then what?" you interrupt, your voice breaking. "ask you to trust me? to believe that i’d never choose him over you?" you take a step forward, your hand hovering just above his chest, not quite touching. "you know me, mark. you know how i feel. don’t make me say it louder when you’ve spent years pretending not to hear it."

the other mark exhales sharply, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "god, you two are pathetic." he shakes his head, his smile bitter. "in every other universe, one of you has the guts to just kiss the other. but here?" he barks out a laugh. "here you just ache. how tragic."

your mark flinches like he’s been struck, his fingers twitching toward yours—almost bridging the gap, almost proving the other mark wrong. but then he curls them into a fist instead, his breath coming in shallow bursts. "this isn’t over," he mutters, but it sounds like a plea. like a prayer.

you don’t know if he’s talking to you—or himself.

"i know... i know the both of us would make sure it isn't." the joke falls flat the moment it leaves your lips, your attempt at lightness crumbling under the weight of everything unsaid. your mouth curves into something that might've been a smile if not for the way your bottom lip trembles, if not for the way your eyes stay painfully wide—too shiny, too vulnerable. you're terrified. the kind of terror that sits heavy in your ribs and makes your hands feel numb, the kind that whispers this might be the moment that fractures you two in ways no amount of late-night apologies or desperate touches can repair.

mark's expression does something complicated then—his brows twitch like he wants to frown but can't quite manage it, his eyes softening just for a second with that familiar warmth that always made your stomach flip. for a breathless moment, you think maybe he understands. but then his jaw sets again, that stubborn tilt you know means he's digging his heels in, means he's going to keep fighting this because in his heart he truly believes this is wrong. and maybe it is. maybe you're a fool for clinging to the broken pieces of someone who shares his face but not his soul.

but when have you ever been able to walk away from mark grayson in any form? the thought of leaving him—any version of him—to drown in his own darkness makes your chest ache so sharply you have to press a hand to your sternum, as if you could physically hold your heart together. you love him. you love him in ways you've never dared say out loud, in ways that terrify you, in ways that would probably terrify him too if he knew the depth of it. and that's the cruelest part—you'd choose him in every universe, even when it's the wrong choice, even when it breaks you both a little more.

and the other version of mark? he just watches, something unreadable in his eyes. the way he looks at you is different now—less desperate hunger, more quiet wonder. his fingers brush absentmindedly over the bandages on his chest, the ones you carefully wrapped around his wounds hours ago. maybe, just maybe, he's starting to believe he can be better. as long as he has you, then he'll be okay. the thought settles in his chest like sunlight after years of darkness, terrifying in its simplicity.

(and maybe, just maybe, that scares your mark the most. the way his darker self looks at you like you're salvation. the way you look back like you might just believe in him.)

your mark makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his voice cracking when he speaks. "you're really gonna make me watch this, huh?" he gestures weakly between you and his counterpart. "watch you try to fix him like he's just some... some broken version of me you can patch up with enough care?" his breath hitches, and god, you've never seen him look so lost. "what happens when he's better, [y/n]? where does that leave me?"

your breath stutters, your chest so tight it aches. you look at mark—your mark, the one who makes your pulse skip just by smiling, the one who’s held your heart for years without even realizing it—and something in you breaks.

"it leaves you right where you’ve always been," you whisper, your voice raw, trembling. "with me. always with me." you take a step closer, your hand hovering near his face, so close you can feel the heat of his skin but not quite touching. "don’t you get it? there’s no version of this where i don’t choose you. where i don’t love you. but i can’t—i can’t just turn away from someone who needs help, especially when they’re you, even if they’re not my you."

your mark’s eyes are glassy, his lips parted like he wants to argue but the words won’t come. his hands twitch at his sides, caught between pushing you away and pulling you in. "you can’t save everyone," he chokes out, but it sounds weak, like he doesn’t even believe it himself.

"i know," you admit, your thumb finally brushing his cheek, so gentle it makes him shudder. "but i have to try. especially for you. in any universe."

the other mark watches silently, his expression unreadable—but there’s no smirk now, no cruel amusement. just something quiet, almost sad. like he finally understands what he’s stolen in another life. like he knows, no matter what, he’ll never truly have this again.

your mark swallows hard, his fingers finally, finally curling into your sleeve, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. "you’re gonna be the death of me," he murmurs, but there’s no real anger left—just exhaustion, and fear, and love, so much love it makes your knees weak.

you lean in, your forehead resting against his, your breath mingling. "then we’ll go together," you whisper.

hey y'all, so this was... something. 4.8k words of pure midnight angst fueled by sad playlists and questionable life choices. no idea where i was going with this, just that mark grayson owns my whole heart and i wanted him to suffer (affectionate). if this wasn't what you imagined, hit me up and i'll gladly write another version when i'm more coherent than "2 AM drunk on emotions" hours. hope you enjoyed this messy emotional rollercoaster anyway—let me know if you want more, i live for your reactions 😭