ONESHOTS - Markicest, Darkstache, & More

Think - Darkstache

"I don't want to think right now. I don't want to think about you, or the company, or—or the others. I don't want to think about us."

    Before Wilford could open his mouth to speak, Dark cut over him, hysterical.

    "But you see, the thing is—" He laughed bitterly. "I'll never be able to stop thinking about you, because you..." He shook his head, pointing a finger at the other. "You are a curse. You tear apart innocent people for—for what? For love?"

    Wilford's eyes went cold, his face falling. The air around them went brittle. In the dark, highlighted only by moonlight, he looked menacing.

    "I tear them apart for you," he said quietly. The words were enough to ring like sirens.

    Dark stood there, dumbfounded, sucking in a breath that the phrase had stabbed out of his chest. When Wil stepped forward, he stepped back, weary by his sudden change in demeanor.

    "I don't do this because I don't have a choice," said Wilford, eyes burning holes into Dark's. "I do it because I want to."

    Dark's blood ran cold. His back hit the wall. Breath hitched.

    "You're a monster."

    Wilford's lips twitched up into a smirk, eyes glinting sadistically.

    "I know," he said, and that made sickness wash over Dark. "But that didn't stop you from getting close to me."

    Wilford stopped inches before Dark and ran a hand up his torso—a gesture that once made the man go hot under the collar. Now, he froze, chest heaving—not from anticipation—but from fear.

    "Besides..." breathed Wilford, digging his nails into Dark's tie. He tugged him forward, relishing the other's choked sound. "There's nothing wrong with being a monster." He smiled, high off the look on Dark's face. "You see, I'm no different from you, or anyone else in this world. I do what I need to to survive. Where's the harm in enjoying some of it?"

    Dark tipped his head back, balling up his fists to still the tremors in his hands. Wilford's breath ghosted hot over his neck.

    "You've—" Dark hated the shake in his voice. "—killed people, Wil."

    "People that die," sighed Wilford, pressing into the other. "People that, in a hundred years, won't matter."

    "That's bullshit. You do this because you're a—you're a fucking psychopath."

    Anger flashed across Wilford's face, the remark cutting into him.

    "Don't even try to tell me," hissed Wilford, "that you wouldn't do the same if you were in my place."

    "I would never kill somebody," Dark growled, teeth bared.

    Wilford scoffed with amusement. "Anyone," he breathed, "is capable of murder." His eyes glinted. "You just have to push them hard enough."

    In an instant, he stepped away, and Dark gasped for breath, surprised with the sudden space. The relief didn't last for long. When he glanced up, Wilford stood feet before him, face twisted in that dark pleasure.

    Realization sank in Dark's gut like a weight.

    "No... Wil—"

    "I want you to pick up the gun," said Wilford. The moment he said the words, Dark could feel them massage his brain, coaxing his body into obedience.

    "Gun, th-ere's no—"

    Wilford pulled out a gun from his belt and chucked it. The metal slid against the floor and thunked against Dark's shoe, glaring up at him like a warning.

    His breath shallowed.

    "I want," said Wilford sharply, using that cursed phrase, "you to pick up the gun."

    Dark's body bent on its own accord. He watched with horror as his hand reached out, fingers curling around the weapon. Felt sick as he lifted the weighted metal.

    "Now raise the gun," breathed Wilford, his influence still strong, "and walk towards me."

    Dark obeyed and stopped until the barrel of the gun pressed against Wilford's chest. His breaths racked, vision caving in. He didn't understand what Wil was doing.

    "Good boy," praised Wilford, eyes alight. Before, the words would have made Dark feel something. Now, he swallowed, frozen with horror.

    "What f-ucking sick game are you planning now?" Dark managed out, hand shaking around the gun.

    Wilford only smiled.

    His eyes pinned Dark in place as he pulled out his phone, and three quick dials echoed in the room. As the phone purred, dread sank in Dark's chest.

    And the realization hit again.

    "No—" breathed Dark. "Wil, don't you fucking dare—"

    "Ah, ba-bup!" he shushed, shoving a hand against Dark's mouth. He struggled, but to no avail, he couldn't move his body under Wilford's spell.

    The line picked up.

    "911," said the operator, "What is your emergency?"

    Dark watched with horror as Wilford's face remained beguiling as he spun another lie.

    "Please help!" Wilford shouted into the phone, smirking at Dark all the while. "I-I'm being attacked—he's got a gun! He's going to shoot me, please, please come qui—"

    He hung up the phone and dropped it. Dark flinched when it cracked on the floor.

    "Wilford..."

    "You said you would never kill anybody," breathed Wilford, raising his hands to the sides of his head. Dark shook his head furiously, panic seizing his body.

    "Wil, please—"

    "So put your finger on the trigger..." Dark's fingers moved according, no matter how hard he tried to struggle. "And shoot me."

    "WILFORD—!"

    The shot rang throughout the apartment. Both of them knocked back, Wilford to the floor and Dark stumbling on weak legs. The spell sagged from his limbs, and he gasped for breath, falling to his knees. The gun clattered to the floor, and he stared at the sight of Wilford's body, only feet away, limp.

    "O-oh my god," stumbled Dark, body shaking. "Oh my god, I killed him. I killed him—"

    Wilford gasped in a breath from afar, and Dark shouted, scrambling back. Horror flooded his veins as the man struggled to sit up, clutching his stomach and groaning as he did so.

    "What the fuck—"

    Blood ran through Wilford's fingers, and with his head bowed, he started to laugh. Quiet, at first, until it became a guttural, twisted joy that echoed throughout the room. Dark pressed himself against the wall, too shaken to stand up.

    "Oh, Dark," laughed Wilford, coughing up blood. "Even now—" He shook his head, hair falling in his face. "—you still don't realize why you deserve this."

    Dark shook his head, clutching his hair. Wilford met his eyes with a seizing ferocity.

    "You don't have to kill someone to be a villain."

    Wilford wearily smiled. "You," he breathed, pointing a shaking, bloody hand at Dark, "you taught me that."

...

This is based directly off a fic I have planned... Basically, Wilford can make anyone do what he wants as long as he uses the words, "You want," or "I want..."

Should this be the next fic after Killshot? Give me ur opinions hehe

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Vic xoxo