Demons - a Markiplier, Darkiplier & Warfstache x Reader.

10. A Master's Puppet.

WARNING: THE BEGINNING OF THIS CHAPTER MAY BE DIFFICULT FOR SOME READERS TO READ. READ AHEAD AT YOUR OWN RISK.

You jolt awake, a stinging pain on your right cheek. Through blurry eyes you see Wilford standing over you, his left hand raised in the air. When he sees that your eyes have opened, he takes his hand down and rips you up by your shirt front. "Get up,' he growls gutturally. He crudely pushes you to the open door that leads into his room. You stumble, supporting yourself on the doorframe. This earns another shove on your back from Wilford, who propels you to the door that leads to the main room.

"What the fuck did I do?" you question gruffly, turning around and looking at him. Wilford scowls and stalks past you, not replying. You watch him stalk over to a small flight of stairs that lead to a metal door, looking like shiny blood in the light of the place. He opens the door and turns to you, beckoning you to follow him. Your legs move of their own accord, dragging you towards him and down the stairs. You mentally scream as you enter a room that is lit by fluorescent lights. A torture room is what it seems similar too.

There's a surgery table, and beside it, on a metal tray, is an array of tools and objects. Opposite the table there's a chair, in front of a screen. This sends chills through your spine.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Wilford when he commands, "Move!". When your legs don't move, you turn around and say fiercely, "No!", running towards him to get past him. Wilford seems to know your moves and plants his hand in the middle of your chest, pushing you back. You are sent sprawling backwards into the concrete floor with an oof. You get up, shakily, and are met by Wilford's fist connecting with your face. You cry out and slump to the ground, gripping your nose. Your vision turns blurry as you feel the slick blood slipping through your fingers. You choke at the sight, then freeze when Wilford lowers himself in a squat next to you.

"I told you: don't disobey me and I won't hurt you. I thought you'd be a little smart to understand the message," he snarls. "Humans," he sighs, shaking his head. He grabs your forearm and hoists you up, dragging you to the chair. It's a bolted wooden thing, with a head-strap, wrist straps and ankle straps. Before you can even process what's going on, you're forced into the chair. Wilford rips your bloody hand away from your face, slamming it onto the armrest. He secures it with the strap, and he repeats the process with the other wrist. He then does the same with your ankles.

He stands up, looking at you with a superior glare. You taste the blood from your broken nose in your mouth, mixing with your tears. Wilford doesn't say anything, but just grips your hair to put your head in place. He brings the strap across your forehead, which forces you to stare directly ahead. You start sobbing, screwing your eyes shut. Wilford walks away, opening a cupboard. He comes back, show in a cloth into your mouth. He tightens it with another cloth, then forces you to open your eyes.

"Now, you will not close your eyes. You will watch what I have prepared for you. If you refuse, it'll be to the table with you. Do you understand?" he says in a low voice, peering into your eyes. You make a shaky affirmative sound, tears still leaking from your eyes. Wilford nods and stalks away. You hear some clicks and shuffles from his feet, then the screen in front of you comes to life.

You stare at Mark's face, your heart hurting painfully at the sight of him. Oh god, he's brainwashing me, you think frantically. Soon enough, distorted images appear in a frenzy. They all blur, causing your eyes to hurt. You hear a whisper, a whisper that's all around you: Mark never loved me, he only wanted me as a pleasure, he wants me dead, he doesn't care. You make muffled cries, trying to resist it. The images are just the same, over and over again. Seconds blur into minutes, minutes blur into hours, hours blur into days.