#which maybe is worse than my above answer

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hello!! I am back with more questions from my Duolingo Welsh lessons. I am so sorry I’m annoying, but I am having a grand time but would like to get it right.

1. It doesn’t have a speech section so I’m having a hard time with my pronunciations - I’d love to learn the alphabet and know how to pronounce each of the letters. Might you have any recommendations for me?

2. I’m learning about past tense and it is very confusing. I can’t tell gwaeth from wnaeth (for example) which is worse now that I’m getting gwnes i fwyta. Have I completely misunderstood this? I thought gwaeth was the past tense of gwneud but I think maybe I’m wrong about that. Are they just past tense of Mae? But then what’s the difference between aeth and and gwnaeth and wnaeth? 😭 Am I even coherent asking this question?

3. Speaking of mutations. Any chance you can do a brief primer on that? I definitely understand it after the vowel but I’m pretty sure that’s not the only time? Because of nos, I think feminine mutations might be a thing? Also feminine mutations is going to be the name of my band.

4. Would you be willing to explain Mi? Sometimes there’s a mi and sometimes there’s not and I can’t tell why/when it should be there.

5. Also is there a difference between do/ydw and naddo/ nac ydw? Just curious.

6. Also also what’s the difference between eglwys and capel? I don’t really know if a church and a chapel are different things?

Thank you again for your patience!

Not annoying at all! Alright, let's see *cracks knuckles*

1 . Pronunciation.

Yes, this playlist on YouTube. Done by a woman from the north and a man from the south, so you can hear the differences between the northern and southern U, for example

(Southern is easier by far for a beginner. But northern sounds cooler, even though it does require you to unhinge your jaw to get it.)

2 . Gwneud.

I presume you mean "gwnaeth", rather than "gwaeth"? Gwaeth means 'worse' lol.

You're correct, though - gwnaeth is the third person singular past tense of gwneud, meaning to do or to make. 'Wnaeth' is mutated, and indicates that it's a question or a negative. Aeth, by contrast, is different - that's actually the past tense of "mynd", to go.

These, like in English, are irregular verbs, which is why they're tricksy. A verb table with regular verbs would be nice and straightforward and you just add an ending to indicate which person you're using; here's an example using "cerdded", the most beautiful and regular of Welsh verbs:

Cerddais i (I walked)

Cerddaist ti (you walked)

Cerddodd e/hi (he/she walked)

Cerddon ni (we walked)

Cerddoch chi (y'all walked)

Cerddon nhw (they walked)

Nice and easy! Ais/aist/odd/on/och/on. Plug in verbs as needed.

But, these lil fuckers are irregular. So "gwneud" goes:

Gwnes i

Gwnest ti

Gwnaeth e/hi

Gwnaethon ni

Gwnaethoch chi

Gwnaethon nhw

However, the irregulars do, at least, share these endings. "Mynd" becomes es i/est ti/aeth e etc. "Cael" has a slight twist - singular follows this pattern (ces i etc), but plural goes cawson ni/cawsoch chi/cawson nhw for no reason anyone can fathom. Even so, though, the endings are following the established pattern.

But, one extra note for "gwneud" - sometimes, rather than follow the cerdded example up above, you use gwneud to construct your past tense. So these two sentences both mean "I walked":

Cerddais i

Gwnes i gerdded

Literally, you're saying "I did walking", but it's grammatically acceptable. This means as a learner if you can hammer the six forms of gwneud's past tense into your verbal speech, you can construct that past tense with any verb you like. So, there's that.

(It also means some dialects of Wenglish use "I do" in an amazingly similar way to the AAVE habitual be. "I do go to town with Mam on Saturdays": a totally normal thing to hear in Abertillery.)

3 . Mutations.

I mean. GREAT band name.

Short answer: there are three types of mutations in Welsh, two of which (nasal and aspirate) are quick and easy to explain and one of which (soft) is a bit more lengthy and crops up all the time. They are used for two reasons: one (1), to make certain grammar clearer, and two (2), to make Welsh poetic forms possible (yes really).Do not stress about getting them right. Plenty of fluent first language speakers don't get them right all the time. You will still be understood. It is more important that you speak Welsh than stress about making sure you're perfect.

Longer answer:

Aspirate mutation. Very simply, a c -> ch, t -> th, and p -> ph. This is the only reason ph is a letter in Welsh, actually - to make the mutation more visible. Otherwise, it's pronounced the same as a ff, and so is redundant.

Used mostly after the feminine pronoun ei (her). Her cat: ei chath. Her shield: ei tharian. Her head: ei phen.

Nasal mutation. Affects a few more letters: b -> m, c -> ngh, d -> nh, g -> ng, p -> mh, t -> nh. The number of Hs there looks intimidating, I know, but they're almost always followed by a vowel, so pronunciation is actually quite easy and pleasant.

Most commonly used with the possessive first person singular pronoun fy (my), and after the preposition yn (in), both of which may change at the end to make it even easier. So Cardiff = Caerdydd, but "in Cardiff" = yng Nghaerdydd. Father = tad, but "my father" = fy nhad. Phonetically, those would be roughly pronounced "ung Hire deeth", and "vern haad", to give an idea.

Soft mutation. AKA the Bastard. A good quarter of the damn alphabet gets caught in this:

There are, IIRC, 28 different times you would use these. I shall not be listing them all.

But, the most common are:

After the masculine pronoun ei (his). His cat: ei gath. His shield: ei darian. His head: ei ben. (This is the only way, other than context, to tell whether "ei" means his or her - male gets soft mutation, female gets aspirate)

After prepositions. Am, ar, at, gan, heb, i, o, dan, dros, trwy, wrth, and hyd.

Feminine words after the definite article. Chair: cadair. The chair: y gadair.

Adjectives or adverbs following "yn". Exciting: cyffrous. The trees are exciting: mae'r coed yn gyffrous.

Adjectives following a singular feminine noun (not a plural). Beautiful: prydferth. Beautiful tree: Coeden brydferth. Beautiful trees: Coed prydferth.

Many other such occurances

4 . Explain Mi

God scientists WISH they could explain Mi.

So, this is where there's an odd little starter word, right? They come in north/south flavours (mi/fe). "I walked to town":

Cerddais i'r dref.

Mi gerddais i'r dref.

Fe gerddais i'r dref.

These mean the same thing, are entirely optional, and if you choose to use them they trigger a soft mutation. Why do this? Unknown. Helps with writing poetry to have the option.

5 . Yes and No

Yes, there's a difference - it's tense.

Welsh, like all Celtic languages, technically doesn't have single words for yes and no (although that's no longer true in informal Welsh, where ie and na are now extensively used. Particularly by learners.) Instead, each "yes" is actually repetition of the original verb, and therefore means "Yes it is", or "Yes I am", or "Yes there are" or any other permutation.

Wyt ti'n cerdded i'r dref heddiw? Are you walking to town today?

Ydw. Yes (I am).

Do and naddo are past tense. Yes I did/no I didn't, essentially, though they cover more than just first person.

6. Church vs chapel

They are different, but I am non-religious and don't really know the difference. I think it's different denominations, though. Certainly in Wales, religious Welsh-speakers are chapel-goers, and the choices are Methodist, Baptist and Welsh Non-Conformist, whereas English speakers are more likely to go to church and be, like, CoE or protestant or what have you. But yeah, this is more a religious question, so I shall have to bow out.

ANYWAY! I hope this has helped, hmu if you need clarifications or what have you

[minyard-05]

ok so here's the thing about andrew minyard's hashtag DIY rehab tactic. what actual rehab does, what it's supposed to do, is not just flush the drugs out of your system (because you can technically do that pretty effectively the way andrew did) but rehab centers are supposed to help you by letting you come off drugs slowly in a safe environment, and provide you with ways to prevent relapsing once you get out. it's supposed to help you to stop relying on substances day-to-day, so a lot of them will have counselling services and other methods of helping you adjust to being clean.

obviously this is not everybody's experience with rehab, but in my understanding this is the main aim.

so let's just make some ground assumptions here while i talk about this. 1) aaron was addicted from an early age, most likely with the effects of fetal alcohol syndrome combined, and it got worse as he got older and started relying on the drugs more heavily as his mother's abuse equally worsened. 2) he did not stop after tilda died. the week or so between her funeral and andrew locking him in the bathroom were probably some of the worst for him in terms of his addiction and what he was using. 3) he was taking, regularly, a mixture of different street drugs all with varying effects and was probably high more often than not.

what andrew did, exactly, was stock the bathroom with canned food and lock aaron inside against his will for an undetermined amount of time. given the assumptions i made above, i'm going to say he collected enough food for about a week, accounting for how long aaron's withdrawal symptoms probably would have lasted. the thing is, that method would have worked in the sense that any drugs aaron had taken before being locked inside would have worn off and withdrawal would've kicked in not long after, depending obviously on what he took and when.

this means that aaron essentially quit completely cold, and he spent withdrawal locked inside a small room with canned food and two people in the house who wouldn't let him out until he was clean. and when he was let out, yes, he was sober, but he also had a very high risk of relapsing for a while after, because he would've had nothing to replace using.

which leads me to cracker dust. now, andrew says in the books that they took it up for aaron's sake, which means that in a sense it's basically a gentler way of letting him relapse. it's probably nothing compared to what he was on before the bathroom, but it's a way to get a similar, if limited, kick on a semi-regular basis, that at least maybe helps to ease him off it a little. is this the best way to handle drug addiction? the short answer is no, not at all. but i wouldn't be surprised if neil asking andrew to quit cracker dust is another reason why aaron quietly doesn't like him, because it would definitely hit him harder than the rest of the monsters.

some food for thought :P

[cparvum]

"ass ee"

wheres the c

parvum wheres the c

wjeres thene c parvum *shakng*

its in my screenname. hope this helps! c::::

[steddieas-shegoes]

four times eddie gets carried and one time he does the carrying

one

Eddie opens his eyes to chaos: a heartbeat under his ear that’s furious, a voice echoing just above him yelling profanities and directions, hands digging into his legs and side that should probably hurt.

But nothing hurts.

He can’t feel anything, actually.

Which is probably a good thing considering the last time his eyes were open, he was dying.

Maybe he is dead. Maybe this is Hell.

But he catches a somewhat familiar scent, and he turns his head towards the solid but soft wall holding him.

He must make a noise because the voice vibrating against his face stops, the movement under him stops, and a different panic ensues. He’s not sure what’s being said now, too focused on the comfort he’s feeling.

Maybe it’s not Hell. Maybe he’s found his way to Heaven.

But that’s Steve’s smell and Steve isn’t dead. Is he?

Eddie’s eyes open and he finds just enough energy to make a small noise, one that wouldn’t have been heard in the chaos, but definitely gets heard in the silence surrounding him now. He hates silence. He hopes if he’s dead, he can at least hear some music sometimes.

“Eddie?”

It’s definitely Steve’s voice, and Steve’s smell, and probably Steve’s strength holding him up.

“You don’t have to talk if it hurts, but can you tap my chest if you can hear me?”

Eddie could do that. He could.

His hand was already brushing against Steve’s chest as they walked, so he lifted a few fingers and brushed them against the material of Steve’s shirt.

“That’s good!” Steve sounded pretty thrilled about such a simple touch.

Eddie was familiar with being touch starved, but he didn’t think Steve could be this bad off with all the times he’s been practically glued to Robin.

“St-“ he tried to say his name, maybe get some answers for why he was being carried, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“It’s okay. I’m getting you safe. We can fix it,” Steve was walking still, but no other voices could be heard anymore. It was like the world had narrowed down to only them. “I promise I’m gonna fix it.”

“Mkay.”

Blackness clouded Eddie’s vision again as he lost consciousness.

two

Eddie’s physical therapy sessions in the hospital sucked, but the ones at home sucked worse.

At least at the hospital, no one was around to watch him struggle and fail except the physical therapist. At home, Steve was watching and making sure he did everything right, never more than a few feet away in case he needed help.

Eddie could walk with support, but he refused to use the stupid walker the hospital gave him. Wayne found a cane in his room from when he hurt his back a few years ago and told Eddie he could decorate it however he wanted if it meant he’d use it.

And he sure did.

He covered it in black paint, stickers, and had all the kids paint their names on it.

But he still hated using it.

So he was focusing on the walking movements the PT gave him, and Steve was constantly hovering beside him, waiting for any sign that he needed to stop.

“Your legs are shaking, Eds. We should stop for today,” Steve put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder, careful not to put any weight on him. “You can do more tomorrow.”

“No, I’m almost to the couch.”

The silence was loud as he looked ahead at where the couch actually was. He wasn’t almost there. He wouldn’t make it.

But he was stubborn, dangerously so, and he was gonna make it.

He took another two shuffling steps, then felt a shooting pain in his side and nearly collapsed.

Steve’s arms were under him immediately, lifting under his legs and supporting his back in a fucking bridal carry.

“Put me down!” Eddie squirmed, but Steve was strong. “I was almost there!”

“No you weren’t and you were gonna push yourself too hard. You would’ve fallen and got hurt and if you get hurt again, it’ll be my fault.”

Eddie’s mouth snapped shut before his argument could be said.

Did Steve think he was actually responsible for Eddie?

“Stevie, it’s carpet. I would’ve been fine,” Eddie said quietly as Steve walked them over to the couch. He didn’t set Eddie down though, just held him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not letting anything happen to you again.” Steve set him down gently on the couch, making sure his legs were stretched out so he could do some of his sitting movements. “I’m not letting you down again.”

“What do you mean? You didn’t let me down,” Eddie stayed frozen where Steve had set him down, unable to even breathe properly.

“I should’ve been there so you didn’t run back to distract the bats. You never should’ve almost died.”

“Steve…” Eddie reached a hand out, tugging on Steve’s hand until he was sitting on the coffee table across from him. “None of this is your fault. I’m an adult. I made my choices. I would’ve made them even if you were there.”

“But-“

“No buts!” Eddie smiled at him, ignoring another sharp pain in his hip. “You know how stubborn I am. Do you really think you had a shot in hell of stopping me once I decided to be a distraction?”

Steve shook his head.

“Then stop blaming yourself. You saved my fuckin’ life, man. You stayed by my side nearly every day since then. You couldn’t let me down if you tried, okay?”

“Okay.”

three

He’d fallen asleep on the couch, he knew he had.

But he was currently in Steve’s bed. Which is upstairs. He hasn’t mastered walking up stairs yet.

How the fuck did he get here?

It was dark except for a hint of moonlight streaming between the curtains and a glow under the door from the hall light that was always on.

He turned on his side and nearly screamed when he saw a black outline of someone else in the bed.

The body moved and Eddie could just make out the hair.

Steve.

He was in Steve’s bed with Steve.

“You okay?” Steve’s raspy sleep voice startled him, his heart rate climbing to probably dangerous levels.

A hand reached out and touched Eddie’s chest, right over his racing heart. Steve’s hand was warm and wasn’t moving away.

“Mhm. How’d I get here?”

“Carried you.”

He couldn’t see if Steve’s eyes were open, or if he was even properly facing Eddie, but he was grateful for the dark hiding his blush.

“I could’ve stayed on the couch.”

“Wanted you here,” Steve mumbled against his pillow, his hand bunching up Eddie’s shirt as he pulled him closer. “Sleep.”

Eddie could think about it tomorrow. Or maybe never.

Maybe this was a dream, or maybe Steve was still asleep and had no idea what he was doing or saying. Maybe he’d wake up and Steve would be gone and he’d never know for sure if he dreamt it or it was real.

But for now, Eddie fell asleep with Steve’s hand against his chest and his body heat keeping him warm.

four

“I don’t know why you picked a spot so far into the woods. Are you trying to murder me? You were just being nice for the last three months because it would be easier to trick me?” Eddie paused to catch his breath. He was admittedly very out of shape, but this trek seemed particularly difficult.

“Are you in actual pain or are you just tired?” Steve asked, not slowing down at all.

“Can’t it be both?”

Steve finally stopped and turned to Eddie, the worried set of his brow almost making Eddie feel guilty.

“We can go back, Eddie,” Steve offered quietly.

Eddie saw the disappointment on his face, though. And he was a little sore, but mostly from being tired, not from actually overexerting his muscles.

“No, I can make it. How much longer?”

Steve looked around for a moment. “Less than half a mile, but most of it is uphill.”

“I’ll just take it slow. Sorry,” Eddie apologized.

“Hey,” Steve was suddenly back in front of him, hands on his arms to stop him, to comfort him. “We can go as slow as you need. We’ve got all day. Need any help?”

Eddie didn’t. He knew he didn’t. He was doing a lot better than he expected, truthfully.

But if it kept Steve’s hands on him, he was obviously going to say yes.

Steve wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him over a particularly large log.

They continued in silence, but Steve’s arm never left his waist, and Eddie’s breath never quite went back to normal.

When they were almost at Steve’s destination, Eddie lost his footing and nearly face planted into the wet soil. But Steve tugged him back just in time, until his back was flush against Steve’s front.

“Let me help,” Steve said against his ear.

His hands went under him, lifting him up in the familiar bridal carry that seemed like second nature for them at this point.

Steve held him close, made sure he had a good grip, then started walking forward.

“You don’t have to do this,” Eddie barely whispered. He felt a bit ashamed, that he couldn’t do something so simple, that Steve felt like he had to help, that he was a nuisance.

“I want to.”

Neither of them spoke again until they reached their destination.

Steve didn’t put him down at first, walking over to a clearing that looked out over the lake.

Eddie had no idea this was even accessible to people, had only ever noticed the cliff from the edges of the lake and assumed it was just untouched wooded area.

“This is a nice view,” Eddie said as he looked around. He could see a lot of the outskirts of town, even some of the surrounding areas that were mostly untouched by the events of spring break. “Can already see some stars.”

The sun was still up, but it was near dusk. The walk back would be dark if they didn’t leave soon.

“Yeah,” Steve finally set him down on his feet, but didn’t put any space between them. “Wanted you to see it.”

Eddie watched as Steve’s hands fiddled with his sweater, a nervous habit that he noticed back when he was still in the hospital. He’d never mentioned it, wasn’t even sure Steve knew he was doing it, but he always offered his ring-covered hand as a replacement.

Maybe it was a little selfish, but Steve never seemed to mind.

As soon as Eddie slipped his hand closer to Steve, he started toying with his mood ring, a gift from Dustin when he got out of the hospital so they could tell how he was before asking. It didn’t actually work, but they all thought it was fun.

“You come out here often?”

Steve shrugged. “Not as much since Vecna. Don’t really like being alone anymore.”

“Yeah. I know what ya mean.”

They stood there in silence again, looking up at the stars and out at the vastness of rural Indiana. Steve moved on to fidgeting with another ring, spinning it and twisting it every way possible.

“Wayne asked when you’d wanna move back in with him. Said he’s settled in the new trailer and can get your room set up whenever you’re ready,” Steve finally said.

Eddie turned to look at him, noting the shakiness in his voice. He was biting his lip so much, it was a miracle he wasn’t bleeding.

Something was off.

He’d been staying with Steve because it was easy, it was best for everyone to have easy access to a bedroom and bathroom while he healed, and Steve was the only one with parents who weren’t around. Wayne was stuck in the second floor of a motel, which wasn’t ideal for Eddie at all. But now he had a new place, and Eddie could handle stairs now, and it just made sense to go home.

So why did it feel like he’d be leaving his home if he went back to Wayne?

“Do you want me to go?” Eddie asked, bracing for the ‘yes’ he was certain was coming.

“No.”

Eddie pulled back in shock.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean no, I don’t want you to go,” Steve grabbed his hand again, tracing along the outside of his rings, making goosebumps pop up on Eddie’s arms. “I want you to stay. But I know you love Wayne and probably miss him. You should go if you want to.”

Eddie fishmouthed for a moment, unsure how to respond. He knew what he wanted to say. He knew he should probably think about this without Steve in front of him.

“And if I don’t wanna go?”

Steve searched his face for any hint of a lie, but Eddie knew he wouldn’t find one. He wanted to stay.

He wanted to stay with Steve.

“Then you should stay,” Steve choked out, almost in as much shock as Eddie had been only a moment ago. “Stay. Please.”

“In the guest room?” Eddie pushed. He shouldn’t push, but he had to know if this was Steve acting out of fear of being alone or if Steve was feeling the same about Eddie as Eddie was about Steve.

“I was thinking you could stay in my room. My bed.”

Eddie smirked. Steve was a charmer, no doubt about that, but he was clearly nervous, in uncharted territory.

He leaned in, watched Steve’s eyes widen in surprise at the shift in control of the conversation.

“And if I get sharing bed privileges, does that mean I also get kissing privileges?”

Steve nodded, eyes still wide, still shocked speechless.

“Could I start that privilege now?”

“Yeah. Yes, please.”

Eddie had never enjoyed a privilege quite as much as this one.

+ one

“You said the front step was fixed!” Eddie screeched as they stood outside their new home. “Look at it. It’s depressed.”

Steve snorted. “It’s just a little…crooked.”

“It’s barely even attached anymore.”

Steve nudged his shoulder and held out the key. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Eddie shook his head. “Oh no, no. We had an agreement, didn’t we?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“I’ve been training for this moment for over a year!”

“Throwing me around on the bed is not ‘training’, baby,” Steve smiled. “But if you really wanna do this, I’ll unlock the door.”

Eddie grinned and leaned over to pick Steve up into a bridal carry.

Steve yelped when he almost immediately dropped him, his hand fisting in Eddie’s shirt to try to keep from falling.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” Eddie said, tightening his hold on his legs and shifting him up so that his face was level with Eddie’s. “You know what’s nice about living in the middle of nowhere?”

“What?” Steve breathed out, eyes darting down to Eddie’s lips.

“I can kiss you right here in the open and no one’s around to see it.”

“Then do it,” Steve challenged.

Eddie was always up for the challenge.

He kissed him, smiling into it as he realized this was their whole future. This house, this life, it was theirs.

Eddie carefully stepped up onto the porch, avoiding the worst of the step, and walked up to the front door.

Steve leaned over to unlock it, pushed it open, and waited.

He looked up at Eddie as Eddie stepped through the door.

“Maybe someday we can do this married,” Steve’s voice was quiet, nervous.

“You wanna marry me?” Eddie half-teased. He still couldn’t quite believe how much Steve wanted him, how much he loved him.

“I’d do it today if we could.”

“We could pretend anyway,” Eddie kissed his forehead before setting him down. “We’ve got a lot of rooms to christen.”

“Where do you wanna start?”

“The living room has a fireplace and I’ve had fantasies-“

“Fantasies? Seriously?”

Eddie tugged Steve to him by his waist, captured his lips in a heated kiss. “So many fantasies.”

Steve started walking them backwards towards the fireplace. “Show me what these fantasies looked like then.”

“You got it, big boy.”

[just-a-creep-babe]

Are your requests still open? I'm not sure about your time zone so I hope it's ok if I ask how would you think relationships with the creeps would be realistically? Like how would Jeff, Masky, Ej, and Ben act if they were real and actually interested enough to date someone? I was just interested in your interpretation since I really enjoy how you write them! ✨

I feel like I’ve maybe gone over a few of these points before but I can’t remember for certain 😬

Either way, I hope none of these were too repetitive!! And tysm!! 🥰🫶

Requests are closed but commissions are open!

Masterlist: x

Jeff the Killer

It’s no secret this guy’s crazy egotistical

So as soon as he sees someone he’s interested in, it's like he just needs to have them

They’re an ego boost; a prized trophy that further proves he’s better than everyone else

He almost doesn’t see them as a full person, but more of a commodity

Really, it doesn’t matter whether or not they want the relationship—as far as he’s concerned, he knows what’s best for them

And, coincidentally, what's best for them is him

He's a super controlling partner

Literally the embodiment of your body, my choice

Part of him expects his s/o to pliantly conform themselves to his every whim and desire

But the other part secretly thinks it’s super hot when they talk back to him

He's always liked the feisty ones, and it gives him the perfect excuse to put them back in their place~

In terms of emotional intimacy, his partner really shouldn't expect much

Jeff mentally blocks all of that kind of stuff out, and he thinks people who are open about it are weak

At best, he'll ignore his partner's efforts to connect with him on a deeper level

And at worst, he'll belittle them and use their vulnerabilities against them as a manipulation tactic

So it's overall best to keep some amount of emotional distance from him, in all honesty

The plus side to dating Jeff is that he's super protective

To the point of it being suffocating, so it isn't all that much of a positive, but I digress

Since he sees his partner as his possession, and since he's very protective of his things, he'll be damn sure nothing bad happens to them

And everyone better damn well know that they're off-limits or he will remind them by carving it into their skin

At the end of the day, Jeff primarily wants sex, first and foremost

And secondly, he wants someone that'll inflate his ego; either by being a pretty piece of eye candy by his side or by constantly gushing over him and blowing smoke up his ass

Deep down, he does want someone to care for him—someone he could love and trust, and who would protect him as much as he'll protect them—but he's way too emotionally damaged to even admit he wants that

He definitely doesn't make it easy to love him

BEN Drowned

Honestly, a relationship with him would be relatively chill

All he really wants is someone to fuck and hang out and game with

He does have a dark side, which manifests as possessive/obsessive behaviors and manipulative tendencies, and a good dose of neediness to top it all off

But it's to be expected

And, really, if his s/o just behaves and gives him all of their love and attention, then it's not like they have anything to worry about, anyway

As long as they game with him every night for at least 3 hours, have sex with him a minimum of 4 times a week, answer his texts within 10 minutes, and never spend more time with someone else, then everything's fine

He's prone to spying on them through their devices, especially if they don't do the above-mentioned things to his liking

And he'll use anything in his arsenal to ensure that they stay wrapped around his little finger

Like I said, super needy and manipulative

He'll fuck with their self-esteem, their worldview, their perception of the people around them until they can't imagine living without him

He'll become their world; he wants their life to revolve around him and him only

And if things don't go his way, it'll only get worse

Much worse

He's not above eliminating anyone he's jealous of, or even isolating his partner until they don't have a choice but to accept him back into their lives

He will fully turn psycho if he, for whatever reason, thinks that he might be losing his partner

But until that time comes, until the relationship reaches that point, it'll all be smooth sailing

He's smart enough to know just the right amount to push things to keep the relationship afloat for as long as possible

Which, despite being one of the chillest partners on a surface level, quickly makes him one of the most dangerous ones when things go south

He'll stop at nothing to keep the person he likes

And his partner will never be any the wiser of the darkness that lurks behind his easy-going intentions

They better hope they never reach the tipping point that reveals his true nature

Eyeless Jack

He's actually the chillest creep to be in a relationship with

Unlike the others, Jack firmly clings to those remaining scraps of humanity within him

If he hadn't been transformed, he'd be a perfectly fine and well-adjusted member of society

So a relationship with him would be like, well, any other relationship with a normal person

He has his emotional hangups here and there, and he isn't perfect; he struggles with communicating his feelings and intentions, and he can close himself off when he's following down

But that's par for the course as far as relationship difficulties go

The biggest issue that'll come up that probably doesn't have a Buzzfeed article to help you out is dealing with his demonic side

But even then, he's gotten fairly good at controlling himself, so it'll never be too disruptive—as long as his partner keeps an open mind about the whole thing

He'll be more possessive, and he'll get jealous more easily, but he'll never lash out at his partner because of it

If anything, if he smells someone on his partner, he'll just want to scent them—so all he needs is some physical contact to reassure him

He can get insecure about his nature from time to time, but again, a bit of reassurance goes a long way

Honestly, the most dangerous thing about dating Jack is probably his urge to mark his partner

Marking a human has a few... complications, to say the least

He's naturally bound to get more possessive and much more sexually needy, which could lead him to injure his partner

But, you know, that's just part of the risks that come with dating a demon hybrid

A relationship with Jack has its ups and downs, which honestly might get more intense than a regular human relationship, but even then, a lot of humans are far crazier than Jack, even despite his nature

Even though he deals with some pretty powerful entities, he'll make sure his s/o is safe at all times—no one will ever be able to hurt them

And even though he's a cannibal, he'd probably be too protective of them to take a nibble out of them

Like, sure, he'd love to taste them—and he'd be willing to bet they taste divine—but even if they'd be open to trying it, he wouldn't want to risk it

Overall? 10/10, can not recommend dating this man enough

Masky

Masky's very hot and cold in a relationship

The stress of work combined with the physical and mental strain of being in Slender's proximity all the time does not make things easy for him

He's prone to lashing out, closing himself off, abusing whatever substance he can get his hands on, and generally spiraling out of control

Which does not make it easy for his s/o

Since Slender took an interest in him when he was still fairly young, he's almost always had symptoms of the Slender Sickness, so he's not super experienced with long-term relationships

Meaning that alongside dealing with his mood swings, his partner will also have to guide him through the ups and downs of dating

Which is just a whole extra set of difficulties his s/o will have to face

Being in a relationship with Masky really isn't easy

But the thing is, when things are good with him, they're really good

It's like he only knows how to operate on extremes; his lows are incredibly low and his highs are intoxicatingly high

When he's on a high, he'll make his partner feel like they're on top of the world

Nothing can get in the way of pleasing his partner; not time or money or even the boundaries of the law

He'll shower them with attention and affection, he'll take them on once-in-a-lifetime experiences—he'll make them feel truly heard and loved

Their connection will be like none other; he'll make them feel like they've conquered the world together

But when he's on a down, honestly, his partner might just be better off ignoring him until he gets better again

Which could take weeks or even months

But ultimately the distance will likely be better than being around him when he's going through it

Because although he isn't proud of it, he may get violent and even abusive without necessarily meaning to

And once he snaps himself out of it, he'll be upset to the point where it'll make him spiral even lower

And once he's over it, he'll be right back to gift and love-bombing them all over again because it's his way of apologizing and making sure he won't lose them

As great as things could be with him, and as addictive as he might get, his partner should keep some kind of distance from him—for their own sake

[pomefioredove]

heyyy! i really love your writing🥹🥹 btw can i request a hc with riddle and jamil (separated) with gn!reader who’s very lazy and they have a test and only study the morning before the test? but somehow pass?? i wanna see their reaction

anyway sorry if i made any mistakes, this is my very first request and english is not my first language😔 it’s fine if you can’t do it!!

-🎲

no worries! this is a great request, their reactions would be very funny

summary: reader miraculously passes a test they last-minute studied for type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, jamil additional info: platonic or romantic, reader is not specified to be yuu, reader is gender neutral, not proofread

Jamil knew that it wasn't his place to judge

after all, being raised with the al-Asims, he'd been taught to keep his bitter thoughts to himself

but something about your carelessness reminded him all too much of Kalim

...okay... maybe you weren't exactly partying, or spacing out, but your complete lack of conviction is almost identical

and, so, Jamil decides to give you a word of advice the day before the big exam

"Worried about tomorrow's History of Magic test?"

he even gives you a big smile, trying to play it off as a casual question

you shrug. "Eh, not really,"

"If I were you, I'd be a little more concerned. The grading system is very strict at NRC,"

and with that, he's gone

his sly remark, spoken as if in friendly conversation, leaves him feeling a little more satisfied with himself

he doesn't even feel irked when Kalim nearly sleeps through the test, or when he forgets his notes, or when he absent-mindedly reads the questions aloud during...

in fact, Jamil is quite confident that in any case, you'll do much worse than Kalim, which saves the both of them

after the exam scores are posted in the hall, you find him

"What did you get?"

Jamil hates answering these kinds of questions, especially knowing that he could be in the top of the class if he was allowed to try. "Passing. And you?"

"Well..." you smile. "I really thought about what you said, so I studied this morning."

Jamil's sour mood at his own score seems to lighten

you studied the morning of the exam? oh, this was going to be rich

"...And I got full marks!"

...what.

you show him the paper and it takes all his strength to keep his usual poker face

otherwise, his jaw would drop

"How did... how?"

you shrug. "Good study plan, I guess,"

"Hmph," he crosses his arms. "Well, then... you'll have to come tutor Kalim sometime. What works for you must work for him,"

Riddle spends the entire week pestering you about studying

"I just don't feel like it," you groan

goodness. you sound just like that terrible Floyd...

"It's not a matter of want, it's a matter of need. This exam counts for a significant amount of your grade!"

"Eh... I'll just wing it,"

wing it?! oh, now you've really done it

"Consider yourself lucky for not being a part of Heartslabyul. I would have your head for that!"

and then he storms out. how graceful!

when he sees you the following afternoon, that calm, unbothered look of yours is still on your face. it drives him mad

"If I were you, I'd be praying," he says. he's almost smug about it

Riddle earns full points on every exam- it's just a given. he's sure that the two of you will be on polar opposites of the grade spectrum once the results are posted

you shrug. "Yeah, about that... I thought about what you said, and decided that I don't want to have to retake this class. So I studied this morning,"

he almost smirks. "One last-minute cram won't be enough to raise your grade above failing, I'm afraid. But perhaps this will serve as a lesson, next time you-"

Riddle stops dead in his tracks as Trein posts the exam results on the wall behind you

his eyes widen

"Full... full marks?! We're in the same percent!? How is that possible?!"

You chuckle as his face goes all red, both frustrated and flustered

"Hey, you should count this as a victory for yourself. You give great advice,"

[tastesousweet]

⭒ blurb : the fever

bf!hamzah x poc!reader

summary : blurb based on this request!!!! or hamzah takes care of reader while she's sick

mickey speaks : i hope u enjoyyyy, more of my hamzah works can be found here <3 also i’m updating my tag list so pls lmk if you’d liked to be tagged in any fics in the future

─────────── · · ୨୧ · · ───────────

there's no worse way to start your morning than in a pool of your own sweat and reading a thermometer displaying 101.2°F.

without any strength to attempt to leave your bed and no appetite to drive you to perseverance, you're left slumped lazily against your hot pillow.

just as your blinks begin to slow and your eyes droop low, an irritating sequence of vibrations beam from your phone. you pinch your eyes and let out a slightly dramatic but definitely necessary whine that turns into a groan as you stretch your arms far above your head.

you take your time, hoping whoever is waiting on the other line takes the hint by the forth ring that you’re busy drowning in your misery. you open your eyes just a peek before the ringing completely stops.

a relieved sigh comes over you as you lift your plush comforter over your head in hopes of reducing any natural light your windows allow to shine into your cluttered room.

it rings once more.

“fuck!” you let a blip of rage slip out in a seething tone, kicking your feet against your mattress harshly (an immature way of expressing yourself which makes you feel fifteen again; annoyed by your old obnoxious alarm clock).

you pull the oversized covers from your face and lean over to fiddle and grab your phone from its charging dock on your jagged, wooden night stand.

your tight expression is slightly shattered when you see the large text and tiny image in the corner of the facetime call displaying your boyfriend’s name and face.

you swipe to answer, falling back onto your pillow and covering your torso with the comforter once more (after having stripped of any clothing throughout the sleepless night).

your pouty face goes to the corner of the call as hamzah displays largely across your screen. he’s set his phone on top of his dashboard, still focused on actively driving when you answer.

“heyy, whatcha’ doing? haven’t responded to my texts at all, i was gettin’ worried..” his tongue plays with the gum in his mouth, popping multiple tiny bubbles at once.

your voice gives an unexpected voice crack, “i’m doing terrible,” hamzah’s a bit thrown off by your response but you don’t acknowledge his facial expression, instead you rub your eyes, “where are you going?”

“what happened?!” he arrives at a red light and looks at you while he’s stopped, “did you not sleep well? i was on my way to get you- thought we were playin’ pickleball today with martin and mandy.”

“eughhhh, i totally forgot about that- i’ll have to text and tell them i can’t anymore i’m like dyinggg, h. my temperature’s over 100.” you sniffle and groan.

“nah, don’t worry about that i’ll tell ‘em we can’t make it. you just stay put and i’ll be over in like- just a sec, okay?” he keeps glancing over to look at you which you appreciate, though you prefer for him to pay attention- but you don’t necessarily feel like getting into a back in forth with him over his driving habits right now.

“m’kayyyy you’re the best, love you.” you thank him gently, blowing a kiss towards the camera.

“mmm i like hearing that. you’re my favorite.” he smiles to himself, “yeah, um, i’ll see you in a bit- maybe try and get some sleep though, girl?”

“i’ll try,” you whisper.

“okay, be right there, love you.”

✧₊⁺

you’re not sure how long hamzah’s been at your side when you eventually wake up again to him sat next to you, looking through one of your many 2000s magazines.

you tap his knee silently, seemingly in a better mood after some well needed rest and the comfort of waking up in hamzah’s presence.

he displays a faux since of shock, “wow and she’s somehow even prettier when awake!”

you smile and slip your hand under your cheek as you lay and look at him, “hi, when’d you get here?”

he places your magazine down next to him, "got here maybe two hours ago? i stopped by a store and grabbed you some medicine to take and some other essentials like kitkats and iced tea- did you know hilary duff and lindsay lohan had hella back and forth beef??"

you nod, "duh, of course i do! and getting me snacks wowwww you're so perfect, huh?"

hamzah playfully shrugs his arms up and down, "a little somethin' like thattt, just for you."

you laugh but begin to cough uncontrollably, to which hamzah screws his face up in faux disgust; you stare, "thanks."

“nahh i’m playing,” he grabs one of your hands and kisses the back of it, “do you need me to do anything?”

“can you come brush my teeth with me?”

he nods immediately, standing up and picking your body (wrapped delicately in your covers) up and carrying you bridal-style into the bathroom down your skinny hallway.

on the way there you laugh again which leads to another coughing fit which you cover as much as you possibly can. hamzah teasingly stretches you away from him whining out an “eeuuuhhhh!!!” but you are quick to give him a glare that has him giggling and apologizing by curling you back into his broad chest smacking a few million kisses onto your cheek.

you push his face away in warning, “stop it you’re gonna get sick, stupid!!!!”

✧₊⁺

hamzah stands between your legs as you sit on the counter and brush your teeth. he thinks you look like an angel- or maybe a tooth fairy with the suds elegantly surrounding your mouth. despite your runny nose, hot, clammy skin and sleepy eyes, the white comforter manages to compliment your complexion in the most beautiful of ways. the sight in front of him was weirdly so angelic… “so pretty…” he lets his thoughts trickle into the air.

you pause your movements and look up at him starting to grin before scooting to the side and spitting into the sink. he grins and decides to joke with you a bit, scratching the back of his neck and blowing a raspberry into the air next to him, “did i say pretty?? i meant so ….sickly??” he squints his eyes a little trying to figure out where exactly he’s going with this, “because you’ve come down with something…. bad.”

you roll your eyes and shake your head, “it sounds like you want to call me beautiful…” you bat your eyelashes as you quote him through a mouthful of toothpaste and an insane urge to laugh.

hamzah laughs for you and wipes his eyes exclaiming, “enough! let’s wrap this up.”

✧₊⁺

hamzah made you take medicine and eat top ramen with him before you lay back down in bed. now you're lying up against your headboard watching reruns of sabrina the teenage witch with blankets curled up to your chin.

when hamzah finally comes back into your room he knocks twice before stepping into the space; he’s adorned with an arrangement of white tiger lilies in his hand and a small smile on his face.

you’re absolutely shocked, “what the fuck??? h, when’s you have time to get those?!” you prop yourself up and he hands them to you.

“i saw a little shop that was closing up when i was on my way back to my place just now; it’s cute you’d like it,” he moves to lay next to you.

“thank you,” you look at him lovingly, “for everything today; you treat me so well. how were the kitties doin’?”

“mhmm, they’re fine missin’ you though.” hamzah feels a since of pride from your words, taking the flowers from your hand and setting them on your nightstand (next to a roll of toilet paper you’ve used for your runny nose and a few empty water bottles). he turns back to you and brings his hand up to hold your face, “you’re so easy to treat well.” he leans closer to your face and your eyes shift down to his lips before you’re pulling away.

you playfully scoff and shake your head no, “nuh uh, i’m not getting you sick!”

“baby i’ve been around you all day and feel fine!! my immune system is the best there is, ‘promise.” he traces your lips with his thumb gently.

“you’re sooo…” you mumble the scold, turn on your side to move away from him.

he leans over you giggling, “amazing?” he kisses your cheek. “perfect?” another closer to your lips, “you’ve said them all before!” he sets a sweet kiss to your pouty lips before retreating back lie against the pillow next to you.

“i was gonna say needy but those work as well…” you grumble and smile to your self, “hold me?” you ask a bit louder, peeking over your shoulder to see hamzah drop his phone and immediately give you the attention you want from him, nuzzling you close and kissing your neck softly.

✧₊⁺

a few weeks later via Out of Character on YouTube

martin: yeah, and you’ve been freaking sick the past week and a half! how was that?

hamzah: very whimsical and magical. i’m kidding obviously it sucks and y/n was actually the one to give it to me! i’m not blaming but i am.

martin: i think that’s the worst part about having a girlfriend like if she’s sick you’re gonna get sick too- mandy’s like a freaking warrior though she’s never sick. it’s actually really odd.

hamzah: it’s because she’s a nurse, i think

martin: actually dude?

hamzah: yeah i read about it (he’s lying)

[pm-my-beloved]

Spiral of Contempt - Analysis

I have seen A LOT of people either claiming to not understand Spiral of Contempt, or, worse, present an interpretation which in my eyes is wrong (How dare they~). Thus, I am deciding to attempt an in-depth analysis of this abno, and while im there, also Awe, Contempt Ryoshu.

I do want to warn that I might miss some of the information because trying to put it all in somewhat coherent order is, quite hard.

First preface I think is needed to estabilish, is that it probably is an abberation of Burrowing Heaven, and that its DEFINETLY a religious themed abnormality.

So lets start with disproving a theory I have frequently seen that is like, so wrong in my opinion?? And that is, that this abnormality represents "God Complex", which like, if you make a very shallow read of it, and decide to not look at its visual design, then maybe.

But, even just from design, despite being named "Spiral of contempt" the primary action that it does, is an act of worship, of adoration, its hands raised into the heavens, blood spilling from its hands as if some form of a gorey offering.

So, first conclusion to be taken, is that this is not "Godly" abno, but rather, a worshipper. And thus is also why its primarily lust, because the core of this is, as previously mentioned, adoration of something thats been put on a pedestal.

The golden land and the pouring blood is above and beyond you, and even as abno picture shows, beyond the spiral. But what could that mean? Its a surprise tool that will help us later.

"It mus have reached this depth after burrowing and burrowing." Why would something or someone go into the depths for source of worship, rather than simply look at the heavens above? This is a question that we will provide two potential answers later.

Now, onto the abnormality choice that I want to focus on in the Mirror Dungeon

The focus on gaze, or in this case, aversion, and previous mention of burrowing makes me to personally be certain of this abnormalities status as an aberration. It also makes me think, how the original abno itself, treated gaze, as almost an act of worship, to devote your focus, yourself fully to the thing your eyes are set upon.

I believe the check passed can have 3 possible interpretations, each with slightly different implications, and all of which might, considering the surreal aspect of abnormalities, be correct at the same time.

First one, is that by being able to avert our eyes from it, from its own act of worship, it has shown us some reverence, but that act, caused the contempt in the abnormality to be directed at self, for feeling respect towards a worthless bug like us. Though I do believe that the last line "The spiral descended out of sight in the meantime" Implies that the middle statement is not describing what the spiral does itself.

Second reading, is that, The Spiral of Contempt itself is a being of little insignificance, thus to observe it, to worship it with your own attention, would be a cause of contempt, and by not adoring something as worthless at it is, we prove our own worth. I want to point out here, that the option to keep looking, is what causes hatred and contempt to burst out out of ourselves

Finally, third, perhaps most radical option that will need some explaining later, is that, whatever the spiral is worshiping itself is of no significance, is profane, that its object of awe in on itself is contemptable. The reason I think so, is because the spiral has burrowed itself under the ground to worship something, to hold it in awe. I believe that one of the angles of interpretation is that, the spiral is worshipping the profane, the bloody, messy, literally placing blood on altar made of its own hands, rather than seek true heaven. It burrows itself deeper, instead of burrowing to the surface, until it reaches sky. Additional clue is, that the primary ego gift we get from it, the hands with the sanguine offering, is named perversion, otherwise translatable as corruption of the natural order.

Additionally, with the failure of the check, what we are punished for, is failure to have courage to look away, to reject the sight in front of our eyes. This failure check leads me to further believe in interpretations 2 and 3.

Now, onto Awe, Contempt, and how it ties into two of my interpretations. In on itself, the name choice is quite interesting, seemingly two completely contrasting statements, yet if we assume correctness of my interpretation, or look at what Ryoshu represents as a person, it is perfectly fitting.

The quote Ryoshu was given shows how those two concepts compliment each other perfectly "Other, lesser painters are such mediocrities, they have no way to see the beauty that lies in ugliness"

Ryoshu, through an act of art, is a sort of worshipper. She worships the squalor and uglyness and suffering that is present in life, and her art. With her actions, she is elevating the most profane, the most vile, the most worthy of contempt, into a thing of beauty and awe. This, is based on interpretation number 3.

A different, equally valid angle in my opinion, is that this EGO represents her worship of art, while separating herself from it. She is very prideful, but she does not require praise or adoration herself, what she wants is for the art itself to be seen, to focus on artist rather than their work, is what invites her scorn. This one, obviously is based on interpretation number 2.

Thus, in conclusion. I believe that Spiral of Contempt is abnormality that both represents worship of something we choose to see as vastly greater than ourselves, and the act of deifying the horrid and profane.

I will write additional things I notice that don't warrant taking space in the analysis in a follow-up post

[simjaeyvn]

pairing: heeseung x reader

summary: you weren’t meant to be getting jealous at all, friends with benefits had boundaries but shit lee heeseung looked so fucking good in his story.

warnings: oral sex (m receiving), swearing (??), mentions of weed nd alcohol like once lol

note: not proofread + pretty rushed but i js wanted to write smth to post cus i disappeared due to uni sorry

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The one word spills from your lips repeatedly as you stare intensely into the screen of your phone. Your fuck buddy, Lee Heeseung had posted himself, in his all black fit with his hair slightly damp and messy. You couldn’t tell if you were upset, mad or amused but what you did know was that you wanted to give him the suck of his life. But who was he trying to impress with his story? You frown at the thought of him trying to impress another girl and it’s only worse because it was definitely going to work. Heeseung was hot, really hot, as if sculpted by Aphrodite herself. The friends with benefits thing you had going on started when you guys were both tipsy and horny, things led to another and you both couldn’t deny how good the sex was and that is how the agreement all started.

Your focus on his story gets interrupted when you hear your roommate, Chaewon, squeal. Which gains all of your attention, of course, probably gained the attention of everyone who lived on the same floor as you two.

“Oh my god, Y/N. Have you seen Heeseung’s story? He is so fine.” Oh, and you guys were private. Not even private, secret. It was hard not telling your best friend you had been railed by Heeseung on the couch she’s fangirling over him on.

“He’s okay,” you say. It did bother you knowing other girls were having this reaction but it was worse when you weren’t in the position to be mad nor jealous. You weren’t familiar with the concept of feelings, they were confusing to tell apart. Romantic, platonic, etc, it was all too much so you stuck to denying anything you felt but there was something about Heeseung. Maybe it was the way he treated you after sex or the way he wouldn’t forget to smile and wave at you when he saw you on campus. There was just something about him that made you want him for yourself but you knew you’d have to give him up. It did piss you off, were you not enough? He said he wasn’t looking for anything serious but he goes around and posts this. You, yourself couldn’t tell if you were overreacting but you didn’t like the jealousy you felt one bit. Lifting yourself up from your shared couch with Chaewon, you turn to her to ask, “Are we going to Jay’s party?"

“Well no shit! Who are we to turn down a party?” She scoffs, hand on her chest to seem offended. You giggle and throw a pillow at her before walking into your room and shoving your face in the comfort of your pillows. The peaceful moment is interrupted by the notification noise coming from your phone. Groaning as you turn yourself around and lift up the screen to meet your eye level.

hee: hey pretty ;) hee: u going to jay’s party?

It takes everything in you not to reply or even open the message. He can post himself all he wants, he’ll just have to deal with a pissed you. You swear you can see a light bulb glowing above your head as you decide to continue the concept of staying pissed at him. How dare he post himself looking that good and then go to a party? Lee Heeseung was on thin ice. Jumping up from your bed, you open your closet and skim it to find the tightest, shortest dress you own. Pulling out a small black dress that hid in the back of your closet, you hum to yourself in satisfaction. Upon getting ready, you hear your phone vibrate. Unlocking the screen as you frown seeing the contact name.

hee: angel? why arent u answering? hee: do u need to be picked up?

This game was far more amusing than you thought it’d be. You lock your phone screen and wait for Chaewon in your shared living room. “Let’s go!” She yells enthusiastically.

One step in and the aroma of weed and beer dominates your nostrils. Your eyes roam around the house looking for a familiar face because Chaewon had met a cute guy out in the front of the house so now you were alone. Your eyes land on Jake in the kitchen, he waves, and you walk over. When you’re in arms reach, he hands you a cup of beer.

“You look good,” he compliments with a smug smile. Jake was cute, very cute but he was Heeseung’s best friend so any plan you wanted with him would be dismissed because he was also very nice. He was very committed to the concept of ‘Bro Code,’ which you respected.

“Thank you Jake,” you giggle before taking a sip out of the red plastic cup. You learn your body against the counter as you listen to Jake’s frustration over a girl.

“She gives me these signs but then she ghosts me. It’s annoying! How’s Heeseung though?” Jake asks, which surprises you. You were so focused on him talking about the girl, you don’t even know how he slipped Heeseung into the conversation.

“Heeseung? Well, he’s something.” You reply, eyes staring at the liquid in your cup.

“Better put a collar on him, did you see his story?” Jake laughs, gently pushing your shoulder as you laugh with him. “Oh. Speak of the devil.” You look up to ask Jake what he had meant but you’re already being pulled by your wrist across the house.

“Fuck! What the fuck? Let go!” You try to protest as you struggle loosening the grip. The hand lets go when you’re in a bathroom, you wait to see who the hell dragged you here as the figure locks the door. Once he turns around you curse yourself. “What the fuck Heeseung?!” You yell.

“Angel, you didn’t answer my texts. Didn’t even try to find me here and I see you talking to my best friend.” He says, you could tell he was tense. Why did he care? You guys weren’t anything official anyway, he had no reason to be caring but you also had no reason to be jealous.

“Why do you care? Move, let me go back.” You walk to unlock the door but you're pinned against the door before you can utter another word. Heeseung’s eyes meet yours, they’re dark, and full of lust. He looked mad, but he looked really hot at the same time.

“Why are you acting like such a brat for fucks sake?” He growls, moving one hand on your hip and the other cupping your jaw.

“Maybe if you hadn’t posted yourself for those other bitches.” You spit, turning your head to face anything but him. But he forcefully turned your head back to him. A smirk now on his face. Wow, you were one dumb motherfucker for admitting your jealousy.

“What? Was my angel jealous?” He says teasingly. You nod slowly, struggling to do so in his tight grip. “But baby, you made me all upset since you ignored me. Gonna make it up to me?” You nod with a smile on your face, knowing what he had meant. He smiles back before chasing your lips with his own. It doesn’t take 5 seconds before you’re kissing him back. As the kiss deepens, you push him back into the sink. You absolutely hated how weak you were for him. His teeth nip at your bottom lip so you allow his tongue to slip in. You cup his clothed dick with your hand which causes him to whine. Heeseung pulls back from the kiss and a string of saliva can be seen.

“Fuck angel, suck me off.” You lower yourself onto your knees as he undoes his belt and pulls down his jeans and boxers in one go. No matter how many times you’ve seen this sight, you still drool every time you see his bare cock. So thick, red and perfect for you. You wrap your hand around the base and pepper the tip with kisses whilst looking up at him before fitting as much as you can in your mouth. A low groan escapes his lips, and you love it. It gets difficult to control your gag reflex but you're so determined to make him feel good. He grabs your hair and wraps it into a makeshift ponytail. You can feel his tip brush against the back of your throat as you bob your head forward, not breaking any eye contact with him.

“Fuck, needa fuck your mouth baby.” You hum against his cock as a sign of agreement, your hands move to rest on his thighs as he uses you. “Mouth feels so baby.” He moans, eyes shut and his head thrown back. One of his hands grip onto the sink as the other holds your hair up in a ponytail and the prettiest noises leave his lips.

“Gonna cum-, gonna cum in your mouth, angel.” He pants before reaching his high, releasing in your mouth. “Open your mouth.” You open your mouth, showing him his release. “Swallow.” He commands, and you obey. You stick your tongue out again, showing him again and he swears he can cum again just from the sight.

“Sorry for earlier,” you mutter under your breath as you stand up. He smiles down at you, tucking himself back in his pants. “I’m sorry, I'll make it up to you, yeah? Let’s go to your apartment.”

[hiroshiii13]

I need Bingge yuan harem. Concubine SY, especially if he was bride napped. I want Bingge jealous of his own harem bcus it feels like punching cotton the way SY’s well adjusted and unbothered.

Bing: WDYM HE’S NOT ANGRY I HAVEN’T TURNED HIS NAME PLATE?? WHY IS HE NOT SCHEMING?

I want all the hallmarks of palace intrigue!!

SY getting sick from a lack of firewood in his palace. ZZL, his servant, stopping BH’s palanquin at the risk of death. Bowing to the emperor to ask for an imperial physician.

And Bingge trying to be nonchalant, but follows after the physician, asks the royal kitchen to make the most precious nourishing soup. ((He eventually cooks it himself after being so worried)).

Bingge’s interest starts to build. Secretly going (peeping) in the royal gardens as SY spends his time observing the flowers in full bloom. Trying his best to casually make an entrance.

Bingge’s bday banquet comes along, with priceless gifts stacked as far as the eye can see.

SY (w/ no powerful backing) procuring a small jade charm and medicinal sachet with hand embroidered details. Bingge directly asking for where SY’s gift is and keeping it on his person.

And every time after they meet Bingge thinks SY would invite him to stay the night, but he doesn’t. Bingge doesn’t need to ask, he knows. Taking SY as a concubine was a joke. But now he was getting serious about wanting him, to want it. For wanting SY to ask for it.

So he pulls his wild nature back and pretends to be soft and harmless. He always flips his name plate but never stays the night. Sometimes SY plays the qin for him, or sings, sometimes it’s just sending gifts or conversations during meals. Bingge wants his company the most.

Hell, maybe I can introduce a common enemy which allows the northern and southern kingdoms to unite (and get my moshang fix).

SY decides to follow Bingge in war while the rest of the harem stays back. He says he isn’t as delicate and he would follow Bingge through this hardship

Bingge doesn’t allow this but SY sneaks out anyway. With only the clothes on his back, some food and a dagger he travels up north to be w/ Bingge.

(Angst) Of course he’s captured along the way. And forced to become a courtesan. They meet again with SY under a new identity as a gift in the name of diplomacy.

Bingge feels betrayed, all this time? Was it all for this? Was he meant to fall in love and give away his kingdom?

After months of not seeing each other, all the hurt, confusion and longing was surmised in Bingge’s “is he good in bed?”

And he didn’t mean to say that. Especially seeing SY’s eyes glisten and his lips upturned in a sad smile. But the diplomat said how well behaved he is, how good he is.

SY bowed down and answered “my services have always been top notch.”

They fuck. Not in the way he imagined; Nothing of that sort of slow and careful lovemaking w soft whispers and laughter. There was no tenderness at all.

As SY expertly swallowed his dick, rather than bliss there was a feeling of loss in his heart. His most precious treasure, how did he become like this?

‘Was this your plan, all along?’

‘You can think what you want.’

And with that there were no more words between them. Only heavy pants and bruising bites and lots of kisses.

There were time when Bingge thought SY loved him. Maybe it was when he tried pulling out and SY locked his ankles around his hips begging him to stay inside. Maybe it was when he willingly put his arms above his head as Bingge restrained him roughly or maybe it was how he looked at him, tears falling, back arched trying to accommodate all that Bingge could give.

But Bingge would not think of that anymore. The peace talks commenced, the world condemned this stupid emperor. Honey trapped!! By a male courtesan at that!!

Most changed their mind and thought that they would be better off being a vassal state, cursing the emperor.

What the world didn’t know was the rivaling kingdom never meant to let them off. As drought became worse and tithes more absurd, the people only suffered.

Of course SY has had been slowly feeding the North intel with the help of ZZL. 🤩 He used his unique position to learn their schemes but did not tell Bingge.

At this time Bingge was essentially on house arrest, to ensure that they would push through with the treaty.

The Northern Consort schemed while his husband raised their joint army, readying to storm the rivaling kingdom.

They battle it out, and the forces of LBH and MBJ win decisively.

SY looks for Bingge, afraid of being left behind, of being disdained for the rest of his life.

In true palace intrigue fashion, he comes in time, just as someone was about to plunge a dagger into Bingge. He sacrifices himself instead.

There was no need I love yous or I’m sorrys. He knew he was loved. maybe it was a change of heart? Bingge thought.

But talking to MBJ, Bingge realized how wrong he had been. How painstakingly he helped, hiding in plain sight. And through it all, how he carried it all alone.

ZZL tended to his master choking back sobs. He could not help but feel aggrieved.

‘I should have stayed with him, this was all my fault. I should have never listened to him.’

‘What do you mean?’ Bingge arrived shortly after.

‘My master, told me to buy food in the city. I knew he was hiding something.

He left me a letter saying not to worry, that he’ll be running after the emperor’s envoy.’

‘I looked for him but only found his horse and drag marks in the soil. Later I heard he was taken by force.’

Bingge’s knees buckled from the weight of this revelation but he still crawled towards SY’s bed. How harsh had he treated him the first time they met again. How cruel were his words?

As Bingge grasped that gift SY painstakingly made for his birthday, he whispered, ‘SY, wake up, I will never wrong you again in this lifetime. Please wake up.’

But there was only a deafening silence in response.

SY woke up 5 days later, thank god that dagger was not poisoned or it would’ve been a different ending!!

Bingge tended to SY since then, practically a roundworm in his belly. The harem could NOT even visit him for long periods of time lest they draw the ire of a very jealous emperor!

Food was always prepared by Bingge. A truckload of new exquisite clothes was received. It was rumored that SY was so favoured that his palace was inlaid with gold, silver and precious stones.

But more than changes since then, they’ve decided to return to how they were. Bingge would visit him while SY played for him or sang. SY would frolic in the royal gardens, but this time Bingge would accompany him.

And when Bingge was invited to stay the night? They lay a white sheet on top of their bed rather quickly, yet spent the night in an almost torturous simmer. Getting reacquainted w e/o bodies between lots of hot kisses, bruising grips and soft laughter.

The outside world thought it was a truly ridiculous situation. A foolish emperor who surrendered it all for a male courtesan. And a male courtesan who was worth a whole kingdom, yet haphazardly threw his life for an impending puppet emperor.

But as the story was passed on, and the truth was revealed, the once absurd tale was changed to a story of an enduring love between the emperor and his favored male concubine.

(END)

[johnwickb1tsch]

Sympathy for the Devil ~ Part 10

A Donaka Mark x housekeeper!Reader fic, based on @discoscoob 's concept & bot! Though this is where the c.ai help ended because I was breaking the bot's pea pickin' mind. 😆

Warnings: Donaka Mark is a bad man with a soft spot for you. dark romance, possessive behavior, nonconsensual voyeurism, red flag red flag girl!🔺, psychological games, power imbalance, eventual dubcon/nsfw. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER TOO!!!

one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine.

Ten. 十

You don’t know where you get the courage to growl at this fierce man who has you in his grasp. But goddammit if he doesn’t just laugh at you–and sling you over his shoulder, carrying you like a caveman to his lair.

You do the requisite pounding on his broad back, the kicking of the feet. You swear it only makes him enjoy it more, as he tosses you down. You brace and let out a yelp, expecting hard floor below. You’re shocked, when you sink into soft mattress instead.

Which maybe isn’t great either. 

You try to scramble away, but his big hands wrap around your ankles, pulling you back, and then he is crawling over you, settling all that solid, masculine–delicious–weight on top of you. You feel him smile against your mouth, your hands pinned above your head. “Am I going to have to restrain you, to do what I want to you?” he asks casually, kissing the sensitive skin of the bend of your neck. “Or are you going to behave?”

You freeze beneath him at hearing the word restrain. As in what? Handcuffs? Ropes? Oh no. Somehow, that would be worse than everything else that’s happened tonight, and you fight not to hyperventilate beneath him, closing your eyes and grinding your teeth, even though all you really want to do is thrash like a trapped animal. 

That’s not going to work with this man. He’s too…everything. Smart. Strong. Cruel. Connected. You’re not going to beat him with brawn and you’d be a fool to count on luck. He watches you interestedly from inches away, as all this plays through your brain. You swear, he can read it like a news ticker scrolling above your head. He knows you so well.  

You hardly recognize your voice, when you ask quietly, “Will you promise…not to hurt me?”

You close your eyes again as he strokes your hair. “No,” he answers, and a spear of fear shoots down your spine. “But I don’t want to hurt you, y/n. I want your submission.”

“I don’t…understand the difference,” you admit, the fresh welling of tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. 

“Hmm.” He wipes away the moisture on your cheeks, bringing it to his lips. “I’m not wife-beating trailer trash, y/n. You’re not going to submit to me because of my fists. That would be too easy.” 

A shaky breath escapes you, as you think about how he’s used his superior strength to bully you so far. If he’s feeling self-righteous…it’s a thin fucking line. “I’m…not?”

“No.” He kisses you, lullingly gentle, cloyingly sweet. You are on even higher alert now than when he’d grabbed you earlier. “You’re going to submit, because it’s what you’ve really wanted all along. And I’m going to show you.” 

Your eyes bug wide.

“I don’t–no! That’s not fair!”

That is when his kiss upon your shoulder turns into a sharp nip. You yelp, and he is on his elbows over you, your face bracketed in his big hands. “You have a very bad habit of trying to lie to me, little one. We’re going to have to work on that.”

“I just…I don’t understand!”

“What is there to understand?” His thumbs stroke your temples, gentle once more. This man gives you whiplash.

“Why…” You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“If you can’t look into my eyes and say it, then I’ll think you’re lying,” he scolds you. “It’s basic human behavior 101.”

With a growl you glare up at him. For some reason he finds this delightful, flashing teeth. You’re sure he knows, with a gimlet stare like his, how hard it is for mere mortals to meet head on. His standards are unfair. It’s like making a deal with a demigod–or a demon–who already knows he holds all the cards.

“Why me?” you manage to grind out. “You could have anyone.”

“I could buy anyone,” he agrees. He softens slightly, looking down at you. “But you don’t care about my money, do you? You want something else from me.” He smirks, and you are mortified all over again, a flush of heat blooming up your neck. “I read all about it.”

“Ugh.”

He chuckles, enjoying himself far too much at your expense.

When he lowers to kiss you, you consider biting him for about 2.3 seconds.

“Do it,” he dares you, his words a dagger clothed in velvet. “See what happens.” He says it almost eagerly, as though he’d welcome the leave to be terrible again. You have to remember that about him. He dangles tenderness before you like bait, not genuine sentiment. You’re playing a game, and the rules can change on this man’s whim.

He says he doesn’t want to hurt you–you’re not sure that’s true, and it certainly doesn’t mean he won’t. You can trust him as far as you can throw him, and judging by his delectable dead weight on top of you…that’s not far.

You close your eyes, feeling helpless again. And stupid. And…still turned on, if you’re being completely honest with yourself. You don’t know how you’re aroused when you should be disgusted, screaming, crying, fighting–it would win you nothing. He’s going to have his way, so you can fight it…or you can enjoy it for now, and bide your time, because he has to slip up at some point, right?

Right?

He feels the change in you, when you start softening to the onslaught of his lips, his hands on your body tracing every dip and curve. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, and you swear his praise lights up something in your brain like a red hot wire.

This isn’t it, you promise yourself. You are in a war with this man. And maybe you lost the first battle, and swiftly the second too, but not the whole war. You are not conquered yet. You are not conquered yet. 

With this new resolve you reach for the buttons of his shirt. They are small, and stubborn, and you let out a frustrated growl that makes Donaka smirk down at you. “Don’t rip it. This shirt cost more than a month's salary for you.”

“Well, you’re always bragging about how much money you have,” you fire back, jerking the two halves. You’re proud of yourself when there’s a tearing sound and the button goes flying. Fair’s fair. Donaka grins like a wolf, then suddenly you are flipped on your belly, your ass in the air and your panties wrenched down your thighs. 

Smack.

You scream, his big hand on your backside stinging like a swarm of angry bees, and instinctively you squirm to get away from him. But he holds you down with an unforgiving grip in your hair, pushing your face down into the mattress.

Then you hear the jangle of his belt buckle again, and the warning hiss of leather sliding free of loops. “No, no,” you beg, struggling, to zero avail. His grip is unbreakable, like this man is made of iron.

“That depends on you. Are you going to damage my property again?”

“No,” you whimper into the bedclothes, hating how small you sound. 

“That’s what I thought.”

He drops the belt beside you on the bed like a reminder, before caressing your tender bottom ever so lightly, soothing the sting. How…does that actually feel good?

He makes a sound of appreciation, pulling you against the hard bulge in his crotch with hands on your hips. He spreads your thighs wider, leaving you utterly open and vulnerable to him. You hate to say it, but you are too unnerved to fight him, so conscious of that leather strap sitting beside you like an open threat.

“Stay there,” he directs, and you do as you’re told, listening to the whisper of fabric behind you as you presume he’s undressing. 

It’s a very awkward position, and your thighs begin to tremble. You are utterly exposed like this, splayed wide open. Yet you do not dare complain, suspecting you have used up your free passes with this man for the evening. He is just waiting for an excuse.

“You are exquisite,” he sighs from behind you. “I could stare at this view all night.”

An equal mixture of uneasy warmth and mortification fills you, displayed like this for him, so utterly open with nowhere to hide. Then you wonder if he’s threatening to keep you like this for hours more as a punishment. Yet before you can even begin to think of what to say to him, he has crouched beside the bed, and his mouth is on you. 

“Oh,” is the only intelligible word that leaves your lips. Everything that comes after is mere guttural nonsense, as his tongue teases your clit, sliding against your nether lips, and you see stars. All else forgotten, you become a slave to pursuing this pleasure, your fingers like claws in the sheets, canting your hips to give him better access to anything he wants. He moans against you, a deep sound that reverberates into your womb.

You whine like the needy little thing you have become when he withdraws, wiping his mouth on the butt cheek he struck not minutes before, kissing you with a tenderness that is nearly as beguiling as his tongue in your slit.

“Shhhh, sweet girl. I’ve got what you need, if you promise to be good for me.” You feel him kneel behind you, the warmth of his hand on your spine, the intoxicating kiss of his tip to your entrance. You’re not proud–but you want it. God, in that moment you want him more than air to breathe. You betray yourself, with the tilt of your hips, with the keening that escapes from your traitor of a throat.

“Mmm,” he practically purrs from behind you. “Do you promise, y/n?” He uses his tip to tease your slick folds, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. 

This is just a battle.

You make a sound of affirmative, a kittenish mewl because real language escapes you. 

“Use your words, bunny.”

Not the war.

“Yes.” It's all you can manage, and he takes mercy on you, betraying his eagerness too. Slowly he fills you, stretching your flesh inch by blessed inch until you can take no more. He could give you more. He could hurt you, badly, like this. Yet he’s so careful with you that you could weep, the slow glide of his body inside yours the stuff heaven is made of. 

It's funny. Despite the terrible things he did to you earlier, if you squint, it almost feels like he cares about you. The logical part of you knows it’s all a mind fuck. It has to be. But that part of you…is drowning in an inky sea of your other desires. Things you’re usually good at denying, because they’ve never caused you anything but trouble… Maybe that was a mistake on your part, because now you’re here with this dangerous man, and you’re so pent up that you can’t say no. 

That feeling of bliss intensifies when he reaches between your legs, slowly circling your clit as he pumps inside you. You involuntarily clench upon him, winning a low groan.  He drapes his long body over yours, kissing your spine, his hand encircling the front of your throat. 

“Tell me this isn’t better than just writing about it,” he demands, his low words against your ear sending a shiver through you. 

The simple answer, of course, is yes. The rest, however, is far too complex.

You make a sound that’s neither yes or no, and his grip on you tightens. Still not enough to hurt you…but he could, and you feel that so very acutely in that moment. The fact of the matter is you didn’t consent to any of this, even if you are enjoying it. He wants your complacency, and you wonder if it has to do with conscience, or claiming his victory. 

The latter, you tell yourself. The minute you start to believe he has a heart will be the end of you. You have to keep reminding yourself of that. He does not love you, you stupid girl. He never has, and never will. 

“Well? Tell the truth.” 

“It’s better,” you answer simply, because you don’t have the capacity to tell him the rest out loud right now, and making him happy is the only way you will ever get a chance to escape him. You are going to have to be calculating, and ruthless, and neither of those things come easily to you. 

“That’s my good girl.”

It shouldn’t feel so good, to hear him say that, while he’s balls deep inside you. It shouldn’t make your treacherous cunt flutter upon his relentless cock like you mean to swallow him up, a velvety red orgasm building between your legs again. 

It’s not surrender, you tell yourself as the warm rush fills you, makes you feel like your bones are filled with glittering gold, your spine bowing so hard you fear it might crack. It’s just…a tactical play. You’ve been haunted by curiosity about this man since the moment you laid eyes on him. In the morning, you’ll make your next move. For now…you might as well enjoy it as best you can. 

The games have only just begun.   

[stillness-in-green]

Sorry if this question rubs you the wrong way, but wouldn't going out of their way to try to help villains to the absolute extreme that you propose be a bit suicidal? I feel like trying to talk no jutsu criminals like Moonfish who's a serial killing canibal, or Muscular who doesn't have any actual reason for commiting violence against others other than he enjoys it, would end up getting people hurt or worse.

Idk, maybe my perception is skewed because my country has problems with the justice system being too lenient with criminals, but then striking hard against honest folk.

Like, let's say heroes try to talk to Muscular about his feelings and stuff, and he just beats them to death. So should they arrest him and take him to jail now, or should they respond "understandable, have a nice day" and let him carry on with his rampage and try to talk no jutsu him the next day?

I’ve had enough exchanges with you, rvg, to assume you don’t mean it this way, but I gotta say, this is an incredibly fallacious way to frame the “talk to Villains” discussion.  I wrote two responses to this, first a characteristically long and rambly response which you and anyone else who’s interested are free to read below the cut.  The second response is much shorter and is here above the cut, if only for those readers who think it’s a waste of time to try and give a sincere answer to what reads like deliberate reductiveness—though again, I don’t think that’s your intent.

Here is my model version of how Heroes should engage with Villains:

Step One: Heroes should put in a basic, good faith effort to defuse and de-escalate every Villain encounter they have with the tools and knowledge they have available; the ideal result is that the Villain will choose on their own to stop presenting a danger to the public.      

Step Two: If that is not feasible for some reason, or if it is ineffective, then the Heroes should make all possible efforts to arrest the Villain with the minimal possible harm.      

Step Three: If there is an immediate threat to the lives of bystanders and there is absolutely no way the Heroes can come up with to stop the Villain non-lethally, then there should, afterwards, be an investigation into the death of the Villain and all Heroes who were involved should have to face questions about their role in the situation and their decision to use lethal force.  Measures should then be implemented to help prevent the situation from arising again in the future.  A Hero killing someone should by default be treated as a punishable failure, not a victory.

That’s it!  That’s all there is to it!  Try talking first, then try arresting, and if killing is truly the only way, be ready to explain why.  That step-by-step should be the standard, and if there are going to be deviations from it, they should be exceptionally well-justified by both the characters and the narrative.  If that’s not the standard, then I think it’s a key thing we need to see the protagonists confronting and changing.

Hero Society is obviously in the not-the-standard camp: most of the Heroes spend most of the series jumping straight to Step Two, totally skipping Step One; there are then multiple instances of Step Three being botched completely, with non-lethal tactics being discarded or ignored and lethal force being accepted without question or resistance.  By the end of the series, a tiny handful of Heroes are now hesitantly attempting what should have been their very first go-to, Step One, but their prior reliance on Steps Two and Three make the Villains much more resistant than they might have otherwise been, which reenforces the push towards lethal force in a society that will still not enforce any consequences for it.

This would all be more forgivable if not for the way BNHA positions its Heroes, as lawful defenders of the status quo in a basically modern version of Japan—i.e. they’re cops but the story either doesn’t want to saddle them with the responsibilities real cops would have or else Horikoshi has some alarming views that treat said responsibilities as bothersome administrative red tape.

Therein is my fundamental complaint: BNHA makes the choice to frame its Heroes as being basically specialized police but then disregards or attempts to minimize how that framing colors the Heroes actions’ and decisions, especially with regard to the Villains.  My thoughts on what the Heroes “should” be doing are nothing more than taking that framing (Heroes = cops) to its logical conclusion and asking the story to treat the Heroes accordingly.

Below the jump, find the longer version of this answer, which contains more picking apart of the ask’s premise, more references to the canon and to real life, and an extended discussion about the non-Hero institutions in BNHA that are in some way responsible for Villains and what Heroes’ obligations are re: those institutions.  It is, in other words, the version of this answer that’s 4000 words long instead of 500.  Reminder that it was the version of this answer that was written first, so pardon any recycled phrasing or reiterated rhetoric.

I’ll just start by re-pasting the question…

What I think is that there is a lot of air between “beating up Villains while being more concerned about the news camera catching your good side than you are about talking to the human being you’re pummeling” and “trying to talk to the Villain but just shrugging and letting them carry on if it doesn’t work”.

A perennial response Villain fans get when they talk about this is an exasperated, even outraged, “What, so you’re saying Deku should just let Shigaraki kill him or innocent people?!”  And like, no, that’s not what we’re saying at all, and it’s a really reductive, bad faith characterization of the argument.  So I want to talk first about what Villain fans are saying, and then I’ll circle back to your question about trying to talk no jutsu the really bad news Villains and what Heroes should do if that talk no jutsu fails.

First things first, and to get it out of the way, not all Villains are on the level of Muscular or Moonfish.  For the vast majority of the series, the numeric bulk of Villains are just street criminals.  It would not be a life or death struggle for Kamui Woods and Mount Lady to try and talk down a purse snatcher together.  There is so much room for positive change in how Heroes engage with street-level Villains that just gets glossed over entirely when people want to spin-kick the argument all the way to S-class threats like post-surgery Shigaraki.

Note how handily and briskly Hawks deals with the nudist flasher guy when he’s walking around town with Endeavor—he doesn’t even glance in his direction.  Would it have been so impossibly hard to use his feathers to pin the guy’s coat back together and then cheerfully ask him why he went and did a thing like that?

So just keep that in mind, first of all: for the vast majority of what a Hero does day-to-day, especially the powerful ones who are way up near the top of the rankings, there are options available to them beyond “immediately resort to extreme violence” or “give the Villain a thumbs-up and walk away, whistling to cover the sound of civilian screams.”

But okay, how about with the more dangerous Villains?  Well, the point still stands: multiple heroic characters throughout the manga show themselves to be entirely capable of carrying on a conversation—be it with the Villains or with Hero allies—while fighting.  Mirio is able to temporarily keep ShigAFO talking and distracted by simply asking him a few basic questions; he and Nighteye both are able to get at least some answers out of Overhaul(!) just by asking about his intentions. Ochaco and Toga have coherent conversation every single time they fight.  Hawks and Twice have a whole argument while fighting.  As soon as Shouto can be bothered to talk to Dabi, Dabi’s eager to spill his whole backstory to him.

Shigaraki in particular comes off as desperate to share his grievances practically every time Heroes encounter him, and that only stops being true at the very end—and even there, it might be less true if that green twit fighting him could have been arsed to just fucking ask him, “Hey, last time we fought, when we were in the same headspace, I saw an image of you crying with a dog.  What was up with that?”  Deku doesn’t have to stand there with his hands in the air while asking!  As all the examples cited demonstrate, Heroes are more than able to fight and talk at the same time.  So why don’t they try to make that talk a little more actually useful?

What I’m saying is simply that I would like it if less of that conversation were dedicated to Heroes giving moralizing sermons about how bad and unforgiveable Villains are and a lot more of it were dedicated to Heroes just asking why the Villains are doing what they’re doing, and letting the conversation go from there, fighting defensively and keeping the Villain focused on them as much as they’re capable of doing.  We see the results in the series when Heroes bother trying this—think Deku’s results with Gentle Criminal or Ochaco’s with Toga—so it’s damning that they don’t try it more often.

The likely explanation is that professional heroism as a matter of practice and culture does not tend to bother with de-escalation tactics; after all, while you’re standing there trying to talk to the bank robber, some other Hero could easily be coming in for the take-down, and then they get all the credit and glory and not least the pay.  The whole system is geared towards rewarding fast, uncompromising takedowns, ignoring the possibility of more peaceful, productive resolutions in favor of stopping the Public Disturbance as quickly as possible, because it’s more important to stop random civilians feeling inconvenienced than it is to maybe try addressing a Villain’s issues so they stand down themselves and are less likely to become hardened criminals.

Heck, even Deku really only gets anywhere with Gentle because his first instinct—shutting down the fight right away with a Smash—gets him rebounded off an air trampoline with enough force to knock him back nearly a neighborhood block.  The defensive, evasive nature of Gentle’s power means it’s difficult to hit him directly, and Gentle’s personality was such that he kept talking while Deku was figuring out how to beat him.  That talking was really what gave Deku enough insight to trigger his empathy, so he started returning the conversation in ways that he never did against e.g. Stain, AFO, or in his first fight with Muscular.  He didn’t lead by asking why Gentle was invading his school, though; he just ordered him repeatedly to stop.

Heroes and, in turn, the kids, just don’t default to trying to talk to the Villains.  We see that they can, they’re just not trained to, so it becomes a tactic of last resort, or of distraction, or, finally, as being the result of moments of connection that make them incapable of continuing to ignore the Villains’ humanity.  But when it’s a last resort like that, when they don’t bother asking questions until after the Villains have been pushed past the point of wanting to engage, everything gets so much harder and more dangerous.

Look at Shigaraki and Toga.  When Deku and Ochaco initially encounter them, the kids’ first response is basically just revulsion and terror.  And like, okay, they’re students, newly fledged Hero Course trainees.  They shouldn’t have been facing real life Villains for another two years, at least!  So it’s not surprising that they don’t know what to do and don’t react in the most empathetic manner possible.  I’m not blaming them for that.  But I do want to ask what would have happened if their classes and the Hero culture were more focused on attempting dialogue with Villains.

All Might at USJ writes Shigaraki off as a faker with no real beliefs, and Deku at the mall calls him an incomprehensible cipher, but what if either of them had instead asked Tomura why he was there and what he wanted, then asked follow-up questions from there?  How much earlier might they have found out that Shigaraki had some tragedy in his past that he blamed All Might for not saving him from?  What might finding that out early on have led them to change about how they approached Shigaraki in subsequent encounters?

If Ochaco and Tsuyu had asked Toga why she attacked people, then followed up on whatever answer Toga gave about liking blood with some questions about consent, how much sooner might they have found out that Toga spent her whole life feeling ostracized and repressed because she was convinced by the adults around her that people finding out she craved blood would make her a freak in their eyes?  How might they have engaged with her differently if they realized her parents had been verbally abusing her since she was three years old?

But we also don’t have to stop with U.A. types!  Toga went on the run at only 15—how many times did she have had close scrapes with arrest before the training camp attack?  How many other opportunities were there for someone to talk her down before she made it to the League?  Heck, even all the way to the end, if the green twit hadn’t just insisted on antagonizing Toga one last time for the road—as if he’d learned nothing at all since the mall scene!—how much more easily might Ochaco have been able to engage with her?  Maybe if Toga hadn’t set her mind to embracing Villainy because Deku functionally became yet another person calling her a freak, Ochaco could have gotten to the breakthrough point before Toga stabbed her in the gut?

I’ve been talking about the more sympathetic Villains here so far, but all this goes for the rest of them, too.  Sure, Moonfish is a cannibal serial killer now, but was he always?  Or was there a time when he was just like Toga, a teenager wrestling with quirk-driven hungers who was abused and ostracized for them?  I’ve thought, from time to time, about the idea of a League ageswap AU, where Moonfish is that scared but defiant teenager who’s been pushed over the edge and done something violent, but is not yet past saving.  Conversely, it’s all too easy for me to imagine a Toga who was never captured and never shown any compassion growing into an adult who fully embraced her vampire serial killer reputation and “deviant” hungers to become just as much an alleged monster as Canon Moonfish.

How about Muscular?  Was he always a violent sadist?  Was it impossible that he could have grown up to be anything else?  Could that taste for violence ever have found an outlet other than murder?  Could he have gotten into underground fighting, like Rappa?  Could he have become a Hero like Mirko, always hungry for a better challenge than she’s getting?  Quite frankly, even if Imasuji Gouto was a violent little bully who killed neighborhood pets as a child, he still deserved some kind of intervention—psychological counseling, medication, more acceptable outlets, etc.

How many Villains would HeroAca!Japan be spared if the people in power were more focused on intervention and rehabilitation at every stage of a Villain’s life and career?  Why do Heroes think it’s helpful or necessary to tell everyone in earshot their personal opinion about the unforgivability of their opponents?  Why is it such a problem for some readers when Villain fans point out that a lot of issues could be sidestepped entirely, and the HeroAca world considerably bettered, if the Hero Industry were less focused on showy grandstanding violence, less terrified of the optics of being anything other than maximally harsh on Villains?

That all said, that’s the nuance of what I want when I say I want more talk no jutsu.  But let’s go back to your question—what should Heroes do when they run into Villains who can’t be talked down?

Say that all the interventions and counseling programs have failed, and someone—some mother’s son, some father’s daughter—has grown up to become a Villain.  And not just any Villain, but a really dangerous one.  What do?

Well, I do still want to see Heroes try to talk first, unless they have some reason to believe talking won’t work, like knowledge that knowing that efforts in that direction have already been made and documented in previous encounters between law enforcement and the Villain in question.  There’s also some flex here based on how capable of dragging out an encounter the Heroes on-scene are, and how much danger any bystanders would be in—I would want more effort from someone who can hold their own for long periods like Deku than e.g. Manual.  But like, anyone can yell a few basic questions about motivations to see what sort of response they get.

But say our Hero is up against someone like Muscular, who just laughs off questions like that.  What to do then?

Then arrest him.

Seriously, this is not that complicated.  I’m not asking some run-of-the-mill Hero to get their arms ripped off trying to give battle therapy to Muscular!  But I do want Muscular to get therapy, or at least be offered it, once he’s no longer presenting an immediate threat and those conversations can happen in a safe environment.  And if he doesn’t accept it,[1] I still want him to be treated as humanely as reasonably possible in prison, with the therapy option always on the table if he ever wants to try it.  I also want his prison term (even if it’s for life) to not involve methods of punishment that are considered by the United Nations to constitute torture, like Tartarus’s apparent extended solitary confinement.

1: Perhaps because he would rather rip his own arms off than talk about his feelings or waste any more time getting analyzed by shrinks than he already has; pick your poison based on why and for how long you think he’s been killing people.

I truly do not have any problems, ethically speaking, with Heroes arresting dangerous Villains.  My problem has always been that Hero Society is comprehensively awful in how it treats those who don’t fit neatly into society’s little boxes.  Their social support networks are full of holes, their law enforcement is financially disincentivized from attempting de-escalation, their judicial process is completely invisible, and their prisons are concrete holes that only serve to make people worse, as we can see clearly in the case of people like poor Ending—already unstable when he was first arrested by Endeavor, but so blatantly suicidal when his sentence is up that the literal first thing he does after release is to investigate Endeavor’s personal life so as to find a way to goad Endeavor into killing him.

Now, sure, Heroes are not responsible for prison policies and practices; those are under a completely different part of the criminal justice umbrella.  Nor is it up to them to determine how e.g. financial aid programs or family services work.  But I want Heroes to be better in the ways that they—personally and professionally—can be, and I want them to be cognizant of the flaws in the system they uphold.  I want them to have some basic intellectual curiosity about the Villains they fight—why they turned out like they did, if they can be helped, and what’s going to become of them after the Hero hands them off to the police.

Like, what is All Might’s opinion on Tartarus?  He spent 30+ years fighting for the society that maintains it—does he think or care at all about the fact that some extremely damaged, abused people wind up in there after he gets done beating them up?  And if he doesn’t, what does that say about him?  What would Ochaco have done if Toga had lived and said she’d rather Ochaco kill her than let her go to prison forever?  Does Shouto think now about the family situation of every Villain he fights, or did his ability to care about “some mother’s son” begin and end with his mother’s son?

Obviously, Heroes stop Villains all the time; I’m not asking them to do deep dives into the history and treatment of each and every one.  I just want them to ask the questions they can while the Villain is in front of them, and to care about the state of both the systems that produce Villains and the ones tasked with their care.  I think that when handing people over to state custody, Heroes have a responsibility to be meaningfully confident that the state won’t abuse that custodianship.  If they aren’t—if they truly don’t give a shit about what happens to Villains once the police van door swings closed—then in my view they’re no different than any professional who shirks their duty.

So many people insist that the kids—that Heroes in general—have no duty to care about the Villains, but to me, this view comes off as wildly ignorant about the wide variety of jobs in the real world that do, in fact, confer a duty of care.

If…

…a teacher sees a child with unexplained bruises but doesn’t bother to do their due diligence as a mandatory reporter—

…a prison guard leaves a handcuffed inmate alone in a room with a fellow warden wearing brass knuckles—

…a medic doesn’t speak up when a flight attendant asks if there’s a doctor on the plane—

…a bartender just keeps on serving someone who’s obviously intoxicated and then lets them stumble out the door to the parking lot—

—then they are shirking their duty.  There is no shortage out there of examples of this sort of responsibility, one that you can be held legally responsible for, one that you choose to accept when you sign up for the job.

Heroes are not Samaritans doing the work out of the goodness of their hearts; they’re not vigilantes just trying to keep their own patch safe.  They’re government employees, crucial members of the lawful system they represent.  They have to care—not personally, not individually, but on a professional, structural level, they have to care about the people they fight because the system has to care about those people.  And if the system doesn’t care, the system has to be changed.

I'm segueing here into real life stuff, so let me note as a disclaimer that what follows is based on my cultural familiarity with American policies, as well as periodic research into that of other nations. I don't know what country you live in, rvg, so I can hardly speak to its crime-and-punishment situation. This is all a lefty American's opinion on what reading she has done about American, Japanese, and, in the case of this particular post, Scandinavian criminal justice systems.

That said: in real life, de-escalation works.  One of the things you’ll often see talked about in police reform/abolishment circles is that the police are, quite frankly, doing too much work.  Or, more specifically, they’re doing the wrong kind of work, work for which their training has not prepared them and which other groups would be far better suited to handle.

Here’s an article on offering a campus police force de-escalation training and the resulting 26-36% drop in injuries suffered by both civilians and officers; it also talks about how de-escalation tactics are used by SWAT teams but regarded with suspicion by patrol officers, with this quote being particularly telling: “[Special operations] officers were taught to use time, distance and cover to their advantage.  For patrol officers, time was viewed as 'The more time you give a suspect, the more danger you're in.'”  De-escalation is not the usual training patrol officers get, so it runs against their gut feeling, despite its proven effectiveness—compare this to BNHA’s repeated focus on speed in shutting down altercations.

Here’s an article on the results of a test run of a program in Denver, Colorado, in which police officers were completely removed from response teams to 911 calls about situations considered low risk (drug abuse, trespassing, welfare checks, etc); instead, teams of mental health specialists and paramedics were dispatched.  Reports of nonviolent crime dropped 34% over the course of the time the program ran, and the direct financial cost of the response was four times lower than sending police.

The classic dramatic image of this sort of thing is the hostage situation—and when I looked into it, numerous articles said that containment and negotiation tactics have over a 94% chance of resolving hostage crises without fatalities!

The common element in this sort of thing is refraining from showboating displays of force, loud assertions of power and authority, arguments, moralizing, threats, and so forth.  Far more effective is listening, active attempts to communicate and understand, not throwing one's weight around and not rising to aggression even when provoked.

Meanwhile, on the carceral side of things, restorative justice leads to greater satisfaction from both victims and perpetrators, more feeling that they were listened to and respected, and increased belief that justice was served.  While the evidence on its impact on recidivism is mixed, it certainly doesn’t seem to be less effective than traditional retributive justice, and may well be considerably more effective if combined with programs that focus more specifically on lessening recidivism than restorative justice alone (research is ongoing).

This article on how “cushy” Scandinavian prisons are far more effective at reducing recidivism than their much harsher, bleaker American counterparts argues that a crucial factor in reducing recidivism is minimizing the amount of resentment criminals bear towards the system.  When perpetrators can point at unjust or disproportionate punishments, cruel treatment by wardens, rejection by society, etc, it’s much easier to stew on resentment, to turn nastier themselves, to blame outside factors.  Conversely, when life inside prison is made as much like life outside prison as possible with the key difference being the crucial deprivation of freedom, that resentment is defanged, leading to more more self-reflection and willingness to accept responsibility. And again, it works: Norway is a world leader, with their recidivism rate being a mere 20% compared to the U.S.’s nearly 77%.

The studies and the evidence for this stuff is out there, it’s just fighting this huge, ugly uphill battle against people who care far, far more about inflicting punishment than they do actually improving outcomes.  And so much of that is based on cultural values—what people believe, what values they’re taught. That's where pop culture comes in.

That last article I linked above talks about the efforts made in the U.S. to turn prisons into a for-profit industry, and how demonizing criminals to encourage maximum sentences helps that effort; here’s another on how U.S. police departments rehabilitated the popular image of the police in the early part of the 1900s as bumbling fools or a corrupt gang by consulting on the writing of police procedurals, most crucially starting with Dragnet in 1951, but continuing even today.  Here’s one on a growing concern in Japan about the relationship fostered between TV studios and police when police permission and cooperation is required for filming those popular reality TV police documentary programs.

Mass media and pop culture informs this stuff.  True, Horikoshi is not having to get his work cleared by a police PR department to publish it, but you can see from the above how the police have used and do use mass media to polish up their image; they see it as an effective tool to use because it is.  And the closer to our reality a work of fiction is, the more obviously it resembles the world around us, the more it seems to purport to moral instructiveness, the more true that becomes.  That’s why I criticize BNHA much more harshly than any number of other manga or anime I follow where Good Guys Kill Bad Guys all the time and no one thinks twice about it: because those series aren’t parading the Good Guys out as Japanese citizens working with Japanese police under Japanese law to maintain the rosy image of the Japanese status quo.

I’m long past the point where I’m just rambling, so I’ll wind it down here by pointing out this: Horikoshi also thought that things in his world needed to change.  As much as I loathe BNHA’s endgame and think much of its epilogue is trite shoulder-patting pablum that fails to meaningfully address the setting’s real problems, multiple aspects of Hero Society were at least nominally challenged and subsequently changed: citizen inaction, the dominance of professional heroics as a career path, the diminishment of non-Hero careers, quirk-based discrimination.  As a direct result of the main characters’ efforts to address places where the old system was failing people, the incident rate of Villains is decreasing.

The fact that these changes are made provides in itself the evidence that they needed to be made. I think they need to go further still: my number one greivance with the epilogue is that we've seen all these changes aimed at reducing the numbers of Villains that arise in the first place, and that's nice and all, but we don't see any evidence that the Villains that do arise are treated any differently than they ever were, not even the common purse snatchers, much less the serial killers, the cannibals, and the terrorists.

So, should Heroes have to get themselves nearly killed trying to reform a Villain?  Ideally no, but that assumes a world where Heroes are working in concert with a bunch of other people who are also dedicated to preventing, reforming, or rehabilitating Villains.  If none of that other personnel infrastructure exists, then, well, to paraphrase Nedzu, someone has to take the first step.  Why shouldn’t it be the combat-trained professionals with shounen battle stamina who also happen to be the main characters?

[glow-worms-are-believers]

Catwoman's new sidekick (dc x dp)

This is very loosely inspired by this prompt. Enjoy the blurb:)

Danny didn’t really like guns. Not the ecto-weapons his parents made, but the actual bullet-filled guns. He knew how to use them, as that was what his parents had based themselves off of to create their own ectoplasm-powered version of it, but he didn’t like them. So when he’d found one not only loaded, but with the safety off in his apartment’s garbage bin, he’d plan to take it and go throw it in the river to make sure nobody would get to use it. Danny wasn’t exactly shocked to see it, this was Gotham after all, but it was a bit of a nasty surprise to say the least. It wasn’t like it could really hurt him anymore, it seemed halfas had a sort of built-in instinct for going intangible (which had explained why the Nasty-Burger-explosion-that-never-happened hadn’t affected him despite being taken completely by surprise).

Not to mention he was already in a bad mood at the news that Vlad was in the city right now for some rich guy nonsense, which Danny was 100% sure meant the fruitloop was going to come by to bother him at some point in the next few days.

“Hello, Daniel,” came Vlad’s voice from behind him as if summoned.

“Get away from me, you creep,” Danny answered, not turning around. Instead, he started walking in the opposite direction.

“Is that anyway to talk to your unckie Vlad?” The man said with his smarmy tone. “And I came by such a long way to come see you.”

“You saw me, now you can leave.” Danny didn’t bother turning his head as Vlad caught up so they were walking side by side.

The billionaire tsked as he looked around. “It’s such a shame you live in such a poor neighbourhood. You know the offer to pay for your tuition is still open.”

“Not in a million years,” Danny answered dryly.

“You’re just as stubborn as my dear Madeleine used to be,” Vlad sighed and Danny felt the disgust twist his features into a grimace.

“Still being a creepy disgusting old loner, Vlad?” Danny snarked. “How many cats are you on, number 5?”

There was flash of anger in the older man’s eye before he smirked. “And how is dear Danielle these days, it’s been so long since she came by. I think she’ll be due for another meltdown soon.”

On impulse, Danny raised the gun, knowing full well the man would go intangible faster than any bullet and pointed it at Vlad. “Don’t you dare touch her.”

“Oh please, Daniel,” Vlad scoffed. “What are you going to do, shoot me?”

“Maybe,” Danny retorted.

“It wouldn’t change anything,” Vlad dismissed.

“Might make me feel better,” Danny said even as he lowered the gun a bit, knowing it wouldn’t do anything.

Vlad knew this just as well, and he sneered before turning his back to Danny and walking away with a parting shot. “I always get what I want, Daniel. Whether it’s through you or her.”

The gun that Danny had lowered slightly now came back up. He was so tempted to empty the stupid thing at Vlad, no matter if it would all pass through him. Before he could do anything though, a voice from above sounded.

“He’s not worth it, kid.”

Danny looked up to find the masked face of Catwoman peering down on him.

“He deserves worse than this,” Danny said, mind still on the temptation of shooting at Vlad’s intangible back. This was a deserted part of the city, it wasn’t like it would hurt anyone else.

“I promise there are better ways to make him pay,” Catwoman answered.

Danny scoffed bitterly. “Vlad’s so rich, he can pay off anyone and cover up any scandal I could think of.” And if money didn’t work, there was always straight-up overshadowing innocent bystanders.

The masked woman hesitated for a while before she called down determinately. “Look, get rid of the gun, and I promise I’ll help you make him pay.”

“Really?” Danny wasn’t too sure what that entailed but anything that would hinder Vlad was a go for him. “You promise?”

“I do,” she stated with conviction. “But you have to lose the gun.”

“Yeah, ok,” Danny said. He was going to do it anyways, but if she wanted it gone even faster, Danny wasn’t going to argue.

Selina watched as her new sidekick dropped off the gun into the river. It fell in with a splash that had something in her curling comfortably. Maybe Bruce was really rubbing off on her if she was picking up strays

But, Selina had a good feeling about this. Talking a kid out of murder had been how Batman had gotten his first Robin, after all.

[moveslikekeithrichards]

entire family including my brothers girlfriend in shouting argument last night bc we were playing 20 questions (generally more like 800 questions) & my mom wasnt playing but had to get involved when my brother showed her a picture to confirm the genre of the character he was thinking of & she became absolutely enraged bc he had said Yes to "are they humanoid in shape" and she tried to tell me the character was more robotic than anything else (but not actually robotic) and he was telling me No He Is Not and they were both giving fully conflicting answers & telling me not to listen to the other & only after their difficulty answering when faced with the question "is the character live action" did i realize it was a muppet and that maybe my brother and i are horrible at playing 20 questions but we're the only people who can play it with each other bc nobody else understands our brain cells. anyway poll

(NOTE: when i say Humanoid In Shape i mean like, you could take a stick figure and flesh it out into the character, not that theyre human or human-looking or apelike etc, which is how my mom interprets it. idk if this is a Correct Definition but my brother & i both knew what i meant)

[the-broken-pen]

As another request, maybe the villain and hero are fighting , and the villain notices that the hero reacts suspiciously numb to his attacks. And when he taunts him about it, the hero sisimply says something to the effect of being used to it. And the villain is suspicious by the tone so he follow the hero and find out he’s abused by family . Cue villain saving the hero, comforting him and showering him with the love he never got

The villain should have known something was wrong the first time he hit the hero, and he simply braced, pain flickering along the muscles of his jaw, before hitting back. Face blank, a mask stronger than concrete. As if pain played no part, and it was just the give and return of kinetic energy, and nothing more.

He should have known when he said something so cruel it felt like graveyard dirt upon his tongue, and the hero merely stuttered for half a second, everything within him freezing, before he continued like nothing had happened. Nothing cruel in return, nothing biting in his face. Just–complete nothing.

“You never flinch,” the villain said, and it wasn’t a sudden realization, but it was close. Again, that momentary pause, like the hero had been grabbed and stopped by some otherworldly being on a molecular level. It allowed the villain to catch the next hit the hero threw at them.

“What?”

The hero, to his credit, didn’t sound upset, and in this line of work the villain was especially good at noticing the tiny pieces of that kind of thing. He just sounded confused, maybe.

“When I hit you. You don’t flinch,” the villain clarified. The hero just stared at them.

“You only really flinch if you aren’t used to it,” the hero said finally.

“Used to it?”

“You heard me,” the hero replied, and this time, there was irritation behind his words.

The villain tossed the hero’s fist down, and the hero stumbled back.

“And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I wasn’t aware there was one.”

“Are you intentionally being annoying, or is it just natural for you?”

The hero’s breath shuddered.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry–you–I don’t want an apology,” the villain sputtered. This conversation felt above his pay grade; and he wasn't entirely sure why, either, which irked him, itching under his skin.

“So–” the hero snapped his jaw shut around the rest of the word, and it looked like he was doing everything in his power to stop himself from finishing it.

Before the villain could prod further–about the flinching, or any other confusing aspect of it–the hero blew out a breath, and said, “I’m done here.”

The villain blinked.

“You can’t just decide when a fight is over.”

“Watch me,” the hero said, but his voice didn’t have the heat that usually went along with that phrase.

“You’re a hero, isn’t this kind of your entire job? Finishing fights, not walking away from them?”

“I said, I’m done,” the hero snarled, and it was the first hint of emotion he had shown the entire day, explosive and aimed entirely at the villain. The villain was taken aback for a moment.

The hero turned and left before the villain could even think of a response. He didn’t look over his shoulder.

Of course, the villain followed him home.

The fact that he had been able to at all was something to be worried about.

He watched as the hero entered, shutting the door behind him. Heard the sound of his bag hitting the floor, his jacket being hung up. Normal, quiet little things. Shuffling through the kitchen, making a cup of tea. A quiet conversation with his mother.

The villain was about to leave when he heard the slap.

He was through the door before he realized he was moving, leaving the handle to slam into the wall.

He caught the barest edge of a conversation as he rounded the corner–a curse word, then a vile sort of thing that was somehow worse than anything the villain had managed to say in his entire life–and slotted himself neatly between the hero and his mother.

The villain caught her wrist before it could touch any part of the hero. His grip was too tight to be anything but painful.

The hero’s mother gaped at them.

A bruise was beginning to bloom across the hero’s cheek.

The hero was shaking, slightly, face tense and drawn as he stared at the villain. Like the villain was the unnerving thing in this situation, and the hand his mother still had raised was the normality.

A rage, raw and unfathomable, ravenous within him, descending down so deep into the white hot of fury that it passed anything that had a name, uncurled itself along his bones.

“Touch him again,” the villain seethed, voice shaking with all that feral untamed mess within himself, “and you lose the hand.”

“Villain,” the hero said quietly, and the villain had never heard him so meek.

How long did it take for a person to learn that kind of quiet?

“Villain, leave it.”

The villain didn’t release the hero’s mother’s–no. The woman in front of him wasn’t a mother. She was something twisted, and broken, and cruel, upper lip curled with displeasure. Not that the villain was within her kitchen; but that he had stopped her from hitting her child.

The villain wanted nothing more than to vomit on her spotless white tiles.

Maybe in another life she would have been the kind of person the hero, with his kind heart, would have saved before it got to this point.

Maybe in another life the villain would have let the hero try.

But that was not this life.

And there was a bruise blooming on his hero’s cheek.

“You have no right–”

“Did I not make myself clear?” He said, and it was black and poisonous in the air.

The woman in front of him swallowed, and for the first time, fear flickered across her face.

Good.

“Villain,” the hero said, voice strangled, and the villain turned to look at him.

“She’s hurt you before,” the villain said, and it wasn’t a question. The hero looked at him wide-eyed, and he wondered how many times the hero had walked into a fight with him with pre-existing injuries. Injuries he would pretend later that the villain had given him.

The hero swallowed, hard.

“Yes,” he whispered, and that was all the villain needed. He turned back around.

“The only reason you are alive right now is because I think killing you would upset him,” he informed her, and he watched her face pale. “That, and getting blood out of shoes is a bitch. Isn’t it, hero? See, you wouldn’t know. Nobody’s ever made you bleed, I’d wager, because if they had, you would understand it isn’t the kind of thing you do to someone you love.”

He grinned, feral.

“You’re going to leave,” he continued. “Matter of fact, you’re going to vanish. And you’re going to do it so well that if he wants, he’ll never have to think of you again. The only way you’ll ever see him again will be because he wants it to happen, do you understand me? If you don’t, we’ll make you vanish my way.”

The hero made a choked noise behind him. “I don’t think you’ll like that very much,” the villain confided in a whisper.

He wasn’t sure the woman in front of him was breathing.

“Hero,” he said after a long minute. He was going to leave bruises on her wrist. She was shaking, and it soothed some of the yawning rage within him. “Pack a bag.”

The hero vanished into the halls of the house.

The villain didn’t say anything, just stared at the woman in front of him, as if he looked long enough he would be able to see the rotten core inside of her that had made her this way. Turned her into something violent. Or perhaps, the thing that had been inside her since birth, broken and seething. Inevitable.

He didn’t like to believe people could be born evil.

He would make an exception.

The hero appeared back behind him as silent as a wraith, far faster than the villain had expected, duffel bag in one hand.

He wondered how long the hero had had a bag tucked away, packed and ready to run if it got too bad.

He wondered what the hero considered ‘bad enough’ and his jaw clenched hard enough he could hear the bones creak.

“That all you need?”

The hero nodded, mutely, and the villain finally dropped the woman’s hand. She pulled back, hissing as she rubbed her arm, but she had the sense to not glare at the villain.

He tipped his head towards the door.

“Let’s go,” he said, as gently as he had ever heard himself.

The hero followed him out, and they didn’t say anything until the villain’s apartment door locked behind the both of them.

The villain blew out a shuddering breath.

The hero looked like he wasn’t entirely there, eyes glassy.

“Hero,” he said softly, and the hero’s gaze snapped to his face. He stopped himself from reaching for him, a helpless effort to do something, to fix it. “Can I touch you?”

He made sure it didn’t sound like a demand, because if the hero said no, the villain would die before crossing that line, no matter how much it stung. A moment later, to his relief, the hero gave a jerky nod.

He moved slowly, a gentle palm on the hero’s jaw to tip it up, inspecting the bruise with pursed lips. He brushed away the tear that slipped down the hero’s cheek with his thumb, and left it there.

“It could be worse,” the hero offered quietly.

“The fact that it exists at all is worse enough,” the villain murmured, tipping the hero’s head back down. “I’m so sorry.”

The hero blinked, brow furrowing. “For what?”

The villain shrugged one shoulder. “That it happened. That it has been happening. That I didn’t notice.”

“I’m good at hiding it,” the hero said, like it was supposed to make the villain feel better.

“You shouldn’t have had to learn how to do that at all,” the villain said, and the hero’s lip wobbled.

The hero wavered slightly, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He carried himself like the entirety of his body was an open wound, every second spent breathing a second spent in agony.

The villain couldn’t pretend he knew what this felt like, but he could do his best to soothe it as much as possible.

“Come here,” he said softly, and the hero melted into him, shaking as he tried to cry quietly and failed. He tucked the hero against his chest, and hand coming to curl into the hero’s hair as he let out a desperate keening noise.

He rested his chin on the top of the hero’s head. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “It’s not right now, but it will be, I promise. Even if it takes a while.”

The hero shuddered against him, then nodded, just once.

It wasn’t okay, but it would be.

The villain had promised.

And he never broke a promise.

[theknightmarket]

Knight, knight, knight- a somewhat wholesome idea popped into my mind. The da is stuck inside the mirror right? What if they gained powers that allows them to travel through dreams? In a sense they have their adventures depends on the host person/enity and they just go along with.

and okay what if dark knew what the upsidedown world is capable? And its what drives dark to never fall asleep (aside not needing one) and also why is he so hellbent chasing and taking revenge on mark so when its all over, he'll take his rest, be with the da for eternity

"Good morning, sunshine."

In which Dark and the DA interact through unconventional means. Tw: death mention Pages: 17 - Words: 6,500

[Requests: OPEN]

The first time, you weren’t sure what had happened. You weren’t sure if it was good or bad. You weren’t sure whether it was because of something you had done, or it was just a random event, some miracle that had gotten you out of that mirror. Hell, you weren’t sure what was actually happening. How you got to some kind of bank or museum was pushed to the back of your mind, but so too were the events occurring right in front of you. It was embarrassing that this was the happiest you had been in decades, even if it was understandable.

To hear the distant whirring of inefficient streetlights, to see something other than a boundless sky of complete blackness that wrapped around you, under, above, disappearing into the floor and reappearing from the ceiling – it was enough to push you close to tears.

But confusion overruled that, instead, making you wonder why that was all you were given, why you couldn’t smell, or feel, or even taste.

And then horror rattled your senses as you watched a body step out from where you were standing.

Your initial idea was inaccurate.

Because you did not exist here.

Because you were not standing at the edge of a row of bushes, shaded by the night and staring into the doors of a building.

Because you were not out of the mirror.

Never mind being close to tears, you felt a few stray drops link up at the base of your jawline. You were scared to wipe them away for fear of finding yourself without hands.

So, what was this? If you hadn’t suddenly escaped from the mirror without your knowledge, why could you see a pair of criminals decked out in all black somewhere that was distinctly not a similar shade of void?

You asked yourself this, knowing fully well that you couldn’t give yourself an answer, and you wouldn’t get an answer for the foreseeable future. There were, however, some things that you managed to deduce over the course of the next hour or so – an indistinguishable period only because time seemed to be ever-so-slightly off.

That was the first of your clues; over the course of the adventure that you watched play out in front of you, each move from room to room took only the flick of a wrist, while the people you were following stared at each other for minutes at a time in complete silence. It was anyone’s guess as to when the clock would leap forward or jam its own mechanisms.

The second clue required no experimentation. It was simply that they didn’t acknowledge you at all. They didn’t make any indication that they could see or hear you. You were lost to them, worse than lost, they didn’t know you were there in the first place. They just sneaked around the museum, completely unaware of the person staring them dead in the eyes.

Had this experience happened any earlier, you might have felt more than a distant sting, but, as it was, it didn’t bother you too much. You were used to being ignored, cast away, forgotten. At least this was by people that you didn’t already know, people that you hadn’t survived the worst with, people that you didn’t trust with your very life, people that you once cared about and who you once thought cared about you.

Maybe it did bother you, just a little.

The third clue came a lot later than the others, but it spearheaded the theory that you were constructing in the back of your mind. Or, rather, the theory that you had constructed because the thing that gave it away?

It was when it all ended, and you were dumped unceremoniously back in the darkness, alone and uncertain of everything. That was one of the worst parts. Having occupied that space for nearly a century, you had been so sure in your knowledge of the place. You were in a mirror – there was nothing else there but you – you were stuck there. The most comfort you could find in the situation was that it wasn’t going to change.

But then it did, and you were pushed back to square one, taking tiny steps around the void, constantly worrying that a single foot in the wrong position would send you crashing through the ground. It was torturous to have your safety ripped away from you again, but what were you supposed to expect? Fate wasn’t kind, and it treated you like its personal plaything, only the game had morphed into something a little crueler.

Your theory, as unstable and undeveloped as it was, was that it was just a dream. In your state between life and death, your oh-so-generous master Fate had designed little shows for you. Entertainment was rare in the void, so what was kinder than giving you some? Never mind the fact that it drove you insane, you should have been grateful to get a glimpse of a life you could have lived had you not gone to that forsaken party. No need for you to lament your cruel undeath. The dreams were a kindness.

You didn’t know how it happened, how you had magically appeared somewhere else, so you didn’t know how to get there again. The outside, if that was what it was, quickly became a distant memory. It was fleeting, a whisp of smoke that intertwined itself between your fingers and then disappeared. It faded, just as the adrenaline and hope did as the seconds ticked by on a clock you couldn’t see.

And then it happened again.

By the end, you were on the edge of a breakdown. The shambles of your mind repulsed each shard of itself, trying to escape from the impossibility you were trapped in. You felt each crack that spiderwebbed across the surface. You felt each tap-tap-tap of tiny splinters falling. You felt it fighting the scenarios you were forced into.

This dream had the same people, but they acted completely different. They traded out their heist gear for formalwear, but their date didn’t last long. It devolved, like the other situation had, into weirder and weirder ends. Body doubles, a proposal, a prison much like you had seen before. Neither of them seemed to notice the similarity, though, and they went along through their routes without a care in the world. It might have been cute had it not made you sick to your stomach.

Regardless, though, you were distracted in the very final moments.

You had to admit, you were interested in how this one would end. It was a 50/50 with one of the original pair holding the gun, between two men who looked the same, both promising they were the one to be trusted. You weren’t paying attention, not initially. You had been tagging along behind the two for the better part of the entire day, and, at some point, you got bored enough to find more entertainment in the scenery than in the dilemma they were facing.

You missed nature more than you missed manslaughter cases.

You didn’t know who they shot in the end, but one of the men was laying on the ground when you snapped back to the ‘present’. You supposed you were meant to feel some kind of sympathy for him, the way that he crumpled to the ground, but it was difficult to find any emotion here. Instead, you leaned against the building that the two who were left ended up at. It was another of those jumps in time, not that any time could be wasted in a dream.

Was it bad that you were apathetic to all this? You knew it wouldn’t have consequences; you would return to the void again when this was all over, alone, and easily forgetting the events of the dream – but it still felt wrong to be so nonchalant about it. If you were any other sort of person, the kind who hadn’t been left alone for a century, being dragged into another scenario might have borne excitement. Seeing people, whether or not they saw you, might have given you hope.

But you weren’t that kind of person, and you weren’t excited or hopeful. You were a ghost, sent adrift in a house too new for you, ignored by the living who now inhabited it, and why shouldn’t you have been? They had no reason to care about you, they didn’t have to acknowledge you, they weren’t—

A spark of electricity like a bullet shot through you when you noticed the man sitting at the table. Not only had he not left yet, like the person you had been following, but he was staring straight at you.

The rising of your stomach made you think you were going to throw up. The quickening of your breath made you think you were going to pass out. The widening of his eyes made you think he felt the same. Neither of you acted, not for the first moments that it took for you to assess the situation, assess him.

Dark suit, dark hair, dark eyes. The only color about him were the rings of red and blue that waved off him like watercolor paints added to a canvas. They resisted one another but equally drew closer to the man’s edges. Regardless of the fight between them, he sat perfectly still. If there hadn’t been a certain look in his eyes – the glaze of someone who was both relieved and terrified – you might have mistaken him for being calm, however, there was that glaze, and it was a combination you were knocked breathless by because it was him. You recognized him.

And a similar sense of fear and comfort fired off in the chambers of your heart, hitting the walls as though they were a batting cage.

You took the first step, physically, and metaphorically. You didn’t think you would remain upright if you didn’t latch onto the empty chair for support as you muttered, “Dark?”

Your voice was rough in your throat. It felt more like you’d spat up a coat of oil than a real word. Years of disuse, the silence of the void that bid you follow suit, years of misuse, screaming into the pitch blackness for just a chance of an echo.

Hearing your own name sent back at you had you stumbling. Suddenly encased by your lost reality, you didn’t notice Dark jolt forward in his seat, hand barely outstretched and mouth semi-parted. Neither of you knew what he intended to do, but you acted first, dropping into the chair.

“How,” came his next words, slow, quiet, gentle like he was soothing an animal or someone he found dying on the road, “how are you here?”

Only his first question, and you couldn’t answer it. Not perfectly accurately, anyway, so your rough estimates would have to do. “I don’t know, I-I followed… I followed someone here.”

His fist clenching on the table caught your eye, but you were stopped from asking about it when he tried to clarify for you, “Mark.”

A myriad of other curiosities appeared – a frigid tone, bitter but unsurprised, and the warbling of the blue and red lines around him, among others – and yet they dissipated just as fast when he met your eyes. The search for something apparently proved fruitless; he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and cocked his head to one side. A silent question. 

Why weren’t you angry?

Because you were completely fine upon hearing that name. In Dark’s mind, he considered it impossible that you should stay draped in the chair after the man that caused your demise was mentioned. No malice surfaced, no anger, no sadness, just a blink that was nothing more than an instinct. 

Maybe it had something to do with the years you had spent alone, or maybe you never held it against him in the first place. The actor had been unstable for months leading up to your reunion. The events weren’t expected, of course, and in no way would you have chosen to go through that if you had the ability to go back – but they were what happened. Resignation softened your body language and your mind, prompting you to pay more attention to the present than the past.

Right now, Dark’s comment only served to add to your theory.

“Why does it have to be Mark?” you asked, knocking the man across from you out of his stupor. “Why can’t I have followed the other person?”

His brow furrowed, and it made you wonder how much he knew about the situation, the thought that followed being how much he would tell you.

“Because they—” Dark drew into himself as soon as the words escaped his mouth, “—are not the one dreaming.”

It was your turn to look curious. You were a person of fact by nature. Magic and demons and expansive, blank voids, they were fairytales used to scare children back into their beds at night. Simply put, they weren’t real. And the power of dreams? What stock were you supposed to put in that?

So, without another option, you said, simply, “Explain.”

And explain Dark did.

Having one third of your form come from the void had its perks, especially in describing its powers, the influence it had, what it could do. And, as you proceeded to hear, it could do a lot – more than you had ever imagined it capable of, given the absolute nothingness of it – but the thing that interested you the most was the accessibility of it.

Things like the entities, the ones that made up Dark and took over Celine’s body, were able to use the void like a hub. It allowed them to jump from place to place within seconds. Without a physical form, it would have otherwise been difficult to move around. Hell, it was difficult to move around, because getting out of the void was much harder than getting in. It required one very specific ability.

One that you did not possess.

“And you put me in there.”

“I did.” 

He said this with no emotion. It wasn’t an apology, nor was it a threat; it was a simple statement of fact, an admission without the guilt. You didn’t know if he had the ability to feel it. As far as your knowledge went, the inhumane entity within Dark took away the chance of it, leaving only the reality behind, as unbelievable as it sounded.

“Did you know I wouldn’t be able to get out?” was the only thing you asked.

This time, there was a short pause before he answered. The memory unwound in his mind while he processed the question. You had asked if he knew, and he asked himself the same thing. Objectively, yes. There was no way that a human – flesh, bones, blood – would be able to leave the void, and Dark understood that. He had never believed otherwise.

And yet, there had been something else behind his actions, because it wasn’t his intention to keep you locked up inside the mirror.

Slowly, tasting the words in his mouth, he repeated, “I did.” The response felt right, he wasn’t lying, but…

You watched as Dark leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table and head resting on his clasped hands. Everything was deliberate. His suit jacket didn’t crease if he didn’t want it to, and his tie stayed flush against his shirt where it was meant to be, but the look in his eye made you think he was anything but conscious of the present. This seemed to be affecting him more than you, and you were the one with the vitamin D deficiency. 

The confirmation that yes, he knew kept repeating like a broken record in Dark’s mind. However, it wasn’t because that puzzled him. Really, it was the only thing that made sense. What actually threw him through a loop was the simple fact that it hadn’t mattered. Trapping you in the void, keeping you away from the real world, was not the logical option. If he had been looking for the best way to carry out his pledge of revenge on Mark, getting rid of Damien would have been the best option. He had the obligations of the mayor of a city, he had an awkward relationship with the actor – both too distant and not far enough – and he was so, so painfully emotional. Painfully human.

Celine hated Mark so much that she thrived on the plan’s progress. The thought of revenge nourished her and made Dark stronger. She had the determination he needed to go through with it all. She was the obvious choice to keep in that amalgamation of souls. The entity was staying, and that was that, no deliberation required. 

That left just you and Damien. 

Dark had seen you work, or, rather, Damien had the memories of you in the court room. To surmise, you were good, very good, and you were able to separate your emotions from the case. While the witness on the stand was hurling profanities, you made eye contact and stood your ground. If the prosecutor started floundering, you pounced on the opportunity to tear about their words. You were exact, efficient, and a force to be reckoned with. 

But poor, sweet Damien? He was always at the back of Dark’s mind, his best excuse for a conscience that constantly reminded him what the moral choice was, regardless of whether he had taken the last one, or the one before that, or the one before that. He was persistent. He was a liability. It wasn’t a shock that he turned out to be the only thing stopping him from latching on to Mark in one of his dreams and killing him when he woke up.

So, the question was: why did Dark push you out and keep Damien?

As if sensing the answer was in arm’s reach, something – and he said something, but he knew what, who, it was – forced him to look up and at you.

Well, that explained it.

Dark’s inner monologue took no more than thirty seconds, even with the strange tick-tock of the clock in a dream, and you watched him and nothing but him in that time. You were still looking at him when he snapped back to the present. As though someone had snapped their fingers, you saw the calculating cold, the pressing tension, the rampant search for an answer melt away in layers to reveal the truth behind it all. As he leaned back into his seat and laid his arms out on the sides, the creases at his eyes softened and a faint smile pulled at his lips.

“The mirror was not meant to be a prison,” Dark started to explain before he was overcome with the pointless need to take a deep breath. Your expression of pure curiosity pulled at his unmoving heart, squeezing it in a grip that he didn’t describe as uncomfortable. Gently and unable to look away, he continued, “And I’m sorry that it was one. I intended it to be a sanctuary, of sorts.”

A flash of confusion darted through your eyes, and Dark rushed to continue before it could turn into suspicion. “I wanted to keep you away from Mark, away from the consequences of everything.”

It was at the end of that sentence, with perfect timing, that his neck was snapped to the side. The bones popped and the nerves twisted. He tried to play it off, but you clearly noticed. Your concern made his heart clench just as painfully as his neck, so he brought a hand up to show that he was fine.

You didn’t believe him, and he didn’t make it any more convincing when he said, “You would have died.”

You knew that; your body was dead on impact, but that wasn’t what he was talking about. Instead, because of him, your soul was alive, even if it only existed in the confines of a metaphysical world. 

A question about the integrity of your survival died on your tongue as you registered the strange frown on Dark’s face. It twitched at the sides, threatening to pull further down, but he kept it as straight as he could. The same couldn’t be said about the few tears brimming in the corners of his eyes. He almost succeeded at containing his emotion until one betrayed him and slid to his jawline with a mutter of, “I had to save you.”

“Thank you.”

His breath caught in his throat at your response. For all his monologues and explanations, he hadn’t expected you to be grateful. You, of all people, thanked him, and it wasn’t a joke. He had never seen as genuine a smile on anyone’s face, him not having met more than four people notwithstanding, to the point that it almost lit up the gray of his skin to a normal tone.

And you did mean it. The man in front of you – the one currently tearing up at the mere possibility of losing you – wasn’t malicious. Being the district attorney had given you the almost magical ability to tell when someone was lying. It had served you well in court, and it served you well here. The conclusion you came to took no longer than a few seconds. Personal history did have its benefits, after all, and you had learned long ago how to not be impeded by a pretty face. From all the evidence in front of you, Dark was trustworthy.

You trusted him.

“Of course,” he replied as his hand darted to the lapel of his jacket to sturdy himself. The attention was almost too much, and he found his mouth moving before he understood what he wanted to say. “You said you followed Mark here?”

You nodded, disregarding the fact that Dark had told you that you had followed Mark, for his sake. You also didn’t mention his shaky attempt to compose himself and waited for his next words. You weren’t in any rush to speed things along; for all you knew, talking to Dark was the only thing keeping you in this dream. It surprised you that you hadn’t been dropped back into the void yet, but you didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, it had its other advantages.

You hadn’t seen Dark since the first time on that fateful night, and it took everything out of you to not see him, or anyone else, again. When you were in the pitch black, you imagined that you would get attached to the first person you saw, and it was a shock to you when that wasn’t the case. The nature drew you in before Mark or his partner in crime could, but you had still tried to talk to them. During your experimentation, you had whispered in their ears, yelled at them, said all manner of things to get their attention, but none had worked, so you quickly moved on. Nothing kept you around them.

But there was something with Dark. The space around you shifted, as if the dream itself recognized the moment and gave it a wide berth. Out of respect or fear or nothing, you didn’t know, yet it was undeniable that it happened, and you were glad it did. You wanted to preserve the bubble of safety that had molded around you. There was a part of you that bargained with the dream, as inane as that sounded, to get more time with Dark. The clock worked differently here, so why couldn’t it grant you a slower pace?

Unaware of your mental bartering, Dark pushed on with his questioning. It came as a surprise to you, having not been focusing at all on the present. 

“How?”

You had to take a second to remember what you were talking about, but, when it came to you, you realized you weren’t able to give him much.

“I don’t know. I’m normally stuck in the void, but lately it’s been tossing me around. I went somewhere else before, a heist of some kind. It was much more complicated than this, though.”

You hadn’t paid much attention to the paths this time. There was much less to explore, and the hope of having escaped had worn off. You were fairly certain they were the same people, too, so any contact was old news. You weren’t interested in the heist dream either, not after the sixth time you ended up outside that museum with the pair of thieves.

Despite that, Dark appeared to make up for your lack of enthusiasm; he practically lunged, one hand steadying his body on the back of the chair as he leaned forward, so much so that he was half bent over the table between you.

In a breathless voice, he asked, “Where?” It was more of a demand, really, colored so from the unfamiliar want. It took a moment for him to realize himself, and he then sat back down in the seat. One hand went to card through his hair, throwing it about haphazardly as he amended, “Where were you? I… I was there, but, evidently, we didn’t see each other.”

As you thought through your response, Dark took the time to reprimand part of his mind for his outbursts. He couldn’t afford to break down right now, there were far more important things at stake that made getting distracted too risky, no matter how much the voice in the back of his mind begged to be let loose.

Before you opened your mouth, he managed to similarly berate his general self for thinking it a semi-appealing idea.

“I was distracted,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It all felt so real.”

When you stared down at your hands, the outlines of your fingers shimmered, and the veins on the undersides of your wrists pulsed with white light. How were you to know you weren’t alive? Were you a fool for thinking you had escaped, for being tricked, like an owner who had thrown a ball for a dog but just held it behind their back? You went off chasing it, of course, not noticing the stranger things around you. You were too obsessed with the mundane and the possibility that you had a body when you should have known that you didn’t.

Hearing that Dark had been in the same place, maybe, at one point, right under your nose, a deep sense of regret unfurled in your stomach. You had lamented not being able to talk to anyone, but you had ignored the one chance you had at it. If you had just paid more attention, your heart wouldn’t be trying to destroy itself.

As if sensing your spiraling discomfort, the red and blue lines around Dark flared and spasmed. They whipped out at places and curled in at others, mimicking radio waves with their peaks and troughs. It brought your attention to the current moment, and you were glad it did because you became acutely aware of the expression on the face of the man opposite you.

In the midst of the cold, calculating cover he tried to pull, there was a hint of desperation peeking through the weak spots. His eyes, ever the window to the soul, were still glossy with unshed tears, and his mouth, no matter how much focus he put towards smirking, dipped for seconds at a time. You wanted nothing more than to lean forward and comfort him, but the dream was an unkind thing; your legs didn’t cooperate, you were unable to move an inch to brush the drops away.

You offered him the most you could, saying gently, “This feels different.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I think so.”

Any reason you had in mind was wiped away when a tingling sensation danced at the tips of your fingers. It was something like a limb falling asleep, but it was spreading fast. Your heart rate sped up to a dangerous speed as it got faster and faster, turning into a wildfire that stopped you feeling anything, and it only got worse when you looked down.

Your hands had completely disappeared, the space empty where they had been before. Looking to the ground, you saw nothing but a neon white, which likewise surrounded you when you glanced around you. This hadn’t happened before, and it was terrifying you.

“It’s okay,” Dark said. Thankfully, he didn’t sound panicked – you didn’t think you could handle it if he wasn’t as calm as he was – and he even went so far as to start explaining. You had always liked knowing things. A smile snuck onto Dark’s face as he remembered the singular time that you had been forced to explore negative capability in university, which ended with you throwing the textbook out of the window. In any other situation, he might have teased you for it, but you didn’t have the time.

“The dream is ending,” he started, trying to sound confident despite the fear of not seeing you again nestling itself in his heart. “I suppose you’ve never strayed this far from the start before.”

You shook you head; at the end of the heist, before you were dumped back into the void, you had been standing just where you began, in front of the museum. Now, you didn’t know where you were, but you calmed yourself with Dark’s clarification. Well, his clarification and the pressure of his hand against your upper arm. The contact was inches away from empty air, and you feared for a moment of irrational indulgence that it would speed up and you would lose the feeling. 

Your attention snapped back to Dark as he continued talking, “It works outwards. Everything will disappear eventually, but we’re on the edge. We have time.”

He refrained from telling you exactly how much time you had left here, all too aware that it would make you flounder. He had watched the environment disappear before. It wasn’t comforting and it wasn’t pretty, so he preferred staying in the darkness, where it wasn’t as obvious that everything was gradually fading away. Finding you in the daylight was a stoke of luck, a miracle. The only reason why he was out there in the first place was because…

“Mark is around here, too.”

You nodded, a simple confirmation or more complicated agreement, he wasn’t sure, but he stood from his seat, nevertheless. Your torso was gone, now, nothing but a shimmering outline that was gradually disappearing itself. You were close to completely returning to the void, and there was a part of Dark that was unimaginably frightened it would be for the last time.

Another part reminded him of what he was supposed to do, told him it would help you if he adapted to this, convinced him that it was the right thing to do. It surprised him when the resistance that normally came with that simply didn’t.

His legs moved on their own towards the parking lot, where he knew Mark still was, but your voice stopped him before he passed you.

“Come back safe, alright?”

How was he supposed to say no to you? When you were looking at him with such trust and belief, it was impossible.

He leaned down to press his lips against your forehead. Your skin was surprisingly warm, considering your situation, but that might have come from his natural coolness. Still, it was nice. A good contrast that had the back of his mind focused entirely on the feeling. 

“Of course.”

The shimmering was gone, and you along with it. 

Dark stepped back, registered a strange satisfaction in his heart, and took a deep breath.

The actor was dead within the hour.

It didn’t take much, surprisingly. In fact, it was quite easy. As Dark stood above Mark’s finally vacant body – returned once and for all to the state it should have been in – he found no burst of adrenaline. No anger, no sadness, no passion. Nothing but the dull hum of satisfaction, just the same as the one from when you had disappeared. It was done, and that was that.

Mark was dead. Damien and Celine were appeased. 

His job was complete.

He dropped the bloody axe to the floor, the clatter and thud not reaching his ears. Someone else would bury the body. Another would open an investigation into his death. A deep cut, like one from felling a tree, wasn’t going to be described as natural. It didn’t matter, though; arresting someone who should have already been dead was as difficult as murdering one. Dark had nothing to fear.

He also had nothing to do. There were no more plans to be made, no more vengeance to be enacted, and you had told him to come back safe, right? Maybe taking a rest wasn’t such a bad idea.

The manor, Dark’s base of operations that he loathed to call his base of operations, was quiet when he arrived back. It didn’t bother him, he had never appreciated the bustle and boom of all the parties once hosted there. It had prompted one part of him to find a safe space in a spare bedroom at one end of the house, and that was exactly what he needed – somewhere to be that didn’t come with the strings of tracking down Mark.

The door creaked as he pushed it open and groaned as he closed it again. Despite the confines of a tailored suit, he didn’t stop himself from falling onto the untouched sheets of the bed. It had been so long since he had laid down; for the past century, he had either been ramrod straight or sitting in his chair, and laying sideways across a desk hadn’t done him any good.

This position was much better. Was this the kind of ‘different’ you had spoken about? He hoped so, with the relaxation that ran through him. It was enough to coax him to close his eyes and let it all go, like a siren at the edge of a boat on stormy seas.

And then came the voice of one, too.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Slowly, Dark opened his eyes again, with the distinct feeling of trust firm in his heart. A new voice in the manor would normally be cause for concern, but he knew the voice. He knew you.

The only thing he didn’t know was what was happening.

When he knocked himself out of his sentimentality, Dark was greeted by the sight of you against the backdrop of the moonlight. He was still in that room, resting on the bed, but everything seemed altered in some way. You were the most obvious difference, and he was half sure that you were behind the softness of the scene, as if, in the time he was out, you had painted over the furniture, the walls, the light itself.

You dropped down on the edge of the bed as Dark pulled himself into a sitting position.

“I’m not,” he started, but he was forced to trail off. He didn’t know how to verbalize a single thought, and yet that wasn’t as frightening as he thought it would be. With you, he didn’t think it possible to be scared. Still, he tried again, “You’re…”

You shook your head and reached to place your hand over his. This was the first time you had made contact with him, and he quickly found he never wanted it to end.

“No, I’m not alive,” you answered his silent question, “and neither are you, by the looks of things.”

“I don’t understand.”

You didn’t expect him to. When he had sat across from you, he radiated a certain poise and manner that only came with certainty. You had seen it in witnesses, prosecutors, clients. They all acted the exact same when they were on their home turf, and when they were moved away from it.

Luckily, Dark was taking it better than they did – there was less yelling and cursing and threatening – but there was still the undercurrent of concern.

It was your turn to explain as you said, “You killed Mark. You did what you needed to do.”

“Exactly, he’s gone.”

He said it with a small smile, but his downturned eyebrows and deeper breaths betrayed the confusion.

You brought your other hand over his unattended one and collected the two into a grip. “Oh, my dear, he’s not the only one who can dream.”

Taking advantage of his lapse in troubled thoughts, you dipped your head to lightly kiss the exposed skin of his knuckles. They were weathered by time, a statue left outside too long, and you hoped to sooth some of the damage the elements had done.

“You look tired,” you muttered.

“I am.”

“Go on, then.” 

You tried not to return your hands to his when you saw the flash of fear on his face as you took them away to gesture vaguely at the headrest. A trio of fresh, fluffed pillows lay there, and, although you wondered just how comfortable his suit could be, you wanted him to relax some. This wasn’t the waking world, after all.

While Dark shifted to remove his jacket, you drifted towards the fireplace along the wall opposite. The burst of flame calmed down quickly, blending into small embers behind the grate. 

“From what I’ve been able to figure out, it’s a replica of the manor from its better days. I think it’s empty but sometimes I hear…”

In a case of excellent timing, the distant squeal of childish laughter came from down the hallway. It was followed by footsteps, quickening, and then sliding into another room. You never saw who exactly was out there, but based on the man staring at the door, you were safe to assume the possibilities.

“Better days,” he repeated, nodding to himself, and then looked back at you. You always were so smart.

You returned to Dark’s side after securing more logs in the hearth, though you hesitated, standing awkwardly with a hand to your chest.

No words were needed for him to realize your thought process, so he offered a hand of his own, which you took without further deliberation. It took another soft tug for you to relax against him, at which point he curled an arm around your shoulders and brought you as close as possible, but it was solely your decision to reach up and undo his tie, draping it over a post once it was fully removed.

“I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

You were content to leave it at that. Hell, you had been content to stay standing beside him while he slept, but this was much better.

Dark, however, pressed a kiss to the back of your head, sighed, and mumbled, “How do I know I won’t wake up?”

You twisted in his hold to look at him. For all the love and trust his eyes held, it wasn’t enough to completely mask a genuine desperation.

“Do you want to wake up?” you asked, simply and plainly.

He responded in the same fashion. “No.”

“Then you won’t. It’s your dream, after all, and I think you deserve to rest.”

That was all it took for the fear to melt away. Dark’s eyes fell shut, and he knocked his head against yours for a moment, just to savor the feeling, before he fully leaned forward and connected your lips.

It was a tired, late-night kiss that you shared. You wouldn’t lie, you had imagined you would have one after a rough day at the office, pressing cases and pressing clients that got on your nerves, instead of finally relaxing with a man you had never thought you’d see again – but it still served the same purpose. It made your heartbeat slow and your shoulders drop. The slow dance between the two of you brought smiles to your faces, tender and loving. It was a silent agreement that this was the ending you had hoped for.

What a dream this was. 

[Thank you so much for requesting, and I'm sorry for the delay! I thought that I’d be able to get more done over these past weeks, but college projects have taken up a lot of my time, unfortunately. On the other hand, if anyone wants to take about British witchcraft in the 1600s or mental health post-World War 2, hit me up, because I’m about to knock my teeth out over this :D! On a lighter note, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed <3]