ᴄᴜᴛ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ, ᴋɪꜱꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʚ♡ɞ
Pairing: Lenless [No Goggles]!Mark Grayson x f!Reader
Warnings: Fucking fiiiilth, smut bitches!!!
Tags: Threats of violence including self harm, absolutely toxic behavior, reader matching his freak in the worst way
Word Count: 2,814
Inspiration: “None of Ur Friends Business” – Ginuwine
Synopsis: Your dangerously unhinged not-boyfriend threatens to “take care” of the friends of yours that keep trying to pull you away from him, and you are having none of it. literally a crazy stand-off
a/n: you know i had to jump on it after this anon message!! god he’s such a damn psychopath, need that 🤪
His hands are warm—too warm—palming your waist like he owns it. The soft press of his mouth against yours is hungry but practiced, like he’s done this in his head a thousand times and tonight he’s just filling in the details.
You’re trying to stay focused. Trying not to melt into him completely. But his knee is nudged between your thighs and your hands are fisted in his shirt and—God—he smells like the night. Wind and sweat and danger.
And he feels it. The shift.
Mark pulls back just barely, his breath brushing against your lips. “What?”
You blink up at him, chest rising and falling too fast. “I… I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
He laughs—low, sharp, a little breathless. “You say that with your hands still on me.”
You pull back further, guilt blooming under your skin. “It’s not me. My friends… they don’t think I should be around you.”
Mark’s eyes flicker, and something inside them cracks. Not anger. Not surprise. Something worse. That slow, dangerous amusement he gets when he’s too far gone to care.
“Ohhh,” he says, sitting back on his heels, still straddling your legs. “Them.”
You shift, tugging the hem of your shirt down, suddenly too aware of how vulnerable you are underneath him.
“They think you’re… I don’t know, unstable,” you murmur. “That I’m not thinking straight when I’m with you.”
He tilts his head, watching you like you’re some kind of puzzle he’s already solved. “And are they wrong?” You hesitate. His grin widens. “Didn’t think so.”
“Mark…”
He leans down again, slower this time, arms caging you in as his voice drops to a whisper. “You think they know what this is? What we are?”
Your heart stutters. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your jaw. “They don’t get a say.”
“You can’t just—”
“Yes, I can.” His eyes meet yours. Calm. Controlled. Unsettling. “Because I don’t care what they think. And you don’t either, not really.”
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Your resistance is paper-thin and he knows it.
“They don’t know what it’s like when you look at me like that,” Mark mutters, voice velvet-dark, “like you want me and hate yourself for it.” You swallow hard, trying to find your footing in a conversation that’s already sinking fast.
“They’re just looking out for me,” you say, weaker than you mean to.
Mark hums, dragging his fingers up your thigh like he’s barely paying attention—which only makes it worse.
“Yeah? Then maybe they should spend less time worrying about you and more time fixing their own messes.” His tone is too casual. Too cutting.
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looks at you like it’s obvious. Like he’s been holding back and is just now getting bored of pretending.
“Let’s start with Lauren,” he says, like he’s choosing a weapon. “She’s real concerned about your well-being for someone who’s still sleeping with her ex behind her current boyfriend’s back.”
You freeze.
“And Maya?” He laughs under his breath. “She’s got a lot to say about how ‘toxic’ I am for a girl who gets blackout drunk just to forget she texts her therapist at 3am.”
“Mark—”
He leans in, grinning, like he’s telling you a secret. “They don’t care about you. They just don’t want you to have something they don’t have.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, voice dropping low and dangerous.
“Especially your girl Sadie.” His eyes are locked on yours now, completely still. “The way she looks at me?”
Your breath catches.
Mark's lips curve into something that’s almost a smirk, but there's something sharp underneath. “So obvious. Like she wants me to look at her the way I look at you. Like she’d lose her mind if I touched her the way I touch you.”
Your skin prickles. “You’re imagining things.”
He chuckles, and the sound is mean. “You really think I don’t notice? She doesn’t even breathe when I walk into a room. Like she’s hoping I’ll slip and touch her by accident.”
His fingers trail up your arm, slow and lazy. “But I won’t. You know why?”
You’re quiet.
He leans in, mouth just brushing your ear. “Because she’s not you.”
You shove at his chest—not hard, but sharp enough to get the message across. “You’re such an asshole.”
Mark barely moves. Just blinks, lazy and slow, like a cat watching its prey squirm.
“Yeah,” he says. “And?”
You sit up, untangling yourself from under him, heart pounding. “You don’t get to talk about them like that. They’re my friends, Mark.”
He watches you now, eyes darkening. The grin slips, just slightly.
“They’re hypocrites,” he says coolly. “They don’t like me because I don’t kiss ass and pretend I’m something I’m not. And you—” He leans in before you can react, voice low and dangerous. “—you like that about me.”
You flinch back. “You don’t know what I like.”
He scoffs. “Don’t I?”
His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist—not hard, not painful, but firm. Controlled. You freeze.
“That little act you pull?” he says, head tilting. “Like you’re just so confused, like you don’t know if this is right?” His thumb brushes your pulse. “It’s bullshit. You keep coming back. You let me touch you. You want me here.”
Your stomach flips, anger warring with the way your skin burns under his touch.
“I want you gone,” you whisper. He laughs again, and this time it’s ugly. Sharp and disbelieving.
“No, you don’t.” He shifts closer, crowding into your space again. “You’re mad because I said what you’re too scared to admit. That your friends aren’t saints. That Sadie wants me. That deep down, you love the fact that she can’t have me.”
“Mark—”
“You want me all to yourself. And you hate that you do.”
You yank your arm back. “You’re insane.”
He smiles. There’s no denial. No apology.
“You knew that when you let me in your bed.”
You stare at him, heart pounding, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
“You’re sick,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You think this is normal?”
Mark doesn’t even blink.
“No,” he says easily. “But I think it’s honest.”
You push at him again, harder this time. He lets you—for now. You scramble off the bed, putting distance between you like that could somehow make this safer. Make him safer.
“I’m done,” you say, trying to sound stronger than you feel. “This was a mistake.” He tilts his head, eyes tracking your every move like he’s amused by the performance.
“I really don’t like how much they distract you,” he says, tone casual—too casual. “Your friends.” You go still. Mark’s gaze sharpens. “Always in your ear. Telling you what to think. What to feel. Pulling you away from me.”
“Don’t,” you say, voice rising. “Don’t go there—”
“I’m just saying,” he cuts in, standing now, slow and unbothered. “Maybe it’d be easier if they were gone.”
Your blood turns to ice.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Mark shrugs. “Just a thought. Clean slate. No distractions. Just you and me.”
Your mouth opens—no sound comes out. You swallow, steady yourself, and find your voice. “You don’t mean that,” you whisper. “You’re just trying to scare me.”
His smile is all teeth. “Why would I want to scare you?” He starts to cross the room toward you and you instinctively step back. “I like you,” he says softly. “I don’t want to scare you. I want to protect you. And if that means getting rid of people who are bad for you…”
He trails off, as if he’s genuinely thinking it over. “…then maybe it’s not that crazy.”
“If you touch a single hair on their heads,” you hiss, “I swear to God, you will never get to touch me again.”
Mark goes still for a second, like he’s processing that, weighing it. Then he scoffs. Loud. Dismissive. Cruel. “You think you can stop me?” he says, stepping forward with that wolfish grin. “If I want you—” His voice drops an octave, sickly sweet, almost a purr. “—I’ll just take you.”
And in one motion, without flinching, without breaking eye contact, your hand shoots out to your desk. The cold metal of the scissors hits your palm.
Mark’s smile falters as you lift them up, pressing the tip against your own throat. Just hard enough to leave a mark. Just long enough to make your point.
“I will literally end it right here,” you hiss, voice shaking with fury—not fear. “Do not fuck with me.”
Silence.
Heavy. Dense.
Mark stares at you like he doesn’t even recognize you. Like you just flipped some internal switch he didn’t know existed.
His chest rises, then falls—slow. Controlled.
“…Whoa,” he breathes.
You press the blade in just slightly deeper, enough to make his jaw clench.
“I’m not your little toy,” you snap. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to hurt the people I care about just because you’re obsessed with me.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” you spit. “You are absolutely obsessed. And I’ve let you get away with it because you’re hot and you kiss like you invented sin, but I swear to God, Mark—”
You jab the scissors toward him now, and he flinches. The grin is gone. He’s listening.
“You pull one more psycho stunt, and I’m gone. Not just gone—I will erase myself from your life so fast, it’ll make that little broken brain of yours crack in half.”
He blinks. Then runs a hand through his hair, pacing a little like he doesn’t know whether to be angry, aroused, or in awe.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
You lower the scissors, your voice cool and even.
“Takes one to know one.”
Mark just stares at you. Breathing hard. Jaw clenched. That frayed little thread of control he was holding onto? It’s gone. Burned up in the fire between you.
And you—you’re still gripping the scissors. Chest rising and falling like you just ran a marathon straight through hell.
“You are,” he says finally, voice low, wrecked. “So out of your fucking mind.”
You toss the scissors onto the desk with a loud clatter.
“Guess you finally met your match.”
He takes one slow, deliberate step toward you. Then another. Eyes locked on yours like he’s looking at the only thing in the world that makes sense anymore.
“You’d really do it,” he mutters, half-laughing. “You’d die just to spite me.”
You blink once. “And you’d kill for me.”
He stops right in front of you now, inches away. His smile is wild. Reverent.
“I’d kill for you,” he echoes, voice rough and quiet, “and you’d die just to spite me.”
A beat passes. Then another.
And it snaps.
He grabs your face with both hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, crashing his mouth into yours with zero hesitation—hungry, desperate, possessive. Like he’s been waiting forever to kiss you like this and now he’s afraid someone might take it away.
You kiss him back just as hard.
There’s no hesitation left. No doubts. Just teeth and hands and ragged breath, both of you pulling like you’ll tear the other apart. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, fisting in your shirt like he’s anchoring himself.
You gasp into his mouth, tugging at his hair, and he groans like it’s killing him.
“I need this,” he pants against your lips. “Right now.”
You nod, forehead against his, eyes burning.
“Then take it.”
That’s all he needs.
Mark doesn’t hesitate—his mouth crashes back onto yours like gravity just stopped working and you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. One hand fists in your hair while the other slides down, grabs the back of your thigh and lifts, walking you backward like he owns the floor you’re stepping on.
You’re on the bed in seconds. Breathless. Legs parting before you can think, just to feel him there, all heat and muscle and sharp, chaotic want.
“You drive me insane,” he growls, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You threaten me with scissors and then tell me to fuck you—what the hell is wrong with you?”
Your hands claw at his shirt, yanking it up over his head.
“I learned it from you, asshole.”
He laughs—dark and low, mouth brushing your collarbone. “Guess I’m a good influence after all.”
And then he’s everywhere.
His hands are rough, impatient, sliding under your shirt, dragging it up like he can’t get to your skin fast enough. Lips on your chest, your stomach, leaving bruises he wants you to see later. Mark is marking you—no pun intended—like it’s instinct, like he needs people to know whose you are the second they see you.
Your touching him back, his skin is hot under your hands—like he’s burning from the inside out, like if you peeled him open you’d find wildfire and want. His mouth doesn’t just kiss—it consumes, dragging over your skin like he’s trying to eat the memory of your friends, your doubts, your resistance. Like he wants to own every piece of you you’ve ever tried to keep from him.
You feel his smirk when you gasp, when your legs wrap tighter around his waist, dragging him closer. You’re not even sure who started it anymore. You can’t remember who kissed who first. Just that it was inevitable.
“You like this,” he growls against your throat, lips brushing just under your jaw as his fingers trail lower, dragging over your ribs like he’s memorizing them.
You try to sound strong. You try to bite it back.
But the sound you make when his hand slides between your legs? It’s not strong. It’s needy.
Mark fucking shudders.
“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re soaked.”
“Shut up,” you snap, flushed and breathless. He laughs, and the sound vibrates through you.
His mouth ghosts over your nipple, tongue flicking, teasing. He pulls your underwear down slow, smirking when you arch into him.
His teeth sink into your thigh, just enough to leave a mark, and he groans like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear you say that. And when he finally slides into you, it’s with a low, rough growl—like it takes everything in him not to lose it then and there.
You’re so full, so tight, so perfectly wrong for each other it makes your eyes roll back.
His hips grind deep, hard, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere beneath your skin. He’s panting in your ear, messy and raw, fingers tangled in your hair while yours scratch down his spine hard enough to leave tracks.
He likes it. You can feel it in the way his pace stutters, the way he moans—raw and low and real.
“I could ruin you,” he gasps against your lips. “You know that?”
“You already did,” you breathe.
And that’s it. That’s when he snaps.
He grabs your thigh, hikes it higher, and slams into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. The headboard cracks against the wall, but neither of you care. The room is nothing. The world is nothing.
Just this.
Just him.
Just you.
Your moans turn to sobs, his name ripped from your throat like a confession. “Harder,” you whisper against his neck.
He doesn’t hold back.
Your bodies move like war and worship—teeth clashing, breath tangling, sweat slicking your skin. Every thrust is a promise and a threat.
You moan his name and he mutters, “Say it again.”
“Mark—”
“Louder.”
“Mark—”
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You’re mine.”
You don’t disagree.
He’s everywhere.
He’s everything.
And when you cum—shaking, gasping, half-crying—he watches you like he’s witnessing something holy. Like he’s the one being touched by God.
“Mine,” he pants, grinding deeper, chasing his own release. “You’re mine, you’re fucking mine—”
And when he finishes, it’s with a broken, desperate groan, spilling into you like he’s giving you a piece of his soul and doesn’t care what you do with it.
Breathless silence.
Only the sound of your heaving chests, sweaty limbs tangled, skin burning.
Mark buries his face in your neck. His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. “…You scare the shit out of me.”
You grin weakly, fingers threading through his hair. “Good.”
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Part Two - Brunch Edition!
