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crippling-characters-addiction · 6 days ago

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𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𖹭 pairing: mohawk!mark grayson x male!punk!reader (A.K.A rage-fueled delinquent with piercings and unresolved mommy issues x grin-wearing misfit with a punk playlist and a history of bad ideas)

𖹭 TW: cheating, blood, violence, cursing, mommy issues, reader is slightly older than mark, depressing thoughts, strangers-to-friends with benefits trope?, slight angst, anger issues, substance use (alcohol/smoking implied), marking, unspoken feelings, unhealthy coping mechanism, overstimulation, 4nal s3x, handj0b, belly bulging, spit as lube, some gay shit, top!mark, bottom!reader, p0rn with a plot.

𖹭 author's note: there's seriously not enough mohawk!mark content out there, and even less mark grayson x male!reader fics—so i said, screw it, I'll just write one myself. This fic was inspired by @asaarii's mohawk!mark x punk!reader—definitely worth to check out ♡

Warning though: this fic is long, messy, and it's my first time writing a bl, so bear with me! Hope you enjoy :P

Mark's knuckles were still sore from yesterday.

He flexed his hand slowly under the cafeteria table, watching the faded bruises bloom purple under his skin like wilting flowers. The skin around his knuckles was split in places, rough and raw. He hadn't even noticed when it happened—he just kept swinging.

Some creature had ripped through a mall parking lot yesterday. Another ugly, screeching thing from god knows where. Mark showed up because it was what he was supposed to do—what Omni-Man's son was meant to do. Be the hero. Save the day. Do it all with a clean conscience and a smile for the cameras.

But he snapped.

He didn't just stop the monster—he beat it down until it stopped moving. Until it stopped breathing. Until it was just a twitching, pulpy mess under his fists. He remembered the sound more than the sight. The dull thuds, wet and meaty, echoing off concrete. He remembered the cameras catching every second of it. Some hero.

He didn't know if he regretted it. But he knew Debbie saw it.

The footage had aired on the news loop last night. Blood splattered across his uniform. His eyes, shadowed behind broken goggles, burned with fury. His jaw was clenched, teeth bared, looking less like a man and more like something barely human. Debbie hadn't said a word when he got home. She didn't yell. Didn't ask if he was okay.

She just turned off the TV.

This morning, she didn't speak to him at all.

She sat in silence, sipping her coffee with that same blank look on her face, like she couldn't even stand to look at him. Like having Mark in the house was a reminder of a mistake she never wanted to make in the first place. He felt like he was losing it. She just sighed, murmured something about being late for work, and walked past him like he was part of the furniture.

It always started the same: the tightness in his chest, the quietness in the house, the echo of his own footsteps. Mark hated that house. It was too clean. Too empty. Too haunted. His mom barely spoke to him anymore, and when she did, it was with that tired voice like she was talking to Nolan again.

He hated being the only damn thing left that tied him to the man he used to call his father.

And what he hated even more was that, day by day, he was turning into him.

Across from him now, Eve was still talking about yesterday's events, about what he did. Her words came soft and careful, like each one might be the one that finally set him off. She hadn't touched her food either, just picking at the corner of her napkin, glancing up every now and then like she was hoping he'd meet her halfway. But Mark was stone still, his silence was heavy and his eyes were distant. The only sign he was even present was the slow clench of his jaw and the flex of his bruised hand beneath the table.

She took a small breath. "You didn't have to kill it like that…"

Mark didn't look at her.

"You know, she called me..." Eve said after a moment. "Your mom. Last night."

That got his eyes on her.

"She didn't say much," Eve added quickly, like it would soften the blow. "Just that… when she saw you on the screen, all bloody like that—she said she could barely recognize you, Mark. And, um… she said it reminded her of your dad."

Mark's lips pressed into a hard line. "Of course it did."

"Every damn thing about me reminded her of that fucking bastard."

Eve shifted uncomfortably, biting her lip, her eyes scanning him, as if trying to read what was behind the hardness of his expression. She finally sighed, the tension between them were too thick for her to ignore any longer.

"Mark..." She began softly, her voice quieter than usual. "Are you... okay?"

He didn't answer right away, his eyes flickering to hers but quickly darting away again. Eve pressed on, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup, trying to keep her tone neutral, but there was a hint of concern in her voice. "You've been kinda ghosting me lately. I get that you've got stuff going on, but..."

He finally looked up at her and his expression was unreadable. There was something vulnerable in his eyes—just for a split second, but it was there.

"You don't have to worry about me." Mark muttered, his voice quieter now. "I'm fine."

Eve didn't buy it, and he knew she wouldn't. She knew him too well. Her eyes searched his face, her brow furrowed in concern. "Mark, don't shut me out. You can't just—" She stopped herself, the words hanging in the air.

"You don't know what it's like," he said suddenly, his voice strained, like he was holding something back. "To always be... that person. The one people expect to save the day. The one that always has to be strong. Or tough. Or... whatever."

Eve took a deep breath and reached out, placing a hand lightly on his. The warmth of her touch, so simple, was enough to break through some of the distance. "I get it, Mark," she said, her voice was soft but steady. "But that's not why I'm asking. I'm asking because I care about you... and I haven't heard from you in days. So... just let me in, okay? Don't push me away."

For a moment, Mark stayed silent, with his eyes searching for hers. There was a flicker of something behind his hardened exterior, something softer—vulnerable, even. But it quickly vanished as he pulled his hand away.

"I'm fine." he said again, the words sharper this time. "I don't need you looking out for me like I'm some damn kid, Eve. I don't need a babysitter—I need a girlfriend who actually gets that."

Eve let out a slow breath, her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her voice steady. The frustration bubbling inside her was getting harder to ignore, clawing its way up her throat like something alive. "I'm not trying to babysit you, Mark. I just… want to be there for you. Is that so bad?" Her voice cracked slightly at the end, a mix of hurt and exasperation slipping through.

KRING-KRING-KRING—

The shrill ring of the bell cut through the tension like a blade.

Mark immediately stood, the legs of his chair screeching against the cafeteria floor. He scooped up a handful of whatever was left on his tray and shoved it into his mouth like he hadn't just spent the entire lunch period brooding in silence.

Eve barely had time to say anything before he was already slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Mark—" she started, standing halfway from her seat.

"I'll see you around." he muttered through his teeth, not even sparing her a glance as he walked off, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

She watched him go, still holding the edge of her tray with her fingertips, like she was hoping he might turn around. But of course, he didn't.

He never did.

He went through the day with furrowed brows and a bored expression, dragging his feet from class to class like the world had personally offended him. Professors talked, assignments piled up, and conversations buzzed around him, but it all passed through him like static.

People gave him space—some out of respect, most out of discomfort. He didn't care. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to be asked if he was okay.

Not when his head was a mess and his patience was long gone.

By sixth period, Mark's mood was radioactive.

Every hallway felt too loud, too bright. The screech of lockers, the smell of cheap cafeteria food lingering in his hoodie, the way people walked around him like he was a puddle of something they didn't want to step in—it all fed the gnawing thing inside him.

His head was a static storm, and he didn't really heard anything anyone said all day.

So when William slid into the seat beside him, Mark didn't even glance his way. He just stared straight ahead, with his jaw locked and shadows under his eyes.

"Hey..." William started, his voice careful.

Mark's fingers twitched against the desk.

"You okay, man? You've been... different lately."

Silence.

"I mean—different in a bad way."

Mark's lips twitched into a humorless smirk, but he still didn’t look at him.

"You're not answering any of my texts. You skipped out on our group project yesterday. Eve's worried too. She said you've been ignoring her for days. And then the whole..." William trailed off, like he was debating whether to go there. And he did.

"Monster thing. I saw the news. The fight.”

Now Mark turned to look at him, slow and sharp.

"That creature you fought. You didn't just beat it—you ripped it apart. It looked like a horror movie, man."

"It was a monster." Mark said flatly.

"I know," William replied quickly. "I know it was. But still—you usually hold back. You used to at least try to keep it clean. This time, you just..."

"I finished the fight."

"You slaughtered it, Mark." William's voice dropped lower. "In front of everyone."

There was something in William's eyes that made Mark’s stomach twist. Not fear. Not disgust.

Worse.

Pity.

Why?

Mark's fists clenched under the table. The bruises on his knuckles burned.

"It was going to kill a kid..." he muttered.

William sighed and said, "I'm just saying you didn't look like yourself up there. You looked... angry. Almost like a madman."

"I was angry."

William hesitated. "Does this have something to do with your parents?"

Mark's eyes narrowed.

"She called me the other day..." William continued, oblivious or maybe just determined. "Your mom. You're acting out again. Said she didn't know what to do with you anymore."

"You talked to my mom?" Mark's voice was barely a whisper, tight with disbelief. "What is it with you people talking to my mom!?"

"Look, she's upset, man." his friend said, holding up his hands. "She even embarrassed herself, ranting to her kid's friend about everything. She said you've been acting more and more like your dad and—hell, I don't know—it's freaking her out. I didn't know what to say."

"How about you just stay out of other people's business."

"Hey! I'm just worried, okay? I'm your best friend, Mark. I know things are hard right now—with your dad and everything... I-I just... I miss the guy who wasn't trying to pick a fight with the world every time someone looked at him wrong."

Mark's chair scraped back violently.

He stood up, looming over William, with his eyes dark and his mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Mind your own damn business, Will. You don't get to talk about her or what's going on with my fucking family. And don't talk like you know a damn thing about what I'm feeling."

William stood up too, but not to fight—just to try to hold his ground. "I'm just trying to help."

Mark's vision blurred red.

"You wanna help?" he said through gritted teeth. "Then shut the hell up!"

One punch—straight to the jaw. A sickening crack echoed off the walls. William crashed backward into a desk, landing hard and clutching his face with a pained yell.

For a second, the room was still. It was silent.

Then came the chaos.

A few classmates gasped and shouted. One girl screamed. Another guy jumped up and shoved Mark back, yelling, "What the hell's wrong with you?!"

Mark's temper snapped like a whip.

He swung again, this time at the guy who'd shoved him. Fists collided, desks crashed, and chaos exploded around them like a fuse had been lit. Someone tried to pull him back, but Mark jerked away, teeth gritted and eyes blazing.

Bodies scrambled. Chairs screeched across the floor. A girl screamed. The room was warped into noise and panic.

A teacher finally burst in, breathless and red-faced, shouting his name like it was something vile.

"Mark Grayson!"

It was enough to snap everything to a halt.

Mark didn't fight it when they dragged him out of the classroom, leaving a mess of overturned desks, dropped notebooks, and stunned faces in his wake. William was still sitting on the floor, hand pressed to his jaw, staring at him like he didn't know who he was anymore.

Mark didn't apologize. Neither did he explain himself.

He kept his head high and his mouth sealed shut, walking out with his bruised, bloodied knuckles burning like a badge of everything he didn't want to say out loud.

The teacher behind him spat out words about disciplinary action, and how they were going to call his mother.

As if that meant anything to him.

As if she still gave a damn.

They threw out the word “detention” like it was a threat.

Fine.

He could rot in detention.

Better than rotting in a place full of people who thought they knew him. Who thought they had the right to poke at wounds they couldn't even begin to understand.

Let them talk. Let them whisper. Let them stare.

He hates them all equally.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The fluorescent lights above buzzed like they were trying to get on Mark's nerves. He sat slumped at the back of the near-empty classroom, his cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk. His eyes were half-lidded, locked on the painfully slow second hand of the wall clock as it ticked, ticked, ticked—like it was mocking him.

The room smelled like pencil shavings and old coffee. A single ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing to move the stale air. The teacher assigned to babysit them hadn't even looked up from her book since he walked in. Mark figured she probably didn’t want to be here any more than he did.

His knuckles were still split from earlier, wrapped in a shitty paper towel he found in the nurse's office. The sting was dull now, just a reminder. A quiet throb that matched the one in his chest.

William didn't say anything when they dragged him out and just stared.

And his mom—yeah, she was probably ignoring the school's voicemail by now.

Whatever.

Mark didn't regret it.

He just wanted the day to end.

But then—

The door creaked open.

Mark lifted his head off the desk, just enough to glance at you when the door opened.

You stepped in like you owned the place—shoulders loose, boots scuffing against the tile, a lazy grin tugging at your lips like you were in on some joke the rest of the world missed.

Everything about you screamed defiance. From the bold blue and white lettering on your black Hellfire shirt to the layered chaos of your outfit, it looked like you belonged on a fashion runway and in a back-alley brawl all at once.

A red plaid wrap skirt hung over distressed cargo jeans, cinched tight at the waist with overlapping black leather belts that added a sharp edge. Chains clinked softly with every step, swinging from your belt and wrapped around your bag—the shape of it almost like a purse, covered in enough enamel pins to count as armor. A black guitar case rested against your back like a weapon, and a guitar pick swung from your neck, catching the light as you moved.

Mark slowly blinked. You looked like a warning label for every bad idea he was trying not to have lately.

The teacher didn't even lift her head from her desk. "Rules are the same..." she murmured, with her voice flat. "No phones, no talking, no food and try not to breathe too loud. You know how it is..."

You gave her a mocking salute.

Then—only then—you turned your head, catching Mark's eyes. Your grin softened just a little into something more like a smirk. You gave him a casual nod as you walked over to the desk beside him. It was cool and effortless. Like the two of you already knew each other in some parallel universe where the world made sense.

Mark stared at you. He didn't nod back. Just dropped his gaze and set his cheek against his palm like he hadn't just felt something shift in the air.

You slid into the seat next to him, like you were settling into your throne, and dropped your guitar case gently beside you. Then, without a word, you pulled out a sketchbook from your bag and a pencil from your pocket. You flipped to a blank page and started drawing—quiet, focused, like none of this mattered. Like the room wasn't full of tension and apathy and the kind of silence that cracked if you breathed too hard.

After a long stretch of silence, just the ticking clock and the occasional scratch of pencil on paper, Mark felt a light poke against his shoulder.

He barely moved, just flicked his eyes sideways in a slow, tired glance. You were staring at him with a casual expression, pencil still in hand.

"You got any sharpener there, buddy?" you asked, with your voice low but playful.

Mark sighed through his nose. "No, I don't..." he muttered, eyes flicking forward again, already annoyed.

But you didn't back off. "Hm, nah, I don’t think so," you mused, tapping your chin with the pencil. "You sure you don't have any?"

"I already told you I don't." he snapped, barely above a whisper, jaw tight. "Leave me alone."

"Too bad," you said with a shrug, tone breezy. "Looks like I won't be able to give you any hair."

Mark's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "What?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you turned your sketchbook around and held it out to him with both hands. A grin tugged at the corners of your mouth as you pointed at the half-finished drawing on the page.

It was him—the drawing was detailed, sharp, and it was unmistakably Mark. His scowl was perfectly captured, that permanent scorn etched between his brows like it belonged there. The angle of his jaw, which is tight and clenched. Even the slight hunch in his shoulders, like he was always bracing for something, was drawn with care. You'd even shaded the dark circles under his eyes with a soft smudge, capturing the weight he carried in silence.

The drawing was half-body—his arms were folded over his desk, head tilted slightly to the side, just like what he had been doing minutes ago. His hoodie was outlined with quick but deliberate strokes, the texture of it was sketched in with surprising detail.

But the top of his head?

It was completely smooth.

Bald as a boiled egg.

You had shaded it with the same level of dedication, even adding a little shine line on the crown of his skull for dramatic effect. Like you hadn't just forgotten to draw his hair—you had committed to erasing it from existence.

Mark stared at the drawing for a long second. Then at you.

You raised your brows and smirked.

"What the hell, man." Mark deadpanned, with a glare as his eyes flicked between your face and the drawing.

A chuckle slipped past your lips, low and amused as you leaned back a little, twirling your pencil between your fingers. "Don't worry, you'll get your hair back." you said, grinning. "I just couldn't see it right from the angle you were sitting at, so I figured getting your attention was the best way to get a good look at it."

Mark narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying the excuse—or maybe just not used to anyone talking to him like that without flinching.

"But now that I can see it…" You tilted your head, eyes scanning him slowly like you were taking mental notes. "That innocent haircut of yours? Doesn't suit you at all."

You didn't wait for a response, already turning back to your sketchbook. The pencil began to move again, fast and light, making faint scratching sounds as you added new lines. "A mohawk would do you more justice. Maybe throw in a couple of piercings. Eyebrow, nose, lip—hell, all three. Anything to give you a little edge."

Mark blinked, clearly taken aback. "Have you been observing me?"

"Obviously. How do you think I managed to draw you like that?"

His lips pressed into a line, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes now. Annoyance, sure. But also curiosity. No one had ever drawn him before—let alone imagined him bald, pierced, and wearing a mohawk.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, with your lips tugging into that same lazy smirk. "What are you in for, pretty boy?"

He looked away for a second, like he was debating whether he should answer or just let the silence stretch. His jaw clenched faintly, the muscle twitching under his bruised skin.

Then, finally, he muttered, "Got into a fight."

Your smirk widened, pencil still moving on the page. "Yeah, no shit. Let me guess…" You tapped the eraser against your chin theatrically. "You broke someone's nose just 'cause they were breathing too damn loud near you?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Jaw actually... He just wouldn't shut up."

"Ah," you murmured, eyes still on your sketchbook, pencil scratching softly. "Was he a friend of yours?"

Mark didn't answer right away. His expression tightened, the way it always did when something touched too close to raw. He stared ahead, jaw locked, hands curled into loose fists on the desk.

You didn't press, just let the silence breathe.

"He must've hit a nerve." you added lightly, still doodling.

His eyes flicked toward you for a split second, cautious. You weren't grinning like an asshole now—just watching him with that unreadable calm, like you were piecing him apart without asking permission.

"Used to be..." he finally muttered.

Mark looked away again, biting the inside of his cheek. "He kept asking what was wrong with me. Said he was worried. Like he didn't already know."

His voice was tight, edged with something bitter. "Acted like I needed help. Like he knew better. Just because we used to hang out, he thought that gave him some kind of right."

You hummed low under your breath, pencil still moving across the page. "So, you hit him."

"I warned him." Mark muttered coldly, "Told him to drop it."

You leaned back a little, smirk tugging lazily at your lips. "Yeah… that kinda makes sense."

Mark's eyes narrowed at you, like he couldn't figure out if you were agreeing with him or setting him up for a joke. Your tone was too smooth, too casual—like you were letting him fall into something and not warning him about the drop.

Then you spoke again, while still not looking at him. Your voice was calm and detached. Like you were just stating facts.

"It's the classic, you know? People act like they care, when they're really just digging around in your mess. They don't give a damn about your feelings or any shit...They just want to feel like they did something about it."

Mark stared at you, with his brows drawn low.

"And when you don't let them?" You shrugged. "Suddenly you're the asshole."

The way you said it—it wasn't pity. It wasn't even empathy. It was like you were just giving shape to the thoughts that had been bouncing in his head for weeks. Stuff he couldn't even name before. And now there it was, out in the open, like you'd peeled it off his ribs and held it up to the light.

It unsettled him.

He blinked, slowly, still watching you. He didn't know whether to feel called out or understood. Whether to be grateful or pissed off. Your voice hasn't changed, still easy and almost too chill for someone who just cracked his walls open like it was nothing.

Then you looked at him—really looked at him—and said, "Either way, you did what you had to do."

A beat passed.

"I mean, maybe you're not the bad guy. It’s not your fault that loser wasn't listening."

It landed harder than it should have. And Mark wasn't sure why.

"Why are you here, again?" Mark asked, brow furrowing like the question had been burning on his tongue for a while.

You chuckled, low and amused. "Gonna be honest with you, man… I'm not here for detention. Or any real reason, honestly." You leaned forward a bit, resting your elbows on the desk. "I just like coming here sometimes. Sketch people who look like they're going through it. Crisis faces are the most honest, y'know? Raw. If they're interesting enough, I kinda turn them into something else. Give 'em a new look. A better one."

Your gaze flickered down to your sketchbook. You picked it up, flipping it toward him with a small, lopsided smirk. "Look. It's you. Or, well—what I think you should look like right now."

Mark blinked, then tilted his head slightly to get a better look.

It was him—again. Same harsh lines, same intensity in the eyes. But this version had traded his shaggy, too-long hair for shaved sides and a fierce mohawk. You added piercings now too, bold and unapologetic—one pair through his eyebrow, two on either side of his nose, and another pair just beneath his lower lip. Like a version of him from some grungy, punk parallel universe type of shit.

You tapped the page lightly. "See? It works. Matches the storm in your head a lot better than that innocent 'boy-next-door' cut."

"You're weird as fuck," Mark muttered, glancing between the sketch and you, like he couldn’t decide which one was more bizarre.

"Thank you." you replied smoothly, bowing in your seat with an exaggerated flourish. One hand splayed dramatically across your chest like you were accepting an award. "I do try."

Mark snorted, shaking his head, but you caught the corner of his lip twitching—just barely.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Ever since that day, Mark started noticing you more around campus.

You're a chaos in eyeliner and plaid, a walking contradiction—half performance art, half delinquent gospel. Sometimes he'd see you surrounded by others who looked just as reckless and alive, lighting up the dead corners of school with laughter and graffiti. Other times, it was just you—hunched over your electric guitar in some shadowed stairwell or forgotten hallway, the strings humming something raw and distant, like an old song no one remembered how to sing.

And it was weird, how often your eyes would find him. Across the cafeteria, the courtyard, in-between classes. Always with that signature smirk like you already knew the punchline to a joke he hadn't even heard yet. And you'd nod at him—greet him with the kind of ease that felt like you weren't trying to be nice. You just saw him. Like you actually saw him.

And that messed with him.

Because most days, Mark felt invisible.

He walked through school like a shadow with a pulse. Noticed only when someone needed something—answers, help, a target. He didn't reach out anymore. Friends became people he used to talk to. People avoided him now, or they looked at him like something was off. And maybe they weren't so wrong.

After all, the more he saved the day, the worse he felt. Each time he flew off to stop some disaster, each time he pulled himself out of rubble or wiped blood off his hands—something inside him shifted. Got heavier. Angrier.

His mom barely looked at him anymore. Ever since his dad vanished—no, fled—after revealing himself as a monster who killed thousands, she'd been a ghost. Sitting in silence. Staring at nothing. It was like the light inside her died with her marriage. She checked out everything—motherhood included. And Mark had to carry it. Alone.

He couldn't even talk to her about it. He couldn't talk to anyone without angry.

And then there was you.

You, with your sketchbook and devil-may-care grin. You, showing him drawings of himself with mohawks and piercings, like you were trying to see the version of him that still haven't existed yet. You didn't ask him how he was. You didn't tell him what he should feel. You just said the things he was too scared to say out loud. About people pretending to care. About the weight of being misunderstood. About the anger.

It freaked him out—how much you got it.

Because Mark was angry. At the world. At the way it kept breaking, no matter how many times he tried to fix it. At his mom, for disappearing without ever leaving. At his dad, for showing him what strength really looked like and then shattering every part of that illusion. At himself—for still wanting something back. Some recognition. Some thanks. Something.

But all he ever got was more pain.

So yeah. He started thinking maybe you were right. Maybe he should have a mohawk. Maybe he should look the way he feels—like he's been through war and no one clapped when he made it back. Maybe the world didn't deserve the version of him that kept trying to do the right thing.

And every time your sketchbook came out—every time you greeted him with that smug, lazy grin like you saw right through the cracks—he couldn't help but wonder...

Were you mocking him?

Or were you the only one who actually got it?

It was their third detention together that month—when you kinda asked him out.

You were perched on top of a rusted metal desk by the window, one leg swinging lazily, munching on a fried chicken sandwich you'd somehow sneaked in without anyone knowing. The afternoon sun made everything feel hotter than it needed to be, dust swirling through cracked window panes. Mark sat slouched in the chair beside you, arms crossed, hood up, eyes glazed in that tired, dead-inside kind of way. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—and maybe he hadn't.

You were in detention for real this time, after one of the faculty finally pieced together who'd been behind the graffiti in the east stairwell and the mysteriously exploding vending machine. Mark was in for, reportedly, beating the shit out of some assholes at lunch. Again.

"You know..." you started, words muffled around your bite of sandwich, "Me and the gang are playing tonight. Not at the club—the city kicked us outta there for good. So we're taking it somewhere more… public."

He glanced at you, brows low. "Public?"

You licked your fingers, brushing crumbs onto your already-ruined jeans. "Yeah. Rooftop by the train station. Abandoned building. Broken elevators, busted windows, rats everywhere. Total dump. But the view? Killer."

Mark looked back at the floor.

You grinned. "Cops don't care about that place anymore. Probably forgot it even exists. And rooftops just feel kinda apocalyptic these days, don't they? Like the perfect place to scream into the void."

His jaw ticked. Lately, it felt like everything annoyed him—people, noise, silence. Himself most of all.

You leaned back on your arms and said, casually, "Bring your little girlfriend if you want."

Mark stiffened, but didn't look up.

"…We're not exactly on good terms."

You raised a brow, feigning a gasp. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Fuck off." he muttered, barely audible, and scoffed bitterly under his breath.

You clicked your tongue. "That sucks. But hey, maybe some loud music and social unrest will fix your dying love life."

He finally turned, shooting you a flat look. "Shut up. You're so annoying."

"And you're so grumpy." You smiled like it was a secret joke only you got. "We balance."

You hopped down from the desk, rummaging through your backpack until you pulled out a worn, creased flyer, edges curled and ink smudged. You handed it over. "Here. It's not official—obviously. Government types don't like it when kids hand out papers anymore. Might catch rebellion or something."

He took it and unfolded it slowly. The hand-drawn logo of The Demonheads screamed off the page: a snarling skull, cracked halo glowing above its head, wings made of rusted barbed wire. Below it was written it's time and place, in a messy scrawl—"NO COPS. NO HEROES. JUST NOISE."

Mark blinked. "The Demonheads?"

"Yup." you said, leaning close enough to see the crease in his brow. "The one and only."

"Ever heard of us?"

He shook his head.

You pressed a hand to your chest with a mock offense. "Ouch. I'm wounded."

He snorted, and for the first time all day, it wasn't sarcastic. Not really.

"The city hates us," you said. "Says we're bad influence. Loud. Unstable. Dangerous. They call us anarchists like it's an insult." You shrugged. "Maybe we are. Maybe we're just angry. But someone's gotta be."

You watched him trace the ink on the paper, his thumb brushing over the crooked halo.

"This whole place—" you added, quieter, "—the world, I mean. It's a joke. Rich assholes sit comfy while the rest of us rot. Government's just another gang in suits. Heroes pick and choose who's worth saving. And people pretend everything's fine 'cause they're scared of what happens if they admit it's not."

Mark didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Because you saw it. That flicker. The shift. Like your words hit something in him that had been vibrating under the surface for a long time.

"Sounds like a riot," he muttered.

You grinned wide, sharp. "Only if we're lucky."

He kept the flyer.

Didn't say he'd go. Didn't say he wouldn't. But something in his expression changed—just a little. A crack in the mask. Curiosity, maybe. Or that quiet desperation to belong somewhere that didn't feel like a goddamn prison.

You just smiled and looked away.

You never asked if he was coming.

You already knew he would.

It was after detention when you met her.

Eve.

She was waiting for Mark outside the school gates, arms crossed tight over her chest, back straight like she was holding up some invisible weight. Her strawberry orange hair caught the dying afternoon light, golden and soft in contrast to the scowl she wore. You spotted her right away—she had that "angry girlfriend about to beat her boyfriend's ass" energy written all over her. And judging by the way her eyes immediately flicked to you, she'd been watching the building for a while.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, the chains on your ripped jeans jingling with every step as you and Mark walked out together. You still had smudges of sharpie ink on your fingers from the flyer you gave him earlier, your boots heavy against the concrete.

Mark slowed the second he saw her.

"…Great." he mumbled under his breath.

You raised an eyebrow. "That her?"

He nodded, already tense.

"Cute," you said with a smirk. "She looks like she could make the toughest guy piss himself just by looking at him."

Eve's gaze sharpened the closer you got. Her eyes trailed over your black spiked vest, the band patches stitched to your sleeves, the silver piercings on your face, the faded eyeliner smudged around your eyes. She didn't bother hiding the way she sized you up. Judging. Reading. Assuming.

You were used to it.

Mark stopped a few feet from her, but you kept walking—slow, unrushed, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward.

"Hey," Eve said, but it wasn't to you. It was for Mark. Cold and flat. Her eyes didn't leave you. “Who's this?”

"I'm his detention buddy." You replied, grinning like the devil.

Mark sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"He's a senior." he muttered. "Name's [Y/N]. He's… cool."

"Cool?" She echoed, unimpressed.

You could feel it—her judgment thick in the air like perfume. Like she thought she had you all figured out just from the scuffed boots and chipped nail polish.

You leaned forward slightly, flashing a crooked smirk. "Don't worry, I haven't sacrificed him to Satan or anything. Yet."

Eve didn't laugh.

She just looked at Mark, eyes narrowing like she'd stepped in something foul. "Mark, I thought we were supposed to have dinner at your place tonight. I told you I was gonna grab groceries and everything, and instead, you're busy sitting through detention with...him?" Her eyes slid to you, unimpressed. "Are you serious right now?"

Mark frowned. "I'm sorry, okay? I forgot." he muttered, clearly not in the mood for a fight. "It's just detention."

Eve crossed her arms tightly over her chest, jaw tense. "Is he the reason you're like this?" she asked, casting a sharp glance at you like you were some kind of bad omen. "Skipping things. Picking fights. Getting into detention for throwing punches? What the hell is going on with you, Mark?"

You didn't say anything.

You just stood there, hands tucked into your pockets, quietly chewing the inside of your cheek as your eyes flicked between the two. You could feel the heat of her judgment crawling up your neck like smoke—like she’d already made her mind up about you the second she laid eyes on your boots and torn-up jacket.

Mark exhaled hard, looking away. "It's not like that."

"It looks like that."

Eve's voice wasn't loud, but the weight of it hit harder than if she'd screamed. Her gaze lingered on Mark for a long moment—hurt and disappointed—before she shook her head and stepped back.

"You've changed," she said flatly. "And not in a good way."

Then she turned around and walked off, disappearing into the late afternoon traffic of students still lingering on campus.

For a second, there was silence.

You shifted your weight and finally spoke, voice quieter than usual. "You should go after her."

Mark didn't move.

You gave him a look, more thoughtful than mocking this time. Then you turned, adjusting your guitar case over your shoulder, already halfway down the steps.

"See you around, pretty boy." you added without looking back.

The dinner at Mark's house was quiet—tense in that way where even the clinking of silverware felt too loud. Debbie sat at the head of the table, posture straight, polite smile etched onto her face like a mask she'd forgotten how to take off. The roast in front of them was overcooked, and the potatoes were dry. Not that anyone seemed to notice.

Eve tried. She really did. She made light comments here and there, complimented the food, and asked Debbie about her work. Debbie answered everything with short, courteous replies. She was there, physically, but something about her always felt far away. Like she was operating behind glass, reaching for a life she no longer recognized.

Mark didn't say much. He stabbed his food. Ate in silence. Eve's gaze kept drifting toward him, subtle but insistent—the way she looked at him that said say something, try, she's your mother, but he never returned her looks. Just kept his head down and his jaw tight.

Debbie poured herself a glass of wine halfway through. No one commented.

The air thickened with each passing minute, like the house itself was suffocating under the weight of everything left unsaid. Eve's smile started to falter. Her back straightened. Frustration flared in her eyes.

"So, uh..." Eve started again, clinging to conversation like a life raft, "Mark said he might check out Upstate University soon. They're expanding their programs—might be a good fit."

Mark didn't even glance up when he said, "I'm not going."

Eve blinked, caught off guard. "But… you were thinking about it. You said—"

"I changed my mind." His voice was flat and final.

Debbie didn't look up from her plate, but her grip on her fork visibly stiffened. The sound of her swallowing her wine was the only reply.

Eve frowned, lips pressed tight. She leaned back in her chair, her voice a touch sharper. "You could at least try, you know. Talk to her."

Mark's eyes flicked up at her, the kind of look that could freeze a bone.

"Why?" he said coldly. "So she can pretend everything's okay?"

Debbie still didn't say anything. But her breathing shifted. Just slightly.

Mark pushed his plate away. The screech of ceramic on wood made Eve flinch. "I'm done."

He stood, not waiting for permission or even an acknowledgment.

"Mark—" Eve tried, but he was already gone, disappearing down the hall with heavy steps that sounded like every bottled emotion crashing out of him at once.

Debbie sat still for a moment. Then quietly picked up his untouched plate and began to scrape the food into the trash.

She didn't cry. She just cleaned. Like always.

Eve didn't say another word. She only watched her, and for the first time, maybe started to understand why Mark was slipping further and further away.

Mark locked himself in his room, not bothering to say goodbye when Eve left. The slam of the front door barely made him blink. He laid on his bed, hoodie still on, boots half-kicked off, staring blankly at the ceiling before letting his phone fill the silence.

The screen glowed against his face in the dim room, flickering through news articles, memes, garbage content—and then, a post. A grainy black-and-white clip of a post-punk band mid-performance. It was loud and raw. Screaming into the mic like the world wronged them. The crowd moved like a single beast, thrashing and alive.

It reminded him of you.

That casual chaos in the way you existed. The worn-out jeans, the eyeliner smudged from who-knows-what, the bite in your sarcasm that made him want to respond even when he didn’t feel like talking.

"We balance." You said, with that crooked grin on your face in detention, like the two of you are friends.

Mark stared at the video a bit longer, then typed the band name "The Demonheads" into the search bar.

Then, there it was.

Clips. Posts. Grainy concert footage. Shaky camera angles. Protest posters. A video of a rooftop set, you at the front, guitar slung low, shirt ripped at the shoulder, eyes wild. You screamed into the mic like it owed you money, like the city needed to hear you or it'd die trying not to.

There's another clip—someone caught you between songs, sweaty and laughing, flicking off the camera with a middle finger and a wink.

Mark didn't smile, but something in his chest shifted. Tightened.

He kept scrolling. Watching.

It wasn't just music. It was something else. Something angry and loud and weirdly honest. Like every part of you was up there bleeding out into speakers and cracked pavement.

He watched until his phone screen dimmed from inactivity, only then realizing how long he'd been scrolling. With a quiet sigh, he locked it and let it drop onto the bed beside him. Then, from his hoodie pocket, he pulled out the flyer you'd given him—creased, half-crumpled, but still intact.

He stared at it for a long moment, sitting up with his elbows on his knees, fingers brushing over the sharpie-scrawled ink like he was trying to feel whatever it was burning under your skin when you handed it to him.

Mark's eyes narrowed, then looked up across the room. On his desk, the glow of the digital clock blinked: 8:10 PM.

The concert wouldn't start until nine.

He stood slowly, like something was pulling him up from the weight that had been pressing him down all night. He walked out of his room and into the dimly lit hallway, made his way to the bathroom, and flicked the switch. The mirror greeted him with his own reflection—with his messy, overgrown hair, and his hoodie that had stretched and worn from too many restless nights, and eyes that carried more exhaustion than they should.

He opened the drawer under the sink and reached for the electric clippers. They were still there. Nolan's, probably. The same kind his dad used to trim up his clean, perfect image. That alone made him want to throw it against the wall.

Instead, he turned it on. The sharp, vibrating buzz filled the bathroom, and Mark stared down at it.

Then, slowly, he raised his head to the mirror.

He remembered the drawing you showed him weeks ago—chuckling, half-teasing, as you claimed, "A mohawk would do you more justice." It had been you who sketched him with a jagged mohawk and a jacket scrawled with band patches and flame motifs. He'd rolled his eyes then, said you were weird. But now… he saw it. Felt it. The version of himself in that sketch felt closer to who he wanted to be than the stranger in the mirror now.

He lifted the clippers to the side of his head.

Hair began to fall. Tufts slid down his neck, scattered over the white sink like shedding something that didn't belong to him anymore. The buzz filled the silence, grounding him in each reckless stroke. He wasn't a pro—his hands shook slightly, and it wasn't perfect. The lines were messy, the angle a little too sharp on one side—but he kept going. He didn't stop until both sides were shaved down and the middle was left tall, raw, and real.

He turned off the clippers. Silence then returned.

His reflection didn't look like that innocent Mark anymore. The boy who used to just nod along, keep his head down, try to be what everyone expected him to be. What stared back at him now was someone new—sharper, rougher around the edges, but somehow more honest.

Still buzzing with something raw, he stepped into the shower, letting the water rinse away the fallen hair and whatever else he didn't need anymore. The steam curled around him, clouding the mirror, hiding what he used to be. He stayed under the stream longer than necessary, fingers running through the damp ridge of his new mohawk. It still felt unreal. Bold. Stupid. But right.

When he stepped back into his room, towel around his neck and waist, water still dripping from his collarbones, he crossed to the closet. For once, he didn't reach for the usual hoodie or school-washed jeans. He dug deeper. Past the clothes Debbie bought. Past the ones Nolan once folded for him like it meant something.

He pulled out an old black denim vest that has rips on its shoulders—the one he barely remembered owning. Then a dark long-sleeve to wear under it. He tugged on some beat-up jeans with a few chain loops and grabbed his boots from under the bed, knocking off its dust as he shoved his feet into them.

It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't supposed to be.

He glanced at the time: 8:48 PM.

He still had enough time to show up.

To see you.

That thought alone made his chest tighten—some strange mix of nerves and something warmer, something stupid and bold.

So he shoved the flyer back into his pocket, cracked the window open, and slipped out into the night.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

When he arrived at the rooftop, he touched down without a sound, unnoticed by the swarm of bodies and buzzing energy from afar. The music hadn't started yet, but the place was already alive. Neon lights flickered across the open space, casting strange colors onto swaying silhouettes. He stayed in the shadows, taking it all in. You were right—the view was killer. The skyline burned in the distance, and the wind tugged softly at his mohawk, carrying the chill of the night across his skin.

Then, it began.

A girl with wild green hair, dressed in a electric blue and black outfit that flashed under the lights, stepped onto the stage with a mic and a manic grin. She shouted something that was lost to the rising cheers, and just like that, the rooftop exploded into sound.

Lights flared, speakers boomed, and a red handheld flare shot up from the crowd, bathing the chaos in blood-colored smoke. People screamed, jumped, and danced, their shadows stuttering with each flash of the strobes.

But Mark didn't hear any of that. Not really.

Because the second your voice echoed through the rooftop—raw, loud, and commanding—the lights stuttered and then snapped to you. And there you were.

You stood at front in the center like you owned the world, shirtless, the pale light catching the sharp lines of your body. You wore only leather—black and heavy, strapped with rows of silver-studded belts that ran from your wrists, across your pants, down to your boots. Each step you took looked like it was weighed down by chaos itself, and yet, you moved like it was nothing.

You looked like a piece of art, underneath those lights.

And something twisted in Mark's chest.

His breath caught, just for a second. He didn't understand why. It wasn't like he hadn't seen you before—but it had never been like this. There was something about seeing you up there, in your element, drenched in sound and fury, screaming into the mic like you were born to tear the world apart with your voice.

He blinked. And swallowed.

He stood there frozen, with his heart pounding in a way he couldn't quite name.

Was this admiration?

Was it awe?

Was it—?

No. Whatever it was, he didn't have a word for it.

So he stayed hidden, staring. And listening.

He watched as you strummed your electric guitar—each note sharp, cutting through the heavy night air. With every motion of your hand, the lights seemed to respond, pulsing and dancing along, casting glimmers over the metal buckles and silver spikes of your belted pants. You glowed in movement, alive and uncontained.

You sang with that mischievous grin of yours, reckless and free, tossing your voice into the sky like it didn't owe anyone anything. You laughed between lines, bumping shoulders with your bandmates, playing like the world was yours and you knew it. The crowd roared and sang with you, hypnotized, addicted.

But then—something shifted.

In the middle of the chaos, as the next verse rolled in and the bass dropped, your eyes scanned the crowd… and paused.

Mark felt it again. That exact moment.

The exact second your gaze locked with his.

It was brief. Just a flicker.

But it hit him like a fist to the chest.

Time didn't stop—it just warped. The music kept going, the lights kept flashing, but Mark couldn't hear any of it anymore. Not when your eyes found him in the crowd, even from behind the smoke and bodies and noise. Not when you tilted your head the slightest bit, lips curling like you knew something he didn't.

And for some reason… his heart clenched. Hard. Like it was trying to fight its way out of his ribs.

He didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Just watched you.

And wondered what the hell that feeling was.

He watched you throughout the whole show—mesmerized, almost dazed.

Whether you were stepping forward to sing a solo or slipping back to let the other vocalists take the spotlight, your presence never dimmed. You carried the stage even when silent, even when your fingers were the only ones speaking, dragging thunder out of your guitar like it was a living thing. You didn't just play—you breathed life into every chord, every beat. You made the music move.

And god, it was fire.

He had never seen you like this.

Sure, you always looked like trouble—sharp around the edges, untouchable, wild—but now? You looked like chaos. Beautiful, roaring chaos. Unapologetic and magnetic.

Your band's songs burned through the speakers—shouting rebellion, bleeding freedom, aching with love and loss and rage and euphoria. They weren't just songs. They were war cries. Anthems. Screams from the inside. And you were at the center of it all, feeding the storm like it was your religion.

Mark stood still on the rooftop, hidden in shadow, yet feeling more exposed than ever. Something in his chest was clawing its way up, confused and fast and hot. He didn't even realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the railing until his knuckles ached.

He should look away. He should snap out of it.

But instead, he kept watching you like a man who just realized he'd been starving.

It was midnight—closer to 1 AM—when the noise finally began to die down. The music faded, the lights dimmed, and the crowd slowly unraveled into the night, laughing and buzzing with adrenaline. People were saying their goodbyes, shouting thanks for the killer performance. You and your band took turns giving small speeches of gratitude, rough and sincere, before the rooftop slowly began to clear out.

The energy was still buzzing in the air as you helped gather cables and carry down amps, sweat clinging to your skin, your voice a little hoarse from the night.

That's when you saw him.

Mark.

He stepped forward from the shadows, quiet but not exactly trying to hide. The second your eyes landed on him, you froze mid-movement, then a grin curled at the corners of your lips.

"Holy shit..." you breathed, wiping your hands on your pants and stepping toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. "You actually came!"

You gave a soft laugh, walking closer. "I thought I was just high when I saw you in the crowd, man." You looked him over with a playful smirk, gaze flicking up to his mohawk. "God, you definitely look the part tonight."

He didn't say anything right away—his throat tightened up, words jammed behind it like a traffic pile-up. Up close, with the flickering rooftop lights hitting your skin, you looked even more unreal. The metal on your pants glinted like stars, and the lingering heat from your performance clung to you like a halo.

He swallowed and finally muttered, "You were… insane out there."

Your smile didn't falter. "That's kind of the goal." You said, before your tone shifted into something softer, "I'm really glad you came, Mark."

You didn't let the moment linger too long.

Instead, you grabbed Mark by the wrist, tugging him gently as you said, "C'mon, I gotta introduce you to the gang."

One by one, you brought him around to meet your bandmates—each with a unique look, a different edge, but all warm and welcoming in their own rough way. They exchanged greetings, a few handshakes, nods of respect, and some smirking gratitude for him showing up. One of them even clapped him on the back and said, "Didn't think you were real, man. We were starting to think they made you up."

You laughed, throwing an arm over Mark's shoulder like you'd known him forever. "Well, I told you he's real. Real enough to help us pack up, right?"

Mark blinked. "Wait—"

Too late. You were already tossing him a bundle of cables and pointing to a nearby case. "Come on, rockstar. Earn your afterparty."

He didn't argue. Not really. What else did he have to do? Go home? Sit in that cold, quiet house with nothing but his own thoughts gnawing at him?

Nah.

He helped carry down amps, coiled wires, and stacked boxes with the rest of you, his movements eventually syncing up with the rhythm of your crew. The whole thing was messy and loud and filled with exhausted laughter and the occasional burst of music from someone who just couldn't stop playing.

And when you slung your jacket over your shoulder and looked at him with that wild glint in your eyes, asking, "You down to go celebrate somewhere? For the show, and for, y'know... not getting arrested, tonight." Mark didn’t even hesitate.

"…Yeah." he said, wiping his hands on his pants. "Yeah, I'm down."

And just like that, the night wasn't over.

The underground club was like another world—dim neon lights glowing against graffiti-splattered walls, bass-heavy music pulsing like a second heartbeat. It smelled like sweat, beer, smoke, and something else—something electric. Your band blended right in, sliding into cracked leather booths, ordering drinks with familiar smirks, lighting up like they owned the place.

Mark kept close to you at first, still a little stiff, wide-eyed at the chaos—but you handed him a drink, your fingers brushing his, and just like that, the edge dulled.

The alcohol hit him fast. Maybe it was his first real time drinking. Maybe it was the music. Or the fact that you looked like some kind of devil in human skin tonight—jacket unzip, sweaty from the show, with a cigarette hanging loose between your lips as you leaned back with a half-lazy grin, shadows and red light dancing across your face.

God, you looked good.

Mark didn't say anything at first—just sat beside you, his drink nearly slipping from his hand as his limbs got heavier and his laugh got louder. The band was wild, one of them screaming out a chaotic love song into the karaoke mic, their voice cracking beautifully over the synths. Everyone was high. High on smoke, high on adrenaline, high on surviving another night.

You elbowed Mark gently. "Hey, pretty boy..." you grinned, "you alright?"

He looked at you, really looked at you. You had your boots kicked up on the edge of the table, smoke curling from your lips, and the glint in your eye made something twist deep in his gut. He blinked slowly, cheeks flushed, eyes glossed over from drink and something else. His mouth opened like he had something to say—but nothing came out.

You just laughed, low and soft, and nudged your drink toward him.

"Don't pass out yet, you're just getting started."

And Mark… smiled.

A real one. Loose. Crooked. Almost smug.

Something was shifting. Something dangerous, something exciting.

He leaned back, head tilting as he studied you through the blur and haze of the club's lights and sound. His lips parted again, just slightly, and even though his thoughts were swimming, one thing stood out—loud and clear through the fuzz:

You were beautiful. And maybe the kind of trouble he was starting to want.

The night blurred in colors and noise, everything spinning in rhythm with the music—your bandmates were laughing at something stupid, throwing arms around each other, play-fighting, dancing like the world might end tomorrow. Mark couldn't remember the last time he laughed this hard. Maybe never. The weight that had pressed on him for weeks, months—it lifted. Just for a while, he was nobody's son, nobody's weapon, nobody's disappointment.

He was just… Mark.

And you? You were everywhere. Teasing him with that smirk, knocking back drinks like they were water, shouting out lyrics into the mic beside him with fire in your throat. He didn't know when it started—this pull toward you—but it felt like gravity now.

You leaned into him, chest nearly brushing his as your laugh turned into a shout when the chorus hit, your voices tangled together in that dumb love song. His heart was pounding, alcohol surging through him, his skin was buzzing.

He took another drink—something bitter and burning—and then he looked up.

And there you were.

Suddenly straddling his lap, body close, breath warm, eyes half-lidded but sharp. His hands landed on your waist instinctively, like it was natural, like this had always been building up to this moment.

Then your lips were on his.

And everything else faded.

The music. The crowd. Even the ache he'd been carrying deep inside—it all disappeared as you kissed him like you meant it. Not sloppy or drunk. Intentional. Confident. And Mark? He didn't even hesitate. He kissed you back like his life depended on it, fingers tightening on your waist, mouth parting under yours, breath catching somewhere between surprise and need.

He didn't know what this meant.

But he didn't care. Not tonight.

Tonight, he was yours.

You pulled away with that same cocky smirk curving your lips, your pierced tongue flicking out, a thin strand of spit still connecting you both for a heartbeat before it broke. Your eyes glittered under the club's dim, pulsing lights, and Mark felt like he was falling into something he wasn't sure he wanted to escape from.

From somewhere in the chaos, one of your bandmates let out a loud, slurred cheer.

"Yooo! Let's gooo!"

Another one threw a crumpled napkin in your direction.

"Tongue action! We saw that, man!"

Laughter erupted all around.

Mark let out a breathy, flushed laugh, still a little dazed, still high on the kiss.

"That's gay, bro." he said through his chuckle, voice rough from drinking and from whatever the hell this feeling was.

You just grinned wider, sitting comfortably on his lap like you belonged there.

"Yeah? And? you said, tilting your head, cocky and so damn cool with a cigarette lazily held between your fingers. "You complaining?"

Mark met your eyes, lips still curled into something between a smile and disbelief. He looked away for a second, heat rising to his ears.

"...No" he mumbled, biting the inside of his cheek. "Didn't say that."

You let out a low laugh, taking a slow, casual puff from your cigarette, the tip glowing red before you exhaled a stream of smoke right past Mark's flushed face. Then you leaned in again, stealing another heated kiss from his lips—tasting of alcohol, ash, and chaos. The music blared on, people kept dancing and yelling in a haze of neon lights and smoke, but Mark… he was just there. With you sitting on his lap, drunk, kissed breathless, and falling.

It was electric. It was dangerous. It was fun.

But like all things that burned too hot—it had to end.

Eventually, people started trickling out. A few were dragged off by lovers or friends. Others staggered into the night, still singing off-key lyrics or laughing like idiots. Someone shouted their love for everyone. Someone puked behind the bar. The night was winding down, but Mark looked like he didn't want it to.

He leaned against you, heavy and out of it, eyes barely staying open.

"…I don't wanna go home." he muttered.

You didn't even need to ask. You just nodded once and slipped your arm around his waist, hoisting him up and getting both of you back through the city night like it was nothing.

Your place was dark, barely lit by the orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds. You dropped him on your couch with a grunt—he landed with a soft, drunken laugh, sprawling out like he belonged there.

You peeled off your layers lazily, kicking off your boots and stripping down until you were just in your black boxers, the cold beer hissing as you popped it open. You sat on the edge of the couch beside him, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, head leaned back as you exhaled into the silence.

Mark turned his head slightly to look at you—dazed, maybe half-awake, with his pupils blown wide.

"You did great out there, buddy." you said, voice low and a little hoarse from all the shouting, singing, and smoke. There was a lazy smile tugging at your lips as you took another swig of your beer, glancing over at him from where you sat, the glow from your cigarette tip briefly lighting your face in the dim room.

Mark shifted on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him as he blinked slowly, looking up at you like he couldn't decide if this was real or a really vivid dream. His mohawk was a little messy now, his cheeks flushed, eyes still glazed.

You raised your brows. "Need anything? Water? Beer?"

He blinked again, then mumbled, "You."

The moment stretched.

Your cigarette paused mid-air.

Then you let out a small chuckle, tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek, amused and maybe just a little caught off guard. "Damn," you muttered, taking another drink. "Were my kisses really that good?"

Mark groaned and dragged a hand over his face. "Don't—don't make fun of me."

"I'm not." You leaned back, smoke curling out from between your lips. "It's kinda cute."

He groaned again, face buried in a throw pillow now.

You grinned, biting back a laugh. "Beer it is, then."

You disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, and returned with another cold can of beer in your hand. Mark was where you left him—half-slouched, flushed, eyes tracking your every move like a predator trying not to pounce too soon.

You plopped down next to him, handed the can over with that lazy smirk of yours. "Here. Might sober you up a little."

But instead of taking it, his fingers curled around your wrist. Firm and steady.

You blinked, confused for a split second—then he yanked you closer, crashing his lips against yours.

Your eyes widened briefly, your heart skipped, but your body responded before your brain could catch up. You kissed him back with equal heat, until the taste of beer and smoke and something raw took over your mouth.

Then you gasped.

Because the next thing you knew, he pushed you down against the couch, the beer can slipping from your grasp and thudding to the floor with a dull clink!

Mark was on top of you, hovering and pressing you down, with his hands gripping your wrists and holding you there like he was afraid you'd vanish. The weight of him. The heat. The surprising strength in the way he pinned you down—it made your breath hitch.

His kiss grew hungrier. Deeper. His mohawk brushed against your face when he tilted his head. One of his knees pushed between your thighs. His body told you everything his mouth hadn't yet.

And for once… you weren't the one in control.

"You're stronger than you look." you breathed between kisses.

He smirked, lips brushing against your jaw. "You're hotter than you act."

Mark's lips then attack your neck, kissing, nipping, sucking—each one more desperate than the last. You felt his breath against your skin, warm and uneven, and then the sharp pull of his mouth leaving marks where no one else had dared before.

Your fingers gripped the couch cushions, pulse racing. The pressure of his body on yours, the tension in his movements—it was all hitting you at once.

Each nip and suck sends electric jolts straight to your core, your body arching into his touch instinctively. One hand released your wrist to grip the waistband of your boxers, yanking them downwards with a rough tug. The cool air hit your newly exposed flesh, your hardened cock springing free and slapping against your stomach.

"Fuck, you're so hot." Mark murmured and pulls away just enough to tug his own pants and briefs down, freeing his impressive cock. It's larger than you expected, thick and hard, probably around 7.5 to 8 inches long. The head is flushed deep, angry red, leaking pre-cum that he uses to slick the way as he begins to stroke your cocks together, the hot, velvety flesh sliding against your own in a way that makes your toes curl.

He leans in to growl in your ear, his breath hot against your skin as his hand continues to wrap around both of you, stroking and grinding the heat between you two.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, voice low and ragged. "Look at us… you're just as hard for me as I am for you."

A shaky breath leaves him, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Shit—you're driving me crazy."

Mark's stroking grew faster, more insistent, his grip tightening around both your throbbing cocks as he chased his own release. The obscene sound of skin moving against skin filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths and desperate moans. His eyes burned with desire, remained locked onto where our cocks were slick and sticky with pre-cum, watching the show with a hungry, almost feral intensity.

Suddenly, your body tensed, back arching off the couch as a shockwave of pleasure ripped through you. You let out a soft gasp as both of your cocks pulsed and throbbed, painting both of our stomachs with streaks of sticky white cum.

Both of you were breathing hard, chests rising and falling as the haze of release clung to your skin. Your body was slack against the couch, a satisfied grin tugging at your lips as you looked down at the mess painting your stomach. You giggled—soft, breathless, a little fucked-out.

Your fingers trailed through the sticky white on your skin, lazy and dazed, until Mark's hand caught yours. He smirked, leaning over your disheveled form, and without a word, he brought your fingers to his mouth—his tongue warm and slick as he slowly licked them clean.

You stared at him with wide eyes, lips parting—until you let out another small, stunned laugh.

"That's so gay, bro."

Mark laughed low, the sound rolling deep from his chest as he leaned in closer, his hand already trailing down your thigh.

"I think it's hot as fuck," he muttered, voice husky and eyes dark.

Before you could respond, he pushed your legs apart with a firm grip, eyes locked on you like you were something he was starving for.

You watch with your heart pounding, as Mark brings his hand to his mouth. He makes a show of spitting into his palm, working the saliva between his fingers until they glisten obscenely in the low light. Your own mouth goes dry at the sight, anticipation coiling tight in your gut.

Without preamble, Mark reaches down and circles your entrance with a slick finger, teasing the sensitive flesh until it's dripping with his spit. Then, slowly, he pushes inside, his finger sinking into your tight heat and making your back arch off the couch.

"Oh fuck..." you gasp, the stretch unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Mark's finger pumps in and out, curling and scissoring to open you up, to prepare you for what's to come.

"Relax for me, baby… Gonna ruin you just right." Mark murmured, voice thick and dark with desire. He works a second finger in alongside the first, then a third, stretching you wider, pushing you open until you're panting and writhing beneath him.

Mark captured your lips again, the kiss rough and messy, tongues tangling like neither of you could get enough. When he finally pulled away, a strand of spit still connected you both. His fingers slipped from your hole, leaving you empty and aching for more, and his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart, holding you wide open beneath him.

"Tell me what you want." he said, voice low and raspy, his dark eyes roaming hungrily over your flushed body. "I wanna hear you say it."

You bit your lip, your breath shaky as your eyes met his — half-lidded, burning with lust, a cocky smirk curling at the corner of your mouth.

"Shut up and fuck me, Mark." you whispered, your voice hoarse with need. "I'm done waiting."

He smiled and grips your hips tighter, fingers sinking into the flesh of your ass, as he lines himself up. The swollen head of his cock prods against your slick hole.

Then, with a single, powerful thrust, Mark buries himself inside you, his thick length splitting you open and stretching you wider than you've ever been before. You cry out, back arching off the couch as you're suddenly, brutally filled. Mark doesn't give you any time to adjust, setting a hard, fast pace as he starts to fuck into you with deep, claiming thrusts.

"Shit—you're tight!" Mark grunts, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful drive forward. "Gonna ruin this fucking ass. Gonna make it mine."

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails digging into the firm skin and muscle as you try to anchor yourself against the relentless force of his thrusts. The room is filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin and your desperate, wanton moans as Mark takes you with a fervor that steals your breath.

"Fuck, yes! Just like that," you cry out, your voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. "Harder, Mark! Fuck me harder!"

Mark snarls in response, gripping your hips even tighter as he complies with your demand. His thrusts become more forceful, more demanding, the tip of his cock kissing your prostate dead-on with every plunge forward. The pleasure is intense, bordering on pain, and you can feel your own cock throbbing and leaking against your belly, aching for his touch.

The brutal pace of Mark's thrusts rocks your entire body, each powerful drive forward making the couch creak and shake beneath you. Your stomach bulges slightly with every impact, his heavy cock pushing into your core and stirring up the contents of your belly. It's a lewd, filthy sight and you can't look away, intoxicated by the raw, animalistic way he's claiming you.

"Oh fuck, oh god!"

You threw your head back in ecstasy as Mark pounds into you. The pleasure is overwhelming, drowning out any semblance of coherent thought. Your hands scrabble at his back, trying to find purchase, to ground yourself against the tidal wave of sensation crashing over you.

You can feel every ridge, every vein of his thick cock dragging along your sensitive walls as he splits you open. It's too much, too intense, and you know you won't last much longer.

"Aah! Gonna... fuck, I can't... I'm gonna... Aah!" you stammered, your voice high and thin with impending release. Your cock throbs urgently against your belly, the head was angry red and leaking steadily.

Mark feels it too, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Fuck, me too!" he snarls, his grip on your hips tightening to the point of bruising. "Gonna fucking flood this ass. Pump you so full of my cum, you'll be fucking dripping for days."

His words push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You moaned loudly, your back arching as your cock pulses and jerks, painting your chest and belly with streaks of pearly white. Your ass clenches down around Mark's cock, gripping him like a velvet vice as you ride out the intense pleasure.

Mark lets out a guttural roar, slamming into you one last time as his own release takes him, flooding your insides with his hot, thick cum. You can feel each, heavy spurt of his semen painting your inner walls, marking you, claiming you as his. It's an intense, overwhelming sensation that makes your spent cock twitch weakly against your belly.

"Fuuuuck!" Mark groans, his hips giving a few more shallow thrusts as he works himself through the aftershocks of his release. "So fucking good, baby... Took my cock so well."

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions of the couch. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his ragged breaths mingling with your own as you both struggle to catch your breath. Mark's mohawk is damp with sweat, a few strands plastered to his forehead as he pants softly against your neck.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both bask in the afterglow. Your body feels deliciously sore, aching in the best possible way, a testament to the thorough fucking you just received. Mark's softening cock is still nestled inside you, plugging you up, making you feel full and claimed.

"Mmmm... that was... intense." you murmured, nuzzling into the crook of Mark's neck. You can taste the salt on his skin, smell the musky scent of sex that clings to him.

Mark chuckles, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Gotta be the best sex I ever had." He said, tilting his head to capture your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It's different from the hungry, dominating kisses before - this one is softer, almost tender. "You're fucking incredible..." he murmurs against your mouth.

He rolls his hips slightly, making you both groan at the sensation. "And we're not even close to done." he smirked darkly, a wicked glint in his eye. "I'm still horny, [Y/N]... Still so fucking hard for you. I need more—need to fuck you again."

You shiver at the implication, already feeling your spent cock twitch with renewed interest. You know you should be exhausted, but the thought of more, of endless rounds of this intense, filthy pleasure, makes your heart race with anticipation

"Can't wait…" you say, voice low and breathless, lips quirking into a smirk. "Y'know? I think I need someone to break the bed with me tonight."

You pause, just for a second, softer now. "Stay with me?"

Mark didn't answer right away. Instead, he leans in, his eyes dark with heat, mouth curling into a slow, knowing smirk. Then he crashes his lips against yours again—hungry, claiming, and promising.

And just like that, the night starts all over again.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Everything changed after that night.

You and Mark weren't just two guys orbiting the same messed-up world anymore. Something shifted. Something hot and reckless, magnetic and impossible to ignore.

Mark couldn't stay away from you after that. You'd catch him watching you across the hallway, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, full of unspoken need. He started skipping classes more, just to be near you. Smoking with you behind the school. Slipping into detention even when he didn't have to, just to sit in the same room as you, leg pressed against yours under the desk like it was some secret he wanted someone to discover.

He even showed up at your band's practice, sprawled on the old couch in your little hideout like he belonged there. Head tilted back, mouthing along to the lyrics while his eyes stayed glued to your fingers that were moving across your guitar. Sometimes after those sessions, you'd barely make it to your place before he was on you—pushing you down onto some mattress, kissing you like he was starving, tearing off clothes with shaking, desperate hands.

Sometimes, he didn't wait at all.

The boys' bathroom, after the third period—he'd lock the door and shove you up against the cold tiles, hands already down your pants. Or behind the gym, underneath the afternoon sun, with your back against the bricks, with his breath hot against your skin while he fucked you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

It wasn't just sex.

It was desperation.

It was an escape.

It was an addiction neither of you wanted to shake.

And Eve?

You never talked about her. You didn't have to.

She was still there—still his girlfriend, still part of the picture—but when you were around, she barely existed. Mark would ignore her texts while he was with you, glance past her in the halls like she was a stranger.

She didn't exist in those stolen moments when you were on your knees for him, lips wrapped around his cock while he groaned your name and tugged your hair like he'd lose his mind if he let go. She didn't exist when he whispered filth into your ear while you were bent over the school's bathroom sink, struggling to stay quiet. She didn't exist in the heat between your bodies when he panted against your neck, saying how tight, and how perfect you were.

And the scariest part?

You loved it.

Mark had changed. And people noticed.

He was sharper now. Wilder. That brooding, broken shell he once carried cracked wide open, revealing someone louder, cockier, violent—someone who didn't take shit from anyone. If someone even looked at you too long, Mark was already in their faces, eyes sharp and voice dripping venom—ready to throw punches. Like he was ready to burn everything down for you.

And then there were the piercings.

The ones you'd draw in your sketchbook couple of months ago.

And fuck—he looked even hotter than you imagined.

He wore it for you.

He was yours.

And in his own twisted, violent way…

you were his too.

With you, he wasn't numb. He was alive. You brought something out in him no one else could. He smiled more. Laughed harder. Got more reckless, more dangerous, but honest. He stopped hiding. He'd kiss you in the stairwell like he didn't care about hiding anymore. He'd shove a guy for looking at you wrong in the cafeteria. He'd lock eyes with you in a crowd like it didn't matter who was watching—because you were the only thing that mattered.

Mark never said much, not out loud. He didn't talk about how he felt or what any of this meant. He didn't put names to things, didn't label you, didn't explain the way his eyes always found you in a room like you were gravity and he was just trying not to fall apart.

But the way he looked at you?

It said everything.

It was in the heat behind his stare, the way his jaw would clench when someone stood too close to you, the way his hand always found yours when no one was watching. You could feel it in the way he kissed you—rough, deep, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin and stay there. Like he didn't know how to be gentle with something he wanted this much.

You had him. Fully, completely, undeniably.

And he had you, just as wrecked.

He was still angry. Still dragging chains from the past he never talked about. Still haunted by things you could only guess at when you caught glimpses of that hollow look in his eyes after sex, like he'd been somewhere else for a second and had to claw his way back.

But with you, something changed.

He let his guard down, if only in stolen moments. You saw the softness beneath the sharp edges—the boy who wanted to be touched, wanted to be seen, but didn’t know how to ask for it.

With you, he wasn't just surviving.

He was living.

And yeah, maybe the whole thing was messy. Maybe it was twisted and wrong and so far past the line of what should've been. But you didn't care.

Because in the end, no matter how fucked up it all was…

you wouldn't trade him for anything.

Not the calm, clean version of love people wrote songs about.

Not the easy kind of boy who smiled politely and stayed in the lines.

You wanted him.

Just like this.

Wild. Possessive. A little broken.

And entirely yours.

"I'm gonna kill you, Mark." you wheezed, body aching as you lay tangled in your sheets—sweaty, sore, absolutely wrecked. "I told you me and the gang were rioting tonight."

You turned your head, glaring at him with zero energy behind it. "Now I can't even stand without my knees shaking, dumbass."

Mark was laid out next to you, with a cocky grin on his lips, eyes still heavy-lidded from the high of it all. He had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, bruises blooming along his neck, piercings glinting in the low light. He looked like sin personified—sweaty, smug, and so damn pleased with himself.

He let out a short laugh, deep and careless, before blowing smoke toward the ceiling like he didn't just rearrange your guts.

"That's on you for moaning like that." he said, voice rough and dripping arrogance. "You think I was gonna stop when you kept saying my name like a damn prayer?"

“You're an asshole." you muttered, dragging a pillow over your face.

He just grinned wider, sitting up slightly to watch you suffer with a predator's calm. "You love it."

You peeked out from the pillow, watching as he tilted his head back and ran a hand through his mohawk, those wild curls still clinging to his forehead. His body was littered with old scars and fresh scratches—your scratches. He looked like a goddamn menace, and he knew it.

"Gotta admit." he said, eyes drifting over your naked, sore body like he hadn't already wrecked you twice, "You limping into that riot later? Kinda hot."

Mark chuckled, leaning in to press a lazy kiss to your jaw, then tracing the angry red mark he’d left on your neck with far too much pride. "You know…" he drawled, lips brushing against your skin, "If you're going out... maybe I should tag along."

You turned to squint at him. "For what? To start more chaos?"

His grin sharpened. "No, babe. I was thinking I could fuck you behind a dumpster while Molotovs fly in the background."

You blinked. "You're kidding."

He didn't even hesitate. "I'm not. That'd be so hot. Firelight on your face, sirens in the distance, you begging for me to go harder while the city burns a little."

"God, you're deranged."

"And yet," he smirked, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, "you're still gonna let me come."

You snorted, tossing a pillow at his chest. "You're freaky as hell, man."

He caught it with ease, tossing it aside before climbing over you again, voice low and rough by your ear. "Say the word, and I'll make sure you really can't walk straight into that riot."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

author's note: listening to Hamilton while writing this is insane :0

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