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Welcome to my RP Blog for my interpretation of Yancy from the Markiplier Connected Universe (AHWM/ISWM). He is out on parole, but roleplays taking place in the past are allowed at my discretion.
OC's and other fandoms welcome!!
A NEW MUSE APPEARS! Henry 'Hank' Overton, specifically in the Mob Boss Yance AU. He is one of Yancy's most trusted Lieutenants, a southern gentleman most of the time.
Iâm Mun Lola, a long-time writer and roleplayer! Pronouns are She/They. I am 28 years old. MINORS DNI
Please be warned that I have a tendency to hyperfixate on muses/aus, and my focus can fluctuate from thread to thread. I try my best to keep things balanced.
Some rules and guidelines under the cut.
1. THIS IS A MULTISHIP BLOG. That means that muses are paired with various other characters across multiple storylines that do not infringe on each other. Please do not send hate/jealousy asks in regards to his relationships if it isn't serving an ongoing storyline. They will be deleted.
2. Asks are open to anons and anyone who wants to interact who follow the rules. However, please keep in mind that I retain the right to choose what I will and will not respond to.
3. OC's and other fandoms are welcome! If you would like to RP, please reach out to me through DMs first. It's jarring to receive starters out of nowhere without knowing anything about the character or what's going on. If we are mutuals, then you are more than welcome to respond to starters and ask games. I'm always looking for more people to write with!
4. Be aware that this blog will contain mature themes and even NSFW themes. There are suggestive and smutty themes, and they will be tagged appropriately. Please DM for boundaries and questions. NSFW/Smutty blog is @late-night-cabaret
5. Every consideration will be made in tagging content appropriately. I take this very seriously, so please, if you see something that you think should be tagged a certain way, let me know!
My OC DA account is @merrick-of-violet . RP Threads will be tagged Yancy's Out And About (rp thread)
TAG LIST
yancys out and about (rp thread) - ongoing rp thread
thanks for writin' (ask) - asks sent in that I answer
thanks for writin' (answered) - reblogged asks I've sent to other blogs that were answered
always somethin' to do (ask memes) - rp ask memes to participate in
so what's it gonna be? (rp prompts) - prompts for rp starters
do queue still wanna be free? - scheduled posts in the queue
Suggestive and NSFW will be tagged as such respectively. Other tags will be used as needed such as blood tw, gore tw, knives tw, guns tw, violence tw, etc.
Oh, he's an OC I've been using on Discord. Dante Giordano. Ex-Military special forces, he ended up as a mob enforcer when he needed to make money to take care of his daughter. He's also a part of the extraction team in the spyverse and head of security in the stripperverse. His face claim is Jon Bernthal :3
I'm okay, overall. I've had a death in the family and some health things. The creepy messages have seemed to slow down around here, so I may come back at some point. When I do, I'll be starting fresh and maybe play around with my newer character Dante :3
So, the last week or so, I've been receiving a lot of random messages and anon asks that are creepy as fuck. Threats, rude comments, claiming to know my name and where I live, threatening to come find me etc etc.
Now I know they're bots, and none of the names and places make any fucking sense, but its honestly getting pretty upsetting to deal with. I report and block, but I just get more and more. As I'm writing this RIGHT NOW, at 10:37pm, I'm getting more messages.
I want to keep being here, but it's not worth the strain on my mental health. So unless anything happens to change, this will be my last post for the foreseeable future.
Does the sweet little murder baby have any interesting tales of his time as Serotonin? Preferably ones that won't make me cry
âOh yeah, Iâve got a fuck ton of good ones,â chuckling, Murdock voice echoing around his ribcage with such a hollow laugh. Stubbing out a shittly rolled cigarette into a cracked ashtray, he becomes momentarily fixated on the sudden snapping of paper and tobacco spilling out the sides. Little flecks of unsmoked tobacco sticks to his lips. Rubbing it from his face only leaves little traces, staining both fingertips and skin.
He wouldâve picked up a real pack if the sound hadnât started. That little ominous buzz in the back of his head, initiated from a little tumble down the stairs.
âMost recent, just about a month ago. Picked up a guy at the bar. Not my usual demographic for Serotonin; he was about my age, little bit shorter than me and never married. But God above, he was irritating. Travelling across the bar, trying to get laid. Right up in everyoneâs face, ripping their phones out of their hands to force his number right in.â
Such an irritating little insect, buzzing about, right in his ear.
âDonât know how I convinced him to come back with me. Got him drunk, watched him stagger right into the passenger seat,â he coughs, thumping on his chest to alleviate that itch. âWas just a big olâ box of stupid,â his voice momentarily changes, just a side effect of that irritation.
âI just couldnât wait to get my hands on him. It was so easy, he thought we were fucking, of all things. When I dragged him onto that table, he thought it was a kink.â
Scraping his tongue off with his teeth, the taste of viscera and vodka starts to saturate his tongue. He didnât usually eat Serotonin kills.
âIt was my usual. Breaking open the chest cavity, slicing out a rib for later, and starting to clean out his insides. But he wouldnât stop fucking screaming, little bastard. I reached around, got out this new little hammer I found in a thrift store. Shoe hammer. Neat little thing, smashes and pierces all in one. I just kept going until he stopped making noises.â
Sighing and settling into his chair, Murdock drops his head back. Heâd kill for a good smoke.
âI had to scrub that workshop for days. Thought Iâd have to get one of those professional crews in, the ones the mob use.â
Murdock hadnât been in that workshop for nearly three months, and it didnât need a cleaning.
âHung him up outside some dance studio. Got shut down a few months ago, donât know why.â
Due to the nature of Enzo's position, nothing really happens without it eventually reaching his ears, especially regarding business partners, former and current. The Berlusconis were his parents business partners, which holds less promise than he'd like to speak on.
So of course he hears the news of Yancy's takeover, done in a similar fashion to his own.
But he has to wonder, how is the younger man holding up under all the new pressure? He knows it can be a lot and, naturally, is a bit concerned.
Pantazis. Yancy recalls the name, former business partners with his parents. It came up less and less towards the end. Something about a power change that didn't quite align with their operations, said in a much cruder and uneducated fashion.
So Yancy is quite surprised to hear from Enzo so soon. Things are still chaotic, and some mornings he wakes up wondering if the day before had been a fucking fever dream. He was in charge of it all, the ant hill and whatever ants remained that weren't burned beneath the magnifying glass.
"Not talkin' to him will make things worse," Hank says as he holds out the phone, stating the fucking obvious. They're all learning, though, aren't they?
Yancy takes a breath. Another. Calls on something from a time that feels like a decade ago when it's barely been two years. The show must go on. The curtain opens.
He takes the phone and holds it to his ear, pondering the offered question like a man who has all the confidence in the world even as his hand shakes. A vague memory about flowers on opening night. "Goin' as well as it can, y'know? Cleanin' house ain't ever easy... lotta spots can get overlooked. But I'm thorough."
He glances at Hank to gauge his reaction, certainly not for reassurance. His eyebrows raise in surprise, and he might even be impressed. Good.
"I appreciate you checkin' in, Mr. Pantazis. Was there anythin' else you'd like to discuss?"
đ± + Sheâs sitting in the front row, smiling up at the stage as the curtain pulls across. Donovan told her that he would be in the show tonight, neither of his parents would bother coming. Yancy couldnât tell them anything. One or two of his friends would be at the show each night, but she was the one for the opening. A video recorder in one hand, flowers in the other.
Colette simply couldnât stand the idea of someone missing the opening night. Not for one of her boys.
âOh pumpkin!â she cries as she finds her way backstage, heels clacking against the tiles floors. A lady of extremely short stature, barely at the five foot three (plus two centimetres) mark. âCome and give me a hug pumpkin, these are for you. You did so well!â
@murdersinthemaking
It was just the norm for Yancy at this point. Whenever he had a show, a friend or two would show up and watch. As much as he tried to tell them that they didn't have to, they actually insisted that they enjoyed it. It was hard for him to believe, but he didn't press the issue for very long. Never admitting out loud that he liked them being there but still thanking them.
So when he catches sight of Donovan's mom on the opening night of Beauty and the Beast, his heart threatens to pound right out of his chest onto the worn wooden stage. She makes him... feel things. The kind of things that he can't look too long at, or else he wants to crawl out of his skin. But still... he's thankful she's there.
He performs his role as the titular Beast, losing himself in it as always. The briefest escape from his life that's otherwise been laid out before him in blood and violence. And when he's backstage after the show, still on the high of applause and cheering, he hears the familiar nickname.
Yancy isn't sure why she calls him pumpkin, but he's not complaining.
"Miss Mathis?" He rumbles, staring at the flowers like she's holding out a bag of precious gems. He's never... no one has ever brought him anything after...
He swallows hard past the sudden tightness in his throat as he takes them, hand much shakier than it was a minute ago. Tears threaten and sting, and it's physically impossible to say anything else in that second, so he stoops down to wrap one arm around her... then the other. "Um... thank you, ma'am," he rasps.
The flowers go into a glass pitcher in his room when he gets home.
TW: mentions of human trafficking, mentions of sex trafficking, mentions of kidnapping children, child abuse, homophobic language, blood, gore, murder (patricide and matricide)
2,233 words x.x
âBoy! Get in here now!â
Whenever Anthony called him into the kitchen, it was never good news.
It meant that his father had something that needed to be done, and Yancy knows well enough by now that it wasnât to mow the lawn or take out the trash. No, this would involve the family business and a particular task that the old fuck decided to torture his son with this week. Another reason why it was always the kitchen, he soon found out; refusal meant that any number of knives and meat cleavers could be used against him like a fucking thanksgiving turkey.
Yancy strides in, steel in his spine, and barely concealed hatred in his eyes. Showing anything else could make Anthony snap like an old rubber band. He grins sadistically from where he sits at the kitchen table. His mother stands at his side, and she could have been beautiful if she didnât have the same dead look in her eyes as her husband.
âSit.â Anthony points at the other end of the table like heâs commanding a dog. Yancy complies, if only it means that he can be given the job and get away from them as soon as possible. âBig changes are cominâ for our operations, boy. And since you havenât been completely useless lately, Iâm givinâ you an opportunity to prove yourself.â
Lucky me. It takes Herculean effort to keep the words to himself, and Yancy only nods in response. But it doesnât stop goosebumps from breaking out over his body, dread sinking to the deepest pits of his stomach. Somethingâs off. Heâs seen many sides of his father, all of them dark and sadistic. Right now, heâs⊠giddy. Manic. Somehow, itâs more terrifying.
âTomorrow night, you and a group of guys are goinâ to the fair thatâs cominâ to the next town over.â
Yancy blinks, dumbfounded. Of all the jobs heâs done, heâs never been ordered to attend a fair. What, are they going to fucking rob it? Wouldnât it be crowded? âThis yer way of givinâ me a night off or somethinâ?â Itâs out before he can stop it, and he manages not to flinch.
Anthonyâs fist flexes so tightly that Yancy wouldnât be surprised if the gaudy gold rings snapped in half and flew across the room. âYouâre lucky Iâm in such a good fuckinâ mood, Junior. Iâll tell you what youâre goinâ there forâŠâ
What his father proceeds to tell him only proves just how much of a monster he truly is.
âYouâre gonna use that pretty face and smart mouth of yours to charm some lovely little flowers into coming with you and the others.â He pauses, grinning when he sees that Yancy still doesnât get it. âOr, get them outta sight and use force if you have to. Youâll be given parameters to follow for looks and whatnot because certain things will be worth more money when we sell them to the highest bidder.â
When⊠what?
All the air leaves Yancyâs lungs like heâs been holding it in for hours. The look of utter horror on his face must please the older man greatly if his sickening chuckle is anything to go by. He could handle breaking and entering, he could handle fighting and fuck heâs even killed a few people at this point, but this? Sweat beads along his hairline and he can feel what he had for dinner threatening to make a reappearance.
Selling people. The demon sitting across from him wants to start fucking selling people. Innocent people. The microscopic solace he could ever hide in is that most of the people heâs hurt weâre just as bad as he is.
âI donâtâŠâ Yancyâs voice is cracked, no moisture remaining in his mouth as he swallows hard and tries again. âYou want me to kidnap innocent women so we can sell them off.â It's less of a question and more of a reaffirming statement about the nightmare heâs found himself in.
âYeah. Well, women, to start with⊠I hear kids are even more valuable.â He glosses over that addition quickly while Yancy has to try not to gag. âAnd hey, that sissy actinâ shit of yours from high school will come in handy, too. You may just be more useful to me after all.â Wouldnât be dear old dad if he couldnât get in some kind of jab about his extracurriculars. Now that Yancy is barely nineteen, the old fuck is ecstatic that those distractions are no more.
Everything tunnels into this one moment. His stomach drops like heâs on the edge of a precipice and desperately trying to decide if heâs going to fall into the murky depths, or to his hands and knees so he can claw his way to some kind of less fucked reality. Heâs done everything theyâve asked of him up to this point, even if he felt a bit of his soul die each time until all that was left resembled a wisp of smoke after a candle was blown out.
He wouldnât let them take it from him.
âNo.â He answers firmly as he stares directly into the black void of Anthonyâs eyes. The look on Yancyâs face must give him pause because he sees the flash of genuine concern before it's snuffed out by rage. It pleases him.
âWhat the fuck did you just say?â
âI. Said. No.â Yancy forces out again, his own anger and fear mixing into something that has his entire body trembling.
For a split second, everything slows down before quickly being kicked into hyperspeed, and the table between them is suddenly being tossed to the side like itâs made out of cardboard. Yancy barely has time to get to his feet before he can feel the calloused hands of his father wrap around his neck and squeeze. Fat fuck was always faster than he looks.
âDonât hit him in the face, Tony!â His mother calls out shrilly. Ice invades his heart when he immediately knows she isnât concerned with his safety, but the worry that any bruises or cuts on his âpretty faceâ would make luring innocent victims more difficult.
âWouldnât dream of it,â Anthony spits through clenched teeth as his grip tightens. âIâve had just about enough of your fucking bullshit, Junior. Just when it looked like you were gonna actually fall in line⊠maybe I should sell you to a new master, huh? Youâd probably fucking love that.â
Yancy gasps for air as he claws at Anthonyâs arms. Past experience tells him that fighting back only resulted in the beatings being worse, to the point where he would have to spend days in his room to recuperate. The only advantage this monster has is expecting him to yield to avoid that punishment.
Not this fucking time.
Something snaps inside of him, the last frayed end of his rope finally giving out completely, and with all the might he can muster, Yancy raises his boot and aims a kick directly to his assailant's knee. Roaring with pain and anger, he releases his neck and drops to the floor on his other knee, only for Yancy to kick him square in the chest to knock him down.
His heart is pounding, ribs straining to stop it from bursting out of his chest and onto the ugly linoleum floor, and he grabs the first thing he sees. A butcher's knife sticks out of the knife block. Backing away, eyes crazed like a cornered animal as he looks between them and holds the knife out in front of him.
His mother has sprung into action, her focus being on her husband writhing in agony on the ground. Yancy has reached his full height by now, and heâs in better shape than the older man by a long shot. Heâs never fought back with full force until this very moment, whatever restraint he possessed before being torn away. Yancy would be grinning like a maniac if he wasnât trying to focus past the blood rushing between his ears.
Years of abuse and ridicule fuel him, unlocking the cage to the beast that resides deep inside of him. Itâs been beaten and prodded through the bars long enough, and now it wants blood. The hand holding the knife is shaking, but not from fear. Not anymore. âFuckinâ monsters⊠you think I would help you start somethinâ like that?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!â Even though there is a lack of fear, his voice still trembles as he mourns what he never had.
A childhood⊠a normal childhood with parents that loved him. Something they would so easily rob from others just for a fucking payday.
The answer heâs met with is laughter. Deep and hollow, echoing straight from the pits of hell itself. And his father just stares at him. âWho says it hasnât already started?â He responds coldly.
It feels like the floor drops out from under him, but somehow, he manages to keep his footing. That sentence reverberates inside of his skull, and an icy chill cascades down his body. He wasnât the only beast in the room, and the realization of what he has to do hits him like a freight train. It would never stop. He could escape from them and live on the run, using everything heâs learned to try and piece together a life outside of them.
But then what? They keep hurting people who donât deserve it. They get worse. He could pray to whatever exists that their enemies would stack against them and kill them off.
Yancy wasnât good; his family made sure of that. But a deep part of him thrived in the violence, and whether that's because his parents beat that into him or he was cursed from the moment he was born, it didnât matter. He has his own set of fucked morals, and with the next several decisions he makes⊠he would have to come to terms with that.
This time, when he stares at Anthony Berlusconi Sr., the concern doesnât melt away in an instant. Because heâs staring into another set of dead eyes that only show him his doom.
Yancyâs legs slowly carry him forward, and it feels like he isnât even in control of them. Like the Devil himself has a grip on his shoulders, guiding him to the greatest purpose he can have. And before the monster heâs set to vanquish can utter another word, his arm is slashing out and slicing his throat open. The blood that splatters on his arms is lava against skin gone cold, but it only fuels him as Anthony clutches at his own neck.
His mother screams. She may even beg, but the roaring in his head blocks it out as he repeats the motion once more, crimson splattering against the cabinets. He should feel something, shouldnât he? Itâs like a dream, hazy around the edges and tunneled onto their panicked bodies. Watching his parents bleed out on the floor, desperately searching their expressions in their last moment for something heâs not even sure of.
Then⊠he knows why he doesnât feel a damn thing. Thereâs no remorse for what theyâve done to him, the pain and agony theyâve caused him and others. No regret for what they chose to do with their lives. Only shock and anger that this is how they are going out flickers in their eyes. All at the hands of a son they never wanted for anything other than carrying on their brutal legacy.
By the time his vision comes back to him from the murky darkness, the bodies have been cleaved and cut until they are unrecognizable, and his throat feels like he ate sandpaper. Raw from screaming. He canât⊠be here anymore. He has to move, fucking move, Yance. He searches Anthonyâs body for his cell phone, surprised that it managed not to get split into pieces. Fingers slide against the device, too wet with blood to type anything.
He has to leave. Now.
He takes the cleaver and phone and leaves everything else behind. This was the house he grew up in, but it wasn't the only place that belonged to the family.
Personal belongings didn't matter to him now; everything inside is tainted just as surely as the kitchen is coated in the blood of his parents. What better way to cleanse it than with fire?
He finds a canister of gasoline in the garage and douses everything he sees as he enters the house for the last time, paying special attention to the kitchen. When he gets to the car, he's lighting a cigarette and doesn't even hesitate to toss the match onto the accelerant on the cement floor.
And as he speeds off in his car and watches the flames begin to grow in his rear view mirror, he stares at the man looking back at him. No more mourning what he never had, no more living in fear. His path would be forged in blood and fealty. If he couldn't vanquish the entirety of the evil, then it would bend to his fucking will.
Staring up at the massive building that is the main base of their operations, he knows the night is just beginning.
It really sucks to have zero desire to do a thing that you love. But being sick for the third time in two months, dealing with some personal issues, and watching the US descend further into a dumpster fire, I'm left drained and impotently furious.
I'm not bouncing back like I did before, so as of right now, all blogs are in hiatus. I'm sorry for things I'm leaving unfinished. I don't know when I'll be back. I really don't want to say 'if I'll be back' but I just don't fucking know anymore.
Yancy only hums in response to his reasoning, and... sure, it makes sense. Their family is larger, more organized than his had ever been when he took over. Deep brown eyes flick from Aaron's face to where he touches his arm, over the tattoo there.
Beneath the tattoo, a few scars, circular and slightly raised. About the same size as the lit end of a cheap cigar.
"That's why it was more than just the uncle," he murmurs before he's looking at Aaron again. His gaze is intense, but his face remains carefully neutral before a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. "But yeah... don't really see you bein' less of a pain in the ass, either."
"I can be more of a pain in your ass," Aaron leers, then laughs again. Yeah, that's never going to happen. And he doesn't really want it to, either. He's happy with their current dynamic.
Fuck, his head never feels right after one of Adrian's little power displays.
"I could unleash Ace on the city," he tells the ceiling quietly, "but then we'd all be dead, and that sounds fucking boring, doesn't it?"
Yancy laughs too because yeah, that's never going to happen. A special circumstance he can't even begin to fathom would need to happen before he ever considered bottoming.
"Yeah. Mindless violence can only do so much." Although even as he says it, he's sure their viewpoints on that differ greatly. He goes quiet for a moment, tilting his head in contemplation.
Then he reaches over and runs his hand through Aaron's hair, blunt nails scraping along his scalp. Not hard or anything, almost like he's seeing how he will react.
Yancy scarcely moves or breathes as he watches Aaron. He's known almost since the moment they met that he has his... issues. Fuck, don't they all, though? Just from what he did to his brother...
No. He doesn't need more of a headache right now.
But besides all that, looking at Aaron now... he can relate to one thing in particular. And his advice and experience with family that's abusive is extreme. And he's not Aaron's fucking therapist, either.
"That's real fucked up," he responds after a moment, leaning forward, forearms on his thighs. "Why d'you put up with it?"
Aaron turns his head to look at Yancy, blinking owlishly for a moment. "Is it?" He wonders, shrugging just to feel the skin pull and burn. "It's not that bad."
Why does he put up with it? "Well, the fuck else am I supposed to do? Guess I could be less of a thorn in his side, but then life wouldn't be nearly as fun." He chuckles and reaches out, fingers tracing an invisible pattern on Yancy's arm. "They hold all the cards," he drawls, "and I like breathing."
"This isn't a random uncle I can just kill and bam, problem solved," he adds, winking at the mob boss. Adrian's the heir. He's the boss, in the end.
Yancy only hums in response to his reasoning, and... sure, it makes sense. Their family is larger, more organized than his had ever been when he took over. Deep brown eyes flick from Aaron's face to where he touches his arm, over the tattoo there.
Beneath the tattoo, a few scars, circular and slightly raised. About the same size as the lit end of a cheap cigar.
"That's why it was more than just the uncle," he murmurs before he's looking at Aaron again. His gaze is intense, but his face remains carefully neutral before a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. "But yeah... don't really see you bein' less of a pain in the ass, either."
