Since I accidentally started this whole “Anti with glasses” thing, I decided I would write a little something about it. Also, this is based off of something @markired sent me and I guess there’s some Danti implied in here? Take it as you will, whether that’s platonic or romantic.
Also, it’s past 2am here. I tried and I’m an amateur writer.
Anyway, Enjoy! x
Anti needs glasses.
Just like Jack, he needs a pair to see things in the distance.
However, his eyesight is worse. That
being said, he needs a pair that is stronger than the ones Jack already has and
needs to get himself his own pair. He doesn’t like it – oh, he hates having to wear glasses, but contacts
drive him up the damn walls so they are out of the question. He thinks they
make him look nerdy and less intimidating.
No one except Anti knows that he needs them. He acts like he
can see the world crystal clear when in reality, he can hardly see the street
signs. It isn’t exactly a good thing when it comes to executing kills because
his precision is off and he often misses his shots. This in turn frustrates
Dark because he hired the guy to do the dirty work and he’s missing the target –
what the fuck?
After nearly losing a seventh victim that month, Dark finally
approaches Anti about it.
“Anti, the execution of your kills hasn’t been… extraordinary lately. Is there a reason
“No,” Anti grumbles, crossing his arms along his chest, “n’
quit questionin’ my killing methods. You won’t even do the kills
yerself so don’t be complainin’.”
Anti proceeds to plop himself down on their couch, flipping
himself so he’s upside down. His feet hang off the top and his head is hanging
off the seat, watching his hair fall back and dangle in the open. It’s evident
that he doesn’t want to talk about the subject any further.
But since when does Dark ever really care about Anti’s
A deep hum vibrates through Dark’s chest as he scrutinises
the green-haired male, completely disregarding his attempt at an insult.
Anti, who’s fully aware he’s being watched, lifts his head to lock eyes with
Dark. He squints them dangerously.
“The fuck are ye lookin’ at?” he spits out.
“You need glasses, don’t you?” Dark suddenly says,
straightening his posture and canting his head to the side, “that’s why you’re
having trouble executing kills properly and squinting at everything. You can’t
“I can see fine!” Anti barks, pushing himself back up onto
the couch and propping himself up with his elbows. His slightly sharper teeth
become more evident as he scowls at Dark.
“Oh, is that so? In that case, I suppose you won’t have any
trouble telling me what that sign across the street says?” Dark lifts a brow as
he points out the window at a little yellow sign with bold black letters on it.
Anti looks over his shoulder at the sign and almost visibly
pales. There’s no way he can read that.
It’s just far enough for the letters to be too blurry to read. They just look
like a black cloud on a yellow sign.
“I don’t need to prove myself to an old man,” Anti sneers,
huffing and sliding off the couch. Before Dark can bring up the subject again,
the green-haired male storms off into another room somewhere in the house,
slamming the door shut behind him.
“Idiot,” Dark sighs, deciding to let the topic go for the
A week passes by after that and yet another nearly failed
kill. Dark didn’t get frustrated this time because he now knows the source of
the problem, he just has to find out how to fix it. Even though he finds it
absolutely ridiculous to have to
chase after Anti for being a big baby who’s in complete denial, if it will help
his case then he is more than willing.
That, and teasing Anti is just so much fun.
“Is it because you don’t like glasses? There are certainly
contacts out there that you could use,” Dark suddenly inquires over dinner one
Anti freezes in his movements and peers up at his friend, a
look of annoyance on his face. He grits his teeth and gives Dark the silent
“Even so, anything is better than being partially blind, don’t
you think?” the other continues, slowly enjoying his meal as though his friend’s
annoyance was nothing but a speck of dust on his shoulder for him to brush off.
There’s a moment of silence between the two. The only sound
in the entire room is that of their utensils against their plates. Anti stops
eating for a minute and simply sits there, picking at the meat in front of him.
“Don’t be stupid, Dark, I can’t wear glasses. I’m not a
nerd,” Anti scoffs, eyes stuck to his plate, “n’ fuck contacts, those little
shits are annoying as all fuck.”
Dark doesn’t say anything after that but instead just lifts
his eyes to look at the man sitting across from him at the table. He almost
wants to laugh at Anti’s comment but refrains from doing so. His mind is at
work throughout the rest of the meal.
After that night, Dark eventually goes through the torturous
process of discovering Anti’s prescription. It takes almost a full week before
he gets the results but when he does, he feels more victorious than he has in
quite some time.
And he decides to get Anti some glasses.
Dark is seated in his favorite chair one evening, relaxing
while enjoying a good book. However, he’s having trouble concentrating on the
letters in front of him. A disheartened sigh escapes his lips at the
realisation that he won’t be able to continue.
Suddenly, a familiar voice makes its way through the once
“DARK, WHAT THE FUCK ARE THESE!?” Anti hollers from his
bedroom. Dark can’t help the smug grin that spreads across his lips.
“They’re glasses, Anti. Try them on,” Dark urges, his tone
calm compared to the other.
There’s a series of quick footsteps that grow louder as Anti
approaches. Dark turns his head towards the open doorway to see Anti storming
in, eyes practically glowing with annoyance.
“I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU THAT I DIDN’T WANT ‘EM. I LOOK LIKE A
FUCKIN’ NERD, DARK!” He yells, the pair of black glasses in his hand. His other
is balled into a fist, practically drawing blood from how tightly it’s closed. “DON’T
YOU LISTEN TO ME!?”
In a fit of childish annoyance, Anti lifts his hand with the
glasses held tightly between his fingers. In the split second it takes for Dark
to realise what’s about to happen, Anti’s hand comes toward the ground in full
Dark has never moved so fast in his life. It’s as though he’s
a shadow, glitching from his spot in the chair to Anti’s side. Dark’s large
hand grips Anti’s wrist tightly, preventing him from throwing the glasses onto
the ground and breaking them. His nearly black eyes seem to flash red for a
“YoU wiLL nOt breAK tHeSE, unDersTOoD?”
Dark’s voice is deep, harsh and slicing. Like the biting
cold of winter, it nips at Anti’s childish conscience and fills him with fear.
His hot breath tickles Anti’s ear and he shivers, eyes widening in realisation
at what he was about to do and how pissed
Dark is now. The hold on Anti’s wrist is bone crushing and the green-haired male
grits his teeth.
Dark slowly releases Anti’s wrist and brings his hand back
to his side. After taking in a slow breath, he looks Anti in the eyes with an
“Now, try them on,” he tries again, his voice much softer
Anti is still hesitant and it shows. He glances down at the
glasses in his hand with an expression of disgust. Dark rolls his eyes – he’s
losing his patience.
“Anti, wearing glasses does not make you a nerd,” Dark says
deeply, reaching over to a small table next to his chair. On it sits a pair of
glasses which Anti has surprisingly never seen before. Dark slides them onto
his face and pushes them up his nose gracefully with his finger. “See?”
Anti blinks wordlessly at Dark. His eyes are wide and are
scanning Dark’s face over and over again. He’s never seen this before and Dark
isn’t able to tell whether this reaction is good or bad.
“Now you really look like an old man, Dark,” Anti giggles,
the sound echoing around him and layering over itself.
Dark’s brows rise and his jaw sets. “Anti, you prick, I’m
“But you’re okay-lookin’ for an old man, I guess,” he then
shrugs, a smug smirk on his face.
Dark’s anger and the compliment swirl inside of him and he
shuts his mouth, muttering some profanities under his breath. He looks away for
nothing but a second and when his eyes return to meet Anti’s, he’s met with a
sight he never thought he would see.
Anti is wearing his glasses.
“You don’t look too bad yourself, kiddo,” he says, the
corner of his lips twitching up into a smile.
Anti shrugs off the compliment and quickly takes the glasses
“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbles as he walks off to his room.
Dark, now feeling satisfied, sits back down into his chair and resumes his reading –
he can see the words much better now.
Both Dark and Anti begin to wear their glasses more often now,
even when they don’t necessarily need them.
Ten was starting to get irritated. That was the seventh victim he couldn’t get to talk.
Where the hell did they get these men from, and how did they train them?
He could definitely use some of his own. After all, that’s what started this whole issue.
He never wanted this life: Ten was the leader of his dance team only three years ago, and now he was the leader of the most powerful mafia. Why, you ask?
Because someone had assassinated his father, and then the responsibility fell on him. He couldn’t let his sister take after their father. Not this.
So he dropped out of university as his father’s best friend trained him in combat. He showed him everything he needed to know, introduced him to everyone he needed to meet, and just like that, he had gone too deep to be able to back out anymore.
It meant keeping his mother and sister safe, and that’s all that really mattered to him anymore.
So instead of staying in his home country, he moved the mafia.
What better way to keep your family safe from your job than to disappear and see them only when designated by you and coordinated to be the safest meeting possible?
Sure, he couldn’t see his family as often or as long as he’d like to, but at least he could sleep at night knowing that they were safe.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
It had been years since Ten had gotten a good night’s rest, not plagued by nightmares or the ghostly faces of the men he’d killed.
And he’d just added another one to the list.
Why wouldn’t the man just fucking talk?
You see, the mafia was running smoothly with minimum threats until his father’s friend, his mentor, screwed him over and ratted him out to the cops.
The police had been looking into missing citizen cases for a while, and when Ten refused to hand over the rule over the mafia’s connections in Beijing, his father’s friend told them everything.
He had been taught too well, it seemed, because Ten knew exactly what to do and how to clear their headquarters like it had been abandoned for centuries.
His father’s friend was the first man he’d had to kill.
The area where it happened, of course, was easily discoverable, and the betrayal that had stung Ten was beyond reprieve. And that’s when he did it.
He needed to mark it. To show them that he was there, and that he was watching them like they were trying to watch him.
He had dipped his finger in the dead man’s pooling blood and drawn the symbol that had been slowly etching itself onto his skin, not really thinking about it as he sketched the symbol he’d become so familiar with unconsciously.
He thought it was ironic, to draw the symbol that was supposedly meant for him to find the love of his life.
He knew he could not be loved. Who would love a mafia boss like him?
Ten was many things, but foolish was not one of them.
Pissed, yes. Irritated and angry, yes. Desperately hopeless, yes. But not foolish.
He wanted to send a middle finger out there to the universe that seemed to do the same to him; marking him with the brand of love and letting him end up where he was.
Not everyone gets a soulmate band. It’s not uncommon, about a fourth of the world never gets a soulmate mark before they die, and they end up either alone or married to someone they don’t love. Some of them never end up finding their soulmates, and that was the worst of all.
Ten would have preferred it if he hadn’t had one, but the mark that had appeared during his final year of highschool was still there, clear as the starry sky outside his window.
He had known that he had been fucked over when the person he was in love with, his boyfriend, got a dissimilar mark two years into the relationship, during their second year in college, right before Ten had had to drop out.
And when he learned of his new fate?
He was beyond bitter.
Fuck the universe, he thought as he looked away from the window and brought his attention back to the empty room, the dull hum of the television in the corner still sounding.
He lazily reached over to his glass of water, staring at the melting ice with hooded eyes but not taking a sip, watching the colors of the television change through the liquid.
The water had a purpose.
The ice had a purpose.
What was his? What was the mafia’s?
Countless times he’d thought of destroying the name. Of becoming a nobody and starting again. How hard could it be?
He’d only have to risk everything, including his sister and mother’s safety.
Why hadn’t he come forward when he got ratted out? Because he knew they’d just get him out and cause more bloodshed.
Why had he killed? Because of the outrage he had felt when he had heard of the dishonor that the betrayal had brought upon his father’s name.
Was it still worth it?
He wasn’t so sure anymore.
Ten set the glass of water back down and slowly hung his head back, closing his eyes.
The scene from earlier replayed on his closed eyelids, but slower, and he watched as the bullet embedded itself into the skull of yet another victim added to his ongoing list of murders.
A tear slipped down his left cheek and fell into his lap, more following it as the fabric began to dampen.
He didn’t want to do this anymore.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to disappear and do what he’d always dreamed of doing.
Now, he couldn’t even afford to sleep.
What had he done to deserve this? How badly had he fucked up in his previous life?
He opened his eyes, his vision blurry.
Not even bothering to wipe the tears away, he stared down at his exposed forearm and traced the soulmate’s mark longingly, wondering if he did have a soulmate at all.
He had asked his mother, long before his family stopped seeing through the mask, about what it was like to have your soulmate. His parents had found each other.
“When they press on the mark, you can feel what they’re feeling. Some people can even write on their arms, and the soulmate can see them. That’s what your father uses to let me know that he’s safe,” she had explained.
He had been fifteen then, raving to her about how he couldn’t wait to find his soulmate like she had found hers.
His sister had, as he’d been informed the last time they all met up.
How long ago was that now? Nine, no, eleven months ago? He couldn’t recall.
If only he had known.
What killed him wasn’t knowing that he wouldn’t be loved.
What killed him was knowing that he would love and love again and always end up in the same faded couch, alone. Crying.
He could no longer share and speak to his mother or sister like before. They stopped seeing him for who he was, and now saw him for who they wanted him to be. Who he needed to be.
Who he couldn’t be.
And it was driving him insane.
Ten looked over at the clock and saw that it was now three in the morning.
How long had he been sitting there in the same spot, unmoving?
He looked back down at his forearm, and his finger hovered over it, hesitating.
How desperate was he?
His expression faltered, and never had he looked more vulnerable.
A family, comrades, and a thousand men operating under his command.
And here he sat. Alone.
Did anyone deserve this?
What did he have to lose?
He brought down his thumb onto the mark and pressed it gently, sending out his emotions to whoever would be there, if anyone was there at all.
Johnny hadn’t moved from his chair since his mini-tantrum, his mind’s gears slowly ticking and trying to comprehend what was going on.
His papers were still strewn out across the office, and Jeffrey had left a while ago.
His gaze kept shifting from the board on his wall to his arm, failing to understand the connection or why it might appear on his skin.
Johnny had never had a mark. He had promptly given up his hopes on ever finding anyone, and dedicated his life to being a detective instead, trying to mask the pain of being told that he would never find someone to accept him in this disheveled world.
And now, this? What the hell was it supposed to even mean?
Johnny pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and ran a hand through his messy hair, loosening his tie a little as it slowly got harder to breathe.
He had a soulmate.
A mafia boss, yes.
But he had a soulmate.
Did the world think it was fucking funny?
He massaged his temples as his eyebrows knotted in confusion, and he turned to look at the clock hanging alone on the wall.
Already three in the morning.
He’d head home to an empty bed at about now, skipping meals yet again because he’d be too lazy to eat, with no one there to remind him or care for him.
His family was halfway across the world.
And then he felt it.
He felt the warm, gentle caress of a finger that wasn’t there right on his mark, and it all flushed through his body.
He had never felt so much anguish before in his life.
So much pain.
So much disconnection from reality.
Johnny closed his eyes as he curled in on himself, a small sob racking his body as the first tears escaped and ran down his face.
A murder victim who is found with something such as a blanket covering their face or pulled up over their body often reflects a sense of guilt or remorse in the killer.
Albert DeSalvo’s “The Boston Strangler” seventh victim, Patricia Bissette was found lying face up on her bed, her legs together and covered by a bedspread snugly drawn up to her chin. Later DeSalvo said:
“She was different, I didn’t want to see her like that, naked and… She talked to me like a man, she treated me like a man.”
It’s cold, but not cold enough. It’s dark, but she feels light. She thinks she’s alone; she’s certainly not.
In her hand, she swings a tin bucket. It sloshes, it swirls, she looks in and sighs.
The city buildings look like dominos waiting to collapse and fall in and claim her, but they’re so willing to bend their very essence with the grace of dusted titans and let her climb them to the stars above.
She chooses the streets instead. The buildings quiver.
From the shallow crevasse of shadows, a man with a hat follows and watches. Breath; bated. Heart; pounding. He waits for a sign, any chance to move in and claim the seventh victim in a far too-long line.
The little girl stumbles and he sees one.
She kisses ground; he rushes forward.
“Darlin’, you alright?” A gloved hand outstretched, fingers reaching and wanting. She looks up at him, eyes bleeding gossamer all over the pavement. A bruise begins to blossom deep under her skin as she takes his hand, a smile pouncing across the tight plains of her lips.
“I fine, mister,” she coos, “jus’ on my way.”
“Allow me to guide; much too late for an angel to be walkin’ alone.”
She giggles: “I ain’t no angel, mister.”
Fingers curl inward and tap on his palm like tiny skipping stones on placid waters; he stops for a moment, treading hard, and comes up for air, “Now where you live, girl?”
His head cocks to the side, “Well, where’m I takin’ you?”
“Not where you wanna,” the bucket swings, cutting a swath through her words.
Her sass pools around his feet. Indignant, impatient, he’s had enough. He reaches in his coat for the knife, his trusty companion.
“Hey!” she cries, hoisting her bucket up, “what the German soldier say to his friend when the bombs started to whistle?”
Hand resting on the blade’s hilt, the man stops, puzzled. As he starts to speak, she tosses the bucket in his direction and shouts, “AGH, TONGUE!”
A pink ocean wave of fleshy pads pours into the air, surrounding him. Like piranhas, they descend as a whole, covering his body, and begin to lick him hard, like dozens of hungry phantom cats.
His screams are drowned, muffled by the cacophonous slurping, and within seconds, they’re finished. Jumping back into the bucket, they reveal a dry, withered husk.
The little girl skips forward, reaching between his sinner’s teeth, and plucks out his liar’s tongue. She smacks him on the forehead with it and says, “Town ain’t big enough for the both of us, mister”.
She begins to walk away, and hears a whispered plop behind her. Turning her head, she sees a lone tongue wriggling lazily by the body’s feet.
With a roll of the eyes, she pats her hip: “C’mon Karl.”
Karl flops after her.
The buildings twitch and strain against their foundations, begging for love; she leaves them to crumble.
Part 3/3 of victim identifications and summary of confession to Detectives Kennedy and Murphy.
• Over 300 homicides were speculated and asked of the Milwaukee Police Department to look into after Dahmer’s capture.
• When asked about Adam Walsh, Jeff says, “He’s a kid; I wouldn’t hurt a little kid.” Pat reminds him of 15 year old victim of his (who was actually 14, Jamie Doxtator) and Dahmer insisted he thought that his victim was young, but still of age. He stated that he was not attracted to children and that while what he did was selfish and horrible, he sought out sexually mature guys - ones that could give and receive pleasure. He acted almost annoyed at the suggestion that he was interested in children in that way.
• Sixth victim (unnamed victim - possibly Raymond Smith/Cash D/Ricky Beeks - Dahmer says he thinks this occurred October 1990, but Ernest Miller was his only October victim). Some of these particular polaroids have made their way online, identified with the chest cavity opened up for intercourse and to masturbate with the viscera.
• Home inventory included ten skulls, 4 bodies in one blue drum of muriatic acid, sets of hands, a human scalp, two preserved penises, an entire skeleton, and various cutlery all with traces of human remains. Ziploc bags filled with organs were neatly piled in his freezer, led detectives to the conclusion that Dahmer was eating his victims. Pat seems a bit shaken by this news and goes back to speak with Dahmer, who notices his changed behavior and asks if he is okay.
• Seventh victim (unnamed - Edward Smith) wasn’t Dahmer’s type but he was affectionate and eager so Jeffrey took him home anyway. Tried to bake the skull but it exploded (Jeff felt “rotten” about it) and he wasn’t able to keep any of him.
• Det. Pat Kennedy receives personal calls asking for interviews from Oprah Winfrey, Inside Edition, and Geraldo Rivera for a sum of $30k.
• Dahmer notes that black prisoners don’t especially care for him and make remarks at him, but he doesn’t feel worried about it.
• Joyce, Jeff’s mother, refused to have anything to do with Jeff’s case or the defense.
• Ambassador Hotel victim (aka - Jeff’s spiral back into murder after nearly a ten year gap - unnamed 2nd victim - Steven Tuomi, although apparently accidental) He awoke after a night of consensual sex, followed by his drugging antics - finalized with less consensual sex - and victim was lying beneath him, broken ribs, bleeding out of mouth, and dead. Dahmer’s arms were bruised and he did not recall how or why this occurred. Found himself aroused many times during dismemberment.
• Pat eats lunch with Jeff and Dahmer tells him the prison food is starchy and he is not used to it. (Beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas)
• Kennedy and Murphy bring up the meat in the freezer and Jeff looks terrified, like a child waiting for punishment, and they have to reassure him they just need to know the truth, and he caves. He admits it, embarrassed because he thought things were going so smoothly with the Detectives and they had been so nice to him, and he didn’t want the press to find out because he knew it would be considered ‘monstrous’.
• First victim he attempted cannibalism on was Cash D - (aka Raymond Smith or Ricky Beeks). A hustler, agreed to come back for $100 and photos, Jeff had tried to hug and kiss him and he would only let Jeff fellate him and take pictures. Jeff was especially drawn to his muscles. Dahmer says this is the victim he stabbed in the throat (but it was actually Ernest Miller?) because he started to wake up. He kept the whole skeleton, kept heart, bicep, and thigh for consumption.
• Says other very attractive victim male model (unnamed victim, Oliver Lacy, based on the more graphic details to follow) Dahmer attempts to use chloroform, hoping he can keep him alive longer, as he feels lucky to have him, but it doesn’t work. Places head in a box - found at crime scene - and took Polaroids of him hanging from his shower rod by a strap and others in various poses lying on his stomach, handcuffed, flesh open. In one photo, three corpses are visible, dismembered in the background.
• He started going to Chicago to pick up men because of the complaints against him at Milwaukee bathhouses, he picked up more bathhouse memberships out there instead.
• A guy he drugged in Chicago accused him of doing so, they argued, and he punched Jeff in the face, leaving his nose bloody and left. This person has never come forward or been identified.
• He describes meeting ‘mixed-race’ victim (unnamed victim, Jeremiah Weinberger) and how affectionate and loving he was to him. They rode the Greyhound from Chicago to Jeff’s apartment, where he agreed to stay the weekend without any payment. On the ride home, they had oral and anal sex, and Dahmer said that although he usually hated it, he let (Weinberger) have his way because he was so eager. He goes on to say that they had almost what he saw as an normal relationship - they ate breakfast together the next day, took a walk, drank together, and had more affectionate sex (Dahmer calls ‘making love’ - he calls it that pretty often in here), he says it was “wonderful”. (Weinberger) says he has to go to work the following day and must leave soon, Dahmer realizes he’ll never have a normal relationship and makes him the drink.
• During lunch with Jeff, Pat is eating some small bananas native to Hawaii. Jeff asks if he can have one, and Pat says he can, Jeff says they remind him of fingers having sat in muriatic acid. He eats it and says it’s not bad.
• Jeff says he photographed one of the final victims (unnamed - Matt Turner) standing because rigor mortis had set in and made him posable. Pat thought the victim was still living in the Polaroid.
• Jeff says he chose his victims based on attractiveness, body type, and opportunity, never race or anything else. He would watch them and see if they noticed him first, sometimes it was easy, other times he would wait for them to be alone so he could talk to them or until bars were closing and everyone was leaving alone.
• Jeff enjoyed the campiness of drag shows, although was not attracted to drag queens, described this in an enthusiastic way.
• Dahmer admits to sex zombie experiments after pathologist notes small holes drilled in the skull in only some of his victims. Previously only mentioned removal of brain matter to retain the skull.
• Deaf victim (unnamed - Tony Hughes) left on floor for three days after one of his experiments failed immediately. Jeff drank himself to sleep in disappointment.
• Dahmer is very surprised to hear that the Asian boy he molested was related to the Asian boy he had conned the police into returning to him and killing him after. (unnamed - Somsack and Konerak Sinthasomphone). He was not interested in the personal lives of his victims. Polaroids are listed as graphic.
• Dahmer drugged his last victim (unnamed - Joseph Bradehoft) joins Jeff for light sex for $50 and Jeff drugs him and fellates him, strangling him with his bare hands afterwards, then has anal sex with him, which has become the norm post-mortem. Detectives ask why he always waits to have sex until they are dead - Dahmer says he cannot climax if they are alive, as he doesn’t have complete control.
My notes are the italicized portions. I can elaborate on any of the above, I just wanted to get some information down while it was still fresh in my mind. I’m learning that victim’s names aren’t going to be noted, especially because Jeff knew so few of them, so I’m taking my time to make the connections and notes as I read and adding them here. Final book summary coming soon, likely entailing the trial and some additional personal information.