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The End of Things
(just a quick thought i had to write out!)
Word Count- 450
Request?- Nope!
Summary- One possibility of the end of the road. Though it seemed unlikely for there to be any others...
Tag List- @cookielover0001010 , @swag-droid , @watchoutforfrostbite
Warnings- Descriptions of gore, off screen character death
You find him exactly where you thought he'd be. Sitting in the ruined office, not his own but the original owner wasn't around to mind, staring down at the corpse.
To call the body human wouldn't be entirely wrong but it wasn't the right word to describe it. The blood had blackened and congealed and reflected the sickly moonlight back at you. Flesh was papery thin and flaking away like dust. Whatever bones might've been human once were cracked and twisted in unnatural ways. It was altogether a horrible, almost pitiful creature.
The man didn't react as you entered. In his hand was a glass of whiskey, the dregs forgotten in favor of whatever he was trying to glean from the gore in front of him. He hardly even blinked.
"You know," he says, making you pause in your approach, "no one ever thought about it."
"About what?" You asked. The whole scene made you uneasy despite the fact that the danger, the fighting had long since passed.
"Death. Dying." He gestures to the body, "Least of all him, I know. There was no one else, no where else, outside of this whole debacle. And for what? Now I've got to clean up this mess and…"
He trailed off. You suspected there wasn't anything else to follow that. Still, you had to ask.
"What will you do now?"
A short, hallow bark of a laugh. He still wasn't looking away from the corpse. As the man stood, you nearly stepped back. Your hesitation, your fear, went unnoticed. Swirling his glass for a moment, you watched as the man poured out the last few sips of liquor onto the body. It soaked through the tissue paper flesh and tattered clothing. It wouldn't surprise you if most of it reached the carpet underneath.
"Who knows," he says, an odd sort of cheer to his voice, "maybe I'll find a new villain to write into the story. That would be fun. Someone with the same sort of… ego as he had. Yes, that's a must. Either way, the show must go on and all that."
When Mark looked at you then, you didn't see the man. Behind those eyes was something altogether… else. Whatever had molded his body and soul into what stood before you now. It seemed… sated.
"I'll save a seat for you."
All you could do was nod as Mark pushed past you, wandering off into the bowles of the building. That just left you and the remains. The end of the story felt… wrong, somehow. But in the end you supposed it was always going to lead here. One way or another, everyone ends up rooting for the hero.
Could we maybe see some friendly fluff between the DA and Eric? Like maybe a flashback or something of how they met/interact? 🖤
Healing Tea and Yellow Handkerchiefs
A/N
Oh I had fun with this one. I came back to the Iplier egos for Dark but good lord did I stay for Eric, he’s my sweet man. A darling boy. I love him so and will take absolutely any chance to write him. Eric Derekson Supremacy!
Also, I must confess that my guilty pleasure is Eric x Reader x Dark poly fics and there should be more.
Summary: Shortly after they settled into the manor, the former DA meets Eric Derekson. This is a short fic describing their initial meeting and the incident briefly mentioned in Fractured, which cemented their friendship. Soft platonic fluff between the DA and our favourite anxious boy.
Word Count: 1,310
The manor was so fucking noisy all the time. With so many egos living together, that was to be expected. Especially with the more eccentric ones like William -- Wilford, they had to remind themselves he was called now -- Bim, the Jims and even Yancy. Though Yancy wasn't as annoying as the others, nor was he as... in your face. He did have a habit of putting together musicals and annoying Illinois which made it very hard to relax sometimes. Today was one of those days. The former DA was still trying to settle into the manor, combing over some of Mark's videos Dark had given them to look into. Illinois and Yancy were bickering about something they didn't care about and it was gradually escalating until the two were full-blown shouting. They dragged their eyes up from their laptop, looked between the two.
And finally decided to move elsewhere.
Gathering up their laptop and notepad, they turned to stalk out of the room and find somewhere quieter to work where they hoped the irritation burning inside them would settle. They hadn't gotten but two halls away from the sitting room they had been in before they turned a corner and crashed right into someone. Stumbling back, they flailed to ensure they didn't drop their laptop and in trying to save the tech, their notebook was launched off into the fucking void. Never to be seen again, forever lost under the furniture. They stared after it mournfully but then sighed. They'd just have to use a WordPad document or something.
"I-I'm so s-sorry!" A voice squeaked in front of them. They turned their gaze away from where their notepad had gone careening off, then down to find that while they had managed to stay on their feet, the person they had crashed into had not been so fortunate. Another one of Mark's egos he'd created and dumped, though not one they had met yet. He seemed smaller than the others, wearing a pair of skewed glasses and a black button-down that had floral patterns all over it. The shirt was tucked into a pair of black slacks. In his hands, he clutched a yellow cloth which he was twisting and fiddling with nervously. "This is a-all my f-fault, oh... o-oh n-no. I'm s-so... S-orry," He stammered, nervously looking around as if waiting for some big monster to come out and tear him to shreds.
They blinked and then suddenly felt any remaining anger at being ran into dissipate. "Hey, look it's fine," They began carefully, holding their laptop against their chest with one arm and reaching out with the other in an offer to help him up. "What's your name?" They asked slowly, watching as the timid man seemed to fiddle with his cloth more as he stared at their hand then finally jolted - as if remembering he was on the floor - and took it. His hands were clammy but they didn't care as they tugged him back up to his feet.
"U-uh, E-Eric. Derekson. E-eric Derekson," He responded, softly, back to fiddling with that cloth. "Wh-what's uh... What's y-yours?" He asked a few seconds later. They told him their name and watched as he carefully repeated it, then they did something for probably the first time since they'd crawled out of that mirror. They smiled. It was small, reassuring, and paired with a gentle pat on Eric's shoulder that left him staring at them as they brushed past.
"It was nice to meet you, Eric. I have to get back to work but I'll see you around," They told him with their best attempt at a friendly smile, figuring the nervous man needed it. His cheeks went red and he frantically nodded his head.
"Y-yeah! S-see you, uh, see y-you a-around." They continued on their way then, in search of that quiet corner to work in.
- - - -
Funnily enough, it was that same quiet corner where they next met Eric and their dynamic changed. Following their first meeting, they tried their best to smile and nod at him whenever they saw him, Eric was probably the least irritating of the mansion's residence - next to Host. He usually was following around another man named Derek, who they had quickly learnt was Eric's father. He would shyly wave whenever he saw them but other than that, they hadn't interacted since that first encounter.
It was... a bad pain day. They'd crawled out of their room just fine but as the day progressed the pain that was always there just got worse and worse until finally, they'd snuck away to go find their corner. It was a dim room nobody else seemed to use; looked like another sitting room but it was smaller and none of the others ever came in here. They'd found it after running into Eric and now it was where they always dragged themselves when they wanted to be away from the others. They slumped down onto the carpeted floor, pulling their knees up to their chest and shuddering as the pain flared again. Their form fragmented, creating doubles who writhed and silently screamed before jumping back together. They were so focused on the pain that they hadn't noticed the nervous man who had followed them, worried.
Not until there was a timid call of their name. They jolted, tilted their head up to look and quickly found Eric stood awkwardly in the doorway. He was still holding that yellow handkerchief which he twisted around his fingers. "A-are you... o-okay?" He asked, shifting from foot to foot as he hovered nervously over the threshold.
They grit their teeth against another jolt of pain that made their form crack. "No," They pushed out, no point in lying now. Eric could clearly see they weren't okay. Though even just the confirmation seemed to make him panic more.
"O-oh, oh, sh-should I, uh, should I-I go get s-someone? Uh! U-uh! Dr I-Iplier? D-Dark?" Even just hearing his name was enough to make them recoil and sneer, which caused Eric to jolt. "N-not Dark! G-got it, r-right, d-definitely not D-Dark!" He rushed out, tripping over his words more.
They forced themselves to take a breath. "Eric, it's fine. I don't want you to get anyone," They told him slowly, "I'm fine. This is... normal." They flinched, tensed up and shuddered as their form cracked, shifting until it was like they were being viewed through a broken mirror. The pieces not lining up properly. That seemed to be what encouraged Eric to turn and scurry out of the room, saying something that they couldn't catch because it was too rushed and jumbled. They watched him go, then sighed deeply. They figured he must have just been spooked and left it at that.
It made his return five minutes later all the more surprising. Eric walked in, clutching a mug with both hands that he was watching carefully to assure he didn't spill a drop. He slowly made his way over to them. "I-I got you tea!" He exclaimed, sounding so damn determined and proud that they couldn't even bring themselves to be annoyed at the company that seemed to be settling with them. "M-mom a-always used to h-have tea when s-she was ill, I-I know it's... i-it's not th-the same b-but-"
"It's okay," They cut him off gently, sensing an anxious ramble coming along, "thank you, Eric." He blushed once more but handed them the mug which they carefully took, bringing it close to gently blow on the liquid to cool it while Eric sat next to them. They sipped at their tea quietly then, feeling themselves begin to relax as some of the pain lessened as well. They hadn't wanted anyone to find their room but... if it was Eric they supposed that was okay.
I Don’t Wanna Be Free (1/?): Introductions
I....wrote a reader insert...yes it’s Yancy/Reader, yes it’s going to be multiple chapters, please don’t shame me lmao (but also special shout-out to the bestie @photiniainsummer for encouraging me to write and post this <3 )
Pairing: Yancy/reader Chapter 1/? Word count: 1,939 Summary: Following the events of WKM, the DA has broken out of the Mirror and is begrudgingly working with Mark. With his inane idea to steal an artifact from the museum, the DA is left to deal with the fallout in prison. However, one prisoner's (eventual) kindness may end up stealing the DA's poor heart.
You can also read it on AO3!
If you hadn’t previously died and had your body hijacked by people you thought were friends, today would contend for one of the worst days of your life. Somehow Mark had convinced you (you, former District Attorney) to plan a heist to steal some kind of relic from a museum. You didn’t even know what the relic was, just that it was kept in a mysterious box engraved with strange symbols, and that Mark wanted it really bad. Now you were in jail alone thanks to Mark and his tendency to run his big mouth, something that had only gotten worse since you met him in college.
Before you even have the chance to process the fact that Mark is gone (not dead, neither of you can stay dead anymore), you’re being whirled away as the lights change and a gravelly voice with a stereotypical greaser accent starts crooning to you about the joys of prison life.
It’s too much to process. If you were in your right mind, you’d probably appreciate the musicianship and panache of the performance more. But as it stands, you’re on the edge of a breakdown. As the lights come back up and the music ends, you’re about ready to jump out of your skin.
“So...do youse still wanna be free?” The man in front of you asks. The sleeves of his t-shirt are rolled up, clearly showing off the amount of tattoos on his arms, as well as the decent size of his biceps. Despite the seemingly warm welcome, you hear the challenge in his voice and feel the hostility in the air as the rest of the prisoners size you up along with their apparent leader.
“I-I don’t want any trouble-” You try to muster, before your voice gives out and he shoots you a glare laden with venom.
“Oh, now youse don’t want any trouble huh? Shoulda thought about that before your buddy started demandin’ respect he hadn’t earned. You one a them familial types, huh? Too good for prison?” His voice is raising, the anger apparent as he rants at you about family being a burden, talking about his father’s judgement and something about being from Ohio.
Your nerves are still shot and your thoughts are frazzled trying to decipher his ranting, and you don’t even blink before you feel the first punch land on your cheek. Really? You weren’t even the one talking about escaping! Stupid Mark, still getting you in trouble and leaving you to clean up his mess.
There’s not much time to think as the punches keep coming. The other prisoners have formed a ring around the two of you as you exchange blows. The first few hits he got in had left your head spinning a bit, and as the prisoners chant his name (something like Nancy?), something snaps inside of you.
Later, you’ll feel bad for fighting back so hard. A century’s worth of anger and emotions built up, all the moments dealing with Mark, and the total of everything happening today leaves you with adrenaline coursing through your veins. You may have gone a little hard with your punches, but with your bruised cheek stinging and blood flowing from your split lip, you care very little right now.
With one final hit to the jaw, the poor guy is laid wiped out on the floor, looking at you dazedly. The other prisoners, however, are furious. They’re already approaching you and you know it’s not possible to take them all on (not alone, not without Dames). Your eyes are clenched shut as you expect the incoming impact that - never happens?
The poor guy has got himself up, with the support of some of the other prisoners, and he’s saying something to you. You can’t tell, the blood is rushing in your ears and you swear you’re not going to cry. He’s looking at you with a question in his gaze and something almost fond. His face is red and you swear you didn’t think you hit him that hard but -
“Yoo hoo, youse in there? I said, if youse still wanted to leave, youse got my- our help. No one’s ever actually beat me in a fight, and I can see youse got a spirit that can’t be kept locked in here. It’s too late for us, but not for you. So whadaya say?” He’s nervous. He’s holding his hand out to shake and his gaze is shifting around to look at the other prisoners, unable to hold eye contact with you.
He wants to help?
“Y-you want to help?” You ask, disbelieving. Something in your tone must set him off a bit because he’s not nervous anymore, he’s defensive and he’s starting to pull his hand away.
“I mean, if youse don’t want my help, fine, whatever.” He scoffs as you shake your head. That’s not what you meant! Feeling the words get stuck in your throat, your shaking hand darts forward to grasp his before he can fully pull away. He looks at you surprised, glancing between your hands and your face. There’s a tense moment before he cracks a crooked smile that makes his eyes crinkle and oh- that suits him much better than the scowl he’d been sporting before.
The other prisoners cheer and gather around you, patting you on the back with a camaraderie that was all but absent until now. The emotional whiplash leaves your head reeling as you look around at everyone and try to keep up with the voices overlapping. The cheerful chatter around you and the pats on your back come to a halt as the doors to the cafeteria bang open, a heavy set of footsteps following and getting closer. You only got a quick glance at the Warden when you and Mark came in, you were too busy glaring daggers at your idiot-in-crime, but now you get a full view of the Warden and you can’t believe it, it’s-
“Abe?” His name is a breath on your lips as the Detective, your partner who should be dead, stands in front of you. He’s missing his hat, replaced with a pair of glasses on the end of his nose, and he’s wearing a different suit, but it’s him. Recognition flashes in his eyes before they narrow and his frown deepens.
“Yancy. In my 15 years as Warden, a fight has never broken out here at Happy Trails Penitentiary. So why does it appear to me that one has happened today?” He questions the prisoner - Yancy - as he glances at you. Yancy is stumbling over his words and Abe’s the Warden’s patience is running out.
“It was my fault, Warden. I- I was feeling overwhelmed and- and I lashed out when he tried to talk to me. I’m sorry for causing trouble and for not, for not dealing with my emotions in a, in a…” Your voice finally peters off, the most you’ve spoken in a long time ending with a strangled noise in your throat. Your hands are shaking even worse now and you can finally feel the adrenaline leaving your body. You’re exhausted, and terrified of what the Warden will do. The tension is palpable as he clearly thinks of what to say to you.
“Well, seeing as this is your first offense, and you’re clearly in a bad sort right now, I’ll let you off with a warning.” Your shoulders heave in relief at that. “But don’t you dare think about causing no more trouble ‘round here, alright? I don’t wanna be puttin’ your pretty and/or handsome face in solitary confinement, ya hear?”
There it was. That stupid “and/or” compliment. What was happening? Was this actually Abe? Your thoughts are trying to keep up, but nothing is processing as you watch the Warden address Yancy. You think you make out something about an infirmary before Yancy grabs your arm in a gentle grip and leads out of the cafeteria down a hallway.
“W-where..?” You croak out, knowing your verbal threshold is just about full. You can only hope Yancy won’t get too frustrated with you going non-verbal on him as you try and communicate with him.
“Warden asked me to swing by da infirmary to get stuff to fix us up. Youse did a real number on me, but youse’s looking worse than I am.” He explains, brow furrowed in concern as he looks over your bruised face.
The short trip is completed in silence, something you’re grateful for. Taking stock of the situation makes you realize just how hectic the last couple of days months years decades have been, and you feel even more dead on your feet than usual. You’re pulled out of your thoughts when Yancy stops the two of you in front of an open door, gently rapping his knuckles against it.
“Hey Doc, jus’ stoppin’ by ta grab some supplies an’ get dis one’s head checked out.” He says to the guard looking up from their desk. Doc’s eyes widen at the state of your face; you’re sure it resembles a Jackson Pollock of bruises and dried blood. They’re grabbing a penlight and walking towards you before you register the words leaving their mouth.
“-I didn’t think their injuries would be this severe, Yancy! Did you hit them with a chair?” There’s a hand holding your face gently and the light is being shined in your eyes, something that brings back old memories from your college days (“You got hit hard Dames, we gotta check for concussions-”).
“We got a little carried away, what can I say? Frankly I’m insulted you’re not as concerned about me, I’m the one who got knocked out.” Yancy responds indignantly, but a smile in his voice and on his face. Doc waves their hand at him as they pull back from you and grab medical supplies.
“I don’t need to worry about you Yancy, you’re so hardheaded, I don’t think anything could give you a concussion.” They respond with a chuckle. They’re handing Yancy a small basket of bandages and what looks like antibiotic creams as they walk back over to you.
“Alright, you don’t have a concussion, it looks like you just have some superficial injuries and bruising. Yancy here will take you back to your room and fix you right up, won’t you Yancy?” At that Doc turns to meet Yancy’s eye, a gentle threat and tension in their question.
“‘Course I will Doc, would I ever let youse down?” He answers boastfully, shrugging off Doc’s admonishing glare. He gently grabs you by the arm again as he steers you out of the office, throwing a wave behind him at Doc. Looking over at him, you work up the energy to ask him the most immediate question on your mind as you walk down the hallway.
“Um, w-where…where are we going?” You ask quietly. He turns to look back at you and gives you a reassuring smile.
“Well, since yer pal is, let’s say, indisposed at the moment, youse gonna be roomin’ with me. So that’s where we’re off to! And don’t youse worry yer pretty and/or handsome head about it, we gots some sweet digs if I say so myself.” He answers, gently ruffling your hair in a way that leaves your face warm and your stomach fluttering gently. You nod in acknowledgment as your tongue ties and another wave of exhaustion hits you. Yancy’s gentle grip on your shoulder (did he put it there after he ruffled your hair?) keeps you steady as you continue down the hallway to your shared cell.
A Forgotten Kind of Sound
Pairing- Reader/Darkiplier
Word Count- 979
Request?- Yes!
Summary- Time passed. In this in between place like you were it tended to pass at a crawl. You try to occupy yourself with memories of music you hadn’t heard in decades and not the man who was so entangled in all of them.
Tag List- @cookielover0001010 , @swag-droid , @watchoutforfrostbite
You thought sometimes that you liked music once. Back when you were a whole person. When you had eyes and ears to take it all in, a mouth to smile. A warm hand to brush against someone else's. Yes, you thought you loved music.
Had loved it, anyway.
In the following years (it hadn't been just years it had been decades) you learned not to dwell on things you couldn't have. It didn't do you any good.
There was no sound wherever you were now. Not even your own voice. Sometimes you wondered if you even remembered that clearly. The lovely tinkling of piano keys was a bit fuzzy now. As were most of your favourite songs. What you'd used to try and play in your mind over and over, just to pass the time, was less certain now. Were you forgetting a verse? None of it sounded right.
It almost felt worse than dying did. Especially since you hardly listened to them alone. A clenching feeling over where your heart would've been. Right, don't dwell.
The point being you couldn't be sure what most things sounded like anymore. A few scattered noises made it through the mirror, sure. Creaks and groans from the skeleton of the mansion settling around you. An all mighty crash as one of the front windows broke. The clap of thunder overhead. Rain, a torrent, beating against the roof.
Those came and went with no real meaning. At the very least you could still rely on sight. The mirror might be dull but it wasn't cracked, not yet.
You could still see out of it even now. See men moving hulking wrecks of furniture out of the mansion door in front of you. They had cleaned up the broken glass and debris already. Rotten floorboards were still being ripped up. Outside you could just barely glimpse what must've been the biggest truck you'd ever seen, a giant metal box on wheels.
How long had it been? Were they finally doing something with the place? You had pressed yourself close to the glass, as far as it allowed, drinking in the sight of so many new faces. No one seemed to notice you. Not even when a couple of people hauled off the dresser sitting in front of you.
The curiousity quickly soured when they turned their attention to the mirror. You begged and pleaded, staring in horror as they drew out a large cloth sheet. No one heard you as the mirror was taken from the wall. As it was wrapped securely in the thick fabric.
Your world very abruptly went dark.
No sound. No sight. No sensation. You couldn't tell what they were doing. Not even the faintest hint of light was able to sneak through.
Nothing.
You drifted for a while. Time was already a tenuous concept here and with no frame of reference it was almost meaningless. You drew into yourself. Whatever you could do to keep yourself from going mad.
To try and keep it together, you let yourself dwell. The heartache was better than the nothing you were in now.
You remembered a dimly lit concert hall. The lights were shining onto a full, dazzling orchestra on stage. Everyone was dressed to the nines. A hush fell over the crowd. Waiting, anticipating.
Then, violins.
The music washed over you but that wasn't what you were focused on. No, it was his hand gently curled around yours, fingers interlaced. And that's where it stayed until the final triumphant chord.
Then, you remembered, he turned to you and said, "Were you bored?"
"Hardly," you mouthed the word along with the memory. "It was the best time that I ever had."
You couldn't remember what he'd said after but you could still see the shape of his smile. Could still remember thinking you'd listen to just about anything with him there.
Then, inexplicably, you heard something.
Not a memory, not some half remembered piece that'd gone gray at the edges. It was a piano. You recognised it and of course it was a piano. It seemed silly that you'd even doubted yourself in the first place. The notes still sounded just as rich as they did so many years ago. As it continued, you realized with a start that you knew this song too.
You could see now.
The cloth was gone, tossed aside carelessly onto the floor. This room wasn't anywhere in the mansion; everything was too new, too unfamiliar. The notable exception being the piano and the man seated at it's bench.
It was a slow, building song. You'd tuned in a little late so it was already well on its way. He was fully concentrated on the piece, furrowed brows and a slight frown on his face as his hands glided across the keys. You couldn't look away. It was haunting. You knew this song; you'd listened to it with him dozens of times. When he had said it was one of his favourites you almost agreed just because you could see how he enjoyed it.
Right now you'd agree in a heartbeat. It was the best thing you'd ever heard. You felt like crying, might've been crying already, just because you could listen. Not just snippets but the whole thing. How long had it been? You slid down to your knees. This was the closest you'd felt to being alive since the party. Something just short of living again.
And at the middle of it all was him. So different but still painfully familiar. You swallowed and pressed your hands against the glass. Even though you doubted he’d hear you you couldn’t bring yourself to even try and interrupt.
The last notes faded out and he finally let his hands fall. The man who both was and wasn't Damien closed the cover on the piano with care. Only then did he turn to his audience with something that might've been a smile gracing his lips.
"Hello again, old friend."
Mirror, Mirror
Pairing- Reader/Darkiplier (kinda?)
Word Count- 512
Request?- Nope!
Summary- Dark wasn’t one to reminisce. He had no use for nostalgia or the feelings that went with it. But this time it seems the past had sought him out.
Tag List- @cookielover0001010 , @swag-droid
After that night he'd made it a point not to return to the mansion. There was nothing left for him there anyway. Simply unnecessary reminders. A lifetime of memories that would only serve to slow him down. Dark had left that and everything else behind him. His path for revenge never led him back to that forgotten wreck of a building and he wasn't planning on making a detour.
Which was a long and rambling way to explain that he had no idea how the mirror got here.
The office wasn't bound by any conventional means of space. He was one of the few who even had access to it in the first place and Dark didn't usually welcome visitors. So seeing the mirror hung on his wall set him on edge immediately. It was the mirror. The exact same one that-
Dark scowled. He'd been studying the damn thing for too long already. There was no evidence anyone had broken in. Nothing was taken or out of place. The only difference was the mirror and Dark couldn't figure out how or why.
He should just do away with it. It wasn't like he was vain enough to even need one in his office, regardless of how one would get here. Yet he couldn't bring himself to touch it.
This was ridiculous. The only thing he saw in the mirror was his own reflection, looking just as annoyed as he felt. It was just a mirror.
Dark only managed to take a step when something caught his eye. Just barely there. He froze where he stood, watching. His annoyance grew, snapping out into the air around him as he closed the distance. Now he was standing just in front of it. The smooth surface was marred by years of dust and neglect.
"What do you want?" He hissed, searching. "Why come back?"
Predictably, he didn't receive an answer. Of course he didn't. Snarling, he grabbed at the frame. The glass rattled as the ringing in his ears ratcheted up in pitch.
"Answer me!"
Then, just behind him, there was something. A shadow, maybe, or a suggestion at something that might have been a person. Dark whipped around and saw he was alone like usual. But still there was something behind him in the mirror's reflection. It hovered just over his shoulder for a second before reaching out.
It was faint. Barely there but cold enough for even him to notice in this shell of a body. Something that might've been a hand brushing at the nape of his neck, just short of threading into his hair.
Dark reeled back like he'd been burnt. On reflex alone he reached up, feeling for a hand that wasn't there anymore. Had likely never been there to begin with. A feeling he hadn't experienced in quite some time was wrapped around in his chest and it squeezed.
The reflection was only him once more. Dark didn't stick around long enough to see if that changed. There was a reason he didn’t care for mirrors.
An Illuminating Interview
(Y’all I wrote this at WARP SPEED. Also- if you haven’t already, please watch the lil choose your own adventure video posted today so you don’t get spoiled!)
Pairing- Wilford/Reader
Word Count- 823
Request?- Nope!
Summary- Wilford has a new invention to help streamline the interview process and boost his viewership. You weren’t so sure about it. Especially when you score yourself an impromptu interview...
Tag List- @cookielover0001010 , @swag-droid
"What is that?"
You had walked into the room and come face to face with Wilford and... what you guessed was supposed to be a robot version of him. It looked rough around the edges, to say the least. Scuffed paint and exposed inner workings made it look like it was pieced together from scraps.
Wilford looked up with a grin as you walked closer. "This, my dear, is the next big thing. The Wilford Automated Interview Automaton!"
He stepped back, presenting the machine with a flourish.
"You... made an interview robot?"
"An interview automaton!" He hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and mosied over to you. "Or the WAIA for short. And while I'm flattered at the notion, I don't quite have the technical know-how or ah- penchant for horror necessary to make this thing."
Despite that note of reassurance, he snaked an arm around you and took you a few steps closer.
"Now I can't be everywhere all at once, especially not on weekends, but once I get these bad boys up and running it'll be like everyone gets their own little dose of Warfstache!"
Now that you got a better look at the WAIA, you couldn't help but feel like you shouldn't be this close. You weren't sure if it was just because it was an animatronic or what but you were tense. It was close enough you could touch it. Or close enough it could touch you.
"Ah don't worry, gumdrop," Wilford laughed, "he's not on. I'm just givin' him the final look over before we start test interviews. Would you happen to be interested-"
"Nope I'm good," you cut in, ducking out from under his arm.
He pouted for a moment before scratching at his chin. "Ah no matter. Maybe I can get one of the interns to sit down with it... Do they get workers' comp?"
When he wandered out of sight for a moment, you didn't notice. You were still keeping an eye on the automaton. It was slumped in the chair, head lolled back. You could see the mechanical workings through it's open mouth, wires snaking down into its body.
"Hold tight darling, I gotta go find an intern!"
You spun around just Wilford popped out of existence. He had a penchant for doing that, even if the destination was just the next room over. You huffed a sigh. Hopefully he'd be back for the WAIA soon. Already you figured if you forgot it was here you'd scare the hell out of yourself later on at night.
That train of thought screeched to a halt as mechanical whirring and clicks caught your attention. Wilford had said it was off, right?
But as you gathered up the nerve to move, to look behind you, the glow from it's eyes told you enough. The WAIA was very much not off. It had moved in that brief instant. Now it was sitting up straight, hands on the arms of the chair, and staring at you.
In a halting voice, it started to speak. "Good evening-"
It stopped suddenly. Whatever script for interviewing it'd been given was cut off. At this point you managed to back up a bit, wary. Even though it wasn't moving, you could hear the clicking and grinding of gears within. It's head tilted to the side. Not a smooth movement, more like it just fell over.
"I remember you."
You tensed. Something about it's voice had changed. "What?"
"I saw you die."
That was... ominous. Before you could ask what that was supposed to mean, the WAIA continued.
"You deserved better. Better than what you got. What I gave you."
As it talked, the words got a little less choppy. A bit more feeling behind them. Your confusion only grew as the lights in its eyes flickered.
"I'm sorry,” it said.
"You-" you cleared your throat, "you don't have anything to apologise for?"
The terror had mostly worn off by now. You weren't sure what angle Wilford was going for with this though. It sounded less and less like an interview and more like a confession.
For a long moment it didn't say anything. The only sign of the automaton being on was the light in its eyes.
"You don't remember either."
You frowned. Before you could ask what it meant, there were strong hands pulling you back.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, gumdrop!" Wilford said, looking you up and down. "Well you seem to still have all your limbs so that's a plus."
He walked up to the WAIA, rapping on it's head with his knuckles. "This thing's not even supposed to have power! Just another bug we gotta work out I suppose."
Wilford turned to you, eyes sparkling. "How'd it do otherwise? Insightful questions, startling revelations, anything at all?"
"Uh," you looked towards the robot, it's eyes gone dark, "yeah something like that."
"Fantastic! Oh, you must tell me all the details!"
You didn't protest as Wilford swept you from the room.
Silent Visits
Time to stretch the angst muscles, folks
Pairing- Darkiplier/Reader
Word Count- 653
Requests- Nope!
Summary- You’ve been trapped in this mirror for so long, you didn’t really expect anyone to show up at all. Let alone someone who came for one sided conversations.
Awareness, you've found out, was an odd thing.
Ever since that thrice damned party you've been stuck, trapped in this- this halfway place in the mirror. Not alive but not quite dead. You'd screamed and begged and cried yourself hoarse but no one came. Not a soul was in this mansion, except for you.
Being awake and being aware were two very different things.
Your mind had started to go places at some point. Days or months or years down the line, you think. The point being you started to lose time. You weren't ever sure when you'd become aware of your surroundings. Sometimes it'd be in the middle of a thunder storm, other times it was the voice of a random thrill seeker wafting through the halls that brought you out of your stupor.
At first you'd tried to hold onto it. You feared what'd become of you if you never came out of whatever fog you'd been going into. Was it your soul finally giving up the ghost? What would happen to you afterwards?
But soon you stopped trying. The thunder and lightning just brought the memories back. The teens who broke into the mansion for a quick thrill never seemed to notice you. You could only stare at the same stretch of this mansion for so long.
But at some point a new voice pierced through the fog. A familiar voice.
You were alert in an instant, pressed up against the cracked glass. Standing there is the man who put you in here in the first place. His- your?- hand was skimming the surface of the mirror with something akin to nostalgia. He only just seemed to notice you then, expression shuttering.
"So you're still here after all, old friend," he murmured.
Now you're shouting, banging against your prison. Could he even hear you? You hoped so. You couldn't even hear your own voice anymore.
But if he did hear your pleas, he didn't let it show. He sighed, hand dropping. "A pity."
Then he was leaving. Without another word or a single backward glance. You screamed after him but the door was already closing. Awareness seemed to leave you soon after.
But that wasn't the only time he visited. You weren't sure if it was a blessing or a curse. His voice would be just enough to tug you out of the depths, though you weren't sure what he was saying beforehand. The only indication you had of the time between those one sided conversations was the view out of one foggy old window.
He would only talk to you. Or perhaps at you, since you couldn't respond. You weren't sure why he kept returning. Was he guilty? Did he want to reminisce? As much as it frustrated you, you kept hoping he'd come back each time.
This visit was different.
It wasn't words that caught your attention but wheezes. You looked out to see him in a heap before the mirror. Suit a wreck, pale as death, and sputtering blood black as pitch. Your eyes went wide as you fell to your knees, hands pressed up against the glass.
He was trying to say something.
"I wasn't sure where else to go, old friend," he coughed, the motion wracking his broken body.
You swallow, dread crystallizing in your chest as you watched him struggle for breath. There was precious little you could do for him. Still, you tried to reach out to him again, voice thick and echoing soundlessly around you.
"Stay for me," you said.
Now, after all this time, he laughed. It was a wet, pained sound. He closed his eyes with a sigh.
"That, I suppose, I could do for you."
You wanted to take him at his word but the laboured breaths you were hearing were telling you otherwise. There was no talking after that but one way or another, he kept his word.
Old Haunt
Word Count- 853
Request?- Nope!
Summary- The aftermath of that night at the manor wasn't exactly unfamiliar, at least at first...
Tag List- @cookielover0001010, @swag-droid , @watchoutforfrostbite
Warnings- None
Your head was pounding.
This wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, you'd been hungover plenty, but this morning seemed particularly bad. The skull deep ache pulsed even harder as you pushed yourself up. When had you fallen asleep? Falling asleep was a kind description. The stiffness in your back spoke to a night spent hunched over the poker table.
The mansion was quiet. The only sound was the faint wind from outside the windows, the occasional tree branch hitting the glass. Whatever hand you'd been playing last was left scattered across the room. You grimaced and peeled a joker card from your cheek. Seems you'd been drooling too.
Getting to your feet was no small task. The floor had a lazy sort of spin to it that made your stomach churn. You'd clearly indulged a bit too much last night. No matter, some water and fresh air might do you good. Both of those might be difficult considering your unfortunate relationship with your sense of balance at the moment.
Oddly enough, though it was clear there had been a party, there wasn't a soul to be found. Usually you could spot someone passed out on the couch or one of the staff members trying to tend to the place at least. You frowned and looked up and down the hallway. Still no one.
As you continued in your search you caught a look out of an open window and stopped, confused. It was pitch black outside. How long had you been asleep? It was evening when you had arrived so it must be the early morning or the next night. Neither seemed very likely. You took a step closer to the window. The blackness was so complete that you couldn't even see the grounds beyond. It seemed to blot out everything down to the stars in the sky.
With a shiver you decided to move on.
The oddness of the situation had you sobering up faster than usual. As you made your way through the mansion you searched high and low for any signs of life. Anyone at all.
The manor swallowed everything. Your footsteps echoed down the hall and into nothingness. While the house was massive it always had some kind of activity, some kind of sound. Even the usual creaks and groans of the settling foundation were painfully absent. You caught yourself stepping heavier just to hear it. Just to make sure you, at least, were there.
Pushing your hangover to the back of your mind, you continued on. The manor seemed to twist and turn. It made no sense even beyond what you could remember, it just didn't make sense. It should be looping back on itself. Hallways should run into each other, go in circles, but you still kept walking.
However long this went on you couldn't tell. Whatever windows there were showed that same tar black night. The walls shouldn't be facing the outside you knew but there they were. Soon you were running. Spiraling further and further and down and down. You knew you were going too deep even though there were no inclines or stairs, you felt it in your bones.
The walls blur together as you run. Your legs ache, your lungs burn, and you desperately want to just stop and collapse. Something primal inside you knew you couldn't. If you stopped you would be leaving yourself wide open to whatever was behind you, whatever was chasing you.
Was there anything chasing you?
Finally, the hallway spit you out into the entryway. The same one that you had passed through not too long ago. At this point you'd stopped questioning the layout. All that mattered was getting through that door, getting outside, getting out of this house and into something that made sense.
The door didn't open.
You had crashed headlong into it, hands desperately scrambling for the knob, but it didn't open. The knob turned but didn't open. It was like the door was just a decoration that wasn't even meant to open in the first place.
Despite that you pulled and pulled at the thing until your hands ached. Chest heaving, you turned and braced your back against the useless thing. The cold, impassionate glass of the windows stared back at you. Were there always this many? Just like before, all you could see was the black, empty nothing with your own reflection superimposed onto it.
Wait…
Those were not windows.
You were breathing hard still and you felt your bones shift and grate against each other. When your head ached was it the alcohol or an impact? Were you fighting for air after running and panicking or was it that you just couldn't get any anymore?
They were not windows.
Your stomach burned hot with pain and you knew your clothes had been soaked through with blood but it was cold by now. Sinking to the floor, you screamed. What else was there to do? You had to get it out, had to scream it out but the damned manor swallowed that too. There was no sound.
They were not windows.
They were mirrors.
