Could You Maybe Pretty Please Write Even Like A Short Idea On How You Think Corroded Crank Would Realise

I Dare You. (A WKM Story.)

(A/N: LONG ASS ONESHOT I’M SORRY I’M STILL OBSESSED.)

Every town has their ghost stories, and their haunted places. Some have huge hotels full of sordid affairs and midnight rondesvous gone wrong, some have old farm houses in the backcountry, steeped in the folklore of the hills and the mists of the early mornings. Los Angeles is no exception. There's no shortage of ghosts and spectres haunting the City of Angels, no want for dark pasts and dangerous deeds in this hotbed of Hollywood fame and infamy. Such a case of infamy is that of Markiplier Manor, the huge, sprawling estate of actor Mark Fischbach in the hills that used to house the most influential people in town, back in the early '10s. No one really knows what went down on October 11th, 2017, and the few days that followed. All we had to go on was a pseudo-reporter's rambling blog on tumblr and a few short articles with fantastically gruesome headlines.

"3 Found Butchered in Markiplier Manor." "Public Despair at the Discovery of Mayor Damien Noir's Mutilated Corpse." "Unstable Colonel Ford Prime Suspect in the Murders of Markiplier Manor."

Everyone had a guess. Everyone had a theory. But no one knew the truth. No one knew exactly why, on the 14th of October in 2017, the butler from the manor had come running into the LAPD Headquarters, screaming about demons and murder. What everyone did know, however, was that when the police, with sirens blaring, went to investigate the butler's claims, they'd been sickened to find three rotting corpses scattered around the manor, in various states of dismemberment and decay. They said that the mayor's body was the worst, looking like it'd been torn limb from limb by animals, almost without a single bone that wasn't broken, his tortured form found on the balcony outside the foyer. Then there was the body of a woman later identified as Fischbach's former wife, Celine, found in a small room upstairs, surrounded by occult items. It was practically perfect in appearance, but when they tried to do an autopsy, they found her insides had been practically liquified. The last body was the most tame, a detective by the ironic name of Abraham Lincoln, shot through the right side and left to die slowly at the top of one of the staircases. It was the worst murder case they'd seen in years. They couldn't get anything sensible out of the butler, who, according to his friends and family, had been a perfectly sensible man before the tragedy. But now he was spouting nonesense about "dens of evil" and "forces far beyond our understanding". They did manage to get the names of the other people present at the poker party out of him, and found everyone but the colonel and another party member whose name was never given to the public, and a statement as to the death of Mark Fischbach on the 11th. Mark's body was never found. Of course, the media had opinions as to what had actually happened.

I mulled over the headlines and the stories again in my head as I pulled onto the long gravel driveway, overgrown with weeds and bramble in the years of disuse. A stupid thing had led me to my dismal destination today: a dare. A simple, ridiculous dare among friends, and the fatal phrase, "You're not chicken, are you?" I was never one to turn down a good dare, and honestly, I'd never been particularly superstitious. The worst thing I feared was the cold of this year's record-breaking October nights, and the animals that had likely taken up residence in the absence of human habitation. Stepping out of my borrowed vehicle and shouldering my duffle bag of provisions, I surveyed the area, and my first thoughts were, I won't be lacking in places to camp out for the night, that's for sure. I trekked up to the rusting gate and chucked my belongings over it, climbing (with much difficulty) after them and landing about as gracefully as they had. Excellent, I thought as I rubbed a bruise on my knee, only another thousand yards to walk before I'm actually inside this place. The front garden was beautiful, even in its wild state. There was something to be said for the mossy stonework and the dry fountains, a kind of dystopian beauty that a city-slicker like me seldom gets to see, that made the walk bearable, and before I knew it, I was at the wide front doors, testing the handle to see if it was locked. Fortune was on my side, or so I believed, and I found it open, so stepped into the once-lavish front hall. The ceilings were high and covered in cobwebs, and nearly every surface was caked with a layer of dust thick enough to be snow, including a shattered mirror whose shards glittered on the table below it. The sight of my own exercise-reddened face in it gave me an unexpected chill, which I chalked up to the weather hastily, and I decided to move on. As I walked, I glanced up the stairs, wondering if these were the ones that'd once seen a detective's final breaths, and the panicked screams of a man running for his life. What had these walls seen, I wondered? If they could talk, what tale of terror would they recount? My eyes wandered into the foyer as I passed, and I was forced to stop and double take. Lines of weather-worn yellow caution tape lay strewn around a body's outline in front of the fireplace. This time, I accepted the chill as my own reaction. There'd been no mention of a fourth body. Was this where Fischbach had met his end? Was this the place where the detective had sussed out the murderer, and decided to confront him, thereby sealing his own fate? I didn't think I wanted to know the answer, and I decided to try to look for a bedroom, as it was getting late. I climbed the stairs by phone-flashlight, careful not to touch the railings as I went. A dark stain on one wall had me frozen on the top step. That was the unmistakable stain of blood, and the discolored wall around it looked almost like an outline of its own. I had a moment of silence for the fallen man, then moved quickly past his old resting place to the hall beyond, and into an open bedroom out of the line of sight of the stairs. Perhaps I'd sleep better if I couldn't see it; I'd underestimated my own detachedness. The room I'd entered looked as if it'd been through hell. There were books and papers all over the floor, the musty bed was in total disarray, and a table in a nook on my left had been overturned, scattering a few broken picture frames to the ground. I dared to look at one of the pictures, and found smiling back at me the same faces that'd smiled out of the articles proclaiming their deaths and disappearances. The mayor, the colonel, the actor, and the ex. Looking away quickly, I decided to set up camp and drown my fears in a few hours of portable game system distraction. My bag thudded dully down beside the bed, and I thudded dully down beside it, rummaging and humming an old happy tune to break the silence. I couldn't help but feel that something was inherantly wrong with this place, but I brushed that aside. I had no use for silly superstition and fanciful interpretations of old stains and pictures. After all, this place had been empty for going on fifty years. The killer was either long gone or long dead; I had nothing to worry about.

It was 2:15am when I squinted at my dying phone's screen, startled out of my uneasy sleep by a loud thud downstairs. "It's an animal," my brain told me lazily. My heart, however, wasn't listening, and was instead trying to leap out of the frosted glass doors to freedom and safety. Sighing, I stood and stretched. It looked like tonight was going to be an exploring night rather than a resting one. I pulled the real flashlight out of my bag, grabbed the extra batteries and stuck them in my pocket, put my phone in there with them, on power-saving mode, and went for a walk, carefully avoiding the small room to my right, and the stairs down the hall. This place was definitely living up to the status of the word "manor": it seemed like an endless maze of halls and bedrooms and bathrooms and studies and media rooms and dining halls. Even the kitchen was enormous, and from its window I could see the vast balcony and the backyard that seemed more like a safari jungle, the green-watered swamp of a pool its oasis and the dilapidated golf-holes its plains of the Sarangheti. I wandered without thinking for the most part, trying to distract myself from the ever-lasting night with searching games. Where were the drinks stored (I didn't go down into the wine cellar), where were the games played (I didn't touch the royal flush still sitting on the poker table)? This worked until I found myself pushing open a door and the beam of my light fell across what I can only describe as a crime show "murder board". Red yarn connected various fading, fragile Polaroids of a bygone age's people, some of whom I recognized from the news, some of whom were strangers to me. Yellowing articles and criminal profiles were thumb tacked to the cork boards that lined the walls. Looking a little closer, I could see that they were not the sensationalizations that I carried in my phone's picture gallery, but various stories of the lives of the victims. An old campaign poster that bore Mayor Noir's reserved, smiling face was connected to an article about one of Mark's movies and its failure in the box office. A front page bearing the title "Safari Hunt Gone Wrong!" sat in front of a copy of the marriage certificate for the Fischbachs. Even the faces of the chef and the butler glared judgmentally back at me, their records sitting beside them as if to ask what my credentials were to enter this dangerous estate. What investigation had led the detective here, then? I frowned at some of the hand-written notes peppering the boards, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. The most I could get was that Fischbach had been in financial trouble, and the mayor had apparently been working with him on...something. The colonel, it seemed, had always been a bit of a wild card, and perhaps had been a very dangerous man; several of the notes seemed to accuse him of the murder of Mark Fischbach. Oddly, none of the other murders were mentioned. Celine Fischbach was notoriously absent. Another thud, close to my room this time, shocked me out of my investigation, and I hid as I recognized the sounds of footsteps. I was technically trespassing, though who owned the land now I didn't know. Perhaps my friends had thought it funny to call the police and send them to pick me up. I decided that they'd pay for that later, but my main concern was staying out of sight. I ducked under the desk and held my breath as the footsteps came into the room. I didn't think about it until much, much later, when I was recounting the tale to my awestruck friends over mediocre school lunches, but from the moment I heard the first steps, a high pitched whine had droned in the background, as if some feedback from a cellphone on a cheap radio were being played constantly.  At the time, I was more focused on not making a noise as what I assumed was a cop wandered around the room, stopping every once and a while, and occasionally pacing on one end of the room, as if he were studying something on that wall. There was one point when the man had stood so near to the desk that I'd been able to see him in profile, but not being able to use my flashlight without giving myself away, I hadn't seen much other than the outline of a man in a suit, with disheveled hair falling in a sweep over the left side of his face, the only side I could see. Oddly, it was as if he were giving off a little light of his own, a red and blue hue defining some of his smaller features, like his stubbley jaw and the creases in the elbow of the otherwise immaculate suit. Perhaps he'd brought something with him to light his way, some weird lamp or flashlight. Maybe it was his phonescreen. Either way, this was a detective, I guessed then, fervently ignoring the sense of wrongness that radiated from him like waves, though why they'd sent him and not a normal beat cop, I didn't know. My heart almost stopped when I was almost certain I heard him speak, a low, gruff voice that seemed to have too many layers, but it was so quietly that I couldn't tell whether it'd been "You've stayed" or "Betrayed." I was certain that I heard, "Never again," though. By this point, keeping myself from shivering was a constant, conscious effort.

"It's quite amusing to me that you think you can hide by simply being out of my sight and 'keeping quiet.'" This time, there was no guesswork. This time, my heart did stop, and I couldn't tell whether I was going to shit myself or scream. But the man didn't seem to care that I was there. He simply seemed to want to acknowledge my presence, as if out of a want not to be rude in ignoring me. "Stay, if you like. Read all of these old lies. Make guesses, everyone else seems to have done so already. Let's see if you can get any closer to the truth of the famous 'Murders at Markiplier Manor'." I could practically hear the cold smile leaving his voice, and it was as if part of it had dropped half an octave, if that makes any sense. "Or you can go now, and forget you ever saw this place. Pretend it's just another mystery tale to tell each other while you waste your time with meaningless relationships." It went back to the pitch it'd been before, and the cold smile was back in it, if backed by a bit of bite this time. "It is, of course, your choice."

He never said another word that I heard, and it seemed to take forever for him to leave, but when he had gone, I stayed hidden for another long minute, until I was sure he had left the house (though I ignored that fact that I never once heard a door open). I stood shakily, flicking  my flashlight on again, and froze. There was only a single set of footprints in the room, and that was the diamond-patterned prints of my own Chucks in the dust on the old wood floor. I don't think I'd ever run faster in my life, or broken more rules of the road, than I did as I got the hell out of that place.

Everyone always asks me what I think I saw. Was it a ghost? Or a demon? Maybe a shade of the mayor, or of the actor? All I can respond is...I don't know. I don't know what I saw, or what spoke to me, or what those words meant, in the long run. And I'm certainly no closer to a positive ID of the murderer than anyone else. But there're certain things I never say, like how I don't think the butler was mad anymore, and how it was almost as if I could hear voices calling as I left, the strange red-and-blue light never completely dissipating until I had scrambled back over the front gate and shakily started my car, not daring to even turn on the headlights until I had made it back off of the estate, just praying and following the gravel path back to the main road by memory and feel. If you want a solid opinion, then here's what I think: I think I never want to know what I encountered, and that I never want to encounter it again. I think I'm going to follow his advice, and let the mystery stay unsolved. 

After all, it makes for a damn good story, doesn't it?

Just a Game. (A WKM Oneshot)

1:00 am. The Colonel hadn't had this much fun in ages. The night seemed to be passing in a multi-color blur, with lots of games and a bit too much drink. He could barely breathe for laughing as he stumbled into his seat at the bar, watching the butler and Mr. Lincoln help Damien to right himself, and doubling up again as he stumbled into the now empty keg beside him, grinning wildly and chuckling with the rest of them. "How he's still doing that, at his age," Mark laughed as he slumped into the seat beside him, "I'll never know. Damien's a tough old lad." William huffed and turned slightly away, making Mark sigh heavily. "Colonel-" "William." "But I've always-" "You lost that right years ago." Mark frowned and looked down at the floor. "Will. I know we didn't part on the best of terms...There was a lot of bad blood between us." "Yes," Will replied shortly, wanting Mark to get to the point. Mark shuffled, and after a pause, continued. "What do you say we put this quarrel to rest, eh?" He narrowed his eyes at the grinning actor. "How do you suggest we do that?" "A game. Just a game." He spread his arms wide and offered what he probably thought was a winning smile. To the Colonel it looked like a shit-eating grin. "Something that'll give us an opportunity for revenge, and a sure-fire way of knowing what fate wants from us." He seemed to laugh at his own private joke.

1:20am The wine cellar was cooler than the rest of the house, exposed stone walls making it feel more like a cave than a room in a lavish mansion. William had never liked the cold, and liked it less now, sharing it with the one person he'd give anything to be rid of. Mark pulled a bottle off the wall and offered it to the Colonel, handing it to him with a small smile. "1982. Good year for wine." The Colonel didn't move to take it from him. "Then you drink it." "I would," Mark sighed, "but you know I can't. Not good for my health, you know." He knew, of course. He'd still rather Mark drink it than him. Mark put the bottle back down on the shelf and put his hands in the pockets of his robe "What about this game you proposed?" The Colonel frowned, leaning against the wall, hoping he appeared casual. "Ah, yes," Mark smiled again, and then he did something rather unexpected. He pointed to the silver revolver tucked into William's belt. William's hand went to it immediately, and Mark shook his head. "Im not suggesting we duel, if that's what  you're thinking. I'm unarmed." He said it as if it meant "harmless". "I was going to suggest a bit of Russian Roulette. You've always loved that one." "Bullshit. As if I'm going to let you point my own gun at me, after all this time, after Celine-" "William! Please." Mark took a step toward him, but made no move to take the gun. Instead he seemed to be pleading, one hand stretched toward him as if he'd like to comfort him, but a look from him stopped his advance. "I'm tired of all this fighting. I'm tired of having to go through Damien to talk to you, and as for Celine...I..." He shook his head slightly. "She's made her own choices. I never had any control over what she did, and yes, it hurt. It hurt like hell, but...Will, I just want my brother back." Dear god, did he actually have tears in his eyes? Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the fact that he was home again, after so long, maybe it was just pure stupidity, but William pulled the gun from his belt slowly, and nodded. "One round. If I shoot you, it's your own fault." "Yes. Yes, of course," Mark grinned widely. "I can't blame you."

1:25am Mark watched the Colonel load just one chamber of the gun, looking as if he wanted to help when his liquor-loosened grip nearly dropped the bullet on the floor, but letting him have this. William handed him the revolver, and watched him spin it. This wasn't a good idea. This was dangerous. This was mad. But life needs a bit of madness, doesn't it? That's what he kept telling himself. Mark aimed carefully, and suddenly William was staring down the barrel of his own gun, and he wasn't going to get to say goodbye to Damien, he'd never see Celine again, and what would Mark say, how would he explain-? Click. William barely flinched, but raised an eyebrow at his grinning gunman. "See? Looks like fate's on your side, eh, old friend?" He handed the gun back over. "Your turn." "Mark...I can't..." "I trust you." Mark stepped out to switch places with him, and suddenly he was pointing a gun directly at Mark's chest. How had the other man kept it steady? The room was fairly spinning, and the gun was awkward in his hand, and the trigger was too thin, too fiddly. "Go on, then. Take your shot. Fair is fair, after all." "This is ridiculous." "Of course it is! But why not live a little? Life's-" "For the living. Yes, but..." "I took my shot at you, for stealing my...for...for Celine's choice. And for leaving us for Africa, and for the fight we never finished. And it's your turn now. I know I've not been the best friend to you. I know you blame me for Celine's leaving, and for...for what happened over there." "That was an accident." The words were harsh,  but Mark nodded calmly. "I know, Will, I know. I don't blame you. I never did. You're still my friend, even after all this time. I know that's hard to believe, but...Please. Colonel. Let me absolve my sins, won't you? Just one shot. Just a quick click, and we can put this all behind us. Wouldn't you like that?" He would. He so very much would. He wanted so badly to come home, he wanted the boy who'd taken him in and become his family to come back to him, and let him back in. And just one click...one harmless little click...he could have it all, all over again. Why shouldn't he trust him? After all, like he said, it was Celine's own choice. Perhaps her leaving had set him back on the straight and narrow. Perhaps he really was sorry, really saw how much he'd hurt them, how much he'd hurt him. But even as he pulled the gun back up to aim, something felt wrong, and the glint in Mark's eyes was off, something wasn't right, but he had to be wrong, didn't he? Couldn't he trust his friend? Just a quick click, nothing wrong with that...

Click. BANG.

1:30am It was like watching a ragdoll fall. And the blood matched the crimson night robe. And the stain was slow to spread, and the wine bottle had fallen and shattered and added to the stain, and he couldn't move. "It...it was an accident...Mark, it was an accident, I-I didn't...I wouldn't...I swear, Mark...?" Mark's eyes were still open, glassy, and his face expressionless. his legs and arms were twisted at impossible angles. "It was an accident, I s-swear..." The stain was spreading, and someone upstairs, probably Damien, laughed raucously over some joke William had missed. Someone upstairs...someone was going to see. Someone was going to ask questions. William stumbled up the stairs and slammed the door shut behind him, shambling back into the billiard room. He grunted as the detective put his arm around him, slapped him away, but the detective took it as a threat. Soon they were fighting, and Damien was pulling at the Colonel as the District Attorney was pulling at Mr. Lincoln. Then William was shoving Damien away from him, and he was almost running to his room. He collapsed into bed, watching the ceiling spin above him. Maybe it hadn't been real. Maybe it'd been a dream. He heard people coming up the stairs, thought he heard Damien say something, and the DA reply, laughing but grunting as if in pain. Damien. Dear god, what would Damien think? What would he say? He'd blame him, he'd push him away, he'd lose everything he had left... But...no. No, Damien would understand. He'd explain everything, and Damien, good man, smart man, would understand. He'd take his side, and the DA, of course they'd defend him. They wouldn't let anything bad happen to him, they hadn't last time. They'd never betray him, would they? No, of course not... His last thought as the alcohol in his system dragged him into unconsciousness was that he couldn't be blamed. It was an accident, of course. Just a game.

Broken (Demon!Dean Imagine)

Pairing: Dean/Reader

Rating: PG 13 for heartbreak

"No."

"Sam, I'm not a child. I can do this."

"No. You're not going in there."

"Well, why do you have to do it? What makes you more qualified than me?"

"I'm his brother."

"I'm his girlfriend. Have been for three years."

Sam sighed and looked down at his shuffling feet. The bunker was quiet, and felt almost suffocating today. There was a table covered in empty coffee mugs, and a dungeon that was all too full.

This was the third time you and Sam had had this debate, and you were determined to win, close to tears or not. When he finally looked up and nodded, you blinked.

"You're gonna let me do it?"

He gave a very weary smile. "Like you said, you're not a kid. And...Maybe you would be better."

He was nearly knocked over by the tight hug you gave him, and stroked your hair.

One... Two...

Breathe.

Three.

You slid the door open slowly, the creak and groan of metal filling the silence. Not looking up from the ground, you came into the room.

There was the sound of movement, a moment of surprised hesitation, then...a laugh. And it wasn't his laugh.

"I was wondering when Sammy would let you down here, (Y/N)."

You tried very hard not to wince at your name in that mocking tone, eyes still glued to the ground as you shut the door and went to the small silver table with the roll of syringes.

"Aw, you're gonna drug me up. Baby, that's adorable-"

"Don't call me baby." You could almost feel him smile; it made your skin crawl.

"Why not? You love it when I call you baby."

"I love when Dean calls me baby."

"I am Dean. Just-"

"You say a newer model and I'll punch you in the goddamn face." He chuckled.

You picked up a syringe, and a needle. Put the two together. Started to roll up your sleeve.

"You know you can't fix me, right?"

"Watch me."

"Well," he shuffled again, relaxing into the chair a bit, "you can make me human again, sure. But you can never fix me. I'll always be broken. I was when I met you, I was before I got the Mark, I was when I was human and had it. This is the closest to whole and happy I've ever been."

"Shut up." It was practically a whisper.

But he kept on, and the words hurt worse than the needle in your skin.

"See, now I'm not worried about anything. I don't care if Sammy dies, or Cas. I don't care if you die-"

"Shut. Up."

"-I wouldn't feel a bit of guilt, even with your blood on my hands. Actually, that'd be kinda fun. Chasing you around, hunting you down-"

You pulled the needle out sharply and stalked over to him, jabbing it in mercilessly. He hissed and fought, crying out as you pushed in the plunger and the blood flooded his system again. As you walked back over to the table, he began to scream.

"Why the hell are you even trying?! This won't work! It can't, and I don't want it to! Why does it matter what happens to me?!"

"Because I can't lose you, and I won't, even if I have to go to Hell and back again. Because Dean Winchester, I love you, and I won't stop until you're human or I'm dead."

As you walked out, you kept your eyes fixed on the door, trying desperately to ignore the tears blinding you at least until that door was shut behind you again. To your surprise, he said nothing else, and the only sound from him was heavy, ragged breathing.

You didn't look back as you shut the door, but if you had, you would have seen the demon staring at you, face slack with shock, frozen.

Just for a moment, right before the door closed, he moved forward, and opened his mouth as if to speak.

And there was a flash of green in those black eyes.

@ask-thewhiphand tagged me, thanks love!

Rules: tag 9 people who you would like know better.

Relationship status: Single as hell, but pretty much okay with it. :)

Last song I listened to: Carry On Wayward Son by Kansas, and before that, probably Break Your Little Heart In Two by All Time Low

Favorite color: RED. Very much red.

Top three shows: Supernatural, Doctor Who, and Sherlock. Yes, I know, typical, but I love them. I watch more YouTube than TV though, and on here I love Scare Pewds, Game Lab, and Crash Course.

Top three characters: Oh dear lord...ah, right this second...probably...Asriel/Flowey (Undertale), the Tenth Doctor (DW), and Antisepticeye (JSE). I don't know! I love so many characters!

Top three ships: Johnlock, Tenrose, and Undyne/Alphys.

Tagging: @bookwyrm00, @super-septic-pewdie-plier, @lyssadee, @quirkyfandomimagines, @turquoisemagpie, @stupidscreennames, @jacksepticide, @alto-viola, @victoria-saenz

i like this idea! "schneep" might not even be his real name - maybe something like witness protection?

Schneep is an ex-employee of IRIS...

Just a thought.

Oh damn, I can’t find my other profile picture for this blog. :/ That’s annoying.

More on Anti and Flowey.

Okay the recent appearances are making me lean more and more toward the idea of Anti being similar to Flowey in some way, what with all the determination references (especially the look given today during DDLC), and with the recent game (Heartbound or something like that?) that bore a lot of similarities to Undertale. I would love for us to get sympathetic Anti that’s still done horrible things, that kind of character is hard to pull off and I love it.

Home (A DBH Kara and Luther Drabble)

Winter in this part of Canada was incredibly cold and dreary. It snowed every few days, and when it wasn't snowing, it was overcast and windy, blindingly white all around. Everyone who lived in this particularly frigid part of the world knew better than to spend more than an hour or so outside at a time, lest they risk frostbite or worse. Everyone, that is, who was human. Luther trudged around the side of the house, laden down with freshly cut firewood over both arms. He'd been out since before dawn, making sure that all of the chores that needed doing outside were done before Rose and Adam even woke up. It seemed like the least he could do in reture for all of the  help they'd been in the past few months. He was careful not to be seen, given that his kind was still forbidden to be here. If he was caught, then people would start asking questions, and that could lead to problems for his family. Shaking those dark thoughts out of his head, Luther climbed the steps to the porch and started setting the logs into the firewood stand by the door. Just then, the door creaked open. "Luther?" "Good morning Kara." Kara's snow-white hair was gently touseled. Was it his imagination, or had it grown a little bit since they'd been here? Her borrowed nightshirt hung loosely around her thin frame, bunching where her arms crossed over her chest. She couldn't have looked more human. She couldn't have looked more beautiful. Kara frowned, head tilting slightly to the side. "Have you been out here long?" He shrugged. "A few hours?" "Your jacket..." "Hm?" She nodded at it, and he looked down. It was completely soaked through. "Oh. I should probably dry this." "Come inside. Bring the rest of the firewood, we'll light it so it's warm when Rose and Adam get up." He smiled and nodded, following her as she went back into the livingroom. As he dropped the wood by the fireplace, he caught sight of her socks, and started laughing. He was rewarded with a soft smile. "What's so funny?" "Your socks...?" The smile got even bigger as she held up a foot to show off. "Do you like them? They've got little rabbits on them, and they're so soft." "They're adorable." You're adorable, he wanted to say. She seemed pleased by this. "I thought so." They lapsed into comfortable silence for a little while. He heard the sounds of breakfast being made. The smell of pancakes and bacon wafted out into the living room as Luther got the fire going. He loved the smell of food cooking, even if he didn't need to eat. There was something comforting about it, a sense of home he'd never known before he'd come here. He sat back on the couch to watch it for a moment. Kara sat down beside him. "The fire looks lovely." "Breakfast smells good." They glanced at each other, and chuckled. Kara shook her head. "Is is crazy to say this feels like a dream? Like I might wake up tomorrow, and be back in Detroit. In the car, or Todd's place..." Her smile was gone again. He slid a bit closer to Kara and put his arm around her. It made his heart jump a bit when she melted into his side, slender arm going across his chest. He hesitated for only a second before pulling her hand into his own and holding it. "I never felt like this at Zlatko's." He could feel her looking up at him. He didn't talk much about his time before they met, and for good reason. In his mind, he didn't really exist before he met Kara and Alice. He'd been a machine back then, and he'd done terrible things he'd rather never think about again. This time, though, he felt the need to say something. "Zlatko at well every morning, but everything smelled like grease, not food. That place felt...small. Far too small. This place is smaller than that house, but this...is home." "Home," Kara laughed. He looked down at her again, and was surprised to see tears in her eyes. "It's nice to be home." Sitting there, with her curled into his side, the smell of food in the air and the warm fire at his feet, far away from the cold slums of Detroit, Luther couldn't agree more.

This is actually so helpful, thank you for putting these together!

Don’t Know Where to Start with Jacksepticeye and/or Markiplier Egos?

Jse Ego Starter Kit

Jse Ego Advanced Kit

Markiplier Ego Starter Kit

Markiplier Ego Advanced Kit

It’s usually tricky to find where to start when there is so much information, so I made a playlist for these 4 things. Videos on the starter playlists should be played in order. Hope this helps!

‘I SAW YOU DIE' 

‘two men go to a party, they both share some wine, and they played a game. The most dangerous game. I didn’t know that gun was loaded, I didn’t know. Was it my fault?’

‘you can’t change the past, you can tell all the stories you want to tell, it won’t change what happened. You can’t rewrite the past. If you live in fantasy forever, you’ll lose yourself in the story.’