You are nervously waiting for Damien to emerge from the "seance room" with his sister. Surely this day can't get any worse.
A/N: I've had this one in the wings for a little over a year and a half, and I'm glad I could finally finish it! Set during the final chapter of Who Killed Markiplier.
Word count: 914 (I really thought this was longer!) Damien x reader (kinda). Reader is referred to as his wife, but otherwise there's no gendered language used. Reblogs are much much appreciated!
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It's been far too long since they went in that room, too long since the self-proclaimed Seer brought her twin with her to try her occult magicks once again. It was bad enough when she got the DA involved, but with your husband now the one with her, it makes that unease in your gut grow. Back and forth you had paced, anxiousness quickening your steps, but now your feet take you back down the hall, towards where you saw Damien and his sister last. You hadn’t meant to walk so far away, but whatever Celine was doing, you didn’t want to be anywhere near, despite not wanting to leave your husband behind.
There is a figure in the hall when you approach again, although you don’t notice at first, too caught up in the thoughts in your head. It takes you another moment, but that’s Damien, only just now exiting the room. You perk up, although your unease doesn’t leave you. You open your mouth to call his name, but stop in your tracks.
There is something…wrong with your husband.
You're just being silly, you think at first; the stress of Mark's death and both you and Damien being accused, followed by Celine's sudden arrival, must all be getting to your head. But, even down the hall, when he turns and looks at you…
…there isn't a drop of warmth in those honey brown eyes.
"Darling," he says, half a second too late and stilted, a belated smile forming that isn't your husband's. "What's the matter?"
The words tumble from you before you can think. "What the hell have you done with my husband?" you hiss.
"What do you mean?" He chuckles. The hairs raise on the back of your neck at the sound, both familiar but somehow entirely foreign. "It's me. It's Damien."
"The hell it is!" Your voice gets louder by the end, a slight wobble attached that you were hoping wouldn't reveal itself. "I— I don't know what happened, but you aren't Damien."
The smile on the body's face threatens to drop, but all he does is open his arms and take a step forward. "Don't be silly. I'm as much Damien as you are my wife."
The slight hesitation before calling you his wife, the way he holds himself, the other small things about him that you can't explain but all are setting off alarm bells— Whatever is happening, your husband isn't there anymore. But before you can let that sink in, another thought occurs to you. "Wh…where's Celine?"
There's no mistaking the way his expression twists, a particular ugliness to it that has no place on Damien's face. He mutters something belligerent under his breath. You take a step back, a sudden fear dropping your stomach. His head whips up, and you freeze when you make eye contact. It's almost absurd how fast that smile is plastered back on.
"She's…busy." That ire you saw on his face slips into his voice. Something tugs at the back of your mind.
"Tell me who the hell you are," you say, soft but hopefully threatening, "or I'll scream."
His face twitches. "And who will hear you?" He takes a step forward. You match it back. "The others are too busy pointing fingers to investigate."
Has it really devolved that badly? "Fine," you say. "Fine. I won’t scream, then. But, you are not my husband, and I am not your wife.”
He stops, then barks a laugh. "You really are as astute as I remember. Maybe that's one of the reasons the two of you got along. I always said you could have gone into a career alongside Damien."
Your brow furrows, a memory of a long-ago summer day resurfacing. You can so easily hear the conversation, the pleasant laughs all around. It couldn't be. "A lot of people have said that," you reply cautiously.
"Have they? Few knew the two of you as well as I did, so I highly doubt that." He huffs. “And here I just gave you credit for your smarts once again.”
Your lips suddenly feel dry. “It’s impossible, though.”
“Friend, the impossible is at my fingertips. And if you test me further, you might see firsthand."
You’re not sure what that means, but the hardness in his eyes leaves no room for guessing. There’s a horrid feeling in the pit of your stomach. “Mark…what did you do to them?”
“Just what they deserve,” he spits, not bothering to disguise his disdain any longer. “Every last one of them will get what they deserve.”
Your limbs feel like they're buzzing. Your breathing quickens, and there are pinpricks behind your eyes. Are you even in your body right now? “What did you do to my husband?”
“Look in front of your damn eyes.”
“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY HUSBAND?!”
Your desperate screaming is barely audible over the sharpness of a gunshot. You turn towards the sound, shocked out of your despair, when something taps against the back of your neck. The muscles in your legs give out, and you collapse to the ground, eyes rolling up into your head. Your vision paradoxically goes bright white, but not before spotting a strange shape, like a tendril of ivy, in the air where you once were. Your mind retreats, as if it's being pulled from your body, and the last sensation you have is your gut plummeting like a rock. You don’t even feel the tears slip down your cheeks.
Dark x female reader, but written in third person. Inspired by Mark's final (?) line from his Unus Annus anniversary video in November 2023. (I've had this sitting in my drafts for half a year.) Established relationship ("wife" used for reader), so he's evolved quite a bit from the man we've seen. Contains mentions of death (no actual dying) and angst relating to such. Would this be considered mild whump? Idk. Word count: ~1300
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It's afternoon, this time; bright, sunny, not a cloud in the sky. It’s almost too perfect, in contrast to the activity and emotions on the ground.
What a sight he must look: glamour barely in place, wisps of shadow effervescing from him as he rushes to the place where, not all that long ago, the soil was freshly turned, where reality and dirt set in. Now, grass has made the space its home, the patches from years past but a memory. Flowers perch in a holder on the headstone, preserved and immortal. He made sure of that.
They are accompanied by regular flowers, although whether from the funeral home or loved ones, he does not have any way of knowing. These look relatively fresh, and he lets himself believe it was their family. It assuages his guilt.
Dark looks human again by the time he arrives at the gravestone, once more the age he had put forth for over a hundred years—although, perhaps, aged just a little. He can't bring himself to look exactly the same, not when it's been many years since he looked young. Not when it reminds him of when he met her.
He kneels down after a few moments, a more controlled movement than one might expect after his rushing around. He worries not about his suit; even if grass stains weren’t anything more than an inconvenience for someone like him, he wouldn’t care. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here, where she is.
Was.
It is human, to grieve—it was not something he expected to affect him ever again, and certainly not in such an intense way, and absolutely not for this long. But he is nothing but intense with everything, especially regarding her.
She had not been opposed to cremation, but he, the selfish entity he is, persuaded her into a traditional burial. He couldn’t bear the thought of his wife going up in flames, even if she no longer had any need of the flesh she once occupied. He could barely bear the fact that she was gone.
He brushes his thumb over the grooves in the stone, the ones delineating her name for all who seek her. A name that once was whispered reverently, said lovingly to the one whom it belonged to. A name that once laughed often, talked and listened, one who existed with him. Who wanted him. Him.
It could have been forever. But humans are not made for forever on earth, physically or mentally. They both knew what her decision would be, long before it came time…but that didn't make it any less difficult.
He can recall so clearly her smile, worn by time but no less beautiful, as he kept her company in the waning days, and he asked her again, hoping she would change her mind, this time. That death would not let them part.
That smile of hers was melancholic and her eyes pained that he would ask this of her again. “I don’t know that I could bear it,” she said, the words the same as last time, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “It would be selfish of us, amor. Hubris, even.”
“No more pain. You will be young again.” Even as he spoke, he could feel her stubbornness through their bond. “Stay with me.”
She was trying not to cry. He hated that he made her sad. “You know I always will be.” Her hand pressed against his chest, where his heart mimicked a pulse. “Para siempre.”
Her words ring clearer than ever in his mind, as if she were saying it directly to him again; but despite its fidelity, it’s a pale imitation to actually hearing her. Just like any illusion he could conjure would be a cheap imitation of her presence; it only instead brings back the pain.
There’s a tug within his essence, separate from his emotions, that makes itself known: an unwanted urge to leave. “It’s not fair,” he mutters. The last thing he wants to do is to leave her here alone. It's the same sentiment he has every time he has to go: He could spend all eternity here, at her grave, while the world turns and crumbles. Even forever would never be enough. But the void calls him back, forcing him to return. He doesn't care anymore if he dissipates, but the pull is too strong to resist; the very fiber of his being physically does not allow him to.
Obsidian presses his hand against the stone marker, mirroring her action from years ago. He reads it over again like it was the first time, as if he is trying to memorize words that are already emblazoned into his memory. The sensation of water collecting by his eyes is welcomed.
“I will be on time next year. I promise.”
Scotched, weathered landscapes, whipped by irradiated storms, stretches as fast as the eye can see. The soil, stripped bare of even a fraction of a sign of life, nonetheless holds the little memorial, clinging to what remains as if out of stubbornness. Long ago has everything else turned to dust…except for this. This, which that entity, now more creature than man, is now greeted by; what he will be greeted by in the time to come, until the very rock and core of the planet disintegrate into shards, and then into nothingness.
He can't remember when he came here last. For him, it had been an exact year, just as it had been all the years prior, when he kept his promise each time. How could this world and its time have become so detached from his own? How could he have missed the signs?
A multitude of eyes blink down at the monument, the shadowy mass from which they originate almost melancholic, if one could assign an emotion to the form. It reaches out to the stone, an incorporeal limb passing right through it. With effort, the entity dredges up the desire to become solid and tries again, this time succeeding in making contact. He caresses the headstone, fingers—he has fingers now, subconsciously formed—tracing over the worn spaces where letters were once chiseled.
This could be his last time here. With how eroded the stone is, it's likely it doesn't have many years left in it. He doesn't want to consider that. The Dark doesn't want to consider that the last tangible piece of the one whom he loved might not be here, next time. He's lucky enough it's lasted this long, even though it was by design, but it always felt like an impossibility. But, over the course of many lifetimes, one learns that few things truly are impossible.
The wind that slams into his form ought to sting in a way only intense, constant radiation can, but he cannot feel it, despite how badly he wants to feel the pain. He is beyond it now; only physical altercations with his enemy cause him any damage, and those clashes are becoming less and less frequent. The man within must be finally, finally tiring—or maybe, that’s just him. Maybe, it’s moments like this, where memories are really becoming the only things left of the one whom he loved, that are wearing on him. What is the point anymore, after all? When vengeance is ever escaping his grasp, how much longer can he really act the part?
Long ago, he had wished he could be lain here, keeping her company, so he wouldn’t have to continue on pretending. He was able to pretend, after a while, that was exactly what happened…his own name, next to hers until the end of time, was then etched onto the very headstone that he would come to see for nearly every year for thousands of years. He allowed them to “bury” him, an inert doppleganger that disappeared once the soil had returned into the space it previously occupied. The entity once known as Darkiplier was jealous of the doppleganger, even with the brevity of its situation, because it experienced what he could not.
And now, here, in the barren wasteland, he decides he’s ready. He’s so, so damn ready. If, after this, the planet itself is no more, then why even bother?
The formless entity “kneels” down slowly, sinking heavily against the headstone, as if the weight of his many lifetimes are now weighing upon him. All the eyes shut in unison. He feels, for the briefest of moments, a small hand rest on his shoulder, then a body wrapping around his, and a peace that he hasn't felt in millennia washes over him.
A/N: You know what, sure, I'll put this one here. Also, THIS WON'T BE SITTING FOR ANOTHER YEAR!! This was started about two years ago, and I only just finished it 😅 enjoy! Remember, reblogs > likes! Thank you!
Dark is…nervous.
It's been a long time since he's felt this way; the closest he can recall is when Wilford gets overly trigger-happy at the worst of times and jeopardizes his plans, or when the man has one of his memory spells. But this…
Dark glances at the mistletoe hanging from the doorframe of his office, visible only from the inside. It’s been… Well, in another lifetime, he had attempted this tradition before and succeeded a few times, although he was much more nervous then than he is currently. Besides, times have changed. He’s a different man, now. One that he thought wasn’t so capable of something like “nervousness.” Do you even like him enough that this will work—
Nonetheless, he requested some time ago that you come to his office at your earliest convenience. He knows you won’t ignore it, because he hardly ever invites you there. If he does, it must be important. As this is. As you are.
He cannot focus on his paperwork in the interim. Instead of a refuge, it feels like an overwhelming mountain, stretching up almost indefinitely. He's not even sure why he has so much of it, a creature of the void as he is, but somehow, Wilford’s very existence comes with paperwork. The other egos cause headaches, but typically not paperwork. Not often, anyway.
And you. Somehow, you’ve managed to fit in with the craziness that is this revolving door of oddballs. It took time, but you’ve carved out your own niche, and the more aggressive of the bunch eventually stopped antagonizing you. Wilford, as was his wont, took you “under his wing,” which largely meant you’d run around doing increasingly inane errands until Dark had to step in. You weren’t built for that, after all. It was the first time he saw anything that wasn’t (fear) concern in your eyes when looking at him.
Dark sighs and shuffles some papers around. The dark wood of his desk pokes through, matched by the dreary wallpaper, black bookshelves with equally desaturated books, and dark wood flooring. It's like it's bearing down on him, suffocating him in his anxiousness instead of being a comfort. After the day he stepped in, you slowly began to spend a bit more time with him around the manor, and he found himself missing your presence on some days when you weren’t around.
Your footsteps announce your arrival far in advance, his supernatural hearing better than a human’s, and he actually has to take a deep breath to calm himself. In all honesty, the nerves wouldn't be that bad, but for him? Anything more than a little is too much.
He had discovered by way of accidentally overhearing that, despite appearances, you enjoyed the little things, especially the little romantic things. It was strange, to consider such concepts after so long, to let the idea germinate in his mind until an idea bloomed. An idea that he is still second-guessing until this very moment. He pretends to keep working until you rap on the door frame. "Dark? You asked to see me?"
"Ah, you're here." He shuffles the papers again, this time into a neat stack, acting as if everything is normal and you didn’t somehow borderline startle him. “I almost believed you wouldn’t show.”
You both know he said this on purpose; just another jab he can’t help but say. A deflection, now, habitual and not fully meant. You huff half-heartedly. “As if I wouldn’t. Can I come in?”
“Not quite yet.” He knows the anxiousness isn't evident (you’ve never seemed to notice before), but his reply is still rather quick. “We can have a discussion with you over there.”
You roll your eyes. Dark doesn't notice, too caught up in not looking at you. “Sure, real personal discussion. What even did you want to talk with me about?”
“You have been living here for quite some time now, and it looks like you will be here for quite some time longer.” His desk is tidied much too soon for his liking. “I take it everything is still satisfactory?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose so,” you reply, obviously confused. “Wilford is still…Wilford.”
“That he is. And that he will continue to be.” He’s forced to finally look up, and seeing you underneath the mistletoe is like something out of a dream: unreal. Too good to be true. Dark makes himself stand up, palms pressed firmly against the desk as if to steady himself. “If you have more trouble with him, or with anyone else, you know where to find me.”
“Oh, okay, thanks…?”
“I do think Wilford isn’t fully utilizing your talents, but he doesn’t always listen to me.” Dark finds his feet taking him forward, towards you.
“Really? You think so?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your voice, but it’s a good surprise. You didn’t think he would notice, he suspects.
“Yes. And with the days you spend in my office, we could figure out some way to harness and hone them. Maybe then, he’ll listen.”
“I mean, is it really a good idea to get in his way?”
The corner of Dark’s mouth twitches as he stops in front of you. You’re so…short, compared to him. “Well, of all people, I would be the best candidate.”
Amusement flickers into your eyes, and it makes you look that much lovelier. “I suppose you’re right. But still…”
“My dear, I think you should…aim higher. Look higher.” When you just blink at him, not picking up on his odd hint, he points upwards, towards the lintel. Your brows twitch in confusion, but you follow where he points. Your eyes catch the sprig of mistletoe, and he watches your expression as the gears turn in your mind, everything clicking into place. You look back at him in disbelief, and whether you’re aware of it or not, your cheeks are tinged with the beginnings of a blush. It makes him want to do this even more. Still, the words are not easy to say, tongue heavy in his mouth. “May I?”
You nod almost dumbly after a moment, and he brings his hand up to cup your face. It is of immense relief that you don’t recoil. If his heart still worked, it would be beating out of his chest. As it is, he can hear yours doing exactly that. It picks up as he closes the gap between you.
Dark brushes his lips against yours, the barest of touches, almost as if he's asking for permission again. When you don't pull away, he kisses you properly, surprisingly soft and chaste. (You didn't think he had it in him.) It’s over far too soon, and when he pulls back, your eyes flutter open to find him studying you. The moment is delicate, just the sound of your breathing as his eyes search yours and time seems to stretch into infinity.
All you do is lean forward a little, and you seem to fall into each other, his lips meeting yours again, this time with a bit of urgency. You, instead of retreating, accept it, pressing towards him and tentatively lifting your own hand to his cheek. The reassurance flooding Dark is immediate, prompting him to bring your body closer to him. You inhale sharply in surprise, but again don’t move away, relaxing in his embrace.
Despite the kissing lasting longer than expected, you removing your lips from his still happens much too quickly. Your face is fully flushed, now; he wonders if his cheeks convey the same.
Your voice is soft; one might call it breathless. “You had the discussion…just for that?”
“Well, I had to get you here somehow.” There’s a ghost of a toothy grin for a moment, before his face softens—actually softens, if but a little. “And I meant everything I said.”
Your eyes dart away, sheepish. “Oh…thanks…”
“How do you feel about dinner?”
Those were not words Dark expected out of his mouth, and nor did you, by the way your head whips back up toward him. “Dinner? We eat dinner at the manor all the time.”
“You know what I meant.” A genuine, small smile graces his face. “Just you and me.”
“Y-yeah.” You bite at your lip; he hears your heart rate jump up again. “That sounds…great. When?”
“Tonight, as long as everything goes according to plan.”
You give a small nod, then nod again, more definitively. “Yeah. Sounds good to me.”
“Splendid.” Dark kisses your forehead, then releases you. His arms already feel empty without you there. “I will come get you when everything is ready. I’ll see you later, darling.”
Darling. Something else that just slipped out. But it feels…right, to borrow that from the past. And, with the way you look at him after it, eyes shining with something he cannot yet fully place, perhaps he will keep calling you “darling.” And, maybe soon, his darling.
Murdock being away for about a month, month and a half and his hair has grown out, and when he comes back you're struck by how hot he looks and you convince him to keep the look (he did like it already but the way you reacted sealed the deal for him; he doesn't take much convincing but lets you think you've changed his mind)
Quiet days with Murdock are few and far between, and you cherish them all. It's especially rare that he conducts his research out in the living room, seated on the couch while your own keys softly clack away at the table. He's normally so secretive, and he doesn't even let you see his screen half the time, so it must be just casual surfing, you assume. You smile fondly at him while he's not looking. Your own web exploration beckons, and your eyes return to the screen.
The articles eventually cause your vision to blur together, and while you try and power through, eventually you have to take a break and play a little game to keep yourself sane. It's one of the built-in ones, but you find it fun, and it does the job. However, you keep noticing movement in your periphery, and it's a bit distracting. You glance up again to see Murdock pushing his hair behind his ear. As you watch, the hair comes loose easily within seconds, and he has to repeat the motion.
You frown. That won't do. Your chair scrapes softly, careful not to startle him.
Murdock hears you approach, but doesn't react like he would if it was anyone else. In fact, you actually become background noise, same as anyone else would interpret the movement. He doesn't realize you've gotten close until his hair moves away from his face and off his neck. He freezes, but not in his usual way. He doesn't need to prepare for danger.
"You know," you say, a smile evident in your voice as your fingers comb through his locks, "if you're gonna wear your hair longer, you oughta invest in some hair ties." Carefully, you hold his hair in place and wind the elastic around it, pulling it so the style will hold. "It doesn't hurt, does it?"
Murdock stares at his screen, the unfamiliar feeling of heat creeping into his cheeks, so taken aback that he almost forgets to answer in a timely manner. "No," he says, forcing himself not to choke out his words, "it feels fine."
"Good." Your lips brush softly against his cheek, hands resting on his shoulders. "You can keep that one. I've got enough of them." And far too soon, you walk back to your computer, and Murdock is left unable to focus on the words anymore. He will admit, however, that having a ponytail is much more helpful than he would have expected.
Just like you. Maybe there's more benefits to having you in his life than some fun and games, and this is just scratching the surface.
“Just don't go stealing all of mine, okay?” you call from the dining table, borderline startling him from his thoughts. He just nods. You smile warmly and return to your work, the soft tapping of keys the only sound once more.
