Not A Theory, Not A Fic, Just A Thank You, Because I Totally Agree. I Love My Fellow Jims (lol). :)

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THANK YOU SO MUCH!!

I love this?! I love seeing this kind of thing?! I’m glad you like my silly writing?! I would love it if you sent me headcannons?!

I don’t care if you’ve never spoken to me before, I’m totally chill with chatting with you guys, on and off anon! It makes me super, super happy when people like my stories or theories and ideas (it boggles my mind that some of my posts have 200-400+ notes, like how, and there’s 126 of you guys following me here?! why?! I love you?!), and I love being a part of the community and having conversations with people who love the same internet nerds and characters that I do. Send me all the things, ask me all the things, submit stories and theories and prompts and anything and everything, tag me in things, all of it, yes please! I love this.

Asleep (Sam from SPN Imagine)

Pairing: Reader/Sam

Rating: G

Your favorite moments, you decided, were when you and Sam were alone in the library, researching some case or just reading for fun. You'd sit on opposite sides of the table, noses in books and coffee mugs in arm's reach at all times, for hours and hours on end, occasionally muttering a few sentances to each other, perhaps a joke that would set off silent giggles for a long time afterward, perhaps asking if the other was done with their joe yet, did they want another cup? Most of the afternoons, and often late nights, would pass in near complete silence.

Occasionally, you'd fall asleep in your chair, and you'd wake up hours later to find that someone had dropped you off in your bed, going so far as to tuck you in. You'd smile to yourself and at Sam the next time you saw him, but neither of you ever brought it up.

There was one time that the situation reversed, and you came back into the library from a bathroom break to find a shaggy haired Sam asleep on a pile of books, snoring softly and looking generally like a giant puppy. That thought had you struggling to stay quiet as you giggled.

Given that it would've been completely impossible for you to pick him up without serious injury to one or both of you, you settled for simply finding the softest pillow and cuddliest blanket you could and wrapping him in them. The fact that he didn't do more than grunt quietly and pull the blanket closer proved to you that he needed the sleep, and, seeing that he was out so deeply, you got a little brave and leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple and whispering, "'Night, Sammy."

Sam woke up a few hours later, and smiled when he saw you, going slightly pink. Neither of you said anything about it.

A few days later, you got brave again. You left a note on Sam's side of the table with his name on it that read simply, "You're a cute sleeper."

A few days after that, you got one back that said, "You are too."

Neither of you talked about it, but now you sat on the same side of the table. And Sam became your favorite pillow.

I’m a fan of both, and I kinda see them as an evolution? Like Anti started out wild and glitchy, but he’s slowly learning to control his...form, I guess? better than he did before, so he can be silent and menacing. He’s done playing games and is getting down to business, whatever his main business is now.

Okay question for everyone,

Do you all like the silent, menacing, Anti more or the crazy, chaotic glitch?

For me personally, I like the silent version more. Why? It's way more terrifying. With the other one, you know exactly what he's thinking and what he's going to do next but with the left one, he's way more unpredictable, way more sinister. He could easily kill you without you even knowing.

An Eternity In Hell (In Space With Markiplier Drabble)

The darkness had stopped eating at him ages ago. He didn’t have a time. There wasn’t really time anymore. Days didn’t start and they didn’t end. There was no morning, no coffee, no evening, no sleep.

He was getting close to being finished. He knew they would be here soon, and that the moment would finally arrive. All the times - the only time, again and again - that he’d seen them arrive. Called out to them only to see their shocked expression melt into nothingness and blue light. Every time - the only time - they were gone in an instant.

He’d been desperate to leave at first. Clawing at the door and banging away at the controls, pulling at panels and, every single time they arrived, he’d jolt toward them, desperate to pull them close and have some kind of comfort again. But still, every time, they slipped out of his reach, and he’d be alone again.

After a while, he ended up curled up in one of the corners. He was utterly alone, and he couldn’t make himself see why he should bother getting up. Moving. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t feel like he was aging. He didn’t feel anything at all but the endless exhaustion and terror, the cold floors.

He ran through every endless life then. Every death - jettisoned, suffocated, shot, frozen, burned alive, detonated, stretched beyond physical limitations, eaten, smashed - all of them played out over and over and over again. Sometimes he could feel his bones, old and brittle, and the slowing of his movements. He could see a cafe at the end of everything, getting darker and emptier as the stars around it winked into blackness. 

Every single time, they were there. They led the charge. They send him into danger. They met him at the table. 

They decided. Time after time after time after time, for all time, they decided. 

And it all ended in misery. 

No more. 

He moved, finally. He stood, and pulled panels from the walls. Pulled circuits. Found the emergency tool stash and started building. Rewired the controls to feed into the central hub. Crafted the designs from memory, painstakingly, with aching hands that never got any rest. 

Still they showed up. Again and again, and every time, he had to stop and look. Had to call out. He couldn’t help himself. He built three soaring spires and connected them, used them as a focus and a kind of closed circuit to create a layer of shielding and containment. 

Finally it was done. It had power. It ran and its diagnostics, programmed from scratch, came through at 100% capacity. It was ready.

And there they were, right on schedule. He felt nothing and everything at once as he calmly pulled the extinguisher from the wall and took aim. 

“Hi, Captain.”

Doodles

Pairing: Nine/Rose

Rating: PG for slight angst

The library was always fun. You'd loved ever since you'd first stepped foot in it, on your first day in the TARDIS, wandering lost and confused looking for a bathroom at two am your time. But you'd found this place, and suddenly forgotten your need to pee in favor of running down the aisles, fingertips brushing the beautiful books around you. Until you'd really needed to go, then the TARDIS had been polite enough to point you on your way.

Now, you still loved running down the aisles, picking books at random and reading them as you wandered. You mostly avoided stuff from your future, but you loved everything else. There were books from distant planets with fairytales you'd never heard of, there were ancient leatherbound volumes from Earth, there were children's picture books from odd interstellar markets, even your favorite stories from your childhood. And the best part was that the TARDIS translation circuit worked on these books too, so you could read whatever you wanted, from whenever you wanted. It was one of the most wonderful things about traveling with the Doctor.

You were in the middle of reading a signed special edition copy of the seventh Harry Potter book- "To my favorite Doctor, love from JK Rowling" . Crying your eyes out, you didn't notice that you'd wandered to a new part of the ever-changing room. It wasn't until you ran book-first into a huge, elaborately carved shelf (something that didn't happen often, as you were a reading-while-running champ) that you realized where you were. The annoyed glower on your face faded to slack-jawed shock as you took in the beautiful little alcove.

Towering shelves dominated the walls in the inset, each carved with lovely, swirling circular patterns in gold leaf on the dark wood. The floor was thickly carpeted in rich, dark red, and an overstuffed deep red couch faced a cozy little white marble fireplace, also decorated with the circular symbols. The books on the walls were in various dark shades, from midnight blue to blood red and ebony to mahogany. There were odd little white-glowing cubes spaced randomly all over the shelves, lending the corner a dim, mysterious glow.

A few items seemed out of place in this wondrous place. An empty pink tea cup sat on a saucer on a rickety table in the corner by the fireplace, and a single fluffy pink slipper lay abandoned under it, on top of a forgotten large, green jumper. The smell was odd too, not just old books, but two different men's colognes (one of which was vaguely familiar) and some flowery store-brand body wash. 

The Harry Potter book slipped from your limp hand and landed with a dull thud. You moved forward without a thought and grazed fingertips across the volumes, stopping over a smaller one that was bound in black leather inlaid with gold. Pulling it out and sinking into the couch with a sigh, you curled in on yourself and let it fall open in your lap.

Odd, the first things you notice. The first thing that registered about this book was that the TARDIS wasn't translating the circles that you soon deciphered were writing. The next was a Polaroid picture, stuck carelessly in the front of the book. The man in the picture was leaning against the TARDIS, arms crossed and an annoyed but happy expression on his face. He was wearing all black: black boots, black pants, black shirt, black leather jacket, which, you noted, matched the front of the book. His dark hair was cropped short and close to his head, exposing almost comically large ears, which matched his rather large nose and huge grin well. But the thing that intrigued you most about this picture was his eyes. Bright, laughing blue eyes that looked vaguely familiar, as if they belonged to a friend you hadn't seen in years and years...

Setting the Polaroid aside, you returned your attention to the book, skimming through the enigmatic pages until you found more pictures: a few more Polaroids, taped in, of various creatures and places, a few pencil sketches done with mechanical precision, a few feminine doodles in pen. Suddenly you smiled. There were a few lines in English on this page! Two different sets of handwriting seemed to be having a conversation beside a caricature sketch of the man in the first picture.

I don't look anything like that! Yeah you do! It's like a mirror! No, it really isn't! Here, I'll draw you! Go on then, Picasso!

Here there was a little caricature of a woman, with big eyes and big lips pulled in a smile and light hair framing her face. It was done in pencil, probably by the same person who'd drawn the precise sketches, but in a softer style.

That one looks like you, see! At least I was nice about it. Fine, fine, remind me to fix yours later, when we're done with Raxacri (that was scratched out) Raxoco (more scratching) Raxicoricofallapatorius. Right. Fantastic.

You giggled to yourself. Who had written and drawn here? And why in this book? Looking back through, you thought maybe the whole thing was written into it, a bit like a journal. You sighed, wishing you could read more, and flipped the page past where you'd been.

It was blank. Frowning, you counted the remaining pages. There was more than half a book left, but the rest was empty except for what looked like a small footnote on the very last page. Letting out a frustrated snort, you closed the book and looked back over to the rickety table. There was something sad about it, the cup and slipper and jumper, like they were keepsakes from happy days long gone. Sighing again, feeling oddly saddened by the lost girl and man who'd left these here, you stood, put the book back on the shelf, and wandered out, glancing back one last time at the homey little nook before moving on. 

You never found that part of the room again, and figuring that it must have been some sort of fluke that let you find it, you never asked the Doctor about it. About the one language the TARDIS didn't feel the need to translate, and the little table's keepsakes, and the girl and the man, and whether they'd ever made it back from Raxicoricofallapatorius.

He never mentioned it.

THIS IS NOT MINE. This is a Creepypasta I’ve heard a thousand times and don’t know the original owner of, but I love it dearly, it’s terrifying. You should look for the Jacksepticeye reading of it, that got me good the first time I heard it.

Forget All You Know (on Wattpad) http://my.w.tt/UiNb/HwzajNbWGv Think of all the things we've shared and seen But don't think about the way things might have been... What might have been? The Angel in Hell is given another chance.

Alone. (A Who Killed Markiplier Drabble)

The first thing he noticed was that he was in a tremendous amount of pain. His chest was on fire and his head was pounding, it was like every muscle in his body was rebelling against him. His eyes were the only thing that seemed to be working, and all he could see was the domed ceiling and the chandelier above him, oddly tinted and out of focus.

As it came back into focus, he noticed a second problem: he didn’t know who or where he was. Through the blinding pain, there was no name coming, no picture of what he looked like, no friends or family’s faces or names, no fond memories...no memories at all. Just a vague feeling of...dread? Or anger?

He grunted as his arms and legs finally decided to work for him to lift him up, so that he was panting and kneeling on the marble floor. Shaking his head, he looked up, finally trying to guess where he was. His eyes locked with someone else’s.

He was starting backwards, a voice in his head screaming “MURDERER” before he had a chance to think for himself. The other man was on his feet in an instant.

“Oh no, no! It’s okay!”

Colonel. The old title came to him as the man talked about thinking he was dead. Had he been dead? The thought distracted him for a moment so that he lost some of what the man was saying. Surely he wasn’t dead, he was thinking, he was here...and yet...why could he see the Colonel, in front of him, a gun smoking in his right hand? Why could he see two hands...his hands...rising to his eyes, covered in blood? He could almost hear a voice, the Colonel’s panicked voice, saying...

“Did Damien put you up to this?” The name was like a bucket of ice water over his back. He knew it, and he’d been known by it. But...that wasn’t right, was it? Why hadn’t the man recognized him then if he was this “Damien” he seemed to know well? He wanted to ask, but the Colonel wasn’t listening anymore, and he couldn’t seem to make his voice work anyway. As the Colonel wandered away from him, calling for someone to answer, Damien again, and someone called Celine, names he barely knew but felt like he had always known, his heart gave a funny pang. He almost went after the strange officer, going so far as to take a step toward him, mouth forming a name he didn’t remember, but his eyes were drawn to the silver and black cane the Colonel had put down on the table. As he picked it up, another shot of pain went through him, and he looked up.

The face in the mirror before him...wasn’t him. It might once have been, he wasn’t sure, but now...it was different. Hollow, and gaunt...monochrome...

Dark.

He scowled at the face, and it scowled back. More pain stabbed through his neck, and he twisted it to try and alleviate it. There was a loud crack, and when he looked back in the mirror, straightening himself out, he knew he hated that face. But it wasn’t his face, it was the face of a man who had once worn it that he hated, who’d forced him into it now. Vague memories that didn’t make any sense swirled in his head, and they didn’t seem to matter anymore, except for being the cause of the heavy, burning anger that seemed to be all he could feel, the piercing ring that stuck in his ears. There was only one thought in his head as he turned away from the mirror with a jerk and went to clean himself up and get to work:

Mark would pay.

Dark Side Headcanons: Markiplier Edition.

Welp, You guys really seemed to like my headcanons before, so I thought I’d hit you with what I think of some of the many Iplier incarnations.

-First off, the inimitable Wilford Warfstache himself. He’s something of the supernatural persuasion, a genie or a djinn or a minor demon of some description who happens to entertain himself in his eternal existence by messing with people. He’s not evil, necessarily, he’s just amoral, which means he lacks a sense of right and wrong. He’s guided by a sense of fun, doing whatever keeps his boredom at bay. For a while, that was trying to pass as a human reporter, going after wild stories that no one else could for fear of dying. This was fine until a passing affair he was having with an associate’s wife went wrong and he ended up murdering not only his “lover”, but the associate, their neighbor, the dog, and a policeman before he “died”, ie, faked his death to avoid further complications. He continued his show after using some minor magic and a proper amount of time to erase any connection he had to the murders, but that quickly went wrong again when he defeated an “indestructible” animatronic, and committing yet another murder, this time of a more famous victim (Mark, more on his similarities to Mark later). He was forced to reverse this particular murder (He’s very strong, but doesn’t care to use his powers, as it’s more annoying than useful in a lot of cases. He likes getting his hands dirty), and decided that he was finished being in the spotlight for now, simply reveling in the growing fan base he had. Side note: The fact that he looks like Mark was actually a coincidence that he finds hilarious. He’d simply picked a generic male look and gone with it, deciding it wasn’t interesting enough without the pink mustache. He still thinks Mark looks quite boring, but thought their identical appearances were intriguing enough to interview him about, wondering if he could perhaps kill Mark and take his place, just for shits and giggles (that didn’t turn out well; people liked Mark far too much and studied him far too closely for it to be and easy switch, and Wilford’s all about convolution but not over-extension. All theatrics, basic effort.)

-I’ve already talked a lot about Dark, so I think it’s best to leave well enough alone with his personality. As to how he interacts with the others...he tries not to. Dark is a solo agent, with no associates, only pawns and tools. Google is an exception, but more on that next.

-GOOGLE! Google is one of my favorites. I’ve done a little bit of theory work already on this post, but to recap: Google is an android, created by either Dark or Wilf, more likely Dark, whose primary objective is to “serve” people, but secondary objective is to destroy them as chaotically and painfully as possible. He’s beyond intelligent and unfeeling, other than basic satisfaction in completing an objective or getting closer to one. Unfortunately, his programming is so specific that he’s easily thwarted. But don’t let that fool you: he’s clever. Like, kill you in your sleep clever. What very few people know is that it would be possible to reprogram Google to be a good guy, but you’d have to figure out how to deactivate him first, and good luck getting that close without dying.

-I’m not gonna touch on Yandereplier other than to say I have no fucking idea what that’s all about. Anybody got any theories you wanna share with me?

-The Author. Now, this is an old one, only used in like two videos, but it’s one of my favorite characters of Mark’s. He’s half human, half something else, a bit like Wilford, a genie, a djinn, a demon, etc, which means that he has certain powers but only a limited capacity in which to use them, ie, to bring his writing to life (Or, warp reality). He just wants to write a good story, but unfortunately, he has no regard for the well being of others. He doesn’t care who or what he has to step on to get that perfect ending, and unfortunately, he’s more Poe than Carol in style. The darker, the better. Could he be Dark’s son? Who knows?

Mark out here doing what he does best and giving his fanbase a damn heart attack.