Discover Top Posts Tagged with #crying devil

happy easter frm modbun and crying egg

I'm kinda curious and please forgive me if it's ignorant, so ahem..if you play duskwood in English jake speaks in a formal way kinda like ILETS type English. (Which I find extremely hot-). But does he speaks the same kinda formal way in other languages?

Yes, in German he also speaks so formal, so I assume he does it in other languages. At least I’ve seen a lot of people talking about it, no matter what language they play in. But of course I can only answer for English and German. How it is with others, people have to answer who play in another language, but I’m pretty sure it is the same. :D

If it were different, it would definitely be a pity. After all, this makes up a large part of his personality and is an important part of his character. And yeah, it's hot. Haha.

#crying devil #duskwood jake #duskwood talks #hbj dw answers #iamjake #duskwood hacker #duskwood

Can I get #5 crying w Matt

You absolutely can!

Headcanon prompt list can be found here!

5 - “Crying” with Matt Murdock

He prefers to cry in the dark.

He’s not entirely sure why. It isn’t like he can see himself when it’s light, isn’t like he doesn’t know when he’s alone. He knows when you’re asleep, and when you’re gone. The ongoing buzz of the lights should play no part in his comfort, and in the feeling that he’s safe enough to let go, if just for a little while.

And yet, when he can, he waits until he’s able to pull the shroud of darkness up over his skin to finally loosen his grip on his control. The dark, over time spent on the streets, has come to mean protection—the dark is something soft and comforting, when the hum of filament finally quiets and he can move, or feel, unseen. And maybe that’s why he chooses the dark to bare these wounds to. That familiar dark hides him from judgement, and from the pain that might come should one see and disapprove of him fracturing into pieces like so many shards of shattered glass.

It’s how it’s been for years, a habit built upon since he was young and hiding the agony of too much soundscentnoisetaste from his father. He continues that pattern as he grows, as he goes through hell, as he hurts, and though he fails sometimes—fails when the pain becomes too much to stifle until he can find the cool, lonely, quiet shelter of the dark—he manages well enough.

Until you.

Until you, seemingly so in tune with him, stir awake when his chest begins to hitch, choking on quiet gasps, and the pain begins to sweep over him. It’s too late to stop it at that point, to stem the tide, because this week, this month has been too hard, too agonizing, too bloody, he just hurts, and he’d thought—he’d thought you were asleep and he tries to apologize, to pull away, but—

He’s dragged back instead, your soft soothing noises breaking the quiet, your arms winding tight around him until he can stifle the sound of him breaking against your throat. There is no judgement, no pain, nothing but gentle assurances—“it’s ok, I’ve got you,”—and for the first time in years, he falls apart in someone’s arms rather than alone, your fingers in his hair and your body curled around his.

He still prefers to cry in the dark.

But now... he doesn’t do it alone.