Hcs for egos with an s/o that is regularly touch starved and clingy? Actor Mark cuddles the beloved 👉👈 Thank you for considering and your faves love you! <33
So, guess who's not dead even while actively suffering through writer's block? xd I've been perpetually staring at my WIPs and adding a sentence here and there, but that's about it. Anyway, here's finally an answer to this at least <3 hope you enjoy
Tell me in the comments what you think!
~~~
Damien would accept it glady, even returning it a fair bit. He's a softie inside and outside once he can drop his politically correct persona, so he's being all gentle about it, allowing you to cling to him like a koala bear whenever you want.
Google does not like it because his system overheats easily, but he lets you get your fill by allowing you to play with his hair. You found this little loophole once, and now whenever you feel like cuddling him, you stand beside him and play with his hair.
Actor absolutely basks in the attention. He'll take any proof of love and physical affection pretty much can't be beat. He'll even wrap his limbs around you, much like a snake when it's strangling its pray. You, on the contrary, are perfectly safe. Probably. Just get him out of the manor once in a while.
Illinois doesn't mind you clinging onto him. Just don't expect him to return it that much, afterall if he did, you might just end up getting too attached. You tell him you're literally dating, but he doesn't let that ruin his free spirit persona. He'll wrap one arm around you very loosely and maybe even scratch your head or give you a noogie.
If you're in the same cell as Yancy, he's actually the one crawling into your bed and spooning you every night. He still has to keep his occasional tough act in front of the other prisoners, but then again, whenever he arranges choreographies, he makes it so you're always dancing together and touching at almost every move and turn.
With Wilford, get ready for bear hugs when you least expect them. You thought you were clingy, but he'll always one-up you. You end up regularly finding an arm draped around your shoulder, feel a subtle squeeze on your waist or the tickle of his moustache just on your shoulder.
Darkiplier would at first just glance at whichever part of him you're touching. Then he'd sigh. But before you could start thinking that maybe he doesn't like it, he'd gently pull you even closer to him. He doesn't reciprocate it that intensely, but he'd never stop you. Maybe just maybe he doesn't actually want you to stop.
Eric would be overwhelmed at first, even skittish, but if you were gradual about it, he'd warm up to it eventually. Just casual touches here and there. He still needs his space most of the time, though.
It felt like forever before he was finally able to squeeze himself into the tiny booth, the guard– Manny, a nice enough guy, not too bright– relieving him of his handcuffs so he could sit comfortably, and answer the phone if you showed up.
Yancy fought to keep himself calm. Today was the day. He could feel it in his bones. It was the third Sunday, the day for outside visitors, and you would be in line to visit him, and he could finally, finally tell you the big news.
He fidgeted in his seat, leaning forward to press his face to the glass. The makeshift booth on the other side of the thick, bullet-proof barrier prevented him from catching a good glimpse of anybody waiting, so he gave an impatient huff and sat back.
Time passed. The clock ticked. Visiting hours were drawing to a close.
Behind him, Manny heaved a sigh. He wanted to go to chow. But Yancy turned and shot him a scathing glare and he straightened, avoiding direct eye contact. Newbie.
But he was getting hungry, too. He’d give it a couple more minutes before–
On the other side of the glass, a whirlpool of blue-black blossomed into existence, and you stumbled out, dressed to the nines in a fancy-looking space-suit, complete with blacked-out helmet. Yancy couldn’t see your face, but he’d recognize you anywhere.
Summary- Life goes on, even out here. Unfortunately that also meant all the more inconvenient aspects.
Warnings- None
"Hand me that socket wrench?"
You weren't entirely sure why he asked for your help on this. Mark was more than capable of the usual maintenance a ship this size demanded by himself. Aside from his… quirks his work was impeccable. Hell, you could probably find half a dozen other things that needed your attention more than handing him tools. You didn't mention it.
"This one?" You held one out to him, low enough that he could see it with the mass of machinery he was under.
"That'll work."
As he reaches out to grab it, his fingers skim along your palm. It's just for a second, hardly any contact at all. Still you startle, accidentally jerking the wrench back a bit.
"Sorry," you hurried to push it back into his hand, feeling ridiculous.
Your only response is a quick thanks, Mark quickly going back to his work. Mentally you slapped yourself. It was ridiculous to be this jumpy around one of your crew. You were their captain for crying out loud, this wasn't even appropriate. Why did you even say yes to this?
Apparently, Mark had been banned from using the power tools. For what reason you couldn't actually get out of him but the padlock on the storage cabinet they were kept in was enough of an answer. So, much to Mark's annoyance, he was forced to use exclusively manual tools. He'd grabbed you on your way to the bridge, pushing the old toolbox into your hands. The head engineer wouldn't hear any arguments. True, it wasn't technically your shift on the bridge but still.
Mark called your name, insistent. With a start you realized he had been for a while now.
"Sorry what?"
"I said this one's too big, can you hand me the half inch?" Then after a beat, "Are you okay? You seem… distracted."
"I'm fine," you focus on finding the tool he needs, ignoring how the man has his head at such an awkward angle to try and look your way. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"… everything," you said, keeping it vague. Unhelpful.
There were way too many ways that he could interpret that. The journey, the colony you were supposed to be leading, the loops. Plenty of actual, real world issues that could be occupying your mind. Certainly not your childish crush on the man. Really, it wasn't out of the blue that you found yourself getting closer to him. The adventure, the tears, the whole thing lead to an easy camaraderie you treasured. Or at least you'd thought it was just that. This, now? This didn't feel easy.
As you dig around in the tool box there's a dull thud, a muttered curse, and then the sound of fabric against metal as Mark worked his way out from under the machinery. You felt your face burn. While you were handy enough to fix some basic software issues you weren't familiar with the hardware. At all.
"Sorry," you apologize, scowling at the tool box like it was at fault, "can't find the right-"
"Tell me what's really wrong."
Your head shoots up and suddenly Mark was much closer than you realized. Were you that obvious? He was crouched down right next to you, brows furrowed and tapping his fingers against his knee.
"Nothing is-"
"Cut the shit, captain, I can read you like a book. Hell, you're a picture book." He ignores your insulted scoff. "You're distracted, you're fidgety as hell, and you're avoiding me like the plague."
"What?" You couldn't keep the surprise out of your voice and Mark's expression sours. "I haven't been avoiding you, I have a whole ship to run, Mark."
"Uh huh," the engineer seemed less than convinced. "And I'm sure you've got a good reason for assigning completely opposite shifts for us? I'm a night owl but this is a little ridiculous."
"The ship's been through it!" You said. Even you were able to pick up how defensive you sounded but it wasn't like that! "Just the small stuff will take a week or so not to mention trying to get the Invincible ready for planet fall-"
"Captain you haven't even been eating lunch with everyone," Mark cuts in, words quick and snappy, "and I remember coming in for breakfast and seeing you running right out. At the same time."
"Mark it isn't like that-"
"Well what is it like?" He throws his hands up. "Just tell me! This whole thing is just because you," he pokes you, none too gently at that, "haven't said anything and you clearly have a problem with me. So spill it."
On some level, you knew he was just frustrated. Probably due in part to the odd shifts you'd been putting him on and the resulting lack of sleep. But still something inside you wrankled at his words. It tugged at things that shouldn't be. Or maybe it was just the fact that the last time he blamed you for something…
"My only problem with you right now is that you're being an asshole, Mark. Just drop it!"
Blinded by the dizzying sting of what was going through your head, you don't pay attention as you stand up. Your foot lands on the wrench, that wrong sized one you hadn't put back into the box. It slipped with a rough clatter. Suddenly your feet weren't underneath you. You see Mark's eyes go wide, trying to catch you. From his half crouched position, he doesn't have the leverage to actually pull you up. So he goes down with you.
The two of you crash into the floor. Hard. You can feel the pattern in the middle digging into your back. Your elbows stung, you knew you were gonna bruise where your shin caught the machinery. The weight on top of you was solid and heavy for a moment, just a moment, before Mark was scrambling up and off of you. You're left on the floor, staring up at him. The view was one you'd experienced only one other time.
But this time he offered you a hand. It was a quick thing, almost like he'd forgotten in the midst of the embarrassment. Probably embarrassment right? His face did seem a little red.
"You okay?" He asks, louder than he intended apparently as he follows with a quieter, "Sorry. For- yeah…"
All you could muster was a shake of the head. Not only was that whole thing almost straight out of a rom-com, you were uncomfortably reminded of what happened in the warp core. Your brain hadn't decided how you felt about all that still.
"Right, well…" Mark said, slowly letting go of your hand. You hadn't realized he was still holding it. "Sure you have something better to do than acting as assistant."
You open your mouth to deny it on reflex but Mark was already turning back to his work. Whatever it was, it had passed. Another beat of hesitation. You could tell him. The warp core and afterwards, how you hadn't meant to avoid him, how you were just trying to figure things out.
But you didn't.
Swallowing those poisonous apologies, you bid him a quick and stilted goodbye before retreating. The what ifs were too many. It could go over well but on the other hand… You tried to ignore how loudly your footsteps echoed off the metal floor. They beat at your ears in condemnation as you decided to leave things where they were.
The next shift you actually worked on, you made sure the power tools were ready and available for him.
Another year has come and gone, but this time, Damien is by himself due to everyone close to him having other obligations. But that’s alright, as a city comes alive on New Year’s Eve with fireworks.
But can he find a good place to watch them?
Warning: There’s suggestions of PTSD from firework explosions, but it is not discussed in detail.
Previous New Year fics: The Perfect Year, New Year(?), A Bumpy New Year’s Eve
Word Count: 1,387
-
Mark had gotten big news on Christmas Eve. He had been invited to a big event in a city out of state. With the journey that it would take to get there, he made the impulsive decision that himself and Celine would spend New Years together on vacation. Celine was surprised at this announcement, but it had been some time since Damien had seen his twin so excited about something.
He happily waved the pair off on the 29th, and left the Manor in the care of the staff.
With Mark and Celine out of town, and William on duty in the barracks, it would be the first time in many years that Damien would ring in the new year on his own. Even if it brought a small pang of loneliness, he didn’t mind. The other option was to spend it with his parents, and… He would rather do a full night of office work instead.
The staff in the Mayoral residence were given a few days off. He didn’t want them to feel they had to keep him company, not when he had a plan all his own.
As the night rolled in, he pulled on his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and set out for a late walk. The fireworks were already starting, and they painted the pavement in flashes of blue and green. Damien had spent his whole life living in shades of black and white. Seeing the world alive in colour brought with it the simple joys of life.
Would the burst of colours symbolise the beginning of a brighter future, or would the fading to monochrome reflect the status quo continuing despite his best efforts?
Or… Could Damien stop thinking about work and politics for once and actually appreciate the moment without attaching symbolism to everything?
-
With that plan in mind, his eyes raised skyward once more in a quest to find the ideal spot to watch the fireworks. He had half an hour, that would be plenty of time to explore the city on foot. His destination was unknown, but Damien trusted his feet to lead him in the right direction. He simply needed somewhere with few obstacles overhead and a clear sky. Everyone would be either at home or with friends. There wouldn’t be anyone on the streets… But a hand grabbing his wrist and sharply tugging him backward swiftly proved otherwise.
“Damien? What the devil are you doing out here walking with your head in the clouds?!” The man was a head taller than him, eyes almost as wide as the large, circular glasses. Both his hair and moustache were unkempt, and his outfit was a simple shirt and trousers.
“William?! I could ask you the same thing! Aren’t you supposed to be on call in the barracks?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t stick it tonight. I forgot how close to the centre the barracks is, and everything is - it’s loud. I needed to get some air, but it’s worse out here than it was in there!”
Damien’s gaze lifted skyward again. He hadn’t registered the sound, while William couldn’t focus on the colour. There had to be a middle ground…
“Come back with me. I have an idea, but I need my car.”
“Your car? Dames, I really don’t think hiding in -”
“No no, trust me… Please.”
-
Damien held William’s hand the entire walk back, squeezing the soldier’s hand tightly every time a firework went off overhead. William was one who often kept his worries and fears to himself, but now was not the time to talk about it. Instead, Damien wanted to keep William company, especially now that they did have the chance to spend time together.
When they returned to the Mayoral Residence, Damien quickly unlocked the car and gestured for William to take the passenger’s seat.
“I really don’t think this will help,” William admitted quietly. “A car isn’t soundproof. The metal is far too thin to provide any sort of muffling.”
“I know. But that’s not why I wanted the car.” Damien stuck the key into the ignition and turned on the engine. The car sputtered to life and set off. Normally, Damien had a driver, but it was nice having his own independence. “It will help us get to our destination.”
“Our destination?”
“Yes. Somewhere outside the city. I think the hills would be nice to watch the fireworks. It should be far enough away to lessen the impact of the sound.”
“Ah.”
After that, silence fell. They were the only ones on the road, and both were made keenly aware of how quiet the streets were. No one would be out until the new year rang in. For now, the car was the only disruption to the tranquil night. Every road was quiet, and it was the first time that Damien was greeted by only green lights. His light-hearted comment about wishing he could get green lights when he was going to meetings fell flat. William really was troubled by this.
However, when they reached the edge of the city, William asked if they could stop by his cottage. Damien obliged, asking whether William wanted to go home instead. The soldier refused, reminding Damien that he would need to go back to the barracks after this. He didn’t give further clarification before he hopped out of the car and dashed inside.
Damien, too, stepped out of the car and leaned against it to look toward the sky. He couldn’t see the actual fireworks, instead being forced to be content with the faint flashes of colour. It reminded Damien of one of his visits to Mark backstage in the theatre, where the poor actor was fumbling as he tried to help hold a spotlight in place while a member of the backstage crew reattached it.
The view was pretty, but it wasn’t as impactful as when he was walking. If they stayed here, this wouldn’t do at all. But if it made William feel more comfortable, then he would gladly take the sacrifice.
“Dames?” At the sound of his nickname, Damien turned around just in time for him to be covered by something red.
“Since we’re going out, I thought I’d bring something to make it a date.” William lifted the blinding item - a blanket - so he could reveal a small basket with a bottle of wine and two glasses. The fact that William had specified they were going ‘out’, along with the items, had Damien blink as he processed the information.
“Will? You had a basket?”
“I’ve wanted to invite you out for a picnic for months but I’ve been too nervous to do so.”
“Nervous? Why would I refuse a picnic with the man I adore?”
“Because I can’t make bloody presentable sandwiches, and I’m not asking the Chef in Mark’s place for help. He’d never let me live it down!”
Damien laughed, taking the basket so he could put it in the back seat. “I certainly don’t object to a liquid lunch with you tonight.”
-
The further out of the city they went, the lighter William’s mood became. He was starting to register how the explosions of the fireworks were quieter when viewed from a distance. He was why Damien nearly twisted his ankle with how fast William dragged him up the hill.
The sky was clear, the view was perfect from the hill, and yet not a single other person had the idea to travel out. Damien held the basket while William spread out the blanket. The solider sat down first and offered a hand to Damien, and he was gently guided to rest his head on William’s shoulder.
The plan to share the wine was forgotten as the pair simply enjoyed the unexpected company of the other. Damien had even dozed off against William, but he hadn’t realised until he was startled awake by a sudden barrage of noise in the distance.
William chuckled, unaffected by the sounds. “I think it’s the new year, Dames.”
Damien rummaged in his pocket for his pocket watch, and gasped when he realised the time was indeed just after midnight. “You’re absolutely correct. Happy New Year, my love.”
“Happy New Year, dear.”
William leaned down to kiss the Mayor, and the pair were bathed in flashes of blue and yellow.
The whirring of film being read echoes in Jameson’s ears in the little camera booth. He watches through the hole projection room’s wall as the theatre fills up. He smiles, threading film around the camera’s wheel, a sense of pride filling him as he does his job well. He sits at the wooden table in the room, the chair cruel and wooden on his aching shoulders and back. Flip the switches and thread the film. Simple enough, yet well-paying for a war-time job. Distracted by the rolling of the camera and the safety of the projection booth, the high pitched whining in the air goes unnoticed.
An hour later, the movie ends, The Last Rose of Summer echoing in his head. Jameson hitches up his belt, sighing and straightening out his clothes. They are a bit tattered, a bit tight-fitting, but it helps the time traveler blend in in this post-depression era. Ready to close for the night, his boss hurries him out of the room, leading him scurrying from the door of Trimmer’s Theatre without even signing goodbye.
He pulls his jacket around himself, shivering. Now out in the open, a high little whine fills the air, though the song plays on in his head.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
“Alone?”
Jameson whips around as a hand touches his shoulder. No one... is there anyone? He swears someone’s eyes watch him from the darkness. He pulls his coat tighter, huffing out anxious breaths, turning to walk to his apartment swiftly, steps unsure and fainting. He cannot wait to get to the apartment’s solitude and travel back to the future with his warm little house and caring little family-
Something shoves him hard. He crumbles to the ground, waiting for the feeling of smacking into it- But the feeling doesn’t come. Rather, a thick blackness, like ink but smelling of flesh and earth, surrounds him entirely. He is laying on an unseen floor. Whispering voices circle him. His eyes dance around wildly, curling up in his jacket, panting so hard he feels his lungs will fail.
“Alone, Jameson?” A voice echoes all around him, and he jumps up to his feet, scrabbling for a knife at his side, eyes darting around looking for the obvious threat.
Something steps from the darkness. A corpse that might’ve once been a man, or a woman, with glowing, piercing blue eyes and bedraggled rotting hair. Jameson takes a shaky breath, stepping backward.
“Looking for this, little time traveler?” The figure holds up his knife, now dripping with black shadows and half-consumed by the monster’s hand. Jameson bends slightly at the waist, ready to fight. But the monster throws the blade forward, the deafening clatter echoing through the ink. “No matter. Here, take it. You cannot kill me in any way that matters. I have... a proposition for y-
An hour later, the movie ends, The Last Rose of Summer echoing in his head. Jameson hitches up his belt. Oh god. He stands suddenly, his chair crashing to the floor. Someone, or something, has found him. They know he is a time traveler, his name, his weapons, his whole being.
He shakily brushes curls from his face, tucking them into his hat.
Psst.
Jameson whips around, eyes wide. The light buzzes in his ears.
Suddenly, he is in the theatre. He is sitting in one of the chairs, flipped down and accommodating, a bag of popcorn sitting on the armrest.
“As I was saying, little traveler,” sounds a voice from the darkness. Jameson whips around, gripping the armrest, his gaze sharp and ready to kill. Rather than the corpse, there is an absolutely gorgeous man sitting next to him. Jameson blinks in surprise, shocked by the soft brown eyes and grey-tinted but clear and bright skin, the swirl of raven black hair covering one of their eyes, and the prim proper suit.
The being turns to face him, the room dark except for the glowing, empty screen.
“You are fascinating, I hope you know. Thinking you could escape timelessness, bah.” The being chuckles darkly, smiling a bit too widely with perfect teeth. Jameson scowls, having no time for this shit.
“What do you want,” he signs.
“I don’t speak BSL-”
Before the being can finish, Jameson pulls out a notepad and a ballpoint pen, his lips set stonily and eyes radiating frustration.
What do you want? he writes, shoving the pad in the entity’s face. The being peers at him around it with eyes that are far to friendly.
“Oh, not much, don’t fret. I simply came for a chat. You fascinate me, as I have said. It is rare a human does, consider yourself lucky.”
What makes me fascinating?
“No matter, all in good time. For now, little traveler, you may call me Dark.”
Jameson stifles a cheeky grin.
He holds up the pad with a drawing of a middle finger raising hand on it. The being blinks, then raises an eyebrow.
“I suppose the politeness of the British was a lie, of course,” it comments. Jameson turns away, setting the pad on his leg.
I could just time travel away.
“Then why haven’t you?”
“Scared, scared, scared,” offers Dark’s echo. Jameson closes his eyes. It is true, he’s scared. This is the first supernatural entity he has spoken to without Anti there to defend him. His confidence is a façade and he can tell Dark knows it.
“You have immense power. Even greater than mine. Forgive me for flattering, but you may just be the most powerful magician I have ever come across.” Jameson startles as the entity reaches into the pocket of his suit and pulls out his watch. The dark hand fiddles with it, feeling the radiating magic that smells of dust and blood. “I would love it if you would... assist me. There is someone I want to make pay. Name your price.” Beautiful brown-gold eyes glint up at JJ as the being lets the watch fall back against his chest. His mustache twitches. He glares, raising an eyebrow.
He picks up the notepad.
Sets it down.
Picks it up.
Protection. I have a demon, my monster. Keep him away.
“I know of your demon. Our creators introduced us long before we played these silly games.” Dark picks at his suit. “Very well then, consider it done. You have never been safer than in the hands of my soldiers and myself. Jameson Jackson will be the name your Anti dies fearing.”
Jameson smiles, a twinge of blackness slipping into his eyes as whispers surround him, light playing over his face from the movie screen. Make him pay, echoes through his brain. Make him pay for all he did to you.
Dark smiles. Yes. Make him pay. Make them all pay for what he did. In an instant they are gone, leaving Jameson alone, a rose falling from the air in place of the being. Passions combined often make fearsome alliances.
He does not remember falling, only that the water is dank and cold around him. Dark surfaces, coughing, something pulling him towards the shore by his wrists. Pressed into stone and sand, he looks up through blurry eyes.
“Damien!” scream thousands of voices at once. But he is too weak to respond, a groan sliding out from his weak throat, marred by coughing and hot burning water in his lungs. He struggles to his feet, coughing out a thick, black liquid that no longer passes for blood after all his years as a corpse.
He looks downward at his wrists, seeking the source of the tug.
Strings.
Thick, red cords wrap endless circles around his wrists. He tugs at them, frustrated, clawing at them.
“Well, well, wellwellwell,” a voice taunts from the shadows of the beach. Dark whips his head upward. It’s him. It is, after all this time of silence, all this time of building a life beyond his games, and here he is.
The Actor stands in front of him, his form flickering at the edges. “Look how the mighty fall~”
“What do you want?” Dark asks.
“Help help help,” offers his echo as he glows bright red at the hems of his rough-sewn being.
“What do I want? You. You are lacking in our games lately. If I didn’t know better, well, I’d say you had stopped looking for me. One little madman shows up and suddenly you don’t care about the hero of our story?”
“Hero,” Dark cackles, “You are not a hero, no matter how much you delude yourself into it.”
“I am more hero than ANY of the soldiers and failed creations you hide away in that mirror with,” spits the Actor, snarling.
“Even Jim is more hero than you, you snake, you fucking reprobate.”
“Shut up!” Actor growls. “Or do I have to do it myself?”
Strings suddenly envelop his skin, a thin cord wrapping roughly around his neck. Dark gags on his own breath as the string tightens roughly around his jugular. The red, glowing ribbons drag Dark through the sand and pebbles, drawing a cry from him. The Actor’s foot comes down on his head. Strings wrap through his lips, sewn by invisible needles that sting. Another foot comes down on him, the impact echoing through the Otherworld.
“Now that I’ve got you quiet,” teases the Actor in an overly friendly voice, leaning pertly on his cane. “I need some more... acting from you. Some pizazz, some spark. Before I get bored of you and decide you’re not worth being in my stories. I can always recycle or create anew to find a new villain. You’re just so boring lately, my old chum.”
Dark glares at him, hands being held above his head by the strings as the cords around his neck nearly hang him, barely allowing a breath to pass his lips. Dark struggles, but the string ‘round his neck gets tighter.
“Ugh, this is what I mean, so cliché and boring.” The strings fall away, sending a gasping Dark to the ground, bright irritated burns left in his skin by the string. “Look, friend, just freshen up a bit, get your madman to hunt me down or your soldiers to cut me up, I don’t care anymore, I just need some spunk from you on stage!” He grins, grins with far too many teeth and curled, smile-lined cheeks.
There is a sudden beeping noise, echoing through the darkness around the lake.
“Uh oh~ Looks like time is up for now, my old enemy. Au revoir and be prepared!”
Dark shocks up awake in bed, his alarm blaring loudly. He slams his hand on the snooze button, then lifts a shaky hand to his throat. It still burns. He looks over in bed at the swirl of pink hair peeking out of the blankets, the loud snoring annoying, but not echoing. No more echoing except from Dark.
He cannot help but ask himself, is it worth it to keep playing his games, even if just to keep his Wilford and his other friends safe. Is it worth it to listen to ghosts of Mark when he has such a fine little life hidden away in his mirror dimension of safety.
Well. Worth it or not, Dark was never a fan of chess, but he knows the winner has most pieces on the board, and Dark? Dark has a whole found family of soldiers, while Mark is just a figment of his past surviving off scraps of conflict and weaving words. Dark cuddles in against Wilford in his big soft safe bed. He knows who wins without even playing.
Since I mentioned Yancy being hypnotized, how about one where Dark finds Yancy slipping out of his control, because of Y/N and erases them from his memory? I don't know if that goes with your versions of them, but the more I think about it, the more I want to see it.
It had been such a long time since Dark came to visit. Normally he’d have no need, he trusts the bounds of his control and reach, and knows it to be solid. But this one, this time, the bond is weakening. Not yet severed, but not as strong as before, and Dark feels a tug, almost painfully so.
So, he finds himself in this dingy little cell, smelling of rust and dirt, to stare at the one occupant inside. The man is sleeping, or appears to be sleeping. Dark says nothing as he reaches for the man’s arm to inspect the tattoos on his arms. They’re still there; there’s no magic tying those tattoos to this man, so there’s no need to fix this problem either. However, Dark doesn’t need to inspect the entire jail, he already knows the source of the problem.
There’s a lingering smell of another figure. Probably a brief prisoner who shared this cell, someone who had strange ideas and implanted them in this one’s head. Thoughts of escaping and living a different life...
Not if Dark has anything to say about it.
He doesn’t need to use powers. He doesn’t need to do much other than crouch down, pressing his lips close to the man’s ear, to repeat the same mantra he’d implanted in his head close to a year ago.
“Yancy.”
“Mmm?” The reply is slurred, groggy, but not yet with a coherency that would come with him being awake.
“You don’t want to be free,” Dark whispers. He slowly wraps his fingers around Yancy’s wrists, pinning him in place. There’s little resistance, with Yancy moving his arm once, then relaxing again once he’s pinned on his back. His head rolls to the side, eyelids twitching as if caught in a dream.
“You belong to me, remember?” Dark’s a little more forceful as he works to instill his commands back in Yancy’s head. Sweet, precious, stupid Yancy. “You’ve always been mine, you always want to be mine.”
“I’m....” Yancy’s lips are barely parted as he starts to repeat the mantra, but stops as he rolls his head to the other side. His brow furrows with an unconscious resistance.
“You belong to me,” Dark repeats. He spreads his own aura out, shadows creeping up around the pair, with tendrils of shadow and smoke curling around Yancy’s head, almost caressing him. “You will not think about breaking free, or working for parole. You only want to stay here, where you’re safe and protected. Where I can protect you.”
Yancy seems to relax, though he licks his lips. “But Y/N...?”
“Who?” Dark’s lips curl upward in a smile. “There’s no one by that name. Don’t worry about it.” Best to nip this in the bud before it spirals out of his control. “You belong here, Yancy. To me.”
“I...belong to you...” In his relaxed state, there’s no accent, no bravado. Yancy is just a sleeping man who seems to be enjoying the comfort of his mysterious protector. “Only you.”
Hm. He didn’t need prompting for that one.
“Good.” Dark pulls his aura back, letting Yancy’s wrists go. “It’s only you and your current inmates. No one else exists, you’re happy here. You’ll always be happy here, as long as you obey.”
“I don’t wanna be free.” With his new freedom, Yancy rolls to his side, humming some quiet jingle before letting out a snore.
Dark grins as he strolls out, satisfied that the bond he’d created is strengthened once more.
