adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

a quick line art for pride

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

Hate Me

Warning: kidnapping, murdered, yandere, sexual harassment

Note: Border credit to @cafekitsune go check them out)

Chrollo was a hard man to crack.

He didn’t flinch when you screamed at him. He didn’t recoil when you clawed and kicked and spat like a cornered animal. He didn’t grow irritated when you hurled insults, nor did he falter when you hurled yourself at him in a blind rage. He simply watched you, head tilted in amusement or mild curiosity, like a scholar observing a peculiar insect. Your pain never reached him. Your hatred didn’t sting. Remorse wasn’t something he could even pretend to mimic.

And yet, none of that mattered.

Because you despised him.

You woke up every morning with one mission stitched into your bones — to make his life as unbearable, as twisted and agonizing, as he had made yours. Usually, you failed. He never cracked, never slipped. But that only fed the fire. The more futile your attempts, the more that hatred festered, growing sharper, darker, heavier.

Screaming didn’t work. Crying didn’t sway him. He watched, unimpressed. Kicking only led to being pinned down, his iron grip pressing your limbs into the mattress while his cold breath ghosted across your face. His expression never shifted — always calm, always detached — but his strength? That was undeniable. And terrifying.

So you started thinking differently. Strategically.

You had to find something — anything — that might chip at whatever rotted thing pulsed in that small, black, wrinkled heart of his.

You sat on Chrollo’s bed. Not by choice. Never by choice. The chain fixed to your ankle — polished, thick, and deceptively delicate-looking — gleamed under the soft, amber light of the room. A recent addition. A punishment for your latest escape attempt. He had chuckled when he installed it, fingers brushing your ankle like he was affixing jewelry. “Be grateful,” he had said with that infuriatingly calm smile. “I considered a collar.”

Be grateful. For your kidnapper’s mercy.

You seethed.

Now he sat beside you, too close, his thigh pressed against yours, flipping through a new book — stolen, no doubt. It was always a new book. Chrollo read fast, absurdly fast, sometimes devouring ten volumes a day. And you hated those reading sessions more than anything else. He’d light a few candles — romantic ones, lavender-scented or vanilla, as if the atmosphere made this more palatable — and then wrap an arm around you. Not with affection. With ownership. His chin would rest on your shoulder, heavy, his breath cool and steady by your neck.

And gods, his grip.

He’d hold you in place, tightly, impossibly tight, like he was trying to press you into his skin. No space. No air. No room to shift or breathe. You weren’t a partner. You weren’t even a person. You were a prop. A pet. A pretty doll stitched with resentment.

Even now, sitting in silence, you could feel the phantom weight of his hand on your side, fingers cold and skeletal. You shifted uncomfortably, and the chain gave a faint clink. His cologne — expensive and over-applied — hung in the air, clogging your throat like poison. You gagged reflexively. It clung to your skin, to the bedsheets, to the inside of your lungs.

“Is something wrong, dear?” His voice slid past your ear like a silk ribbon dipped in venom. Polished. Controlled. Grating.

You didn’t respond at first. Just shifted again, trying to wedge a little space between your thigh and his. It didn’t help.

Where to even begin with your list of complaints?

You had too many. A lifetime’s worth. But one was enough.

You turned to him, your eyes hard. “Yeah. For one — you kidnapped me.”

His fingers flicked the page as if you hadn’t spoken at all. “I suppose that would linger on your mind,” he replied airily, like a parent humoring a tantrum from a tired child.

Your jaw tightened.

“And you murdered my family!” The words ripped from your throat, raw and hoarse. You hated how they wavered at the edges. Hated that your voice cracked like something breaking. Your chest rose and fell with the sudden weight of memory.

The day flashed before your eyes — too vivid, too detailed to forget. The way the sun had bathed your street in gold, blinding and beautiful. Birds chirping. Wind chimes tinkling. A perfect day, if you didn’t know what was coming. He had walked in like he belonged, smiling, calm. A wolf in neatly pressed clothes.

Your family had welcomed him. Warmly. Trustingly.

You could still hear their laughter. You could still see him talking — comfortably, easily — like he’d known you all forever. Like you were already his. And when the violence came, when the blood ran down your kitchen tiles, he had held you through it. As if to comfort you. As if you weren’t already screaming.

And gods, you had screamed.

That’s what you remembered most. Not the blood. Not the mangled body

The screaming from your insisted denail.

The way your voice broke as you begged, pleaded, for someone—anyone—to see what was really happening. You weren’t dating him. You weren’t in love. You weren’t happy. But the moment you opened your mouth to object, Chrollo would glance your way—calm, measured, cold—and your voice would catch in your throat. You froze. Every time. Like a switch was flipped inside you, locking your muscles, draining the breath from your lungs.

And he’d lie. So smoothly. So easily.

He told them you were just being shy. Embarrassed. That your little outburst was a lovers’ quarrel. Your mother had blinked, unsure, her fingers twitching with the discomfort of a truth she couldn’t quite name. Sweet, trusting woman. Always too kind. Always too eager to believe the best in people. “I’ll go make some tea,” she’d said, voice trembling at the edges.

But you saw it.

You saw how she slipped her hand into her pocket and walked to the kitchen with forced ease.

You saw her pull out her phone, already dialing.

And Chrollo? He saw it too.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak. He simply pulled out that leather-bound book of his—like it was any other day—and in a blink, your mother dropped like a marionette with its strings cut. Her phone shattered on the floor beside her. There was no ceremony. No flourish.

Just silence.

And then?

Screams.

You’d give anything to forget the sound of your father’s voice breaking. The sickening crunch of bones. The metallic scent of blood flooding the room like perfume. Your sibling’s wails—desperate, wet, real. The way limbs bent the wrong way, torn apart like paper dolls in the hands of something cruel and godless.

It plays in your head every night. You don’t sleep anymore. You remember instead.

“I wouldn’t have,” Chrollo murmured now, voice low and tender, closing his book with a soft thud that felt far too gentle for the weight of what he’d said. He turned to you with those ink-black eyes, giving you his full, undivided attention, as though the world itself had stilled to make space for you. His lashes lowered, a graceful curtain fluttering shut. “If you had just let me be yours.”

Your throat tightened.

“Let you be mine?” The words fell out slowly, brittle on your tongue. They cracked like dry leaves underfoot. “Let you be mine?”

The rage hit you in a wave.

“LET YOU BE MINE?!”

The scream clawed its way from your chest, raw and ragged, trembling with disbelief. The tears were hot before you even noticed them, streaking down your cheeks as your voice broke again and again.

“You kidnapped me! You murdered my family! You stole everything from me—everything good—and You want to be mine?!”

Your sobs came in sharp, unsteady gasps. The pain was volcanic—simmering under your skin, erupting through every word. Your chest felt like it might crack open from the force of it, the heat of your fury.

And Chrollo? He just watched.

Unblinking. Silent. As though your outburst were a storm he expected. Something weathered. Understood.

You hated that.

You hated the way he made you feel unimportant in your own pain.

You hated how composed he always was.

You hated him.

God, you wanted him to hate you back—just so you'd know he could feel something.

"You’ll never be mine," you hissed, your voice trembling with grief and fury. "You know why?"

His brow rose, curious. As if you were a specimen to be studied rather then a Human.

You took a breath. Let the air burn in your lungs. Let the words settle like venom on your tongue.

And then, you said it—perfectly.

"Because I hate you. With every fiber of my being."

There was no scream this time. No fire. Just cold, unwavering resolve. Your words were crisp. Polished. Laced with clarity. Every syllable hit with the precision of a blade. It felt good. It felt like yours.

And for a second—just one—you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes.

But then he sighed.

He placed the book down on the table with deliberate grace, aligning the corners like nothing had happened. No tension. No heat. Just routine.

And then he moved.

He reached for you—slowly, almost tenderly—and cupped your face in his hands. His fingers ghosted over your skin, cool and light, tracing the outline of your jaw with an intimacy that made your stomach churn.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And for a moment… you almost believed him.

That made it worse.

Your gut twisted. The back of your throat clenched, nausea rising like bile. You wanted to scream, to spit in his face, to push him away—but before you could speak, something changed.

Something shifted.

You felt it in the air before you saw it—a shadow, deep and violent, stretching behind his eyes. A hunger. A darkness. His smile didn’t change. His tone remained sweet. But something else took hold of the room. It sank its claws into you, dragging goosebumps across your arms.

You stared up at him, and now his grip was tightening—subtle at first. Then brutal.

His nails dug into your cheeks, slicing through skin with slow pressure. Warm blood began to trail down your jaw.

You gasped, the pain sharpening your senses. His fingers squeezed until you could barely breathe.

“But I’m not above cutting that tongue of yours,” he said softly, his voice dripping with saccharine malice, “if you continue to use it like that.”

And then he kissed you.

His mouth pressed against yours—calm, cold, possessive—while your blood still ran down between his fingers.

You couldn’t scream.

Not anymore.

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

Dragon Reo Mikage x reader Nagi Seishiro

Tw: Implied noncon, possessive behavior

Note: Border credit to @cafekitsune go check them out)

From what little you understood, dragon mating was an arduous, near-impossible affair. Their kind was rare—nearly extinct, some whispered—and the idea of courtship among dragons was treated with the same reverence and fear as summoning a god. Dragons only mated once in their long lives, choosing with care, instinct, and a depth of passion that could sear the world.

It was hard enough to find a dragon, harder still to impress one. They accepted only the finest treasures—objects of breathtaking beauty or unimaginable value, offered by the strongest warriors, wealthiest monarchs, or most venerated scholars. The rest, no matter how earnestly they tried, were simply not enough.

So when Prince Reo Mikage, heir to one of the grandest kingdoms in the realm, announced that he had found his mate, the world held its breath. Speculation buzzed like wildfire. What sort of refined, elusive dragon had the prince won over? Surely it must be a creature of legendary grace—perhaps a silver-scaled highborn dragoness or a war-forged beast cloaked in golden flame.

But no one was prepared for the truth.

His mate was Nagi Seishiro. A dragon, yes—but a sleepy, perpetually uninterested one, prone to dozing off mid-conversation and curling up in odd places for hours on end. And most shockingly of all—he was male.

A male dragon. One who could not bear children, who showed no particular inclination for royal etiquette, and whose expression rarely wavered from bored disinterest unless Reo was in the room.

It scandalized the court.

There were gasps at court meetings, whispers in the streets, murmured concerns behind closed doors about heirs and bloodlines and tradition. But none of that mattered to Reo. He made the announcement without hesitation, with the kind of smile that dared anyone to challenge him. “He’s mine,” he’d said simply, his violet eyes gleaming, “and I don’t need anyone’s approval.”

It might have been shocking to everyone else.

But not to you.

You had seen the way they looked at each other long before it became public. As Prince Reo’s personal maid, you’d been at his side through countless meetings, journeys, and private moments—and frankly, you were surprised the news hadn’t come out sooner.

You’d seen the way Reo’s tail would start thumping the moment Nagi entered the room, how he’d light up like a child spotting their favorite toy. He would fling himself at Nagi with no hesitation, draping himself over the taller dragon’s shoulders while rambling on excitedly about whatever idea had just struck him. You’d be standing just behind him, holding his coat or organizing scrolls, completely ignored as the two vanished into their own little world.

You’d watched them tussle in the woods behind the palace—excuses for "sparring" turning into lazy wrestling matches that ended with both of them tangled in the grass, panting and flushed. You’d have to cough loudly from your perch nearby to remind them you were still watching.

You noticed the way Nagi would press his face against Reo’s neck, lazily rubbing his scent across him—claiming him in the subtle, wordless way dragons did. You couldn’t smell it, of course, being human, but the intent was clear. You’d read enough books to know.

You’d overheard Reo’s parents pleading with him to marry properly, to consider a union that would produce an heir. He always rolled his eyes in response. But then he’d catch you watching, his gaze softening as Nagi wandered past, dragging a blanket behind him like a sleepy ghost.

There was the time Reo asked for an extra blanket to be brought to his room on a night that wasn’t particularly cold. You didn’t ask questions—you never had to. The next morning, you found Nagi curled up at the foot of Reo’s bed, tail coiled tightly around him, while Reo ran his fingers gently through his hair, whispering things like “You’re my greatest treasure,” and “Look how pretty you are.”

No, you weren’t surprised at all.

What did surprise you came a week after their official courting ceremony.

It was during what should have been Nagi’s heat—something most dragons kept intensely private, hidden from the public eye. You had been called to their chamber to deliver tea and honey. You knocked, as always, but there was no answer.

A long silence.

You sighed, balanced the tray on your hip, and slowly opened the heavy door.

The sound of panting hit you first. Then a low moan. Your heart stuttered.

“Ah... Y/N—” came a strained voice from within.

You froze.

The tray slipped slightly in your hands.

Then, Reo’s voice—rich and teasing, eyes glowing with a dangerous light: “Come in.”

Before you could protest or step back, a forceful hand yanked you in. Nagi let out a pleased whine, curling his long limbs around you as if you were a blanket, his nose burying into your cheek. “Mmm... pretty,” he murmured, half-conscious. “Mate.”

“M-mate?!” you squeaked.

Reo laughed, eyes sharp as blades and just as bright. “Come om,” he said, dragging you toward the bed where Nagi was sprawled out. 

You blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. You—a human—being claimed by two dragons?

Looking back, you really shouldn’t have been surprised.

After all, dragons rarely gave gifts to anyone, not even friends. And yet Reo had flooded you with them. Sparkling gowns, books from faraway lands, tea imported from across the sea—all just for you. He always acted like it was nothing, as if he didn’t want you to read too much into it.

Dragons were territorial, especially with their mates. They hated sharing space. And yet Nagi would find a way to press himself against your side whenever you entered the room, groaning softly until you finally gave in and shared your body heat. You’d always assumed it was because of your human warmth.

Now you weren’t so sure.

You hadn’t had a real friend in years. After meeting Reo and Nagi, your world had grown smaller, tighter. No more late-night strolls or casual chats with townsfolk. Even your conversations with other staff had dwindled. You had attributed it to your long working hours—but in truth, you had been isolated. Surrounded only by them.

Possessed by them.

Loved by them.

Even if neither had said the words outright, their actions spoke volumes.

There were nights Nagi would slink into your room without knocking, throw himself across your bed and fall asleep with his tail wrapped around your leg. There were days Reo would drag you into the royal bath just to chat with you while you soaked, claiming he "couldn’t concentrate without your voice.”

You were always within arm’s reach. Always needed.

And now, it seemed, you were officially theirs.

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

My attempts at grayscale

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

Endure (Yandere Maskless Mark x William)

Summary: Mark loved William; he needed him to breathe to live, and William just needed to survive.

Warning: Rape/Noncon, Dubcon, Kidnapping, sexual assault, toxic relationship, physical abuse, Stockholm syndrome, Suicidal thoughts, Pet play, not being treated like a human ,just all together unpleasant time.

Word count: 10k

(Note: Border credit to @cafekitsune go check them out)

Mark was the love of Will’s life. His husband. His anchor. His everything.

Will remembered the night they danced under a twilight sky, spinning barefoot through the fading grass of a picnic. A phone crooned their favorite song, the one they always came back to no matter how many years passed. They twirled, tangled, and collapsed into laughter and kisses under the first stars of evening.

He remembered the nights he woke screaming, chest heaving, lungs trying to scream out all the thoughts that lived inside him. And how Mark—sweet, steady Mark—would pull him close, whispering soothing words against his ear, petting the back of his head with slow, rhythmic strokes. “Shhh, I’ve got you,” he’d say, over and over, rocking Will like a lullaby. He never let go until the shaking stopped.

He remembered the failed attempt at baking Mark’s favorite cake. Burned edges, flour on the floor, frosting on the ceiling. They’d laughed until their stomachs hurt. He would’ve given anything to go back to that moment.

So why was he running?

Will’s bare feet slammed against shattered cobblestone, kicking up dust and rubble, blood mixing with dirt where the jagged edges of ruin had torn his skin. The world had already ended—cities flattened, societies vanished in the wake of the Viltrumite’s arrival—but none of that scared him.

Only Mark did.

He’d live off garbage. He’d face whatever horrors were left in the ashes of humanity. As long as Mark wasn’t there.

A shadow flew past him, fast. Will dropped behind a collapsed pillar, hissing as a rusted beam sliced his calf. He clenched his teeth to hold in a scream. Blood dripped quietly. Somewhere in the dust, a voice called out.

“Will?”

It was Mark. Distant but close. That voice—hoarse, desperate, still lined with affection, but warped by something else. Paranoia. Fury.

“Will, where are you?” The voice cracked. “Will! Come here, boy.”

His voice was right on the other side of the rubble now. Will’s lungs burned. He clamped a hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. Just hold on. Don’t breathe.

But the longer he waited, the more the dark closed in. Spots danced in front of his eyes. His chest screamed for air. His muscles trembled.

Then—he broke.

A sharp, gasping inhale tore from his lungs. The fresh air was like knives in his throat, and the quiet after was worse than any scream. It was the silence that scared him.

It stayed silent for too long.

Will’s body tensed. He forced his breathing to slow, tried to think of where to run next, how to climb over the wreckage, how to—

A sound.

Footsteps.

Behind him.

Dread punched through him like a bullet. He turned slowly, already knowing what he'd see.

Mark stood over him.

His face was serene. His hands? Coated in blood—thick, red, still-wet blood. It clung to his shirt, dripped from his fingers. In one hand, he held something sharp. In the other, he reached for Will.

“There you are,” Mark breathed, relief flooding his tone. “God, I was so scared.”

He grabbed Will by the collar. Will whimpered, unable to pull away.

“What on earth are you doing all the way out here, hm?” Mark asked gently, his voice falsely sweet.

“I—I just—” Will stammered, trying to make sense, to buy time.

Mark tilted his head, almost lovingly. “Doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

And then he started dragging Will back the way he came.

“No—Mark, no. Please—no!” Will kicked out, clawing at the ground.

Mark laughed. “Why are you acting like I’m the villain here?” he said, brushing Will’s hair from his forehead. “I’m not the bad boy, Will. You are”

He scratched behind Will’s ear like he used to do when they cuddled in bed. As if everything was normal. As if they hadn’t changed.

Will began shaking. “Please don’t—”

Mark leaned in, his eyes glazed with something too calm. “Let’s think of a punishment for you when we get home, okay?”

That word—home—hit Will like ice water. Cold horror settled in his stomach. He knew that tone. He’d heard it before. After the pier fell and humanity collapsed and everything changed.

Will's eyes darted, heart pounding. A piece of jagged steel glinted near his fingertips.

He remembered the last time Mark used that word like that

“You were always the perfect one,” Mark had told him then, holding him in place as Will cried. “I just wanted to keep you safe.”

He had smiled, even as he tightened the chains.

Will’s fingers closed around the piece of metal. Mark didn’t notice.

“Do you still love me?” Mark asked suddenly.

Will didn’t answer.

“Say it,” Mark urged, voice trembling.

Will looked up at him—really looked—and saw the boy he once loved.

And the monster he had become.

“I loved you,” Will whispered. “I did.”

Then he plunged the shard into Mark’s side.

Mark screamed.

Will ran.

Again.

——————————————————————————————————————————

“William.”

That voice.

It sliced through the night like a jagged blade, raw and brittle, warped by exhaustion and fear—but unmistakably his. Even beneath the rasp, the fractured breath, the desperate tremble… William’s heart stuttered.

He knew that voice.

He knew it.

His body reacted before thought could intervene. Muscles tensed. He surged forward out of instinct, a breathless lurch from the shadows of the ruined College—out of cover, out of safety—until Rick’s arm shot out like a steel cable and yanked him back into the cold hush of their hiding place.

“Don’t,” Rick hissed, his voice low and sharp, fingers vice-tight around William’s wrist. The bones beneath his skin felt close to shattering.

William faltered, half a protest clinging to his lips, but Rick exhaled harshly through flared nostrils, eyes locked on the flickering silhouette staggering through the fog.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Rick whispered, his voice barely more than breath. “You want to believe it’s him. But it could be a trap. He could be faking it.”

William clenched his jaw until it ached. Slowly, he nodded, tension grinding behind his teeth. His hand trembled as it raked through his hair, knuckles grazing his scalp as he ducked lower behind the shattered stone wall. Crumbling mortar bit into his forearm, jagged and cold, but he welcomed the sting—it helped keep him present, grounded.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice tight and full of self-loathing. “Yeah. You’re right.” The bitterness burned his tongue.

Then it came again, slicing through the mist like a sob:

“William?! William, where are you?!”

It cracked mid-sentence, pitched high and sharp with desperation. Ragged, human. Real.

The sound twisted something deep in William’s chest—like a hook buried in flesh, yanked tight. His heart leapt toward the voice before reason could chain it down again. There was no disguising that panic, the tremor of a man on the brink, unraveling thread by thread.

It sounded like Mark.

God help him—it sounded just like Mark.

He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

Then—crack.

BAM.

A deafening blast tore through the silence. Something nearby erupted—metal, maybe wood—splintered and flung apart. The ground vibrated beneath them.

William flinched so hard his vision went white. “Jesus Christ!” he gasped, barely registering his own voice before Rick pulled him close, arms tight, solid, grounding.

“Shhh, shhh—just noise. Just noise.” Rick’s voice was close to his ear, low and steady.

“He’s getting closer,” Rick murmured, his grip steady but urgent. “We have to move. He’ll find us if we stay.”

William nodded, but everything felt far away—his limbs heavy and boneless, floating in the haze of adrenaline. His skin burned where Rick touched him. The synthetic warmth of his body was too perfect, too still. It was like being held by something pretending to be human—a radiator molded into a man’s shape.

“I… okay,” William breathed. “My car’s close. Just past the fence.”

Rick met his eyes and gave a firm nod. “Then let’s move.”

Before he could stop himself, Rick leaned in and pressed a kiss to William’s temple—fleeting, frantic, a burst of borrowed warmth. Then he coaxed him forward, low to the ground, every motion deliberate and tense.

They crawled.

Glass crunched under their knees. Leaves slick with rot smeared across their palms. The earth was damp and cold, scattered with things better left unnamed. William’s hand plunged into something soft and wet—too warm. Too yielding. He jerked, bile rising.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t look.

He gagged once, hard, biting his tongue to keep from retching. His lungs burned.

Still, he kept going.

And then—there it was. Through the slats of the broken fence and the thinning mist:

The car.

Untouched. Pristine.

Exactly where he left it.

Like it had been waiting for them this whole time.

He had parked it farther from campus like he always did—he hated dealing with traffic. Amber had teased him for it, gently, playfully.

Amber.

He forced the name down like a swallow of broken glass. Don’t think about her now. Not now.

They reached the car.

Rick stood first, reaching for the handle—

But he didn’t open the door.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there. Rigid.

“Rick?” William whispered.

Rick’s head lolled.

And then—

Thud.

He collapsed. A boneless heap against the pavement. His body twitched once—just once—as a faint metallic whine fizzled from somewhere deep inside. Sparks hissed at his joints before silence swallowed the moment whole.

William’s scream tore through, mixing with the rest of the world plead for help.

He dropped to his knees, fingers scrambling over Rick’s shoulders, shaking him hard. “Rick?! No—no, no—wake up! Please, come on, please—”

Most people would have assumed he was dead. William couldn’t. He refused to. Rick was a cyborg—there was always a chance. There had to be a chance.

But Rick convulsed suddenly, violently—and the glow behind his eyes guttered like a dying candle—

It went out.

William’s hands moved instinctively, trying to cradle the body before it slipped entirely to the ground.

William reached out to stop the body from sliding fully to the ground—and found that he couldn’t move.

Something had him.

Arms locked around his chest, tight. Too tight. Like a vise. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even scream.

Something wet smeared against his cheek.

Warm.

Sticky.

The smell hit him a second later—metallic, thick, rotting.

Blood.

His stomach lurched, but the fear had calcified every muscle in his body. He couldn’t even tremble.

“There you are, William.” The voice crawled into his ear—low, intimate. And familiar. Horribly familiar.

He knew that voice.

It used to tell jokes in the morning. Now it sounded like it had been dragged through glass and grave dirt.

Hot breath ghosted over his skin. The grip around him didn’t loosen.

“You’ve got to stop running off like that.” He laughed—softly. Like it was all just a joke. Like none of this mattered.

William whimpered.

“Don’t worry,” Mark said, his voice low and steady and cracked like old porcelain. “This time… you won’t run away.” The sound of teeth—clicking softly together—right next to his ear.

He couldn’t see the face, but he knew. He knew exactly whose hands were around him. Knew what they had done. 

And then, with unbearable slowness, Mark leaned in—cheek to cheek, blood-slick—and whispered:

“I’ll make sure of it.”

——————————————————————————————————————————

Will sat frozen; his breath came in stutters; paralyzed more from the paralysis that crept up his spine, a cold animal fear coiled deep in his gut, and by the silken restraints binding his wrists and ankles. The room shimmered like a mirage—immaculate, lavish, and wrong. Too clean. Every polished surface gleamed like it had something to prove. Gilded armchairs, delicate chandeliers, white silk drapes that never moved. A throne room built on bones.

It smelled like blood.

Not just the iron stench clinging faintly to the air or the rust-colored streaks hiding in the grout lines of the marble floor. No—this room bled memory. Everything in it was Mark. Mark’s comics, arranged by title, are not dog-eared or half-finished like they used to be. His old hoodie was folded and sealed in plastic. His guitar is on a rack with new strings, despite his never learning to play.

But this wasn’t Mark’s room.

This was a reconstruction.

 A shrine.

And Will was the offering.

He could still feel the blood caked to his skin, dried in sticky patches, hair matted with it, shirt stiff where it had soaked through.  His body ached in a way that felt distant, almost theoretical. Like it wasn’t his anymore. His legs tingled with the numb weight of hours. 

He remembered the screams. He remembered the sky splitting open. how Omni-Man had descended like a meteor, tearing through the city, crushing steel and flesh alike. Buildings fell like cardboard. Will had run. Across campus, down streets. He remembered tripping and falling on blood-slick asphalt. Crawling through glass. Choking on smoke.

And then it had stopped.

Omni-Man had stood over him. Peered into him like a microscope slide. Grinned and said.

"He deserves a gift."

——————————————————————————————————————————

"I am not some object for you to just take!" William shouted, his voice sharp with offense. He paced around the room in tight, anxious circles, eyes darting for an exit. Behind him, Mark trailed like a shadow—like a dog following its master, loyal but uncertain.

“I—I know that. Obviously,” Mark stammered, his voice trembling. “You’re William. You’re... mine.”

He reached out, trying to take William’s hand.

William recoiled, scoffing bitterly. “I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s,” he snapped, stomping his foot against the hardwood floor. The sound echoed, final and angry.

Mark flinched, shrinking in on himself. His breath caught as if William’s fury had struck him like a blow. As if Mark hadn’t just committed a massacre an hour ago.

“You’re my husband,” Mark whispered, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

William leaned forward and gagged theatrically. Mark rushed over in concern, his hand out to steady him, but William brushed him off with a grimace.

“Ugh—gross. Me and Mark dating? No wonder you’re sick in the head,” William said, shaking his head in disgust.

“I’m not evil,” Mark insisted, his voice cracking. “I’m saving people.”

“Yeah, from being ruled by the Viltrumites,” William said with a sarcastic laugh. “Thanks for killing a billion people, but I think you missed a few.”

“William…” Mark said, dragging his name out in a helpless plea.

“Don’t ‘William’ me like I’m being unreasonable,” William shouted, voice rising again. “You kidnapped me!”

“I rescued you!” Mark argued back, but the words landed hollow.

William scoffed and turned sharply, heading for the door. His movements were quick, furious.

“William, don’t—” Mark warned, his voice rising with panic.

But William didn’t listen.

He threw the door open and bolted.

——————————————————————————————————————————

Something echoed in the hall. Fast footsteps—too heavy. The kind that didn’t worry about being heard.

Will flinched. Every muscle tightened as the shadow paused outside the frosted glass doors. His heart punched at his ribs.

Silence.

Then—wetness. Arms wrapped around him like a python, the smell of blood and sweat assaulting his nose.

Will screamed.

“Shh! Will—it’s me.”

The voice was familiar.  It scraped at old warmth and made it curdle. He turned his head and saw the last face he wanted to see.

“Mark?” Will whispered.

“Yeah,” Mark smiled. That same crooked grin from high school, the one Will had once found charming. Now it was a crack in a mask. His eyes were too wide. Bloodshot. Glowing faintly. He looked ecstatic in a way that didn’t belong on a human face. 

“The one and only,” he said, chirping.

Will stared. The red coating Mark had wasn’t costume dye. His once-heroic suit clung to him in dark, soaked patches, his boots still dripping a trail.

“Mark… what the fuck?!” he shouted, Will thrashed, and tried to recoil. Mark only held him tighter. almost cradling him.

“Shhh. Quiet. Dad’s trying to sleep. And trust me, you do not want to see him sleep-deprived.”

Will froze at the sing-song lilt in Mark’s voice.

“That’s how he killed Mom,” Mark added cheerily, like he was sharing a bedtime story.

Will’s throat closed. “…Wh-what?” Will croaked.

“But don’t worry,” Mark chirped, ruffling Will’s hair like a child. “Dad says if I train you right and you don’t complain, he won’t kill you. Isn’t that sweet?”

Will’s stomach turned. “What the hell does that mean?”

���It means,” Mark said, Will recoiled as the silk fell away from his wrists, Mark untying him like he was unwrapping a gift he’d been waiting years for. ”  That you won’t die! That’s a huge deal, Will. Not every Viltrumite gets a pet.”

The moment the last knot was undone, Will stumbled to the far wall, hands cradling his head. The pressure in his skull throbbed like something inside was trying to crack free.

“You’re Invincible, Mark. You’re supposed to save people—”

Mark followed slowly, his expression flickering. “I was. But those people don’t want to be saved, Will. They scream when you try to save them. They’re ignorant cunts who bite and claw. But you—you always believed in me.”

“That was before you murdered half the city!” Will screamed Mark hushed him softly.

“They were weak,” Mark muttered, something twitching in his jaw. “We tried to help them and they denied it, they deserved it.”

“Well, so am I, Mark; I’m weak,” Will swallowed bile. “Should I die because of that?” he said shakily. 

Mark knelt, tracing circles on the floor with his finger, like a bored child. “But you’re not weak. Not anymore. You’re mine. That makes you different.”

“No, it makes me property.” Will corrected.

Mark tilted his head. “Better than being dead.”

Mark’s smile froze.

Then he blinked.

And then he was standing right in front of Will. No movement. No sound. Just there.

“You’re the only thing keeping me human, Will,” he said, brushing hair from Will’s clammy forehead.

“Then we’re fucked.” Will spat at him, and for one second, Mark’s smile faltered.

Then his fist clenched.

Mark’s eye twitched.

And then—pain. Blinding, hot, and sudden.

Will was on the floor, the punch having bypassed his perception entirely. He couldn’t feel his jaw. Couldn’t feel the scream clawing its way up.

Mark stood above him, breathing hard, fist still clenched. His lips trembled. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

The air in the room had changed. It had a taste now. Like static. Like fireflies before a thunderstorm.

Will didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Tears stung Will’s eyes, half from the pain, half from the terrifying realization that Mark meant it.

——————————————————————————————————————————

“No. No—no, fuck this. Fuck that. Hell no.”

William yanked the shower curtain closed with a metallic rasp, as if it could shield him. The rings screeched along the rod, echoing his panic.

He heard the soft rustle of feet against tile. Mark was pretending—again—that he wasn’t standing just on the other side.

“Come on, William,” Mark’s voice cooed, casual, almost sing-song. “We’ve been married for years. Same bed, same house, same closet. Isn’t it about time we shared a shower, too?”

William gritted his teeth. “Only because you forced me to. And you must be out of your damn mind if you think I’m letting you in here.” His voice trembled—not from weakness, but from the sheer pressure of keeping himself from exploding.

Then the curtain moved. Slowly.

Mark peeled it aside with deliberate ease, stepping into the steam with that same nauseating grin.

“You’re so cute when you panic,” he murmured.

William flinched—not at the words, but at the sight. Blood. Not just a streak or smear, but everywhere. On Mark’s arms and chest, flecked across his face like art.

William’s stomach twisted. He gagged. “Stay back.” His voice was sharp now—cracked glass in his throat.

But Mark didn’t. He took another step. Humming something tuneless, something that crawled under William’s skin and made it itch.

There was a voice in William’s head now—his own, but colder, beaten down by the months of knowing better.

Just let it happen. Wait it out. Don’t make it worse. Let him take whatever he wants. It’s not like it’s the worst thing he’s done.

But something in him—some feral part that hadn’t yet been scrubbed out—still fought.

He shoved back. Yelled. His hands found Mark’s chest and pushed, but it was like trying to move a statue.

“Will,” Mark said, arms reaching out as if this was something romantic. Something shared. “You’re being dramatic.”

When his fingers brushed William’s face, William slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the steam.

For a moment, there was silence. Both of them froze.

Mark’s expression shifted—slowly. Not to hurt. But to disbelief. Then something more dangerous.

Fuck.

“Mark, I didn’t mean—” William began.

It didn’t matter.

Mark’s hand lashed out with surgical precision. He grabbed William’s wrist, found a finger—he chose it—and pulled.

There was a snap. A scream.

William dropped to the floor, knees slamming against porcelain.

Mark didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize.

Instead, he crouched in front of him like a parent lecturing a disobedient child.

“Make it up to me,” he said softly, almost sweetly. “And I’ll get you medical attention. If not—” he tilted his head, tone light—“I’ll“ break another one. Okay, puppy?”

William shivered. The contact made his skin crawl.

He swallowed. Inhaled steam, like it would help him disappear. His hand reached forward, trembling—not from desire, but resignation.

——————————————————————————————————————————

Will stared.

Something about the meat...

It was familiar in a way that made his gut twist.

He didn’t touch it.

Mark stood in the frame, his silhouette backlit by red. His face wore something like affection—but warped. The kind that mimicked love without ever having felt it.  

He looked at the untouched food.

“Not hungry?” Mark asked.

Will didn’t reply.

Mark came closer. Sat beside him like a companion, not a captor.

“Not hungry?”

Will didn’t speak.

Mark walked in and sat beside him.

“Dad says hunger makes you obedient. But I don’t want that. I want you to want this. To want me.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something folded—a photo. Will flinched as it was placed in his lap.

He looked down.

The image was a candid shot. Him and Mark, two years ago, at a coffee shop. Laughing. Mark’s hand is on Will’s shoulder. A smear of whipped cream on Will’s nose.

Will dropped the photo like it burned.

Mark smiled.

“I think about that day a lot,” he murmured. “How easy it would’ve been to just take you then. Before everything. Before Dad showed me how to stop pretending.”

He leaned closer. “But now we’re together. Forever. And I don’t have to pretend at all.”

Will stared at the floor, his voice hoarse. “What did you do to the others, Mark?”

There was a pause.

Then, with almost childish glee: “Which others?”

Will looked up slowly. “Amber. Eve. Rex. Your mom.”

Mark’s smile never changed. “They were in the way. They doubted me. So I did what I had to do.”

Will felt the cold crawl up his spine.

Will turned and vomited, his body shaking violently. He choked on sobs as Mark crouched beside him, rubbing circles on his back.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “First day’s always the hardest.”

——————————————————————————————————————————

William didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, cradled in Mark’s arms like a shattered doll stitched together with trembling threads and dried blood. His jaw throbbed with every shallow breath, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes. His body shook—not from cold, but from the exhaustion that lives in marrow and memory. Thought had long since abandoned him, replaced by static and flickering images: red smeared across Mark’s suit, like paint spilled during a breakdown. He couldn’t even bring himself to care.

Mark was humming something tuneless. A lullaby, maybe. Or a dirge meant for the dying. William couldn't tell.

He was muttering too—words slurred into nonsense, fragments of thoughts William couldn’t piece together. William tried to remember how his Mark used to sound, how he used to look. But the memory was like looking through warped glass. They kept blurring into each other: this Mark, not his Mark. So similar in voice and in face. Both with the same eyes, the same way of carrying the weight of the world like it was stitched into their spine. But his Mark—his Mark—had smiled once, bright and stupid and real. This one looked at him like something fragile, and it made his skin crawl.

Maybe that was the difference. His Mark could smile without him. His Mark could move on.

William wondered, not for the first time, if  his Mark had lost an Eve too. If he’d watched her die. If his mother had stayed with his father, would he have ended up like this one? Would he have traveled to another universe, torn it apart, and kidnapped a version of the only person who ever made the pain quiet?

Or would he have stayed? Grown old. Rotted in silence. Ceased to matter.

Was his Mark looking for him now? Did he fall apart when William vanished, emotionally gutted, plagued with guilt? Did he miss William the way William missed him?

Part of him hoped so. Part of him wanted to believe that Mark spent every waking second searching, desperate and broken. But the other part hoped he’d moved on. That he was out there saving people, fighting the Viltrumites, reconciling with his father, healing, building a new world. Forgetting William.

Leaving him to rot.

It was cruel. But maybe it was for the best. 

“You’re so quiet now,” Mark whispered, rocking him gently, like William was something small and fragile. “Is it one of those days again?”

William didn’t answer. He didn’t even know what this Mark was talking about.

Because this Mark—this Mark—wasn’t his. His Mark wasn’t delusional. He didn’t pretend people could be fixed. He wasn’t soft with ghosts.

William closed his eyes. Tried to remember the last time he saw Mark. The month. The day. The hour.

It slipped through his fingers like everything else.

A gentle finger curled around William’s, slowly tracing along the knuckles in a quiet gesture of affection. Mark’s voice was a low murmur, barely louder than the rustling breeze that swept across the balcony.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

It was late—past midnight—and the two stood on a narrow stone balcony overlooking a lake. The city’s lights twinkled in the distance like a scatter of fallen stars, reflected gently on the water’s surface. The skyline shimmered, casting a peaceful illusion. Will had to admit—it looked stunning from here. But he knew the truth: Mark had positioned him facing the pretty parts, not the bombed-out ruins still smoldering just beyond the horizon.

Will rolled his eyes, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, spare me the mushy, cringe dialogue, Mark,” he said, playfully nudging him with his shoulder.

His gaze drifted down to the lake far below, nearly lost in the dark. Even from up here, Will could make out his faint reflection, distorted by the ripples. He frowned at the sight. “I look like a mess,” he murmured. His fingers plucked at the hem of his oversized hoodie, the fabric hanging off his skinny frame like it belonged to someone else. The sleeves dangled past his hands. His hair was unbrushed, his face pale under the moonlight.

Mark stepped closer, unfazed. “I’m serious, Will,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from Will’s cheek and leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple. “You’re gorgeous.”

Will let out a laugh—a sharp, barking cackle that startled a pair of birds from a nearby tree. “Mark, stop,” he said between snickers.

“Not until you say it,” Mark insisted, wrapping his arms around Will’s waist.

“Mark, that tickles—” Will gasped, twisting to get away, but Mark’s hands found his ribs. Will shrieked with laughter, squirming as Mark continued the relentless attack.

“Mark!” he wheezed, collapsing to the floor of the balcony in a fit of helpless laughter. “Stop! You’re going to kill me!”

“I don’t want you dying of laughter,” Mark teased with a grin. “So just say it.”

“Fine, fine! I’m beautiful! I’m hot! I’m—okay, Mark, just stop!” Will choked out, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.

Mark leaned down, planting a kiss on Will’s lips—hot, hungry, and full of something raw and protective. When he pulled back, his eyes glittered with warmth.

“And don’t you ever forget it,” he said, smiling wide.

Will’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, caught off guard—not by the kiss, but by that smile. Soft, honest. Happy.

God, Mark looked cute when he smiled like that.

Will blushed and looked away, trying to play it cool. “Dork,” he mumbled, but he didn’t pull away.

Mark was in a good mood. William could tell by the way he strutted through the door—too relaxed, too self-satisfied. He was humming off-key, something bubbly and annoying that grated at William’s nerves before he even saw the damn smile.

Mark held two tickets aloft like they were golden artifacts. “Guess who’s ready to go to the movies?” he announced, too loud, too cheerful.

William blinked, then lit up like a forgotten bulb flickering back to life. “A movie? Really?” He stood quickly, almost giddy, the thought of finally stepping outside—into fresh air, into anything that wasn’t this stale prison—hitting him harder than expected. “Which one?” he asked, a little breathless with excitement.

Mark grinned. “Seance Dog.”

William’s heart dropped like a stone. His shoulders slumped, and he collapsed back onto the bed with the exaggerated theatrics of a dying starlet. He pulled a pillow over his face and groaned, muffling a dramatic, “Nooo.”

Mark blinked, confused. “What? What’s wrong with Seance Dog? It’s good!”

“If by ‘good you mean ‘abysmal, ‘torturous, and every synonym for ‘unwatchable in the English language, then sure, it’s fantastic,” William muttered from beneath the pillow.

Mark huffed. “Come on, William. It’s our first date in a year. You could at least pretend to be excited.”

William peeked out from under the pillow, one brow arched high. “You’re out of your damn mind if you think my first date in a year is going to be with that movie. Seance Dog! Really Mark? God, gag me.”

Mark’s face fell. His lower lip jutted out as he whined, exaggerated and pitiful. “Will, please. We can do this, and then you can pick what we do after, okay?”

William stood again, holding the pillow like a weapon. “Not happening.” He hurled it at Mark, who ducked with a yelp.

For a moment, they stared at each other. Mark’s grin faded, replaced with something sharper. His posture straightened. His eyes narrowed, his voice suddenly quiet but firm. “You’re going, Will.”

William’s jaw tightened. That tone—commanding, like he was some misbehaving pet. He hated that tone.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face with an exaggerated sigh, preparing to make the biggest fuss humanly possible.

“Will,” Mark drawled again, and William scowled.

“Fine,” he stated, knowing he couldn’t play this game any longer unless he wanted to be on a leash.

He sighed again, preparing himself for the long day ahead.

It had been a long day for Mark—Will could tell just by looking at him. The way Mark leaned against the shower wall, head bowed, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. He didn’t speak a word about his day, just let out soft groans and weary sighs as Will gently scrubbed his hair for him. 

It was endearing, really, how Mark let himself be taken care of like that. Will felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying the closeness of it, especially when Mark was clearly worn thin. But he also appreciated that Mark didn’t unload the stress of the day onto him—he knew too much detail might overwhelm Will, might set off one of his panic attacks. That unspoken understanding between them meant the world.

After the shower, they stumbled their way into bed, dripping water across the floor in their laziness. Will gave a grumble as his bare skin hit the sheets.

“Come on, Mark,” he mumbled, tugging the damp blanket away. “We could’ve at least dried ourselves off first.”

Mark, already snuggled under the covers, just wrapped himself tighter around Will. “The blanket’s gonna get wet,” Will added, his voice muffled against Mark’s shoulder.

“It’s fine,” Mark replied, voice thick with fatigue. “We’ll just turn on the heater.”

They were both naked, neither of them bothering with clothes. Mark had been too eager to collapse into bed, and Will hadn’t had the energy to argue. Now, lying together in the warm tangle of limbs and damp fabric, Mark let his fingers trail slowly across Will’s chest. He paused at the small, heart-shaped birthmark just above Will’s top rib.

“You know this is mine, right?” Mark murmured, pressing a kiss to the mark. “It’s always been for me.”

When they first got together, Will would’ve rolled his eyes at comments like that, called Mark a hopeless romantic or teased him for being so cringe. Now, he just let him believe it. Let him believe that the birthmark Will had long before they met somehow existed just for Mark. Because if there was anyone who could make something like that feel real, it was him.

Mark’s lips continued their slow descent, his kisses feather-light and persistent. Will sighed, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mark,” he said gently, “we should go to sleep.”

Mark just hummed against his skin, his voice low. “You know I can’t fall asleep like this,” he said, nuzzling lower. “Want to help me?”

Will threw an arm over his face, groaning. “I’m tired, Mark.”

“Come on,” Mark coaxed, his voice dipping into a sultry murmur. “It’ll be quick, and then you can sleep. I promise.”

Will barely had time to protest before Mark shifted, flipping him over with practiced ease. Will's face was pressed into the pillow, Mark's hands firm on his hips, his voice soft and warm against Will’s ear.

“I promise,” Mark whispered again.

William couldn’t breathe; his head was far too deep in the pillow, and the hold on his neck was choking him out, not to mention the thrust was fast enough to knock the wind out of him. He scrambled and moaned as he felt the drag of that thick cock in and outside of his wall, shoving so far deep William feared it would be shoved into his intestine; he knew it wouldn’t but still.

William tried to sit up to say something to call Mark's name, but Mark wasn’t having it, panting so loudly and harshly that it scratched at William's ear in the worst way possible. With his butt propped up this high and his leg spread this wide, it was impossible to struggle without worsening his position. 

“Fuck, William, you’re so fucking tight. I thought I fucked that out of you.”  Mark gritted his teeth, muttering the word with every thrust; William gasped.

“Was your boyfriend's dick that tiny that it closed?” Mark asked. William pushed up, gasping and moaning.

“Oh, fuck you—oh, shit-fuck,” William moaned, drool coming out of his mouth as he fell back down. 

“ That’s exactly what I’m doing.” Mark chuckled, picking it up and not slowing down, his balls slapping against William's butt, making it grow red with force.

Mark leaned down, moving his hand from William's neck to bite and suck and lick at him. william laid still trying to hide his disgust as he felt Mark come closer faster, chanting his name.

“William, fuck, you’re too good for that stupid dick—Rick? oh whatever, you’re so perfect for me,” he said faster.

“Ah, you’re mine, you’re mine, Mine, mine, mine!” Mark said he was getting too fast and would scream at how hard he was hitting him, trying to shove him off anything.

“Mark, move slower,” William said, but Mark didn’t listen. He paused suddenly, shivering, and not a second later, Will could feel something hot and thick inside of him. He moaned at the heat of it; it was burning, and he hated how much his body tingled from the feeling and the way he came right after.

Mark sighed and pulled out, his hand slapping William’s butt. “ I’m going to get a rag,” he said, standing up as if nothing had happened. He whipped the sweat from his brow and smiled, ruffling William’s hair. “I’ll be right back.”

Mark never left for long.

There were no clocks. No windows. No sunrise. Just that perfect house—aglow with gentle, golden light that never dimmed, humming faintly like a living creature, as if breathing in rhythm with him.

Will’s world had reduced to walls that never shifted and routines that never changed. He cleaned what he was allowed to clean. He cooked meals in a kitchen gleaming with technology far beyond what he had known—appliances that responded to his voice, counters that self-cleaned, knives sharper than logic. At first, it felt like a dream. Now, it felt like a loop.

But today, Will was humming. A low, almost tuneless sound under his breath, familiar and distant. He was finally getting the hang of cooking here—not that he’d ever been bad at it, but Mark’s kitchen was… special. Everything he needed was there. Everything Mark had provided. So thoughtful. So curated.

He chuckled, more at the thought than anything else. The sound startled him out of his focus—and he hadn’t even heard the footsteps.

A pair of arms slid around his waist. A face pressed into his shoulder.

Will jumped, heart lurching. “Mark! I want to remind you I’ve got a knife in my hand,” he said, smiling too quickly. “Could’ve stabbed you on accident.”

Mark only laughed—a high, delighted cackle. “Oops! Sorry. I just couldn’t wait.”

Will set the knife down gently, eyes catching the blade’s reflection. For a moment, he didn’t move. The polished steel shimmered with more than light. His wedding ring gleamed at the center, proud and heavy. But his gaze drifted.

His fingers. Bruises, faded now. The bone-deep blue of restraint, almost gone.

His neck. No marks today, but he could feel the phantom teeth.

His cheek. Still a small welt, healing. He wasn’t sure when it had appeared.

He stared. Then he raised an eyebrow and turned to face Mark.

“So,” Will asked, voice carefully casual, “why are you excited?” He leaned on the counter, keeping his posture loose despite the drumbeat in his chest.

Mark raised one finger, smiling. “Hold that thought for a second.”

And just like that, he vanished—blinked out, the air sucking in behind him. Only a second passed before he reappeared, holding a box.

Will's stomach dropped.

Mark looked like he did on the day he proposed: too wide a smile, eyes just too bright, joy like a spotlight. Will tried to brace himself. If he reacted wrong, too slowly, too coldly—he knew what that might mean. He couldn’t go back to the cage. Not again.

Mark pressed the box into his hands. “Well?” he said, eager. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Will blinked. “What is it?” he asked.

Mark grinned. “You’ll have to open it to find out, silly.” He tapped Will’s cheek with two fingers. Light. Playful. Possessive.

Will didn’t move right away. Mark sighed—then smiled wider, voice like honey. “It’s a reward. For being so good, Will.”

Will hummed softly and finally opened the box.

Inside: a collar. Black, spiked, with rich purple padding on the inside.

His mouth went dry.

“You like it?” Mark asked quickly, eyes wide and glimmering.

Will swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. It’s… not the first thing most humans would get, but hey, what do you expect from a half-alien, right?” He tried to laugh. Mark did.

But the moment Will gently closed the box and set it to the side; the air shifted.

Mark's hands closed around his arms. Tight.

“Don’t you want to put it on?” Mark asked, his voice light but strained. “Just for me? I think it’d look so good on you. I want to see it on you, Will.”

Will hesitated. His heart pounded in his throat.

Mark pouted, exaggerated, eyes round and pleading like a dog begging for scraps—like a master testing obedience.

Will’s jaw tightened. “Maybe later,” he said, turning back to the counter. “I’m cooking right now.”

He resumed chopping vegetables, trying to fall back into his hum. But it was off-key now, unsteady.

“Will,” Mark called.

Will turned.

The smile had twitched. Just a little. The corner of Mark’s mouth jerked, like something mechanical misfiring.

“Put it on.”

A command. Not a request.

Will’s hand moved before he could stop it. The box was still open. His fingers trembled as he lifted the collar. It was heavier than it looked.

He should have said no.

But he didn’t.

He fastened it around his neck. The click of the buckle was deafening.

Mark clapped his hands together, gleeful. “Oh, perfect!”

Will smiled.

He had to. 

He always had to.

There was screaming.

William could tell—instantly—that it was Mark. The particular pitch, the way it echoed even through the relatively soundproof walls of their shared apartment, was unmistakable. And mildly annoying.

With a sigh, William rolled onto his side and tried to return to his book, pressing the spine open with one hand while his eyes skimmed the same sentence for the third time. But it was no use. Despite the thick, insulated walls, Mark’s voice cut through like a blade dipped in chaos—impressive and terrifying in equal measure.

The door slammed open.

Mark stumbled inside, grinning manically as he tugged off his shirt with the exaggerated flair of someone trying far too hard to appear unaffected. William didn’t even flinch. He'd long since stopped being surprised by Mark stripping in front of him—but that didn’t mean he had to like it. The part that grated most wasn’t the nudity; it was the performative flexing, the ridiculous poses Mark struck in the mirror as if begging for praise.

William sighed again, louder this time, and resisted the urge to gag. He knew what would come next: ten long minutes of reassuring Mark that the gag wasn’t that kind of reaction. And even if it was, it wasn’t because of him. The reaping of misunderstanding was inevitable.

Mark was panting like he’d just run a marathon—or maybe like he’d fought one. He slammed his fist against the wall. The sound rattled William’s bones, and he jumped, the book finally dropping from his hands as he sat up straight, bracing himself for what could only be described as yet another unlicensed therapy session.

“He just—he just doesn’t understand! Of course he doesn’t! Mom never loved him, so why would he?” Mark was ranting now, pacing, his words unraveling in a tumble of broken thoughts and unfiltered emotion. He was spiraling. Again. A tangled mess of feeling that William would—yet again—be expected to patiently and carefully untangle before it got even messier than it already was.

William scrubbed a hand down his face. “Mark… what’s wrong?”

He didn’t want to ask. God, he really didn’t want to know. In truth, he’d rather  stab Mark than deal with the hurricane of emotional trauma Mark always seemed to carry it like a badge of honor. But there was no knife in reach, and even if there was, Mark would probably snap it in half and pin William to the wall for trying. So, no go.

Mark hesitated. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

William shifted over and patted the empty space on the bed beside him. Mark didn’t need further invitation—he flopped down dramatically, half on top of William, who huffed and rolled his eyes at the weight now crushing his ribs.

Mark grabbed William’s hand and pressed it to his head, almost like a cat demanding attention. William complied with a quiet grumble, gently combing his fingers through Mark’s hair—not because he wanted to, but because resistance was futile.

“I got in a fight with Dad,” Mark muttered.

That made William freeze.

“…What?”

Mark fiddled with the bedsheet, tearing invisible threads between his fingers. He didn’t meet William’s gaze, his voice quiet and raw. “He thinks you’re going to run away again.”

William’s breath caught. The air shifted.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of it before—running. Escaping. Disappearing from this fractured, bizarre world that both mirrored and mocked his own. But…

“Where would I even go?” he muttered. “I’m stuck in a different dimension. One where everything looks familiar, but nothing is the same. It’s conquered. Depleted. There aren’t any heroes left. And like hell I’m eating out of a dumpster. What’s the point of escaping if I’m just going to die on the street?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Mark threw his hands up. “But he thinks because you’ve escaped twice, you’re going to try again.”

William blinked slowly. “When have I ever escaped?”

Mark gave him a long look, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re kidding, right? Like five years ago, you tried to run away in the middle of our date and broke your leg falling off that ledge. And then, like, a year ago, you sprinted into a destroyed city, and I had to track you down!”

William furrowed his brow. “I think you’re confusing me with your world’s version of me.”

Mark raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You are my world’s version of you. What are you talking about? Are you okay?” He leaned forward, hand on William’s forehead, checking for a fever.

William groaned. “Mark, I don’t know how to explain this again. But you kidnapped me from another world and probably deeply traumatized my Mark, too.”

Mark’s grip on his shoulders tightened. “I am your Mark,” he snapped, voice cracking, “and you’re my William.”

William froze. This—this was the worst time. When Mark got too emotional, too insistent, when all reason went out the window and all that was left was messy devotion and misplaced ownership. He hummed softly.

“Yeah, yeah… I know. I was just trying to lighten the mood; that’s all.”

Mark sighed, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he flopped backward onto the bed again, dragging William with him.

“Thank god,” he muttered, then gave a half-choked laugh. “But you really should make that clearer. You know I can’t tell when you’re joking, Will.”

William bit back a scream at the nickname.

“Will”

He hadn’t thought it through—he didn’t think either of them had. Too much emotion, too fast. Anger, fear, panic—it all collided in a way that felt impossible to untangle now. And truthfully? He preferred it this way. Fast. Blinding. Over.

He just wished it wasn’t his best friend standing over him, trembling, sobbing, as he bled out onto the cold floor.

Even if this was all his fault.

“Will, Will—no, no, no!” his best friend cried, his voice cracking, shaking his shoulders like that would fix things, like it would take back what had been done.

“Stay with me—I didn’t mean to, William!” he shouted, tears streaking down his face, hands pressed desperately to the wound.

But Will could already feel it—the warmth leaving his body, the edges of everything going soft, like the world was slipping further and further away.

 It was over; it was finally over.

Sometimes William thinks Mark forgets.

Forgets that William isn’t a puzzle piece meant to fit perfectly in the crook of his arm, that he’s not just something warm and pliant to hold onto when the world slips sideways.

They lay tangled together in Mark’s bed, the world dim and still, the soft hum of a forgotten film flickering across the TV screen. A blanket clung to William’s torso, hiding what was underneath—new bruises mottled along his sides, some older and yellowed like some secret language only Mark spoke. 

Mark’s head rested against William’s chest, ear pressed just over his heart, listening. He always did this—could sit there for hours, arms wrapped too tightly around William’s waist, as if afraid he’d vanish if he let go. His arms were locked tightly around William’s waist, too tight to allow movement. William knew better than to try.

Mark’s eyelids were half-lidded and heavy with sleep, or something like it. The kind of exhaustion that came after chaos. He’d arrived looking like a horror movie: blood smeared across his shirt, crusted beneath his fingernails, staining his teeth. He hadn’t said where it came from. He hadn’t needed to.

The first thing he’d done was grab William like he might disappear if he let go, breath ragged as he begged—begged— him not to say anything. not to ask, not to protest, Not tonight. 

William only agreed on one condition: that Mark shower first. Despite his clear frustration, Mark had obeyed, thank God. William didn’t want to be covered in blood, and Mark didn’t want to be the cause of another panic attack either.

Mark pressed his face into William’s side, snapping william out of thought. Even clean, Mark still smelled like sweat and steel and something too warm—like metal left out in the sun. William can feel Mark breathing in deep and groaning. “You still smell like lavender,” he murmured, voice slurred, fond. He moaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against William’s skin.

William flinched. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t remind Mark that the scent of lavender was what Mark chose. That it was Mark  who helped wash it off. That it was Mark trying to prove  he was the  real one. William just let out a tired breath and tried to focus on the television. On the girl getting stabbed. On the fake blood that didn’t smell like copper or taste like salt

Mark’s hand had started moving again—up along his spine, featherlight, fingertips grazing exposed ribs. William had always been lean, but lately, the bones showed more than they should.  visible bone, hollowed muscle. He didn’t eat much when he was stressed, and lately, stress was constant.

His ribs were like piano keys, too easy for Mark to play. And Mark did play—fingertips dancing up and down like he was admiring something precious instead of fragile. It made William shiver.

Mark paused. His voice cracked the silence.

“Hey, William…” The way he said it—soft, familiar, painfully earnest—made something twist inside William. He hated how much Mark still sounded like his best friend when he said his name like that. His Mark, not this thing stitched together from trauma and obsession.

William feigned sleep, murmuring something vague about being tired, hoping Mark would leave it alone. But Mark's finger began to press sharply into the top of his ribcage, digging as if trying to peel back skin. William winced.

“What the hell…” William muttered, shifting, but Mark’s other hand was still locked around his waist. It clenched tighter, hard enough to bruise. William knew he’d find fresh marks there by morning.

“Where is it?” Mark whispered, his voice distant and paranoid.

His fingers moved in erratic patterns across William’s stomach, pressing and tapping. William gritted his teeth, nausea churning in his gut.

“Where is what, Mark?” he snapped.

“The mark,” Mark said again, more urgently now. He was sitting up slightly, eyes darting across William’s stomach like he expected to find something there—a sign, a symbol, a map.

William blinked, confused. “The what?”

Mark didn’t answer right away. His hands were all over again, rough and urgent, digging as if trying to uncover something buried just beneath William’s skin.

“The mark, Will,” Mark snapped, tone bordering on desperate now. “You had a birthmark.”

William hated that name. Will. He hated how Mark said it. Hated the possessiveness that always laced his voice.

“I don’t have a birthmark,” William replied tightly.

Mark pulled back, his expression confused, like William had just told him the sky was green. “Yes, you did,” he said, brows furrowed. “It was right here.” He tapped just under William’s ribcage. Panic flared behind his eyes. The confusion in his expression was loud—too loud. William could almost see the gears in Mark’s mind locking up. He wasn’t grounded. Not even close.

“You did,” he insisted, his voice low and trembling. “You did. It was right here. I kissed it every night. Don’t you remember?”

William stared at him. He wanted to scream. No, he wanted to shake him. He wanted to claw his way out of this bed, out of this body, out of this dimension.

William's hand twitched. His middle finger always twitched when he got angry—when the fear soured into something sharper. He stared at it. Bent. Crooked. He thought about how it looked before, about the sound it made when it snapped, and what happened after it was over. After he was gagging on cum as Mark had reached his climax, Mark had gone from blaming him in a second to cradling him.

Mark wasn’t listening.

“Mark, you’re scaring me,” he said instead.

Mark didn’t hear him. Or he didn’t care. His fingers started moving again—pressing, poking, digging like he could uncover a truth hidden just beneath William’s skin.

“Mark, stop,” William hissed, breath hitching. “That hurts.”

But it was a coin toss, always. Heads: Mark calms down. Tails: he spirals deeper.

William could feel the bruise blooming already beneath Mark’s grip.

“Where is it?” he murmured again, more frantic now. “Your mark. Your mark, Will. Where is it?”

William’s voice cracked, rising. “What mark, Mark?! I don’t have a fucking birthmark!”

Mark recoiled like he'd been slapped. He stared at William like he was lying, like he’d betrayed him somehow. 

William could see it—all the terrible thoughts racing behind those eyes, each one worse than the last.

Mark was unbearable when he was happy, but when he was like this? Frantic, unraveling? He was dangerous. “Yes, you do. You did. It was there; I know it was—”

William reached up and cupped Mark’s face, forcing him to look—really look—into his eyes. “Mark,” he said firmly.

Mark’s gaze kept flicking back down, fixated on William’s stomach like it held some vital truth.

“Look at me.”

Mark's gaze was wild and lost, but he froze. William softened his voice, deliberately. “Mark.”

Mark blinked, finally stilling. His pupils were wide, too wide. The blood was gone from his body, but it was still in his eyes, exhaustion still etched into every line of his face. His insomnia was eating him alive.

William’s stomach churned.

William sighed, lips pressing into a thin line. It’s going to be a long night, he thought grimly, already bracing for the spiral to come. He leaned in anyway and kissed him. Not out of love. Not even out of affection, not because he wanted to, but because it was the only way to bring Mark back down.

It was just a strategy. A Distraction.

Survival

Mark’s hand trembled—his lips too—as they hovered over William’s skin. He looked like a man on the verge of worship or destruction. William wasn’t sure which terrified him more. For a flicker of a moment, he told himself it was better this way. After all, when William was in control, William didn’t have to indulge one of Mark’s more humiliating kinks. 

But the illusion didn’t last long. Like always, Mark came back hungry—biting, shoving, his tongue forcing its way into William’s mouth with such urgency that William tasted nothing else. His world narrowed to the pressure of Mark’s teeth and his tongue's possessive glide. He claimed William’s mouth the way he conquered everything—ruthlessly, until there was no room for resistance.

Mark’s hand, initially awkwardly resting on William’s, slid lower, trailing down with slow, deliberate intent until it found one of William’s nipples. He pinched it, twisted it, —deliberate, unkind—William’s body betrayed him with a sharp jolt. A soft moan escaped his lips before he could swallow it back. 

That was all the permission Mark needed.

He dipped his head and replaced fingers with teeth, taking the sensitive nub between them, worrying it with slow, grinding pressure. He bit and chewed—not enough to bruise, but enough to threaten it—and William gasped, his body strung tight with confusion. Pleasure, shame, dread—they all tangled inside him, impossible to sort apart.

With one hand teasing William’s chest, Mark’s other hand trailed down his stomach in lazy strokes, tracing a heated path until he reached the sharp edge of his hipbone. He didn’t go lower—yet. He only grazed the bone with his knuckles, making William shiver violently.

He never dipped lower. 

He didn’t need to. 

The threat of it was enough.

 He paused, watching the trail of drool connecting William’s nipple to his lips before letting it fall and break slowly. With an almost reverent look, as if admiring his own craftsmanship.

“Fuck,” Mark muttered, sitting up and readjusting his pants. His bulge pressed against William’s thigh, hot and heavy, and William flinched—not because of the size, but because he knew what came next. Mark tugged at his waistband—not to pull it off, but just enough to remind him who was in control.

One hand rose to William’s throat, fingers tracing the rapid beat of his pulse and relishing it. 

Then, he ground his hips forward,  his arousal impossible to ignore.  

William winced at the idea of having to take it.

Mark leaned in until they were chest to chest. William could feel the heat of Mark’s heartbeat radiating into his own. Mark’s breath ghosted over his neck, his breath whispering against William’s ear—warm, sweet, tainted with the faint scent of peppermint and something metallic.

 It made William’s stomach twist.

“Will,” Mark murmured, his voice thick and sweet like syrup, “Go get the collar.”

William froze.

As if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over him. His body burned, but inside he felt numb. 

The collar. 

Of course.

He should’ve known this was where it was heading.

His mouth opened on instinct to protest—but before he could speak, Mark shifted again. Groaned. And shoved a finger inside him without warning. The heat, the wetness, the intrusion. He might’ve gagged if Mark hadn’t already broken him of that reflex long ago.

“You can get your favorite,” Mark purred. “Since I’m such a good husband and all.” He pumped the finger in and out lazily before pulling it away, watching it glisten in the low light. He parted his fingers, amused, watching the strands of saliva and slick stretch and break like something precious. 

William turned his face away, forcing shallow breaths past the lump in his throat. heart-pounding. He tried not to think. He tried not to feel. If he could just float above this moment, he wouldn’t drown in it.

But Mark broke from his trance and looked at him again, that bright gleam in his eyes replaced with quiet command. He shifted to help William up, and everything about the gesture made William feel small.

“Up you go,” Mark said, his voice suddenly light and cheerful, like coaxing a child out of bed. He lifted William like he weighed nothing, setting him down beside the bed. William’s chest tightened—not from affection, but from the humiliating lack of resistance in his own limbs. There was that familiar burning rage that slowly twisted into resignation inside him. Still, he begrudgingly moved.

He always did.

“Go on,” Mark urged, slapping his ass hard enough to echo. The sound cracked through the air, and William yelped in surprise, pride stinging.

“You need to watch your strength,” William grumbled, untangling himself from the mountain of blankets he had previously been trapped in. “You hit way too hard.”

Mark cackled. “I didn’t hit that hard,” he teased lightly, watching him like a cat might watch a bird—relaxed, amused, utterly in control. William walked to the closet, grabbed the first collar he could reach, and held it up to Mark, who frowned immediately.

“Get your favorite,” Mark said flatly.

“I don’t have a favorite,” William replied, but Mark only stared at him harder.

“William,” he growled,Warningly. Low. That tone. William stiffened. He hated how it made him freeze—how that warning almost made him whimper like some obedient dog. How fitting.

“Sorry—I mean, Mark,” William replied, too quickly. Too defensively. “I just want you to put it on.” 

Mark tilted his head before his lips curled into a grin. “Want to help me?” William asked with a wink; he admitted he was overselling it.

And that was it. The moment he asked, Mark lit up like a child on Christmas morning. 

In a flash, Mark was up, nodding enthusiastically. He bounded over and plucked a black spiked collar from the drawer, its inner lining padded with soft purple velvet. He clipped it around William’s neck, just loose enough to show he could tighten it later.

“There we go,” he cooed. “Look at you. All pampered and such.” 

Then his eyes sparkled again. “Want to wear your favorite tail, too? Oh! And the ears?”

William forced a smile and a thumbs-up, trembling. “Sure thing.”

Because Mark forgot sometimes.

Forgot that William wasn’t him.

And William—William thinks it’s best not to remind him.

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

Endure (Willmark sneak Peek, )

Sneak peek for a Wilmark fic I'm writing (full version here)

Warning: Implied Dubcon, Implied Kidnapping, sexual assault, toxic relationship, physical abuse, and just all together unpleasant time

(Note: Border credit to @cafekitsune go check them out)

Sometimes William thinks Mark forgets.

Forgets that William isn’t a puzzle piece meant to fit perfectly in the crook of his arm, that he’s not just something warm and pliant to hold onto when the world slips sideways.

They lay tangled together in Mark’s bed, the world dim and still, the soft hum of a forgotten film flickering across the TV screen. A blanket clung to William’s torso, hiding what was underneath—new bruises mottled along his sides, some older and yellowed like some secret language only Mark spoke. Mark’s head rested against William’s chest, ear pressed just over his heart, listening. He always did this—could sit there for hours, arms wrapped too tightly around William’s waist, as if afraid he’d vanish if he let go.His arms were locked tightly around William’s waist, too tight to allow movement. William knew better than to try.

Mark’s eyelids were half-lidded and heavy with sleep, or something like it. The kind of exhaustion that came after chaos. He’d arrived looking like a horror movie: blood smeared across his shirt, crusted beneath his fingernails, staining his teeth. He hadn’t said where it came from. He hadn’t needed to.

The first thing he’d done was grab William like he might disappear if he let go, breath ragged as he begged—begged— him not to say anything. not to ask, not to protest, Not tonight. 

William only agreed on one condition: that Mark shower first. Despite his clear frustration, Mark had obeyed, thank God. William didn’t want to be covered in blood, and Mark didn’t want to be the cause of another panic attack either.

Mark pressed his face into William’s side, snapping william out of thought. Even clean, Mark still smelled like sweat and steel and something too warm—like metal left out in the sun. William can fell mark breathing in deep and groaning. “You still smell like lavender,” he murmured, voice slurred, fond. He moaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against William’s skin.

William flinched. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t remind Mark that the scent of lavender was what Mark chose. That it was Mark  who helped wash it off. That it was mark was of trying to prove  he was the  real one. He just let out a tired breath and tried to focus on the television. On the girl getting stabbed. On the fake blood that didn’t smell like copper or taste like salt

Mark’s hand had started moving again—up along his spine, featherlight, fingertips grazing exposed ribs. William had always been lean, but lately, the bones showed more than they should.  visible bone, hollowed muscle. He didn’t eat much when he was stressed, and lately, stress was the only constant.

His ribs were like piano keys, too easy for Mark to play. And Mark *did* play—fingertips dancing up and down like he was admiring something precious instead of fragile. It made William shiver.

Mark paused. His voice cracked the silence.

“Hey, William…” The way he said it—soft, familiar, painfully earnest—made something twist inside William. He hated how much Mark still sounded like his best friend when he said his name like that. He's Mark, not this thing stitched together from trauma and obsession.

William feigned sleep, murmuring something vague about being tired, hoping Mark would leave it alone. But Mark's finger began to press sharply into the top of his ribcage, digging as if trying to peel back skin. William winced.

“What the hell…” William muttered, shifting, but Mark’s other hand was still locked around his waist. It clenched tighter, hard enough to bruise. William knew he’d find fresh marks there by morning.

“Where is it?” Mark whispered, his voice distant and paranoid.

His fingers moved in erratic patterns across William’s stomach, pressing and tapping. William gritted his teeth, nausea churning in his gut.

“Where is what, Mark?” he snapped.

“The mark.” Mark said again, more urgently now. He was sitting up slightly, eyes darting across William’s stomach like he expected to find something there—a sign, a symbol, a map.

William blinked, confused. “The what?”

Mark didn’t answer right away. His hands were all over again, rough and urgent, digging as if trying to uncover something buried just beneath William’s skin.

“The mark, Will,” Mark snapped, tone bordering on desperate now. “You had a birthmark.”

William hated that name. Will. He hated how Mark said it. Hated the possessiveness that always laced his voice.

“I don’t have a birthmark,” William replied tightly.

Mark pulled back, his expression confused, like William had just told him the sky was green. “Yes, you did,” he said, brows furrowed. “It was right here.” He tapped just under William’s ribcage. Panic flared behind his eyes. The confusion in his expression was loud—too loud. William could almost see the gears in Mark’s mind locking up. He wasn’t grounded. Not even close.

“You did,” he insisted, his voice low and trembling. “You did. It was right here. I kissed it every night. Don’t you remember?”

William stared at him. He wanted to scream. No, he wanted to shake him. He wanted to claw his way out of this bed, out of this body, out of this dimension.

William's hand twitched. His middle finger always twitched when he got angry—when the fear soured into something sharper. He stared at it. Bent. Crooked. He thought about how it looked before, about the sound it made when it snapped, and how Mark had gone from blaming him in a second to cradling him.

Mark wasn’t listening.

“Mark, you’re scaring me,” he said instead.

Mark didn’t hear him. Or he didn’t care. His fingers started moving again—pressing, poking, digging like he could uncover a truth hidden just beneath William’s skin.

“Mark, stop,” William hissed, breath hitching. “That hurts.”

But it was a coin toss, always. Heads: Mark calms down. Tails: he spirals deeper.

William could feel the bruise blooming already beneath Mark’s grip.

“Where is it?” he murmured again, more frantic now. “Your mark. Your mark, Will. Where is it?”

William’s voice cracked, rising. “What mark, Mark?! I don’t have a fucking birthmark!”

Mark recoiled like he'd been slapped. He stared at William like he was lying, like he’d betrayed him somehow. 

William could see it—all the terrible thoughts racing behind those eyes, each one worse than the last.

Mark was unbearable when he was happy, but when he was like this? Frantic, unraveling? He was dangerous. “Yes, you do. You did. It was there; I know it was—”

William reached up and cupped Mark’s face, forcing him to look—really look—into his eyes. “Mark,” he said firmly.

Mark’s gaze kept flicking back down, fixated on William’s stomach like it held some vital truth.

“Look at me.”

Mark's gaze was wild and lost, but he froze. William softened his voice, deliberately. “Mark.”

Mark blinked, finally stilling. His pupils were wide, too wide. The blood was gone from his body, but it was still in his eyes, exhaustion still etched into every line of his face. His insomnia was eating him alive.

William’s stomach churned.

William sighed, lips pressing into a thin line. It’s going to be a long night, he thought grimly, already bracing for the spiral to come. He leaned in anyway and kissed him. Not out of love. Not even out of affection , not because he wanted to, but because it was the only way to bring Mark back down.

It was Just a strategy. A Distraction.

Survival

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

Stranger Danger (Yandere Illumi x GN reader)

Summary: Every soulmate had a mark—something different. Some were simple, others were rare. And of course, you just had to be the rarest of all, with a name and a number you couldn’t decipher.

Warning: Breaking and entering, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, Implied kidnapping, Implied Murder, yandere themes.

Soulmates were strange.

(Note: Border credit to @cafekitsune go check them out)

Soulmates were strange.

Each case seemed to follow its own bizarre set of rules, and no two stories were ever quite the same. Sure, some manifestations were more common than others, like the red string of fate or the moment time supposedly stopped when two soulmates locked eyes for the first time. There were stories of people seeing in color for the first time or mysterious tattoos that matched perfectly with a stranger’s. You’d heard all of them. Countless tales of how people found their other half. How the numbers on their hands stopped the moment they met. How one person scraped their knee, and the stranger next to them bled from the same wound. There was always a moment of revelation. Relief. As if the world had finally made sense.

You wished you could feel something like that.

But you had no idea what your soulmate's mark meant.

The number on your arm fluctuated wildly—up, down, higher than the sky some days, and then suddenly plummeting. When you were younger, you thought the rising number had something to do with distance. Maybe they were far away. In middle school, when the numbers started shrinking more often, you were ecstatic. You remembered the day it hit zero—you’d sprinted across the school, laughing breathlessly, heart pounding. You searched everywhere, eyes scanning every face. The number hovered at zero. You spun in circles. Waited. Looked up.

No one was there.

That’s when it hit you.  

You were wrong.

You didn’t know what the mark meant. The rise and fall of numbers had no pattern. No sense. Some days, the count was in the thousands. Other days, it dropped to single digits. And recently? It had started dipping into the negatives.

You had no clue what that meant.  

But it couldn’t be good.

Once, you’d let your thoughts spiral. The theory had been grim but oddly logical. Maybe your soulmate was dead. Maybe that's why the numbers kept behaving so erratically. You’d heard stories like that. A person who could feel their soulmate’s pain, only to spend the rest of their life cold and hollow after their other half died. One woman claimed she'd felt a bullet hit her skull the moment her soulmate passed. Chilling, yes—but it made sense. Kind of.

You clung to that thought as you stepped out into the cold. Your breath came out in sharp clouds, chest tight in your cheap jacket. Yorknew was as cold as ever, winter frost biting into your fingers, but you didn’t flinch. You were used to it.

You hated Yorknew.

It was loud. Overcrowded. The people were rude, the sirens were constant, and the crime? 

Crime was a guarantee. 

You’d give anything to leave—anything—but your paycheck said otherwise. The job you had barely kept you afloat, and the house you rented might’ve been on the cheaper side, but it bled your savings dry.

You tightened your lips, stuffing your hands in your pockets as you left your job. You stared straight ahead, careful to avoid the alleyways. You’d heard about the spike in muggings. Funny, though—despite living in the grimiest parts of town for years, you’d never once been robbed. Never mugged. Never caught in any of the chaos that seemed to eat the city alive.  

You’d been near crime scenes. Questioned by police. Known people who went missing—people who were later found dead. 

But you? 

You were always untouched.

Somehow.  

You were grateful for that.  

In this hellhole of a city, a little luck was the least the universe could offer.

Your luck, however, must have run out.

Because standing in front of you, bathed in the faint blue glow of your refrigerator, was a shirtless man with glistening black hair cascading down his back like silk woven from midnight. He looked like he belonged to some dark fairy tale—otherworldly, cold, and hauntingly beautiful. In his hand, he held your drink. Your drink. The one you'd been saving for your binge-watch tonight. He turned the bottle slowly, studying it as if it held secrets only he could decipher, before lifting his gaze to meet yours, unimpressed.

and his eyes…

His eyes.

His eyes were pits of ink. Deep. Bottomless blotches. Staring into them felt like leaning over the edge of a void that wanted to swallow you whole. It should have been terrifying—You should have screamed. Should have panicked. Should have grabbed a knife or run or done something— And yet—you couldn’t move. Your breath hitched, chest tightening.

There was something there. A pull. A tether in your chest tugging so hard it felt like your soul was being reeled in. For a split second, you knew—no, you believed—believed this man had to be your soulmate.

It was him.

You didn’t know how you knew, but you knew. That feeling, that sensation like a tether had snapped taut between your ribs and something in the air. That dizzy, weightless tug just beneath your sternum, a gravitational pull that defied reason.

But then your eyes dropped to his arm.

Numbers.

Rows and rows of zeros running down his skin, stretching far enough that you didn’t bother counting. You didn’t need to. Because when you looked at your own arm, it glowed too—but in the opposite direction. Negative. Cold, red slashes of subtraction that mirrored his.

You didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be a coincidence. Your number had never matched anyone else's. Never moved. Never burned. Until now.

Your head spun.

A dizzy, giddy, nauseating swirl of emotions twisted inside you, and you couldn’t tell if the whirlwind belonged to you or him, your supposed soulmate, sinking into your nerves like he owned them.

It was thrilling.

It was horrifying.

And worst of all, you weren't afraid. Not even as this strange, beautiful man wandered deeper into your apartment, digging through your laundry. He held up a piece of underwear, took a deep sniff, and hummed. Your face burned as he buried his nose deeper, then—casually, shamelessly—ran his tongue along the fabric.

You lunged.

“That’s mine. Don’t touch it,” you snapped, lunging forward and snatching it from him. Your hands trembled.

Then, softer. Guilt-ridden. “Please,” you added, your voice cracking with panic, anger—something more than both.

The word left a sour taste in your mouth. You hated that you said it. Hated how easy it came out. How much relief you felt when you did it. It wasn’t supposed to be like this—feeling thankful a stranger, a creep, hadn’t pushed further.

 It was disgusting. You were disgusting. Fighting with yourself, unsure whether the emotions were yours or the soulmate bond’s twisted magic.

Two emotions warred inside you: shame and disgust. At him. At yourself.

“Ah,” he said after a pause, as if that somehow clarified everything. “You’re home earlier than usual.”

He spoke like he knew you. Like he belonged here. His voice was calm, almost gentle, and terrifying in its casualness. Like a husband noting the time his spouse walked in.

A thought whispered in your mind: He is your husband.

You recoiled from it like a burn. No. No, he wasn’t. You’d just gotten home from work, exhausted, and now this—

You stared at him, wide-eyed. Not like his—his were abyssal and unreadable—but with pure horror. Confusion. Your mouth parted, words caught in your throat.

He looked at your lips, then back at your eyes. Tilted his head. Reached out to you.

“Your pupils are contracted. Skin's a little pale,” he murmured, reaching out as if to comfort you. His fingers brushed your cheek—cold, bony, with thick, rough scars that said danger—and yet you leaned into the touch before your brain could stop you. “  What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice calm as his fingers brushed your cheek.

It felt… good.

You wanted to kiss those fingers.

You jerked back like you’d been slapped.

No.

“Who—what—how the hell did you get in my house?!” Your voice cracked with rising panic.

You fumbled for a better question, but your mind was reeling.

He didn’t even blink. “Through the door,” he said nonchalantly. “It was quite easy to unlock.”

Your stomach dropped. You’d paid good money for a better lock after that rash of neighborhood break-ins. It was supposed to be secure.

He must’ve seen your confusion, because he held up a hand—and it shifted. Fingers morphed, sharpened, blood-veined claws gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Your breath caught.

Your mind tried to spiral somewhere else, somewhere perverted—what else could those fingers do?

NO.

Focus. You had to focus.

You swallowed it down.

“WHY are you in my house?” you demanded, louder now, shaking.

He tilted his head again, impossibly far this time, hair brushing the floor. “To see you,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it explained everything.

It explained nothing.

You swallowed hard, backing away as discreetly as you could. Your hand fumbled in your bag behind your back until your fingers curled around your phone.

He noticed.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Ah. You must be confused. I’m Illumi Zoldyck,” he whispered.

Then he was behind you.

How? You hadn’t seen him move. You hadn’t even blinked.

His breath was at your ear. “I’m your soulmate.”

Your scream lodged in your throat. He plucked the phone from your hand and crushed it without effort. Glass crunched under his fingers. You stared at him, stunned, as he held out his arm again.

Then you saw it.

His number.

Lower than before—five digits smaller.

You didn’t know how you couldn’t see it lower but you felt it, if that makes any sense. It really doesn’t and you furrow your brow at that unpleasant contemplative thought.

You looked down at your own.

Higher.

Somehow, it had risen. And with that, your blood went cold.

No. No, no, no. Screw this.

Your body took over. You turned and ran.

Didn’t look back. Didn’t care.

Your hand reached for the door—

And then your foot slipped.

You made it to the door, heart pounding, every cell in your body screaming, GO. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was the bond. Maybe even it knew this wasn’t right.

Your hand reached for the door—

And then your foot slipped.

You’d forgotten the rug.

The world tilted. You crashed down hard, the wind knocked out of you, pain exploding up your side. And then—he was on top of you.

A shadow fell over you before you could rise. You looked up.

Pinning you.

Cold, heavy, motionless.

His hair fell like a curtain around you both, trapping you in shadows. Illumi hovered above you, his expression unreadable, those pitiless eyes boring into you.

“Why did you run away?” he asked, genuinely confused. “Soulmates shouldn’t run. They’re meant to be together.” and your soulmate, mark it agreed.

Your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to flee your chest. Every instinct screamed for escape, for distance, for air. But your body refused to move. The pull was still there—faint, muted now. Like the bond itself wasn’t sure whose side it was on anymore.

“I don’t even know you,” you whispered.

Illumi’s head tilted again, fascinated, as if you were some exotic insect he’d never seen before.

“You will,” he said.

Then he smiled.

You couldn’t see the number, but for some reaso,n it went higher; you were sure of it.

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]

[adding-a-little-lemon--and-lime]