#district attorney y/n

[maniacwatchestheworld]

I think that I might also have A Thing for people getting one of their eyes really messed up. I do admit that I do like drawing asymmetrical faces...

[ask-the-femaleda]

Was it obvious to everyone else...

That'd I'd fallen for a lie?

You were never on my side.

[fictionalsownme]

More Than A Woman | wilford warfstache x gn!viewer / reader |

chapter one - "I've known you very well"

A/N: hi everyone!! I'm so excited to post this! Usually I spend a long time on the stuff I write but I wrote a good chunk of this in a feverish burst haha, I've been wanting to write for Wil and had such a clear idea of how I see him in my head for so long :)) This fic will probably be around 10 chapters~ish and progress will probably be a little slow but I'm also trying to get faster at my writing so I guess we'll see! Getting it down is always the hardest, then you spend a bit of time hating it, then the fixing can start! Anyway, I hope you guys like this, I love this dorky weirdo a lot for whatever reason, and I'd love to write for other egos too :) ((there might be a guest appearance or two in here in the last few chapters if plans don't change 👀)) hope you guys enjoy the first chapter at least! lmk 🥰! word count: 2.9k notes: reader is gender-neutral, similar to all of mark's stuff :) -- the title is just after the song! no pronouns or descriptors are used other than the occasional they/them. reader is the viewer (& district attorney) from wkm, adwm, ahwm, iswm, etc, but that won't come up until later. wmlw wilford. story will be mostly fluff, some hurt/comfort & angst, lots of romance and flirting! story is adapted from an idea I had for my self insert. we will get into some lore stuff (or at least my understanding of the lore 👀) and filling in gaps with headcannons, but it's mostly about wilford & reader and I'll try to explain as we go so don't worry about it too much if you don't know all of it. especially since I don't know if my understanding is always 100% accurate 👉👈 let's have fun yall! 💞

masterlist | AO3

The music playing softly over the convenience store speakers was pleasant, if slightly boring. Like elevator music— there only to help ease the passing of time. Your night shift would end soon, and the sky could be seen as it lightened more every minute through the windowed front of the building.

Other than that, the old store was quiet. Dusty. Pink and orange neon strips lined the walls near the ceiling. They overpowered the dated fluorescent lights, casting everything in a slightly peach haze. Like a dream. 

Different sections of the store were marked with neon too, the letters glowed against the wall denoting the drinks, the snacks, the hot food… You liked your little store. Even if the unyielding isolation of your work made you a bit… complacent. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d truly talked with someone.

The ice creams chilled your fingers through the wrappers as you pulled them from their box and slotted them into place. Even with the cold air of the freezer wafting over you, you could smell the cool summer air coming in the sliding front doors.

You liked to prop them open on dawns like these. The convenience store lights did draw in the occasional pestering bug, but they usually found their way out again before long. You did get a bat once. Albeit a little crazed and frantic, you were surprised to find it harmless. Maybe a little lost. Now that thing seemed like it would never leave. 

Refocusing on your task, you brushed your condensation-soaked fingers on your work apron, tied tight behind your neck and around your back, and shut the freezer door. 

The motion alert chimed a pleasant tune through the staticky old speakers as a customer entered the open doors from the street.

You called an automatic, “Welcome in~,” and went about straightening a shelf of snack bars and chocolate. You didn’t bother to look in their direction as you heard them make their way through the aisles.

“Pardon me,” said their strange, nearly British accent from beside you now. You turned to the source of the voice, the man who’d just walked in, and your eyes went to his outfit first. 

A silky-- almost sparkly in how it caught the light-- lavender shirt with mismatched buttons revealed expanses of his bare chest. It was paired with white bell-bottoms and a fake pink afro hanging half-off his head, about to fall off. He had olive skin and dark hair-- nearly black--, fluffy and sticking up every which way like hands had been running through it. Scruffy facial hair framed a thick mustache that tinted slightly pink where it turned up at the ends.

He looked… honestly, he looked ridiculous. But the 70s getup was fun, you supposed. And his eyes-- dark brown and monolid-- were handsome. Underneath all the… extra mess. You blinked, slowly, in a way that felt like waking up.

“Uh, hi. Are you coming from a costume party or something?” It was August, but you supposed it was never too early to start the spooky season. 

“Oh! Do you know of one? I do love a good costume. But no. Just the regular-sort. Just woke up from one.” He scanned the products near his head, grabbed a protein bar, sniffed the wrapper, guffawed, and put it back.

“You just woke up? Are you alright?”

“Oh, worry not, friend, this is normal for my level of reverie! I’m not even hungover!” He laughed, his hands going to his hips.

You stared at him.

“I was just looking for something to gnaw on! To nourish myself before I’m on my way.” His eyes were still traveling all over, not really seeing you.

Now in theory, a strange man coming in at this hour, acting even stranger, with his clothes disheveled? You knew you should be on your way to your safe space behind the counter to get him checked out and exiting the store as fast as possible. But there was something about him… 

Something you couldn’t place…

Instead you raised your eyebrows and relaxed against the cooler door. “Uh, I guess that depends on what kind of food you like,” You offered. After a moment, his gaze landed on you and he seemed to finally take you in. Your uniform, your crossed arms, your patient expression, your features. His face scrunched into confusion.

A moment passed, staring at each other like that. “Your shirt’s looking a little rough, you know.”

“Have we met, friend?” He asked as he began to fix his buttons. 

You watched passively as more of his chest came into view. He either didn’t notice or didn’t mind your blatant staring. You weren’t sure why you were staring, or what you were feeling as you did so. 

You weren’t gawking at his abs or anything-- well,-- not that he didn’t have abs. He did, sort of. The expanse of his chest and abdomen were tight with toned muscle. He definitely wasn’t lacking abs, anyway. Either way… this was about something different. 

You wondered for a moment if a vague familiarity was what you were picking up on, but quickly dismissed it.

“I feel like I’d remember meeting you.” 

You realized with a start that your comment could be seen as flirtatious, and added quickly, “Just, you know-- generally.”

But he just hummed and spun on his heels, turning away. You sighed and found yourself in-step behind him, hands in your uniform pockets. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“Well, either way!” He started, his energy returning tenfold. “Let's see what this cute little shop has to eat!” 

For some reason, you asked, “Do you have money?” 

He froze. “Er, no~. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind what?”

“Well, spotting me of course! Let’s just say I owe you one, eh friend?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Thought so.” 

Thought so? Maybe you did know him… 

It was your turn to squint in displaced confusion. “What’s your name?”

His voice came from behind you and you spun around, your shoes squeaking on the tile floor. When did he sneak around you? 

He bent over and twirled his hand, a flamboyant bow finally knocking the afro off his head. “Wilford Warfstache, at your service.”

“That’s your name?” 

He righted himself. “For now.” It suited him well enough, but for some reason it sounded misplaced.

… But no, either way, you definitely hadn’t met him before. You didn’t know many people in the first place, let alone someone so eccentric.

Still, you were curious about him. Curious about his personality and who he was. He felt sort of like a puzzle waiting to be solved. And so far, despite his quirks, despite how admittedly weird you’d also been acting, he’d been friendly. You couldn’t say the staring and prodding questions were too in-character for you. At least not when it came to customers. 

His hair looked softer without the wig to weigh it down-- parted at his brow and long enough to fluff over the tips of his ears and end where his neck met his spine. You reached down to scoop the curly mop of synthetic hair up off the floor.

“Where did you get this thing?”

He hummed something like ‘I don’t know’, his eyes sort of wide like a clueless puppy’s. 

“What, you just kind of have it?”

“Yea’p.”

You squinted at him, a smirk forming on your lips. “How about I do you a favor and throw this away?”

He shrugged, hummed an ‘alright’ sound, and turned away. 

“Oh no, I was kidding! God, here--!” You had to grab his wrist to stop him from wandering off further and placed the pink afro in his hand.

You had just been trying to tease him, but now you just felt bad. “Look, Wilford, you want something to eat? We have to throw the hot food out every night. You can have a taquito or a slice of pizza or something if you want.”

Then he was frozen again-- staring down at where your fingers wrapped around his wrist. Your eyes followed his gaze down and then you were staring too.

A moment passed. Then two. Finally, you let go and crossed your arms again, tucking your hands away where they couldn’t embarrass you again.

“... Fuck, I’m sorry. I-I don’t know why I did that.” You did your best to clear your throat.

But he was still stuck there. He blinked a few times and his gaze met your eyes, his brows gathering together. 

“Wh-What did you say your name was, friend?” He seemed so… serious all of sudden. So dire.

You hadn’t mentioned it yet, but told him with a hesitant voice. 

His expression blanked, eyes widening. He brought his arm, the offending afro in tow, to his chest, touching his wrist where you’d held it.

“Oh…” 

You raised your brows and asked softly, “Sorry, do you know me, then?”

“Hm?” And he blinked like his mind was clearing, like he’d forgotten you were there. 

He cleared his throat, smiled-- ear to ear-- his mustache lopsided like a cartoon. “Oh-- nevermind about that! Some food would be lovely, if you don’t mind.”

His eyes were sparkling. 

“Sure. I mean, it’s nothing fancy. Here,” And you walked over towards the front counter. Wilford trailed close behind you-- holding onto the wig in his hands like a school kid holding a lunch box-- his gaze wandering over the store again like he hadn’t seen it the first time.

You arrived at the hot foods section, a glassed-off section of day-old food over heated rods. You shrugged. “If you have a sensitive stomach, maybe don’t,” you started, “but it’s mostly fine to be honest. I eat it if I’m in a pinch, you know.”

You hopped up to sit on the counter, your legs facing Wilford, and leaned back to reach around and grab the tongs waiting there. You straightened and clapped them together twice. You offered him a smile. “What’ll it be, Mr. Warfstache?” Then a quieter, “--that was your last name right?”

“Do you gravitate towards anything yourself?”

“Can’t go wrong with a slice of pizza, I guess. Even here.”

His smile grew sort of soft. “Then that. If you please.”

“You got it.”

You leaned over again and served up the slice of moderately warm and slightly greasy pizza on a brown napkin and passed it off to him. 

“Much obliged.”

You got one for yourself too, and when you righted and your eyes found Wilford again, he was sitting in a retro-style diner chair you’d never seen before-- his feet against the edge of the counter beside you.

You couldn’t help the surprised laughter that choked out of you. “Wha-- where did you even find that?”

The chair teetered on its two legs as he leaned precariously back, tilting his head at your question. The pink wig sat in his lap and you couldn’t help thinking it looked like some weird dog.

“Well, there’s no need to worry! I’m only borrowing it, I’m not a barbarian.”

And you just knew you weren’t getting more of an answer than that.

“So who even are you?” You asked as he took a bite of the pizza, somehow pulling all the cheese right off the top in one piece. He pouted down at the offending mozzarella, slurping it into his mouth and swallowing it. “Do you live around here?”

“Mm. I don’t really live anywhere. Much more the exploring-- ever on the move-- type.”

He was so expressive. It really felt like talking to an old cartoon come-to-life or something. You turned to lean against the side of the glass cover, swinging your legs so your feet rested on the counter, not far from his still against the edge. You weren’t touching at all, but you were surprised at how quickly the two of you fell into a casual-- albeit timidly curious-- rhythm. 

“So what do you do?” And you began to eat too.

He beamed, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes. “I’m an interviewer! Warfstache Tonight, that’s what my show is called! It’s quite a professional endeavor!”

You smiled and hummed around your bite of pizza, impressed. That actually explained a lot. And it suited him nicely enough. “Sounds pretty glamorous.”

“And what about you? You can’t just be a convenience store clerk!” He seemed so affronted by the idea. Crinkling his nose, dropping his voice an octave. “How dreadfully boring.”

You winced. “‘Just a convenience store clerk?’ Ouch, Wilford…” You couldn’t help frowning down at your slice. 

 “Oh! No no, pardon me!” He let the chair fall back to four legs, waving the idea way with a panicked hand. “I only meant that… this isn't what truly stirs your passions, is it? Do you do anything at your leisure? For work or just… something you enjoy?”

You squinted at him. But you didn’t really think he was trying to insult you. And he wasn’t wrong. It just… wasn’t always the most fun when someone pointed it out. Especially like that. 

You sighed, fidgeting as you considered his question. “Not right now… This job keeps me pretty occupied. But you know, it’s not too bad. It keeps me, I don’t know, grounded I guess.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded, taking another bite. “I do hope you get more opportunities soon, then.” He said, surprisingly grounded.

You looked at him. “... Thanks.” And you meant it.

“And… my apologies for the earlier, uh, miswording.”

 “That’s fine… I’d be curious to hear more about your show, though! Have you interviewed anyone interesting or anything?”

A beat. A sort of tiredness settled into his shoulders and he peered up at you. “The odd gold-star guest did wander in from time to time. I’m not sure if my skills were quite deserving of them at the time.”

Was that… shame?

“The truth is, I couldn’t quite live up to the role. I--” He laughed, pained. He cleared his throat. “I’m taking a bit of a break from show business for the moment.”

Ah. So that’s what happened. You offered him a sympathetic smile. “To party? That’s probably why you don’t have any money, Wilford. And why you have to rely on shitty convenience store food?” You held up your greasy napkin like it was evidence.

“Now don’t underestimate the power of a good party! And this food is fine, I’m grateful for it,” He crumpled the now empty napkin and gestured wildly with it. “The truth is I get by just fine. I’m just not sure what else I should be doing.”

You looked out the front windows. The sky was getting lighter. The timer marking the end of your shift would go off any minute.

So maybe that’s why he’d been asking you about your passions. You felt bad for him. He was strange, to be sure. And a little hard to follow. But he was also… sweet. He had a softness about him.

And still… there was that feeling that hadn’t disappeared since meeting him. Like… like your soul recognized him. Maybe not deeply. But distantly. Like you’d met him in a dream. It was a ridiculous notion. Ridiculous didn’t seem beyond his territory.

You turned, legs coming down from the counter once again. You leaned forward, your hand landing at the junction of his shoulder and neck. His silk shirt was soft under your fingers. His eyes jumped up to yours and you looked down at him with a smile. 

“You liked doing your show right? You want to be an interviewer?”

He nodded slowly. His lashes fluttered. 

“Then that’s what you should be doing! You just have to try again!” You shrugged with one shoulder. “It might suck a lot. And you might fail again. But pick yourself back up. Keep going. I’m sure you can do it if you keep at it and think outside the box, you know. Failing only means failing if you stop.”

You leaned back, your hand sliding away. He stared at you.

“That’s what the rest of us do, anyway. Honestly, maybe you should do your show online! You know, livestream it or something. I’m sure you’d find your own way to it.”

Slowly, a smile crept back in, the corners of his eyes creasing. 

“What a wonderful idea…” 

God, his eyes… 

You looked down at your own napkin, laughing a little at yourself. “Wilford, I promise, the advice I just gave you was nothing crazy.”

“Well, perhaps it’s just a little too rare that I get a pick-me-up.”

You hopped down from the counter. “Swing by whenever, I’ll hand them out for free. Though, if you’re always on the move, I guess you’re probably not in town for long, huh?”

He quickly followed your lead and stood, his chair nearly falling in his haste. “Uh— w-well I, I don’t know, I could always… linger for a day or two. Hard to say really.” 

“Uh huh.” You smirked at him, raising your brows. “Well, if that constant partying you have going on brings you back here, feel free stop in, okay? … It’d be nice to have someone in here every once in a while. Well, someone friendly, anyway.” 

“Right. Will do. Of course.”

You gave him two solid pats on the chest and turned to throw the napkins away behind the counter. When you turned to face him again, he was gone.  Only slightly confused, you quickly recovered and yelled a quick, “bye~!” to the now empty store.

[fgfluidity]

mirror | manor (chapter 11)

Summary: After the events of Mirror | Void, a newly-christened Dark has two goals: take revenge on Mark, and, hopefully…

Find the DA.

Pairings: Damien/Dark x DA; Actor x DA (Implied, could be read as gen)

Warnings: none

Tagged: @opprose @volbeast @statictay @otterlyinluv @buc-eebarnes @flerpdederp @mirrorslament @hapikiou (if anyone else would like to be tagged hmu!)

i'm sorry this took almost three years to come out-

find it on ao3 | donate to my kofi

Dark knows the game.

Of course he does— he read the script.

He just expected them to see through it.

Then again... they haven’t seen through anything Mark’s done. They just don’t remember.

He can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.

He sticks to the shadows as they approach, entirely too darling in what amounts to a burglar’s costume, as they wriggle their way inside.

Mark is his own brand of buffoon, and the ‘guards’ he hired match it to the letter, not a drop serious or truly threatening.

(“Sorry I didn’t message you first,” he says, brushing out bits of glass from his hair. “I tried to jam the cell signal and, um… it’s just broken.”)

Imbecile.

Even the dog is there, playing a role. How droll.

Even if she is a very good girl.

All throughout this, he watches for the guard’s radios, for a television screen, for— for anything that he might use to sway the DA, catch their attention without Mark noticing.

If he can just separate them—

The thing is, though, Mark is either ridiculously prepared for his planning, or is completely thoughtless about small, realistic details; throughout the entire museum, no guard has a radio, no wall has a screen.

Not ones that work, anyway— not a connection to anything remotely electromagnetic. Props at best. It’s the least technologically-advanced modern building Dark has been in since…

Well, since he left that manor, but that hardly counts.

The point stands that he’s unable to do much of anything but watch as the DA rolls their eyes and smiles at Mark’s antics, creeps quietly along while the man makes a fool of himself, face set and focused.

He’s seen that look. Pre-trial look. All business.

And they called him too serious all that time ago.

So fondly…

At any rate, their supposed treasure is both easy to get to and utterly unremarkable. A wooden case, carved but hardly special wood, the gem plastic even from his vantage point. A prop, like everything else.

And yet…

Mark lifts the box, and—

This is the end of the script. A successful heist, hightailing it out before they get caught, a seemingly-sincere thanks for help.

But there’s something. Like a little nudge, something like how he feels using the void, how the Earth seems to shift when the Host speaks creation.

The alarm trips.

Mark gives them a choice. Sneak out, or face the guards.

Perhaps... perhaps he overlooked. Perhaps he was given a working script, not the final draft.

Perhaps it’s another of Mark’s machinations.

There was no choice. Why is there a choice?

Why do they get a choice?

It doesn’t matter, really, because the DA picks exactly as he expected they would.

“We have to sneak out, it’s too dangerous, otherwise,” they say, just barely audible over the blaring alarm.

Mark’s face crumbles into a pout. “You’re no fun,” he whines— like a toddler; Dark half expects him to start stomping his feet— but he dutifully uncovers the sewer entrance, grumbling all the way.

The DA just watches, arms crossed. Petty.

They didn’t used to be so petty, but Mark deserves it, if anyone.

Dark very well understands that the entire thing is engineered, a massive staged undertaking to fool the DA and entertain an audience, unseen to his eyes but present all the same.

It doesn’t stop the trip through the sewers any less harrowing, doesn’t prevent him from using his unique position to draw attention away from the DA if ever they come a hair too close to getting caught.

It might be fake, but…

He doesn’t put it past Mark to introduce some very real danger. He’s a method actor, and he’d want his players to follow accordingly for maximum effect.

Dramatic ass.

They follow dutifully behind the entire way through the dark, though— and he notes it with a point of pride, one he chalks up to just how put out Mark seems— with a good amount of non-verbal sass. They cross their arms, roll their eyes, and stubbornly march right along behind Mark.

Not that Mark doesn’t try to get rid of them— oh, he tries to shake them like gum stuck to his shoe, and it’s a thrill to see him huff and grumble when they simply shake their head. He pouts— at several points! So very childish.

Then—

Hm. Unsurprising that the creator of this convoluted mess would whip up some way to surely remove them; if there’s one possible thing they’d listen to above anything else, it’s a worksite safety sign.

Not for lack of effort, though. “I… I really don’t know if we should split up, Mark,” they say, casting an uneasy glance back at the tunnel they just left. “I know it says only one, but if something happens—“

“Nothing’s going to happen! Nothing bad has happened even once!” His bright grin only gets a— astoundingly dry— look in return. It’s nearly impressive that he barrels on, anyway. “It’s for safety, buddy! You’re all about safety— and! We’re synchronized! In five minutes you just follow me over. Or I follow you, whichever.”

Mark gives them a once over, all while grinning, and if Dark wasn’t looking— wasn’t incensed at the familiarity— he wouldn’t have noticed, wouldn’t have cared. Alas.

It’s too… possessive. Too pleased.

He doesn’t need Damien in his head to stoke his rage, it seems, not anymore. The only thing that stops him is what Mark says next.

“You have a choice, sunflower.”

A choice. There it is again, more choices, as if giving them the power to change any of this. Giving them a say.

So they don’t feel trapped.

Aren’t they, though? If Mark wrote everything, created everything, what kind of choice is it?

However…

They glance back at the shadowy tunnel again, frowning, worrying at the sleeves of their top in a too-familiar pattern. If they turn back, they’ll be away from him. How far apart can they both get in five minutes?

How far apart do they need to be for him to intervene?

This is his chance. It may well be the only one he’ll get, and the margin of error is far too slim for his liking— he must get this right. He must say the right thing— and pray they don’t hate or fear him.

Thankfully, time goes a little off-kilter in the Void, or else he’d have to make a very quick plan.

He’ll have to ease them in. See what they could possibly remember from that night, prod what needs prodding. It’s an easy enough parlor trick to conjure up a memory these days.

After that… what could he say?

Damien— he— was never short for words in his past life. As mayor— as councilman, as law student, as debate captain, as his father’s son— he simply had to be good with them, and he was.

Not quite so smoothly charismatic as Mark, not as bombastic and warm as Wil, but— well, he didn’t make mayor through his familial connections, whatever certain parts of his constituency may have believed. He delivered his speeches, his debates, with calm strength, something personable but solid.

Hell, he—

He used to write them for fun. The person— people, really— standing right outside this pocket of Void once teased him.

How are you writing a paper now? Finals are over! Come on, live a little!

Even I don’t want to spend all summer in a library. Won’t you come with me? There are new flowers in the arboretum!

The memory comes unbidden, and throws him off-balance; thankfully, he doesn’t fall out of his incorporeal state or ruin any of his planning.

Such a memory… but how? That’s more of Damien’s—

He hasn’t heard him. Not since that agonizing split when he entered their dream.

Mayhaps they didn’t split.

Mayhaps—

“Well… if you’re sure, Mark,” they sigh, hardly thrilled at the idea. “But it has to be five minutes. If you disappear on me—“

“Relax! It’ll be okay, you’ll see me. Sheesh, you’re so serious.” Mark huffs— then straightens himself. Smiles, even as they turn away, towards Dark. “Yes, alright! You go down that tunnel, I’ll go down this tunnel. If you see anything, and I mean anything, you just turn that sweet little tuchus around and—“

He’s had about enough of that. With hardly more than a thought, he whisks Mark away elsewhere, wherever elsewhere may be, and rolls out his Hall of Memories.

And prays.

They used to pride themself on being unflappable, before, and he can see shades of it, now: their face remains the same, alert but not startled as they take in the paintings, the dust swirling in the beam of their flashlight.

He knew the truth of that, though, and it, too, remains; you need not look at their face for their feelings, but their hands.

Though one holds the flashlight, all ten fingers are in motion— tapping the length of the flashlight, curling and uncurling in their sleeve, the belt loop, the zippers and buttons of their bag. Moving for comfort, perhaps— certainly no expression of joy, as the rest of them is ramrod-straight, stiff with each step.

He longs— longs, what is happening to him— to say something to ease the anxiety, raise the darkness, but he can’t. This is no matter he can explain with soft, comforting words and a pot of tea. His powers aren’t of light at all.

They can, though, reach an electromagnetic signal, and now that they’re alone, he pushes through his thoughts.

Finally, you’re away from him. Aren’t you tired of it?

What?

He’s running you ragged. Don’t you feel like you’re running in circles?

That’s not what he said— not quite, anyway.

They won’t tell you anything. No one seems to question it.

Why can’t he change it?

I know you’re in there. But I thought you’d see through it.

The final painting, of the monster himself, grinning like a fool. It begins to crumble before them both— they step back, fingers tight around both phone and flashlight— and Dark gets a split second of pure dread before—

Before—

My villain. I wrote everything. Even you.

It’s not painful. It’s not— it’s not even close to the searing split of the dreamworld, nothing to the pain in his stolen body, nuts compared to his shattered leg almost a century ago. It doesn’t hurt at all.

He almost wishes it did.

“Same snake, different skin,” he muses, and something inside him quails at the sight of fear— truly, rare fear— in their eyes when they turn to take him in. “Always spinning his yarns, his webs, his lies.”

He means to say it. He means to say he’s nothing but a monster in human skin, that they’re being dragged one way or another at his whims— he doesn’t mean to sound so… angry. So—

Villainous.

He screams, though it doesn’t come out— not of this body. Instead, there’s the discomfort of a fragment, juddering, lashing void in every direction. He only keeps enough sense to keep it away from them.

Without him— without him!— his body paces, a smile too similar to Mark’s on his face. “Perhaps we’ve met a hundred times already, and you simply don’t remember it. Perhaps you’re tired of me repeating myself over and over and over and over again!”

He’s seen them a hundred times, but have they met? Has he said anything to them, his desperate wish for them to remember and leave simply that, a wish?

No. This is Mark’s doing, but he’s far from the only one with power. Dark pushes past the discomfort, past the fragments that shatter out of him, and tries to touch it. Tries to see what, exactly, controls him.

It’s a web.

Not unlike a spider’s, really, glimmering threads of words in several different directions, coalescing into bright points of light wherever they meet.

Ah, the choices. Planned for, then— prolonging the make-believe.

He sees an island man. He sees a brilliant scientist. He sees a pirate, an adventurer, a prisoner. He sees their end a dozen times, more, always coming back to the start.

He sees himself— but his point, his thread, is loose.

Not so in control now, are you, Mark?

They must know. They have to know.

With what little wriggle room he has, he reaches out— and changes a couple letters. One at each point. Nothing shifts, nothing breaks, but something is different— hopefully, different enough for his clever attorney to find.

They’re the sharpest he’s ever known. If anyone could, it’s them.

He settles back into his body, still speaking without him— without him!— and pacing before a desk. It doesn’t feel so wrong with his newfound confidence… in fact—

“You want answers.” He smiles to himself, happy to have control again, and for the hell of it, picks up the glass of wine— seemingly, so kindly provided for by the writer. “Well, games were always his forte.”

He’s not sure of the vintage, or even sure of the varietal, given the monochrome nature of his Void, but he takes a sip, anyway.

He tries hard not to gag, but can’t hide his wince. For all his budget, Mark hardly splurged on something decent, it seems.

Suppose that’s the loss of his wine cellar at work.

“But allow me this one moment of self indulgence.”

He sets the wine down. Neither of them will be partaking of it.

“Excuse me—“ 

He stops, holding the box— the conduit in this little foray into pretend— and looks at them from atop the desk. They’re— smiling a little. Not big, but it’s theirs, and if his heart still beat— “Yes?”

“Why’d you pick that wine if you didn’t like it?”

He wants to laugh. Oh, he wants to laugh at that, because in the face of— quite frankly— something frightening and beyond their control, they’re teasing it. He loves them.

He loves them.

“I didn’t,” he admits, truthfully. There’s something so warm in his chest, something he can’t prevent from showing on his face, so fond. “Sometimes we take what we’re given, for better or for worse. This game, for instance. This box.

“So much trouble, all for something so small.” He looks to them curiously, smile fading. “Do you want to know what’s inside this box?

“I didn’t imagine we’d have to be in sewers to get it,” they add dryly. “After all this, I definitely want to know, and it has to be something worth it, or else.”

He’d laugh at the thought, them tearing into Mark for dragging them over hill and dale, but he’s seen what lies ahead. They’ll have time to do it, and the nudging at his body indicates he’s rather short of time himself. “Well, I know how much you like a good game, so throughout your… adventures, I’ve hidden codes. Several codes. Find them all, and you’ll get your truth.”

They don’t look especially pleased at that, but the light comes into their eyes despite the slump of their shoulders— the light that kept them up all night with an encyclopedia or three, classes next morning be damned. “More games. Why am I not surprised?”

They eye him for a few long seconds, brow furrowed, even as the Void rumbles and sparks around them both. It’s too familiar, as if they’re reading him down to his core. “You aren’t Mark, are you? Not some character. But… you’re so familiar. Who… who are you?”

He could give them his name. It might spark something for them, kickstart whatever process they need to regain their memory of what happened. He wouldn’t even care if they screamed at him for all he put them through.

The Void, though, shakes and cracks, and he shakes his head with a slight frown and a mountain of regret. He has a modicum of control, still, but not fully. Not right now. “That’s all I’m going to give you.”

They open their mouth, but the Void winks them away, gone to their next run.

All he can do is sit and watch from here.

[elenavr13]

Echoes of Old Friends

Darkiplier x DA

Warnings: swearing

After the events of WKM, the DA attempts to move on & create a life for themselves despite being trapped in the mirror. Against their hopes & wishes, their past seeks them out in the form of a familiar face.

*What Could Have Been- Sting*

*I may expand this & turn it into a complete story in the future.*

--------------

            Daylight filters through the cracked glass reflecting the main entrance of the decrepit, forgotten manor. Mindlessly flipping through the pages of one of the books I have read a thousand times, I suddenly feel a chill crawl down my spine. What the hell? The physical feeling startles me back to reality because I haven’t felt anything like that in years. Immediately, I close the book & scan the room, nothing not even in the outside world. Faint tapping screams through the silence-drowned manor. Probably just the weather. After a few seconds, it occurs again. This time I realize the odd sound is coming from inside the house. My mind starts spinning with ideas of what type of animal has climbed through a broken window or one of the rotting walls. Maybe it’s another raccoon coming to search through the rubble or maybe the squirrel I saw the other day has come back. Excited to see a living creature, I get up to find it. Before I can even travel to the next reflection, a voice freezes me in place.

            “Y/n, I know you’re in there. Come out.” There’s people here!

            “Y/n?” I whisper to myself. Something about that name tugs at my heart. Then again that voice is also eerily familiar. I jump from reflection to reflection searching for any sign of the people with no luck. Suddenly, the realization hits me. Y/n, that was- is my name. My name is Y/n. I haven’t heard that name in years. The last time I…that voice…Damien?  Appearing in the mirror that holds my soul hostage, I see the man who used me & shattered my heart. Sorrow in addition to hope consumes me upon seeing him but it quickly gets replaced by bubbling rage.

            “Why are you back?” I seethe.

            “You don’t seem very pleased to see me.” His smooth voice provokes me.

            “& why should I be? You’re the last person I ever want to see.”

            His jaw clenches but he continues. “I can get you out of there.”

            “I don’t want your help.”

            He smirks. “Stubborn as always but I can give you what you want. All I’m asking is that you…”

            “I want you to leave.” He appears taken back.

            “Even after all these years you still blame me. We were happy before that night & we can still be happy if you will only listen to me.” Anger emanates from his voice as it increases in volume.

            Unfazed by his temper, I snap back. “We? There is no ‘we’ not after what you did, Damien.”

            “It’s Dark now.” He sneers

            “Oh, I apologize, Dark.”

            “That snake took everything away from me! I was merely protecting you from him. It was for the best.”

            “You know what would have been ‘for the best’? If I had never agreed to your fucking deal. I trusted you & you betrayed me. Mark may have been the cause of all this but he never did anything to me. You on the other hand took everything away from me! I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. Just leave me alone! Leave me alone like you have for the past however many years it’s been.”

            “91” My anger immediately dissolves from his simple answer. 91? It’s been 91 years since that night? I’ve been trapped in a reflection utterly alone for nearly a century?

            “You just expect me to agree to your plan after you abandoned me for a century? I’ve managed to make some semblance of a life without you- without anyone for that matter. I Don’t Need You. Why do you even want to ‘help’ me? I don’t have anything anymore. I am just a reflection of a person because of you. So tell me, what are you going to gain from ‘helping’ me? ”

            He continues to stare back with a blank expression which only ticks me off more. Before I do anything irrational –like I could– I begin to leave to another reflection in the manor. “I miss you.” His baritone voice stops me.

            Without turning back around to face him, I say, “Little late for that, Damien.”

            A deep growl keeps me in place. “I tried to play nice & you still view me as the bad guy. I thought you were better than that.” This time I spin on my heels to face the man I used to believe was my friend.

            “& I thought you were better than to destroy what we had.”

            “I didn’t destroy…”

            “Go ahead, keep blaming Mark for your actions.” Suddenly he takes a hold of the frame surrounding my vision of the outside world & rips the mirror off the wall.

            “I have heard enough of your insolence.”

            “Put Me Back! Damien, put…”

            “Stop calling me that name!” I glare daggers at him but he seems to be amused by it. “How are you even going to stop me, doll?”

            “I’m not your doll.” Rage gets the best of me I throw a punch which would have made contact with his smug face if not for the glass separating us. Instead of flinching, his smirk just grows as he leaves the manor with me in tow. I attempt to jump to another reflection but some force keeps me tethered to the single, wretched, glass prison. Knowing there is nothing I can do, I fall silent, exhausted from my outburst. Why can’t I just be happy? I was just starting to get better & move on. Now Damie- Dark is back to remind me of the life that was stolen from me. What did I do to deserve this endless suffering?

[gottawriteanegoortwo]

Mayor Attorney - The Charity Gala

Tonight was the night of the charity gala, one that had been highly anticipated for some time now. There had been a large drive across the city to organise small events to raise money for a good cause, and this gala was no different. The organisers had put a lot of care into making sure everything would go just right. The guest list included both the Mayor and the District Attorney, along with names that Damien eagerly reminded you of. People that had supported him in his campaign, patrons, and not a single person that would give him a stress headache trying to avoid for the entire night.

It was strange to know it was one that Damien had no direct involvement in, but that was a nice relief knowing that he might actually be able to enjoy himself. As Mayor, he would have to socialise and make his presence known, but you hoped he would have time to just be Damien for a little while.

It would be nice. The previous few weeks were too busy for both of you to find time for a date, and you had already agreed to attend this event together. Would it be wrong to make the most of the night?

-

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror so you could make the final adjustments to your hair. Your choice of outfit was a simple one - neat and black, plain and simple. It had been Damien's idea to co-ordinate with only black, but you couldn't ignore the suspicion bubbling up. Damien, a man who loves the chance to dress up nicely, the man who had once confessed that doing so was a 'guilty pleasure', opting for something ordinary? He had something planned.

But what? Damien wouldn't want to do anything that would throw him in the spotlight when he didn't want to be. He also wasn't someone who would add a flamboyant flair to his outfit. 

Before you could mull further on what said 'plan' could be, there was a knock on the door. He was here. Your hair would have to do. A coat with money in a buttoned-up pocket was plucked off a chair on your dash to the door.

Damien stood in the doorway like a lingering shadow. He had kept his side of the deal. His black suit was pristine, with barely a crease in sight. The mayoral ribbon he wore for public events was the perfect shade to blend in with the material. His shoes were barely visible thanks to your shadow obscuring them. Even his shirt and bowtie were barely discernable from the jacket. What you did notice was the lack of accessory on the right lapel. He was known for wearing a flower, and you had expected him to find a black blossom.

The cane was neatly tucked under his left arm so he could carefully hold a small bouquet of white roses with both hands, as though afraid a mere breeze would damage them.

"I'm sorry," he smiled bashfully when he noticed your eyes drop down to the flowers, "I know we had agreed that we weren't to give any gifts ahead of our 'date' but… they were in their prime, and I couldn't help but be reminded of your sweet smile. You look perfect tonight, my love." 

Ah, Damien. Roses might be a symbol of love, but you knew they were one of Damien's favourites, even before you two started dating. Once you let slip that you preferred the white blooms over the red ones, they became a reminder of you. You playfully rolled your eyes, accepted the bouquet, and invited him in so you could fetch a container of water to house them in. You would never be forgiven if they were left to dry out in the open air all night.

As you began placing the stems into their temporary, watery home, your gaze drifted over to Damien. He had stayed near the entrance, staying quiet so you could focus on your task and occupying himself with admiring the pictures on the wall. It was a common tactic he used for the sake of good manners. You waved a rose to get his attention, joking that you thought he had long lost 'guest' privilege by now.

You hit the nail on the head as he sheepishly chuckled and scratched his cheek.

"Ah. Yes. Well… This is a date, and I don't wish to behave so casually when it is the first time we've been together in a while." He paused as he noticed your wave beckoning him over. Who was he to argue with that? Slowly, he crossed the space to where you were working. "I simply want to make this a special night, and make sure you know how thankful I am that it is me you love." Your hands were preoccupied, and he took advantage of this to kiss your cheek.

The wall of formality was finally lowered, as Damien relaxed enough to engage in casual conversation about how the day went for both of you. His cane

For those few moments, you had forgotten the purpose of the night, until you glanced in his direction and was reminded of the empty lapel. You were quick to point this out.

"I did think one of my flowers would be a little too 'much' for a night that I have no involvement in. However, I did have an idea." He put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out two small, heart-shaped pins. One was red, the other was green. "A little gesture to show support, wouldn't you say?"

You flashed him a knowing smile. Your hunch was right, but you never would have expected how simple the act would be. He handed you the green pin so he could set to work putting the red one on your outfit.

"Sometimes, we have to remember the purpose for an event like this. It isn't merely to show how 'good' we are, or to make ourselves feel better. It's to help those who need it, and show that they aren't alone when it feels otherwise." With both pins in place, Damien stepped back to admire his handiwork. "There. Perfect."

You had a playful grin as you shook your head. You couldn't go just yet. His pin wasn't perfect, you claimed, as you reached back to the pin you had just put on him. He believed you, and that was his mistake. It left him open for your hands to swiftly move to either side of his face and pull him toward you for a kiss. When you leaned back, you saw a familiar lovestruck expression plastered on his face that you adored.

You asked if you should both get going to the gala. He nodded, leaning forward to close that gap between you one more time before it was time to go.

-

-

Do you want to help make a charity gala a success? Why don't you go check out Heropliers4Palestine, a week-long event dedicated to raising money to help the Palestine Children's Relief Fund (PCRF). Click here for more information on how you can support a good cause or help raise awareness, and get yourself something special and made just for you in return!

[buc-eebarnes]

truth is only hearsay

Start with misdemeanors and we'll make a business out of them.

pairing: mayorattorney

tags: pre-wkm, moral dilemmas, implied extortion, corruption, tension

rated G || 991 words

“I—I don’t know what you want me to say, Damien,” you feigned a laugh. Your palms were sweating. Your mind felt like cotton. “Are you—are you yanking my chain right now?” He shook his head. His voice was gravelly. “No. No, I'm not.” After a beat, “What would be the charges?”

read on ao3!

[colby-jac-cheese]

Was drawing something for my Fanfic, had to stop halfway to do my duolingo, and ended up merging the two. Enjoy I guess?

Look their super toxic but they both knowingly consent to that toxicity so . . . Is it still toxic then?

Translation: 'love me.' 'Feed me.'

[faeriescorpio]

There is a crack.

Years pass and it never grows.

Your cage always changes, but the glass still keeps you trapped.

A mirror, a helmet, a screen.

The crack remains.

You reach out and feel it’s sharp edges.

You reach out and only feel glass.

No sound gets through, no wailing, no crying, no rage and no desperation.

The cage of glass is a curse,

To see through and change nothing all the same.

Hope is a fragile thing.

Your cage always changes, but remains strong

And yet,

In every iteration,

The crack remains.

So you reach out.

Please excuse the deranged tags but they will also give insight into whatever I’m going on about with this

[maniacwatchestheworld]

So I had a thought the other day.

Maaaaaybe I have a thing for District Attorneys that get half of their face fucked up and disfigured... >.>

[dave-bot2002]

Another older headcannon I don't know if I posted.

the D.A y/n is both inside actor marks stories and in the mirror. Everyone knows they're there but mark sees them daily and dark is so obsessed with killing mark he doesn't visit. Abe used to visit the house (since he died before we did and so doesn't know we're in the mirror.) but still wished to pay respects and remember why he's tracking the cornel but after he got turned by wilford, he just stopped visiting at some point.

But wilford, he remembers... sort of. He remembers he has to go there, and leaves flowers on the mantle piece in front of the mirror and begins talking to it, but can't remember why he feels he has to do it. But also feels bad when he doesn't. All he knows is that that house feels dangerous and familiar but that mirror feels like an old friend.

[coolmayordamien]

Sweet Damien/(Y/N) the District Attorney fluff drabble because I cannot be stopped.

"My dearest friend," Damien greets you warmly, his eyes sparkling with unfeigned delight as he grasps your hands in his own. His ever-present cane leans against the bench that he has just vacated.

You cannot help but to grin in the face of his abject happiness. It never ceases to amaze you that a man such as this--wealthy, influential, handsome--can take so much pleasure from your company alone.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet me here," he says softly, politetly guiding you to the bench. The park that he has asked you to is not one that you have visited before, and it is lovely. There are many walking trails to choose from, a few of which seem to lead off into more private, wooded areas. You would like to walk with him, but his leg still gives him some trouble. You do not want to upset him by asking.

"Thank you for inviting me," you answer back. You are pleased to note a faint blush is dusting his features. It makes him look quite sweet.

Judging by the way he favors his right leg as he joins you on the bench, you were correct not to ask him to walk the trails with you today. That is just as well; it is thrilling enough to be sat next to him, watching people as they pass you by.

It seems to you that Damien has placed himself closer to you than is strictly necessary; although there is plenty of space to his other side, the pair of you are close enough that you can feel his body heat radiating through his suit jacket. If you were to shift slightly, your legs would be touching.

Some time passes in pleasant silence as you watch the world pass by. You and Damien do not always need words to understand each other. This is one of your favorite things about your old friend. You are simply comfortable together in a way that you do not experience with anyone else.

Eventually, though, he breaks the silence.

"My dearest friend," Damien says thoughtfully. "It is true, you know. You are the dearest person to my heart. Were our friendship ever to reach a parting, (Y/N), I simply do not know what I would do."

"Then I suppose that it's a good thing that we will always be friends," you say softly, placing a hand on his knee. You are startled when his own hand covers yours. It is warm, as warm as your cheeks are growing, and it feels so right to have your hand in his.

"I am so happy to hear you say that," Damien says earnestly, holding your gaze for such a long time that you can feel your blush growing.

"But," he continues, and your heart plummets, "I am afraid...I am afraid that I have been...I have not been forthright with you as of late, my friend."

"Damien?" you ask, your mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

He is quite pale as he says, "I find my thoughts turning to you...quite often. I think of your smile, your friendship, your laugh. I think of the way you rob me blind in poker, smirking all the while, and I--my thoughts, (Y/N), have not been...quite gentlemanly. I believe that my feelings for you have evolved quite without my permission."

You cannot say a thing, and he turns away from you. His hand tightens over your own as if he cannot control it.

"I have grown quite fond of you," he whispers haltingly. "I...mayhaps I...mayhaps I even care for you in a- a romantic sense."

"Damien," you say gently. He faces you once again, his expression one that seems to be prepared for rejection. You cannot help but to turn your hand in his, lacing your fingers together.

"I am quite fond of you as well," you grin, and his face lights up. You place the palm of your free hand against his cheek, which is lightly dusted with stubble. His eyes close as if the touch has caused him great pain, or great pleasure.

"I am so glad," Damien breathes as he leans in to graze your lips with his own. "So very glad, my dear."

[seraph-draws-stuff]

something something friends and almost lovers to enemies to frenemies to antagonistic lovers

[fgfluidity]

testing 123

Summary: After the events of bon appetit, the DA has some questions. (Vampire!Damien AU)

Pairings: Damien/DA

Warnings: mentions of blood, coercion, damien being a minor punching bag, adultery

buy me a coffee?

@opprose​ @statictay​ @volbeast​ @otterlyinluv​ @mirrorslament​

“It’s a bunch of flowers.”

“Yes!” The DA smiles at him over their notebook, pen poised to take notes. They already have half a dozen filled pages, and their enthusiasm hasn’t diminished one bit. “Specifically, roses. Careful of the thorns, I couldn’t get all of them off in time.”

Damien fixes them with a raised eyebrow, but he can’t stop a slow smile. It’s just too contagious. “You want to see how I react to roses but you’re worried about me getting pricked?”

It’s a guilty pleasure, really, teasing them. They close their mouth against a prepared response, a little wrinkle forming between their brows as their eyes flick away. “Well,” they mutter, and oh, how wonderful that embarrassment sounds. “We haven’t gotten to that part, yet.”

He grins. “And you care about me.”

“Just sniff your flowers,” they bite back.

He’s pleased enough to catch the beginnings of another smile, and it’s enough to help push back the beast that craves the additional warmth emanating from them. He’s fed, and it’s them.

It’s just some flowers. He puts his nose to them and takes a deep breath.

—

It started when they came to the counter and slammed down a thick file.

“Sorry.” They wince, looking over the cool gray stone. Befitting the material, the counter is unharmed, and they breathe a sigh of relief. “Yes, well, I have some research.”

“Clearly.” He looks over the folder, eyebrows raised in surprise. Thick might just be an understatement; from the looks of it, his friend has amassed a small library’s worth of documents and notes in a stack rivaling the length of his thumb. Hand- or type-written, it’s a lot of effort put in. “What caught you so, this time?”

It’s hardly unusual for them to get caught up in a deep dive of research. It served them— and him, if he’s honest— quite well in university. Hours of lectures and coursework and other responsibilities cut true study time short. Law school is an unforgiving mistress, but with a pot or three of strong coffee or tea and his friend’s unusual quirks, it seemed far more manageable.

If, perhaps, at the cost of said friend’s well-being. Not that he could stop them if he tried, and he has.

Now, it’s thankfully more often relegated to just passing fancies, with the occasional case. Learning about the intricacies of literary symbolism, about animal communication, about the names of both stars and plants… at least this kind of study brings a smile to their face to accompany their dark circles.

Not unlike the one crossing their face now, really. “Something quite important, actually. All of this“ — they slide a hand over the folder to demonstrate— “is a week’s study of… your condition.”

The last few words come quietly, their smile fading with a furtive look around at any potential bystanders— of which there are few in the mostly-empty luncheonette. Damien’s hearing, however, is finer than it ever used to be, and he quickly swallows a burning mouthful of black coffee to avoid drawing any other attention with a spit-take. “Excuse me?”

He knows they know. As much as they pretended to not remember that hungry, desperate night, they did. They still do. Why else lower their voice? Why else make up so flimsy an excuse as thorns?

Loathe as he may be to have his constituency know, everyone’s quite well aware that their mayor is ill, in need of regular medication. His meeting with that journalist made that certain, and they’re the one who suggested it; protecting his medical history can’t be part of their agenda.

Thorns could never explain the scarring below their sweater sleeve, a crescent of wrinkled skin slowly fading back to normal.

He saw it once, their sleeves still rolled up from a trip to the restroom to wash their hands, and his stomach turned so severely he had to excuse himself. They haven’t had their sleeves up since around him— why, if it were thorns?

Some may find them unreadable, especially at the poker table, but they’re an open book to him. Their eyes always give it away.

The only question is: why bring it up now after such a lie?

“I’ve told you, there’s no cure,” he says, but the DA quickly waves him off.

“Not a cure. And I know it’s… not just some sickness. That it’s…” Finally, they look uncomfortable, easing into the seat next to him. He watches their fingers drum and pick at the edges of the folder, their heart a touch rabbit-fast with their shame.

“I know what happened,” they say, after long seconds of silence. “The night of your party.”

As suspected, and— as they’re clearly willing to share— he asks the questions on his mind. “Why tell me otherwise? Why wait until now?”

After a moment, their fingers stop drumming, and they turn those so-sharp eyes to his— an unusual gesture, from them, and all the more sincere for it. “I didn’t want you to feel bad for what you had to do.”

Damien could laugh, and he could just as easily cry. Once again, it’s as he initially thought: his friend— his kind, generous, compassionate friend— knows him well. They know him well enough to know how he’d torture himself for it.

Though it didn’t fool him, he didn’t self-flagellate. Too much.

Rather than either extreme, he settles for a soft sigh, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from tugging up. “You know I wouldn’t have, if—“

“I know,” they reply quickly. Their hand edges for his forearm, but their pinky doesn’t even brush his sleeve. “You’re the model of martyrdom, Damien. I had to make you— and there won’t be any more of that, thank you very much.”

He hums around another sip of coffee— much cooler this time. “I have plenty of, ah… medicine. Of course not.”

“Not because of your drinks. Because I’m donating— and that’s non-negotiable,” they add as he opens his mouth to protest. “I saw how it made you feel. Like you used to, before all this. It’s not unlimited, no, but… sometimes. Once a week, maybe.”

“A month,” he counters, automatically, and feels sick at still allowing it at all. If he were stronger, if he were less desperate, he could say no altogether; as it is, though, he remembers the sweet taste of their blood, the rush of energy akin to a sugar-high and the smooth warmth of their skin under his mouth. He can’t turn it down.

That, and they used their lawyer voice. As it always was in debate and in court, it commands a room.

“Once a week.” Their brow furrows just a touch. “I’ve made up my mind.”

As his resolve crumbles, he once again sighs. They don’t get to have an endearing little wrinkle to their forehead; it’s tantamount to cheating. If he held no respect for their actual skill, he’d account all their triumphs in court to that exact face.

“Once a week,” he grumbles, and doesn’t miss the cheery grin that instantly replaces their frown. They know it works, the bastard. “So, what about all of this, then? Your research?”

Their hands pat at the counter, eyes bright. “My research, yes! I will say, it was more fun than usual— lots of mythology from all over the world. I have my notes, some type. I wish it was easier to copy things over; typing directly from the books takes forever.

“But anyway,” they continue, shaking off the tangent, “my reasoning was to ultimately find out as much as I could. The only issue is, this was only thought to be fictional of late. A story made up for whatever reason. That means there’s no way to tell what’s true from what’s false.”

“You could ask me,” Damien points out, raising his cup and idly browsing the menu board. He doesn’t need to eat, but it’s nice now and then. “You always do enjoy a primary source.”

They make a little frustrated groan, and their chair squeaks beside him as they shift around. “I do, but there’s a problem. How do you know what’s true?”

That draws him away from the board, only to find them looking. Intently. “I would hope I know what my condition entails. What do you mean?”

“What I mean is: can you turn into a bat, and have you tried?”

They ask so seriously, so focused on him, that he can’t help a laugh. A loud, sharp, bark of a laugh. “I’m- I’m sorry,” he stammers, aware of the attention he’s drawn from the few other patrons of the lunch counter. “Just— really? My friend, you know something like that isn’t possible.”

He has to clench his jaw at the new rush of heat to their face. No time to hunt, no time to feed. He had blood meal before he even came here.

“Is it not?” The little wrinkle has returned, and they jab their folder with a finger. “I didn’t think this sort of condition was possible until a few weeks ago, and here we are. You aren’t dead, obviously, but we can’t know for sure what’s possible until we try.”

It sends a prickle up his spine, finding the mad gleam in their eye. It’s the same as just before those long research benders, the look when they find something that catches their interest. Their brilliant mind at work, chomping at the bit to put all the puzzle pieces together.

It’s endearing, impressive when he sees it in action. Right now, on the other side… it’s a little bit frightening.

“I’m not certain if I want to be subject to whatever you have in that folder of yours,” he says, eyeing the folder warily.

For its part, the folder sits there, full of paper. God knows how many hypotheses, as well.

“If… you don’t want to, that’s alright,” the DA replies, sounding quite not alright at the idea of shelving their insatiable curiosity. “I could always manage to find someone else.”

Damien’s stomach goes cold.

Someone else is the person who pulled him into a dark alley and fed until he lost consciousness. Someone else is the people, ashen or pale, who only met with him under cover of night and spoke of humanity as their free lunch. Someone else is dangerous, and if their blood is half as sweet to them as it is to him…

That’s a dirty trick to suggest it, if it’s even a trick at all.

“No,” he chokes, then clears his throat. His friend might be excitable, but they regard him as most dear. They would never hurt him in the name of science. “No, I’ll do it, but it can’t be all at once. We do still have lives, my friend.”

They perk up, a wary hope in their eyes. “Are you sure? I know I can get excited—“

“I couldn’t be in better hands,” he assures them with a smile. “You’ll only have to be a little more patient than usual. Do you think you can manage?”

His friend huffs, shoving at his arm and turning to the menu board. “I can be patient,” they grumble, though their tone remains soft. “I’ll buy your lunch. As payment.”

“But I don’t need to—“

“You were considering it. You usually get rye bread, don’t you?”

The sandwich doesn’t satisfy as it once did, but it’s still pretty good. After all, it’s a (relatively) free lunch.

—

So that’s how he finds himself outside their home, anxiety churning with a good dose of hunger in his gut.

Yes, hunger— their damn insistence on being his source once a week means he’ll have to do this every time he goes to see them. Every time they do these tests, he has to…

He swallows, wincing at the growing sharpness of his teeth. He’ll never be used to that.

It’s only a few hours of his time, if that. It’s less than a dozen feet away, just up their slightly-uneven steps. The stone remains solid, though, and the rest of the place— from white wooden railing to yellow numbers marking their address— is welcoming as ever. Any other day, any other reason, and he’d gladly climb up.

What if it was? Just a social call, stopping by for the pure joy of it— they’d putter around getting tea, wind up on the back porch so as not to be disturbed. The old greenhouse sits back there, a bit more worn but still in use, and he remembers drunken and/or youthful dares to scale or pull up on the old tree; its tallest branches loom over the roof, casting the whole thing in dappled shade and sun.

Thoughts of his college days… now he really is stalling. Rolling his neck to ease out the anxious kinks, he makes the journey up those crooked steps.

He barely has a moment to knock when the front door swings open. “I was wondering how long you’d stand there,” the attorney says, ruffled and bright-eyed. “What, is my house sacred ground?”

They grin, and his scoff comes as more of a laugh. “Only to some, and to others the very opposite. I was just reminiscing, actually.”

“Dangerous pastime,” they muse, and their grin softens with nostalgia. “You know, I could come up with another round of tests based on university, alone. If you’re at all interested.”

God knows what all that could entail: drinking, partying, stupid dares that somehow didn’t get them hurt or worse. Algebra. He can’t stop a shudder. “How about we stick to the first round, hm?”

“Fine, fine. I have stations set up for that, anyway.”

Stations. They’re taking this very seriously, aren’t they?

Or perhaps they aren’t— they step back from the door, but they don’t scurry off in whatever direction holds their first test. Instead, they stop a few feet back from the door and watch him expectantly.

He blinks back, mystified. “Do you… still need more time?”

“No.” Still, they watch him. Faintly smiling. Waiting.

But for what? Damien eyes the door, then the frame, but all seems clear; even if they weren’t, the DA is quite unlikely to hurt him, especially right out of the gate. That gleam in their eye, though, indicates that this— whatever the subject— is a test.

Oh. He gives a sigh and walks through easily. “You know,” he says, removing his shoes to set neatly by their own pair, “I think my cover would be blown wide if I couldn’t enter buildings uninvited.”

“Someone holding the door for you is an invitation, isn’t it?” They hurry off to some corner, and his sensitive ears catch the sound of pen-scratching. “People were happy to with your cane.”

Fair enough, but the cane he can’t imagine being that much of a factor. His status as candidate and then mayor, however… “I think that misunderstanding just came from good manners. I wouldn’t just barge in somewhere I wasn’t sure I was welcome, even before all this.”

They raise an eyebrow and gesture to their home at large with one hand.

“I’m quite welcome here, and you know that. You’re the one who said so.” He smiles at them as he approaches. “Perhaps you jeopardized your own test before you even knew you’d hold it.”

“What?” They look down to their findings, written in their messy scrawl, stark black. After a beat, they slowly turn back to him, eyes wide with dawning horror. “Oh, god. It can’t be— if that’s the case, then—“

“Alright, hold on.” Damien cuts them off as gently as he can, one hand resting lightly on their shoulder. “I was simply teasing you, though I apologize; I didn’t expect it to upset you so. Take a deep breath for me?”

It can take some time for this method of his to work, especially when they’re deep in the throes of anxiety, sometimes several minutes.

This time is no exception, as they look to their other notes frantically, breath coming shallow. “What if the whole experiment is— If I have to redo everything—“

He doesn’t miss the slight note of anger amidst the upset. If it’s directed inward, rather than at the circumstances of poor forethought, then he must redirect this as quickly as possible.

With a slightly firmer squeeze— only a fraction, because he’s stronger with his affliction and their shoulder now feels remarkably fragile— he tries again. “My friend,” he starts, coming down slightly to look at them, though their eyes refuse to meet his, “it’s alright. Your plans can move forward. Take a deep breath and relax.”

He doesn’t expect much from it, if they’re really that far gone. Luck must be on their side, however; they take a deep breath just as he finishes his sentence, tension in their shoulders leaking out.

It’s… quite quick.

Was it truly luck, catching them at the right time, or..? He draws his hand back with a troubled frown. “How… how are you feeling?”

“Good.” Even they sound a little disbelieving, blinking as if they’ve just woken up from a nap. “That was… a little strange.”

His stomach twists, and it’s certainly not from hunger. “Yes, it seemed to leave rather quickly.”

Surprisingly, they shake their head. “No— well, yes, but not just that. When someone tries to talk to me when I’m panicking, they feel far away. Like I’m underwater, or they’re in another room.

“But you,” they continue, “when you spoke, it… it was like you were right here. In my head, and—“ They quickly cut off, lips pressing together as a spike of warmth and spice floods their scent.

Spice is new. Spice is interesting— or would be, in other circumstances. He hadn’t meant it. He wouldn’t dare with them, not on purpose, not casually. Is that how it feels when he suggests, purposeful or otherwise? “I… I apologize. I’ve never heard it from the other point of view; I assure you, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t mean to?” They peer up at him, brow furrowed— solving a puzzle, he knows, even if one he hadn’t meant to give them.  It’s clear when the pieces fall into place, because their eyes grow wide— and far too excited. “You can do that? Actually?”

He grimaces, flooded with shame as the memories of his first few months come to the surface. “I try not to. It isn’t right, however fascinating you happen to find it.”

“I agree it’s not something you should do, but you must admit it is fascinating.” Their prior panic seems like hours ago, vanished in the wind as they hurriedly scribble in their notes. “Spiritualists and magicians wish they could do what you do— and if I give you my consent beforehand, it isn’t really that bad, is it?”

To anyone else, perhaps it might be alright, but he knows how far their curiosity might push them to go. That, combined with a suggestion… “I would still rather we not. I’m sure you have plenty of experiments in that notebook of yours that don’t require you to be under.”

The attorney huffs— he almost certainly catches a ‘boring’— but they dutifully turn to another page. “Fine, no hypnosis. In that case, I hope you’re hungry.”

Once more, his stomach turns with hunger and nausea. “I… listen, I’m not sure if I can drink your blood. I know I have, but—“

“I’m not talking about blood.” His friend smiles, wide and mischievous, and his heart sinks. “I’m talking about garlic.”

—

Only half an hour later, he’s on the couch and clutching his roiling stomach. It isn’t the worst stomachache of his life— he came down with a rotten stomach flu in his childhood, and he was in bed for weeks— but it’s none too pleasant, either.

He burps, grimacing at the well of bile in his throat.

“So…” His friend gingerly steps forward, a glass of bubbling Bromo in their hand; they quickly hand it over when he holds out his hand. “Shall we mark that one as a yes? A maybe?”

Mood soured, just like his stomach, he sends them a baleful look over the glass of antacid. “I want you to eat a portion of that meal and then tell me how you feel. I think it might be insightful.”

“… No.” He catches the scribble of a pen over the sound of the bubbles; from the length of that pause, he can guess it wasn’t just a refusal to partake.

His mood can’t stay so bad for very long, though; in short order, they’ve removed the offending dish and come to sit with him.  Their eyes are so apologetic and concerned— almost hyperbolic, really— that he can’t help a laugh. “You’re forgiven, you know.”

“Are you sure?” They twist their fingers together, with a soft pick at their fingernails. “You know I would never—“

“Of course I do.” He nudges them with one knee, a friendly little bump. “I also know you’re a far better cook than that. How many cloves did you use, by chance?”

“Normally? Three. This time…” They start to smile, just a little. “I just doubled it. It wasn’t exorbitant— still a lot, but not unreasonable.”

He nods, somewhat relieved— the food likely won’t go to waste, then. “… Do you think you could make that for me, sometime? Without the double garlic? I liked the dish, otherwise.”

It gets them to launch into a wonderful description of their method and ingredients, all traces of guilt long gone. He just sits back with a little smile, soaking it in.

—

“Can you turn into a bat?”

“No.”

“A wolf?”

“No.”

“A bunch of snakes or insects?”

“Where are you getting all this? And no.”

“Books. A cloud of mist?”

“N- well, you know, I haven’t really tried that one. It might be possible.”

“Really?”

“No.”

—

He outright refuses to lift them when testing his strength— citing danger but really he can’t hold them and not begin pining too much to be functional— but he’s happy to lift their dining table or their icebox at their direction.

They do not look at him as they take those notes.

His speed comes second, before they move onto senses.

He was never the fastest of his circle, though certainly a contender for strongest; now, though, he can make it to their back fence and back in a matter of a few seconds— and without being winded.

“You think you’re distance, or sprint?” They ask when he comes back, jotting down his time.

“I don’t have much reason to run,” he says pointedly, “so I can’t say for certain.”

They hum, jotting down a note. “We’ll hit the trails next week. Less suspicious to your constituency.”

—

Testing his senses is a bit more of what he expected of today, but it’s no less of a challenge; it is, in every meaning of the word, a test.

They leave touch and taste alone because he hasn’t found much change in either, but the others are fair game.

—

They put his eyesight up against a set of increasingly smaller targets, even going into their backyard when he can describe a small stamp in detail at ten feet.

He mentions a cluster of some type of egg under the leaves of one of their flowers. When he goes into detail, they stomp over to their shed, launching into a stream of language so out of their usual vocabulary that he can’t help but to double over in laughter.

—

His hearing comes next, again an increasingly quieter sound at greater distance.

“I don’t know how better to test you,” they complain at the end, though mildly. “I’ve done all I can think of. Do you have anything to add?”

Damien considers for a moment. “Your neighbor is having… an awful lot of fun next door. Suppose her husband has the day off?”

“No, but her friend is over, I saw her walk up the—“ They pause, looking to him with wide eyes.

He can only look back with a similar expression. Finally, after turning his hearing back towards his immediate vicinity, he says, “Good for her.”

“Good for her.”

—

Smell comes next, and he stops them before they go too far in explaining their criteria.

“I haven’t found a lot of change in objects, exactly. Say, food— your food— is about where it used to be. Flowers and other smells, too. The only difference is… well, living things.”

“Interesting.” Their eyes shine. “So you can smell creatures better, but nothing else?”

He nods, a mite uncomfortable. “For… hunting, I would presume. Further and with more… depth, I suppose.”

They just scoot closer with their notes, eyes fixed on him and a smile growing.

He sighs, but it doesn’t stop his own smile. “Alright, I’ll see what’s close.”

After a cursory sniff— and a moment to parse it all, as he still isn’t the best at it— he begins. “You have a bevy of birds up in your tree, though it wouldn’t take a good nose to tell that. Like feathers and eggshells, fresh air.

“The cat behind your shed isn’t alone— there’s another that smells like meat and fur, and there’s… a milky scent. I suppose there are, or will be, kittens soon.

“And you—“ He stops himself, swallowing hard. “That’s all.”

“No, it’s not.” They’re certainly sharp, though he never doubted that; they’re still in the middle of writing down supplies they’ll need for a litter of kittens. “You started to talk about me. What do I smell like?”

Why talk about that when he could go crawl into a hole? “Like… a human. How a human smells.”

They don’t say anything, but the look they give him over their notebook says more than they could possibly with words.

“Alright, alright. Like… spring.” He struggles against rising heat in his face, resolutely not looking at them. “Sun and grass and flowers. Honey, a bit, perhaps.”

“Fascinating…” It catches his attention, and their face is soft, full of wonder when he looks. “Where do you suppose that comes from?”

Damien shrugs. “You garden an awful lot, which I imagine has some influence. It may also simply be you. If someone’s rotten, they kind of smell like it. And I find if I don’t care for someone, they don’t smell so…”

They start to smile— too impishly for his liking. “So you think I’m nice and you care about me.”

“Yes, I do.” It’s one way to handle their teasing— accept it right as it is.

The smile grows bashful— just as their scent grows a little warmer.

—

Finally, a return to the rose. He’s been put through the ringer enough, today, and it’s the final test— or so they’ve said. Nothing to do but dive in.

It’s pleasant enough, as roses go. Fresh from his friend’s back garden, a bit of morning dew and soil to offset the floral sweetness.

Too cloying to be them, but it reminds him of their springlike scent regardless.

One of the soft petals brushes his nose as he takes a deep breath, but he pays it little heed; that is, until he pulls back, and the tickle only intensifies.

“Well?” They lean forward, pen poised over their notes, tense with anticipation. “How is it? How do you feel?”

Damien scrunches his nose, sniffs in order to quell the rising pressure, but there’s little use; in a matter of seconds, he turns aside to sneeze, and violently. “Ah,” he breathes, sniffing once again around watery eyes. “My apologies.”

“You’re blessed. Are you allergic, now?” They look a little too excited at the prospect, scooting forward a bit closer; he can’t even be sure they realize they’ve done it.

He shakes his head, laying the rose back down on the table between them. “No, I don’t think so. A petal brushed my nose, is all.”

His friend gives a quiet, affirming hum, then scribbles one last thing into their notebook before closing it firmly. “Alright, then we’re done for today. Let me get some supplies together for your meal.”

Right, his meal. “About that—“

“You’re eating.” Their eyes snap to his, that stubborn determination once more arresting him where he sits. “I’ve put you through enough, and on an empty stomach. You deserve something that will actually nourish you.

“Besides,” they continue, setting aside their materials and standing, “I’ll need you at your strongest for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” He raises an eyebrow. “What, pray tell, is tomorrow?”

At that, they smile. “I have to make a comparison against today. Hungry versus well-fed. I know you’ve noticed some differences— you act a bit different, depending on how hungry you are.”

He hadn’t considered that, but it makes sense. His friend is nothing if not thorough— and quite observant. “If you really insist,” he replies weakly.

They come back with some bandages, pads, and alcohol, setting them neatly aside. “I healed up pretty quickly last time,” they comment as casually as you please, rolling up their sleeve. “Still, it never hurts to be a little more careful about it. Whenever you’re ready, Day. I trust you.”

It’s so soft and earnest, coupled with their warm little smile when he glances up from the bared skin of their arm. Monster or not, he isn’t sure he deserves them.

They take the bite as well as they did last time, with the smallest grunt of pain and a spike in their heart rate, but they don’t try to move away or flinch. Rather, they sit patiently as he drinks, eyes tracking somewhere beyond his shoulder.

He shouldn’t get used to this— not too used to this, anyway— but it’s difficult not to sigh in pleasure. Disgusting as it may be, the coppery flavor of blood almost seems as an undertone to the smell of their skin; warm, it’s like drinking from a cup of spring, the bright flowers and soft grass rejuvenating him from the inside out.

He could swear he tastes honey on his tongue.

It’s hard to pull away when he deems it necessary, but his stomach is comfortably full; besides, his friend’s tracking seems a bit slower, now. He pulls back and quickly reaches for the medical supplies.

“Huh? Oh, you’re finished?” His friend blinks down at him, hissing at the sting of alcohol on the punctures. “Sorry, I must have… lost track of time.”

“Which means I stopped a little late,” he mutters, carefully winding around gauze. “How are you feeling? You ought to have something to eat; I’ll make it for you.”

“You didn’t stop late.” They fix him with a stern, though not unkind, look. “You wouldn’t hurt me. You’re full enough?”

He pins the bandage in place, itching with the urge to roll down their sleeve for them, if only to no longer see the dressing. “Yes, plenty. … Thank you.”

“Any time.” They reach for and squeeze his hand with a smile. “Before you make me my favorite lunch, because I know you will, make sure to wipe your mouth? You have a little…”

“Oh, yes, I will.” He should have expected as much; feeding isn’t the neatest of affairs. “I’ll also be rinsing, I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. In fact…” They tilt their head, gesturing back down the hall. “I have an extra toothbrush. It’s all yours.”

His heart skips before he can rein himself in. It isn’t in that way, and yet… their expression is almost too inscrutable, as if they’re at the poker table and waiting for him to call.

He could do it, couldn’t he? Call and see their hands played? But… well, he was never a risky better.

There’s a reason they always win.

“That’s very generous of you,” he says, instead. “Sit tight right here, I’ll be back with lunch.”

If he didn’t bet how they’d have liked— hoped— they don’t show it. Instead, they just smile up at him over a sandwich made to their tastes fifteen minutes later.

Maybe tomorrow there’ll be another chance.

[midnight-nightrose]

Some concept designs of y/n or us the viewer

[tiredeldritchhorror]

Just take it, take the angst and bitterness from my hands, my best anger filled oc, I love them so much, Da Yin, my beloved beloathed