#wkm fanfic

[fgfluidity]

pincera (part 6) (finale)

Summary: pincera- Latin, ‘cup-bearer, one who mixes drinks’ || He meets his songbird.

Pairings: Damien/DA, Celine/Mark, Celine/Will

Tags: Alcohol, Bootlegging, Adultery, WWI, Fights, implied Overserving, Abusive Parents, Autistic!Seer!DA

Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

find it on ao3 | donate to my kofi

@opprose @statictay @volbeast @otterlyinluv @flerpdederp @hapikiou @mirrorslament (and if anyone else wants to be tagged lmk!

He met them in university, and nothing has been the same, since.

No, it wasn’t a flash of light, a singular moment of oh, everything’s different. Meeting them in the library in the early days of his university career was just that-- meeting someone new.

Granted, they were a bit quieter than most people he’s met, but they certainly made up for it. They’re a listener, the observant kind of person you can’t get much past, and the day he meets them, it’s very clear just what he’s in for.

He’s in the library at his university. It’s a lovely, quiet place, a massive room full of books and papers and archives, wings stretching out for yards like a massive bird alighted on their campus. The smallest sounds echo over the stone walls and ceilings, glide over the shining wooden floor; it being a library, everyone takes great care to remain as silent as is possible, but every now and then a mutter of a word or a whisper of breath bounces from somewhere else in the building, too quiet to make out but unmistakable all the same.

In that way, it reminds him of his home, the hard surfaces more likely to betray your presence than hold you close and safe, but the similarity ends there. Where his home holds stark monochrome from floor to ceiling, here the floors are rich brown, the walls and ceiling soft gray, with plenty of furniture almost to call it overstuffed. Desks and tables and chairs of similar polished wood, gleaming mahogany, and soft cushions in deepest green, the color of a forest in high summer.

It’s why, amidst the forest shades of the library, shelves of muted books standing tall and strong as trees, a startling flash of yellow surprises him.

It went by quickly, between the gaps in the shelves, but with his attention newly focused on it, he can make it out once it comes back: a sweater, bulky but soft, the color of sunshine. A person.

A person just coming from the political science section of the shelves, and not empty-handed.

Quickly, he moves for that section, scanning across the shelves and comparing to the piece of paper in his hands, his necessary selections written down in his neat script. Of his five choices, not a one of them remains, plucked from the shelves-- and freshly, by the gaps still left between the rest. Damn.

His mind casts back to the person he saw, a stack of books under their straining arms, too many to take at once. Too many to read at once. If by the off chance they took even one of his books, perhaps…

He turns on his heel to follow where their path might lead, but with their quick step, he’s uncertain by the end of the next section of shelves. It’s like tracking a bird through the trees, he thinks. Here but gone in a flash, with only the sharpest-- and fastest-- able to keep up, and by design at that.

This bird, however, has bright feathers, a pop of color in the muted branches.

When he comes out from the shelves, it’s into an expanse of tables and desks, various students dotted throughout. Each has books at hand, open as they jot down notes or complete homework, pencils scribbling away. A study area, then, and with his greatest hope--

Yes, there, at the far end! His bird, settling down with a stack of books-- a massive stack of books, with at least a few notebooks at hand. A nest of words made for them, and only for them.

He ought not to intrude. It wouldn’t be polite, and voices carry through the library. They seem comfortable, simply going about their day; they wouldn’t very much appreciate someone coming to bother him about their study practices.

Then again, how polite is it, really, to take more books than you could feasibly need in one study session? His interest in them isn’t just passing; he’ll need all of them, eventually, and even just one right at the moment would be nice. Why would they take all five?

They’re reading as he approaches, book propped up to conceal their face. One hand, every now and then, taps out something against the faded cover where it rests. Then, quickly as it happens, a page turns. The other four remain in their stack, waiting patiently for their turn.

Turn. They don’t need all of them at once. Once a step from the table, he clears his throat as quietly as he can manage, hoping not to disturb anyone else in the study area.

They don’t speak to him. Instead, a page in mid-transition freezes in air for a heartbeat or two, before slowly moving to settle into place. Then, before he truly realizes it, he’s the one being watched.

A pair of dark eyes, peeping over the edge of the book. It’s difficult to say how they regard him at all, at first, face unreadable as they just look, eyes darting here and there, only at his face for the briefest of moments.

It nearly feels like Celine, he thinks, unexpectedly frozen under their gaze. Watching, almost seeing into things, used to noticing. Still, it’s different to her; at the worst of times, Celine’s gaze can feel hungry, searching not to sate her curiosity but to have every last thing laid bare, knowing all for the sake of controlling and predicting outcomes.

Hers is icy. This is warm, and when he truly meets their eyes, just for a moment, he understands, too.

A bit hesitant, perhaps, nervous, but not malicious-- far from it. Mostly, it’s curiosity, and for its own sake at that. A creature of the same standing, wondering if friend or foe, and the blazing intelligence to do with that information as it will.

They have lovely eyes.

He catches himself, warm in his cheeks, and clears his throat once more before pointing to their stack of books, neatly set aside. A question he hopes they’ll understand.

Their eyes flick over on cue, and they take another second or so before nodding, using one hand to push the stack closer to him.

Smiling, grateful that his hopeful expression didn’t read as desperate, instead-- or maybe it had, he can’t say-- he takes one off the top. Before he can so much as offer his thanks, something else scoots towards him, across the table.

A notebook. Theirs, turned to a blank page, with writing across the top. It isn’t the neatest, but it’s legible enough for him to read while standing.

Sit, please. It’s easier, should you want to look at something else.

When he looks up, there’s a twinkle in their eye that stokes the heat in his face once more, though it disappears so quickly he can hardly say it was there to begin with. A chair beside him scoots forward, seemingly of its own accord, and he takes it gratefully as his new tablemate straightens up in their chair.

It’s smart to use notes, considering how voices carry, and he whips out his pencil to write his own, nudging the book back once finished.

Thank you for allowing me to borrow it. Unfortunately, I need it for my class, or I wouldn’t have troubled you.

Almost immediately, a reply comes back.

I shouldn’t have taken all of them. I suppose I’m used to biting off more than I can chew. I apologize.

Well, you gave it back, and allowed me to join, so I see no reason to condemn you. I’m Damien.

I know who you are.

He blinks up at them, surprised. He doesn’t exactly try to be much of anyone on campus, let alone a notable name. Perhaps he isn’t as successful as he imagined.

You do?

Yes. You’re the mayor’s son. A legacy. People talk about you often.

Ugh. As he should have guessed, his father’s shadow overtakes him. He sighs and returns pencil to page.

I wish they wouldn’t. I don’t particularly care for being a legacy. I can’t imagine what others have to say is the most kind.

Not always, no. People equate you to him.

Is that why you hesitated?

I wanted to see for myself who you are. You aren’t like him.

You just met me, how could you know that?

In his periphery, he just catches the slight upturn of their mouth.

Well, for one, you don’t want to be. Besides, Damien, I see things about people. I wouldn’t have offered for you to sit if I saw anything bad.

See?

Notice. I get feelings, but I mostly just pay attention. You can know all you need to just by watching and listening.

Also, I sit behind you in class. You’re smarter than he could ever be.

He barks a laugh before he can stop it, and they’re both asked to either be quiet or leave. Their own laughter, warm but quiet giggles, solidifies their decision to leave, but he can’t bring himself to mind.

He learns their name, their major, their preferences. They like to sit out on the quad in the last of the warm September sunshine, sunning like a cat in the grass. They like to drink tea with their pastries and tease him over his black coffee without a single grain of sugar. They like to read and write and debate him over nothing, eyes shining when he grins over the challenge.

Mostly, they like to sit and watch.

In the dining hall, in the library, in the quad. In the local diner and the park. They sit and just take it all in, dark, curious eyes tracking the people around them.

They aren’t a gossip. They don’t tell him anything he couldn’t have guessed on his own, snippets of conversation he, himself, heard; still, he knows they hear and see more than they let on.

They only have a few favorite places to take a lunch, mostly because each has plenty of options his friend is actually capable of eating. It’s a solemn decision, one that neither of them take lightly, and a deviation from a choice can spell a ruined afternoon at the very least-- they don’t handle changes in plans very well.

Still, one very stormy day, they change course to the diner instead of the cafe, and not five yards away do they hear a crash. A branch, caught up by the wind, knocked through the front window.

They eye him another time before handing over their handkerchief. “Keep it,” they insist, eyes quite serious, and so he pockets it. What else could he do? At the very least, it will assuage his friend’s worries for him to keep it a day or so.

The next day, he can’t stop sneezing, feverish yet chilled. It’s difficult to rise from his bed, limbs aching and weak. He sleeps through most of it, and that handkerchief on his bedside table is a godsend when he can’t make it to his drawer for a fresh one.

Damien’s normally very good at keeping up with his coursework, but between his family and his other classes, a paper falls to the wayside. As he sits over it by candlelight in his dorm, the deadline of eight o’clock looming, his friend puts a hand on his shoulder. “You have time,” they say, eyes too dark in the golden light. “No need to rush.”

He has less than twelve hours to complete five pages, and while their belief in his abilities is quite flattering, he just shakes his head. The next morning, however, his professor pushes the due date to the following week, rushing out in a hurry past the messenger-- he can’t very well miss his child being born for a few papers to grade.

They know things before he ever could, and he can’t say it’s just good guesswork, just observation, not when he knows what Celine can do if she really wants to. He doesn’t mention it to them, unsure if they even think it’s something preternatural, but he does wonder.

Whether or not it’s a gift beyond humanity’s capabilities, he finds himself copying their methods. Listening, watching, waiting before he speaks or comes to a conclusion. It doesn’t come quite so easily-- he’s unfortunately inherited a bit of a temper, growing up so with Celine and his father-- but it does a decent amount in tempering his impulses.

It comes in quite handy at their first college party.

Damien’s partaken of alcohol before, though not to excess; his friend, on the other hand, looks to the sea of bottles with fascination, though little temptation. “Should I?” They ask over the crash of voices, wincing a bit and covering their ears as a portion rises in a cheer. “I haven’t-- but that’s what college parties are known for, right?”

“If you want to.” He shrugs, looking over the array. Strong stuff, befitting the raucous nature of the party. “I’d start small, though. It doesn’t taste good-- maybe some with that mix over there?”

It looks similar to Celine’s drink, the last time he saw her-- cloudy citrus with the sharp sting of alcohol-- but it isn’t frosty, and the scent of clover comes from it, honey swirled in the mix.

His friend seems to enjoy it well enough, a smile on their lips after their first tentative sip, and he thinks nothing more of it. It’s a party, and he tries to have fun.

For the most part, he succeeds, properly speaking to other people his age about topics that aren’t politics, for once, hopefully proving the ones who find him a carbon copy of his father wrong. He partakes of his own drinks, though few enough to leave a simple, pleasant warmth in his stomach; there’s no need to overindulge.

Maybe it’s his own intuition, or perhaps a touch of some gift he can’t explain, or even simple concern for his friend, but he goes to find them the moment the urge hits him, something twisting in his gut. He must find them, and soon, but where in the whole sea of bodies could they be?

He takes a breath, and looks, and listens.

Whispers about someone drinking too much. Snickers about lightweights, eyes cutting toward the back of the party.

People give away everything when they aren’t paying attention.

Surely, he finds them on a couch towards the back. Their posture is too relaxed, the tapping movements of their fingers too languid and clumsy on the cushions. When he comes around to their front, noting another empty cup in hand, their eyes are glassy, distant. It takes them some time to properly focus their eyes to look at him, and when they do, they give him a smile-- big, not like their small, secretive one.

“Damien!”

Oh, yes, they’re drunk. Quite drunk. He sighs, though his irritation can’t override his fondness. “I imagine you’ve had a few too many, my friend.”

“They were… quite good,” they confess, attempting and failing to sit up properly. “I didn’t think… I think they put in a lot. On accident.”

“Perhaps.” He cuts his eyes back to those students serving drinks. Not a one of them looks back in their direction, but something tells him that’s less due to their responsibilities and more due to avoiding them. As is best, really-- if he finds out who... “You need to get home. Can you walk?”

They can, but only with one of his arms around their waist to keep them upright and stable. He steadfastly ignores any looks or whispers as they step out into the November night.

It’s cold. Not freezing, but cold, and it seems to sharpen his friend up a bit. “Brr. Uh… I’m sorry I… had so many. That we have to go.”

“That’s alright,” he assures them, and it is. “I was about finished. I can only take so much social interaction for one evening.”

“Rich coming from the future mayor,” they laugh, swaying further into his side, though whether it’s out of intoxication, warmth, or humor, he can’t say. It warms him all the same. “But… not for long. You will be, but then… he’ll...”

They stop suddenly, almost pulling him off-balance, and when he looks down, there’s a vague horror in their eyes. Distance that isn’t from alcohol, but in the way they get when… when they know something.

He swallows hard against rising dread, the warmth placed by a chill too deep to be the air around them. “My friend? What is it?”

“You…” They swallow, too, then: “The grass, quick!”

He winds up holding them up, out of their own sick, looking away lest the sight bring up his sick, and rubbing their back. “Thanks for the warning. Are you alright?”

“Uh-huh.” They spit and groan, leaning back on their heels for a moment. “I think… that got it out of me. Thanks.”

“It’s no trouble. Let’s get you home-- I’d rather the wrath of your mother seeing you drunk than the wrath of her for letting you freeze.”

Whatever they saw, whatever they were about to say before they were sick across the frosty grass, haunts him, though. It haunts him, until one day it’s tucked into the back of his mind, and then it’s too late to be of any help at all.

--------

Bee’s Knees

--

50ml/2oz gin

20ml/1oz honey syrup

10ml/2 barspoons lemon juice

lemon peel, to garnish

Add all ingredients to a shaker with ice and shake until well-chilled. Strain into chilled cocktail glass and garnish.

Simple and even nondescript at a glance, but with more depth than expected. Sweet, only a bit tart, and floral-- like spring sunshine.

And then…

They grow up.

And then…

They grow apart.

And then…

They have a party.

And then…

Everything changes. Forever.

[o-j4d3n-o]

A series of very unfortunate circumstances.

[whitesuitdarkiplier]

Dark prompt here for you:

Like AHWM, dark finds out how to get to the reader in ISWM, and tries to convince them that mark is no good. Maybe its a jump through a wormhole that turns black and white and has the blue and red hues? Idk lol

I was so emotional writing this gah 😩 but I love it. I hope you enjoy it!

With a sucking whoosh the Captain finds themselves once again inside the paradoxical power of the wormhole, plunging towards another universe, another story, another chance to choose their fate and the fate of the Invincible II. One can only imagine the wild wacky worlds that await them on the other—

The Narrator’s voice ceases, and you can’t help but be grateful. You were getting tired of having another voice in your head. You are hurling towards two portals, both impossible choices. How could you possibly know which one was correct? It was all left to random chance! It was unfair, it was rigged!

But before you can make this choice, the two portals converge before your eyes. You don’t have enough time to react as you are involuntarily pulled in. The normal electric blue and white spirals of the wormhole change. Swirls of red and cerulean mingle all around you, time itself glitches, and a loud ringing surrounds you, piercing your ears. What was happening? This was unlike anything you’d experienced yet in this never ending nightmare, which as both terrifying and relieving.

You crash into a void, black as space and just as cold, but you’re not spinning to your death as you had in other timelines. You could stand and breathe, looking around you for any sign of life.

“I couldn’t give you a choice this time.”

A form glitches into existence. A man in a white suit. Mark? He looks so much like him, but there’s something deadly in his eyes. He’s poised like a predator ready to strike.

And yet…he’s familiar. A spark of recognition alights old, dusty memories. You can’t piece them together yet, but you know, somehow, you and this man have met before.

“I almost didn’t break through,” he said, “He has constructed quite the story this time and put you through the ringer. Right, Captain?”

His words were strange and confusing, not mixing well with the remaining vertigo. He must have noticed this because you see his mouth tighten and jaw set.

“How many times have I repeated myself?” He says, taking a step closer. You backpedal, but you know there’s no where for you to go.

“How many times have we met,” his anger grew, the glitching around him increasing, the ringing behind his words pierced your ears. Your vision was blurry. There were several of him surrounding you voices coalescing, and then they vanished. It was as if his barely maintained shell was cracking.

“How many times have I ripped this facade apart for you?!”

A red flashing after image of him screaming, his hands curled like talons, eyes black appeared next to him. The next moment he’s right in front of you, shaking with rage.

“And yet every time you are as clueless as before about this game he’s playing!”

As suddenly as it happened, the violent glitching and ringing disappeared. He’s standing where he was again, straightening his tie, his wrath stuffed back into his shell. Your fear wakes you up.

Dark. You’re friend, your enemy. The villain of the story.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’ve simply given in. If your lost memory is a choice you make to keep living this lie.”

Emotions stir inside you. Joy and confusion and anger mixing and intoxicating you. You tremble, fists clenched at your sides. It all hits you at once like an unforgiving tidal wave. Words explode from you, tears stinging your eyes.

“You left me!”

He stares at you, his face solemn.

“I thought it best for your protection.”

“Bullshit!” You scream, “You said we were in this together. You promised!”

“I didn’t know how much control he had! I thought I could leave you safe in the mirror, safe from him until I could end him myself,” he glitches again, “I was coming back for you! Don’t you see how he’s using you?!”

“At least he’s been with me all these years!” You cry, “All these endless cycles…and all you could manage was interrupting the plot before he dragged me back!”

Dark scowls, closing his eyes and turning his head from you. Tears freely roll down your cheeks. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to be angrier. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t. You loved him. And he loved you. He had to, or he wouldn’t have tried reaching you over and over again.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” he says softly.

You want to run to him. You forgive him. You’d forgive him a thousand times over.

“We played into his hands,” you say, defeated, “He got a sidekick and a villain.” You walk closer to him, staring sadly into his eyes, “I know you’re not Damien anymore. And I know you never will be again.”

His face twists, whether in anger or pain you don’t know.

“But you are still my friend. And I don’t care whether that’s wise or not.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, but there’s a hint of emotion. Something of your best friend still lingering. You almost reach out to touch him, but you hear the unmistakable forming of a new wormhole behind you, feeling it’s irresistible pull. Time is up. Dark glares at the wormhole, a sign that Mark is calling you back to him, calling you back to the adventure at hand.

You manage a soft but sad smile as you and Dark are pulled farther and farther apart. And just before the wormhole closes, and you can still see him, you say:

“I’ll see you later, old friend.”

[obsidiancreates]

Glazed Over

He'd expected a bit of a mess when he came to visit.

Mark usually had staff clean for him, after all, and after the... after It All, he'd heard the entire staff of Markiplier Manor had been fired, save the gardener. And gardeners don't exactly clean up after despaired actors.

He hadn't expected this.

Damien stares at Mark laying on the couch, eyes glazed over and fixed on the ceiling, breaths coming in slow wheezes and hand gripping an empty bottle of wine older than both of their ages put together.

The wine was backup, Damien realizes as he gets closer, because it seems Mark had emptied all of the whiskey and beer and left the bottles to form a new floor. They clink and crash quite loudly, even as Damien tries his best to move through the room without disturbing anything.

Mark doesn't even blink.

"Oh, old friend," Damien says softly, ignoring the shooting pain in his bum leg as he kneels at the side of the couch. "Please tell me you're still with us."

Damien shakes his shoulder a bit. Mark's hand shoot up, grabbing Damien's wrist tightly and squeezing with the grip of a boa constrictor.

Damien holds his breath, Mark's nose an inch from his, eyes still glazed but mouth twisted in a snarl-

And then it all fades away. Mark blinks, his eyes... don't quite clear, but focus a bit, at least. He releases his grip and laughs drunkenly, the stench of alcohol on his breath mixing with something... else. Almost... rotten.

"Oh, it's you." Mark's hand drops, falling limp off the side of the couch. "Wha's the matter, hmm? Need money f'r your cam, guhm, campl-rain?"

"No, no." Damien pulls out his handkerchief and dabs away the spit dribbling down Mark's chin. "I came to see you."

Mark scoffs, though it sounds more like a wet cough. "See me, n'-one... you're on her side."

"I'm not on any sides." Damien brushes the sweat-slicked hair out of his friend's face.

"Sh' left me." Mark's voice trembles. "Wi' that... traitor. S'pposed t' be forever..."

"Let's just get you to bed. You're wasted."

"Mmm, y' know all abou' that." Mark laughs cruelly, even as Damien helps him stand on legs that have likely gone numb from being filled with alcohol moreso than blood. Damien ignores the jab.

"You should hire your staff back," Damien grunts out as they, by some miracle, make it up the stairs without falling. His leg is screaming at him, but he can ignore it for a while longer.

"Don' like it here." Mark's breathing is even more labored than before. Damien can not only hear the rattling breaths but feel it in his own with his friend pressed against him like this.

"Who not? It's a beautiful mansion, I'd assume anyone would want to be here."

"No' Celine. She jus' wants Willflim."

Damien would laugh at that, and in fact William himself would laugh at that, in any other circumstance.

"No' enough f'r her." Damien's legs nearly buckle as he helps Mark into bed. He gets the sticky, alcohol-and-sweat laden robe off of his friend as Mark babbles on. "She didn' know. I dind't know. Too much now, though..."

Damien rifles through the piles of clothes around the rooms, clean mixed with dirty. The closets have been torn apart, and out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees some of Celine's dresses hanging off the balcony railing, like they'd been tossed away but the wind brought them back.

"Tried t' leaf me alone... bu' I'm not- there's too much here..."

"Just one more damn robe," Damien mutters to himself. He pulls one out, but the chest is littered with holes, and it's oddly crusty. He lets go of it quickly, not even daring to guess what the crust could be. And the stench...

Mark laughs again from the bed. "Lil' par's... here an' over there... heh... I'm opening th' window in the other room an' I'm sitting a' the-the fable... table... an' in th' hallway..."

He can't possibly help Mark into a shirt right now, he's already pushed his leg beyond what it can handle. Dammit, he'll be bedridden for at least a day now, maybe more.

"It's watching us, you know."

Damien stills. "What?" He looks back at Mark.

Mark is hanging halfway off the bed, contorted in a pose that looks like agony, staring out the doorway into the darkened hall. "Too much here..."

Damien uses a nearby chair to struggle to his feet, limping over to the bed. He lifts Mark back up into a normal position, one that doesn't look like his spine has liquefied for it to be possible. His eyes are glazed again, staring at nothing. Damien puts his hand for Mark's forehead. Has he caught a fever? Is this little more than the ramblings of delerium?

Damien moves his hand down to Mark's cheek and finds it wet with tears.

"Too much blood," Mark gurgles, enough so that Damien worries he'll drown in his own spit. "Too... too much... hhhh-"

Damien quickly props his friend up with more pillows, the breath so labored he fears he's perhaps too late to help. "Don't talk, you're unwell."

Mark laughs, if the slow and shaky wheezing could be called that. "Something's here." He lifts his arm, but it doesn't want to point wherever he's trying to point, and it falls back down onto his chest. "In th' walls... th' floor... th' air..."

Damien glances around the room for a phone. Perhaps he can get his doctor to do a house call, here and now, before-

"In me."

Damien looks at Mark again. The latter is gripping his eyes, tears darkening the fabric of his robe as they drip off his face like heavy rain.

"I's... crawling. Can... feel it." He's shaking now, like a single leaf alone in a storm. "Under my skin. Gnawing."

"It's fever, my friend." Damien is sure of it now, despite how cold, cold, freezing, Mark's skin had been, but there's nothing else it could possibly be-

"It has ideas," Mark gasps, corners of his mouth twitching, and Damien can't tell if they're trying to smile or frown. "I have... ideas..."

Damien gets up and hobbles to the bathroom, grabbing the first cloth he sees and running it under water-

He flings it away as soon as he realizes the red is washing down the drain and the cloth is meant to be white.

He hears Mark laughing in the bedroom.

[yummygender]

Im resending the Damien prompt to you, but it's Bigger uwu

Damien had a big issue, he was horny and I mean super submissive horny, he wanted the female inside him, he needed her so badly he starts to whine and heads to her room to see if she can solve the issue that is bugging him for a while

He will cuss as you spank him softly, loving every moment you have sex with him and then after a while you decide to cuddle with him and comfort him after he tells you how much of a bad day he has as he cries, you sing his favorite song softly to try and get him to go to sleep

On it

You sighed as Damien opened your door. He walked in and stood above you.

"Hello Damien. How are you?"

He was silent as he went to lock the door. You raised your eyebrow as he sat on your lap, making you blush.

"Mistress..."

"Mistress? What happened to Love?"

Damien whimpered softly as he bent over your lap, making your cheeks heat up.

"Mistress...please finger me."

You chuckled at his fancy way of asking for sex as you grabbed a rubber glove, slipping it on. He bit his lip as you slowly inserted a finger.

"How's that? Is that good?"

Damien whimpered, rolling his hips. It felt so good to his virgin bottom. He purred as you inserted another finger. You chuckled as he gripped to your dress.

"Well? Do you like it?"

He nodded.

"Um..mistress?"

"Yes?"

"Can I cum?"

"Of course."

Damien came all over your dress, earning a swat on his bottom. He yelped, feeling himself become more grounded to reality. It felt strangly comforting to him.

"When I said you could cum, I meant once you sit up and get situated."

He bit his lip, gripping to your dress as you continued to spank him. The harsh touch of your hand made him melt. Damien was beginning to like it. You could tell.

"Aww..do you like that?"

He nodded, his face temperature hitting boiling point as you began to stop.

"Are you going to behave?"

"Yes Mistress.." was all he could muster up.

You laid him on the bed and rubbed his belly as you both drifted off to sleep.

[kiwibubbles5]

Currently trying to write a fic rooted in WKM and I just have to keep reminding myself, "Mark clearly did not consider these logistical issues when he wrote the frickin lore so I have to ignore them equally as much."

Mr. Iplier I swEAR TO GOD -

[coolmayordamien]

“Celine? Am I-?" She won't let him be dead.

Fandom: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Celine | The Seer & Damien | The Mayor (Who Killed Markiplier?) Characters: Celine | The Seer (Who Killed Markiplier?), Damien | The Mayor (Who Killed Markiplier?), Actor Mark (Who Killed Markiplier?), Wilford Warfstache | William J. Barnum | The Colonel, Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?)

[the-earnest-system]

WKM Fanfic - The Most Dangerous Game

A/N: I wanted to use some time period appropriate slang, but I'm simply not a skilled enough writer to write the word "zozzled" and then maintain a serious tone. Also, I don't know how guns work, so let me know if there are any egregious errors.

Everything is going perfectly.

I had back up plans on back up plans, but none of that will be necessary. Everyone is too drunk to remember their own names. I expected more hesitation, at least from Damien and William. The last time we interacted was a huge fight, after all. I wouldn't trust any drinks they offered me. 

The pretense of playing a poker game has long since ended. It's easy to pull William aside.

"Hello, old friend. Will you come with me to the wine cellar? We need to get more wine."

He hums in acknowledgement, but with his state it's likely he didn't understand a word I said. That might be a problem. He needs to be at least a little coherent for this to work.

I have to practically drag him to the wine cellar, but no one pays us any mind. All according to plan.

All of my patience, all of my hard work, all of my sacrifice. It's finally going to pay off. Everything I've ever wanted will be mine. 

He begins to inspect the bottles of wine along the wall, before pulling one off. 

"What about this one?" He slurs.

He did understand me. Or he's figured out that the most likely reason we're in a wine cellar is to get more wine. Either way, he seems to be walking the line between "drunk enough to go along with this whole thing" and "coherent enough to go along with this whole thing" very well. I shouldn't have worried. This is my plan, after all, and I spent years perfecting it.

I pull his gun from his waistband and empty it. He doesn't notice. Only William would bring a loaded gun to a party. I saw him playing with it earlier, too. Idiot.

"William, I didn't bring you here to get wine." I say, getting his attention. I wait until his eyes widen at seeing the gun, and then I aim at his head and pull the trigger.

He drops the wine bottle he was holding in surprise. "Why the hell'd you do that!" He tries to take the gun, but I easily sidestep.

This next part is the most important, but I have every faith I can pull it off.

"Hey, relax. It's just a game." I make my voice sound as soothing as possible. All that I need now is my acting skills. I've practically already won. 

"There's so much bad blood between us. I figure, if we both take a shot, and we both survive, we can put it all behind us. What do you say?"

As I speak, I reload the gun. It's not a particularly subtle maneuver, but he doesn't glance down at my hands even once. He looks extremely confused. I simplify.

"Take the gun and shoot me. If I survive, everything will be okay again."

I hold out the gun to him, and he takes it. He only hesitates for a moment. 

Really it's impressive. He's so drunk that he would go along with this plan, but he still has perfect aim. I had worried before, about the possibility that he would shoot me non-lethally, but clearly it was nothing to be concerned about.

Dying always hurts, but this time it's also incredibly satisfying. Everything is going perfectly. My perfect, flawless plan. It's all falling into place. Soon, William will feel all the pain he brought upon me when he stole away Celine. All it will take now is for the detective to figure out the obvious, and William's life will be ruined. I'll be able to steal his body and get out of this ruined, broken body, I'll be able to get Celine back, and William will get what he deserves.

All that I have to do now is wait.

[xpouii]

Ayyyyy here I come groveling back on my knees to ask for some prompt/requests? I’m looking for Whump right now and specifically in the “Who Killed Markiplier?” Etc Universe.

Nothing is off-limits really. I’m perfectly happy to get into Dead Dove territory—I’m kinda hoping for it. Feel free to suggest Whumper/Whumpee combinations as well! I could really use a little kickstart to push me over the edge and get me started! Anons welcome!

Let’s get ugly, babies ❤️‍🩹

[drowninginblox]

Define Dark…?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Rushing to get ready in the morning is not something I do often, but when I do, it often leads to success… mostly. “Okay. Priority check-!” Sliding on the hardwood floors of my apartment eventually led to my mirror. Hair is flawless, outfit is pristine, I smell alright; now where is my- “Purse! Yes!” Grabbing my purse, comfortable that everything I need is inside, I glance back at my apartment before leaving. 

The restaurant wasn’t that far. Thank god too, it’s hard as hell to walk in heels. I heard good things about it. Well, let me rephrase that, my date heard good things about it. I think his name was Martin or something. Mitch? No- wait- Mark! Yeah, that was it. I think a friend introduced us to each other. It doesn't matter now. I got plans. He seems nice, I look nice, and I got time to spend. Life is mine to work with. Y/n- you deserve this. Hell yeah, I deserve this. 

Oh - I didn’t even notice I got here. Huh. Well, here goes nothing. 

Stepping in felt like a dream. Although nerves left an impression, going through with this washes them away. Every stride brings more of a smile to my face. Opening a door, I’m met with a pair of absolutely dashing men. “Bonjour!” One says, closing the door behind me. Another from across the room ushers me towards what I assume to be my table. I guess Mark got here early. “Bonjour! Your table awaits!” Following their lead led me to what I thought. Sitting at a prepped table, alone for the taking, was Mark. He must have gotten here a few seconds before me since he was just putting a napkin on his lap. Still. Early is far better than late. 

In most ways anyways.

Just a glance affirms all the hype about him. Tall, bright personality, remarkably handsome, if he lands his cards right this date could lead to something more. But that’s up for him to play and for me to choose. Walking in, I offer a smile. Once he notices me, he takes me in. Good. Perceptive men are good. “Oh, hi!” he greets me as I sit down. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m-” He cuts me off just before I get my name out. “I got something for you- a rose!” Okay, a romantic isn't a bad thing. Oh- and... There it goes. Over the shoulder. Wonderful. 

Water is poured, small talk carries the evening, and wonderful scents fill the air as the dinner goes by in what feels like a flash. By the end of it, I find myself chuckling. This guy, Mark, he's... Something about him, I can't put my finger on it. But there is something that makes me want to stay. “I can’t wait to see what this date has in store.” He says with a captivating smile. But that doesn't block out the burly man that was approaching him from behind.

Without hesitation, he slams down the check. Mark and I jump slightly at the sheer masculinity this man is radiating. For a guy working in the restaurant business, he was ripped. “So, who's gonna pay for this?” He asks before grasping Mark’s shoulder. Mark feels his suit for his wallet, mumbling something about getting it while what must be the head chef's grasp on his shoulder tighten with every second. Eventually, the pathetic attempts of searching give into true panic. “I… Must have... Lost it?” he tries, looking expectantly. The chief glances at him and me before reaching for a butter knife. Although an ineffective murder weapon, by the looks of this man, anything could be lethal in his hands. “M-Maybe you could pay?” Mark offers. 

I inhale slightly before handing the nice chief my credit card. Regardless of gender norms, I was hoping he would do the gentlemanly thing to do and pay. But forgetfulness is forgetfulness. It’s only one time. And it's the right thing to do. Anyways, with my salary, it should cover everything anyways. I’ll be fine.  

With that the pair chuckle. Mark out of pure relief and the chief, from what I only hope to be, thanks and maybe a good payday as he takes the check with him. “Okay, I’ve got more of this date to show you.” He assures while getting up. I follow his lead against my better judgment. Years of propaganda force-feeding the message of not entering any strange men’s cars echo in my mind. Only to be washed away through the power of sheer curiosity. “We got this awesome play to see- it's going to be incredible, follow me." Although I’m not one for theatre, I follow him out of the restaurant. I was raised with the idea that it doesn't matter the experience, it’s who you share it with. So, who knows? Maybe this could be a new experience entirely!

One blindingly quick car ride later, and we’re here! Honestly, it's amazing we didn't get any tickets with how fast we were going! Along with the fact that Mark wasn’t all that focused on the road... Although I don’t blame him. He was hyping up this play so much on the car ride over. The theatre company must be astounding to get so much praise out of him. “Oh! We’re here!” Just as we park, two fine, young gentlemen greeted us with joyful “Bonjours. Effectively welcoming us to the theatre as Mark continues to prove his point. The place is humbling but gorgeous. I wonder how Mark knew of this place… 

Looking up at him, there wasn't even a man there. Instead, there was a kid in a candy store, dragging me along hand in hand. Too excited to wait for another second longer. Why couldn’t I see more of this side of him? “I can’t wait for this!” He spares a glance over his shoulder. Not knowing what to do, I give him a shy smile. He returns it before giving in to my attention once again. “And I just wanted to say, thank you so much for coming out with me. I mean, you’re beautiful, you're… handsome.” Paces slow. 

Glances are shared. 

He leans in slightly- “Ah Bonjour!”

We move our attention away from each other and onto the wonderful staff, who guide us into the lobby. One awkward moment relating to Mark’s financial situation later and- popcorn! Yes! I don’t care if dinner was not even an hour ago, my stomach is a void and I crave sustenance! Mark gets to a bag first. “Hey, you want some popcorn?” he asks before tossing it my way. Thankfully, my catching game is impeccable, and I catch it with ease. So light, so buttery. How long has it been since I’ve had popcorn? “Oh! This is perfect!” Y/n, Jesus get back to the date! Blinking away intrusive thoughts brought me back to Mark. “We got two plays to choose from, do we see the romance?” There were two posters behind him. One, saucy. Familiar people I couldn't place my finger on were inches away from kissing, surrounded by a lush field. In loose font at the bottom was the title Love Too Soon 

I glance back and forth between it and Mark.

“Or the Horror?” On another door was a skeleton. They were looking like they came out of the 90s. Backward hat and a groovy guitar as their partner on the otherwise black poster. The title was intimidating for its laid-back poster The Dark Mark.

Huh. For some reason, that title feels on brand.

[macbleu]

In space with markiplier p.2

So I know mark is going on live stream to explain in space and I can’t wait but it got me thinking. Looked I’m never the one to find the actor worth anything. Consider everything that happen to him and all the egos but then I realize. When the actor apologized to us. When he realize his mistake that he build the warp cord and he mess up so many lives and we where getting all the blame. He felt bad and tried he couldn’t do it and be the hero for once

Now I don’t know if this the actor being nice or Jusy being great actor but I kind you not I cry at the part. I never like the actor for the very start since in wkm but when seeing him breakdown even if it was him. My heart lost it. Someone who lost it all and believe he could make his world better only to fall part knowing every move he made will become worse. Say sorry to us even if it wasn’t real, broken my heart. I still don’t like him and deserve a lot of pain for years because of his actions but part believe their some good in him and hopefully he able to change

Now that what I call I great story arc for the actor. We gif Damien and wilford. So I call it fair game mark! Thank you for making something so impactful Thay made me cry to slowly truth the actor being a better person. He not be all that great but who knows maybe he change for the better

[whitesuitdarkiplier]

The Proposal: A pre-WKM Story

So, this is really just something I kinda scrambled together because I have about a million of these little scenes in my head of life before WKM happened, and this might be part of a larger fic soon, I'm not sure. But I hope you enjoy it anyway!

It was a bright, cool morning. Mayor Damien sat in the sunroom of his home reading a book and enjoying the sunlight. He had so gotten lost in his own thoughts he didn’t hear the doorbell ring the first time or even the second. Upon the third ring, he jolted and set his book aside, making his way to the front door. He wasn’t expecting company. Upon opening the door, he was met by the sight of his old friend Mark about to ring the doorbell a fourth time.

"Oh, Mark," Damien said softly, pleasantly surprised, "Hello."

His friend gave his best-winning smile.

“Damien!” Mark said with excitement, “How are you? It’s been too long since I last saw you.”

Damien smiled sheepishly, “Yes, I apologize for that. I’ve been quite busy.”

“Of course, it’s no problem,” Mark said as he barged straight into the foyer, turning to look at Damien, “Is Celine here?”

“Afraid not,” he answered, but gave him no more information, mainly because he had none to give. His sister was always a secretive one. It caused him more than enough worry when she would simply disappear for hours on end.

“Perfect!” Mark pulled Damien close, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, “You are just the one I needed to talk to.”

Damien furrowed his brows in curiosity. His friend seemed even more excitable than usual.

“Is everything all right?” He asked, steering him towards the sunroom. Mark went to one of the white wicker chairs and sat down, crossing one leg over the other.

“Everything is wonderful! More than wonderful.”

Damien sat opposite him, smiling, “Well, please, tell me the good news.”

“Well,” he began, waving his hand with a flourish, always one for dramatics, “I wanted to talk with you because I know you’re the old-fashioned type. And I suppose it wouldn’t feel official if I didn’t go through the whole process.”

Damien didn’t move, his eyes locked on Mark’s as he waited for an explanation. Mark continued, almost whispering conspiratorily, “I’m going to ask Celine to marry me, and I think it would mean a lot if you gave me your blessing.”

Damien tried to hide his emotions, keeping his face as neutral as possible, but the look in his eyes is unmistakable, “You’re going to ask her to marry you?”

Mark nodded, thrilled, talking fast, “Yes, I’ve got the proposal all planned out, it’s really quite grand. I know, I know it’s a big step, but I think it’s time to take it. I’ve been in love with her since we were kids and frankly I think we’re meant for each other.”

Damien pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes to think of how he was going to tell Mark what he needed to hear. “I had no idea you were even courting her.”

His friend laughed, saying confidently, “Courting? Get with the times, Damien! No one does that old stuffy ritual anymore. Love is all about surprise and passion, excitement! She knows how I feel and I know how she feels.”

Damien looked at him, the disbelief evident in his expression, “She’s told you she wants to get married?”

Mark shrugged, waving his hand dismissively, “Well, not in so many words, you know how she speaks in riddles sometimes. But I know what’s in her heart.”

Damien closed his eyes again, tightening his lips, struggling to say his next words.

“Mark, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

His friend’s smile morphed into an offended frown, “And why not?”

“I’ve known you and Celine my entire life,” he said, trying to explain carefully, “and I know you both very well. You both have rather large personalities, and when those personalities are in the same room it tends to…” he grappled for the right words, “become explosive.”

Mark broke into a smile again, chuckling like Damien had just made a joke, “Oh, come now, Damien, we’ve been together for years, marriage can’t be so different.”

Damien shakes his head, “I just–”

Mark waved his hand again as if he’d had a revelation, “I know what it is. You’re worried about how this will impact our friendship. I promise, nothing will change. Things can be as they always have been.”

When Mark saw his friend’s apprehensive look, he leaned closer and put a hand on his shoulder with a serious expression, “Celine and I have a connection, a bond that ties us together forever. I feel it in my very soul. One day you’ll find out for yourself. And once you feel it, you must act on it!” 

Damien knows he should put his foot down and object to this. But what could he do? Celine was free to make her own choices, and if she did want to marry him nothing would stop her. That’s just how she is. But he can see the trouble ahead, and he doesn’t want either his friend or his sister to get hurt. Yet, Mark’s impassioned plea sticks with him. He loves her, and who is he to get in the way of that?

Mark raised an eyebrow, “So, old friend, whaddya say?”

There was a moment of silence, and Damien’s next words felt heavy.

“You have my blessing.”

Mark grinned and slapped his friend on the shoulder, “There’s a good sport! Now, I must tell you what I have planned. You’re going to play a role in this too. A very important role.”

Damien smiled, but couldn’t shake the feeling of dread in his stomach. Then, a realization hits him and the feeling only worsens.

This will break William’s heart.

[obsidiancreates]

I Have Just One Question (Part Five)

You find Celine in the cellar, popping open a bottle of wine and drinking straight from it. You hesitate a moment, but she notices you before you even make a peep.

"You're that DA Damien's written to me about, aren't you?" Celine asks, setting the bottle down on the counter behind her. You nod.

"This must be a terribly entertaining night for you, then." She scowls and marches closer, jabbing a finger into your chest. "Is that why Aria invited you? Some kind of game you two planned?"

You shake your head. She wanted you there for any evidence discovery, you say. Well, it's what you assume, given she had asked you about if you'd found anything about Mark's death to prove it murder.

Celine deflates. "Of course she did. Because one of us murdered him."

You stiffen. She really believes that?

"... I do," Celine admits in a soft voice. "... I think it was William."

William? Why?

"... Do you know what lead to the end of Mark and I's marriage?"

You shake your head. Damien had always refused to say anything about it, other than that mistakes were made.

"We got married when we were young. Young and irresponsible. With money, with drink, with... with each other. He was no angle, with the partying and the drinking and the rampant spending. But it all ended when he found me... in bed, with William."

Ah. No wonder Damien hadn't said a word. He's always sought to defend hi sister's reputation against any accusations thrown her way, such as accusations of witchcraft and the like. Sometimes you could swear he thinks she can do no wrong.

Clearly, she can.

"Well, the night he died, William and I had a fight. He thought I'd cheated on him as well. I don't know why, still, after all this time. But I think Mark had something to do with it. And William... he's a good man. But he's also a soldier, and sometimes what he saw in war make him... lash out."

You've had quite a few cases of a similar nature. Soldiers can be as kind and gentle as can be before going out to serve, and when they return... sometimes they're unrecognizible.

Even to lifelong best friends and brothers.

You thank Celine for her time.

"Somehow Aria knows," Celine says, eyes distant as she stares past you. "She knows about the fight. And I could swear he didn't have enough time, but... how can I trust my memory through the booze and the rage?"

You wait to see if she says more, but she just grabs the bottle and takes another drink, somehow not smudging her perfect lipstick. You quietly slip out of the cellar, only to run into Benjamin. He grabs your shoulder.

"Forgive my eavesdropping," he whispers. "But Mistress insisted I listen to all I can. I think I know who you should speak to next."

Who?

"The Detective. He was there that night as well, and Mistress says his reason was odd. I shouldn't say anything to influence this investigation, but..."

Benjamin looks around, and then leans closer and whispers even quieter.

"But I think it could have been him. He and Master may have been friends, but no relationship is fully free of bad blood."

Benjamin leans away, and before you can ask more he walks away as swiftly as he's able.

The Detective. Well, you've spoken with plenty of detectives in your time. At least this is familiar territory, somewhat.

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

You find The Detective (Abe?) in Mark's old bedroom. He's rifling through the dresser. You knock on the open door, and he startles. He growls as his hat almost falls off, and turns to you in a huff. "What?"

Benjamin said to speak with him, you say.

"About what? I mean- about Mark, I assume. But what about Mark?"

You need to go about this delicately. He'll be more familiar with investigative techniques, more able to tell innocent questions from interrogation.

Benjamin had overheard you talking to Celine, you say, and he'd thought Abe would know more about what Celine had mentioned.

"What did she mention?"

Misdirection. This will work. As much as you hate to possibly expose private details of a dead man's relationship...

An affair, you say.

Abe's eyes soften. "Of course that comes up again." He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. "That woman's a serial adulterer," he accuses in a harsh voice. "Mark hired me, anonymously, to investigate her. He suspected she was cheating on William, same as she did him."

How did he know it was Mark?

"He signed the letters, and it was enough cash to pay my mortgage for months."

Hmm. Sounds reasonable enough, but...

Why would Mark care?

"He and William grew up as brothers. I only met Mark when we were both adults, but he loved to tell stories. I know as much about their childhood together as anyone else in this house. And I know Mark didn't hold any grudges after he met Aria. That's what that whole damn party was about, for god's sake."

So what did Abe's investigation turn up, then? Celine said William accused her of the affair, so you assume there was some solid evidence.

"Oh-ho, did I have evidence. Photographs, in fact. Of Celine sneaking away to meet a man in a bookshop after business hours."

... Is that it?

"Not even close. I waited hours. When she left she dripping sweat, her makeup was smudged, and she swaying like clown at my bat mitzvah before he collapsed on the cake."

Well, that brings up a whole set of questions entirely unrelated to the case, and you hold one hand up to ask more, but Abe cuts you off before you can even open your mouth fully.

"It was enough to bring to him! He'd insisted on secrecy but this was too big a break in the case. I got the photos developed and took them to the party the very next night."

Why interrupt a party with that?

"I knew Mark was at Damien's that night, he'd told me as much. But if I'd known he'd brought Aria, I would've waited."

Why?

"Aria already has some not-so-nice feelings towards Celine and William over the whole thing. She blames them for Mark's... dark mindset, he'd had when they met. I'd thought she was being dramatic. Now? Ha." He looks at the door behind you. "Now I'm pretty sure she had the right idea."

And... how did Mark himself react to the news?

"Oh, boy, was he pissed off." Abe takes out a cigar and lights it. "I've never seen him in a state like that. Didn't help that he was wasted out of his gourd, but what can you do?"

... What did Abe do?

"My job was done. So I grabbed a bottle and uh... indulged. Last thing I remember before finding Aria screaming on the balcony is coming too with a blackout drunk Damien sitting next to me and crying."

Crying?

"He couldn't tell me why, poor bastard was more alcohol than man at that point. Only sobered up when we found..." Abe swallows, his angry expression softening to grief. He puffs his cigar, and turns back to the dresser. "I'm done talking about this. But seeing as you're The DA of the city, if I turn up any evidence of threats from this room I'll let you know."

You nod, and leave the room. You head to Aria's room to let her know what you've found out and verify stories, and bump into Damien in the living room. He's gripping a bottle of whiskey. It hasn't been opened, and he stares into it like a crystal ball.

You walk over and put a hand on his shoulder, startling him. He sighs when he realizes it's you.

"I haven't had even a drop since that night," he says quietly. "I always wonder what might've been different if I hadn't been so drunk. If I might've been able to change things."

Hey, you comfort, it's not his fault.

"Maybe not," he says, still quiet. "But still. If we'd all been sober that night, maybe he'd still be here. I... I never thought he'd gone over willingly. Truthfully? ... I think he just had one too many, and slipped. And all of this, bringing it all up again..."

Maybe after tonight Aria will be able to move on, you say.

"I hope so." Damien rests his forehead against the bottle still gripped tightly in his hand. "I hope so."

You give his shoulder a bit of a rub, and then go back to see Aria.

These people are haunted. You hope you can put their ghosts to rest by the end of all of this.

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

Look who picked this up again after two fucking years lol. Links to the first four parts:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Feel free to theorize who the murderer was btw