#dr edward iplier (mentioned)

[even-more-incorrect-ego-quotes]

Bim Trimmer, eating a “ham”burger: Don’t give me that look, this man died of natural causes.

Dr. Iplier: ...You threw him into a meat grinder.

Bim: Gravity is natural.

[lostcybertronian]

“do the drugs still get you high?”, author + anyone you like!!

Docthor?

Also I usually won’t write drug use, but this angsty opportunity presented itself.

Trigger warnings for drug use, mentions of drugs

Tags: @tiny-yan-an @darkstache-iplier @redraspberrycats @cookieface678 @bing-iplier @storm337 @sketchy-scribs-n-doods @pixelenchanter @itsjustkyss @darkiplurrr @demon-dark-666 @moonysmayhem @xpouii @projectwkm @sororia04s @purple-anxiety-blog @rabbitsartcorner @tried-my-best @endangered-cryptid

Prompt: “Do the drugs still get you high?”

    He emerged into semi-consciousness sprawled somewhere freezing and uncomfortable, with frigid water soaking through his shirt. Frost nipped at his fingers and snapped at the tip of his nose, chasing away the fevered heat of his skin and settling over it like a fine coat of paint.

    He could do better with the similes. He knew it. The audience knew it. But it wasn’t like he was lucid.

    Even in his mostly unconscious state, the Author still registered the faint chattering of people. A thin dusting of bright light intruding upon his drug-induced sea of darkness. 

    “Shit, not another one.” 

    “I don’t want to deal with this tonight. It’s one AM.”

    “It’s okay, I’ve got it.” That voice was familiar, and the Author’s slow-thudding heart beat just a little bit faster for it. Footsteps crossed the pavement, growing ever closer. “I’ll take him in and-” the voice hitched, as if its owner just now recognized who lay in the ditch at the edge of the parking lot- “I’ll take him in and treat him.”

     There came no reply that the Author could hear; only a silence that seemed to be itself a scream that now they were alone.

    “Come on, Author.” There was a barely concealed edge to Edward’s tone. Still, he gathered the Author into his arms, cradled him against his chest, like there was still some remaining tenderness left. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze.”

    His words, wavering and faint to the Author’s ears, were the last he heard before unconsciousness bubbled up and took him.

    If the Author was writing this story, he would wake in one of the medical beds in Edward’s clinic. The place would be empty, half-lit by those same glaring fluorescents every clinic Edward had ever worked in used, and the bed would be soft. Way softer than the scratchy sheets and paper-thin mattress. 

    If the Author was writing this story, he would not be alone; sometime during the night, Edward would have joined him. Would have wrapped himself around the Author’s drug-addled, unconscious body and fallen asleep to his body heat, one hand curled over him, palm pressed flat to the bare skin just over his heart. There would be a heart monitor hunching not three feet from the bed, its steady drone a comfort. A lullaby of sorts. 

If the Author was writing this story, Edward would want to make sure himself that the Author’s heart beat. 

    But the Author was not writing this story. Not anymore.

    He jerked roughly into consciousness with naught but a staticky radio and the glow of headlights for company. His head ached; he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to try to dispel the pain. His skin crawled with cold despite the vents blasting heat and his shirt stuck to him, frigid and damp.

    “Do drugs still get you high?” Cold. Indifferent. A question bit out through gritted teeth. There would be no reassurance. No latent love left. The Author lifted his head from the icy-cold window to glance at Edward, white-knuckling the wheel in the “ten-and-two” position. He looked exhausted. “That’s a genuine question,” he added, not returning the Author’s stare. His eyes gleamed oddly under the dashboard lights. “I’m actually wondering. It seems you do this too often to really get high anymore.”

    The Author opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a groan. This seemed to satisfy Edward to some extent, because he didn’t press any further.

    “I’m taking you home,” he said curtly, and something about their surroundings changed: streetlights became trees, twisted and gnarled and dark; the road became cracked and old, as if it hadn’t been maintained in years. “But after this, I’m not taking you home anymore. After this, I will leave you in the ditch where I find you.”

    Now he looked at the Author, fixing him with the full force of his indifference.

    It felt like a slap to the face. The Author turned away, unable to bear the brunt. He faced the window instead, watching as they approached a familiar section of the deep, dark woods, and said nothing.

    They soon slowed to a stop. But Edward made no move to get out.

    “I got some fluids into you,” he said, quiet. “But you’re going to want to drink some water. And eat something, if you’re able.”

    He glanced at the Author’s pale face, one quick dart of the eyes. “Maybe wait until tomorrow.”

    The Author nodded, and time slowed to a snail’s pace as he reached for the door handle. Opened the door. Got out into the cold. Closed the door again.

    Edward drove away without so much as a goodbye.

[lildevyl]

Nora Weird (Backstory, sorta)

@weirdmixofweirdness

Okay, so since this is going to be a bit of long post (you’ve been warned!) I’m gonna tag Weird! So, I read the  Rapunzel Post and how you think that might what it might have been liked for Nora Weird (an OC I created for Weird!). Well, it’s a Yes and No, for Nora.

When the Author was first created he was created not to feel emotions, except for the pleasure he got from his writing. The Author wanted to be that so badly, an actual published fully recognized author! But for some reason every time he wrote a book and his publisher said it was fantastic and it should sell, it never did! No, can figure out why, but for some odd reason none of his books would sell.  Romance, Fantasy, Adventure, even a few Children’s Books and Young Adult Books. Nothing! None of them would sell!

The Author was getting desperate! Pretty soon he would have take up Dark’s offer! What choice did he have? Nothing was selling, and he couldn’t get a job fast enough to pay all the bills that he needed it to pay! The Author went to Dark and said yes to his offer. Dark smiled, and the next thing the Author knew he was selling books left, right and center! They couldn’t keep them on the shelves fast enough! Horror, Thriller, Mystery, Psychological Horror/Thriller, it was everything the Author ever wanted, but at price. The Author became so consumed with his work that he didn’t realize what kind of a monster he was turning into.

Not caring about others, not caring who he hurts and what he does! Until his one friend, Edward Iplier became unknown victim! Edward went to check on the Author to make sure he was doing alright. Edward knew from the beginning when he came to the Manor (now known as Ego Inc) that something was off! He saw what was happening to his friend and tried desperately to help him! To let him get help and maybe find out what was causing all this! Or more specifically, who was causing it! It led to the Author using his gift on Edward and there was no way to reverse it!

When the Author saw what he did to Edward, he couldn’t believe it! His only friend! And he did that to him! The Author, stopped writing after that, he bring himself to do so! Taking a stroll through his woods, the Author came across something brand new. A small one bedroom, one bathroom cabin in the middle of the woods with a radio tower. The Author went to see who might be living there and to his surprise a young girl couldn’t be no more then a student was living there by herself!

The Author asked who she was, and told him, her name was Nora. Nora invited him into her house and told the Author everything. Nora was a fan made Ego, she made by the Community but the thing of it is, not a lot of the Community members know of her. She doesn’t how she came here, she just appeared one day. The Author explained everything to Nora, what and Ego is, where she is, what Egopocalpse is (the alternate universe where the Egos live in my universe). And how it is that an Ego can’t live outside of Egopocalpse for long, otherwise they fade and only a few people can cross the threshold of the Real World and Egopocalpse. Usually its the Creators and the people that their with that can cross. But the same rule applies to them as well. They can’t live in Egopocaplse for long, least they become a character themselves.

As time went on, the Author took Nora under his wing and along the way, discovered her talents as well! She was a natural at story telling and gifted author! The Author started to see her like a daughter and began teaching her all kinds of things. It was b/c of her that the Author and Edward were able to make up. They’re friendship was still strained but at least they were trying. Unfortunately, that was also when Dark had caught wind of Nora.

The Author refused to let Dark anywhere near Nora without him present! The Author might not be able to use his gift against Dark b/c Dark’s chaotic energy protects him. But the Author will be damned if anything happened to his daughter!

But unfortunately, things wouldn’t last long for the Author or Nora. The Egos needed both their Creator and the Community to remember them! Even if the Creator acknowledges the Ego, the Community is what keep them alive! If the Community doesn’t know about he Ego or doesn’t like the Ego enough then the Ego will fade. Unfortunately for the Author, Mark didn’t have enough subscribers back then. His chapter had came to close and that was when the Author became the Host!

The Host does remember his time a the Author but everyone sees him and the Author as two different people. The Host saw himself as Nora’s Uncle and took over trying to help her and protect her. But like the Author, the Host can’t use his narrations to predict what will happen with Dark or be able to use anything on Dark. Over the years, the Host realized that Nora had both her father’s gift and his as well.  She could write any scene with a character and that character automatically becomes part of the book.

If she starts to narrate the story, then it becomes “alive” but only to a certain degree. Nora could even bring something to life! But at a terrible price. She will loose energy and won’t be able to talk for hours.

Nora has her own radio show with her Uncle the Host. Reading books of new authors, writers (fanfiction is one of her favorites from the community), and even sometimes, reads some of her favorites that her father had written.

Then a new “Channel” that Mark and Ethan made called Unus Annus gained a lot of momentum. One of the episodes literally helped bring back her father, the Author. But at a terrible price. Dark set him up, and now it’s up to the Host and Nora to prove his innocents and to help save Jackieboy Man.

[snarkyfinch]

After the War

Edward makes a friend after the Author dumps him.

Outside the small bar, cars race through the streets with bright lights and rumbling engines. Some speed faster than others as though they have somewhere more important to be, something important waiting for them. Edward was like that, once. He remembers the relief he always felt as he left the hospital, the excitement to go home and relax with the man he loved. Now that had all slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving him with nothing but a few grains to remember the better times with. “This seat taken?” The voice is familiar and yet foreign all at once. When Edward turns his head to meet a pair of eyes with the same sorrows he sees in his own when he looks in the mirror, he shakes his head and tries to give a convincing, friendly smile. “Empty unless you take it.” The man nods his head and offers his own forced smile in return as he slips into the seat on Edward’s right, waving a bit to the bartender to order himself a drink.

For a few moments there is nothing between them, no conversation past discussion of the seat. Then, the man speaks up again. “My name is Chase.” “Brody?” Edward asks, realizing after a moment that that isn’t exactly something you just say. Judging from the wary look he’s getting, Chase definitely thinks Edward saying his last name is odd. “Sorry, a friend of mine has mentioned a Chase Brody.” Chase looks startled for a different reason now, not that Edward can tell what that reason is. “You’re Edward Iplier?”

“The one and only,” Edward nods with what he knows is a bitter smile. “Wish I was anybody else right about now, but.” Chase snorts, thanking the bartender for his drink before his attention returns to Edward. “Yeah, I feel that. Wanna talk about it?” Edward stares into his drink, contemplating, before finally downing the remains and asking for another. “Why the hell not?”

“And that’s it,” Edward finishes four drinks later, mostly drunk and definitely heartbroken. Chase is in no better a state despite being a drink or two behind Edward, hunched forward and holding his glass with both hands as though it will warm him. “That’s the night I lost everything.” Edward hates the cliche of that, but what else is there to say? He lost his lover, his home, his entire life was ripped up by the roots and turned on its head. A tree could make branches of roots and roots of branches, but his life hadn’t quite figured that number out just yet. So, he drank.

“And what about you, Chase? What drives you to sit in a tiny bar alone with your drink of choice?” Chase gives a sad little laugh, shaking his head and finishing his new drink in one go. “Wife took the kids and now I’m being haunted by my ex-best friend.” “Damn.” “Yeah. It’s tough.” “Sounds real shitty.”

Chase barks out a laugh, more genuine this time, as Edward offers only a soft huff. “Yeah, bro. Real shitty is exactly what I’d call it.” They lapse into silence for a moment before Edward sighs and moves to stand. “I’ve gotta get home, but-” “Nah, I’m heading out too. Don’t say goodbye just yet.” Chase grins and winks, and after paying off their bills they head out into the night together. It’s cold and dark, and Edward is just glad it isn’t raining because then his life really would be one of those shitty movies.

“Here’s my number,” Chase says as he shoves a small piece of paper into Edward’s hand. “Not to date, cause like- y’know. Neither of us are ready for that. I just thought we’d both benefit from having a friend that gets it.” Edward has to smile at the endearing awkwardness Chase is carrying with him, tucking the paper into his pocket. “I’ll text you tonight before I go to bed,” he promises. “Text me whenever you need me.” Chase insists, and Edward nods his head. “You do the same, Chase.” “I will, bro.”

They share a quiet moment, just watching the cars pass by. It’s nice, if not a little melancholy. “Well, see you later, dude.” “Yeah, see you again soon.” When they smile this time neither of them have to fake it, and the hug they share is brief but warm. Edward waves to Chase as he heads off down the sidewalk, leaving the doctor to himself once again. Being alone doesn’t sting as bad, now, knowing he finally has a friend outside of work again.

“Well, Judas,” he sighs to himself as he begins his trek home, “you broke yourself and me to pieces, but I’m learning to rebuild. How are you doing?” He doesn’t expect an answer, but sometimes it feels nice to talk to the air and ask the questions he’ll never get to. Judas chose to lose his sight, chose to lose Edward. It’s only fair Edward gets to choose to move on.

If only he could.

[asktheoutside]

What's wrong with the Host's eyes?

Edward’s brows raise a little at the question.

“Humans…don’t typically have empty, bleeding eye sockets. As of now, he wears an oversized hood in public to cover part of his face. With summer approaching and and his eyes causing problems, he can’t keep doing that. It’s a temporary fix.”

He glances to his companion for a moment. “It was a set part of his design that couldn’t be healed in the Figmental Plane. My first priority is to find a way to fix it now that we’re out here.”

[shyyandere44]

I’m feeling soft so you’re forced to put up with it.

So Yandere.. he’s not having the best time right?

In meetings he just doodles in his diary which was normal but his doodles.. were all broken hearts, even randomly tearing out pages and lighting them on fire in the middle of Dark’s monologue which he didn’t take kindly to-

If it isn’t for food he won’t leave his room either, and Google went as far as installing a hidden motion detector.. it wouldn’t go off for long periods of time, prompting the discussion of.. vital monitors being placed on him.

Eric.. poor Eric just moved in, and on the first day had to witness.. the breaking point.

It was just supposed to be a simple conversation between Yan and Dark- trying to address the situation in the kitchen as Eric walked in for cereal.

It didn’t turn out so simple.

Eric didn’t even understand what happened because of how fast it was- all he knew was that Yan threw dark at a wall hard enough to break through it before jumping on top of him and was trying to stab him with a steak knife.

Eric had to call the only name he knew- The second in command, Wilford. Screaming out of fear for him to hurry, to which he did- along with almost everyone in the house.

Yan thrashed.. unnaturally, managing to somehow even escape the robotic grip of Google- not even hesitating when Wilford got out his gun- dark had to have host help him up while Wilford and Yancy held onto the rabid redhead as Edward- or as he’s commonly known as Dr. Iplier- had to stab a sedative into him strong enough for to put even dark down, everyone yelling for Yan to stop- the struggle continues until finally his body couldn’t resist the drugs… his hand going limp and dropping the knife.

An unnatural silence falls the room.

Eric’s first introduction to Yandere.

Dark was lucky he could heal easily when left alone… and now they have to figure out what to do with Yandere.

He’s going feral without something to obsess over.. everyone knows it, but they can’t bring his crush back to life. To give him another one is.. dangerous.

A voté is casted

Yandere is on house arrest, being locked into his room and restrained with a mouthpiece- or muzzle as he calls it- keeping him from biting.

Keeping him like a caged animal.

At least… until they can figure out a solution.

Eric was placed on the afternoon shift, thinking it would be the safest as his time slot is between dark and host.

It would be an awkward first visit.

“Hi! I know I-I haven’t.. exactly gotten the right opportunity to introduce myself, my name’s Eric! I.. like your hair!”

He’d be met with silence, just like everyone else. Eric would cower to his glaring red eyes, not entirely convinced the restraints could hold the power he witnessed his first day.

Two days had passed.

Eric was watching as the man he would watch become less outwardly agressive, seeming to just stare at the wall and stay still, scaring Eric to an extent causing him to watch for the other’s breathing. He had mentioned the strange behavior to Dark but his concerns were dismissed, stating that Yan was probably just scheming for a way out. Eric knew he may be naïve but.. he felt sorry for Yan.

The others still had concerns over letting Yan roam free again, while Edward would counter the longer they held him like this the worse his mental health would deteriorate.

A vote would be casted.

And starting at the end of the month, his mouth piece would be removed, yet his restraints would remain, only to be removed for Edward’s checkups with Wilford’s direct supervision.

Eric didn’t like that phrasing, because he knew this ‘supervision’ was more like a bodyguard for Edward, having a gun trained on Yandere to ‘neutralize’ if something went wrong.

But it went into effect just as stated, with Eric seeing the Yandere’s face for the first time since the incident- and he couldn’t decide if this was a good or bad thing.

His expression always seemed unreadable, having no human emotion at all times- the only time he seemed to open his mouth was to yawn- which didn’t help Eric’s case as his paranoia made him imagine all the horrific things his sharp teeth could do to Eric given the chance.

Despite his worries, Eric was determined to get him to speak. All he had ever heard from the others was that it was higher pitched- that his laugh always sounded manic and too enthusiastic. Yet all Eric ever saw was a cold, detached husk restrained and probably uncomfortable.

“I know.. you’re probably not going to like this but I went into your room- I gotta say I loved your decor! And I saw you had cool manga on your shelves, you really do have great taste.”

He’d always say these things with a smile, wanting to give this Yandere a much needed friend as the others seemed to outcast him..

Yet Yandere would never respond, not even bothering to meet his gaze. Uninterested in what he was saying as his own thoughts seem to held him hostage.

Eric would keep talking to him with no response, until eventually he changed strategies.. saying nothing at all, treating Yandere the same way he’d treat a cat.

He’d often bring in a book or perhaps his gameboy to keep him entertained, not even acknowledging he was sharing the same space as the Yandere, going out of his way to seem as relaxed as possible.

It was time consuming, sure, but one day when he looked up he saw Yandere actually looking at him with curiosity, leaning to see him closer only to look away when Eric caught him.

It may not have been much, but it was a win for him, and he’d leave his session excited.

Then one day, Eric would walk into the room to see Yandere.. seeming irritated. Moving his head in a weird whip over and over leaving Eric confused until he saw what was bothering him- his hair stuck defiantly over his face, about to get into his eyes.

“Is that.. bothering you?”

Eric would ask hesitantly, feeling bad that Yan couldn’t fix it due to his restraints- and surprisingly, after looking at Eric for a while, would slowly nod.

“Do you.. want me to fix it for you?”

He’d ask again, still in awe he got a response and actual acknowledgement.

Yandere seemed to be confused by the question, looking towards the door and all around the room- probably realizing it truly was only Eric in the room, leaving Eric in an awkward silence before nodding.

“Just d-don’t… don’t give them any reason to not let me visit you.. ok?”

Eric would request, and to his surprise he got another nod.

His gentle hand would touch Yan for the first time and he flinched, but… slowly went back to Eric’s hand.

Eric wouldn’t wait for him to change his mind, pushing his soft red hair behind his ear,

“There.. a-all better.”

This was the closest he’s ever been to the Yandere, and even with every violent incident he’s seen so far… he can’t bring himself to cower in fear. Even with those red eyes staring deep into his soul like some feral demon. And to his surprise.. The Yandere was the first to look away

In their two months together that had never happened.

Finally he would give him the distance he was probably wanting.

Eric admittedly scared to push it too far.

For the rest of his time he’d be reading the book he started to read a couple of weeks ago, in the beginning he just read it in the awkward silence between his watch but then.. he noticed the Yandere’s eyes looking at the mirror next to him, eyes squinting- he was trying to read what he was reading.

Once Eric figured that out he was happy to read it out loud for him, which seemed to keep him entertained as his eyes almost seemed inquisitive

Host would always be the next shift after, which he’d learn to like. Originally the narrator hated having to waste time with what he described as a foaming at the mouth beast but eventually his tone would change, instead stating the Yandere would seem.. more distant than agressive.

Dark was anything but happy to hear that.. being concerned for Eric’s safety. He’d start cutting their time shorter and shorter

Eric would begin to notice Yandere would start to almost look sad as Eric would leave- it was nice to a certain extent but also made him feel terrible.. starting to promise he’d be back and not to worry.

Yancy was always the one to bring him snacks and drinks, but once dark started enacting his policy about Eric’s schedule.. Yan began to refuse to take it. On the first day it didn’t concern him, thinking maybe he just didn’t feel good and he’d leave it for later- but after day three he became concerned.

Eric would notice Yandere would seem more tired and weak throughout their visits, and when Yancy finally told him of Yan’s diet he truly became concerned.

Dark tried to encourage Eric not to worry about it, and that Yandere has done this in the past with him usually going back to normal within a few days- but deep down Eric wasn’t convinced.

Eric would walk in again for his visit, and Yandere actually perked up when he came in, having a good mood for the first time in a while- if Eric didn’t know what he knew he would’ve been over the moon with his progress but.. he knew he had to confront this negative behavior before it got worse.

“Yan.. you know I’m here for you.. right?”

the atmosphere in the room suddenly wasn’t as pleasant- and Eric watched as Yandere seemed to piece together Eric wasn’t in a playful mood as he had hoped.

“And while.. the others may have mixed feelings about you, I want what’s best for you. I want you out of here one day.”

Eric then watched as Yandere seemed to be really confused, even tilting his head. This was when he finally decided to spit it out.

“You haven’t been eating anything Yancy brings you for the past few days. Why.”

It was quiet in that room, as it seemed Yan didn’t even breathe- looking at the ground for a while before looking at Eric with a sorrowful look In his eyes. It was a message, Eric knew that, but one he couldn’t convey.

“They’re.. they’re gonna keep you here longer if you keep doing this Yan. I’m just trying to help you, I really am- but I don’t know how. Please just- tell me what changed, tell me what’s wrong.”

And to his unfortunate reality.. Yandere would say nothing, looking down, leaving Eric frustrated as he decided to just leave- walking out the door and closing it behind him, telling dark he had something to do and that dark can fill in.

Laying in bed that night Eric didn’t feel good about what he did. It was out of frustration- anger at the fact that even after everything he did for Yan it wasn’t enough for him to gain trust. He thought.. maybe he’d managed to create a unique relationship with him.

It just wasn’t the case.

……or so he thought.

He’d wake up, going downstairs to the now repaired kitchen to overhear Yancy and Host’s conversation.

“Guess Dark was right about him breaking after a couple of days, It was like magic- this morning he ate with no problem.”

“The host believes that dark spoke to the other regarding his behavior, most likely threatening him with punishment due to Dark’s character traits. But the host won’t think too much into it, he’s just ready for the Yandere to be treated normally again so he can go back to having a social life.”

It.. was weird to Eric. He’d have his bowl yet he suddenly didn’t feel hungry as his stomach flipped.

Was he.. responsible for this?

He’d.. be anxious as the time for him to see Yandere got closer, not knowing what to think or believe. But he’d go in, opening the door to his temporary.. well- cage, only managing to convince dark to let him in at the expense of cleaning up the trash.

Yandere’s eyes would meet his, and for a moment Eric held still- having that initial fear he’s had since the beginning appear, but he didn’t break his eye contact, standing his ground, all until he made it to his little comfy chair.

“..I overheard Yancy this morning. Apparently you.. had no problem.”

Yandere has never held such an intense stare at Eric like this before, it made Eric undeniably uncomfortable.

“Did you.. actually listen to me yesterday?”

He’d ask with uncertainty, just wanting to get some kind of answer-

Unfortunately he’d get one.

Not exactly the one he anticipated but..

Eric got one.

Eric couldn’t help but describe it to be like a dog trained to ‘smile’ with their razor sharp teeth, one that humans recognize as friendly yet deep down its predatory.

A smile so wide it was unnatural.

Eric won’t lie, it took everything inside him not to call him out for how freaking scary it looked and beg for him to stop it. He’d swallow down the lump in his throat, starting to remind himself that he was restrained, unable to hurt him.

“…I’ll take that as a yes.”

Perhaps Yan got the reaction he wanted, because his face would shortly go back to the unreadable expression he usually wore- one that Eric has learned not to fear. Eventually he’d shake his fear off, feeling guilty about yesterday as he read as much as he could to him.

It’s almost the end of the second month, It seemed Eric actually was getting comfortable with the other’s company, being more lenient with Dark’s rules as he’d sneak in snacks and movies for them to watch together- and even if Yan didn’t speak, Eric was beginning to believe that Yandere was enjoying his time with him.

Finally, after the second month the vote was casted to decide if Yandere should be allowed to be free from his restraints, with Eric and Dr Iplier would be very vocal in their support of- but others like dark and Wilford weren’t convinced. Dark saying his lack of proper communication allowed for him to hide proper evaluations, and that he was simply buying his time in order to strike again- and Wilford would pipe up stating the rabid boy would glare at him every chance he could.

A voté was casted..

And it seems Yandere is still stuck in his restraints, but his observation sessions would be cut back to give him some semblance of false freedom.

Eric.. would meet with him the next day, seeing him reverting back to staring at the wall for what seemed like hours while barely breathing. There was no way that dark didn’t break the news to him.

“Hey Yan.. I.. got you a little treat for today”

Eric’s upbeat voice couldn’t lift the despair in the room. As optimistic as Eric was, he understood why Yan was upset.

“I um.. picked it out because it had red frosting.. and.. a cherry on top- it.. made me think of you.”

It got Yandere’s attention at least, his clouded eyes lazily focusing on the cupcake..

Eric wasn’t prepared to see a tear leak from his eye, and all he worried about was that he had did something wrong- he knew Yandere couldn’t wipe his tears.

Eric was simply going to wipe them away for Yandere, grabbing a tissue as he’d go to wipe his face

“I’m sorry Yan it’s gonna be o-“

It happened faster than he could comprehend it, only hearing leather straps snap with a metal buckle crashing to the floor, For a moment Eric’s life flashed before his eyes, waiting for the cold embrace of death only to feel someone’s warmth.. Eric would open his eyes to see the back of Yandere’s head.. he.. was hugging him, and from the sounds of it sniffling as he struggled to keep himself together.

“Thank you for not giving up on me”

And after some time.. Eric would hug back~

[jaxwritess]

Migraines (Love Doctors)

(Warning for mentions of pills/medication, and brief mentions of pain)

Henrik's ears were already ringing when he woke up, a warning about how the rest of the day would likely pan out. Still, he only allowed himself a few short minutes to lie in bed before forcing himself to prepare for the day. If he didn't get started on his work now, it would just continue to pile up and make it impossible to keep up with.

Soon, he found himself in his and Dr. Iplier's shared clinic, squinting against the bright light and shuffling towards his desk. Hopefully, today wouldn't be too busy, and he could just focus on his paperwork instead of having to engage with anyone. Of course, that couldn't last long.

When Edward came bustling in, he was already happily chattering, and all Henrik could offer was a quiet hum. He wasn't purposefully ignoring his boyfriend, but his mind felt far too sluggish to fully process the words. Still, the other doctor didn't seem to find it out of the ordinary, settling in his seat across the room and setting up his desk.

Henrik zoned back into the conversation just in time to hear a question about where his son was, and he glanced up with a small half-smile. "Still in his room, I think," he mumbled, his accent far thicker than usual. "Robbie doesn't tend to come down until he's ready."

His gaze fell back to the papers on his desk, and he shifted to rest his forehead in his palm as he continued to look them over. It took him several long minutes to realize the room had gone silent again, and hesitantly, he glanced up at the other doctor without moving his head.

"Are you feeling okay?" Edward asked when they finally made eye contact, brows furrowed worriedly. When Henrik shrugged despondently, he shook his head. "Don't give me that. You're pale."

"I'm always pale," Henrik pointed out with another tired smile, and Edward rolled his eyes.

The older doctor huffed and pushed himself out of his seat, striding across the room to crouch at Schneep's side. "You know what I mean. You don't look well."

The Septic shrugged, using the hand holding his pen to wave vaguely. "You know..."

"Henrik..." He sighed, then shook his head when they made eye contact again. "How's your head?"

Rather than replying, Henrik closed his eyes and grumbled inaudibly. He could already feel a full-blown migraine building up from the minor headache he had earlier, but he wasn't about to admit it.

Again, Edward rolled his eyes. "Right," he stood up and pat Henrik's back gently before he turned and made his way to one of the small freezers in the room. "Did you take your medication this morning?"

There were several seconds of hesitant silence, but just as Edward glanced back at him, Henrik huffed. "No, it's hard to focus after they kick in."

"Is it any easier without them?" He prompted, already knowing the answer. He listened, but when Henrik didn't reply, he continued to gather an ice pack and the small bottle of painkillers. "Look, you know you're allowed to take a break, Hen." He chastised, bringing both items back to the other's desk.

"And leave you to do everything here?" He grumbled, listening as Edward's steps grew closer. When they stopped, he cracked open an eye to squint at him - the world span, but he blinked it away. "You know how busy it is some days-"

He handed Henrik the ice pack, "but it isn't now. You should be resting."

Henrik frowned, but he took the ice without complaint and held it to his temple. "I can do my paperwork just fine, thank you very much."

"Can and should are different," he insisted, turning back to grab a cold water bottle for the pills, "and I know you know that."

Technically, he couldn't argue with that. He grumbled under his breath before reaching for the bottle of pills Edward set on his desk. He read the label idly, but when the other returned, he glanced back up. "So what's the plan then, doc?" He asked, a sarcastic bite backing his words.

"You," Edward emphasized, handing him the water, "are going to go lay down." Henrik went to interrupt him, but he shook his head. "If I need your help, we'll talk about it then. For now, you need a break."

The Septic doctor deflated, but he was quiet as he took the water and downed the pills. He stared blankly at the clear bottle in his hand for a few moments, but soon, he blinked and turned his gaze back to Edward. "Are you sure?"

Edward rolled his eyes and offered him a small smile. "What, you don't trust I can take care of the place?"

The tease made him crack a smile. "Maybe I don't?"

"Maybe you don't," he echoed with a laugh. "But hear me out, okay?" He paused for dramatic effect, rubbing Henrik's back. "Doctor's orders."

He snorted, then grimaced inwardly as his head span. "Oh, how could I ignore the doctor's orders?" He joked dramatically.

"Exactly." Edward nodded. "Now you go, take your ice pack and your water, and lay down."

Hen groaned and rolled his eyes, but after a moment, he complied. Carefully, he scooped the ice pack back up and stood. "I'm staying here, by the way." He lightly nudged Edward as he passed. "Before you argue, I'm keeping you company. I'll only go back to my desk if I'm feeling better, I promise."

Edward watched for a moment before he laughed, turning to trail behind Henrik. "You-"

"Should be resting, ja." He placed the water bottle next to one of the medical benches before he turned around to face him, leaning against the cool metal. "I know-"

"Have to be more careful." Ed finished with a hum, moving to sit next to him. "I'm fine with you staying up, but you have to take it easy." He couldn't imagine Schneep would be lucid for all that long though, considering the medication he took. "I pester you about it because I care," he reminded as he wrapped an arm around Henrik's waist.

He leaned his head against Edward's shoulder and hummed. "And because you're a doctor," he teased.

"And because I'm a doctor." He laughed, carefully resting his head on Henrik's.

Again, the silence stretched, more comfortable this time. Henrik's ears still rang, but it felt as though it quieted down too, just for a little bit.

[cozyenigma]

I’ll Wait Up

Pairing- Dr. Iplier/Reader

Word Count- 879

Request?- Yes!

Summary- The only thing you had in mind when you got home was going to bed. You were bone tired and the pain was not helping. But it wasn’t all bad since someone had been waiting on you to come home...

Tag List- @cookielover0001010 , @swag-droid​

The night might've been salvageable if you weren't so sore. There was nothing you wanted more than to crawl into bed but merely standing up to get out of the car was unappealing. It felt like you just sat down a minute ago. That and knowing that, no, you couldn't go to bed yet. You had to shower still. Eating something should probably also be on the list. Did you have anything premade in the fridge?

You sighed, going to unlock the front door and blinking in surprise as you stepped inside. The lights were still on. Your watch wasn't wrong despite your double checking. Huh. As you kicked off your shoes, the answer walked into the room.

"Hey," Edward said softly, eying you as you chucked your keys and jacket down.

"Hey yourself," you went to turn your head and say something else, maybe about how you were glad to be back or surprised that he was still up, only to wince as pain flared up in your neck. Ah right, you'd nearly forgotten.

You reached a hand up to try and rub at it but Edward caught it half way.

"Are you hurting?" He said, eyebrows furrowed.

With a sigh you take your hand back. The concern would've been sweet if you had the energy. As it was, you walked past him and towards the kitchen.

"No, I'm fine, my necks just sore." You deliberately didn't mention that it kept you from turning your head too much. It wasn't that bad if you just kept still though.

With your luck though he followed you. "That didn't look fine to me."

"I just have to sleep it off," you opened the fridge and bent down to look inside. The slight movement aggravated your poor neck again but this time you were ready for it. "Happens all the time."

The twinge of pain was for nothing considering your fridge was barren. Right, you needed to go grocery shopping too. When you stood back up, Edward was hovering right behind you.

"No, see, you're holding yourself differently," his eyes narrowed, "can you even turn your head right now?"

Part of you wanted to just out of spite. At the same time that’d hurt and you'd really rather not. Edward was a roll right now and you knew there was little point trying to throw him off anyway.

"Not really," you sighed.

He hummed and stepped closer. When his hand touched your neck, gentle as it was, you still flinched away which, ouch. "Describe the pain to me."

"Um, it's sharp? It hurts more when I turn my neck but it's just kind of there otherwise."

"Does it travel anywhere else?"

"Down into my shoulder a bit," you turned around to look at him better, "so what's my prognosis, doc?"

Usually he'd either tease you right back or just roll his eyes. This time though he frowned, looking more concerned than you thought the situation warranted. "You probably have a pinched nerve in your neck."

"Oh." You blinked.

"Sit down," he waved you on, "I'm going to grab you some things."

Sheepish, you did as he asked, rubbing at your neck. It didn't do much to alleviate the ache but you weren't lying when you said this happened before. The only difference now being you had an actual doctor here to tend to you. Edward came striding back into the room, medicine in one hand and a warm compress in the other.

"Here, for the pain."

You gratefully accepted both. "Thanks."

Edward sat down heavily next to you. "You can really thank me by resting and giving yourself time to heal."

"Would if I could," you wince as you put the compress to your neck, "not exactly that simple."

"They usually go away on their own but that's assuming you don't keep aggravating it."

"I know, I know." You nearly shook your head before catching yourself. "Look, you know how long the shift I just got off of was? 11 hours. When am I supposed to rest during all this?"

Edward sighed. "If you don't pick a time to rest your body is going to pick one for you. I just want you to take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will," you reassured him quickly.

"You better."

You looked his way out of the corner of your eye. Despite the exhaustion, you still managed a grin.

"Surprised you're still up. Why's that?"

From how he seemed to freeze for a moment you could probably guess at the answer. "Knew you were coming home late," he said eventually, tone casual, "plus I couldn't sleep anyway so here we are."

You bumped his leg with yours. "That's sweet of you."

Giving you a tired smile of his own, he stood up. "Someone has to make sure you take care of yourself. Sit tight, I'll make us both something to eat."

Humming in response, you closed your eyes. In the background you could hear Edward shuffling around in the kitchen. You didn't even care what he was making. Of course you nodded off before Edward finished whatever it was. He'd probably shake his head, get you to eat something and then herd you towards an actual bed.

For now though, you let yourself rest.

[deceptive-jo]

Whumptober 2021 - Field Care 101

Dr Iplier isn't even at work anymore but when some idiot gets impaled he helps, of course.

Words: 528

---

It was a series of conveniences that led Dr Edward Iplier to be at the film studios that day. Bim had ordered some new equipment for his and the Host's studio and Edward had agreed to stop by after work and pick up the new tech. What he hadn't expected was the chaos that followed.

They were already at the last box of equipment, arms aching from the constant lifting, when one of the sound assistants burst through the door. "There's been an accident in Block B! We already called an ambulance but there's supposed to be a doctor here?" His eyes locked onto Dr Iplier as soon as he stepped forward, work outfit and set expression telling enough. "Take me to Block B."

---

Edward stumbled out of Bim's portal, its creator already hurrying down the hall. "What's Block B?" "Day-time shows, film sets..." The show host threw open the only ajar door- just for Dr Iplier to run into him as Bim stopped dead in his tracks. "Is that Actor?" Edward grumbled and pushed himself forward in impatience, "Right now that’s a patient." Closing in on the injured man he could clearly make out Actor's features, not that he cared much as his eyes were fixated on the huge metal bar driven through his hip.

"Okay, it's Dr Iplier. You’re badly injured so please don't move, Mr Iplier. An ambulance is already on the way." Actor could just give him the slightest nod as he pressed his back into the ground as much as possible, a grimace of pain stretched across his face. As Dr Iplier's aura shimmered into existence, wrapping around the injury with upmost diligence, he made sure to keep Marc attentive while hopefully getting some medical information out of him.

"I'm not all-too familiar with your powers...but you should have a healing factor right?" For a moment it looked like Actor tried to talk before sinking back with a hiss, merely nodding his head. "It's fine, speaking may be difficult right now, you don't have to. Your body may be in a shock that keeps it from properly working against the injury." At least that’s what his aura told him and what made Dr Iplier hesitant to think about the removal of the metal bar.

"Do you have any prior hip injury?" A nod. The doctor's eyebrows knitted into a worried expression as he remembered the mention of a gun shot wound at some insignificant moment. "How long ago?" The Actor seemed to have to think about that more, fingers slowly rising. A one. Then a circle. "Ten years?" The circle again. 'Please let this be wrong-' "A hundred years?" The Actor waggled his hand in an easy more-or-less gesture that had Dr Iplier even more relieved as he heard the sirens of the ambulance coming closer.

He scanned the injury again, blood-flow momentarily stilled by his exhausted aura. "Then I'll be relaying as much to the paramedics. Don't worry, as soon as your aura kicks in properly you should be fine in no time!" No better thing than a bit of all-powerful magic available to you, right?

[fgfluidity]

mirror | manor (part three)

Summary: After the events of Mirror | Void, a newly-christened Dark has two goals: take revenge on Mark, and, hopefully...

Find the DA.

Pairings: Implied but can be read as gen. [Damien/Dark x DA; Actor x DA]

Warnings: mentions of guns, knives, injury, blood, death

“Dark!”

Dark shuts his eyes. Takes a deep breath in... then out. “Yes?”

King has his arms crossed, standing in his study in all his naked, peanut-butter-coated glory. “My squirrels! The Jims have been running everywhere, and now they’re too afraid to come out!”

“Your squirrels are not my problem, King,” Dark replies, with as much patience as he can muster. Almost immediately...

( Really? )

He lives here, under your watch!

He grits his teeth and tries again in the face of King’s increasingly-distraught expression. “I can’t very well tell those two to come back inside. The last time they caught some scoop ,” he all-but sneers, “I had to patch a hole in the living room wall.”

King blinks at him. “There was a hole?”

“The hole was the entire wall.”

King nods, as if he’s been given some sage wisdom, before he says, “My squirrels?”

“.... I’ll find a place for the Jims to work. Tell them to stay hidden for now.”

King leaves behind a whiff of oak leaves, a dribble of peanut butter on the floor, and as a tendril of Dark’s aura absently cleans it up, he scribbles onto a notepad.

Less than a week in, and his list of needed changes has tripled in length. At first, it was the simple things: some of the pipes leaked, the wooden flights of stairs creaky. Some of the flooring would be much better-suited as stone or wood than carpet, and certain walls needed an update in paint— if not for chipping purposes, then for aesthetics .

Damien never had an eye for color, really, not like Celine did. The little things, passing up from her sleeping consciousness, it seems. He resolutely does not think about the other little voice in his head.

But from moment one of their move-in day, the egos have sought to make his life ever more challenging, or complicated, at least.

Rooms to their specifics, an updated kitchen, sun rooms and galleries and workstations and on and on.

For all of his and Host’s power, it will take weeks. He doesn’t have the finest of control—

We all know that, don’t we?

— and Host is unfortunately limited by his wounds, ever-bleeding and made worse by exertion beyond the narration that grants him sight.

So, all that said, perhaps his first order of business should be a medical ward. Best to be prepared for any casualties, given the ego’s collective propensity for chaos and violence. 

Less than a month in their presence and he’s been witness to more lacerations and bruises than he could possibly count. A medical ward for their one doctor— even if he is known as the Bad News Doctor for a reason— would be a smart decision.

Then, he can finally give into Wilford’s incessant demands for a gun room. Not a gun range , as one might expect, but a room . Solely for guns. With Yan and Bim’s proclivities, that might need to be expanded to a full armory.

He’ll work it out further as he goes. Heaven knows what they could get into before his plans could carry out in their entirety— best to be adaptable for now.

( We certainly know how to be adaptable! )

Adaptable? Like rewriting an essay on the fly when someone spilled their tea on it?

A voice so deeply apologetic in between giggles, his anger heavily tempered with indulgent fondness.

He snaps his pen, and ink spills over his fingers, dribbling onto the page.

...

He doesn’t bother with the void, this time, simply wipes his hand with a handkerchief and reaches for a new pen and a new notebook.

Adaptable. He’ll have to be.

————

Medical Ward

Dark respects Dr. Edward Iplier.

Well, as much as he respects any of the offshoots of Mark’s rampant ego, which can range from very little— Derek— to quite a bit— the Host.

Wilford gets his own brand of respect, cobbled together out of Celine’s feelings, Damien’s friendship, and the Entity holding them together’s begrudging tolerance of his own unnatural powers. It’s about as complicated as the man, himself.

Brief bursts of longing aside— not uncomfortable, per se, but certainly bewildering— only further complicate matters.

Edward certainly trends higher on that list, with his generally-amiable demeanor and intelligence, terminal prognoses aside, and most often stays there.

Sometimes, however...

“I don’t believe this is quite your purview, Edward.”

Edward lowers his instrument— Dark has no idea what it could be, just that it looks wicked sharp—to frown at him. “What isn’t? I’m a licensed surgeon!”

Dark, with a little twist of aura, frees the bindings pinning down a particular Jim. Immediately, he tries to dart for his camcorder, sitting off to the side. “Doctor Jim! How do you respond to accusations of malpractice?”

“It isn’t malpractice—“

“It is,” Dark interrupts. He glances at Jim, who doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. “You cannot perform an anatomy study on a still-living individual.”

“How else am I to understand why we can’t die?”

Dark clenches his jaw. “I’m dead. We can.”

“Undead is not the same thing,” Edward argues. He sets down the instrument, turning instead to his chest of drawers. Between a pair of undershirts, he frees a clipboard. “I’m a good doctor, but I can’t keep a grown man alive longer than a few minutes after a gunshot to his vital organs.”

“When did that happen?” Jim shoves his camera forward. Dark only has the same questions, so he allows it.

“When didn’t it?” Edward flips through the pages, as if that’s proof, enough. “We just don’t die. Something keeps us from that point, and if I can’t figure it out from simply watching, I need to do some research.”

( But we died. )

We can’t die.

Dark rolls his neck, and the voices abate. “It... is certainly a conundrum,” he replies, diplomatically as he can manage. “However, I’d advise you, and everyone else, to not put that to the test if you can help it. Rather, I’ve come to offer you a place to continue your practice in keeping us alive and unharmed. I’m sure you’d feel more at ease.”

“That won’t help my—“

“It will keep things clean and free of complaint, as well.” Dark glances to the bed, still outfitted with medical-grade restraints. It’s uncomfortable in more ways than one. “You’ll have your own space to sleep. And... whatever else.”

Edward lowers his clipboard. Glances between his bed, his chest of drawers containing half clothing and half medical necessities. Considers. “Should one of my prognoses come true—“

“We can discuss your research then,” Dark answers, smoothly. “In the meantime, your preferences? It’s your ward, after all.”

It’s small and not the best-outfitted ward in all of private practice, but it holds together well for something made of words and nothingness, minimalist and sterile but still comfortable.

Interesting, though, how the first patient in Edward’s care is— possibly, it’s hard to tell with the Jims— the exact Jim from before.

He does not end up vivisected. Probably.

————

Gun Room Fun Room Armory

It is not his favorite room in the house.

Dark refuses to agree to that, no matter how much Wilford wheedles him about it.

“How could you dislike it?” Wilford puts away one firearm, pauses, then swaps it out for another one. He has no storage case he’s getting them from, they just... appear. “It has so many wonderful things! Look at this one!”

By this point, Dark is used to it. With a careful hand, he lowers the gun Wilford has up under his nose. “I can see it,” he grits out, “without also smelling it. And I never said I disliked it.”

“I think you said something like that!” Bim arranges a selection of knives off to one side. It seems to be according to blade acuity, rather than size of blade or type. Valid strategy, if strange.

“He did!” Yan hands Bim a new knife, watching carefully as he positions it on the provided rack, her eyes glowing in interest. “He said, ‘Wil, this room is unnecessary and cluttered and I don’t like it’.”

“I didn’t!”

Once, his aura would have flared. Everyone save Wilford would have taken a cautious step back. Now...

Don’t you dare! She’s only teasing!

Feeling rather sour, Dark huffs over Yan’s giggles, straightening his jacket. “It is still cluttered, and I find a full room of weapons to be overkill, that’s true.”

“Is there a ‘but’, Damie?” Wilford twirls a new gun. “Or are you going to break my heart all over again?”

Wil- Wilford would be one to talk. From half the stories Dark’s heard of his escapades, both before and after the incident—

“I’m not against you arming yourselves. We’ll need it later, in any case.” For a moment, before he continues, he looks over the three in the room with him. Yes, they’re watching, awaiting his answer, but—

( They look happy, don’t they? )

It seems as much, yes. They’re... pleased with his work. Pleased to have a space for their interests, as dangerous as those interests may be.

At least we have a medical ward, now.

“You’re enjoying yourselves,” he finishes, quietly. “I don’t dislike it.”

He isn’t sure how people could honest-to-goodness have stars in their eyes, but Yan and Wilford somehow both manage it.

Bim’s damn close, too.

————

Theatre Room

Dark stares down at his list.

Theatre room.

It’s something he’d enjoy, isn’t it? Pompous, overstated excess and luxury— if the concept had existed nearly a century ago, Dark has not a single doubt that he’d have one installed.

Likely to watch and perform all of his own creations.

( He was always so excited to show us something new he worked on. He liked to share, once. )

Once. He could be like that again— we don’t have to—

With a vicious slash of his pen, Dark crosses out the suggestion.

————

Kitchen

He was never much of a cook.

Damien wasn’t, Celine wasn’t— the Entity holding them together certainly never touched a stove.

The hands he sees on occasion, when his body jitters, when he deigns to sleep instead of power through— he doesn’t need it, but it can help his temper— though...

Smaller than his, a different shape. A little more confident, meals with odd recipes he wouldn’t have imagined, born of necessity rather than luxury.

Then, they are his, gray-scale but familiar all the same.

It’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t try to sleep often.

The Egos need to eat, though, and with the sheer volume of mouths to feed, it needs to be up to the task.

Ovens, more than one. He draws the line at three and outright growls at the— possibly teasing, possibly not—  suggestion of five.

A large refrigerator and freezer. After consideration, a smaller second one. Back in his day it was little more than a glorified cabinet filled with ice, so having two much more advanced ones feels as a novelty.

Counter space, and cabinets, full of the proper equipment to cook whatever comes to mind.

There is one— one— cupboard he allows for those asinine single-use gadgets. They seem to amuse the grand majority of the... less serious Egos. Including Wilford.

The man hates boiled eggs, and yet the blasted egg cups remain.

For the most part, meals are haphazard. People will come in and make something for themselves, perhaps leave some behind as a kindness if they don’t eat it all, but it’s never a group effort.

Thankfully, everyone can at least not burn what they’re cooking.

Once, in a fit of nostalgia— not of his own accord, but Damien, always Damien— Dark takes to the kitchen, himself.

It hurts his shredded stomach to eat, but it isn’t impossible, and he enjoys the experience, otherwise. He feels... normal. For once.

In the midst of browning ground beef, he glances up to find Bim watching with interest. “Bim?”

“What’s on the menu?” Bim leans in closer, considering the contents of the pan. “Anything... in particular?”

Ah. “I don’t think this is quite to your particular tastes,” Dark says, not quite as dry as intended, “but you may enjoy it, anyway. I won’t finish it.”

Bim hums, but if he’s disappointed that it won’t meet his preferred diet, it doesn’t show. “Do you want help?”

“Help?”

“It’ll go faster, won’t it?” Bim removes his jacket, going about rolling up his sleeves just as Dark has. “I have a show to run and I can’t on an empty stomach. It just won’t do, Dark, you understand.”

( We worked long hours on an empty stomach before .)

If he’s hungry... you wouldn’t want to be wasteful, and he’s offering, too.

Dark tilts his head in the direction of the fridge. It makes his neck creak, and he adjusts it with a grunt. “Start shredding cabbage, mind your fingers.”

A few minutes later—

“What’s that?”

Silver, with his massive gloves. “It’s my dinner. And Bim’s, I suppose.”

“Oh! That’s kind of you, Dark!” He seems far too proud and it irks him. “Well, if you need any help getting it finished—“

Dark raises an eyebrow. “Can you?”

With the mask, it’s hard to tell Silver’s actual expression— how does he have a field of view with it, either? “I’m a superhero. What is that but a professional helper?”

“I think he means your gloves, Silver,” Bim calls from his mound of cabbage.

“What about them?”

Dark just puts him on rice duty.

The meal is supposed to be simple. It’s what things they could afford as a poor college student with the barest equipment, cheap but filling and several servings in one cooking session.

( We could have given them better meals, but they were so stubborn— )

But, by the time it’s finished, he has several other pairs of hands working alongside him. The constituent ingredients, but doubled, now, elbow-to-elbow and cooking companionably.

The less-culinarily-inclined circle the table, virtually unused from its creation, setting out plates and silverware.

It’s...

It’s nice.

Really nice.

They don’t leap into group meals from that point, but it becomes more common. If he doesn’t initiate, he’s asked— insistently— to join.

More often than not...

For them!

He does.

————

Bedrooms

“We c-cannot continue like this.”

As the room was pleasantly quiet prior to Google’s— Blue, because color is easier and they haven’t given him names other than Google— voice, it at least makes Dark look up from his work. “I’m sorry?”

Blue only frowns down at him. Granted, that’s his general disposition. “You placed all of u-us into o-one room. This is unacceptable.”

“We don’t really have a surplus of rooms,” Dark explains. “Besides, all you four need are—“

“Five.”

“Five?” Red, Yellow, Blue, Green... “Did you create another?”

Blue’s frown intensifies, newly-edged with disgust. “The default. Bing.”

Ah, of course. Why are there so many supercomputer androids in this house, again? “Five, then. You don’t exactly need to sleep to recharge. You don’t have bodily functions. Do you need different rooms?”

Before Blue can say another word...

Everyone needs their own space! Don’t be so callous!

( It’s true— sharing an office was bad enough, and we had somewhere private to go, as well. )

He sighs. “No, no, you’re... you’re right. Four more rooms will take time, however.”

“I s-suppose we can be p-patient.” Blue’s logo flashes, and a holographic screen rises to float before his chest. “I do h-have some specifications, in the m-meantime.”

The screen scrolls, filled both with pictures and text. Resigned, Dark reaches for his notes. “Alright. What would you like?”

As it turns out, the Googles are all different.

Really different.

Beyond layout, they want colors he wouldn’t have expected, ones beyond their designations. One wishes for a workbench. Another wants an actual bed to recharge in. One just wants a backyard view.

They all want to be close to the armory, worryingly enough.

Bing wants a closet. “I gotta look fresh, dude, can’t do that with wrinkles. And, like, a place to hang my wheels would be cool. A ramp, maybe?”

He doesn’t get a ramp.

It would be the end of it, if Bing didn’t brag about his new room.

At dinner.

With everyone there.

Dark is sure, if they didn’t have some mutual respect, Edward would murder him for the transfusions the Host will need.

Rewriting reality is difficult, to put it lightly.

Different bed styles, different layouts, different hobby items. Colors and aesthetics and placements—

“No, you cannot all be right next to the armory!”

“Can I sleep in the armory?”

“No, Wil.”

“I think fluff and knives capture my aesthetic perfectly, actually.”

To save himself the stress of further creation, Dark simply slips into the void for his personal space. If he feels like sleeping, a bed can just appear. Otherwise, a chair, a desk— easy and ever-changing.

He makes one on his own, though. Practice, perhaps, or as some insurance for any further fragment joining them.

It has a big bed, a bright and sunny window, a large desk. Simple, but comfortable, just the right shade of—

( They’d love this room. )

He looks it over.

They liked reading in the sun. They were always hard at work, bent over their desk. When they weren’t, they treasured a good, long nap.

He clenches his jaw.

Don’t ruin it for this! It’s still a nice room. Neutral enough.

He leaves it as it is. After everything, he can’t really bear to change it.

————

Sun Room

“Oh, a solarium.”

Eric blinks at him, confused. “Uh, a, uh... a what?”

“A solarium.” Dark gestures towards the notes in his hand. “You could have just said that, I’d understand.”

“I’m- I don’t think-“ His fingers twist further in his handkerchief. “I didn’t- didn’t know it was called, um, a solarium.”

At Dark’s further confused stare, his fidgeting worsens. “S- uh, solarium is cool, though. We can call it that.”

It’s better than sun room . The way language changes is confusing and frustrating at the best of times. 

Easy, now, he’s anxious. Gentle.

“In any case, this shouldn’t be difficult. Is there any reason in particular? You don’t strike me as the type.”

“Um.” Eric glances around the room, seemingly unable to look him in the eye any longer. “They, uh— I heard it’s, um, good for you. To get sun. But if I go outside, my dad t- uh, tells— asks me to help him? But inside, uh... yeah. And I can try plants again.”

That... does sound quite soothing. Besides, he doesn’t need the conscience to convince him to vex Derek at every possible turn. He’s insufferable even before his treatment of Eric.

He’s not a complete villain.

“A solarium with plants.” Dark nods, giving as close to a smile as he ever manages. “It will be done.”

It’s lovely, once finished. Glass ceilings and walls, comfortable and light furniture, an array of hardy and easy to care for plants in corners and on shelves and hanging down from the rafters.

When Eric first enters, the change is immediate and noticeable: his shoulders lower, his fidgeting slows, and the tight lines of his face slowly ease into something almost hopeful.

Unfortunately, when Dark attempts the supposed therapeutic properties of the room...

The air grows cold, thick, and static-filled. The plants wilt when he grows close.

He can’t feel the sun on his skin even outside.

Why would this room be any different?

Rather, he enjoys it vicariously.

At Eric’s first real bloom, he sincerely congratulates him with another plant.

He can handle it, and he’ll appreciate it. 

It dies, but Eric isn’t as upset as he might have feared. Progress is progress.

————

Repairs

He strips the paint and wallpaper, himself.

For something so delicate...

( What if we break something else? )

Well, it’s best to use his hands. His aura can be for the bigger things— it’s powerful, not fine control.

Carpeting, next— ripped right up out of the floor, jacket cast aside and sleeves rolled up. He’s grown in strength but it’s a stubborn thing.

You’d know all about stubborn things.

He doesn’t know enough for plumbing or masonry or carpentry, not to practice with his own hands

Ask him of fencing, of piano, of fortune telling, of chess, perhaps. Perhaps he could do those as well as his constituent parts ever could. Muscle memory.

( Though they aren’t— )

— your muscles.

He took care of some, for the new public rooms and the bedrooms, but the common areas must also be dealt with.

For those, he enlists the Host.

“Dark understands that the Host will not be able to speak with him as he works, given the very nature of his power. Correct?”

“I am aware,” Dark replies. He’s given up staring at the pipes under the bathroom sink, instead turning to set out gauze. They may have a ward, but injury can strike anywhere— there’s a first-aid kit in nearly every room of the house. “Someone must keep you from bleeding out.”

“The Host can’t help his amusement, notifying Dark that the mansion holds a skilled doctor more than willing to watch over the Host as he works.”

Dark frowns, mildly annoyed at the smirk on the Host’s face. “Are you calling me unnecessary?”

“The Host would never imply such a thing. Rather, as he prepares his words to commence with repairs, the Host would instead call Dark instrumental to our gathering. A binding force, and one for good, at that.”

Following his statement— and there’s a finality to his words, anyway— the Host immediately begins muttering to himself.

As the pipes reorder themselves...

One for good. Didn’t you hear him? You could be this, instead. You can let it go.

You can have a family. You always wanted a family.

( We had one. We wanted one, with everyone, with— )

A family. Honestly.

He has too much to do than to consider his band of fragments a real family, much less call them a replacement.

That said... he does feel better. More settled.

Less angry.

Though how much is the influence of those he’s surrounded himself with, and how much is the influence of the voices in his head, remains to be seen.

“The Host would appreciate the gauze Dark has laid out for him, as his powers—“

Dark shakes out of his thoughts, passing over the long swathes. As the Host begins to unwind, he looks away. “Well?”

“The Host puts aside his soiled bandages. Winding the new ones around his eyes, he explains that all repairs are accounted for.

“Before Dark can ask anything further, the Host wants to inquire about something in particular: something he has noticed in Dark, but never brought up for fear of upsetting him in some way.”

“What is that?” Dark rolls his neck. It wasn’t drifting, but it seems to help his irritation to do something. “If it isn’t about the repairs—“

“It is not, the Host responds, nor does he believe Dark believes so. Finishing tying up his bandages, the Host continues, this is about the voice you hear. Not the man you were, but something new. The conscience, as Dark puts it.”

The static thickens, grows louder around him. “I don’t want to talk about it, Host.”

“It does no good to lie to the Host. He knows and sees much, but it takes no power to see the change in you. It takes no power to understand what is bothering you. As a friend, the Host believes it best to ask. And, possibly, share what he knows.”

“And what do you know?”

“It is not you. That voice.”

Dark doesn’t make a habit of rolling his eyes, but he can’t help himself in this case. “They’re all mine, in some way. Just because it sounds and acts different—“

“The Host interrupts to say, you don’t understand. The man, the one with the name Damien, is you. Your own thoughts are you. This conscience reeks of magic, and it is not you. ”

The conversation continues to haunt him, even later, when he’s playing mediator between four people and a camera.

The conscience isn’t him. Not some fragment born of guilt and Damien, taking a form he’s all-but guaranteed to listen to.

It’s something else.

[septic-dr-schneep]

who do you think winged dr. iplier would say was the most difficult hatchling to care for?

Google definitely wasn’t easy! Edward had to learn a lot about mechanics to care for him (and then later Bing), but even more difficult were the Jims. There were two of them at once – not to mention that until they were born, Edward’s experience was in birds and butterflies. He had never cared for bees before!

[even-more-incorrect-ego-quotes]

Dr. Iplier: Remember, murder is never the answer

Wilford: Of course! Murder is the question

Anti: And the answer is yes!

[lostcybertronian]

Who Did It?- Part 8

Masterpost

List of those who guessed right: @thehiddenbreeze and someone who guessed on anonymous. Both of you get prizes (written prizes) should you choose to come to my DMs :)

—-

There were no roads leading to the tiny, decrepit cabin found at the coordinates Google had marked. Only a desolate highway running right through the middle of woods that seemed to appear with no warning at all; one moment there were houses and cars, the next there was forest.

The digital numbers on the dash read 1:34AM when they parked on the side of the highway and cut the engine. The cruiser’s lights were a beacon before they faded out and the black crawled in.

At night, the woods seemed menacing; clustered close together, so dense and dark it was impossible to pick out any individual thing.

Dark didn’t know how long it took them to find and navigate the narrow goat path- it wasn’t even that, really, more worn patches of ground than anything else- as it twisted and snaked around trees like an unraveled ball of yarn, but it felt like an eternity. Every second dragged, heavy with the knowledge that another innocent person could be dying. Or dead already.

It was almost a relief to see weak light filtering through the branches. To emerge into a small clearing and see the ramshackle cabin hunching there like a dying animal. But as soon as it came, that relief was gone, replaced by dread as he saw the silhouette through the window. It had to be Google. They were in the right place.

Bam! Bam! The weathered door gave under the strength of Wilford’s kick. It crashed open.

“Down on your knees! Now!” Dark charged in first, Wilford hot on his heels.

“What are you doing here?” Google snarled at the same time the man- Dark hadn’t noticed him before. Hadn’t seen his silhouette in the window. But now that he saw him, he could’ve sworn he’d seen him somewhere before. A pair of eyes in a crowd perhaps, a passing body on the sidewalk- lurched to his feet. He was filthy, and there was a red welt forming on his forehead.

“You!” He shouted, his voice wavering, but hard and edged with fury. His eyes bloodshot eyes shot to Wilford, and a ragged grin dragged at his pale mouth. “You,” he said, then turned to Google. “You led him right to me!”

Dark and Wilford exchanged a glance. Neither lowered their weapons.

“What do you mean?” Dark demanded. “Who are you?”

A dozen emotions flickered across the man’s face, all at once and all in the span of a second, then his face contorted with rage and his lips pulled back into a snarl.

“You don’t remember.” He bit out, spitting every word like it was a curse. He stepped toward them, wooden boards creaking beneath his feet. “You don’t remember-”

“Remember what?”

“Edward.” Google said suddenly, taking the photograph. He held it up to the light. Watched the crack glass glint and its frozen faces smile. “He wants you to remember Edward.”

Dark paused. Exchanged another glance with Wilford before looking back to the man. Clearly, this guy was deranged. But, somehow, he fit into all this. “The medical examiner? He was a victim of the Bubblegum Killer. What does he have to do with us?”

“He has everything to do with you,” he hissed, black eyes glinting. As he spoke his hands wrung, wrung, wrung themselves into tight knots of sinew and flesh and bone in front of him. Every pair of eyes in the room tracked his movements. “Because you took him from me.”

His face turned red. Crumpled. Tears sprung and welled over, carving ragged tracks down familiar pathways through dirt and blood and sweat. “You took him from me!” He shouted, voice ringing around the cramped space. He pointed again, first at Dark, then at Wilford. “You covered it up, and you tortured him. You tied him up and cut him and laughed when he screamed and cried and begged for mercy!”

“I did no such thing!” Wilford protested, ignoring Dark’s warning glance. “I would never kill anybody.”

“He died in my arms.” The man’s voice was hollow, now, his eyes empty. “I was too late to save him.”

“So you started killing,” Dark said. “Why?”

The man’s eyes flashed and his head snapped up. “Because it’s not too late to make you pay.”

Behind him, Google’s head shot up, and his entire body jerked like he’d been shot. His fingers tightened around the frame, his knuckles turning white. This went unnoticed.

Meanwhile, Wilford held his ground, even when Dark jolted back. He guffawed. “Wilford Warfstache can’t be bested by some nobody. Some fool who thinks he can run with the best of ‘em.”

“Wilford-“ Dark warned, but it was too late: the man roared and lunged, grappling for Wilford’s gun and for his throat.

“I’m not nobody!” He snarled, teeth bared and furious. “I’m the Author! And you will remember me this time.”

[m4delin]

Imagine Yancy, but posessed by the Manor Entity, but instead of depression he'd be also a 'Ready to kill anyone in sight'.

Ooooohhhhh

It starts with Yancy waking up, his body Heavy and feeling unmotivated to do anything. Dr. Iplier checks on him and at first he thinks it’s just a cold. As it continues he determines it’s depression and tries the best he can do to help Yancy. Including giving him medicin.

But nothing helps. The more time he spends with the others, the less he feels like he’s worth anything for them. His nightmares are filled with a void and he screams in it, and it whisper back that it will always take care of him. That Yancy just needs to relax and everything will turn out alright.

He gives in when Illinois have been gone for a long time and after a phonecall, mentioned that he met a few people that he will accompany for a bit so he won’t be home for another while.

The void purrs, despite that Yancy are not asleep yet. It purrs in the back of his mind and something new awakens inside of Yancy. An itch.

Edward knocks on the door, it’s the evening check on Yancy. He enters and Closes the door after him, looking in his notes as he talks to the other ego. When he finally looks up, Yancy are staring at him with wild eyes, and a hungry grin. Edward barely takes a step forward in concern before Yancy stands up and takes two steps and are up in his face.

.

When the other egos finally tackles up the door, Yancy are standing over Edward’s body, laughing maniacally, clawing and drawing blood from his own face. He stares at them with empty eyes and a crazy grin. Dark spreads out his arms to protect the others.

“Run.”

Yancy lunges at Dark.

----------

Again, probably not what you imagined. Hope it’s good enough anyway xD

[egossideblog]

this is just a prologue

i am dying at class, writing dumb shit in like 3 hours, i wrote it for me because i am here with people who are 20, act like boomers, and say that bowties are gay and i want out

ship: dr iplier/the host

word count: 1130

warnings: injuries, flirting while having a concusion, (i don’t have an autocorrect but i have a dyslexia and i am so sorry, i’m trying my best)

tag list: @fioxis @lostinegomayhem @the-anti-average-family

The Author plopped down onto his matress. He’s never had a bed in the cabin, and it was one of the days when he regretted it. His hands hurt, both from furious scribbling while trying to get his character not to move too much while their body morphed into a monster he needed for his latest work and from said monster grabbing his wrist and pulling it away from the paper to stop the transformation. 

Writing was supposed to be a safe job, and yet here he was, with a swollen wrist and, probably, a mild concussion.

Now, after the monster had escaped and was probably causing heart attacks within the local forest rangers population, the Author just wanted to lie down and maybe to get some painkillers. He would have to get up to get those, though, and he really didn’t feel like it. His body was too heavy for it and moving caused his vision to go blurry. He was so tired; his eyes were closing on their own and looking around worked in that weird kind of slow motion that made him feel nauseous. His shirt grew warm around the area where he pressed his wrist to avoid moving it too much.

The situation was not good.

At least Dr Iplier was on the way. He always seemed to know when he was needed in the cabin, almost as if he had his own type of a sixth sense which made him able to sense whenever the Author’s dumbassery reached its peak. He would arrive, carry the Author to the car and drive them to the office, and take care of him while screaming about how this was irresponsible and stupid. And the Author would love every minute of it while acting all defensive about it. 

Doctor was not supposed to know about this. He was just doing his job, taking care of the other Egos, and while the Author was not very subtle and not even trying to hide his feelings, it never occurred to him that he could have said something. Edward had the perfect brain power to be a good doctor (despite being weird about it) but not nearly enough brain power to notice the signs. 

The Author looked down at his shirt, which now, in addition to the warmth, was also wet. Huh, he thought. He hadn’t noticed his wrist was bleeding before. Sudden dizziness replaced the exhaustion he’d felt as he pressed his other hand to the wound and hissed in pain. He had to focus on something to stop himself from passing out. 

He looked around the cabin. Concentrating on writing ideas wouldn’t do it. It was his power, using it now would only make him weaker. He was ready to fight himself from making it the most empty place possible so that nothing could distract him. He didn’t even have a phone to try to get someone to show up faster.

His vision started growing dark around the edges when the door finally opened.

“Author?” Edward stepped into the cabin and looked around with concern.

“Here.” 

The Author tried to sit up straight but his body had apparently decided to go into a shutdown. He couldn’t move; keeping his eyes open was a struggle. He could see Edward approaching him and putting his bag down next to him but it all seemed so far away for some reason.

“Come here often?” he asked with a smirk (or at least what he thought was one, controlling his face was also a struggle) as Edward kneeled down next to him.

Doctor sighed deeply. 

“Every time you decide to do something stupid, apparently. What happened?” 

There was no anger in the doctor’s voice. He sounded professional and the Author was trying his best not to think about it too much. He was trying not to think about anything now that he was safe. God, his head hurt. 

“The Authorstein’s monster’s escaped,” he replied. “My child betrayed me, can you believe it? Also I think it broke my wrist.” “Did you really call it that?” “Yes, and please remember that Authorstein is the creator, not the monster.”

Edward snorted. The Author may have been dying but making the doctor laugh was always his priority, mostly because of how nerdy and perfect his laughter was. 

The concussion made him even gayer for some reason.

“I hate it,” Edward smiled, taking a roll of bandage out of his bag. “Not like I don’t. It tried to vore me.”

Doctor rolled his eyes and gently moved the Author’s arm from where he was cradling it against his chest to take a closer look at the injury. The writer tried not to scream. He squeezed the blanket thrown over the mattress with his other hand. It didn’t hurt this badly when it happened. 

“Sorry. It is broken. And you need a few stitches. And a break from writing until it heals.” “I’m ambidextrous, you know?” he informed just as Edward began to wrap the bandage around his wrist. “I meant more, uh- emotionally? To get some less dangerous ideas. Did you hit your head?” he asked suddenly, pulling a package of tissues out of his coat pocket. “Yeah, why?” “Your nose is bleeding.”

He hadn't even felt it until Doctor mentioned it. He looked down to see more bloodstains on his shirt. I should have worn black, he thought, bringing his unbroken hand up to his face to wipe the blood off. “Oh. Didn’t notice.”

“Keep your head down, please.”

The doctor pressed a tissue into his hand. He assumed the Author wasn’t conscious enough to take one himself and press it to his nose and while the writer hated it he couldn’t help feeling grateful for it.

Edward went silent, trying not to hurt the Author even more while bandaging his arm. The stitches would have to wait until they got back to Egos Inc. 

“I’m taking you to my office.” Edward zipped his bag up and stood up, trying to figure out how to help the Author get to the car. “Well, I’m taking you on a date when this is over, so I think I win here,” he said before his filter had a chance to kick in; he never had much of it anyway. 

Edward rolled his eyes but smiled gently, moving to help the Author up. 

“You have a concussion-” “Well, maybe, but I mean it,” he interrupted, letting the doctor lift him. 

It wasn’t the first time that was happening. He wanted to help, maybe even to try to walk but he felt so weak. 

“No, I- you have a concusion, be careful. We’ll walk slowly, okay?” “Oh.” 

“And I’d be more than happy to go on a date with you.”

“... Oh.”

[sam-lives-story]

#SamLives - Chapter 14

“ERROR 429: Too Many Requests...ERROR 508: Loop Detected”

[Previous|Next]

Also find the latest chapters of this story on [Archive Of Our Own]

“F͡u͍ck̈́i᷇n̾’͓ w͕ȧt̷c͏h͜ i͐t͓ w̿it’ t̮h̨e n͈ȇe͏d͒l̕e,᷀ a᷇ss̍h̉o᷉le͙!”

“Anti.” The single word was said with a level of scolding and warning, a dark undertone to it that would have most people freezing in fear or, at the very least, self preservation. The man behind the voice was chilling in his own way – less of a man and more of a demon, really – with a pristine dark suit and a commanding presence that demanded immediate respect, the shadows and darkness themselves bending to his will with each step he took. So yes, such a tone and presence would beg a rather satisfying reaction from most people it was directed towards.

Antisepticeye wasn’t most people.

The glitch demon snarled and shot a glare across the darkened space toward Darkiplier, teeth bared and sharp in his momentary frustration. His body - his very image - seemed to distort and warp where he sat, and he sucked in a sharp, hissed gasp against the discomfort.

“Behave, will you?” Dark went on, his hands folded neatly behind his back from where he stood watching the scene. “A patient cannot very well be treated if they don’t cooperate with the doctor that is examining them. Can they?”

The doctor in question looked up from where he was examining a vial of green-tinged blood, brow furrowed and expression wary beneath the round head mirror he wore. He glanced between the dangerous pair with a fleeting look of uneasiness, then spun his stool to face his desk again.

It wasn’t his desk, not really. It looked like his desk and it functioned as one, but it hadn’t been here when he had been called into this space. This wasn’t a room. It wasn’t even fully solid.

The Void was where Dark often liked to lurk, a place of almost total darkness and little substance, in which the only light to be found seemed to illuminate from the few people within it.

And the desk. Edward couldn’t forget that.

Dark had called him here, had summoned him, to treat an unstable and glitching Antisepticeye. When Edward had first caught sight of him, the – virus? Ironic, considering he was called Anti -septic – the virus had been doubled over on the ground, his arms clutched tightly around himself and his pixels flickering and distorting at random intervals. Anti had an afterimage trailing after him, each movement being followed by the ghost of itself, and as Edward had watched, Anti’s shoulder had exploded outward in a fantastical light show before pulling itself back together.

It looked painful. It was painful, if Anti’s sharp, hissed gasp of a reaction was anything to go by. And while Edward could safely say he had never treated a patient quite like Anti before, he had been Dark’s doctor for long enough to have some idea of what he was working with.

And then Dark had summoned a perfect replica of Edward’s desk into existence, and the doctor had set to work.

Edward returned his focus to the vial of blood he had been examining. It was, as he had noticed before, tinged with the slightest traces of green - but Anti had informed him it usually looked about that shade. Interesting. But despite Anti’s insistence, the doctor was fairly certain it didn’t usually churn of its own accord, not like this. With expert hands, Edward drew a few drops of the blood into a syringe, preparing a glass slide and slipping it beneath the microscope Dark had summoned for him with practiced ease. He slipped off his glasses and peered through the lense.

What he saw, what he was watching happen, was - irregular, to say the least. Intriguing. Abnormal. Utterly–

“Fascinating.”

“W͒h᷁a̗t̻ t̊h’ f̞u͉c̥k d᷄’ỵo̳ṷ m͙e̺an͖ f̶as̾c–”

“Would you care to elaborate, Dr. Iplier?”

Oh. His back stiffened, his posture turning stiff under the watchful eye of both dark entities. Had he said that aloud? Edward schooled his expression and put his glasses back on. Despite his nerves, he had to admit Dark was quite skilled at getting Anti to shut up. A rare feat.

“Of course.” Edward turned his stool around to better face Anti, whose bitter expression hadn’t waned. He pretended it didn’t bother him. “Your cells - or pixels, or coding, or whathaveyou. It appears to be a cross between biological and technological - but your cells keep shifting. Rearranging. You have the ability to...phase through objects, in a way. Right? Disintegrate into pixels, pass through solid objects...become shadows?”

“Ÿȇa͉h͆…? S̀o᷅ w͉h᷈a᷄t?”

“So–” Edward bit his tongue and thought over how to ask his next question. It was like walking on eggshells, never quite sure which word might make his “patient” crack. “So – if you don’t mind me asking – exactly how much damage did Mr. Brody inflict on you?”

Anti snarled, the still-lingering afterimage flaring a poisonous green, and for a brief moment Edward couldn’t be sure if it was directed at himself, Anti’s discomfort, or the simple mention of Chase Brody’s name.

“Anti.” The glitch didn’t bother looking in Dark’s direction but he fell silent, scowling all the while. “Just answer the question.”

“I’m̮ gu͋e͠s̍si̞n᷈g͒,” Anti drawled with forced civility, “t̶hat̛ i͆t̨’s iͅm͔p̍o͗r̻t̆a͍nͅṫ, o̾r̾ y͞a w̖o̕u̪ld̃n’t͐ be̤ fu̎ckin’ a᷊s̊k͐i͍ng. R̐ig̋ht̜?”

“Right. Yes. Absolutely.”

All three fell silent again.

The tension in the room was palpable, as it had been since this impromptu meeting had begun. Dark circled the space, Edward ever aware of the quiet-but-powerful aura his presence radiated, and Anti sat almost perfectly still. His eyes – dark, piercing, searching Edward’s soul, making a chill of fear run down his spine – bored into Edward’s in a way that made the moment stretch into oblivion.

Perhaps - the darkly humorous part of his brain supplied - Anti is more like a teenager than I first assumed, and this is a show of indignant stubbornness to make me wait for his answer?

But then Anti moved. And, oh, apparently not.

The place Anti had been occupying a mere breath ago was suddenly empty, and instead Edward found his space being thoroughly invaded by a crackling, sparking, distorted glitch of a demon, sharp teeth snarling inches from his face. Edward jolted where he sat. His eyes went wide and he gulped, not daring to move another inch.

“L͖e̩t͏’s̠ m̋a᷅k̼e᷈ o᷆ne th̏i̲ṇģ r᷅i͓g̋h̦t͊ fu᷅c̝k̨ĩn’ c̑l͂eȁr,” Anti hissed. “T͘h̍iͅs̗? N͒oẗ́h̪i᷅n̞g̏ h̐e᷄r̫e̐ l͠ȩa͌v́e̗s̹ tͅh̗i̎s̲ da̭m͖n᷅ r͏o̹o̚m. N̖ot͢h᷅ȉn᷈g̲. N͔o̘th̏in̲’ I sa͇ỷ a̜nd̪ n̡oth̗ỉn̟g̼ ỵou͗ l̓ëa᷇r̈́n͑ a̢b͂o̠uṯ m̎e͌, me̼d̶ic̮a͑ll̦y o̲r̘ ŏtherwi̠s̺e.” The flickering, glitching blade of a knife came into being before Edward’s very eyes and sweat began to bead at his forehead beneath his head mirror. “I᷊’m͒ not̬ yěr̮ p̂rẹći̎o̠us̆ Da̱rk, so̶ I k̡n᷉ow̠ y̞ou ḓõn’t͛ h̪av́e a̋n̎y̔ s̎oṟt̃ o’ loy᷀âl̅ṯy t͛o̠ m̜e̓. B͈ut y͓o͝u’d b̳e̗s̥t re̊m̀e̪m͓bȅȓ t̜h̷ãt͎ if a̜n᷉y̺t̬h̡in̕g̀ y̵o͉u’re̳ a̪b̠o̤u̞t͓ ta͔ l͛e̲ȧrn̊ l᷀e̅ąv̵e͍s̰ th͇isͅ p͐lǎce͍...w᷉ĕl᷈l.” Anti’s grin widened wickedly. “Ẏo̱u͈ wo̧ul̵d͓n͑’t hav̓e͍ t̬ö b͎e̜ a̭ d͈oc̯to͒r̀ t̞o̾ kn̴ôw t̂h̫a͍t fi̵xi̬n͈’ w̼h̫a̹t᷈ I̯'d̮ d͙ǫ t̻o͓ d̅ȯ w̖o̚ǔl̢d͉ň’t be–”

A shudder passed through Anti, his entire body warping and distorting and flickering in and out of view in waves of pixelated light. A pained cry escaped him and he stumbled backwards across the floor. He curled in on himself and clutched at his head, and Edward felt absolutely torn between the urge to try and help somehow and the paralyzing terror that had struck him only seconds before.

“Anti, take a breath.” Dark intervened before Edward had to, purposeful strides carrying him forward to crouch before the panting, whimpering, shivering man on the floor. “Get your breathing under control. I may not be a doctor, but I can guarantee that working yourself up will aggravate the situation further. Take a breath.” A beat. “Doctor?”

“Y-Yes…?”

“You’ll do as he says. Understood? Not a word of this leaves this place. Are we clear?”

“As...a-as crystal, sir.”

“Very good.”

Leaving the pair to their devices, the doctor spun his stool back around to the desk and pretended to examine the blood sample again. He took a moment to collect himself, to recover his professional facade. And it was most definitely a facade, as he hadn’t been truly calm since he had first laid eyes on Anti today. The concept that Dark had brought Anti here to help him in the first place had been an odd turn of events in and of itself, but Edward wasn’t about to question the likes of Darkiplier and Antisepticeye. They could be absolutely terrifying on their own, and with the pair together in the same room...Edward wasn’t about to test his odds.

But if Edward didn’t know better, he would have assumed that Dark almost sounded like...like he cared. Like he legitimately didn’t want Anti to be in pain. But he did know better, clearly. He was no idiot. Darkiplier and Antisepticeye were ever at odds, acquaintances at best and enemies at worst. Friendship and friendliness weren’t even factors on the table. It was foolish to even consider the possibility of–

“Perhaps it would be easier if you saw what occurred for yourself?”

Edward glanced back at Dark, who had summoned a pair of low armchairs for himself and Anti and was perched on the edge of one of them. Anti was still on the floor, still struggling to stabilize his malfunctioning image.

“I…” Edward blinked, then registered what Dark was saying. “Yes, I suppose so. One less step and all that.”

“Very well.”

Edward only had a moment to brace himself for it. This was not the first time his mind had been invaded by Darkiplier, the skill coming to practical use on more than one occasion. But he was never quite ready for the discomfort that always pulsed in the back of his mind when it happened.

No pain. Just - discomfort.

The doctor closed his eyes with barely a wince as the memory came to life in his head, the image of an apartment, lime green strings, the flurry of fighting and some sort of gunfire and – oh. Oh, that was interesting. The frequency of the shots, the level of disintegration Anti had been forced to achieve...yes. That certainly would do it.

By the time he opened his eyes, Anti was panting slightly in the second armchair.

(Whether he had gotten there on his own or been helped by Dark, Edward didn’t dare to ask.)

“W̓ë́ll?” Anti snipped, a lot of his earlier fight gone. He looked weary and worn and his impatient glare gave off an air of an impudent child more than anything else. A slight glistening red had appeared at the scarred cut across the demon’s throat...had he agitated the wound?

“A lot of this is hypothetical, seeing as I don’t have the means or skills to analyze the workings of the digital part of your DNA,” Edward prefaced, plucking a pen and notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket. “But I’d hazard a guess that I’m fairly close to the truth here.”

The doctor spun his stool to face Anti more fully, scribbling down notes as he continued.

“Computer programs require some modicum of time to execute commands. On older computers, the time it takes is obvious. Lagging videos, slow uploads, prolonged periods to save your files. But even for brand new, high-speed computers – which is what I would compare you to, since your reaction times are almost instantaneous – that processing time is still there. It’s just so much faster.”

“Y͆o̮ur̥ p̆oi̫n͓t̫, dip͛sh͉i͢t?”

“Anti. Let him do his job.”

Anti grumbled under his breath but didn’t say much else, sinking in the armchair and leveling an annoyed look at Dark.

“My point,” Edward went on, a small tense smile playing at the corner of his mouth, “is that there are things that can cause even high quality computers to lag and glitch. If you overload their memory, if you try to run too many programs at once that require a high processing power…” He raised his eyebrows pointedly. “…if you try to give it too many commands at once.”

“W̾h͞at̪ a̘r̈́e y͞o̭ŭ s̀a̱y̢i͑n̤g̕?”

The doctor finished his notes and tucked the notebook away so he could meet Anti’s eyes more directly. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together before him.

“If a normal computer hit that wall and malfunctioned, it would restart the program or request a shut down so things could start afresh. But that’s where the difference lies. Where a computer is entirely technological, you are also biological. The human body doesn’t just shut down and reboot when a person gets sick. It constantly fights to heal itself. 

“When Chase was shooting at you, he managed to hit you multiple times in quick succession, on more than one occasion. You never got the chance to fully reform. The coding in your body - from what I understand - lets you separate into pixels on impact as a defense mechanism so you don’t sustain serious injury. Then that same coding works to put you back together. When Mr. Brody was firing at you, it led you to separating yourself over and over and over, leading to a loop of disintegration and reparation which - at some point - overloaded the process. Like a computer, your coding hit a sort of...well, a snag. But unlike a computer…”

Edward’s expression turned almost sympathetic behind his glasses.

“…you don’t reboot. Your biological half continued its attempts to fix and fix and fix, despite the coding error...and you haven’t been able to repair that error since. Hence the pain.”

Anti’s annoyed and impatient expression faded and a sort of dawning clarity graced his features. Edward found himself glancing from Anti to Dark and back again. Had he done alright? Had he said the right thing? Was this acceptable?

“F͌u̝c̹kͅ.” Anti dragged a hand through his hair, agitation building behind his eyes. He gripped the arm of the chair tightly with his other hand. “F̆u̙c̪k̓in’ b̽a͙s͍t̓a̓r͗d.”

“I’m...sorry?”

“N͝o̮, n̴o᷄t̤ y͛o͌u, i̮d᷆i̘o͂t,” the demon snapped, rolling his eyes. “Ch͍a̩še͝ B̬r̡o͍dý.”

Edward’s mouth dropped into a little “oh” and he nodded, quietly relieved that he wasn’t the one Anti was pissed at.

“What do you need?” Dark asked, snapping Edward’s attention to him.

“Sorry?”

“To undo the damage. What do you need?”

Oh. Of course. Right.

“I...I need my medical lab,” Edward said, getting straight to the point. “I need to get a closer look at Anti’s DNA and I can’t do that with what I have here.”

“Understood. Anything else?”

The doctor paused, then nodded slowly.

“I need Google’s help.” At Dark’s quirked eyebrow, he elaborated. “I may be a medical professional but this isn’t purely biological. I need a technological expert, and Google is the best man for the job. I-If you don’t mind, of course,” he added quickly, not wanting to seem too forward.

Dark rose from his chair, a crystal-topped cane appearing in his hand as he did so. He didn’t say a word as he straightened his jacket and strode over towards the Doctor’s desk, plucking the vial of green-tinged blood from its surface and raising it up to his eyes to get a better look.

“...very well. I’ll speak with him and see if he’s available to assist you in this. If not, we can find a suitable replacement.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dark set the churning vial back where he found it and turned back to Anti, approaching the other demon and gesturing for him to stand.

“And Dr. Iplier?”

“Yes sir?”

“Do be quick. I don’t think I have to remind you of the importance of this. Do I?”

Anti’s sharp-toothed grin and inky eyes flashed through his mind. Edward swallowed thickly and he gripped the edge of his (not his) desk tightly.

“N-No sir.”

“Good.”

Then both Anti and Dark were gone.

[A/N] - Thank you for being patient with the long wait! Adult life is kicking my ass, but I finally feel confident in how this chapter turned out to post it publicly. I have the next one started (AKA the discussion between Jack, Mark, Matt, and Robin) but as I'm about to leave for a cruise and with Christmas around the corner, I won't be able to work on it until after the holidays. Hopefully I can gift you a new chapter at the start of the new year!

This chapter was a TON of fun to write! I haven't had many chances to write Dark, and I do enjoy writing Anti so very much. Plus the mood of this chapter, the dynamic between the characters, is so different than what we see between Jack and Mark and the lot. The witty banter, tongue-in-cheek humor, and lighthearted undertones I get to play with in Jack's scenes can't be portrayed in this setting...so I got to stretch my creative legs a bit! ;) I know, canonically, Dr. Iplier doesn't really have a first name besides 'Doctor' so...well. I went with one I've seen floating around the fandom in the past. Hopefully it's fitting. :)

~ Pixie

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