It would be cool if you wrote something for maskless mark x kryptonian!malereader
(YOU WERE) MY HOME
pairing maskless! mark grayson x (kryptonian) male reader
you memorized the exact shade of brown in mark’s eyes. the way his laugh crinkles his nose. how his hands always tremble after a fight. he memorized the way your body went limp in his arms when the kryptonite hit. how your blood looked smeared across his suit. the exact second your heartbeat stopped. (he’s not your mark. but when he kisses you like he’s drowning, you let him.)
taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro
your earliest memory is fire—not the gentle kind, not the warm glow of a hearth, but the violent, screaming kind. the kind that eats metal and flesh alike as your family’s ship tore itself apart in earth’s atmosphere, the heat so intense you could feel it searing your skin even through your crash harness. the scent of burning circuits and something darker, something organic—your parents, still strapped into their seats, their bodies limp and wrong in ways your child-mind couldn’t name but understood instinctively. you remember the way your throat burned from screaming, the way your fingers trembled as you clawed through twisted wreckage, your tiny hands slick with ash and something wet that wasn’t yours. then—cold grass beneath your palms, the shock of it against your skin as you collapsed in a stranger’s backyard, the night air biting at your tear-streaked face. you didn’t know where you were. you didn’t know if you were dying. you just knew you were alone.
until you weren’t.
a boy—messy-haired, pajama-clad, eyes wide with curiosity instead of fear—peered down at you like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen. "whoa," mark whispered, voice hushed with awe, as if you were a fallen star instead of something broken. "are you an alien?" you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your voice was lost somewhere between the wreckage and the weight pressing against your chest, but it didn’t matter because mark didn’t wait for one. he just reached out, small fingers brushing your arm like you were something precious, and you shattered. you clung to him, shaking, gasping, and he held you back without hesitation, his arms tight around your shoulders like he already knew you needed to be held together. neither of you understood what had happened—you were both just kids, too young for death, too young for the weight of the universe—but mark didn’t need to understand to be kind. he whispered soft, clumsy reassurances against your hair, rubbed your back in slow circles the way his mother did for him when he cried, his voice wobbling but determined. "it’s okay," he kept saying, even though it wasn’t, even though it would never be okay again. "i got you."
mark always had good intentions.
after that night, you were never alone again. the grayson household wrapped around you like a second skin—debbie’s gentle hands guiding you through human meals that tasted too rich, too warm compared to the nutrient packs from your ship. nolan’s steady voice explaining earth’s customs with patient amusement when you stared too long at things like skyscrapers or television. and mark—always mark—dragging you into his world with both hands, insisting you share his bed when the unfamiliar silence of your new room kept you awake. the mattress was too soft, nothing like the firm sleep-pods you were raised in, but mark’s presence beside you, his quiet snoring, made it feel like home.
cecil came later, all sharp suits and sharper eyes, but his grip on your shoulder was firm, not cruel, when he signed the adoption papers. you even remember cecil's expression softening a tiny bit when you finally mustered up the courage to look up at him. "you’re special, kid. you could do a lot of good in this world." he’d said, and you didn’t realize then how much that would cost you. the training was brutal—learning to control the way your fists could shatter concrete, how your vision blurred red-gold when anger spiked too hot in your chest—but you endured it. not because you cared about being a hero, but because nolan had quietly told both you and mark that he would inherit powers one day. and mark? mark already dreamed of it. of soaring through skies, of saving people with that bright, fearless grin of his. "we’ll be unstoppable," he’d say, bumping his shoulder against yours, and you’d nod, because all you ever wanted was to stand beside him.
you remember the little things most: the way mark split his peanut butter sandwiches with you in the cafeteria when you couldn’t stomach the school’s mystery meat. how he’d sneak you onto the roof at night, pointing out constellations he’d misname on purpose just to hear you laugh and correct him. the winter your fingers went numb during a snowball fight, and mark—without hesitation—pulled off his gloves and pressed your hands between his own, blowing warm air onto your skin until the feeling returned. "better?" he’d asked, cheeks pink from cold, breath fogging between you. you lied and said yes, even though your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.
and then there were the bigger moments: the first time you flew together, mark whooping as he clung to your back, his laughter vibrating against your spine. the way he’d look at you after messy, early missions—bloodied but triumphant, grinning like you’d hung the stars yourselves.
somewhere between stolen lunches and whispered secrets, between scraped knees and shared victories, you fell in love. not all at once, but slowly, inevitably, like gravity pulling you into orbit around him—helpless, hopeless, a collision course written in the stars. and the cruelest part? you never even tried to stop it.
you memorized the shape of his name like a prayer, the syllables curling soft and reverent against your tongue every time you almost said it: i love you, i love you, i love you. it lingered in the spaces between your ribs, ached behind your teeth, spilled into every quiet gesture you couldn’t stop yourself from making. the way you’d fix his suit after battles, fingers lingering a second too long on the fabric stretched over his shoulders. how you’d always bring him his favorite snack after patrol, even when he forgot to ask. the nights you stayed up late just to listen to him ramble about his day, your chest so full it threatened to crack open.
you were brave in every way that mattered—except one. the words never made it past your lips, because you knew. you knew. mark liked girls. loved them, even. the way his eyes followed amber in the hallways, the soft, dazed smile he’d get when eve laughed. you watched it all with a hollow kind of hunger, wondering if maybe—maybe—you could be the exception. if his hands, so careful when they patched up your wounds, might one day cradle your face instead. if his laughter, bright and endless, might one day be yours in a way that wasn’t just friendship.
(you remember one night, the two of you tangled together on the couch after a movie, his head lolling sleepily against your shoulder. your breath caught, heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. this is enough, you told yourself. this has to be enough. but then he shifted, his lips brushing accidentally against the curve of your neck, and for one delirious second, you let yourself hope.
he didn’t even notice. just yawned and mumbled, "g’night, dude," like you hadn’t just short-circuited entirely.)
you never overstepped. never pushed. you loved him too much for that. so you stayed—always giving, always there, hands outstretched but never grasping. and mark? mark never pulled away. never acted uncomfortable. just smiled at you like you were his favorite person in the world (and you were, just not in the way you wanted).
sometimes, you wondered if that was worse.
but of course, ever the giver, you stayed. continued to pour yourself into the spaces between his broken pieces after nolan left him shattered across that mountain. held ice packs to his bruises when his healing factor was too slow, stayed awake through his nightmares when the memories of his father's fists became too loud. every life he couldn't save weighed on him like stones in his pockets, and you? you became the water that buoyed him up, whispering "it wasn't your fault" into the hollow of his collarbone when he shook apart in your arms. and when he'd look at you afterward—eyes wet with gratitude and something unreadable but familiar, mouth soft with something you didn't dare name—you let yourself pretend, just for a second, that it meant more.
but then the drift began. slow, like the tide pulling back from shore—that subtle, inevitable retreat you didn't notice until you were already standing on damp sand, wondering when the water had gotten so far away. you told yourself it was fine. normal. that this was just what happened when two people grew up and became heroes, when the weight of the world settled across their shoulders like second capes. mark was drowning in responsibilities, just like you were—global crises that left blood under your fingernails for days, collateral damage measured in broken buildings and broken families, cecil's ever-growing demands that came with that particular tilt of his head that meant refusal wasn't an option.
you'd see mark across crowded briefing rooms, the shadows under his eyes darker each time, his shoulders tensed like he was still bracing for his father's blows. sometimes your fingers would twitch with the memory of how easily they used to fit between his shoulder blades, how he'd lean into your touch like a sunflower chasing light. but in the rare moments he surfaced for air—between missions, during stolen minutes in the guardians' lounge—he never reached for you. not like before. not with that easy, unconscious trust that used to have him slinging an arm around your neck before he'd even finished saying hello.
instead, there were new distances measured in centimeters of couch space between you, in conversations that ended just a beat too soon, in the way he'd sometimes look at you like he was trying to solve an equation written just behind your eyes. you told yourself it was the exhaustion. the trauma. the growing up. you told yourself it didn't feel like losing something you'd never really had in the first place.
(you remember that particular tuesday night with crystal clarity—the way the dim lamplight caught the exhaustion in the slope of mark's shoulders as amber's name flashed across his phone screen again, the third time in forty-seven minutes. the couch cushions dipped under his weight as he slumped against you, his forehead pressing into the junction of your neck and shoulder like he was trying to fuse himself there. you could feel the frustrated heat of his skin through your shirt, could count each uneven breath that gusted against your collarbone. "she says i'm never present," he muttered, the words cracking open like overripe fruit, all sticky vulnerability. your fingers spasmed against his back, nails leaving half-moon indents in your own palms as you fought the urge to fist your hands in his shirt and scream i'm here, i'm always here, why can't you see me? instead, you traced the familiar topography of his spine through thin fabric, your palm skating over the knobs of vertebrae you'd set back in place after countless battles. "then be present, mark," you whispered, the advice settling like powdered glass between your teeth. he never knew you'd rehearsed those exact words in your bathroom mirror that morning, watching your reflection mouth them until your expression stopped twisting into something ugly. never knew you kept a mental tally of all the times you'd talked him through his relationship problems like some masochistic saint.)
you were stupid. selfish. a fraud wearing a martyr's skin. because when mark and amber finally shattered apart—when you found him sitting on your roof outside your bedroom window in the rain, his hands shaking around a lukewarm cup of coffee you'd made him just how he liked—your grief came in layers. the first was genuine: the way your throat closed at his red-rimmed eyes, the immediate urge to fix what you couldn't. but beneath that? something rotten and hungry uncurling in your ribcage, whispering maybe now. maybe me. the shame hit like a solar flare, burning through your veins hotter than any kryptonian heat vision ever could—because even as you pulled him into a hug, even as you let him stain your shirt with tears, some treacherous part of you was already calculating if this pain of his might finally turn his gaze your way.
and then—
the words hit like a kryptonite blade between your ribs, delivered with that familiar, awkward scratch at the back of his neck that you'd always found endearing. "hey, so. eve and i. we're, uh. together." mark's grin was bashful in the way that made his left dimple appear, afternoon sunlight gilding the curve of his cheek like he was something holy. your fingers spasmed around the coffee cup—the one you'd brought him back from that paris mission last year—and you took a hurried gulp, letting the near-boiling liquid scald your tongue raw. the pain was a welcome distraction from the way your vision blurred. "that's great, man," you managed, the lie sticking like wet sand in your throat. you'd gotten good at this, at stitching your voice into something steady when everything inside you was collapsing.
he didn't notice. of course he didn't. mark never saw the way your breath hitched when he touched you, never caught you staring at the place where his t-shirt rode up when he stretched. now he was practically vibrating with the need to share, knees bouncing as he leaned forward. "she kissed me after the downtown mission," he confessed, voice dropping like you were co-conspirators in this joy. "like, right in the middle of all the rubble? and her laugh—" his fingers fluttered over his sternum, mapping the phantom flip of his heart, and you thought distantly that you could chart every fracture spreading through your own chest in real time. the ceramic mug creaked ominously in your grip, but you couldn't feel the heat anymore, couldn't feel anything except the terrible, perfect clarity of this moment: mark, glowing with happiness that wasn't yours to claim, and you, committing every detail to memory like a masochist preserving their own ruin.
(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆
the sky isn't just red—it's hemorrhaging, great arterial sprays of crimson light pulsing behind thick, choking clouds that don't move like normal clouds should. below you, the streets gape open in jagged wounds, asphalt peeling back like the skin of some massive creature trying to escape its own bones. the air isn't just smoky—it's alive with the taste of burning copper and molten steel, each breath scraping your throat raw with the ghosts of a thousand shattered lives. your cape snaps violently behind you, a desperate thing trying to flee the carnage, while your heart jackhammers against your sternum with such force you're half-afraid it'll crack through and go tumbling down into the ruins below.
chicago isn't just burning.
it's being unmade.
again.
you've seen this city broken more times than you can count—watched it crumble under alien invasions, superpowered brawls, the careless collateral damage of beings who called themselves heroes. you know the drill by now: the screaming, the sirens, the way the news cameras always zoom in too close on crying children. you've memorized earth's sick little dance of destruction and rebirth, how it always stitches itself back together with temporary scaffolds and hollow promises of "never again."
but this?
this is different.
because the figures streaking through the carnage below—the ones reducing buildings to dust and civilians and heroes alike to red smears on concrete—they all wear his face. his jawline. his messy dark hair. they move with his fighting style, shout with his voice, even bleed the same shade of red. but their eyes? their eyes are all wrong. cold and chaotic where his are warm, empty where his always held that stubborn spark of hope.
none of them are your mark.
the sky weeps fire around you as you hover above the carnage, the acrid smoke stinging your eyes worse than the truth ever could. somewhere in this nightmare of broken concrete and broken bodies, the real mark fights for his life—while you're trapped here, your lungs burning with the cruel joke of it all. that in this city of a thousand twisted copies wearing his face, the most unbearable pain wouldn't be failing to find him... but reaching for him only to grasp another hollow imitation.
you don't know where your mark is. he's probably halfway across the world by now, his arm slung protectively around eve's waist as they fight back-to-back like some perfect, seamless team. while you? you're knee-deep in rubble, using your body as a human shield between collapsing buildings and innocent civilians—always the bridesmaid, never the groom. or something like that.
the irony tastes like blood in your mouth—metallic and thick, the kind that lingers after a punch to the jaw. you’d stood like this days ago in the guardians’ headquarters, your trembling fingers digging into your palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents, half-moons of desperation carved into your skin. mark had been gearing up for another mission with her, his suit clinging to his shoulders in that way that always made your throat tight. his gloves smelled like ozone and sweat when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him mid-motion as he reached for his mask. your grip was too tight, your pulse too loud in your ears.
"you're always with her," you’d choked out, the words scraping your throat raw, tearing free like shrapnel. your voice fractured like the sidewalk now splitting beneath your feet, each crack exposing years of buried longing.
it all came tumbling out then—how you’d memorized the exact shade of brown in his eyes (warm, like earth after rain), how you’d counted every faint freckle scattered across his nose like constellations. how you’d give up your powers, your legacy, your name if it meant he’d look at you just once the way he looked at her—soft and awed, like she’d hung the stars herself. the confession burned worse than kryptonite, searing your tongue, leaving your mouth tasting like smoke and regret.
for one suspended second, mark’s face did something complicated—his lips parted like you’d punched the air from his lungs, his pupils blowing wide, dark with something unreadable before his gaze dropped to your mouth. your heart stuttered, a trapped bird slamming against your ribs.
you didn’t know why you’d said it. maybe it was the alcohol rex had shoved into your hands earlier, his smirk sharp as he’d muttered, "drink up, superboy. maybe it’ll make you stop staring at him like a kicked puppy." you’d swallowed it all down—the bitter drink, the bitter truth—and now here you were, spilling your guts like some pathetic, lovesick fool, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
mark had frozen like you’d hit him with kryptonite, his hands suspended in air, fingers still curled around the edge of his half-raised mask. the familiar crease between his brows deepened, his lips parting slightly—not in anger, but in dawning, terrifying comprehension. "what?" he breathed, voice barely above a whisper, and you saw it then—the exact moment realization struck. his breath hitched, his pulse visible in the jump of his throat, his gaze dropping to your mouth one again for one electrifying second before snapping back up, wide and startled.
in that suspended heartbeat between confession and consequence, you could have sworn something shifted behind his eyes—something warm and terrified and impossibly, dangerously like reciprocation. like maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for this too.
then the comms crackled to life with eve’s voice, bright and urgent, and whatever fragile moment existed between you shattered like the storefront windows now raining glass down around you. "mark? you there?"
he flinched like you'd caught him with his hands in the fire, his mask slipping into place with a sound that felt too final—like a coffin lid sealing shut. "we'll talk later," he muttered, but the words came out all wrong, cracked down the middle like his voice was splitting apart the same way your ribs were. you saw everything in painful clarity: the tremor in his fingers as they fumbled with his mask's edge, the way his adam's apple bobbed like he was swallowing back something thick and unsaid. then he was gone in a streak of blue and yellow, leaving you standing there with your heart ripped clean from your chest, still beating raw in your palms. you wondered if this was how icarus felt—watching the sun flee from him, knowing he'd flown too close.
you became a hero for him. learned to fly not because the sky called to you, but because it was where he lived. trained your fists to break bones only so you could be the one to set his afterwards. stood beside him through every battle, every loss, every quiet midnight where the weight of the world pressed too hard against his shoulders. always beside him. never with him. never the way you truly wanted—fingers laced together, mouths sharing breath instead of battlefield strategies.
now, as you wrench a sobbing child from collapsing rubble, their tiny fingers clutching at your collar like you're the only solid thing left in this nightmare, you wonder if that hesitation in his eyes meant he felt it too—that inexorable pull between you two, like twin stars caught in each other's gravity. or if you'd just shattered the best thing in your life for nothing more than a maybe.
a building groans nearby, its steel skeleton screaming as concrete rains down in deadly chunks. you move before you think, your body slamming into the structure with enough force to crack your spine. the impact knocks the air from your lungs, but you hold firm, muscles burning as you lower the crumbling mass inch by agonizing inch. people scramble free beneath you, their screams mixing with the distant wail of sirens. you don't have time to gasp before the shockwave hits—another explosion ripping through the street, sending you skidding backward through debris. smoke fills your mouth, your nose, your pores, but all you can taste is the ghost of his name.
that’s when you see him.
floating there like some half-remembered dream, blood painting abstract patterns across his cheekbones. but—no mask. no goggles. nothing to hide the way his face transforms when he sees you, his eyes widening like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years. the moment his gaze lands on you, something fractures deep in your chest—not the clean break of a bone, but the slow, seismic splitting of tectonic plates—only to knit itself back together with golden thread when his lips part in quiet awe.
this mark looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life. like you’re water after decades of drought, like you’re the first star he’s seen after being trapped in an endless night. his eyes trace your face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s trying to drink you in before you disappear again—and oh, god, the way his expression softens when he realizes it’s really you, like his entire body sighs in relief.
then he’s moving, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat, his hands coming up to cradle your face before stopping just short, trembling in the air like he’s afraid you’ll vanish once again if he touches you. "hey," he murmurs, his voice so tender it aches, the sound wrapping around you like sunlight. "it’s okay. i got you."
and suddenly you’re seven years old again, trembling in the wreckage of your pod, your tiny fingers clutching at the grass as the world spins too fast around you. you remember the warmth of mark’s small body pressing against yours, his arms tight around your shoulders like he could shield you from the entire universe if he just held on hard enough. the way he whispered, "it’s okay, it’s okay," into your hair like a prayer, his voice wobbling but sure.
this mark is looking at you with that same fierce protectiveness, that same unwavering devotion—but now it’s layered with something deeper, something older. something that makes your breath catch. he looks at you like you’re the axis his world spins around, like every scar on your body is a constellation he wants to worship. like he’s loved you in every lifetime, and will love you in every one to come.
a sob claws its way up your throat, raw and broken, because this—this is how you’ve always wanted to be seen. not as a sidekick, not as a best friend, but as the living, breathing center of someone’s universe. and here, in the middle of a burning city, with a version of mark who wears his heart as openly as he wears his scars, you finally are.
you let him carry you in his arms, let his fingers curl protectively around the back of your head as he tucks your face against the warm hollow of his neck. the wind screams past your ears as he takes off, but you don’t fight it—don’t even tense. your mission brief echoes dimly in your mind (neutralize all variants, show no mercy) but it feels distant now, drowned out by the steady thump of his pulse beneath your lips. let them see, you think hazily. let the whole world watch as he flies you away like something precious.
next thing you know, you’re perched on the edge of your bathroom sink, his hips slotting between your knees as he patches you up with practiced hands. he’d flown you high enough earlier that the sun could kiss your wounds closed, but he still fusses—dabbing antiseptic over the cuts that haven’t quite healed, his touch feather-light when you flinch. "still hurts here?" he murmurs, fingers hovering over your ribs. you nod, and he makes a soft, wounded noise in his throat before reaching for the salve.
you watch, hypnotized, as he cups the salve between his palms—the same way you've done for yourself a thousand lonely nights—letting his body heat soften it before spreading it across your aching skin. his fingers move with practiced ease, tracing the map of your wounds like he's reading braille, like every bruise and cut tells a story only he understands. "you know my place better than i do," you murmur, voice scraped raw from smoke and unshed tears.
his hands freeze mid-motion. when he lifts his gaze, his eyes are bottomless pools of ink in the dim bathroom light, swirling with emotions too complex to name. "of course i do," he breathes, the words spilling out like a confession dragged from his chest. his thumb finds the sharp angle of your hipbone, brushing once—a fleeting touch that burns hotter than any solar flare. "how could i not when i spent most of my life with you?" his voice drops to a whisper, cracking open like an eggshell. "when i spent years memorizing the way you breathe when you're hurting? the way you grit your teeth slightly when you're lying?"
the air between you grows thick, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. you can feel his pulse where his fingertips rest against your skin, rapid as a hummingbird's wings. the mirror fogs with your shared breath, obscuring your reflections until it's just this—just his hands on your body, his truths in your mouth, this fragile thing you've both been too afraid to name.
the confession lingers in the humid air between you, delicate as the steam spiraling from the faucet, as transient as the condensation tracing paths down the mirror. you ache to ask—how many realities exist where your fingers intertwine as more than friends? how many versions of himself experienced this moment with you? but then his calloused palm rises to frame your jaw, his thumb sweeping salve across your cheekbone with a tenderness that steals your voice. the medicine stings, but you'd endure a thousand cuts just to keep his hands this close.
"there," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your skin like a summer breeze through open curtains. the scent of him—ozone and the faint metallic tang of blood—mixes with the antiseptic's sharpness. "good as new."
except you're anything but. you're a constellation of fresh wounds and ancient scars, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath your skin where your bodies press together. yet as his forehead comes to rest against yours, as his lashes brush your cheek when he blinks, the familiar ache in your chest doesn't feel like shattering.
it feels like dawn after endless night. like gravity finally pulling you into orbit. like the first full breath after years of drowning.
it feels like every cliché about home you ever rolled your eyes at—because home was never a place. it's the boy who learned your pain before he learned your favorite color, who carries the shape of your wounds in his hands like something precious.
the warmth of his hands on your skin feels like sunrise after decades of darkness—like finally breathing after being submerged too long. for one heartbeat, two, you let yourself drown in it, this dizzying sensation of being cherished, of being truly seen for the first time in your life. then reality comes crashing back like a fist to the gut, bitter and violent. this isn't your mark. can't be your mark. this is one of the invaders, the destroyers, the monsters who painted chicago's streets red with innocent blood. his hands may cradle you with familiar tenderness, but you saw what the other versons of him did to the city. what he's done too.
your muscles tense, fingers curling into fists at your sides. you should attack. should drive your fist through his chest the way cecil trained you to. should make him pay for all the lives lost today.
but then—
his lips quirk in that lopsided smile you've traced in your dreams a thousand times, the one that makes his left dimple appear just so. his eyes crinkle at the corners in that way you could recognize blindfolded, but there's something shattered in his gaze now, something ancient and grieving. "god, i missed you," he breathes, voice cracking like dry earth in a drought, like the words have been clawing their way up his throat for years. the sound of it—so raw, so painfully familiar—makes your traitorous heart stutter behind your ribs.
your breath catches. "what happened..." you swallow hard, fingers twitching at your sides. "to the me in your world?"
his face does something complicated. for a second, he just looks at you, his gaze tracing your features like he’s trying to commit them to memory all over again. then, softly: "we were together. properly, i mean." his thumb brushes your cheekbone, hesitant. "confessed to each other a year before i got my powers. it was... stupidly awkward. i tripped over my own feet trying to kiss you." a wet laugh escapes him, his eyes shining. "you laughed at me. then pulled me in by my shirt."
the image blooms in your mind—mark, younger, softer, his face burning red as he fumbles through a love confession. you can almost see it.
his expression darkens. "then the invasion happened. you fought—of course you did. even when that bastard pulled out the kryptonite." his voice cracks. "i was too hurt to move. could barely breathe. but you—you looked at me, right before..." he chokes, his hands tightening around yours. "you smiled. like you weren’t scared at all."
the sob tears through you like a supernova—violent, uncontrollable, leaving you trembling in its aftermath. before you can think, you're clutching at him with desperate hands, fingers twisting into the frayed fabric of his suit as if you could somehow stitch reality back together through sheer will alone. your knuckles press white against his ribs, nails biting into your own palms, but you can't loosen your grip. you'd crawl between dimensions yourself if it meant bringing his version of you home. because seeing him so broken like this... it just. hurts so fucking bad.
he collapses into you like a dying star, his arms locking around your waist with bruising intensity. his face presses hot and wet against the curve of your neck, his tears searing your skin as his shoulders shudder against yours. you feel the exact moment his knees give out, how his weight sinks into you—the great invincible mark grayson, brought to his knees by grief.
"we lose you... in every other dimension," he chokes out between ragged breaths, the words fracturing as they leave his lips. his fingers scramble across your back like he's memorizing your pulse points, your scars, the way your lungs expand with each shaky inhale. "and i feel so god damn jealous of the versions of me who didn't-" his voice shatters completely then, dissolving into something raw and wounded.
instinct takes over. your hands find their way into his hair, cradling his head as your thumbs sweep across his damp cheeks. "shhh, i've got you," you murmur into his temple, the same words he once whispered to a scared alien boy in his backyard. the irony tastes bitter on your tongue—how after all these years, you're still comforting each other through losses that never seem to end.
the salt on your lips could be from his tears or yours. you've lost track of who's breaking apart more violently, whose grief runs deeper. are you mourning the you he watched die? the mark who will never look at you this way in your own world? or simply the cruel joke the universe keeps playing—that in every reality, one of you is always left holding the pieces?
"please..." his voice cracks like a breaking spine as he drifts closer, hands hovering near your face but not daring to touch. his breathing comes in ragged bursts, lips trembling around each word. "come home with me." the raw need in his tone makes your stomach flip. "my dimension—it's quiet there, baby, so quiet. just us. no eve, no cecil, no him." his fingers finally brush your cheek, sticky with blood and tears. "we'll disappear somewhere where no one knows us. i'll build us a house with my bare hands. you'll plant those stupid flowers you love. we can even take a bunch of cats with us. i'll—fuck—i'll worship you like you deserve. please."
you want to. god, you want to. your traitorous body already leans into his touch, craving more of the warmth you've been starving for.
but—
"mark," you whisper, heart shattering at how his face lights up just hearing his name from your lips. "you've... you've killed people. innocent people."
he doesn't flinch. doesn't hesitate. just leans in until his forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven puffs that ghost across your lips. you can smell the blood and smoke clinging to him, can feel the way his pulse races where your skin touches. "yeah," he admits, voice rough like gravel, thick with something desperate between shame and worship. "but i'd burn a thousand worlds to ashes before i let anything hurt you again." his hands slide down your sides, fingers digging into the curve of your waist hard enough to bruise as he yanks you flush against him. you can feel every hard line of his body, the way his heart hammers against his ribs where your chests press together. "i'm already damned," he murmurs, lips brushing yours with every word. "let me be damned with you."
you wince, hands coming up to push weakly at his chest. "mark, you're not mine—"
"i know," he interrupts, pressing his forehead harder against yours like he's trying to fuse your thoughts together. his voice drops to a whisper, raw and broken. "but i could be."
around you, the city burns. the air is thick with the stench of melting metal and charred flesh, the distant screams of the dying swallowed by the roar of collapsing buildings. somewhere beyond the smoke and ruin, your mark is fighting—whole, unbroken, untouched by the kind of grief that twists this version of him into something sharp and feral. somewhere, he's pulling eve close, whispering promises against her lips that taste like forever.
and here you are.
letting a ghost hold you.
this mark—this broken, beautiful monster—is on his knees for you.
you swallow hard around the lump in your throat. because despite the blood on his hands and the fire in the distance, you already know your answer.
oh my god, 6.1k words of pure, unfiltered angst and i am unwell over it. this one-shot clawed its way out of my soul like a demon possessed and i blacked out only to wake up with this masterpiece of pain?? i was absolutely feral writing this, fueled by spite, sleep deprivation, and the haunting echo of "what if mark loved him back but in the worst way possible? what if he did love him but never realised he did (but he did realise this in every other dimension except this one)?" and now here we are. sobbing. you probably thought this would be cute or wholesome. you probably thought, "oh, maskless mark? hot." AND THEN I HIT YOU WITH THE EMOTIONAL WAR CRIMES. but come on, it’s maskless mark—did you really expect anything less than soul-crushing, heart-stabbing, tear-your-ribs-open angst? be so for real. anyway, enjoy the suffering. i sure did. 😭💔
