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leighsartworks216 · 1 year ago

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Markiplier Egos Masterlist

I have too many links on my main masterlist lol

Main Masterlist

AO3

Request Rules

Tag List Form

The Host

Please Stay - The Host x gn!reader

Warnings: hurt/comfort, lots of blood, wound descriptions, implied self-h*rm, awkwardness, just sorta the beginning stages of a crush so it's really cute

Help - The Host x gn!reader

Warnings: hurt/comfort, depression, intrusive thoughts

Friendship - The Host x gn!reader

Warnings: none

Cuddles - The Host x gn!reader (platonic)

Warnings: swearing, anxiety, awkwardness

“Did you sleep well?” Headcanons - The Host x gn!reader

Warnings: none

Wilford Warfstache

Blanket Thief - Wilford x gn!reader

Warnings: none, just pure fluff

Scary Movie Night - Wilford x gn!reader

Warnings: broken glass, panic attack, swearing, hurt/comfort but mostly fluff

Wilf Welcoming You Back Home Headcanons - Wilford x gn!reader

Warnings: mentions of food and drink

Yancy

Pet - Yancy x gn!reader

Warnings: swearing, reader is angy, bad accents

Parole - Yancy x gn!reader

Warnings: cat

My Handsome Guy - trans!Yancy x transmasc!reader

Warnings: dysphoria (not explicit), Yancy calls you “doll” in a gender neutral way, period stuff

Breakfast - Yancy x gn!reader

Warnings: swearing, slight paranoia (?), slight abandonment issues

Star-gazing - Yancy x gn!reader x Illinois

Warnings: none

Solitary - Yancy x gn!reader

Warnings: panic attack, claustrophobia, swearing, hurt/comfort

Hyperfixations - Yancy x autistic!gn!reader x Illinois

Warnings: slight swearing???, fluff

Darkiplier

Just a Little Dark Drabble - Dark x gn!reader

Warnings: none

A Thousand Awful Days - Dark x transmasc!reader

Warnings: dysphoria, swearing, fluff

Overwhelmed - Part 2 - Dark x (implied) autistic!gn!reader

Warnings: overstimulation/sensory overload, being nonverbal, zoning out, swearing, can be read as platonic

Damien and Dark ramble - Damien x gn!reader, Dark x gn!reader

Warnings: none

Grief - Dark x gn!reader

Warnings: grieving, depression, loss of a pet

Period Pains - Dark x AFAB!reader

Warnings: talk of period stuff that may cause dysphoria

Trauma (Songfic) - Dark x DA!reader, Damien x DA!reader

Warnings: angst

Birthday Wishes - Dark x DA!reader

Warnings: mentions of purgatory, fire/matches and a knife

Dark Drabble - Dark x DA!reader

Warnings: none

Just A Child - Dark & teenage!gn!reader (platonic)

Warnings: Actor is a creep (implied), hurt/comfort themes

Panic Attack Comfort Headcanons - Dark x gn!reader

Warnings: panic attack (obvi), mostly fluff

Pretty Boy - King!Dark x masc!reader

Warnings: things get a little spicy 😳

Gone, I’m Gone (Songfic) - Dark/Damien x DA!reader

Warnings: explicit descriptions of blood, broken bones, starvation and dehydration, swearing, manipulation, extreme angst

Papers (Songfic) - Dark/Damien x DA!reader

Warnings: Actor is an asshole, angst, hurt/no comfort, mentions of some events from WKM

Illinois

Of Cowboys, Cave Ins, and Crushes - Illinois x gn!reader

Warnings: being trapped in a small area, death, minor injuries that are not explicitly described

Partner - Illinois x gn!reader

Warnings: none

Free of Charge - Illinois x gn!reader

Warnings: illness, swearing, hurt/comfort

Reckless - Illinois x gn!reader

Warnings: death, blood, injury, swearing, ANGST

Family Reunion - Illinois, no reader

Warnings: none

Stay Safe - Illinois x gn!reader

Warnings: swearing

Star-gazing - Illinois x gn!reader x Yancy

Warnings: none

Careful Not To Fall In Love - Illinois & Indiana Jones

Warnings: none

Hyperfixations - Illinois x autistic!gn!reader x Yancy

Warnings, slight swearing??, fluff

Damien

Midnight, The Stars and You (Songfic Kinda) - Damien x fem!reader

Warnings: none

Damien and Dark ramble - Damien x gn!reader, Dark x gn!reader

Warnings: none

Trauma (Songfic) - Dark x DA!reader, Damien x DA!reader

Warnings: angst

Gone, I’m Gone (Songfic) - Damien/Dark x DA!reader

Warnings: explicit descriptions of blood, broken bones, starvation and dehydration, swearing, manipulation, extreme angst

Sodomy - Damien x male!DA!reader

Warnings: internalized homophobia, religious trauma, hinted emotionally abusive parents, sodomy laws

Papers (Songfic) - Damien/Dark x DA!reader

Warnings: Actor is an asshole, angst, hurt/no comfort, mentions of some events from WKM

Googleplier

Hug - Google x gn!reader

Warnings: none

Reader Who Can’t Spell Headcanons - Google x gn!reader

Warnings: none

First Kiss Headcanons - Google x gn!reader

Warnings: none

ISWM

You’re Not The Captain AU

One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Ficlet

You’re Another Engineer AU

One

Captain’s Log - Ficlet - Addition

Dogs in Space Headcanons - ISWM Crew + Captain!reader (Slight Captaineer)

Engineer Mark

Kiss It Better - Engineer Mark x gn!reader

Warnings: minor injury, but mostly just fluff

Captain, My Captain - Engineer Mark x AFAB!reader

Warnings: period fic, cramps, swearing

In My Solitude (Songfic) - Engineer Mark x gn!reader

Warnings: loneliness, depression, possible su*c*dal thought (written in red text just in case), death, heavy angst, maybe a little fluffy at the end but like a sad fluffy

I Missed You - Engineer Mark x transmasc!reader

Warnings: being (unintentionally) misgendered

#1 Captain - Engineer Mark x gn!reader

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort

Your Captain - Engineer Mark x gn!reader

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, loss of identity, overworking

#fanfic #fanfiction #markiplier #markiplier egos #markiplier egos x reader #mayor damien x reader #damien x reader #wilford warfstache x reader #wilford x reader #darkiplier x reader #host x reader #illinois x reader #yancy x reader #engineer mark x reader #googleplier x reader

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otterlyinluv · 2 years ago

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A touch of darkness (pt.2)

Here's part 1

Summary: What happened after the office incident OR in which Yancy tries to eat breakfast and Wilford becomes a matchmaker

Pairing: Darkiplier x DA!Reader

Tags: sfw, fluffy, jealous Dark, proximity, thunderstorm, comfort, confessions and realisations

A/N: I apologize for the long wait, I actually finished it earlier but I decided to scrap the last third and rewrite it completely- Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Word count: 2.9k

"So you like Mr. Doom and gloom, so what?"

You almost choked on the chocolate milk Wilford made you.

"No, that doesn't make sense. Nothing even happened. He just fixed my computer, and then I felt weird."

Wilford raised an eyebrow at you.

"My dear, you might not see it, but you look like a lovesick fool."

Your face started to feel warm.

"No, I do not! I came for advice, Wilford, but now I know I chose the wrong person." You stood up from the armchair, leaving the chocolate milk on the desk, when Wilford started to wave his arms around.

"Okay, okay, fine, I'll stop." He grabbed you by the shoulders and plopped you back on the armchair.

"Now," he said, no longer in the spot he was a second ago. His little teleporting shenanigans didn't bother you as much as they did during the first months of your stay at the mansion. Whenever he suddenly disappeared and reappeared at a completely different place, you'd always get a mini heart attack, which lead to him doing it even more frequently to mess with you. What you hadn't realized then was he did it only to get you used to things that weren’t exactly normal. Wilford was a good guy at heart even if his methods were a bit... unconventional.

"Since you don't believe me, we'll go about it in a different way." You turned around to where he was. He made you stand up from the chair and gripped your hands.

"Which thoughts race through your head like fluttering butterflies frolicking in a field when he’s with you? How does he make you feel in general?"

The corner of your mouth turned up at the metaphor, and you looked off into the distance. After the encounter in your office, you started bumping into each other far more frequently than before. Or maybe you noticed him more. And when you did see each other, his gaze seemed to linger on you a suspiciously long time. Whenever you made eye contact during meetings, you felt a flutter in your chest. A flutter you didn't feel with anyone else.

You looked at Wilford with a sense of epiphany. His eyes seemed to light up.

"Am I interrupting something?" Dark said, standing in the doorway, his arms crossed.

You ripped your hands from Wilfords'.

"Oh, Darkie. Why we were just having a lovely chat, nothing for you to worry about." Wilford drawled, putting his arm over your shoulder.

Dark's eyes darted to your shoulder, and his gaze hardened. The colored aura that surrounded him seemed to gain a more blue hue. It only lasted a couple of seconds before he rolled his neck.

"Excuse me." He suddenly ran off out of the room, his fists clenched.

You saw Wilford grinning out of the corner of your vision as he put his arm away from you.

"Wilford, what did you do?" You said, glaring at him.

"I just gave him a little push, that's all."

You really wanted some cereal.

The mansion was pleasantly quiet because you liked to wake up earlier than everyone else. While listening to Illinois boast about all his adventures or Google try to subtly persuade you to grant him admin privileges was entertaining once in a while, it wasn't something you wanted to do first thing in the morning.

You were able to find your favorite brand of cereal, a spoon, and some milk. The only thing that was missing was a bowl. You looked into the cupboard where the bowls usually were, but there were none. You wondered who kept misplacing the contents of the cupboards and kept searching.

Still nothing.

You grabbed a chair to stand on so you could reach the cupboards that were higher up. You carefully stood up on it and opened the one closest to you. Finally!

Unfortunately for you, the bowls were on the top shelf. You huffed and stood on your tiptoes. After stretching your arm as far as you could, you were finally able to grab a suitable bow.

But you leaned back so suddenly you lost your balance. You flailed your arms in a futile attempt to regain stability. You mentally prepared yourself to come into contact with the cold hard floor when you felt someone grab your waist to support you.

You let out a relieved breath only to look down at the grey hands, which were now firmly holding you in place. The area which the hands were in contact with was completely devoid of color. You turned around to see Dark without his signature jacket, his eyes wide. You were frozen, but your skin burned where his hands were.

"You should be more careful. You would have fallen if I hadn't gotten to you in time."

You couldn't move. The only thing you felt was the oddly gentle hold he had on you. The bowl, which you were now holding safely, was the last of your worries.

"Still as clumsy as ever," he chuckled under his breath. His thumbs twitched, and you blinked at each other in realization of your compromising position.

He cleared his throat as he stepped back as if burned, removing his hands in the process. You carefully got down from the chair.

It was so quiet you could almost hear his aura crackle in the air like static.

"I, uh... Thank you for... that."

"You are welcome," he said quietly.

You were looking at the ground, your face strangely warm. Your gaze traveled to his shirt, the first two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands bordered with blue and red the hands that held you were now hanging at his sides.

You stared too long. You could feel him looking at you. You glanced at him.

He was looking straight at you. So intensely that you felt like he could see directly into your soul. So expressively, his eyes seemed more brown than black.

He took a shuddering breath.

"Is youse making cereal? Leave some for me!" Your head jolted to Yancy standing in the doorway.

Dark snapped out of whatever trance he was in and promptly left the room with no parting words.

"Woah, what got him so worked up?" Yancy walked to you as you looked at the door, deep in thought.

"I'd like to know that too."

After having finished your perfect bowl of cereal, it was back to sitting in your tiny office. Normally, it wouldn't be that big of a deal. Nothing special, just you sitting behind your desk working at your computer. Except you weren't. You couldn't.

Not when whenever you closed your eyes, you could remember Dark standing over you so clearly. Your little... encounter happened a few weeks ago, yet you still couldn't focus properly while you were here. It took you at least half an hour to distract yourself enough to at least start working. It was frustrating, but there wasn't much you could do. Talk to him about it when he has most likely forgotten about it already? Yeah, sure.

Now that you thought about it, there was something else that was making you unfocused today. Why did Dark look like he wanted to murder Wilford when he was just being touchy as usual?

And this morning... He just caught you out of politeness so you wouldn't fall flat on your face. Or maybe he just didn't want you to break the bowl. You didn't allow yourself to even consider the possibility that maybe he didn't want to see you hurt. And the way his hands stayed on your waist just a few seconds more... Boy, did you forget how to talk then.

Maybe you were looking into it too much. Sure, he was nicer than before, but he could simply be more comfortable with you. As a friend. Yeah, that must be it.

Satisfied with your thinking session, you were ready to get to work.

Your concentration was disturbed by the sound of your door opening, followed by a thud of something heavy being dumped in, and then the door immediately slammed shut again.

You looked up from your computer to a sight you never would have expected - Dark rapping at the door, violently shaking the door handle.

"Now Damie, remember what I told you. If you want something, go get it!" Wilford slurred, his voice muffled by the door.

"Wilford, open the door this instant, or I swear I will kill you. I am serious."

"Oh, promises, promises. Focus your energy on the important things!" Wilford's voice faded away as he supposedly walked away from the door.

"That insufferable..." he mumbled to himself, turning around.

His clothes were wrinkled as if someone tried to physically push him into the room but was met with resistance. You couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

"Uhm, welcome, I guess."

He sighed. "Hi."

"So, what happened for you to end up here of all places?" You leaned on your arm. It might have been an unexpected situation, but that didn't mean you weren't going to enjoy it. Dark, on the other side, seemed really determined to fulfill his promise to Wilford. "When Wil sets his mind to something, nothing can stop him. Not even me." He tried to open the door to emphasize his point, and as expected, it didn't budge.

"Can you not get out by... other means?" You never really knew how his powers worked. And you doubted he would tell you even if you did ask.

"No. I don't know how he did it, but he managed to completely lock me out -" He looked around. "-or in. Technically."

As his eyes surveyed the room, you realized how small it was. It was enough for you, but Dark seemed to fill a big part of the room just with the colored aura that surrounded him. Come to think of it, why was he standing so far away from where you were?

"Well, I'm guessing we're going to be here for some time, so why don't we sit down somewhere more comfortable?" You pointed to a light brown sofa leaning against a wall. His eyes followed your hand to the middle-sized sofa. You winced. You didn't want to make it awkward for him to sit down there alone, but maybe he would rather you didn't sit with him. Why didn't you just ask him what he wanted in the first place-

He simply nodded and sat on the sofa. Having no other choice, you plopped down next to him.

Small raindrops started hitting the window.

You turned to say something to fill the silence at the same time as he did, which resulted in you looking away from each other. He let out the quietest chuckle, and you couldn't help yourself but do the same.

"You can go first." Dark said.

"Ah, it wasn't anything specific, just that the rain is getting stronger." You expected him to simply nod and direct the topic somewhere else. Instead, he looked over to the window. The rain was now strong enough to be audible if you were both quiet, which is what was happening now. Dark looked as if he was observing the rain. As if simply the fact you told him about it gave it value.

"It indeed is."

After a couple of seconds, he took a breath. "I've never noticed how small this office is."

"You're right, but I like it. It makes it feel cozy. It also holds memories more easily. " In fact, your brain was recalling a rather specific memory involving him. But you doubted he would be thinking of that.

"Well, I'm glad. The area carries a certain air that only you have."

"Oh, and what might that be?" You smirked.

"Comfort. Something you want to return to and treasure every moment spent with."

You stared at him wide-eyed.

"Ah, I said too much, didn't I? Forgive me." He looked to the door.

You were touched by how highly he thought of you. Yet there was an unspoken implication in his statement.

Thunder rang out.

You flinched and crashed into Dark. His arms shot out, cradling you against him.

"Are you alright?"

You squeezed your eyes closed as you tried to focus on your breathing.

"I... I'm just scared of thunder. The sound..." You trailed off, heart beating rapidly in your chest.

His hold on you tightened as he gently moved your head to the crook of his neck. He rubbed his hand across your back in soothing motions with a soft "Shh" every couple of seconds. You let him hold you until you eventually stopped shaking like a leaf in the wind.

That's when you realized what a compromising position you were in and stared at him in shock.

"I apologize, I overstepped." He frowned, untangling his hands from you.

As soon as you felt the absence of him, you realized.

"I don't mind." You said, and his face visibly relaxed. "I actually don't mind a lot of things when it comes to you. Simply being with you is... nice."

He let out a quiet laugh. You wished you could put the sound in a bottle. "You're just saying that because we are stuck together."

You laughed and let out a rebuttal.

Minutes passed with other witty remarks, and before you could realize, the brief rainstorm had completely passed. You were confused that you hadn't heard another thunder since there had to have been at least one. But you had gotten too involved in Dark's quips to notice the sound. Dark cracking jokes... now that was something you would have never imagined.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Dark asked, leaning his head on his arm.

"What?"

"You were staring at me without saying anything for a while now, so I figured you had something interesting going on in that brain of yours."

Heat rushed into your cheeks. You didn't realize you had been looking right at him.

You cleared your throat and saw him smiling out of the corner of your eye. "I was just wondering," you smiled back, "do you often run away?"

Dark quickly turned his head away in shame.

"First, it was when I was talking with Wilford. You came in and then suddenly excused yourself. Then, this morning, too... What's going on? Did I do something?"

He sighed. "No, no, you didn't do anything. It's me." He added quietly.

"How so?"

He responded after a couple of seconds. "I am afraid that if I tell you, a lot of things might change... between us." The look in his dark eyes was earnest, almost nostalgic.

Oh.

You pondered upon his statement for a few seconds. "Does change always have to be bad?"

As soon as you said the sentence, you were hit with a sense of deja vu. You felt like you've said it before, but how?

In tandem with your confusion, a slight shock spread on his features. As if in a trance, you put your hand on his cheek. Looking him up and down, you studied his features. There was nothing different from what you've come to know. Why were you expecting to see something else?

Your fingers moved on your own in a caress.

His eyes fluttered shut. You traced over his forehead, moving to his cheekbones when you ended up near his lips. Features oh so familiar like you knew them for years. Now that his eyes were closed, he seemed different. At peace. So close.

He opened his eyes, and there it was again. The two of you in your office. The proximity close enough to feel electrifying. None of you said anything as a decision hung in the air. But only up until his onyx-like eyes flicked from your own to your lips.

He smiled. "Would it be foolish of me to say I want to kiss you right now?"

And you answered by leaning in.

You let yourselves be entangled by the sheer amount of emotion as your lips brushed against each other. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you even closer like he wanted to drown himself in you. You basked in the softness of your embrace, finally feeling as if everything has fallen into place.

He pulled away as you tried to catch your breath.

"So beautiful." He whispered, tenderly tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Before you could respond, he went right back in. Not that you minded, of course.

No sooner than a minute had passed were you interrupted by your office door swinging open.

"Glad to see you've finally figured yourselves out! Now, if we could-" Wilford's voice was cut off as Dark slammed the door with a motion of his hand.

He brushed his hair away from his face and turned back to you.

"It did look like he needed something." You gazed at the door pensively.

"I am sure he did, but," he smoothed out your shirt, "I do believe you don't want anyone seeing you like this."

You tried to keep from laughing as you regarded his own disheveled appearance. "You're not too neat either, Sir 'Irons his shirts every morning'."

He rolled his eyes but smiled at you regardless. Getting up from the couch, he held out his hand, which you accepted, and headed to whatever wacky escapade Wilford was up to this time.

#x reader #reader insert #darkiplier x reader #dark x reader #darkiplier #damien x da #wkm damien #damien the mayor #awhm yancy #wilford warfstache #markiplier egos #iplier egos #writing #fanfiction #fanfic #imagines #otty writes

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fgfluidity · 1 year ago

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pincera (part 1)

Summary: pincera- Latin, 'cup-bearer, one who mixes drinks' || Damien and the lessons he learns from his friends, with the catalyst of alcohol.

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

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

thank you all for your patience- this will have several parts and then a sequel that is planned, so thank you for your Continued patience kdfshdjk

find it on ao3 | donate to my kofi

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

Alcohol had been in Damien’s life since his childhood-- in his family, for generations.

It could be an alarming thought, but it’s a lot more innocent than it may seem at first glance; he didn’t start drinking until his university days, and not really in excess. At least, not to excess outside of a party.

His father was the mayor for some time. First, he was a councilman-- a path Damien finds uncomfortably similar to his own, years later-- but a politician all the same. Politicians and alcohol go together since time immemorial, and in a much more tolerable way than any of their other vices, to an extent; after all, a bit of social lubricant helps to turn over potential voters as much as a winning smile and the perfectly crafted sentence.

Damien had a skill for it-- part practice, part innate ability, and part grueling training from his father on social graces and charisma-- but his father was good. Sickeningly so.

His father’s charisma only extended so far, of course, and his parties were awash with the stuff, even before Damien became aware of much more than the noise downstairs. It helped to keep people merry, and keeping him in office through their votes and donations kept them rather pleased, in turn. A strange symbiosis, yes, but effective.

Even once he knew that these weren’t simple get togethers, he and his sister sat cloistered in their rooms under the close watch of their nanny, listening close as the band played on, the dull roar of a bunch of adults talking politics. It tapered off eventually, but he couldn’t deny he was curious about the goings-on.

(He was never brave enough to venture down on his own, not with the risk of his father’s wrath looming like a dark cloud. If anyone found them out, a pair of eight-year-olds slipping through the crowd to cause who knew what kind of mischief…

Celine held no such fear, it seemed, as she marched right to him one night, eyes hard as flint and determined. “Nanny’s asleep,” she’d said, reaching out for his arm. “We’re going to go steal some snacks.”

The fear kept him from enjoying the first snack, some piece off a crudite tray that carved the vegetables so to render them unrecognizable; after a few more pieces, and no Father waiting for him when he glanced back over his shoulder, the knots in his shoulders began to loosen.

The food was good, but the champagne they managed to swipe from an inattentive waiter dried his tongue more than a day in the sun. Celine wasn’t so expressive in her distaste, but she’s the one who dumped the rest of the glass into the ficus in the corner.)

He wasn’t sure he would ever be quite so brave as to sneak alcohol again, but university changed things. He was on his own, no father or even mother to watch his every move, the freedom of adulthood calling him just as much as the chance to properly socialize. After all, he’d need to make some good connections if he wanted to follow his dreams, and what better than a college party to do just that?

It seemed like a good idea, at least, until he woke to his alarm clock drilling into his head, the sun itself seemingly on a mission to burn his eyes out of their sockets. His mouth tasted like rot, and sitting up made the room swoop dangerously.

What a day to try and sit and write his midterms. If his friends noticed at all, they had to have chalked it up to late study sessions, because word never got back to his parents about his drinking. If anyone had said anything to his family…

Thankfully, there were few questions, and those that remained were explained away easily enough. A few dropped points were just… the new difficulty getting to him.

He didn’t stop drinking after that, but at the very least he got smarter about it-- never before a planned test, never before returning home, and always chased with plenty of cool water. It spared him the worst of the pains-- eventually, most if not all of the pains-- and kept his grades high enough to be above suspicion.

His friend, the lightweight, was never so lucky, but he was happy to stick around and tend them while they were miserable.

The relationship matured as he did, through his underclass graduation and his graduate’s. Drinking didn’t vanish entirely, no, but he was too busy to drink quite so much at these social gatherings, and the interest was shifting from getting as drunk as possible to relax, and more towards alcohol as a concept.

No, it wasn’t an obsession, but it was a fascination. These elixirs held such power, taking commerce and politics by storm, capable of enrapturing scores of people before they realized, taking their higher function and suppressing it. A simple potion-- really a poison-- taken so regularly, all in the name of purported social grace and amusement.

Incredible.

He studied composition, creation, and set up small stations in his basement to experiment.

A station for beers, both hoppy and malted, provided lightly bubbly and yeasty drinks-- not the most to his taste, but rather easy, comparatively.

Next came meads, wines-- fermented juices, fruit under the right conditions creating something much more complex. They were a little better, whether from experience or more to his taste. His friend favored these tiny bottles, sweet and flavorful.

It’s ironic, in some way, that the day he bottled his first attempt at a vodka was the day that ‘U.S. Is Voted Dry’ graced the front page of the paper lying on his front porch.

Obviously, he hadn’t been in agreement. Excess gave way to trouble, sure, but the mere existence of the stuff wasn’t a sin in his eyes; besides, he had full notebooks of notes, ideas, further experiments. Why should he give up his mostly-harmless hobby for a bunch of people he hardly agreed with at the best of times?

He kept his work in the cellar, where it always was; literal underground work wasn’t likely to bring him under any suspicion, and his status as a newly-minted councilman with sights on mayorship didn’t hurt his efforts to remain secret. With his reputation-- and to his chagrin, his pedigree-- no one would imagine him breaking the law, of all people.

He kept his head down, working on his pet project now and then as his duties drew him a bit further every day-- not enough to quit the endeavor all together, but cutting down on his output. Even then, anything he didn’t keep to test, or have a tiny glass of after a rough night, went straight down the drain.

Then, one day, Mark came to him.

“They stopped supplying my parties,” he said, blowing in like an errant wind, the door nearly slamming into the wall behind it from the force of his entrance. “Can you make brandy?”

Damien looked over the back of his chair, eyes wide. He had an open-door policy for Mark, among a few others, but… he couldn’t have really been asking what he imagined he’d heard. “Excuse me?”

Mark huffed, sweeping further into his home and only stopping a spare moment to tug off his shoes. “Your floors will be fine,” he grumbled, finally coming around to him in the living room. “Can you make brandy? Or vodka? Gin? Rum? Hell, I’d even take a bottle of your mead, if you haven’t already given it to--”

“Mark, what makes you think I make any alcohol, let alone keep it any longer?” He set down his book, resigned to the fact that he may not finish it this evening as he’d planned. “Didn’t you read the papers? Prohibition’s been in effect for a few weeks.”

“Damien.” Mark gave him his ‘suitably unimpressed’ stare. “You can fool everyone you like about your hobbies-- everyone except your nearest and dearest.”

“You are my nearest and dearest?”

The look shifted from unimpressed to withering. “I know you brew it. You never stopped, and you’re still brewing it. Will you give me some of it? I’ll pay you.”

That was the thing about Mark-- he never gave up, not once he caught the scent. A bit like a bloodhound, really, or a shark; talented as he may have been, he got every last bit of his prestige through that determination.

A bit of guile and ruthlessness didn’t hurt him much, either.

Damien sighed, reaching up a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. It only just lessened the throbbing pain. “You’ll get it out of me one way or another. I have a mead I was experimenting with… would that happen to suffice?”

Mark grinned.

His order was small, really, hardly more than a favor: that single bottle of mead, as quickly as he could make it taste nice. It didn’t need to be especially fancy, nor specially flavored during his aging process. It just needed to be enough alcohol to supply a toast among fellow actors, celebrating a job well done and a brutal schedule finally coming to an end. As Damien had done much the same after long debates, he let it go. “It’s a gift,” he said, as an excited Mark reached into his pockets. “Congratulations on your film, and all. Besides-- it’s just one bottle.”

That’s all it seemed to be for a short while-- a one-off deal to help celebrate his friend’s blooming career. Then, scant weeks before the mead would be aged to his liking…

Well, he really needed this one done, Damien. A few bottles, for some producers; if he was ever to get his new script off the ground, he must have some friends willing to hand over capital. A brown spirit would be best, something really fine and old and expensive-- he was willing to pay.

Never mind that those brown spirits need years of aging, and never mind that he wasn’t trying to either get arrested or blow the roof off of his own home due to the buildup of fumes in the basement. Especially never mind that Mark, himself, is independently wealthy from his fame, with his sprawling home as proof.

“I can do you an orange brandy,” he’d said, instead. “It’s not going to be aged at all, but they’ll like it for after dinner. Just give me your oranges.”

Eau de vie doesn’t take years, thankfully, and with the amount of orange trees covering Mark’s estate… he had his bottles just in time to impress.

Of course, Damien kept his distillers going, because once is a favor, but twice, and so soon, is the start of a pattern. Mark found a source, and Damien knew better than to expect he’d let go so soon.

By the time Mark showed up with an invitation to poker and a burning question on his lips, he’d already bottled up some more brandy, a bottle of gin, some vodka. “You were going to ask,” he said, world-weary as Mark looked over the bottles with delight. “I thought I’d be prepared.”

All this being said, he didn’t really mind bringing along alcohol to those poker nights. He could enjoy the fruits of his labor and good company besides, let loose after the still-worthwhile grind of council busywork; even after he stopped-- which was a police matter and the single stain on his pristine reputation, and not something he liked recounting-- he still provided the drink in some way, whether sourcing out others in the same underground industry or serving the drinks, themselves.

Learning the balance of spirits wasn’t easy, but it came along with something unexpectedly: learning that they told a story, the story of whomever drank them. Certain people gravitated towards flavors, styles, presentations, all as particular and distinct as their fashion choices, their other preferences.

If he wanted to learn about his friends, about anyone, all he had to do was watch them drink.

#fg writes #mayor attorney #wkm celine #the colonel #actor mark #wkm damien #da y/n #wkm fanfiction #wkm fic #pincera

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lostcybertronian · 1 year ago

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Egotober - Day 1

Prompt: Cape

Prompts by @tracobuttons

---

He adjusted the ties. Adjusted them again so they settled at the hollow of his throat. Made sure the knot was nice and tight, and that the fabric settled in the right way over his shoulders. Studied himself in the mirror, the way his gelled-back hair shone under the lamplight. Frowned. Popped his fake vampire teeth in and bared them. Took them out. Rinsed. Repeated

He was so mired in this ritual that he missed the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Jumped a mile when a knock came at the door.

“Dames?” William’s voice filtered through the thick wood of the guest room door. “Are you ready? The party’s starting.”

“I’ll be right down,” Damien answered absently, but the creaking of the door as it opened informed him William hadn’t taken his answer to heart. He turned, and a surprised laugh burst from his mouth at the sight.

William was dressed as Mark, right down to the red, satiny robe and white ascot. If not for his glasses and mustache, he’d be a spitting image. Brother echoed brother, after all.

“Bully!” He exclaimed, his voice too big for the small room, for the music drifting up the stairs. “A vampire. I should have thought of that.”

Damien mustered up a smile, even as his stomach flipped. “It needs something else, though. I can’t think of what.”

William crossed the room. Looked him up and down in a way that made Damien’s face flush. Then, he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got just the thing! Wait right here.”

He spun on one slippered foot and disappeared. Moments later Damien heard the sound of the next door guest room opening, and frowned as he pondered why on earth William would be rummaging through Celine’s things.

Then, he was back, triumphantly boasting an eyeliner pencil. He was up in Damien’s face before the mayor could say a word about it, his calloused fingers gentle as he touched Damien’s jaw, tilting his face this way and that so as to apply a thick ring of makeup below each eye.

“There!” William’s breath smelled like expensive wine. He stepped back, grinned, placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder and steered him back toward the mirror. “It’s perfect. Take a look.”

Damien murmured assent and glanced toward the mirror, but what he was really looking at was William looking at him, his pretty dark eyes glittering.

He felt his insides twist. Wished things were different. “Perfect,” he agreed, and stepped away from the mirror. Away from William. Away from the feelings he let fester. “Let’s go party.”

#egotober2023 #dilliam #mayor damien #colonel william #markiplier egos #writersofmark #fanfiction #ego shipping #lostandwandering #lost writing tag #fluff #angst

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forget-mad-not · 2 years ago

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Celine's Gun

Available on AO3!

fandom: Who Killed Markiplier? + DAMIEN

word count: 1155

summary:

The story of when the wicked witch of the haunted forest goes on a hunt, bringing with her a rifle that is bound to go off.

(AKA Celine's nights in the DAMIEN-loop when ex-husband hunting season was announced.)

quote:

The footprints in the whiteness are only there because of her, Celine thinks with a sneer, their sole mission is to lead her finally, finally to the prey.

You had to leave them, Mark, your precious plot required something to follow.

notes: *waves her hand* Hallo, @meo618, I hope I'm not interrupting! I'm back (for now)! ��

#markiplier #wkm #who killed markiplier #DAMIEN (2019)#celine the seer #damien the mayor #actor mark #fanfiction #ao3 #character study #my work #celine's gun

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theknightmarket · 1 year ago

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"It's just not easy."

In which Damien finally decides what to do.

[This is the second part to 'What if I Just Sit Here and Die', a request from my lovely anon, Alexandrite! I hope you enjoy it!]

TW: anxiety, possible panic attack (?)

Pages: 12 - Words: 5,000

[Requests: OPEN]

If someone had told a younger Damien that, in a year, he would be sitting in his normal classroom, in his normal seat with his normal peers around him, he would’ve been confused as to why they were telling him this. However, should they have continued on to say he would be sweating through his cotton shirt, his pen slipping out of his clammy hands and steam practically seeping through his collar - only because of the fact that he was sitting next to someone who said some nice things to him, spoke to him in a kind tone, was pretty damn handsome and/or beautiful themself, and risked a penalty by making jokes about the professor? He’d blush, just as he was in that moment, and ask, “Well, how will that moment end?” And the someone will laugh, shake their head, and say, “You’ll both be forced to clean the classroom for the next week.”

Presently, Damien was barely paying attention to the words of the professor. He was going on about something about the relationship between the government and the public, but he was more focused on the stray mutterings of the person next to him. You, who occasionally leaned over to whisper a joke or comment that had him stifling a laugh, generously spent your time entertaining him instead of listening to the lecture. In truth, it probably benefited neither of you in the long run, but Damien couldn’t deny that this was the most fun he’d ever had in a lesson before. He was learning just as much, anyway, so it didn’t make a difference. Not to him, at least.

To the professor, who was barely managing to stay on track with the incessant whispering that kept stealing his attention, it made a lot of a difference.

“Is there something you two would like to share?” he asked, making you freeze with your upper body halfway out of your new seat. Your mouth hung open, and Damien’s eyes met yours with a flurry of silent emotions. Horror, sympathy, and then resolve. He hadn’t a clue what you were planning, but from the way you slowly reared back and looked to the man at the front of the classroom, he had faith it was going to be good.

“Sorry, sir, I’m just slightly confused on how this can be allowed while following the privity of contract.”

The professor’s expression matched Damien’s own, a pure slate of shock, before the older man’s drifted off into confidence.

“Well, in this scenario, neither party has obligations imposed on them in the technical sense…” He continued his chatter, but Damien was not focused on that yet. He was more taken by you relaxing back into the hold of your wooden chair, the complete relief when your lie passed through your lips like every other breath. He didn’t know whether he should have been impressed or worried, but he settled on a mixture of the two.

“How did you do that?” he wondered aloud, trying to keep his voice low enough that it flew under the radar of the professor’s new tangent. Still, there was evident awe in his tone, a thing that you couldn’t stop a blush rising along the ridge of your jaw at.

You exhaled lightly. “Learned to—” and when you saw that he was still looking at you, you amended, “—if I’m going to be a district attorney, I’m going to have to lie on command.”

Despite the scathing remark about the integrity of the legal system, Damien blinked at the implication. “Really? The D.A?” It wasn’t that he didn’t think you could make it – in fact, he was certain that you’d end up in the newspapers with that title if you set your mind to it –, but he was more amazed that you had your mind made up so sure. There wasn’t a glimmer of hesitation in your words or your face, and Damien marveled at it.

“What, don’t think I could handle it?” you laughed back.

“N-no, I just, well, um—”

“I’m joking,” you replied quickly upon hearing him start to fumble his words. “I get it. Bit of a lofty ambition, but I know that if I finish this course and get the degree, there is a position waiting to be filled at Seriva’s Law Office.” You pulled up one finger. “From there, I’ll work all the cases I have to, until I get a job at the Bolitz court.” Another finger. “Defense attorney for the state, court judge, probably get fired once or twice, and then, eventually district attorney of Los Angeles.”

By now, you had all five fingers on one hand in the air, as if your plan were just easy steps. It was something Damien couldn’t begin to fathom, but it must have been so great that it overrode his facial functions because the next words out of your mouth were, “What about you?”

What about him?

What could he say to you? What did you want to hear? If he lied to you, pretended he had everything planned out, or even a semblance of an idea, would you know? There were so many uncertainties that he couldn’t plot, and only a small amount that he could guess the answers to; you probably wouldn’t look down on him if he admitted the truth, but he wasn’t all that willing to take the risk. The last thing he wanted was to lose a potential friend, especially you, though there was no way he could make up something as detailed as your plan was in such little time—

“I haven’t thought that far.” His mouth had gotten tired of waiting for his brain to catch up, apparently, and it went ahead with spilling the truth. He couldn’t back out now, not when you were looking at him with that expression, so he continued, “I have no clue, and it has been killing me that I don’t.”

For the split second that your mouth remained closed, Damien looked at your face, and used one of the skills that he was most proud of. He’d used it on his parents to avoid an argument, his guidance counsellor to get out as fast as possible, his extended family when they asked when he was getting married. He read your expression with bated breath and was pleasantly surprised by what he saw. You looked surprised, but not in a oh-my-God-how-could-I-talk-to-someone-so-immature way. The tilt of your head and the quirk of your lips showed you were simply surprised, and that was all. No disgust or horror present! Damien was somewhat embarrassed by how his heart sped up a bit when he recognised it.

And how it skipped two beats when you replied, “Hey, if you ever need an ear, I’ll be around.”

With that, you turned back to face the professor, who had still not run out of the fuel that you had chucked onto his flames. You listened intently, even though every sentence was punctuated with ‘this won’t be on the exam but…’, while Damien watched you, equally as intent. The rapid fluctuating of his heart was dying down, and its withering gave way to a small comfort nestled deep in his bones. An unfamiliar sensation, but not one that was unwelcome. In fact, it was entirely encouraging – prompting him to tune back in when the professor got on track and scribble down a few notes. Notably, concepts that he could understand.

The pride only lasted as long as it took for the both of you being caught chatting again – which was in the midst of another unnecessary talk, for context – which landed you in hot water. That someone didn’t lie.

As it turned out, your offer of someone to listen to were needed quicker than you thought. Barely a full day had passed by the time that you were sitting at the desk in your doom room, fiddling with a pen and trying to underline the important information in your textbook without outright underlying the entire paragraph. It was a tough and stubborn read, like wading through mud, and picking out useful aspects was even more so; clumps stuck to the words, hidden roots held them down, and you were quickly finding yourself hoping for a reason to take a break.

The answer to your prayers was at the door in the next thirty seconds. Just as you had taken your reading glasses off to smear a hand over your eyes, you heard a frantic knock ill-disguised as a casual one. You briefly tried to remember if you had messed up in any way for the small amount of time you’d occupied this room, but the question came with a blank answer – so, with little else to do, you got up from the desk and swung open the door.

Th sight of someone distinctly not administration greeted you. You weren’t in trouble, that was good, but a frown made its way onto your mouth regardless.

“Oh, hey, Damien,” you started, taking in his concerning state, “are you okay?”

His bowtie was pulled out, and his jacket was nowhere to be found, leaving him in just his dress shirt and pants at your door. Even his collar button was undone, which, in the rest of the world, might not have been deemed outrageous, but you’d only seen him in business settings before. This was a jump you weren’t expecting to make so soon.

“I-,” he immediately stopped himself. One hand flittered up to his cuff to adjust it before he spoke again, “-no, no, I’m not. I’m worried, and stressed, and scared and…” he trailed off in his panic, the worry trapping itself in his head.

You couldn’t leave him outside like this. From the looks of it, this wasn’t his first time in such a state, but this was his first time coming to you, and you weren’t going to mess this up.

Setting a plan of action in your mind, you planted your hands on Damien’s shoulders, seemingly shocking him out of his thoughts with a jolt. “Hey, hey, look at me.”

He followed your simple instruction well. That alone was good, so you took the time to dip into your room again, not noticing the brief flash of deeper panic that shot across his face. It only lasted until you reemerged with two jackets, but it was there.

A beat up, old truck was your best shot at leaving campus. You’d taken the keys one night after a party with your friends. You hadn’t a clue who it really belonged to, but it was now yours, and it wasn’t as though someone had come to retrieve it. So, yours now.

And what a spout of good luck it had been. Gesturing Damien into the passenger seat, you heaved a sigh of relief. Walking all the way to your little spot would have been a horror story waiting to happen. He climbed in without any hesitation, which would have been appreciated in any other circumstance. Now, it made you worry your bottom lip between your teeth. By the time you’d buckled yourself into the driver, you’d decided that you didn’t like numb Damien.

Multiple attempts were made to tease a reaction out of him. Humming music you’d heard on a gramophone recently, picking up conversation topics out of the bottom of your brain, literal teasing. None worked, aside from getting a few polite chuckles out of him or a nod, so you did the one thing you’d been told not to do from day one; you put all your eggs into one basket and pressed down on the gas pedal.

In general, Damien never knew what he was doing, but this moment was special; for once, he hadn't really thought about his actions. He didn't sink onto his chair by his dorm window and stare longingly out at the students who actually knew what they were doing. This time, he'd acted on instinct, and an unfamiliar one at that. It was an impulse, embarrassing to him, that had drawn him to your door. To you, who in turn, had driven him in your truck all the way to a local lake. He hadn't payed attention to where you were headed during the journey, but, when he heard the sloshing of water against a bank, he had clocked you were in some place unknown to him. He forced himself to look at you when you guided him to a rockier side of the body. You, who he knew, who walked to the edge of the lake, who he trusted, who kneeled beside him with an armful of rocks.

“Take some,” you spoke, as if this were an entirely normal interaction on your end.

And, as if this were an entirely normal interaction on his end, he did. When he had secured two or three medium-sized rocks, the one in his left-hand dripping lake water onto his skin, he managed to ask, “What?”

You didn’t answer him, instead taking a second to lay some more in a pile between the two of you – though, the light-hearted grin on your lips eased his concerns for your mental health and brought a similar one to his own.

You filtered through the remaining ones in your arms, trying to find the best shape and texture. Damien didn’t know what you were looking for specifically, but he sat still, patiently, and watched you smooth a thumb over one of the finalists in your strange competition.

“You know, I’ve always loved rocks,” you commented while tripping to your feet over the sandy beach, “No clue why. Maybe I was a penguin in my past life.”

Now standing straight, you trot to the shoreline and wind one arm back, like a pitcher would for a big game. The concentration on your face was a sight to behold, the little adjustments of your form to get it just right a true spectacle. Damien dared not move a muscle for fear it would jostle your focus.

You shifted to the left, and then to the right, and then four steps backwards. You breathed in the crisp, night air.

And then promptly chucked the stone directly into the water with no skip to be seen.

“Dammit.”

The panic from earlier was beginning to dwindle; a tiny spark of fear that had rushed through him like a match to a gas leak was but a flicker. The hooting of owls this late into the night was common, but he had never been conscious enough to listen to them, whether it was because he was asleep or because he was thinking too much. Here, the flood of problems was traded for the sound of the lake’s water batting against sand. Damien found that he liked this more.

A few splashes and then a proud yell shook him from his pondering – he needed to stop – and then you turned to look at him. Rock in one hand and gesturing with the other, you called out, “Well, are you doing this or what?”

Gingerly, Damien rose from his seat on the dirt and joined them. The pair of you made quite the picture. You were trying to instruct Damien on how to stand, how to position his arm, how to angle the momentum. Along with giving him all the best tips to match your two-skip record, Damien could confidently say it was going averagely. You weren’t going to be entering any championships anytime soon, but your realistic lack of skill had no effect on how much fun you were having.

For the first time in a while, Damien was enjoying his time, and, for the first time in an even longer while, he wasn’t feeling bad about using his time for recreation. On most nights he took ‘off’, he’d sit on his bed, with a book in his hand, trying to keep his mind off of all the assignments he didn’t understand. With you manipulating his arm like a puppet, he didn’t mind. He assured himself that, if you were out with him, he wasn’t the only one ‘lacking behind’.

He broke out in giggles as he watched you practically drop another stone into the water in front of you. With as much an offended look you could manage, you pushed him to throw one himself.

Much to your chagrin, he beat your record. Such an accomplishment.

“The student becomes the master,” Damien joked.

“If this weren’t an actual rock, I would throw this at you.”

“Just joking!”

You continued on like that for the better half of an hour. The night got longer and colder, but it wasn’t enough to bother you. At this point, you weren’t sure what would be. Skipping stones with a friend was much better than doing it alone, you discovered. Your group in class were fine and good, you weren’t complaining, but you had… different tastes to them, and you weren’t about to drag all of them out to the lake to chuck stones until 3 in the morning. You had half the mind to propose you make this a tradition, but the other half told you that you didn’t know where you stood with Damien.

It was no secret to yourself or your friends that you liked the guy. He was sweet, he did his own thing, he didn’t take his life for granted. But were you friends yet? Did skipping stones together count as a friend-activity? Would it be presumptuous of you to call yourselves friends already? Seeming egotistic in front of Damien would be a nightmare for you. And why was that? You had no idea why you became so interested in his opinion of you so quickly. You were so bogged down with unanswerable questions that you hadn’t realized you’d quickly ran out rocks.

You took the out with fervor, rushing over to the pile you’d taken from and then heading back to lay them out from best to worst. Crouched down, you hadn’t expected Damien to start another conversation, so you were stuck in an unfortunate position of craning your neck upwards for the moment.

“How are you so calm about this?” he asked, a lighthearted tone but with an edge that hinted at something else.

Before answering, you clambered to your feet and dusted off your pants. “It’s not like skipping stones is illegal, right?”

“No, no that,” he laughed slightly, but it faded quickly, “I mean, how are you so planned?”

Now, that made you smile. “I appreciate that you think I am, but I’m not.” You jumped to finish your sentence when you saw Damien start to argue. “I just know how to get out of a slump.”

“A slump?”

A hum moved between your lips. “A slump, my friend—” you planted a hand on his shoulder, “—that’s what you’re in.”

As soon as you pointed this out, it was like a switch had been flipped. The corners of Damien’s smile laxed, his shoulders lost tension, and the bags underneath his eyes dropped. “It’s been a long slump, then,” he replied without much conviction, “and you said you know how to get out of one?”

You nodded, sending one last stone into the distance before focusing your full attention on Damien. You didn’t hear its splashes, only the sound of him sighing. “I think, right now,” you began, “you’re caring about the little things as much as the big things, right?”

He considered this for a second, until he nodded with a solemn expression, eyes downcast and darting anywhere but you.

Just that image made you swallow whatever pride you had left and decide very quickly to divulge your background to him. “I did the same thing in my first year. I’d originally planned to be on campus from the start to finish of college, but then I got it stuck in my head that I couldn’t because I’d made promises to do something that I wouldn’t otherwise be able to do. Pet sitting, or helping out with a relative, something like that…

“So, I stayed home. That wouldn’t have been so bad on its own, but assignments piled up and there was this one night when I would have to sacrifice all of my sleep, my food, everything healthy just to get this essay done,” you paused to inhale some of the crisp air. The night was getting darker, almost exactly as it had been the time you were describing. You continued, “And I did. And I felt horrible the day after, not only because I screwed over my whole body, but because I was still worried about it in the morning! Worried if I missed a citation, or I-I misplaced a comma.”

Standing next to you, Damien watched as your face was consumed by the memories. The look in your eyes was distant, but you weren’t looking over the water. It was as if the entire scene had disappeared, leaving only you behind, trapped in a fog. He’d gone through a night like that, and he knew the feeling well. It was the whole reason you were out there in the first place; worrying over something, getting it done, and then still worrying about it after the fact. He’d built his whole college-era around it.

The most he could do was offer a hand, both metaphorically and literally.

Damien’s hand coming to rest on your upper arm pulled your attention to him. A gentle smile that you mimicked on his lips, you couldn’t help but wonder how he got like this in the first place.

“But when I re-enrolled for this year, I thought about it more. I was actually writing the letter as I did, and I knew that if I did the same thing as last year, where I sacrificed my health for one assignment, I wouldn’t make it through. So, my solution was that I decided not to care.”

“What?”

You hummed in response to Damien’s mild shock. “That’s what my family said. The guidance counselor, too, and a couple of my friends. They acted like I’d gone and joined the circus. But it helped me. It was difficult at first; for the few months after we came back, I nearly broke my promise every week. Eventually, it got easier, and now, I’m exactly as you see before you.” You gestured to yourself as dramatically as you could handle after preaching your way of life.

Damien watched you for some time, to the point that you thought he’d run for the hills or call the guidance counselor back on you. It was only when he asked in a smaller voice than you’d heard him before, “What about the big things?” that you relaxed.

“The big things – family emergencies, big exams, twenty-five percent of my grade type of things – I’ll focus on. Don’t stress about the assault essay, but make sure you leave time for the finals. They’re the only things you’ll remember about the course, anyway.”

“You say that like it’s simple,” Damien chuckled.

“It is,” and you meant it, but you quickly amended at the distraught expression of your friend, “it’s just not easy.”

Reaching down to pluck a stone from the line-up, you finished your speech, “Takes a lot of practice to not care, so don’t expect to be an expert that fast.”

Your idea to continue skipping rocks was disrupted when Damien’s grip – which, unbeknownst to either of you, he had yet to remove – tightened. “And how am I supposed to start?” his voice took on a panicked quality, “I’ve already got myself too deep.”

Getting the sense that he was about to spiral, you refused to hesitate and, instead, wrapped your spare hand around his own. When you looked up, it seemed that Damien’s avoidant gaze was reserved for a shallower feeling of worry. The dread that you saw here meant he stared into your eyes directly, as if desperately trying to find the answer faster than you could say it.

“When we started skipping stones, what were you thinking about?” you asked. You tried not to notice how the corners of his mouth dropped even further with your seemingly cryptic question.

Still, he answered, “Whether you were legally sane or not.”

You shared a look of relief that Damien was stable enough to joke about the situation. “Ouch,” you muttered, “but that’s my point. You weren’t worrying about the course or the future or any assignments. You were focused on something that, to be honest, doesn’t matter. Because I doubt that you’ll remember this in a year. Not this moment, or the time you forgot a period in an essay or-or a lot of what you need to know for the exams. At that point, it won’t matter, so why care about it now?”

Despite your monologue being finished, you didn’t dare let go of his hand. You didn’t know whether it for his sake or yours, but you’d be going against your way of thinking if you said it really mattered.

“Of course, don’t go too far with it,” you spoke with a smile, “Care about the things that make you happy. Work won’t make you happy, so don’t care about it too much. Pay attention to who you are as a person, and you’ll be grand.” You didn’t want Damien to go from 1 to 100 in the next year, or, rather, 100 to 1 in the caring department. It was about striking the perfect balance and you were well up for being hit teacher.

When Damien nodded at you, having taken everything in, you allow yourself to slip back into the calm of the lake. It was a beautiful sight, and now you had someone else to share it with.

In your mind, this was the end of the night, and, as you began to aimlessly throw the remaining rocks in the general direction of where you took them from, you missed your new friend’s change in body language. It was subtle, but it was there – the straightening of his shoulders, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the final breath of a cool night’s air. When he was prepared, he turned to you and met your eyes.

No panic. No fear. No worry. A stark determination took their place.

“Do you want to go on a date?”

On a Friday evening, at eight o’clock, a procession of thirty students snaked its way across the college campus, from the entrance gate to the auditorium. Normally, that place would be empty of any life, but, then, it was heaving with parents, friends, and staff. The ceremonies that followed were just as lively. A chorus group sang some classical pieces, followed by multiple professors wishing the graduating class of 1908 a farewell. A final address from the principal sent people into tears, until the presentation of diplomas overruled it with near-constant clapping.

But that didn’t mean everyone was suddenly fine. Damien himself found that trying to keep it all in was a fruitless effort after he watched his fellow classmates receive their scrolls of paper, not to mention how he had to ask someone for a tissue when you went up, shook the principal’s hand, and walked off with a wink in his direction. His heart clenched with pride, and he could barely look away as he watched you make your way to the second row of the audience. The seat you ended up in was at the tail end of the row, right next to Celine, who grasped your hand with a smile that you shared. Next to her was Wilford, who, upon noticing Damien’s staring, cast his own, knowing look. He looked away before he could do anything more noticeable, seeing, next to him, Mark. He’d assumed that, like most things, he wouldn’t be overjoyed to be where he wasn’t the centre of attention, but there was a hint of a smile and happiness in his eyes that told him he was playing it up, this time.

Damien took a breath in and then a breath out. Crisp air – his heart rate slowed down into a duller thud. It was his turn.

Four simple, difficult steps. He got up, he walked to the principal, he took the degree and shook his hand, and then walked off.

He had graduated college, you both had, and he couldn’t be more excited to pursue the next few years of his life.

Especially given the way that you two met up when everyone had filed out at the end.

There had been plans for the friend group – one that you had been made a member of ever since Damien told his sister what had happened that fateful night – to get a table at an old café down the street and celebrate. A little talk prior to going up on the stage pushed those plans back ever so slightly.

Rounding the back of the auditorium, Damien caught sight of you leaning casually against the wall. No staff would be around there while they dealt with the rest of the students, meaning you wouldn’t be herded away just yet. You could enjoy this quiet moment for at least ten minutes, and you were very much going to.

“Hi,” you whispered as soon as Damien came close enough.

His response was simple. “Hello.”

“You looked handsome up there.”

In the past year, he’d gotten better at schooling his expression in public, but he didn’t consider you to be in public at that moment, so his redness and smile were as blatant as the day you met.

“Around people thirty years my senior, I should hope so—” he wrapped his hands around yours, intertwining your hands, “—I’m proud of you.”

You pulled him close with that hand. “You’re proud of me? I’m sorry, but your graduation is the culmination of my outlook on life. I’m proud of you.”

Your only thought in the proceeding second was that it should never be said that Damien was not a romantic man when it came down to it, as he leaned just that inch forward to push his own lips against yours. Whilst all the kisses you’d shared before had been amazing in their own right, this one was combined with the product of two years’ hard work and a year’s practice in self-respect. The smiles you both wore were held aloft by the graduation ceremony, high enough in the air that neither of you felt any need to pull apart. This was the time for love, nothing else, because there didn’t have to be. Everything was over, and, as your mouths moved against each other in crisp night air, you were ready for a new start.

Nearing your faces turning blue from a lack of oxygen, it was time to pull away, but that didn’t stop you from rejoining when you had gotten enough breath. This happened a few more times, though they gradually became more pecks than full kisses; you didn’t know how much time you had left until you were ushered from the campus, but you weren’t one to let an opportunity to tease Damien go easily.

The both of you gliding to a stop, simply staring into each other’s eyes, you whispered, “So, my advice worked, huh?”

Damien’s response was immediate, if not accompanied by a slight flush, “Oh, be quiet, you.”

And, like most times, he didn’t deny that you were right, given that listening to you was the best decision he’d ever made - your relationship was proof enough of that.

#theknightmarket #fanfiction #markiplier egos #markiplier #writing #markiplier egos x reader #one shots #request #x reader #damien x reader #da x damien #mayor damien #college era #reader insert #reader

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coolmayordamien · 1 year ago

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Sweet Damien/(Y/N) the District Attorney fluff drabble because I cannot be stopped.

"My dearest friend," Damien greets you warmly, his eyes sparkling with unfeigned delight as he grasps your hands in his own. His ever-present cane leans against the bench that he has just vacated.

You cannot help but to grin in the face of his abject happiness. It never ceases to amaze you that a man such as this--wealthy, influential, handsome--can take so much pleasure from your company alone.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet me here," he says softly, politetly guiding you to the bench. The park that he has asked you to is not one that you have visited before, and it is lovely. There are many walking trails to choose from, a few of which seem to lead off into more private, wooded areas. You would like to walk with him, but his leg still gives him some trouble. You do not want to upset him by asking.

"Thank you for inviting me," you answer back. You are pleased to note a faint blush is dusting his features. It makes him look quite sweet.

Judging by the way he favors his right leg as he joins you on the bench, you were correct not to ask him to walk the trails with you today. That is just as well; it is thrilling enough to be sat next to him, watching people as they pass you by.

It seems to you that Damien has placed himself closer to you than is strictly necessary; although there is plenty of space to his other side, the pair of you are close enough that you can feel his body heat radiating through his suit jacket. If you were to shift slightly, your legs would be touching.

Some time passes in pleasant silence as you watch the world pass by. You and Damien do not always need words to understand each other. This is one of your favorite things about your old friend. You are simply comfortable together in a way that you do not experience with anyone else.

Eventually, though, he breaks the silence.

"My dearest friend," Damien says thoughtfully. "It is true, you know. You are the dearest person to my heart. Were our friendship ever to reach a parting, (Y/N), I simply do not know what I would do."

"Then I suppose that it's a good thing that we will always be friends," you say softly, placing a hand on his knee. You are startled when his own hand covers yours. It is warm, as warm as your cheeks are growing, and it feels so right to have your hand in his.

"I am so happy to hear you say that," Damien says earnestly, holding your gaze for such a long time that you can feel your blush growing.

"But," he continues, and your heart plummets, "I am afraid...I am afraid that I have been...I have not been forthright with you as of late, my friend."

"Damien?" you ask, your mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

He is quite pale as he says, "I find my thoughts turning to you...quite often. I think of your smile, your friendship, your laugh. I think of the way you rob me blind in poker, smirking all the while, and I--my thoughts, (Y/N), have not been...quite gentlemanly. I believe that my feelings for you have evolved quite without my permission."

You cannot say a thing, and he turns away from you. His hand tightens over your own as if he cannot control it.

"I have grown quite fond of you," he whispers haltingly. "I...mayhaps I...mayhaps I even care for you in a- a romantic sense."

"Damien," you say gently. He faces you once again, his expression one that seems to be prepared for rejection. You cannot help but to turn your hand in his, lacing your fingers together.

"I am quite fond of you as well," you grin, and his face lights up. You place the palm of your free hand against his cheek, which is lightly dusted with stubble. His eyes close as if the touch has caused him great pain, or great pleasure.

"I am so glad," Damien breathes as he leans in to graze your lips with his own. "So very glad, my dear."

#markiplier #markiplier fanfiction #markiplier fan fiction #markiplier egos #damien the mayor #markiplier damien #y/n #wkm the mayor #wkm the district attorney #the district attorney #damien/y/n #damien/reader #text post #my work #mayor damien

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jacksepticeye-simp · 22 days ago

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Welcome Home (Darkiplier x reader) Part 6- Pest control

Pairing(s): Darkiplier x GN! reader

TW{s}:Murder,implied violence.

Mark ran up to his room and found it completely trashed from head to toe. He grabbed a crucifix and holy water from the one unopened drawer. He held out the crucifix “If there are any demons in here, Reveal yourselves willingly before I do it for you!” He shouted out, the floorboards creaked behind him. He quickly turned around and threw some of the holy water, and like clockwork, the demon revealed himself.

Lo and behold, there stood the apprentice camera person he’d hired. He pointed the crucifix at him.

“Start talking you little shit or I’ll fucking stab this so deep into your chest that you’ll burn to ash in a second.” He threatened. The apprentice nodded.

“What does your boss want this time around?” Mark asked, keeping the holy water near. The boy shrugged. “Look, The only thing I know is that he’s kinda obsessed with your friend and he’s also their date.” He said. Mark glared at him. “It’s all I know, I swear. You’d have to ask a certain..somebody else if you want to know about his specific plans.” The boy suggested, starting to sweat. Mark grabbed him by the neck and positioned the sharp end of the crucifix over his chest.

“Fine. Be that way.” Then without a second thought he plunged the crucifix deep into the adolescent, blood dark as ebony spilling out.

Mark kept a stoic face, staring him right in the eye while the demon choked upon his own blood. “Is this a bad time?” Mark quickly turned around, dropping the body of the apprentice and facing Amy incredibly nervously. “I swear I can explain! He’s some kind of demon and has been spying for-” Amy cut him off by handing him his phone. “I found your phone since you dropped it running up here, and you have a very concerning voicemail.” Mark raised an eyebrow as she unlocked the phone, playing the voicemail.

“MARK, PICK UP, PLEASE! YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT DAMIEN HE’S-” The sound of a familiar laugh abruptly cuts off the message, sending chills down his spine. “He’s back, isn’t he?” Amy asked, putting her hand onto Mark's shoulders. “He is, and he’s set his eyes on them. But I know what to do now..” Mark walked over to his closet, opening it and taking out a large black mirror. He placed his hand upon the glass, reciting a short incantation, the glass swirled and warped, engulfing his hand in it. “What are you doing? She asked, slightly startled. “Amy, if I don’t make it back, tell Chica she’s a good girl for me, alright?” and with that he disappeared into the mirror.

Dark stood in his room, watching the situation unfold through a mirror. A pest such as Mark would not be ruining his plans again, He was prepared this time. The demon picked up a phone and dialed a number. “Hello Wil, If it isn’t too inconvenient could you take care of a..problem for me? I cannot have that vermin ruining my plans again.”

“Oh old friend..I thought you’d never ask.”

(Happy halloween!🎃🎃)

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weirdmixofweirdness · 1 year ago

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Happy

TW: Gun, Implied death/murder, Blood, Slight gore

It was a rare sight to see Darkiplier smile. In fact, seeing him in any emotional state at all was relatively new, even to Warfstache. Especially to Warfstache. Despite all efforts, the reporter could never seem to make Dark even crack a smile (though he still tried again and again every day). Now, however, the usually numb-looking being was chatting with the others, making small talk, smiling, chuckling. Their skin even looked alive. It made them look like…someone else, though as to who, he couldn’t put his finger on. All he knew was that they wore the face of an old friend, one far older than the friend they usually were.

Mayhaps, he woke up in another dimension again. With how jumbled everything was, it could have very well been the case. No use questioning how. Apparently, while thinking, his eyes remained on Dark. The now human-looking being moved their head as if to say ‘come over here.’ Who was Wilford to refuse an invitation like that? They were friends, after all. Sure, Dark didn’t always react fondly to his ideas. Well, to be honest, they never did; but friends don’t always agree, right? The reporter made his way to Dark. People around him made way for him. They stared at him, as he went, with expressionless faces. Their gazes followed Warfstache, even when he reached his friend.

“You know, Will,” Dark began, though, it didn’t sound like Dark at all. It was lighter, softer. A cadence he knew from somewhere.

“If you wanted to speak with me, you could have asked,” he said with a soft smile.

“You know I prefer to play the long game, ol’ boy,” Wilford’s voice came out different, less slurred than usual. He didn’t question it, though. Every now and then, his voice would slip into its former pattern. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, though it still felt odd whenever it happened.

“It’s always games with you,” Dam-Dark chuckles, his smile seeming to widen.

“They could get you in trouble one day, you know,” their voice was a playful warning, laced with warmth. A kind of warmth that could only come from–

“Damien? Well, it’s about time I found you.”

“You found me, did you?” Damien asked.

“So your game is hide and seek? Wouldn’t I need to hide for that?” he retorted.

“But, you have been,” Wiford laughed, as if the mayor was telling a joke. He had to be. The reporter could have sworn that the mayor was the one who had started this game…how many years ago? He couldn’t really remember. Time was just a flash of quickly moving events, too many to keep track of. The mayor just stared at him, worried.

“Now, where is Celine hiding?” Wilford asked like it was a casual question between friends.

“Will,” Damien’s smile quickly faded into serious concern as he leaned in and responded, “She’s asleep,” in a low voice. A light echo could be heard from the mayor.

“Well, do you know when she’s waking up?” the reporter’s voice was full of denial.

“I’d very much love to see her again.” He missed their nights together. The dancing in the back courtyard. Their conversations under the stars. Them going behind Marc’s back–

“I think you would know,” Damien said, sudden condescension filling his tone. His face was then blank, yet full of rage. In a blink, the mayor was unconscious on the wood floor. The once clean, polished floor was covered in a puddle of blood around Damien. Looking at his hands, Wilford found a gun in his hand. But, he didn’t kill him. He couldn’t have.

“Hello, old friend,” another familiar voice said behind him. Turning around, Wilford saw Marc. He was dressed in his silk robe. A bullet hole could be seen out of his right temple, a never ending waterfall of blood flowing out of it. How was—he had watched the actor fall to the ground. Marc made his way in front of Wilford, grabbing his gun.

“Have you forgotten?” the actor leaned the barrel of the gun to his bleeding temple.

“Or are you just too afraid to remember?” he pulled the trigger, the sound of the gun jolting the reporter awake.

Gonna be posting these late and out of order, so apologies in advance.

#markiplier #mark fischbach #who killed markiplier #wkm #william j barnum #mayor damien #actor mark #wilford warfstache #darkiplier #markiplier fanfiction #egotober 2023 #arden writes #tw blood #tw gore #tw implied murder #tw death #tw gun #tw implied violence

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ardenwritesegos · 8 months ago

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Emotions are High: Chapter 2

AU based on @iamvegorott 's version of the egos.

Anti didn’t usually like to be the one to interrupt Dark during their work. They got very…cranky whenever someone did that (though that’s an understatement). Still, while food was no longer necessary for them, the being enjoyed partaking in food and drinks. And they took any chance to be with their husband. However, they often, like Gin, had to be woken up from “work mode.” Tonight was apparently no exception.

“Hey, Mr. businessman,” Anti called teasingly after knocking on the office door. There was no answer. For a creature like Dark, this silence wasn’t unusual. They must have been absorbed in their work. He knocked again.

“It’s food time,” the glitch called one more time, hoping that would get them to look up. Out of the quiet came a quick clearing of the throat.

“One moment,” a voice responded. It sounded like Dark, but different; a bit more prim and proper than usual (Anti didn’t think that was possible). Then, Anti started hearing a female-sounding voice whispering. He leaned his ear against the door to hear better.

“He’s not going to go away, you know that,” the woman whispered aggravatedly.

“Yes,” the Dark-not Dark voice started quietly.

“But he’s never seen us before, and–”

“But he knows, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” the other voice replied. Wait, what was it Dark said about their past? Right, they were some mish-mash of twins. Which means…

“The Dark twins?” Anti asked from behind the door. There was a pause–likely the female twin giving her brother an ‘I told you so’ look–before the Dark-not Dark voice broke the silence.

“Come in,” the voice said, the door unlatching and opening itself. What the glitch found was just as he thought; a set of twins, one a woman in a dark dress, the other a man in a black suit. The man was the first one to speak again.

“Hello, Antisepticeye.”

[Meanwhile]

“So, you’re…Gin’s anxiety?” Chase asked, guiding the nervous wreck through the house.

“I-I’m worry…actually,” the copy responded.

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Chase asked, confused more than he already was.

“Uh…a lot of people think that, but there’s actually…actually a bit of a difference,” purple Gin replied with a nervous smile that quickly went down.The more Chase looked at the copy’s jumpsuit, he noticed that it wasn’t just regular purple. It was more of a violet than a regular purple. He only knew the difference because Schneep liked to info dump on colors (he wanted to be an artist, after all). But that wasn’t important at the moment.

“And do you know where…regular Gin is?” Chase let out a sigh, frustrated but still trying to be careful. He didn’t know what would cause this emotion to break.

“Unfortunately, um…” Violet Gin hesitated. He knew this statement would deeply upset Chase and was, well…worried about the repercussions.

“He’s gone while we’re, uh…separated,” the copy fidgeted with his hands. Chase took another breath, trying to compose himself.

“But he’ll come back if we find all of you guys,” Chase predicted hopefully.

“Yeah, the only problem is…getting them back together,” Violet Gin moved his fingers like a child playing the piano for the first time, tapping against his legs.

“It’s possible, we just gotta get some help. And I know exactly where to get it,” Chase stopped at a dark blue door, knocking four times with a silver cat knocker.

“MARVIN!” he used the signature scream he got from his creator, this time put to good use. With a click and a creak, the door opened.

“Hello…” Marvin greeted awkwardly.

“What can I do for you?”

“I think you know,” Chase replied, gesturing towards the copy of Gin.

“Hi,” Violet Gin waved shyly.

[Meanwhile]

“We didn’t think we’d be meeting you like this,” Damien said, squeezing his own hands. In the past, he would have his cane, but he was…well…forced to do away with that.

“For a while, I thought we wouldn’t meet you at all,” Celine retorted.

“Is now really the time for this?” Damien raised his voice; slightly, but just enough to show frustration.

“To think I used to be the serious one,” his sister let out a puff of laughter from her nose.

“One of us has to-”

“Excuse me, would ya quit bein’ siblings for a second and say hi?” Anti glitches in between them, interrupting Damien.

“Hello, honey,” she gave the glitch a warm, but gentle hug, kissing the top of his head.

“Well, now I see where Dark got their mommy energy from,” Anti joked.

“Hey, Damien pitches in as well,” Celine replied, breaking off the hug and facing Damien with a smirk.

“Someone has to make sure everyone is in order,” Damien straightened up his suit, adjusting to having his own form again. Celine just snickered. Those kinds of statements always did go over her dear brother’s head.

“Hold on a second,” Anti took a confused look at the former Mayor.

“I thought he was the ‘warm and gentle one.’”

“That’s a long story,” Celine explained.

“Yes, one we don’t have time to tell,” Damien spat flatly.

“Now, we need to find Dark and rejoin them,” he moved his neck out of habit, before realizing he didn’t have to crack it in this form. Anti just barely held in a laugh at the sight.

“If we are out, that means the entity is roaming around, and who knows what damage it could cause.”

“But I thought Darky was the entity,” clearly, he misunderstood when his partner told him the story.

“We’ll explain on the way to Wil.”

“Why are we going to him?” Anti asked.

“Our division happened after that blasted drink he gave us,” Damien sifted through a closet, until he found his old cane. Luckily for him, it looked to be kept intact and polished.

“He couldn’t have known what it did,” Celine followed behind, trying to calm Damien down, at least slightly. The former mayor has been furious at Wil ever since he shot the District Attorney. Further proof that his old self was pushed down by a layer of darkness. But that wasn’t the point of this endeavor.

“Yes,” Damien sighed, seeming to humor his sister.

“But he does know where he got it.”

“Would he, though?” Anti commented. Wilford didn’t always have the best memory, considering his powers.

“At the moment, it’s the only thing we have,” the former mayor explained, being somewhat more careful with the glitch.

“Come along,” Anti and Celine followed behind to the door. Unbeknownst to them, a wisp of shadow hid itself behind Dark’s desk.

[Meanwhile]

“You just let the most chaotic man in the house run away with your potions?!” Chase screamed.

“No one can stop Wilford, you know that!” Marvin yelled back.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?!” Chase shouted in reply.

“My teleportation fucked up on me, okay?!” Marvin belted out.

“You had legs! The dining room was literally seconds away!” Chase shrilled.

“Okay, clearly this isn’t doing anything,” the magician took a calming breath.

“We’re just acting like bickering parents with their kid in the room.” Both of them stopped to check on Worry Gin. He was still sitting, listening to music on noise canceling headphones. At least he was occupied. Couldn’t have the embodiment of worry getting overwhelmed, after all.

“Alright, how do we do this?” Chase took a deep breath as well, shaking out his emotions in the air with his hands.

“Let me find it,” Marvin to a bookshelf behind him, skimming the book titles until he found just what he needed; a thick, black and orange book called Stupe’s Empirical Lyrical Guide to Magic.

“Aha!” The magician pulled it out. The cover featured the outline of a person with a mustache, sideburns, and glasses. Marvin opened the book where the silk orange bookmark was, carefully speed reading for the solution.

“Well?” The magician continued scanning the pages until he found a part titled Reversal Rehearsal.

“You have to give me a moment, all the directions rhyme,” Marvin briefly looks up from the book.

“Didn’t Phantom tell you not to get that version?” Chase reminded the magician. The author of this book was known for their extensive vocabulary, so their book was never recommended for either beginners or people in an emergency. It just so happens that they are dealing with the latter. After a few minutes, Marvin looked to be finally understanding the words.

“Alright, so each emotion should be in a place the person associates with that feeling,” the magician explained.

“But where would we even start?” Chase eyebrows strained down in confusion.

“It says to start with the basic ones,” Marvin began.

“So happiness, maybe?” he suggested. Chase’s eyes widened immediately after.

“I think I know where to find that one.”

Thanks for reading! If you would like to be tagged in my stories, please let me know. Also, there may or may not be more short stories coming, as I have gained more creative inspiration recently.

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the-drowning-of-saint-adjutor · 1 year ago

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Master post & information

Please be patient, as updates are not scheduled and I am very busy, to stay informed on when chapters will update, please follow and turn on notifications.

This is a dark surrealism comic based on events and characters of the Markiplier extended Universe, I do not own the characters, and have no financial claim. This is a free webcomic.

This comic will feature some topics they may be NSFW, violent, or have themes of religion and unreality topics. Reader Discretion is advised.

I will not answer any asks pertaining to events featured in the comic. There may be explanations in the future, and there may not be. If you have any questions about other topics, feel free to ask.

I do not take requests on what is featured in the comic.

Please be kind, to me and each other.

Chapter One: Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Pages 1-3

Pages 4-6

Pages 7-10

Pages 11-13

Pages 14-19

Pages 20-21

Pages 22-25

#my art #my comic #kidvoodoo #the drowning of saint adjutor #markiplier #markiplier egos #markiplier fanart #darkiplier #actor mark #mayor damien #iswm #ahwm #markiplier community #markiplier fanfiction #tags may change as story progresses

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fgfluidity · 10 months ago

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pincera (part 3)

Summary: pincera- Latin, ‘cup-bearer, one who mixes drinks’ || The private and intimate life of the house.

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

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

Parts: 1 | 2

find it on ao3 | donate to my kofi

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

Of course, we know now that not all twins are strictly identical, veritable clones of one another and of the same sex. They don’t have to be the same sort of person in temperament, interests, style, or whatever else; a pair of twins can be as opposite as the poles of a magnet, with only the circumstances of their birth enough to tell you otherwise.

This is the case with Damien and Celine, but even then… many would be hard-pressed to believe them on it.

They don’t look much as all alike. Celine is shorter, small enough of frame to be considered slight, and a good deal paler than her twin, despite the same lineage. For his part, Damien rests at the shorter side of average, but maintains a broader, stronger figure than that of at least one of his friends-- he could never match up to Wil, even if he wished it, but Mark’s no challenge.

Her father’s coloring with her mother’s features, and his, the exact opposite.

She dresses in flowing, deep color, and his favor rests with the straight lines of a nicely-tailored suit.

She holds a taste for the macabre, the mysterious, and he busies himself with the mundane and realistic.

She’s the braver, the bolder, the more outspoken of them both, and Damien…

Found it much more of a struggle.

The air is tense. It rests heavy in the ornate dining room, the singular sound of cutlery sawing through meat and vegetables bouncing off the cavernous walls, coming back to him.

Celine, across from him, almost seems bored, methodically cutting apart her meal as if, a scant thirty minutes ago, she and her father hadn’t been nearly at blows. Still, she resolutely isn’t looking at any of them-- it has to be affecting her somehow, he just knows it.

His mother, at the foot of the table, says nothing. It’s regrettably her default state, these days, but with the energy radiating from her partner at the opposite end, feet interspersed with various dishes, he must wonder if it’s self-preservation or fury that stills her tongue.

He can’t make himself look down towards his father. Celine can rage and act aloof all she likes, but he can’t bring himself to lie-- he’s very frightened of the man. He’s held the power for years on end, over both this city and his own family, and if Damien’s ever going to get out from under his thumb-- unlikely-- it’s certainly not by rocking the boat, as it were.

His supper is an alright place to look, though, and he pays far too much attention to his fork and knife. Saw the meat, back and forth, but he can’t go too quickly; if he scrapes the plate, that jagged and earsplitting sound will equally split the tension in the air, and the aftermath won’t be pretty. Stay calm, stay polite, stay out of the way, and you just might make it through-- he’s learned that tactic quite well.

The dish of peas scoots towards him, and the tablecloth bunches. He doesn’t pay it too much mind-- he still has his own scoop sitting there, untouched, on his plate-- until it scoots again and several tiny peas spill over, stark green against white, one rolling to the edge of his plate.

He blinks at it a moment, the spell broken, and then looks up.

His mother places a bite delicately in her mouth in lieu of saying a word, but her eyes flick from his plate to him-- once, twice.

It may be difficult, out in the world, but his mother’s non-verbal communication has never escaped him-- likely through necessity. The bite he’d been sawing away at has come free, sitting on his fork; likely, any futher action would bring about that awful shriek he’s trying to avoid. Thankful for her help, he brings it to his own mouth.

Salty, savory, well-cooked-- it’s enough to stir his appetite all over again.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be making a call to that school.”

At once, his father’s voice turns the flavorful food to ash and dust in his mouth, and he struggles to swallow around the sudden dryness of his throat.

To her credit, Celine doesn’t start at that, retaining her disinterested expression as she expertly slices up more of her meal. “You’re free to do so, but I won’t be going. Like I said.”

“You will.” His voice comes as a roll of thunder down the table, a warning, and the hair standing up on the back of Damien’s neck could just as easily be from the lightning as it is from fear. “I’m trying to make something of the two of you, and you’ve been resistant at every turn. It ends now, Celine.”

“No, it won’t.” She looks up at him, finally, her eyes cool. “I want nothing to do with politics or any such thing. I have my own passions worth following, thank you.”

Damien keeps his eyes firmly on Celine, but he can’t stop from flinching as his father’s chair scrapes back from the table; he doesn’t need to look to know he’s looming over the end, dark and terrible.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he seethes. “You have to, because at the very least I can make something of you, unlike your brother--”

In an instant, the thunder ceases, the crackling electricity falling out of the air, as everyone in the room simply stares.

Celine, face twisted in barely-restrained, icy fury, sets down her newly-emptied water glass so hard that it cracks from the crystalline base. “I don’t have to do anything,” she hisses. “I’m leaving, and good riddance. Clean yourself up-- you have a meeting tomorrow, Father, and you really don’t want to miss this one.”

She whirls away, frosty air and an unsettling silence left in her wake, her shoes echoing down the polished hall until, finally, the slam of a door silences them.

Damien swallows hard and chances a look at his father.

He doesn’t make to move, but a tendon in his jaw twitches, eyes hard as flint, even as drops of water roll down his nose and off his chin. The thundercloud has stalled in place, headed off by the cold, but that can only last so long. It’ll come for him, eventually, like it always does.

But if she can just go, can just stand in the face of the thing that tore him down for years...

Before he can stop himself, he rises from his own chair, hardly worrying about the shriek against the tile. “I ought to go and follow her, see if I can… talk to her,” he explains, too full of nervous energy to quail before the look his father gives him. He swallows again, letting it course through him. “Water might ruin that tie. I would take her advice.”

The brief courage fails him, then, and he hurries off for the door, but not before he catches sight of his mother.

His mother, braving that storm every single day, even before they did. Who remained quiet and calm, because any push back might transfer more onto her children.

His mother, who gives him a smile just like his sister’s, because it was hers first: all-knowing, satisfied, proud.

He turns, and runs after his sister.

It’s easy enough to catch up with her; he has longer legs, and she hasn’t gotten very far. In fact, as he slows his jog under a gas lamp, she’s already turned to face him.

“I’m not coming back,” she says, matter of fact, eyeing him as if she expects him to try and change her mind.

The eyebrow she raises when he shakes his head makes him grin. It’s always fun to surprise Celine-- she always seems a few steps ahead of everyone else, though whether that’s through her machinations or some mystical ability, he can’t say. “I know you aren’t. I just wanted to talk to you, before…”

At that, she gives him the smallest smile, stance relaxing as she steps up beside him. “Sure. Come with me, little brother-- I need a drink.”

These days, it’s only proper to escort a woman after dark, but from the moment they step into the smoky bar, it’s very clear he’s the one being escorted; Celine strides in with a ripple of her lacy cape, paying no mind to the gentleman who raised their eyes to their intrusion.

They go back to whatever they were doing, but it leaves Damien a bit on edge as he picks out his barstool beside Celine.

He waits until she’s through ordering to speak up, the weight of her words truly settling in. “You’re leaving. For… good, this time, yes?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t look at him, keen eyes watching as the barkeep tosses the ingredients into a metal cup. “I thought you didn’t think I was coming back.”

“No, I do, and it’ll be good for you, it’s just…” The words remain lodged behind a knot in his chest, grappling with the idea that his sister will be gone. It isn’t until the drink-- some pale green thing in a frosty glass-- is in her hand that it loosens enough for him to speak. “I’ll miss you. I don’t know what I’ll do without you around to be the brave one.”

She eyes him behind the glass, savoring the drink for a few long moments. It feels like she’s reading deep into him, like no matter what, she’ll know everything about him. “You came after me.”

Damien frowns, confused. “Yes?”

“Against our father. You were scared to death all night, but you still came after me.” Finally, she smiles, something real and rare. “You’ll be the brave one, too-- you are.”

He doesn’t feel very brave, his stomach twisting in his middle at the thought of the strangers here, his angry father at home, university starting soon. Then again… “Well, I did say he’d ruin his tie if he waited any longer to change,” he starts, smiling himself as she chuckles. “By the way, about his meeting… does that have something to do with you?”

Celine snorts. “It takes no precognition to tell his awful manner was coming back to bite him, someday. I’ve heard people talking. It just seemed now was the time they might finally take the chance.”

“So, you aren’t actually magic?” He teases.

She smiles, her self-satisfied smile. “I didn’t say that. College will be very good to you. Here,” she continues, holding out her drink. “Try it. It’s better than the champagne.”

He does, because he knows university is rife with the stuff, and his sister won’t steer him wrong. It’s sharp, cold enough to sting, but under the zest is something sweet.

He raises the glass in salute to her, and she leaves it raised when she takes it back. She’s not going away forever, not completely, but in the meantime, he’ll take on the world. Just like she would.

--------

Gin Gimlet

50ml/2oz gin

25ml/1oz lime cordial

or 25ml/0.5oz each lime juice and simple syrup

Add ingredients to shaker with ice. Shake sharply and return to frosted martini glass.

Deceptive in its seeming simplicity, a sharp and tart drink, best served ice cold. Not the sweetest around, but strong enough to put you under-- if you aren’t careful.

#fg writes #mayor attorney #wkm celine #wkm damien #the colonel #actor mark #da y/n #wkm fic #wkm fanfiction #pincera

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