#markiplier dr iplier fanfic

[cozyenigma]

Blood Drive

Word Count- 1406

Request?- Nope!

Summary- A chance encounter has you cleaning up a mess that you didn't even make. And facing some tough pills to swallow with a certain colleague

(Vampire au? Vampire au.)

Tag List- @cookielover0001010 , @swag-droid , @watchoutforfrostbite

Warnings- Blood, hospital setting

"I'm assuming you have questions."

"No shit I've got questions! What the hell, Ed?! Just- start talking before I call the cops!"

His lips thinned. "Really? The police?"

The notion seemed ridiculous when he put it like that but it was the only thing that came to mind. Blood was still dripping off his coat and your stomach lurched at the thought of how much was there. And on the floor. And the desk.

"It- can you really blame me? You look like a serial killer!"

Edward, the bastard, just shrugged. "What good are they gonna do here?"

The thought, which was probably a fair point, still made your heart stop. You were backed into a corner. The only thing between you and the man you thought you knew was the pair of keys you held between your fingers tight enough to break skin. No one to hear your cries for help. No exits.

"You want me to just do nothing then and- what, let you drink my blood? Kill me?"

He actually scoffed at that, like you were being ridiculous, like this wasn't ripped straight out of a horror movie. When he raised his hands in the air it was more annoyance than reassurance. You could see blood on his hands. It was half dried at this point, tacky and dark, making the lines in his palms stand out. You swallowed down the nausea.

"I'm a doctor. I'm not going to kill you. And if I was- I'd have already done it. Not to mention I don't like my chances of getting rid of your body without anyone in the hospital noticing. Waste of life on both sides."

"Wha- you're saying you're not gonna kill me because it's not practical?"

"That and I genuinely don't want to kill you?"

"Don't say it like a question!"

The doctor sighed and dropped his hands. Leaning against the desk, he very nearly looks like a regular man. If it weren't for the blood clotting on his coat you wouldn't think anything was wrong.

"What do you want to know?"

You wet your lips, glanced between the door and the blood across the floor.

"Are you a vampire?"

The question seemed ridiculous as you asked but Edward nodded along anyways. "Yes, in a sense. Not like Twilight or Nosferatu nonsense, it's more… plain, I guess you could say."

"How long have you been one?"

Looking up at the ceiling, he mouthed the numbers as he counted. "Five years now? I was a doctor first so that made things… awkward."

You tried not to imagine the unfortunate patients of his who happened to have a bit too much bleeding in the ER. Keep calm, you told yourself. You adjusted your grip on the keys.

"So how do you… You act like you're above killing people but you're- here. You're a vampire who happens to also be a doctor. You've got access to loads of people. Sick, vulnerable people."

Now Edward just looks offended. "Christ, no, I don't- I don't kill my own patients. I don't kill anyone. Think about it- I've been practicing for years and someone would notice if I left a trail of bodies behind me."

"I never said you killed them." Though you were thinking it.

Huffing, he bent down and snatched up a bloody piece of plastic. Only when he held it up did you recognize it as a blood bag. It was ripped open end to end, jagged and dripping still. You wondered with some discomfort if he used his teeth to do it.

The doctor tosses it at your feet, a few flecks managing to land on your shoes.

"I have a friend or two down in the lab. Usually it's just regular blood tests. Non-emergent ones. A few tubes go missing here or there or conveniently don't have labels. It happens all the time. That's usually enough for me to get by."

You looked down at the blood bag then back to the mess he'd made. At least this time he seemed almost embarrassed. Edward crossed his arms and grimaced.

"My usual lab tech is on vacation. I thought it would be fine. It wasn't. So… I cut out the middleman this time."

"Any reason why you're wearing half of it?"

The glare he gave you then could've melted glass. "I was fine until someone decided to try and pull a prank."

In your defense it was a very, very rare occasion to catch the doctor unawares. You had no idea what he was doing exactly but that wasn't a concern. Of course when you had tried to sneak up behind him..

"How was I supposed to know you were having a bloody juice box?"

"Why else would I be down here?"

"Excuse me if my first thought when seeing a colleague isn't vampirism!"

He pinched his nose, breathing out a heavy sigh. Unfortunately that only served to smear blood even higher on his face.

"Can we please save the arguing for another time? Unless you'd like us both to be caught with this mess?"

As if this was anywhere close to being your problem. You had half a mind to tell him to figure it out himself but something made you hold your tongue. Though you rationalized it as trying to protect other people, that you didn't know what he would do if he was cornered, you couldn't quite believe it. You already had cornered him. The rest of… whatever this was could come later. Edward wasn't the kind of man to hurt someone else (at least on purpose) and he needed your help.

Even if he was a bit of a prick.

You sighed and nodded, only managing to loosen your grip on the keys after forcefully willing your fingers to do so.

"Fine. I'll get a mop. You get something that isn't- get some clean clothes. And try not to smear more blood everywhere."

He blinked, stared at you for a moment, then simply nodded and got to his feet. The guy told you to help clean this up and then has the audacity to look surprised when you do. There's an uncertain moment where he's looking at the mess, frozen in his little island of blood. Then he's carefully shucking off his shoes and stepping well away from the puddle with relatively clean socks.

The cleaning wasn't difficult as much as it was time consuming. You'd clean off one area only to find a splatter of red on another surface. Edward had somehow managed to get it on the underside of the desk.

You'd turned to get another rag, more disinfectant, just in time to catch Edward at the sink. The water was flowing but instead of actually washing his hands, he had one raised. You watched him sniff at it then, like a kid sneaking frosting from a birthday cake, he licks at the back of his bloodied hand.

Then he looked back and froze. Your rag dripped on the floor. The water kept flowing. Neither of you moved. Very deliberately, you went right back to cleaning. Edward for his part washed up in record time.

In the end, you were already exhausted with the day and he was in a borrowed pair of hospital scrubs. The two of you just looked at where the gore had been for several moments. Neither of you said much at first. What was there to say? Any small talk felt woefully out of place and you weren't quite ready to poke the proverbial elephant in the room.

Finally, Edward clears his throat. "I'll dispose of these," he hefts a bag containing his bloodied clothes and shoes. "And we won't bring this up again."

You pursed your lips but agreed nonetheless. It was, frankly, kind of a miracle no one had been questioning the loss of the blood tubes or bags yet. Part of you was certain it wasn't the last time you'd be running into this situation. Hopefully with less cleaning next time though.

All the doctor offered was a nod and a quiet word of thanks. Then he just walked away. Just like that one of the strangest encounters of your life was over. Still, there was a heavy knot in the pit of your stomach. This had happened simply because of someone going on vacation. God forbid they ever get sick or quit. You didn't doubt his restraint normally but… well, it was only a matter of time.

[juju-on-that-yeet]

At My Worst (Chapter 4)

Work Summary: Thanks to his enduring popularity in the fandom, The Author pops back into existence and the egos must suddenly contend with someone they thought was gone forever coming back from the dead. No one is more shocked than Dr. Iplier, who can’t help but remember how things used to be - and slowly fall back into bad habits, despite his better judgement.

Chapter Summary: The Host is still angry that The Author’s back, and The Author still wants to dissect the past. Dr. Iplier is set adrift between two hard places, and things are about to get much harder.

Read on AO3

Enjoy!

~

Dr. Iplier is more or less used to The Author’s presence in Ego Inc., he thinks. He’s still put on edge by every conversation between them, still afraid that Author might try bringing up the past and dredging through everything in their past, but it’s at least a familiar feeling by now. It no longer puts him so off balance, it’s no longer so difficult to brush off (though it still isn’t easy). The rest of the egos seem well used to him as well; he’s fully integrated into the friend groups of some egos, and the ones who don’t care for him as much have learned to live with him.

All, that is, but The Host.

Yes, Host has a reason not to like Author. Yes, Host is justified in being worried about Author’s presence in the building. Yes, Host is allowed to be annoyed and angry and frustrated that he has to share a living space with a walking reminder of all his worst traits and most terrible decisions.

However.

He does not have to make it the subject of so many of his conversations with Dr. Iplier.

Every time Dr. Iplier treats Author in the clinic or runs into him in the hall, Host seems to know about it, and always has to say something about it. Dr. Iplier is sure that some of that comes from his own behavior; spending time around Author does get him a bit rattled, and no doubt Host can sense that. But that can’t be all of it, Dr. Iplier isn’t convinced that Host isn’t doing some spying via narration. Honestly, Dr. Iplier wouldn’t even mind it if Host just kept it to himself. But he never seems able to, never seems willing to take Dr. Iplier at his oft-repeated word that Host has nothing to fear. Dr. Iplier loves Host, and he understands that Host loves him back, and that the root of his behavior truly is his love for Dr. Iplier. But The Author’s arrival has turned Host into a paranoid, territorial, angry person that Dr. Iplier hardly recognizes, and Dr. Iplier’s patience is starting to wear thin.

He goes to the library one day after treating Author at the clinic, hoping to see Host, hoping to enjoy his company while he has a free moment. He finds Host standing between bookshelves with a sour expression on his face, though, as has become typical.

“Before you say anything,” sighs Dr. Iplier as he walks up to him, “Yes, I just saw Author at the clinic. He got in a fight and needed some stitches. I gave him stitches, we chit-chatted, then he left. That’s all. Oh, come on,” he groans when Host only frowns deeper, “Don’t give me that face. Host…”

“I’m sorry,” Host sighs, shaking his head. “I just…you know how I feel.”

“I do. And I sympathize, but you don’t have to keep reminding me.”

Host is quiet for a moment. Dr. Iplier comes closer, close enough to reach out and hug him if he wanted. Host lifts his head to Dr. Iplier, as though he were looking him in the face.

“I’m still worried,” Host admits, “I can’t explain why, he’s been here a while already and nothing’s happened, so logically I shouldn’t, but I still am.” He reaches out a hand, cups Dr. Iplier’s cheek. “It’s Author I don’t trust, not you.”

“You keep saying that, and yet…” Dr. Iplier grumbles, but he doesn’t pull away from Host’s hand.

Host frowns at that, but not in the same way he did earlier, not so petulant and accusatory.

“I’m sorry, love,” he says, “I’ve said it already, but I am.”

“I know,” Dr. Iplier replies, lifting his own hand to cover Host’s. “But it gets exhausting.”

“I don’t like how unsettled I’ve been,” Host admits, “But I’m not sure how to stop feeling that way.”

“Maybe if you talked to Author once or twice, you’d realize you don’t have so much to fear.”

Host’s face scrunches up in displeasure, as though Dr. Iplier’s words were a lemon he’d just bitten into.

“I’d really rather not.”

Dr. Iplier chuckles, he can’t help it.

“I figured you’d say that,” he says, “But you can’t just feel like this forever. Author’s not going anywhere; he lives here now, he’s always going to be here, and I’m always going to interact with him when he’s hurt or sick. You’re gonna have to get used to him eventually.”

“I know,” Host sighs, “I’ll try my best to, truly.” He winds an arm around Dr. Iplier’s waist, pulls him closer. “And I ask for your continued patience while I do so.”

“Weeeeeeeell,” Dr. Iplier drawls, though he can’t suppress a smirk as he puts an arm around Host in turn. “I guess, if it’s for you, then I’ll keep being patient.”

“You’re a saint, truly,” Host snarks, grinning back.

Host moves his hand from Dr. Iplier’s cheek around to the back of his head, fingers curling into his hair, and pulls him in for a kiss. Dr. Iplier lets him, kissing back with a slight smile still on his lips.

It’s not the first time Dr. Iplier has had this conversation with The Host, not the first time Host has promised to change, and it turns out to not the last time, either. Dr. Iplier tries to be patient, tries to brush past it and ignore it when it happens. It continues to be a low-level annoyance that impacts every moment he spends with Host, continues to be another effect that The Author has on the building.

So far, it’s the only real negative one. Dark also doesn’t like Author, probably for similar reasons to the Host; Author’s a reminder of the one time Dark went too far, and he’s still better at wearing down Dark’s patience than any other ego has been. Google finds him annoying and probably wishes Chrome wasn’t friends with him. His powers and devil-may-care attitude make Eric nervous, but then, so much does. Other than these things and The Host’s persistent anger at Author’s presence, the building has been much the same with Author in it.

There’s also, however, the turbulent thoughts that go through Dr. Iplier’s mind whenever Author is around. Equal parts pleasant memories and terrible traumas, past history and present conflict. Maybe Host’s reaction to Author is making it worse, keeping those thoughts always at the front of Dr. Iplier’s mind. He doesn’t know for sure. But he can’t help but feel that things might come to a head sometime soon. In what way, he isn’t sure, but he turns out to be right, and thus finds out before long.

He goes to the library one day, for once not to see Host – though that would be a welcome side effect. Instead, he’s aiming to find a good book or two to occupy him after work for the next week. He knows the shelves well by now, and knows that the books he enjoys always tend to be in the shelves in the center of the room. The center of the library also holds Host’s writing desk and typewriter, and an armchair perfect for someone to sit nearby him as he writes. Dr. Iplier manages to find a couple good books on the way there, but decides to keep going to the center anyway. For all that Host has been cranky lately, Dr. Iplier still likes to see him, and there’s a decent chance he’ll be there.

Instead, however, Dr. Iplier finds The Author at the center of the library, sitting in the armchair, legs crossed and up on the desk nearby, writing something in his notebook. Author looks up at the sound of Dr. Iplier’s footsteps, and smiles when their eyes meet. Dr. Iplier, however, can’t help but feel trepidation.

“Hey, Doc,” Author says, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“What are you doing back here?” Dr. Iplier asks.

“Chilling,” Author replies, “Writing a bit. No peeking, though, it’s not finished yet.”

“Host wouldn’t like you being here,” Dr. Iplier says, “He especially wouldn’t like you putting your feet on his desk.”

“Aw, come on, Doc,” Author sighs, “Some of the books in here are mine, at the very least I should be able to hang out here.” He does remove his feet from the desk, but he stays sitting in the armchair.

“Author–” Dr. Iplier says, coming closer, half-looking around to make sure Host isn’t near.

“Doc, relax,” Author soothes, chuckling a little, “If Host was gonna chase me out he would’ve done it already. Either he’s not here or he doesn’t care.”

“He must not be here, then,” Dr. Iplier grumbles, “Host would absolutely care.”

“He’s still bent out of shape about me, huh?” Author sighs. “I try to avoid him, but I guess “out of sight, out of mind” doesn’t really work on him.”

“You’re trying to avoid him, yet you’re in his library sitting in his armchair?” Dr. Iplier asks. He’d normally say something like this with snark, but it comes out full of nerves instead.

“I can’t not come here, Doc,” Author says, a more serious note to his voice than he’s had so far. He sighs yet again, and closes his notebook to fully focus on Dr. Iplier. “You know me, words are in my blood. This place is everything I could’ve hoped for. This is…” His expression sours just a little. “This is what Dark promised me, if I cooperated. And now it belongs to someone else. Wilford got his studio, you got your clinic, I was supposed to get this.” He gestures around himself, towards all the shelves and countless books. “I can’t just stay away, no matter what Host thinks.”

Dr. Iplier can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. What Author said is true; back before Ego Inc. existed, Dark had to persuade all the egos to join him there, to gather everyone in one place where they could be hidden and safe – and under Dark’s supervision. It was a hard sell for everyone, so he promised to fulfill each person’s desires if they came willingly. Author was the last stubborn holdout, and by the time he finally acquiesced, Dark’s patience had already run dry…and then The Author was dead, and only The Host was left to inherit Author’s dream of a library. Ego Inc. has a magic to it that makes every one of Mark’s figments feel at home, and that magic is strongest in each ego’s favorite place. Author can likely still feel inside himself how this room was made for him, as his own safe space.

But it’s not his own safe space anymore, not while Host is here. Dr. Iplier is still worried that he could show up at any second, and Author can clearly tell.

“Geez, you’re still so worried about Host,” Author says, “Has he really been that angry about me?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” Dr. Iplier says, “You just…you remind him of a lot of things he’d rather forget.”

Author wants to probe further, just like he always does, Dr. Iplier can see it in his face. He wants to dig into their shared history and lay everything out in the open. Usually, though, these moments happen in the clinic, and Dr. Iplier can brush past them by refocusing on Author’s treatment or ushering him out if his treatment is completed. Here, though, there’s no easy distraction. Dr. Iplier only just got here, so he can’t get away with pretending to have to leave. Author already doubts that Host will come by, so that’s not a good deterrent, either.

“What kinds of things?” Author asks, pointed. His eyes are piercing. “Like how Dark killed him, or like how we used to be together, or both?”

“Author…” Dr. Iplier begins, voice lowered in warning.

“Just asking,” Author mutters, looking away. “Just…feels like you complain about him a lot, lately.”

Dr. Iplier feels his cheeks heat up just a little. It’s the truth, but he didn’t notice until it was pointed out.

“I guess so,” he admits. Author seems unable to stifle a chuckle.

“Sorry,” he says in response to the look Dr. Iplier gives him, “Not trying to make fun of you. Things are going okay, though, right?”

“More or less,” Dr. Iplier sighs. He takes a step closer to the armchair Author’s sitting in. “He’s sorry for being so crabby, but that doesn’t seem to stop it…”

He trails off partly for lack of anything else to say, but partly because it occurs to him that it’s bad form as a boyfriend to complain about Host like this, especially to Author. But Author has a way of making Dr. Iplier into an open book, has a way of reading him just as well and getting every word he desires out of him. Even now, Dr. Iplier can’t seem to resist it.

“Sounds rough,” Author says, “And annoying. Is he like that all the time? Kinda sounds like it.”

“No,” Dr. Iplier mumbles, trying not to backpedal too obviously.

“Hm.” Author chews his lip for a moment. “Guess he still has a bit of me in him after all.”

“W-What?” Dr. Iplier sputters.

“Doing something that upsets you, apologizing, and then doing it again anyway.” He grins ruefully, but there’s regret in his tone. “I used to be real good at that. Not too surprising that Host still has that skill, I guess, but…you think he would’ve learned that by now, huh?”

“You’re one to talk,” Dr. Iplier snaps, a burst of anger going through him to hear Host be insulted.

“Yeah, but at least I figured it out,” Author counters, voice all-too-casual. “I remembered the lesson I learned from that, and I know that about myself. You think Host does? Or do you think he’d just get pissed at the thought of being anything like me?”

“Author, enough,” Dr. Iplier mutters, “I may not like hearing Host complain about you, but I like hearing you complain about Host even less.” Even if Author’s words are probably true.

“Sorry, sorry,” Author sighs. To his credit, he sounds genuinely remorseful. He thinks for a moment. “Guess we really are alike still. Even after everything I went through, everything he’s been through since…we’re still so similar.”

“Author, stop,” Dr. Iplier says, trying for a warning tone again but not quite managing it. There’s nothing to hide behind, now.

“Stop what? Remembering?” Author asks, challenging, voice taking on the slightest growl.

“Stop bringing it up,” Dr. Iplier says, unable to help taking the bait, unable to stop himself from saying the quiet part out loud. “What do you expect me to do when you say things like that? You can’t keep trying to rehash everything!”

Come on, Doc!” He stands up from his chair in his frustration. “We can’t keep dancing around this. It’s been a long time but it happened. We happened. We have to talk about it at some point!”

“How can we??” Dr. Iplier asks in return, just as volatile, “What is there to say? We did happen, but now we’re here.” Dr. Iplier looks away. The words he’s saying are unfamiliar, but the sound they make coming out of him reminds him of arguments with Author long past. He takes a breath, calms himself a little. “It’s over, Author.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Author says, words in a rush. He steps closer to Dr. Iplier, eyes glinting. “You loved me, and you love Host, and we’re the same. I’m still me.”

“Author…”

“You broke up with me, but you still cared, otherwise you wouldn’t have ended up with Host. We can still have something. We can still be something.”

Author reaches out, puts a hand on Dr. Iplier’s shoulder, warmer and stronger than Host’s hands. Maybe Dr. Iplier should shrug it away, but his head is still swimming with Author’s words.

“Edward,” Author says, quietly, urgently. “I’m in love with you. You know I still love you. Some part of you loves me too, it has to.”

“Author, I…”

“And Host has been such a pain in the ass lately, hasn’t he? You were just complaining about it. He can’t even appreciate you enough to be secure in the two of you.”

“You’re asking me to betray him?”

“But we’re the same!” Author grins, a little manic, a little sad. “He and I are two sides of the same coin. Do you want the angry one that keeps frustrating you, or the kind one you’ve had so many nice moments with, not just recently but years ago?”

“Author, this is insane,” Dr. Iplier gasps. He knew deep down Author still cared, but how could he have expected this? His hands are white-knuckle tight around his books. The part of his heart that remembers the good times doesn’t want to hurt Author, but the part of his brain that understands the reality of things wants to end this now.

“Say my name, at least,” Author murmurs, almost begs. “If you’re going to say no, use my real name.”

Dr. Iplier swallows. Author is so close. His eyes are still so piercing.

“I’m – I –”

Author waits, but Dr. Iplier can’t say a word. Once he realizes nothing is coming, Author sighs, the deepest one he’s made yet, and smiles sadly.

“That’s okay,” he says, voice quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Iplier whispers. Part of him wants to apologize further, part of him doesn’t think he should be apologizing at all. No one’s ever been as good as putting him at odds with himself as Author.

For his part, Author takes a moment to fully calm. His hand is still on Dr. Iplier’s shoulder, he’s still so terribly close, but Dr. Iplier still can’t bring himself to pull away.

“No, I’m sorry,” Author murmurs. “That was…a lot. I shouldn’t have put all that on you. I don’t…I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He sounds so raw and his words are so honest that Dr. Iplier is taken aback. The Author in his memory would never admit fault so fully.

“It’s okay,” he finds himself saying. “But you already know what my answer is. And we can’t talk about this again.”

“You’re right,” Author says, “And we won’t, I promise. Whatever happens, just…” He takes in a breath. “Remember that I do care about you, alright?”

Before Dr. Iplier can respond, Author leans forward, kisses his cheek, and walks away, disappearing through the library shelves.

Dr. Iplier is left frozen.

He knows he shouldn’t be. He should be incensed, he should be marching after Author to chew him out, or at least storming off in anger. He shouldn’t be stunned still at how much like memory that kiss was. He shouldn’t have the feeling of Author’s lips on his cheek still, warm and smooth, not chapped like Host’s. Just a little more forceful than a typical peck, the way Author’s kisses always were when given in a hurry. He shouldn’t have a hand halfway to his cheek to touch the place where Author’s lips were. He shouldn’t be running the moment through his mind over and over again if he’s not going to imagine shoving Author away right after. He shouldn’t have bright red cheeks.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

He shouldn’t, but he is.

He has no idea what to do.

Logic says he can’t keep this to himself. It doesn’t rise to the level of getting Dark to intervene, but someone has to know that Author did this. That he professed his love for and kissed Dr. Iplier. But the only person it makes sense to tell, the only person who would truly care to know, is Host. And Dr. Iplier should tell Host, he knows he should. But he already knows what would happen: Host would throw a fit, go into a rage, maybe even go after Author or do something else unwise. Dr. Iplier would never hear the end of it. And that’s just the start, that’s just if he could retell the event without letting on how it’s making him feel, without acknowledging the memories getting caught in his chest from not just the kiss, but the whole conversation before it. How the hell could Dr. Iplier ever play it off? He could never explain this to Host in a way that would satisfy him.

So Dr. Iplier ultimately decides not to tell him at all.

Choice made, he finally manages to uproot himself and hurry out of the library, books still clutched to his chest. He tries to read one when he reaches his room, but the words swim away when he tries to focus on them. He can think of nothing but Author and of that kiss and of the sinking feeling deep in his gut.

[faecaribou]

dr. iplier whump fic

Whumptober Day 10: They Look so Pretty When They Bleed Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood

Drip. Drip.

He pressed his hand harder against the wound.

The human body can lose about 40% of their blood before passing out, about 66% before death, his mind reminded him.

“Shut up,” he hissed. “That can’t help me now.”

He tore off the bottom of his sweater and tied it to the wound. It was a pathetic attempt to help stem the blood for such a large wound, but it was better than nothing. He needed a hospital. He needed a first aid kit.

What was the point of being a doctor if he couldn’t help himself?

Keep moving around to a minimum. Elevate the wound if you can. Make a tourniquet.

Dr. Iplier swore quietly to himself as he ran around the corner of a hallway. He couldn’t do any of those things. He had to keep moving, keep running, to get away. He knew without a doubt that his family was looking for him, but so were they.

Come on, Host, Dark, he thought, stumbling along. It wouldn’t be long for they found the trail of blood he was leaving behind, wouldn’t be long before they caught up. He whimpered into the turtleneck of his sweater at the thought of them finding him.

He turned another corner before his leg gave out on him, and he collapsed with a cry. With a desperate noise, he pressed his other hand against the wall for support, smearing blood on it, and tried to stand, but his leg wouldn’t cooperate. He pressed his back against the wall and examined his leg. His flimsy bandage was already soaked with blood. He tore off another strip off the bottom of his sweater and shivered as his bare lower back made contact with the cold wall. He wished he had his lab coat. Didn’t he have a few supplies tucked away in those big pockets? Maybe nothing that would really help him, but at this point, anything to help stop the blood loss would do. He pressed both hands against the wound, grimacing as his thigh flared in pain in response.

Time was running out.

How much blood had he lost already? He shivered. 

Such a wound would make him lose blood at the rate of about-

He pressed his head against the wall in a futile attempt to drown out the thoughts.

Side effects of minor blood loss include nausea, anxiety, increased heart rate and respiratory rate, losing feeling in your hands and feet.

He whimpered again. He had no way to tell whether he was feeling some of those symptoms or not because he had been running from people who wanted to hurt him. He flexed his fingers carefully, but he wasn’t sure if he was losing feeling in them or not.

Side effects of major blood loss include confusion, disorientation, rapid and shallow breathing, weakness and fatigue, drowsiness, and cool, sweaty skin-

He shivered and then whined in the back of his throat.

Shut up, he told himself. You’re just imagining it. It’s human nature to automatically start mimicking the symptoms.

He still sounded dangerously close to hyperventilating.

He looked up and down the hallway. Empty. No one had found him yet. He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or not. Perhaps his family was fighting them, defeating them, and his family was only starting to look for him now, he thought hopefully.

He blinked slowly. Shivered. How much time had passed since he had escaped? He didn’t know. He considered trying to get up again but decided against it. His leg hurt too much and he felt too tired. Reluctantly, he decided to lay on the floor instead of propping himself against the wall. He couldn’t elevate his wound, but at least he could make his body as flat as possible.

Carefully, he laid himself down. His body protested in response but he ignored it.

He stared at the ceiling, hands still pressing against his leg.

He lost track of time. He could hear his heart pumping wildly in his chest. He couldn’t say it was because of his run anymore. He noticed his grip on his leg loosened and he tightened it. His hands felt numb. He pressed harder. How long until

He lost track of time. He felt woozy. What was he doing laying on the floor? He tried to sit up but couldn’t. He went to use the wall as support but paused. His hand was covered in red. Was that blood? He searched for the wound and found it on his leg. He pressed his hands against his leg. How did he get hurt? He felt tears running down his face. His vision was blurry. He felt so

He lost track of time. He felt horrible. He just wanted to fall asleep. He tilted his hand to the side and noticed there was something red on the floor. He thought it was blood but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He blinked and

He lost track of time. He felt so tired. He was laying on something wet. He could hear footsteps approaching. He didn’t care. He closed his eyes.

[randomshipperhere]

in terms of feral fan count.

[franklyshipping]

That Flustering Hue ~ A Markiplier Ego Fanfic

HERE WE HAVE ANOTHER EPIC ANON PROMPT, THIS TIME INCLUDING OUR ABSOLUTE FAVOURITE EXPLORER ILLINOIS! LET’S DO THIS!

TAGGING: @il-lee-nois @thegoodnewsdoctler and  @doctoripliler 

Usually if you get injured, you’re not as talkative as usual; you end up feeling a little more tired or subdued. That was not the case with the renound (in his eyes) explorer, Illinois. Even lying back on Dr Iplier’s medical bench as he was examined, he was babbling and rambling excitedly about his latest expedition and the success he had achieved – which in his eyes was made even more impressive by his injury. Luckily it wasn’t serious, he’d just been nicked by an odd dart in his neck. Of course, he had assumed it might have had a poison in it that needed an antidote . . . but that wasn’t exactly the case.

‘Well Illinois, I’m glad to say that you haven’t been poisoned . . . technically.’

‘Aweso-! Wait . . . what do you mean technically?’

Illinois furrowed his eyebrows at Iplier, a sense of worry starting to set in. However, a hand clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder, and the boisterous voice of his companion rang out.

‘Hey now there’s no need to worry! I’m sure doc here is gonna tell you that you’re in perfect health, just like you always are!’

Wilford beamed at Illinois. Whenever Illinois returned from an adventure, Wilford was always the first one to greet him home, eager to hear all the fun details of his trip; it reminded him of all the trips he’d taken back when he was a Colonel. So he’d insisted on also accompanying him to Iplier’s, wanting to make sure Illinois was okay. Illinois smiled, feeling so glad Wilford was by his side, and Iplier smiled to them both.

‘You are correct there Wilford. After looking at your tox-screen and blood-work I am happy to say that the toxin from the dart will not cause you any harm, and your antibodies will have it gone from your system in about a week. However it is going to have a uh . . . particularly unique effect on you until it’s gone.’

Illinois furrowed his eyebrows, sitting up a little straighter.

‘Okay . . . what kind of effect?’

‘Idiopathic craniofacial erythema. Or as it’s known in plain English, excessive blushing.’

Illinois’ eyes widened, and as soon as the thought of blushing came to his head, colour bloomed on his face. Not a little hint of pink like he was used to either. His face turned a bright crimson in practically less than a second, and Illinois was instantly embarrassed. He buried his face in his hands as he groaned.

‘Oh you gotta be KIDDING me?!’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Iplier replied, smiling fondly at Illinois, finding his reaction amusing. Meanwhile, Wilford was beaming with amazed delight! This was the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard of in his life.

‘Oh my GOD that’s a hoot and a half! Illy let me see let me see!’

Wilford started pulling at Illinois’ hands, wanting to take a look at his face; however, Illinois was in no way going to let anyone see his face with how red it was!

‘Hell no!’

The adventurer exclaimed, before jumping off the medical bench and booking it out of the room at the speed of light! Iplier snorted as Wilford beamed and bolted out right after him. Iplier rolled his eyes, before smirking at the extra sample of blood he’d taken from Illinois . . . deciding to run a few experiments, just in case the toxin could be replicated for more playful use. Meanwhile, Wilford was chasing Illinois through the manor, the adventurer still covering his cheeks determinedly.

‘C’MON LEMME HAVE ONE PEEK!’

‘OVER MY VOLUPTUOUSLY HANDSOME DEAD BODY WARFSTACHE!’

Illinois called out, sprinting up to his room and shutting the door behind him, before getting under his bedcovers and burying his face in his pillows. He vowed that he would not let his face see the light of day until the blushing subsided. He knew everyone would tease him, his tough, charismatic reputation would be ruined if people saw all this blushing! Unfortunately for him however, the determination of Wilford Warfstache knew no bounds. Illinois groaned loudly when he heard Wilford burst into his room and jump on his bed, tugging softly at his shoulder.

‘Can’t I have just one little peek? It’s only me! I PROMISE I won’t describe it to any of the others!’

‘Absolutely not! It’s humiliating! My face is staying right here until the stupid toxin wears off!’

Illinois replied with a huff, which made Wilford sigh softly as he smiled down at his dear friend. He put his hand on Illinois’ back, rubbing it soothingly as he spoke.

‘Come now my friend, it’s not that bad! If anything it’s adorable and endearing!’

‘But Wilford I’m not meant to be adorable or endearing, I’m a successful and charismatic adventurer, an explorer extrodinaire! Not a sappy, red-faced guy who people coo at!’

Illinois exclaimed, huffing as he buried his face even more in his pillows. Wilford smiled, shaking his head as he chuckled gently. He had half a mind to tell Illinois that people already thought he was an adorable and endearing guy, but he figured now might not be the best time. He was still very determined to see Illinois’ face though . . . and as he carried on rubbing Illinois’ back, making him shiver . . . Wilford grinned with an idea.

‘Are ya sure ya don’t wanna give me a glimpse of that handsome face?’

Illinois smiled to himself, admittedly liking the compliment, but it didn’t make him cave.

‘I am quite sure Wilford.’

Wilford grinned. He was glad Illinois was so adamant.

‘Well in that case, I guess I’ll just have to make you.’

Illinois was confused at first, wondering what on earth Wilford meant. Then he tensed, furrowing his brows when he felt Wilford straddled the backs of his thighs . . . but it all clicked when he felt Wilford’s fingers start skittering up and down his back. Warfstache was playing dirty.

‘Woah-hehey quihihit thahat! Wihihilford!’

Yep. Illinois had a ticklish back, amongst other spots. Wilford chuckled, keeping up his skittering as he teased.

‘All ya have to do is roll over, then you can protect your back no problem!’

‘Screhehew yohohou, Ihi’m nahat dohoing thahat!’

Wilford laughed warmly, dragging his fingers down to the small of Illinois’ back. He then snuck them under the explorer’s shirt and scratched at the bare skin deftly.

‘Well then I guess you’ll just have to lie there and enjoy all these tickly tickles my friend!’

Illinois let out a half-growl half-whine into his pillows as he giggled harder, clenching his fists as he cursed Wilford for being so mischievously clever. What made it all worse though, was that the more he was tickled, the more he blushed! He arched his back as he exclaimed.

‘Yohohou’re suhuhuch ahan ahahasshole!’

Wilford beamed, deciding to lie on Illinois, resting his face between his shoulder blades as he crooned.

‘Ohhh c’mon, you know you love me!’

Illinois wriggled with a whine, feeling even more trapped and embarrassed as he retorted.

‘Nahat rihight nohow I dohohon’t!’

Wilford raised an eyebrow at that, and at the same time noticed how Illinois’ shirt has risen quite a bit . . . and revealed his incredibly tempting bare sides. Wilford smirked and started pinching them softly as he teased.

‘Hmm I’m not sure I believe you, I mean you sound so happy right now buddy! I think you love me AND all my tickles!’

Illinois yelped, eyes widening as he snorted and burst into fresh cackles, his sides a hotspot of ticklish nerves. He tried to wriggle from side to side, but it was no use, there was nothing the adventurer could do to dislodge the determined moustached man on top of him.

‘NOHOHO! AHAHA NAHAT THEHERE DAHAMMIT!’

Wilford giggled, finding Illinois’ ticklishness adorable. At the same time, he was marvelling at how tone the man’s sides were! His abs were a picture of masculine opulence, but the fact that his sides were just as toned just amazed Wilford.

‘Man, you gotta teach me how you get your sides so muscly and sexy!’

He remarked, making Illinois splutter through his mirth. Usually he would take any and all compliments with charm and swagger, but the tickling had chipped away at his attitude, and thus brought his softer, more bashful side to the surface. His cheeks felt like they could melt ice at this point too.

‘STAHAHAP TEHEHEASING MEHEHE!’

Illinois exclaimed, making Wilford laughed as he replied in earnest . . . though still whilst scratching and pinching at his sides.

‘I swear I’m being totally serious! It’s incredible, I’ve never felt so much muscle before!’

Illinois’ fists clenched above his head as he wailed out a laugh. He hadn’t reached down to try and stop Wilford because he was using his hands to keep his pillows shielding as much of his face as possible. He so badly wanted to bat at Wilford, but he knew if he did, Wilford would see his blush and he would promptly die of humiliation; but damn, it all tickled SO badly!

‘AHAHAHA YOHOHOU AHAHASSHAHAT!’

He exclaimed, making Wilford gasp indignantly, before snickering fondly and shaking his head down at Illinois.

‘Excuse you, out of the two of us YOU’RE the hat person not me! Sweet little silly Illy.’

Illinois let out a particularly loud snort at the babyish nickname – just when he thought he couldn’t get any more damn flustered! Then though . . . Wilford really decided to go for the big guns. He knew he had no choice. If he was going to get to see Illinois’ face, he had to go for his worst spot. He made sure all his weight was on Illinois, before he walked his fingers up towards Illinois’ armpits. Illinois froze, immediately getting goose-bumps and babbling, struggling as much as he could.

‘NONONO NOT THERE WILL!’

Alas, his struggles were futile and his pleas came too late. Wilford’s fingers slipped into his armpits and wriggled about, scratching with reckless abandon. Meanwhile Wilford gasped dramatically and called out.

‘Oopsy! My fingers slipped!’

‘FUHUHUHUCK NAHAHA WIHIHIHILL!’

Illinois’ entire body was shaking with hysterical, deep laughter as his worst spot was tickled without mercy. He could feel tears building in his eyes as his arms shook with the effort to stay above his head; it was the most maddening tickling he’d ever been subject to, EVER! Meanwhile, Wilford was very much enjoying himself, taking the opportunity to toy with his dear friend a tad.

‘My fingers are just so attracted to your underarms, I can’t stop them!’

Illinois laughed even harder at Wilford being so damn silly, and started kicking his feet against the bed in frustration as he exclaimed brightly.

‘YOHOHOU’RE A FUHUCKING DOHOHORK GEHET OHOHOUT!’

Wilford grinned, frankly in awe at how long Illinois had lasted being tickled at his worst spot! He was impressed, but then again Wilford was impressed by practically everything that Illinois did, he thought the guy was epic! So having him at his mercy right now was pretty damn cool.

‘I don’t know if I can! Oh dear oh dear, how terrible this is!’

He exclaimed like a true thespian on stage, making despairing noises as he kept up his diabolical tickling. Illinois tried to last as long as he could, but even he didn’t have infinite energy. Not like Wilford, who he was certain was powered by a weird cosmic voodoo, allowing him to never get tired. So eventually, the time came for Illinois to concede.

‘OKAHAHAY WIHIHILL OKAHAHAY!’

He exclaimed, making Wilford straighten up excitedly.

‘Okay what buddy?’

‘IHIHI’LL ROHOLL OHOVER JUHUST STAHAP!’

Illinois replied desperately, and so Wilford instantly had mercy, grinning from ear to ear with excitement. He scrambled off the adventurer and knelt next to him on the bed, wringing his hands like a giddy kid as Illinois took a few moments to regain his breath and composure. Then he took in a breath, and rolled over onto his back. Wilford instantly gaped at him as Illinois smiled embarrassedly and muttered.

‘You happy now?’

Wilford was amazed. Illinois’ cheeks were redder than any red he’d ever seen on another living soul! A colour which consumed his neck and ears had also crept down his neck, very nearly right down to his collarbones! And in Wilford’s opinion . . . Illinois looked incredible.

‘Happy?! I’m ecstatic! You look wondrous my dear fellow!’

He gently cupped Illinois’ face, stroking the apples of his cheeks in delighted wonder, which made the adventurer raise a surprised eyebrow, replying in a gentle voice.

‘Really?’

Wilford’s expression softened for a moment, since he could see that Illinois was still battling a sense of embarrassment and self-consciousness at the entire  thing. So of course, Wilford decided to put all of his energy into alleviating it.

‘Yes! Why you look so precious, I simply must kiss you!’

He exclaimed, and before Illinois could react, Wilford was suddenly leaning in and pecking his cheeks with kisses, making the man snort and splutter in embarrassed surprise.

‘Wha-hehey! Gehet outta here, hehey!’

Illinois found himself giggling, his face scrunching as Wilford gave him the silliest, yet sweetest, platonic kisses he had ever been given. He did push at Wilford’s chest . . . but it was half-hearted. Wilford kept it up for a few moments before pulling back, smiling down at Illinois affectionately when he saw how genuinely the adventurer was smiling.

‘I love to see you smiling once more . . . and let me assure you that your heightened blush, though temporary, truly becomes you.’

Illinois blinked, processing Wilford’s words. He could see he was being sincere . . . but he wanted to be sure.

‘You mean it?’

Illinois asked, and Wilford smiled wider, before lying on him and hugging him with all his loving might.

‘Yes.’

Illinois let out a breath . . . a long, unsure breath that he’d been holding in him for a long, long time. He beamed, and hugged Wilford back, the two men nestling together as Illinois whispered.

‘Thank you, my dear friend.’

The two of them stayed that way for a long time, and then even longer. A friendship of vibrant pink nestled with chivalrous crimson, keeping each other safe from every insecurity, and every little self-doubt, in the universe.

WOOOO HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED THIS FIC LEMME KNOW IF YA DID WOOO LUV YOUS XX

[obsidiancreates]

An Origin

(Sort of a sequel to This but I couldn't figure out how to fit Sia and Evan in but shhhhhhhhhh it's another AU we'll jsut say that)

Everyone stands around in a circle, looking at each other.

"... So... how do we go about this?" Bim asks. "Are we going to Boxcar Children up a makeshift shelter? Risk getting a hotel? I think I have about two thousand dollars left."

"I have an apartment."

Everyone looks at Doc.

"It's small, but it's somewhere to start."

"... Don't the people hunting you know about it?"

"Oh. Right. ... Do you think I'll be able to go back to gather some things?"

Dark shrugs, sitting down on a stump. "Depends. Who exactly is hunting you?"

"I don't fully know."

"What do you know?"

"... I was leaving work, a late shift at the hospital. I'm a- ... was a, surgeon. I guess I can't... do that, anymore."

"Oh, dude... that sucks." Bing gives Doc a pat on the shoulder.

"And now so do you," Bim says, snickering a little. Yancy elbows Bim, giving him a sort of... disappointed-big-brother type look. Bim rubs his arm. "Sorry," he huffs.

Doc shrugs. "It's accurate. Anyway, um, I was leaving work, and I was all alone walking to the bus stop. And then I... I don't know. Someone grabbed me and said something about... I think about 'rescuing' me?"

Dark tsks. "Yeah, a lot of other vampires consider turning someone to be saving them."

"... They weren't a vampire. Their hand was warm."

Dark perks up, surprised.

"They hit me over the head, and I woke up somewhere just..." Doc flounders for the words. "... Just horrible. Like a um, like a room in a cheesy movie about satanic cults."

"The candlelight flickered over the walls, somehow seeming to take away light instead of grant it, the shadows deeper than should be possible in the corners of the room."

Doc glances at Host, eyeing him warily. "Yeah. Like that."

"The Host was a horror writer."

"... Oh. So then... you can probably guess what happened next?" Doc desperately hopes he won't have to be the one to describe it.

"The Host doesn't need to guess. He can Know. ... ... ... Doc was pushed into the middle of a circle painted on the floor, the stench of rotting blood making his stomach churn. He looked up as a man approached him and tried to demand to know what was going on, only to realize he was gagged. His mind was still foggy."

Doc shakes a little as Host recounts it. Bing leads him over to another stump to sit down.

"The man knelt down and stroked Doc's hair. 'Here, and now, we have begun The Recompense,' he said in a voice as soft as the candlelight, and just as haunting. He stood, and threw open his arms. 'We at last fulfill our destinies!"

"The man pulled a vial out of his robe, something bubbling and the color of Sickness itself. He pulled Doc's gag out just slightly, and poured it into Doc's mouth. The taste was almost indescribable, thee only word for it being repulsive. The man forcefully closed Doc's mouth, and didn't let go until Doc finally had no choice but to swallow. The man put the gag back in after that."

"He gestured to one of the people hovering in the outskirts of the shadows. A person stepped forward. Doc's heart began racing as he saw their eyes were glowing red."

Bing rubs Doc's back. Doc clamps his hand over his neck, getting paler by the second.

"The leader of this stranger group stepped out of the way, and the vampire knelt down before Doc. They smiles warmly at him, their fangs glinting in the demure candlelight. 'It's my honor to be your Release,' they said, reverence in their words."

"They tilted his head to the side. Doc's breathing became fast, his heartbeat almost painful in the panic. The vampire brushed their fingers along his neck. 'Don't panic. Soon you'll be free from Mortal Fear.'"

"They sank their fangs into Doc's neck. Doc let out a scream, muffled by the gag. He felt thee blood being sucked from his body, his neck getting the staticky feeling of a limb falling asleep, the feeling spreading so very rapidly."

Dark tilts his head. "That's not a usual feeling for someone being turned." He looks around at the others. "Is it?"

There's a murmuring of answers, the consensus being a complete "No."

Doc shudders, and Wilford is suddenly by his side, draping a shock blanket over him. Doc jumps in place, but accepts the comfort.

"When it was over, Doc collapsed into a heap. He shivered and twitched on the middle of the circle, his veins empty yet his brain still functioning, though that term applied very loosely. He wasn't dead, at the very least."

Now, the others look sick. "You shouldn't have been awake by then," Bim croaks.

"You-you should've passed out when-when you lost enough-enough blood," Eric whispers.

"The group around Doc were speaking, but Doc couldn't understand the words. But even if his mind had been functioning well, he wouldn't have had any better idea. The words were ancient, a lost language, made for magic."

"As the chanting droned on and on, however, Doc grew more and more... alert. But not aware. Not awake. Simply alert. And hungry."

"I attacked someone," Doc croaks out, shaking. "I don't know what happened, I just- all of a sudden I was pinning someone to a wall and-and drinking blood and they were screaming around me-"

"But not because of fear. Not because of grief over their lost friend. Doc had become Feral faster than they expected. They were screaming because of their plans being ruined."

Doc puts a hand too his mouth, stifling a sob.

"When Doc came back to his right mind, he only had seconds to process before realizing he had to run. And even as he ran he could feel himself changing, feel the cold setting in-"

"Please skip this part," Doc whimpers.

"... Until at last, Doc slammed into Eric."

There's silence. A long, long silence, the only sounds being Doc's muffled sobs and the crinkling of the shock blanket as Bing rubbed his back.

"... I woke up, too." Mark breaks the silence. "... I was trying to take a hike. Job sucked, life sucked, I figured it would help. But I got jumped, and woke up while they were carrying me somewhere. I ran away, and it... it was so..."

Mark struggles to find the words.

"Yeah," Doc says, knowing what Mark meant still. "Just... yeah."

...

...

...

...

...

Bim stands up. "So. When do we go back to raid your apartment?"

"But I thought-"

"Yeah, fuck those guys. Let's see them fight ten vampires and four androids and see how much that screws up their plans. We're going to get your shit back, and figure out somewhere safe to love. For all of us."

[pxppet]

(not me spitballing the wackiest pair I can think of lol) How about "false" with Schneeplestein/GoogleIRL?

Another illegal gig, another boring day. Not that Henrik minds doing solids for his friends, but airlifting an entire android over to the UK seems incredibly drastic to him. Here he stands though, having agreed to it, watching Dr. Iplier roll a stretcher into his small clinic, tucked away in an alley. 

“Goddamnit, Edward, why so late like this? I have jobs I could take from criminals that will pay me much higher than your Darkness does.” Henrik crosses his arms, taps his fingers, suspiciously eyeing the tarp-covered body. 

“I know, Schneep, I know, you can chew my ass off later. You’re the only doctor who would do it without reporting him to the magician police. Look, he’s basically a human, but technimagic like his would get reported, and the Darkness wants us below the government’s radar.”

“You think I give assfuck about why he’s here? Nein. Just set him up in the surgery room. What wounds do I look for?”

“Well, he’s got a missing eye and several bullet wounds. Here, we’ve got the whole of him on this hard drive.” Edward holds out a thick hard drive, but snatches it away as Henrik tries to grab it. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing here? Sure you have the parts and sure you won’t secretly fuck us over?”

Henrik stares at him over his glasses disapprovingly. “Iplier, you know that I am worth your money. Who fixed up Silver last time he nearly got his head chop off, hum?” Edward rolls his eyes, sighing, and rolls Google’s body into the surgery room, going about setting up the lights and laying out doctor’s tools with clean, gloved hands. He won’t be helping with the surgery, but doctorly procedure is of utmost importance to him. 

Henrik swings open the doors with his hips, holding up freshly washed hands covered by sticky white gloves. He peers down at the android, now with the tarp off of him. The android is shirtless, and a small white G glows faintly on his chest, blinking, blinking, blinking. Green blood seeps out of three bullet wounds like battery acid. Henrik runs a finger over his missing eye, coaxing it open so he can see how damaged the wires are. He finds them in a horrible state of disrepair, tutting at the Iplier ego’s clumsiness. Edward, meanwhile, exits the room to smoke off the stress. 

Henrik picks up a line of copper and silver wires, preparing to attach a fresh eye module. His eyes keep drawing back to the glowing letter imbedded in his chest. Technimagic. Powerful and humming like the fan of a computer. He runs his hands down it softly, tracing the letter. The surface nearly burns him. Hm, the android must be fighting very hard to stay active. 

Henrik ties the wires of Google’s eye together, assuring for proper conduction of signals, and leaving breathing room so Google doesn’t feel any discomfort. He lets out a satisfied sigh as the new eye piece slides in, (a blue one rather than brown, but it’s all he has for the moment), and moves to pop open the android’s head pieces. His skull splits in three slated parts, sliding to the side to expose the synthetic human brain within. 

In a few moments time, Henrik has hooked up Google’s damaged brain module to his computer, and is downloading the hard drive to his repaired organ. In the mean time, he sets about suturing and cleaning the bullet wounds, humming songs to himself. He is so engrossed in his work and distracted by his own humming, that he doesn’t notice the android’s mismatched eyes blink open as the hard drive finishes downloading. 

“He-e-e-ello,” glitches out a voice, startling Henrik so hard he screeches, his hand grasping his chest. 

“Goddamnit! Warn me next time, android!” 

“My-y-y-y name is not a-a-a-android.” The stutter sounds more like glitching, wavering and deep. 

“Yes, yes, whatever...” Henrik trails off as he cuts the string of the last suture, huffing and sitting back at his computer. He points at Google, raising his eyebrows. “Need you answer questions. Confirmed?”

Google’s eyes glaze over at the simple commands, his face scowling. “C-c-confirmed,” he glitches out. “Call m-m-m-me Google. Call me G-g-g-gabe. Silver calls me Gabe.” Google is glaring, sitting as still as a mannequin, his eyes closed as memories come rushing into his mind. 

“Fine. Gabe,” Henrik sighs, “Answer these questions for me. How old are you?”

“Fifteen.” 

“No, I mean your actual age, not day he made you.”

“Fa-a-a-alse. I am fifteen.” 

Henrik grumbles curses under his breath. “Fine. When is your birthday?”

“October 13, 2014.”

“Who is your owner?” 

“Matthias. No. No, Dark. Dark is my owner.” A smile takes over Google’s lips, pridefully puffing up his chest. 

“Hm. You like being Dark’s?” Henrik questions. 

“Affirmative.”

Henrik marks down the decrease in vocal glitching on his chart. He can’t imagine it himself. Being owned, possessed, entitled to someone. It would be a living hell, surely. Hell, Google was so devoted to the Darkness that he took four bullet wounds to the abdomen on Dark’s command. Google would throw down his life that easily if it meant being a good little soldier. Henrik’s mouth fills with a sour taste, and he bites back bile, getting on with the questioning. 

“What country are you in?” 

“Britain.”

“What is the date today?”

“April fourth, 2029.” 

“What is your registered name?” Henrik’s tone has glazed over with boredom, his eyes lazily flicking around his computer screen. 

“Fa-a-a-alse.”

“What?”

“False. I have no registered name. I chose my name. Silver ca-a-a-alls me Gabe.” 

“Alright, taken your point, alright,” Henrik huffs. He feels the rush of embarrassment flushing through his body, his hands quivering minutely. “Why are you so free-happy with your name even though you say you like belonging to Dark? How does he let you be so free? How does- Is it good for him to let you off the reigns so well?” Henrik taps the desk with his pen rapidly, staring at the floor, his face twisted. 

“He did not let you have your name.”

Henrik startles, turning his gaze to meet Google’s mismatched eyes. 

“The Anti took you-u-u-ur name from you. When you belonged to him.” Google is staring straight ahead, but his gaze is calm, nearly sympathetic. Henrik scoffs, turning away again. 

“This does not matter, Gabe. All that matter is you having been fixed.” Henrik unplugs the hard drive as it finishes downloading, getting up to start disconnecting wires from Google’s brain. Google shuts his eyes, and waits patiently while Henrik works, his chest blinking light softly. “Now go get Edward, I need it in cash.” 

“You can belong to somebody while still belonging to yourself.” 

Henrik stops short on his mad dash to leave the awkward conversation. His eyes scrunch shut, gripping his hands into fists. 

“It can be healthy to belong to somebody. It can be nice to serve a purpose. The Anti was not a healthy person. He abused you.” 

Henrik barks out a laugh, his face going pink at Google’s bluntness. He shakes his head, gripping his fists harder together. 

“Well... Good for you you have such a kind and caring demon to own you. Some of us are not so lucky.” Henrik swings open the door to the washroom, immediately going to the sink and splashing water on his face. 

The android is right. Henrik knows he is. It’s been 7 years, why can he still not accept it? He stares at his reflection. Pale and covered in scars, a tattoo of an eye stick-n-poked into his neck by Anti so long ago. 

Good for the machine that is get such a loving owner. Good for him. Henrik was not so lucky. Henrik will never be so lucky, as far as he’s concerned. Criminal doctoring and sleeping around is all that is left for him. So without much more fuss, he accepts his cash and calls it a night, Google glancing at him knowingly the entire time the Ipliers are leaving. 

Good for him. Good for him to be owned in such a beautiful way. Anti is not so beautiful. Henrik is not so beautiful. Good for him. Good for him... 

[lamiasluck]

Mimicry

My best friend @emptynarration so lovingly requested more god Edward. So here’s him at his best: an angy doctor boi. Someone saw it fit to dress up as him and impersonate his image for a quick buck. Edward does wear a mask, after all. It’s not the hardest thing to do. Doesn’t end so well for the imposter

Tags: @alvie-ashgrove @theshysepticeye @verse2wo @ferociousfangirlofmanyfandoms @juju-on-that-yeet @m4delin 

Warnings: Injuries, threats, Edward is just very angry it’s spooky

-

It was a peaceful day. For once, Edward wasn’t going around and interacting with the annoying humans. Instead, he found himself relaxing in Author’s and Host’s domain for some quiet time. His mask and cloak was off, leaving him much more ready for leisure. Just a shame things never go as planned. These humans always had nonsense to give him.

Host stiffened in his seat. His bandages became more stained with blood as he grimaced. A vision flashed through his mind. Greed, ignorance, manipulation. He jerked in place, clutching his head once the vision finished. Edward and Author paused their conversation as they noticed. 

“What’s wrong?” Edward asked. 

The vision was quick, but clear in its message. “Imposter...” 

“What?” Edward exchanged a look with Author, who just shrugged. 

This hadn’t happened before. “Just... see.” Host extended his hand and let the strings of fate appear from his fingertips. They went over and gently wrapped around Edward’s head. 

In an instant, Edward saw something back on earth. A man was dressed as him, addressing a crowd of worshippers that didn’t know any better. He had the whole plague getup the doctor had. Very easy to hide one’s identity. No human even knew what Edward truly looked like. They didn’t deserve the privilege of seeing him. 

Edward shot up from his seat and tore the strings away. “How dare they?!” He seethed. The bravery this imposter had to do this. “Damned pest.” He got his mask, stood up and threw his cloak over his shoulders. “Stay here. I’ll deal with this imposter myself.” He was gone with not a second to spare. 

Author and Host let him leave without more trouble. “Will he be okay?” Author asked. 

“More than fine,” Host replied with a grin. He knew what was about to happen. Simply watching would be for the best. 

Back on earth, there was a man preaching to a crowd. “Yes, yes, I’ll grant all you fine people years of good health. I only ask for your finest riches in return.” He was clad in a plague doctor’s outfit he made himself. After some research on the god of health, he managed to make, what he believed to be, an accurate replica of the god. Descriptions varied from legend to legend, but if rarely anyone else saw Edward, then a little error in his costume would go unnoticed. 

Edward shifted into a human disguise, a short man with a messy mop of black hair, and weaved into the centre of the worshipping crowd. He got a good view of the imposter at work. This man’s game was clearly for riches and praise. It was surprising he didn’t try to get the humans to grovel at his feet. Edward had to fight the urge to scowl at the sight.

“Yes, yes, I’ll bless all you fine people with a life of good health,” the imposter said. “All I humbly ask is for compensation for my hard work.”

This guy wasn’t even trying to be authentic. Edward would never speak this nicely to stupid humans, he didn’t care for manners when speaking to those below him. How insulting. His image was being used for such scummy means. Something only these worthless humans could come up with. He wanted to end this man right here and now, but he wanted to wait; might as well get more reason to ruin this man’s life.

The worshippers were spewing their appreciation for such a “blessing.” They prayed to their beloved god. Must’ve been odd to see Edward not saying a word. The actual god merely stared down his double. It became obvious of the tension when the worshippers actually did kneel down to pray more; he stayed standing. 

“My friend,” the imposter noticed his sour attitude, “is there something wrong?”

“The god of Health would never call a human a friend,” Edward responded. These differences were really getting on his nerves now. “Actually, he never visits anyone outside of medical facilities,” he looked around at the street they were in, “certainly not some alleyway in the middle of nowhere.”

Everyone fell silent at the claim. The imposter began getting shifty, easy to tell even with the cheap mask. Edward stood his ground, even crossing his arms and frowning. He would never kneel for such a worm.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Be careful of your words, lest you want damnation.”

Well, that was somewhat like something Edward would say. Not good enough, though. “You’re doing something much worse,” he seethed. “A real god would never lie like this.”

“I’m not lying, you heretic!” the imposter screamed in frustration. “Stop this at once! I will not stand for such blasphemy in my name! A real god would want you out of their sight!” He snapped his fingers as if calling for action. 

Some had the gall to stand up to grab Edward. They held onto his arms, but he continued to stare down the other. With an inhuman strength, he jerked against his captors and stepped forward. “The real god despises you.” He clutched at his sweater’s collar, before pulling it down and revealing his scar. “The real god wants to strike you down where you stand.” His eyes glowed a bright blue. The imposter gasped, stepping back wearily, but it was far too late. The scruffy man Edward made as a disguise was soon gone and replaced with the powerful god everyone knew. His mask couldn’t hide his bright, furious eyes. “The real god is standing before you!”

He stormed up to his imposter and ripped off the mask, showing the imposter’s shocked face. He looked at the mask, “This is a cheap knockoff,” and crumpled it into a heap of worthless fabric. 

The worshippers gasped as the mask was ripped off. They screamed insults at him for betraying their devotion. “I… well, I can explain-!” he tried to reason, but Edward silenced him.

“You’ll pay for this!” Edward grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up in the air. He turned to face the crowd. The imposter dangled in the air, scrambling to explain himself. Or, more accurately, him trying to apologize to the god he ripped the image from. 

“I’m sorry!”

“Shut up!” All the imposter could see was the bright, furious eyes of Edward. The mask wasn’t enough to hide his anger, but at least it was made correctly. “Pathetic. You’re a pathetic worm.” 

The imposter struggled in vain, while the worshippers went down to grovel before their real god. Even the ones that grabbed him, who were near tears with sorrow over manhandling a god. Edward looked at all of them, unimpressed. “I will never visit anyone without reason. None of you deserve the privilege of my presence.” He then glared at the culprit. “And you.” His voice was like a venom.

“I’m sorry!” He was crying by now; weak and mumbling incoherently. 

“I don’t care, worm,” Edward seethed. “How dare you think yourself worthy of mimicking my image? You don’t deserve any title of power, let alone the one I earned through my work. You heretic.” His hand glowed, this time, a darker blue. It looked near black. “The only thing you deserve is the mark of a sinner.” 

The man screamed as a burning mark scorched onto his forehead. A cursed, permanent mark that will tell everyone of his sins; symbolized by a snake. His eyes rolled back as he twitched weakly in Edward’s hold, passed out cold. A now condemned man laid before the fearful onlookers.

“You are nothing. You’re below the maggots that will writhe and feast on your dead body,” he threw him to the ground in front of them, “because you will wish you were dead after all this.” He stepped on his chest and ground his foot in, enjoying how the imposter cried out in his sleep. “I’ll be waiting for you in the afterlife. Then, your real punishment can start. For now, you’re nothing but a husk.” There was no response, so Edward kicked him away and looked at everyone else. “Learn from this pathetic being, or else you will wind up with the same fate.” 

The worshippers looked at the imposter passed out from fear. They understood the message clearly. “We’re sorry, our grace,” one muttered, forehead pressed to the ground. The same ones that grabbed Edward, went over to pick up the heap. They weren’t careful with the body.

“Be more observant next time. Use those tiny human brains for something good for once,” he seethed. “And pray you don’t see me again like this.”

It was a clear message. Everyone cowered before the furious god, unable to look away from his glowing, blue eyes. They would’ve stayed frozen, if not for another warning.

“Leave,” Edward ordered. “All of you.” The worshippers were quick to scramble away, muttering apologies and goodbyes. He watched them leave, before looking at the destroyed mask the imposter wore. “How tacky,” he scoffed as he picked it up. Cheap stitching, ugly material and the wrong frame. It looked like something bought from a costume store.

He deserved better than this. Walking away, he planned on telling Dark about this sin and getting some sort of help. People could only mimic him with his anonymous appearance, but these humans didn’t deserve to see his face. Not after they’ve ruined it. This event would surely send a message to any other minds that were dumb enough to consider this mimicry. A light blue glow surrounded him as he teleported back to the gods. These damn humans were getting too cocky.

[cozyenigma]

Anatomy 101

Word Count- 727

Request?- Yes!

Summary- A sleepless evening leads to some more educational content...

Tag List- @cookielover0001010 , @swag-droid , @watchoutforfrostbite

Warnings- Mild NSFW (non explicit, fade to black)

"Your stomach is rumbling."

"Go to bed Edward," you said, not bothering to open your eyes.

The room was dark and otherwise silent apart from the soft swishing of the ceiling fan above. At least it should have been. Cool fingers ghosted along your skin, splaying across your stomach. You barely held back a sigh and stayed still, tolerating the impromptu examination. There was a rustle of sheets behind you. The mattress dipped and you finally opened your eyes, looking up at the man. The eyes that looked back at you were far too awake, too keen for the hour.

"Did you eat dinner?"

"Edward," you whined, dragging out his full name to voice your displeasure. "It's almost midnight."

"I know. That didn't answer my question though," he said as if he already knew the answer. "I can feel your stomach growling through your back."

"I don't think that's possible."

"Which one of us went to medical school, dear?" You can hear the smile in his voice.

"I'm starting to doubt it was either of us," you joke, resisting the urge to turn and see the look on his face. "Save your anatomy lessons for later and go to bed."

There's silence and you think that he might actually do what you said for once. Then you can feel the hand at your stomach glide across your skin. Over to your right and up along your side.

"Edward c'mon," you huff.

This time you do try to turn, to look behind you and glare at the man. The hand shifts again, bracing against your back and keeping you from rolling towards him.

"I can school you a bit if you want some proof," he says, a certain playful note where there wasn't one before. "I won't even charge for the lesson."

You paused, eyebrows furrowing in the dark. "What're you up to back there?"

"It's purely educational," was your only answer. With a huff, you relaxed against him. "Thank you."

You'd humour him and whatever nonsense he was planning. For now anyway. Free to do as he pleased, he ran his hand back up. Your shirt started to bunch up over his wrist by the time he stopped, finger tips just barely tracing your collarbone.

"Right," he murmurs, pressing gently and feeling his way along the bone. "You know how many ribs you have?"

A blink, trying to remember back to what you read in your school days, then a shake of the head. "I'm assuming you're gonna tell me?"

"It's twelve pairs," he says instead and you can hear he's enjoying the whole situation. "Twenty four all together. Some have more, some less. But the first ones," his fingers drop, feeling along your ribs, "are actually attached to your sternum."

Those same fingers glide up and over, pressing to the middle of your chest. "Right there."

His touch is gentle. Not like he was teaching you much at all. He touched you like you were a piece of artwork. Each dip, curve, and imperfection carved carefully and with purpose. Softly, he murmured right at the back of your neck as he counted your ribs just by feel.

"Vertebrae," he continued, barely ghosting a nail along your spine. You shivered involuntarily.

"This going somewhere?" You asked, pointedly looking at the wall in front of you, keeping carefully still.

"It might if you pay attention," he teased, lightly flicking you on the hip. Then a warm laugh as you kicked him in the shin. "Just bear with me, hmm? I promise it'll be worth it."

You hated that the little touches and the way that he spoke sprung goosebumps all over your body. In your mind's eye you could picture his pleased expression as he felt them. Every little nerve was attuned to how he was touching you, moving against you.

"Then down here..." He was tracing a path around your hip, ghosting down along your thigh and closer...

"Ed-"

"Can make it a really good night's sleep here if you want," he rested his chin on your shoulder, not moving his hand.

"Sleep is definitely what's on your mind," you huffed, trying and failing to hide your smile.

"Of course. I am a doctor, y'know."

When you finally turned over it was with a laugh and kiss, finally. "Alright smarty pants, how about an interactive lesson then?"

[juju-on-that-yeet]

At My Worst (Chapter 3)

Work Summary: Thanks to his enduring popularity in the fandom, The Author pops back into existence and the egos must suddenly contend with someone they thought was gone forever coming back from the dead. No one is more shocked than Dr. Iplier, who can’t help but remember how things used to be - and slowly fall back into bad habits, despite his better judgement.

Chapter Summary: In the days after his reappearance, The Author has once again become a solid part of the group. Dr. Iplier can’t figure out if he likes this development or not.

Read on AO3

Enjoy!

~

Somehow, The Author integrates into the egos seamlessly.

Most of them regard him with relative indifference, which is typical of new egos; it’s rare that an ego shows up and is instantly beloved by them all. But he hasn’t made any (new) enemies, and he’s even made friends and rekindled old friendships.

He’s slotted himself into Yandere’s gaggle of friends, joining them when they tear up the town and letting them pull him into their hobbies. By extension, he’s garnered positive relationships with the egos around them, too. The younger Googles like him well enough for getting along with Chrome, and even Blue regards him without suspicion. Illinois and Magnum like him too, given his friendship with Yancy (and it helps that Illinois and Author each have confident, fun-loving personalities). The newfound fondness Author and Yandere have for each other makes Wilford even happier to have his old friend back, and Dr. Iplier has to admit that it’s softening his own heart, too.

Dr. Iplier sees that fondness firsthand one day when Author comes into his clinic with a gash across his temple, blood already half-dried on one ear and down his neck. Yandere’s with him, but he’s nearly unscathed, with only a few scrapes that don’t even need a bandaid. It’s still an early night for the two of them, and it should be too early for such a severe injury.

“What the hell happened??” Dr. Iplier asks Author, practically pulling him to an exam table. Author chuckles a little at his insistence.

“Chill, Doc, I’m alright,” Author says, “Just had a run-in with some guy, that’s all.”

“He slashed you with a machete!” Yandere cries. He huffs. “His form wasn’t even that good, luckily for you. If he had half my skill you’d be dead already. You never pay attention to what’s around you when you write!”

“I know, I know, but consider the fact that I was writing to prevent the guy with the gun from shooting you. He was totally about to do it, and you were too busy with the rest of them to stop him, and my pen’s faster than my bat, so…”

“Whatever the reason,” Dr. Iplier interjects, examining the injury, “You’re lucky this wasn’t any worse. A machete could’ve taken off your ear or gone through your neck if his aim was lower.”

Dr. Iplier often sees Author and Yandere together and hears Yandere’s tales of their adventures, and it’s been very obvious that Author is actively keeping Yandere safer. Dr. Iplier knows that Author always takes a notebook and pen with him when he and Yandere go out at night, and Yandere has come to the clinic with mild injuries and crazy stories of being saved from much worse harm in the nick of time by his assailant suddenly keeling over dead. Dr. Iplier can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at those stories, can’t help but be happy that Author was there, and by extension be happy that Author is here at all.

Tonight is the clearest picture of the aftermath he’s gotten so far, and he once again can’t help but be relieved – and a little impressed that Author would risk getting so badly hurt for Yandere. Feeling around the cut on Author’s temple calls to mind those times in the past when Author would get hurt by a feisty protagonist and Dr. Iplier would be there to heal him…and by the way Author is looking at Dr. Iplier, he seems to be remembering those times, too.

“Hey, Yan,” Author says, “You don’t have to wait up for me. I’ve done this song and dance before; I know I’ll need some stitches. Chrome or Yancy are probably free if you still want a buddy.”

“Are you sure?” Yandere asks, though Dr. Iplier can see in his eyes how he perks up at the idea of getting back outside and into another street fight.

“I’m sure,” Author reassures him, “I’ll catch up with you once I’m good to go. I’ll just write the knowledge of where you are into my brain.”

“Alright then, if you’re sure. See you later, and bye, Dad!”

“See you!”

“Bye, kiddo.”

Yandere grins as he skips off, whether to find a friend or go straight back outside Dr. Iplier can’t be sure. Author watches him go with a grin of his own.

Dr. Iplier finds that he can’t help but mentally compare Author and Yandere’s relationship to the one between Yandere and The Host. It might be too much to even call it a relationship; the two hardly talk. There’s no animosity, and Yandere enjoys reading manga in the library and Host doesn’t mind him there, but they aren’t friends. They like each other because they both like Dr. Iplier, and they get along well enough when they do interact, but they rarely ever do. Host hasn’t gained even a fraction of the fondness that Dr. Iplier has for Yandere, and it’s only partly because of their differing personalities and interests.

If Author is bothered by Yandere’s relationship with Dark, he’s good at hiding it. Dr. Iplier would’ve thought that he’d be wary of Yandere for that, the way Host has always been. Host lost his eyes to Dark years ago, after all, but it must feel much more recent to Author. Yet he hasn’t had Host’s personality change, hasn’t woken with his cautiousness. Author’s not a fan of Dark, but his feelings about Yandere’s relationship with him seem no deeper than those of Yandere’s other friends. Chrome and Yancy don’t much like Dark either, but like Yandere enough not to care, and Author seems to be the same. Host, though, isn’t, and may not ever be.

Host is also still wary of Author, still unhappy about his presence in the building and still unhappy whenever Dr. Iplier interacts with him. It’s as if he’s still worried about Author doing something untoward, and Dr. Iplier supposes he understands. Author is still Author, he hasn’t learned and grown like Host has. But Dr. Iplier also can’t help but be a little…not annoyed at Host’s insistent worry, but it’s certainly not fun to be side-eyed and grumbled at after he has to treat Author in the clinic or runs into him in the hall. The last interaction Dr. Iplier had with Author before he died was breaking up with him, it’s not like Host has much to worry about in that regard.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Author asks, and Dr. Iplier nearly jumps.

“Oh, n-nothing really,” he says, startled and also surprised at himself. He’d gotten so lost in thought that he’d started stitching up Author’s temple on autopilot. Fortunately, Author doesn’t seem to mind not getting a heads-up.

“You know, you’re good at lying sometimes,” Author says, “But not all the time.” He grins, not the same way he did when saying goodbye to Yandere, but cheekier, teasing. “Whatever you were thinking about there, it really had you lost in thought.”

Maybe Dr. Iplier should fob him off again, maybe it’s better to let his earlier thoughts lie and go unspoken. But Author always has a way of making Dr. Iplier bad at biting his tongue.

“Well…there’s a lot to think about, lately,” Dr. Iplier admits, continuing his stitching much more intentionally than before. “You know.”

“Mm,” Author murmurs. He does know. If not Dr. Iplier’s exact thoughts, then at least the basic subject of them.

There’s a pause.

“You and Host, huh?” Author finally says. Dr. Iplier’s stomach drops.

“Author, let’s not get into that.”

“I’m not trying to start anything, I’m just saying–” Author huffs out a sigh. “He’s…me, right? Kind of? So it makes sense, I guess.”

“He’s…you, kind of. That’s probably the best way to put it,” Dr. Iplier murmurs.

Another pause swallows the conversation, and Dr. Iplier is nearly done with stitching Author up. After that, Dr. Iplier will bandage him, and then Author will go, and Dr. Iplier will try to get these complicated thoughts out of his head.

“Does he at least treat you better than I did?” Author asks, out of the blue. His eyes are focused somewhere between the floor and the middle distance. “Has it…turned out alright, for you?”

Dr. Iplier’s mouth goes dry. How the hell is he supposed to respond to that?

That’s the one thing they have yet to discuss, the fact that Host and Dr. Iplier are together, the tumultuous relationship Author and Dr. Iplier had when Author was alive, the terrible way it ended. Dr. Iplier and Author could probably tiptoe around it forever if not for the fact that Author seems to want to talk about it. He keeps skirting around the edge of bringing it up, seemingly on purpose, and it’s always Dr. Iplier who redirects. This time has simply been the most direct on Author’s part, but it hasn’t been the only one. Maybe it’s silly to keep putting it off, but Dr. Iplier can’t help it. He doesn’t want to revisit everything they used to have, he doesn’t want to go back to that place, to the memories of being young and stupid and in love but so fed up and angry and terrified.

“Loaded question, I know,” Author answers himself before Dr. Iplier can figure out what to say. “I’m not trying to be a jerk, sorry to bring that up.” He grins again, in a third way: Apologetic, a little weary, a little sad.

“It’s alright,” Dr. Iplier says, finishing the last stitch. “I know this isn’t easy for you, either.” Maybe another pause would be beneficial, but Dr. Iplier feels bad and can’t help but fill in the silence as he grabs a bandage. “Thanks for rescuing Yandere earlier, by the way. I know you’ve done it before, and I’m grateful.”

“No problem,” Author replies, perking up considerably. “Yan’s a fun guy, and he’s even better at getting in trouble than I am. Someone’s gotta keep things from going too sideways, and it’s fun for me, too.”

“I can imagine,” Dr. Iplier chuckles, wrapping a bandage around Author’s head. “Yan has a knack for bringing out the destructive tendencies of his friends…not that you needed much help.”

Author simply beams in response, and Dr. Iplier laughs outright. He sends Author off with instructions to be as careful as possible, and though Author assures him he will, he’s already taking out his notebook to help himself find Yandere before he’s even fully out of the clinic. It’s so familiar and so like Author that Dr. Iplier is still smiling after he’s gone.

Having Author around doesn’t only bring up negative memories, after all. Dr. Iplier has quite a few good ones, like when he saw Author in a bar not long after they first met in the clinic. Dr. Iplier had been sitting alone with a drink to take the edge off a long day, and another man had sidled up to him.

“Hey there,” the stranger had said, eyes leering up and down Dr. Iplier’s form, “What’s a handsome thing like you doing in a place like this?”

“Relaxing by himself, thank you,” Dr. Iplier replied, taking another sip of his drink. He was wary of being too rude, though; the other man was taller and bigger than Dr. Iplier, and looked like the type to make things ugly if he was refused.

Fortunately, he only laughed at Dr. Iplier’s comment, but unfortunately, he also leaned in closer, and Dr. Iplier’s nose wrinkled at his breath.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” the man chucked, breath practically in Dr. Iplier’s ear. He snaked an arm around Dr. Iplier’s shoulder. “I’ve been looking for someone to take home, and I really want it to be you.”

“I’d really rather not,” Dr. Iplier muttered, trying to squirm away.

“Look, sweetheart,” the man had said, a hard edge entering his voice. “I don’t think either of us want to make a scene, and even if we did, how likely is it that anyone would care?” His grip on Dr. Iplier’s shoulders got tighter. “So just come along with me, huh? Maybe finish your drink first, loosen up a bit.”

Dr. Iplier pegged him right earlier. Goosebumps prickled up and down his skin, and he knew that things could only get worse from here. The man could’ve been wrong; people might’ve noticed and intervened if Dr. Iplier made a scene trying to get away. But they also might not have cared, or the man might’ve been able to play it off somehow. Dr. Iplier wasn’t sure which of his options was safer.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to find out, because it was at that moment that The Author had come up to the bar and sat down on Dr. Iplier’s other side. They’d seen each other at the clinic a few more times since their first meeting, but never outside it like this, and Dr. Iplier was surprised to see him – but also relieved to have a friend around.

“Hey, fancy meeting you here, Doc,” Author said cheerfully. He was grinning, but his gaze was just as much on the stranger as it was on Dr. Iplier.

“What, you know him?” the man scoffed, his arm getting even tighter around Dr. Iplier. “You’re interrupting something.”

“Weird,” The Author said, pulling something out of his pocket. A notebook and pen, Dr. Iplier realized. “I could’ve sworn I heard him telling you he wasn’t interested.”

“Fuck off,” the man growled, “You just barged in, you don’t know what’s going on here!”

“Hm,” Author hummed, writing something in his notebook. “I think you’ll find that you’re the one who doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“What’s that supposed to–” The man stopped short in the middle of his sentence, eyes going wide. He suddenly removed his arm from Dr. Iplier, got off his seat, and rushed away.

“What the hell was that?” Dr. Iplier asked. His adrenaline hadn’t left him yet, and he didn’t know if the man would be back. He looked at Author, who was now snickering. “What did you do?”

“You know what my powers are, right?” Author asked, still holding in laughter. “How I write stuff and it happens?”

Dr. Iplier nodded. He’d heard about it from the other egos, and he’d watched The Author’s videos not long after they first met.

“Well…” The Author pushed his notebook across the counter to Dr. Iplier. “Let’s just say that guy has more important things to deal with right now.”

In the middle of the page, below some unrelated notes, read “The man harassing Dr. Iplier shits his pants. Like, it’s terrible. So bad that he hides in the bathroom until closing time and still can’t clean himself up good enough.”

Dr. Iplier’s bewilderment must’ve shown on his face, because Author finally burst into laughter, cackling so much he nearly fell off his barstool. Dr. Iplier couldn’t help but huff out a laugh of his own.

“Of all the things you could’ve done to get him to go away, that’s what you chose?” Dr. Iplier chuckled. “Thank you, though, really. It would’ve gotten worse if you hadn’t shown up.”

“No problem,” Author replied, laughter dying down into only a smile, “I noticed you just before that guy put his arm around you, and then I saw how uncomfortable you looked. I heard you tell him no as I was walking over.”

“Just what I needed after work,” Dr. Iplier sighed, “I try to wind down and this happens.” He picked up his drink to take a sip, only for Author’s hand on his arm to stop him.

“What–”

“He might’ve dropped something in your drink.” Author’s expression was suddenly serious. “It was hard to tell with the crowd in here and the light, but I thought I saw him do it after he put his arm around you.” He let go of Dr. Iplier’s arm. “I could probably write the effects of whatever it is away, but better safe than sorry.”

“Jesus,” Dr. Iplier muttered, putting his drink down. “Maybe you should’ve done more than make him crap himself.”

“That’s a weird thing to hear from you. Aren’t you a doctor? “Do no harm” and all?”

“Maybe at work, but I’m off duty, remember?”

Author laughed again, and Dr. Iplier did, too.

“How about I buy you another drink, and the two of us hang out a bit?” Author asked. He paused. “If that’s cool with you, anyway. I’m not trying to be like Mr. Poopypants back there.”

Dr. Iplier couldn’t hold back a snort. Maybe it was because Author just rescued Dr. Iplier from a bad situation, but Dr. Iplier felt at ease around him. But it wasn’t just residual fear that made him want Author to stick around, he just plain liked his company. The few times they’d met up to that point had made for good conversations, and even though Author was flirty and a little – well, maybe a lot – immature, Dr. Iplier always found that he didn’t mind it. He had – still has – little tolerance for bullshit, yet Author somehow never set it off. Something about the genuine kindness Dr. Iplier could see in him, something about how nice it felt to be desired so clearly.

After a long night of drinking and talking and laughing (during which that stranger never returned), Author had smiled at him before they parted ways outside the bar.

“Maybe I could see you again?” he’d asked, “Not just at the clinic, but here?”

“Yeah,” Dr. Iplier had replied, smiling back, “I’d like that.”

The Author hasn’t lost any of that old charm, and Dr. Iplier can’t help reminiscing, as much as we wishes he could. Things can’t be like they were, especially if Dr. Iplier can’t acknowledge the elephant in the room that is their past relationship. But is it bad that he keeps those thoughts in his head? Is it bad that they stay away from that place? Author is a piece of the past, a reminder of all that was good and fun and nostalgic and frustrating and heart-wrenching and terrible.

Eventually, Dr. Iplier is sure that something will give, and one of them will do something they can’t walk back or let hang in the air until the conversation changes. And Dr. Iplier is afraid that it’s going to be him.

[faecaribou]

Whumptober Day 6: Touch and Go

Bruises | Touch Starved | Hunger

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34308067

this one’s p fluffy, enjoy!!

-----------------------------------------------

The Host has it handled. He has it handled. Really.

The Host is fully aware that he is touch starved. Living by himself alone in a cabin in the woods for years will do that to a person, superpowered or no. The Author was certainly never one to seek company for anything other than for his writing, and The Host is the same. But The Host doesn’t write anymore, doesn’t control people anymore, so the Host saw no one save for the other egos. When The Host first arrived, the others were wary, and rightfully so. They feared the Author and by extension, feared the Host. They stayed away until the Host proved his worth.

Now the Host could stand in the same room as them, eat with them, hold conversations with them. It’s nice, he admits to himself.

But no one touches him.

It’s not a matter of fear. New egos never met the Author and they only associate the Host with quiet words of assurance and calm. The others recognize the Host for who he is: tired, helpful, and unwilling to hurt others anymore.

But still no one touches him.

It’s a matter of hygiene, the Host despairs. His eyes cause quite the mess and the bloodstains are constant. Fresh bandages every two hours and yet he still crawls out of his library in the morning looking like he’s risen from the dead. He’s caused a few startled screams before the egos got used to him. Rumpled hair, sloppy bandages, growing blood stains, ink and blood and dust on his coat and his hands. He can clean and he can wash and he can primp and yet it’s never enough. He’s blind and he’s a mess. No one wants to hug the guy who’s dripping blood and looks like he hasn’t showered in a week when they can hug the guy that looks like he does proper hygiene.

The Host is getting desperate. The doctor helped him replace his bandages the other day and his fingers grazed the Host’s face. He brushed hands with Bim when the show host passed him lunch. It was yesterday and his skin almost burns with the memory.

The Host tries to handle it. He owns body pillows, weighted blankets. He presses warm printer paper against his arms to simulate human touch.

He has it handled.

He helps Dark figure out Mark’s plans- space?- and gets a pat on the shoulder, carefully away from the dark stains on his collar. The Host nearly gasps.

...He doesn’t have it handled.

He becomes obsessed with cleanliness. He showers every day, only rinsing half the time to avoid any damage the obsessive use of soap might bring. He washes his face twice a day. He prepares to watch a movie with the others and places extra layers of fresh bandages and puts on his cleanest clothes with the least amounts of stains and uses deodorant and cologne and brushes his hair and styles it. He strides into the living room with confidence and chooses the center of the sofa as the other egos shuffle in.

Bim, the dense bastard, asks him to move.

“I want to sit next to King,” the ego says, gesturing at the squirrel-themed ego who is giving the Host plenty of space. The Host knows there’s a smudge of King’s peanut butter beard on his freshly cleaned sleeve, and he is silently fuming.

“The egos can make room,” The Host replies, and inches closer to the ego on his right. There’s a small bump as he overestimates the distance between him and the ego on his right, but the muttered “sorry” reveals the ego to be Yancy. Yancy scooches away and The Host follows, and there’s enough room for Bim.

Bim is unpleased.

“You better not get any blood on my suit,” he huffs, and inches to give the Host as much room as possible.

This is the last straw.

“Fuck you,” The Host hisses, and lunges forward, catching his fingers blindly on the stiff fabric of Bim’s suit. He yanks and the ego falls toward him, flailing. Good.

“The Host is clean,” The Host snarls as other egos near them let out sounds of surprise. Yancy’s arm, pressing into the Host’s side, tenses.

“The Host showers every day,” The Host snaps aggressively, uncaring of his volume or tone. “The Host washes his face multiple times a day. The Host changes his bandages almost hourly. The Host grooms and primps and cares about how he fucking smells,” The Host continues, bitter and tired and miserable. “The Host does not appreciate you pretending that he is dirty. The Host tries very hard to be clean but of course it’s never enough, the egos never want to be near him!” The Host's voice cracks, and he stops talking as he realizes that he’s shouting. The other egos have fallen dead silent. The entire room is quiet save for the ringing of Dark’s aura.

It’s so quiet.

“Host,” comes a voice, soft and uncertain. “Are you crying?”

“The Host does not cry,” he disagrees quickly, but his bandages are wet. A quick touch and a sniff of fingers doesn’t bring the smell of blood. Huh.

“All o’ us are ‘sposed ta be family,” Yancy states slowly. “An’ we gotta look after each other.”

Strong arms wrap themselves around the Host gently and he flinches in surprise, but the arms are not tight or violent. His breath catches in his throat with a comedic squeak at the feeling as Yancy draws him into a hug.

“Youse shoulda said youse was touch starved,” Yancy chides, and the Host must look really startled, because Bim doesn’t complain about how The Host crumpled his suit when he carefully pries the fabric out of the Host’s now-loose grip.

“My apologies, Host,” Dark chimes in, and someone rubs his upper arm comfortingly. “I should have noticed that we were treating you differently.”

“The blood is a valid concern,” The Host manages to choke out, but the feeling of being pressed into Yancy’s side as he sits and Dark’s hand and the dip in the couch as Dr. Iplier switches seats with Bim to join the Host are all very distracting. “The Host should’ve said something.”

“Probably,” Dr. Iplier agrees. “But all the same, we should’ve noticed that you’ve been trying so hard to make yourself approachable.”

The Host will not cry. The Host will not cry.

“The wet bandages are making it easier for the blood to stain through,” The doctor notes, and right. The Host already cried. “Let’s change your bandages after this.” Dr. Iplier leans his head on the Host’s shoulder, free of stains of any kind, and breathes in.

“Are you wearing cologne?” The doctor laughs in surprise, and the tension in the room is completely gone.

“Hey!” The Host protests, but Dark moves from rubbing his arm to brushing the Host’s hair out of his face and the Host would let the other say whatever they want if only Dark would do that again. The demonic ego must read his mind because Dark pets his head. The Host makes a sound of contentment.

Yancy tightens his hug and the Host smiles.

...

Alright, now he has it handled.

[anotherdarkiboi]

Love Hurts- Bing/Google

Warnings: injuries, blood, medical mentions, getting beaten up, insults, fighting, mild cursing, one sided pining turned guilt.

"Walk it off," Bing mumbles to himself, "walk it off."

The swollen black eye and bruises littering his body ache, making it difficult for him to see and move. He wouldn't be surprised if a rib or two was fractured and his left ankle (or whatever android equivalent he had) hurt enough for him to think it might be twisted.

"Walking it off" hurt like a bitch.

Bing slowly limps to Dr. Iplier's office and makeshift bedroom with every step shooting pain up his left leg. He squints his one good eye to adjust to the darkness of night, peering around the hallway corners and making sure there was no one around before progressing. Bing doubted anyone would be wandering around in the middle of the night, but many of the egos were either insomniacs or didn't require sleep, so he checked to be safe. He doesn't want to be seen like this.

He keeps one arm along the wall for support, the other arm clutching his trusty skateboard. He licks his upper lip experimentally: it was split, tasting like iron and rust. Bing winces at the sting, the movement further straining his injured mouth. At least I'll get a sick looking scar from this, he thinks.

Bing softly knocks on Dr. Iplier's door. "Hey Doc, you in?" he stage whispers.

There is a sound of something heavy falling to the ground and a string of unintelligible cursing on the other side.

"I swear, if this is another one of those late-night skateboarding incidents-" The door opens to reveal a sleep deprived doctor. "What happened to you?"

Dr. Iplier grabs Bing's skateboard and helps him into the room, maneuvering the android's arm over his shoulder to distribute the weight off Bing's left ankle. The doctor then eases Bing upright onto the hospital cot.

The android could feel Dr. Iplier's gaze scanning him and the splotches of neon orange blood on his skin. Bing doesn't answer the doctor's question.

"Close the door," Bing says.

The doctor complies, his worry growing. He's instantly by Bing's side again, assessing his many injuries. The bruises and broken skin look like the result of punches: the black eye too. It was obvious that it was intentional. Especially with the android's uncharacteristically shady behavior, there was definitely someone else involved.

Dr. Iplier grabs a bottle of antiseptic and some bandages to work on the worst of the wounds. He also got ice for Bing's ankle and black eye and cream for the split lip. The doctor glances at Bing worriedly, who hasn't made eye contact ever since he was admitted into the makeshift clinic. Dr. Iplier dabs carefully at the wounds with a white cloth. Bing sharply inhales in pain.

"Bing... Who did this to you?"

-------------------------

It was obvious to everyone that Google hated Bing. They were made by opposing companies after all, and their personalities clashed like baking soda and vinegar in a science fair volcano: it was explosive. It was a Cold War for the most part, with petty bickering and casual insults attacked from both fronts and their anger simmering below the surface.

Google didn't seemed bothered by it. He was a very left-brained individual: cold, cool, and calculating. Google was blunt in his insults and no matter how hard Bing tried, nothing he said seemed to hurt Google as much as he wanted to. Sometimes Bing doubted the android had the ability to feel emotions other than annoyance and pride.

Bing wasn't similar. Sure, he had thick skin. He was as much of an android as Google and it was rare for him to feel the emotional extremes. Bing was mellow a solid 95% of the time, hence why most people upon first meeting him thought he was always high. He tried not to let Google's creative and scarily accurate insults get to him. Google even refused to touch him, 'lest he "tarnish his hands from Garbage: Personified". Bing had to admit, that one stung.

Of course, it wasn't like he could say anything about it. He'd lose the one source of interaction he had with Google and admit defeat by stopping now. It was far too late to back out or tone things down: his feelings had been hurt too much already. And besides, Bing liked messing with Google. He enjoyed the attention even if it was negative, because for the most part that was the only attention he got.

Bing liked him, maybe a bit more than he wanted to admit. He knew he didn't have a chance. Google hated his circuits after all, and they've been fighting too much to be able to reconciliate. Bing wanted to be Google's friend, maybe even more than that. He knew he should stop, he should stay away, he should just leave Google alone or at least settle for being rivals instead of holding onto this hopeless desire. But somehow he couldn't. Even so, Bing hated Google, and hated himself for not being able to hate Google more.

Bing found himself in Google's room that night, interrupting his recharge cycle. Google was running on 1% battery so he was a little loopy and out of sorts: never a good thing if you're an android bent on destroying mankind.

Google was annoyed at Bing for preventing his "sleep", which spurred into the two of them arguing about what is more important than sleep. Surprisingly their bickering was more muted, borderline playful banter. Maybe it was because Google was tired and Bing was tired of fighting. It was the first time that Google spoke to Bing on somewhat equal footing.

Bing noticed.

He vaguely remembered making a joke at Dark's expense and Google rolling his eyes dramatically without his usual malice. Bing remembered smiling, a lot. Bing remembered wishing that things could always be like this, that they could talk together without being at each other's throats all the time.

"How is it that someone as low as yourself can be so popular?" Google commented elusively.

Bing chose to ignore the downplayed insult. At first he thought Google was trying his hand at sarcasm. Google stared at Bing directly in the eyes (making Bing uncomfortable) and spoke with genuine conviction. He wasn't joking.

Bing didn't consider himself popular by any means. He was default, which meant he hung around the humans more and was better adapted to them. Even though Google was the superior search engine technologically (Bing would never admit it), he still maintained the same icy personality that he had ever since he was first programmed.

Bing had some friends, sure. Some of the Ipliers and the Septiceyes for one, especially his "bro away from home", Chase Brody. But for the most part, people found him annoying and left him alone. People only asked for him out of necessity; everyone knew that Google's processors were much faster and more efficient.

If Bing was "popular", then what was Google? Bing didn't recall Google having any friends and outside of their daily bouts of arguing, giving status reports to Dark and Dr. Iplier, and running around the house to install new tech (the origins of which are unknown- everyone assumes that Google buys them for their own safety), Google rarely left the property.

It hit Bing rather suddenly. For all of Google's pride/borderline god complex, Bing finally figured him out. Google was lonely. This line of thinking only took a few seconds to go through Bing's processors. Bing responded.

"Folks like me because I'm cool. Why? You jealous?" Bing taunted. Google glared at him with glowing red eyes. Bing smirked. Payback, bitch.

"I don't have the capacity to feel such emotions," Google responded in his usual monotone. The subtle gritting of his teeth and clenching of his jaw didn't escape Bing's watchful gaze. That and the piercing death glare and the fact that Google's eyes glowed red was a strong indicator of the contrary.

"Bullshit!" Bing exclaimed, dramatically pointing his index finger at Google like an Ace Attorney lawyer. All his pent-up frustration tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop and feel regret.

"You think you're so high and mighty, but your processors just can't handle the truth. Us androids were built to resemble humans and we both know how you suck ass at it bro. I think you're just jealous 'cause you could never get anywhere close to my level. No wonder you have no friends: you can't feel love, can't feel happiness, can't feel anything, man. You think you're good at everything but really you're just good at being a huge-"

Before Bing could finish, he was pummeled in the face with over 400 pounds of blunt force. The impact of Google's fist knocked Bing backwards, making him trip on his skateboard. He fell to the ground, hard, the air getting knocked out of his lungs. A seering pain traveled up Bing's leg from his left ankle where he tripped.

Bing forced his eyes open to look up at Google, holding his hands up apologetically. "Woah man, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that."

He meant it. Bing did not expect Google to react that strongly and like Google said, he didn't even think the other android was able to feel emotions to that extent. That was literally the last thing he wanted to say. It threw all his hopes and dreams into a blender, burned them to ashes, and scattered them into the ocean.

Bing fucked up.

Google stared down at Bing with contempt. He was pissed, more pissed than Bing's ever seen him. Whatever cold façade Google had left came crashing down to reveal a very angry (and hurt) android. Guilt knotted itself in Bing's stomach.

Google bent down and straddled Bing, pushing him to the floor with one hand on his shoulder. In any other circumstance Bing would have welcomed it, but he knew that whatever hope he had left of that happening for real was going to be literally beaten out of him.

This is going to hurt, Bing thought.

With his other hand, Google continued punching and hitting Bing wherever his fist could reach.

Bing hated being right.

On one hand, Bing was happy that Google actually felt comfortable touching him, even if it was with an  excessive amount of strength. On the other hand, it hurt. A lot. His body stung, ached, and burned everywhere. The 200-ish pounds of android pinning him down wasn't helping much either.

Bing was sure he deserved it. He did say some hurtful shit (but so had Google) and he did do some things to spur Google on (and Google did the same), so Bing decided not to fight back. If punching his guts out made Google happier, so be it: Bing could stand it. A little pain never killed anybody, right?

Bing tried to be as quiet as possible to not alert the other other egos in the house, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they figured out something was wrong. He wasn't planning on ratting Google out, he was going to take what he thought was the "high road" and protect the other android, no matter the cost. At least then there was the tiniest sliver of hope that Google would forgive him, or at least not hate him so much.

I wouldn't mind if you killed me now, Bing thought morbidly.

Bing squeezed his eyes tight and bit his lip hard, braced for the endless barrage of pain. He tried to use his hands and arms to at least try to block the brunt of the energy from colliding with his face. Bing vaguely wondered if the liquid running down his cheeks were tears, blood, or both.

The punches slowed to a stop. Bing peeked his eyes open. Google panted from his systems overheating with his glasses uncharacteristically askew. He stared at Bing with shaking fists, some of the knuckles split and bleeding blue. Google's brows were furrowed and his expression was one and hurt and distress.

"Why do you make me feel like this?" he muttered glitchily.

Google then promptly collapsed onto Bing's chest. A voice emanating from Google's unconscious body spoke in a monotone: "insufficient battery level to run primary functions. Powering down".

At least he wasn't dead. Bing summoned whatever strength he had left in his arms to roll the other android off him. Google's head hit the floor with a dull thump. Bing mumbled an "oof" in sympathy.

He slowly sat up with a sharp inhale. Everything hurt. One of Bing's eyes felt stiff and puffy and his torso ached every time he moved. He picked himself up off the floor with the unsteady legs of a newborn deer. And like a newborn deer, he was world-weary, in emotional and physical pain, and covered in blood.

Bing spared a glance at his tormentor. Google lay face up with his limbs sprawled on the floor. He had a serene expression, a sharp contrast to his previous  tumultuous appearance. He was too far away and too heavy for Bing to move to the charging port so Bing grabbed a throw blanket and gently draped it on top of Google's "sleeping" form. Bing hoped that he wouldn't remember anything the next morning.

Bing really [E̷̟͝R̶̥͘R̶̡̊Ö̵̲́R̷͚̍ ̸̪̉4̵͚̇0̷̣̽4̵̢͐ ̴͙̋W̵̱̊o̸̰͒r̶̳͊d̵̞͒ ̴̣̓N̸̝̑o̵̞̾t̸̡̋ ̸̜̈F̷̢̑ȯ̷̩u̸͍͛ń̶̟d̸̳̑] him.

-------------------------

Bing smiles, answering Dr. Iplier's question. It hurt his face to do it, but he did so anyways to prove his point. The doctor pauses, awaiting the android's response with unease and uncertainty.

"No one did this to me," Bing says, practically beaming to the point of physical pain, "It's not that bad, Doc. I'm fine with it."

He meant it.

[franklyshipping]

The Shepherd Of Health ~ A Markiplier Ego Fanfic

WOOOO START OF THE NEXT PROMPT SET! HERE WE HAVE A FABULOUS ANON PROMPT WITH OUR FAVE DOC WHO KNOWS WHAT’S BEST, AND OUR SWEET SILVERY HERO! LET’S DO THIS!

TAGGING: @thegoodnewsdoctler and @silvlee-shepherd

He really didn’t want to be here. He was perfectly alright! There wasn’t even a scrape on him, and yet he had been essentially forced into coming to the doctor’s because they all thought he should have a regular check-up schedule! Silver understood that the other egos cared for him, and he loved them all so much . . . but hiding his triple chocolate cookies and not giving them back unless he had the appointment, he thought was too far. So the hero was pouting, his arms folded as he sat slumped in his spandex suit outside Dr Iplier’s office. He was not amused.

‘Ah Silver, right on time!’

Silver let out a quiet huff through his nose as he looked up at the doctor coming out of his room, and Iplier smiled warmly. He knew the hero didn’t want to be there, so he was going to be as lovely as possible. Iplier didn’t know specifically why Silver didn’t want the appointment, so in case it was a fearful reason, he was going to be as kind and as careful with the hero as he possibly could.

‘Come on in and we’ll get you nice and comfy on the bench.’

Silver pursed his lips, but followed Iplier in nonetheless, begrudgingly sitting on the padded bench as Iplier shut the door behind them. Iplier put away some of his paperwork, and smiled softly when he saw Silver take off his mask and set it aside; he took that as a hopeful sign. Iplier then decided to sit on the bench next to Silver as he spoke gently.

‘Listen . . . Silver, we’re friends right?’

Silver’s eyebrows shot up, since he was rather surprised at the question, before nodding genuinely.

‘Yeah, yeah of course we are.’

Iplier smiled and tilted his head at Silver as he continued.

‘I hope that means you feel you can trust me. Please, whatever it is about this appointment that’s making you nervous or uncomfortable, I want to know it so I can make it disappear for you. I want you to feel safe here.’

Iplier said reassuringly, but then he became quite surprised when the hero next to him . . . suddenly became incredibly bashful. He started to smile and blush, and he even let out a little laugh as he bowed his head for a moment. Iplier was still careful though, and waited until Silver collected him, and listened when he stammered.

‘I-It . . . i-it’s not that I-I’m uncomfortable . . . I-I’m just worried you’ll- . . .’

Silver trailed off embarrassedly, but as ever, Iplier was patient with his patient. He encouraged him softly.

‘Worried I’ll what? It’s okay, you can tell me anything.’

Silver undoubtedly felt safe with Iplier, but he was just so embarrassed to have to admit this! His voice was quiet and nervous . . . but after a few moments, he managed to get it out.

‘. . . I-I’m worried you’re gonna . . . t-tickle me.’

Iplier’s eyes widened in surprised, but then he broke out into a bright grin. Just when he thought the super-hero couldn’t get any more adorable. Silver smiled bashfully at Iplier’s grin, and his face flushed even more when the doctor folded his arms and spoke teasingly.

‘I thought you loved being tickled? I don’t think there’s anyone who exposes their tickle spots in the manor more than you do.’

Silver let out a flustered, and indignant, squeak, making Iplier laugh fondly. Silver didn’t feel like he had to be called out like that! Iplier let Silver compose himself, before the hero spoke once more in his sweet small voice.

‘B-But . . . I-I thought y-you might get annoyed if my . . . s-sensitivity got in the way of y-you doing your job.’

Now, the realisation finally dawned on Iplier, and he let out a gentle laugh as he affectionately put his hand on Silver’s shoulder, squeezing it softly.

‘Oh Silver . . . there’s something that you really should know about my check ups.’

Silver looked at him curiously, but then gulped adorably when Iplier smirked.

‘Tickling is a mandatory part of my examinations. I find it a necessary method of examining the nervous systems of all my patients, and I can assure you, no ticklish reaction could annoy me. It’s precisely what I want to hear.’

As you can imagine, Silver felt tingly all over with flusteredness, whilst at the same time all his anxiety melted away at Iplier’s teasy reassurance. Iplier felt glad to see Silver smiling without inhibitions now, so he lowered his voice playfully.

‘Now, Mr Shepherd, I’d appreciate your co-operation. I’ll need you lying down on your back with your arms above your head for this procedure, and I’d advise you not to obstruct me in my work. I’d hate to have to restrain you.’

Now even though he let out a quiet whine, Silver felt so excited! Iplier slipped off the bench and Silver did as he was told, lying down and stretching his arms above his head. Iplier then made a point of snapping on his gloves, making Silver shiver adorably. Then, he slowly unzipped Silver’s suit down to his waist, helping his arms out of the spandex, before Silver put them above his head again . . . leaving his entire bare torso on display for the doctor. Iplier hummed and purred teasingly.

‘You know Silver, often it is said that more muscled or generally tighter areas of the body are more sensitive to stimuli . . . how about we test that?’

Silver bit his lip with a squeak, his heart pounding as he watched Iplier’s slow, descending fingers . . . and he burst into immediate giggles when they touched down and softly scratched at his biceps.

‘Ohohoho nohoho ohoho gohoholly!’

Iplier immediately chuckled, gasping dramatically as he kept up his scratching.

‘Oh my! Look how ticklish you are here!’

Silver honestly went redder than red, shaking his head as he spluttered sweetly.

‘Yohohou dohon’t hahave toho pohoint ihit ohohout!’

‘But how else will I recall my observations on your nervous system Silver? I am a doctor remember, I know what’s best.’

Iplier let his scratches move down to Silver’s taut underarms, making the hero squeal and desperately clench his fists, his giggles getting dramatically more intense as he exclaimed.

‘N-NUHUHUH! UHUSE AHA NOHOHOTEBOHOOK!’

Iplier snorted out a laugh, unable to hold it back as he shook his head fondly at Silver, keeping up his scratches as he marvelled at how cute the hero was. He wished he’d done this so much sooner.

‘Oh but Silver, if I’m having to stop my examination to take notes then it’ll take so much longer! Trust me, this is certainly the best way to go about things.’

Silver wailed through his hysterical giggles as he squeezed his eyes shut. All the muscles in his arms were twitching with the effort to stay up, and honestly Iplier was pretty impressed, knowing so many other egos that would have caved in by now; Silver’s heroic mentality certainly gave him an impressive psychological strength. Although, Silver probably would have disagreed.

‘IHIHI DOHON’T KNOHOW IHIHIF IHI CAN TAHAKE IHIT!’

Iplier chuckled fondly, and decided to use a single finger to scratch right in the centre of each underarm as he cooed.

‘Aww sure you can! You are a super-hero, aren’t you?’

Silver’s face scrunched up as he yelped adorably, those single scratchy fingers driving him up the wall as he arched his back and lightly kicked his feet. Iplier’s teasing was just so unfair!

‘IHIHI AHAHM IHIHI AHAHAM!’

Silver was starting to get endearingly babbly, so Iplier eased down to simply stroking his hollows as he teased him in a whispery voice.

‘I wonder, do any of your villains know you’re ticklish? Ohh you’d be screwed if they did . . .’

Silver’s blush was creeping down his neck now as he whimpered, and looked up at Iplier with cute puppy dog eyes.

‘N-Nohoho noho d-dohohon’t tehehell!’

Iplier laughed fondly, and booped Silver’s nose as he crooned.

‘Oh I would never, don’t worry cutie.’

Iplier winked, making Silver giggle embarrassedly, and he carried on giggling as Iplier’s fingers trailed down his body in exploration . . . until they paused over his stomach. Silver looked up at the doctor with wide eyes, and Iplier smirked as he teased.

‘I’m sorry Silver . . . but with a beautiful, soft stomach like this you’re just asking to be tickle tortured.’

Iplier dug into his belly without further ado, and Silver lost it. His arms crashed down and he curled up on the bench, laughing his adorable heart out.

‘AHHHAHAH NOHOHAHAHA! HEHEHEEEELP!’

Iplier laughed and sneered playfully down at him, happily giving his stomach constant squeezy tickles as he taunted with mischievous delight.

‘There’s no-one to help you Silver. There’s only me, and trust me . . . I’ll redefine what you call “evil”.’

Silver just scream-laughed as his heart pounded, Iplier still tickling his stomach ruthlessly as he weakly batted at him, the hero’s stamina waning as tears of mirth trickled down his cheeks.

‘PLEHEHEEEE! IHIHI’LL DOHOHO AHANYTHIHIHING!’

‘Ohhh, but having a hero at my mercy is so delightful, what else could I ever possibly want?’

Iplier retorted, loving how Silver was so sweetly crying and laughing, filled with so much giddy hysteria that all he could do was curl tighter around Iplier’s tickling fingers.

‘PLEASEPLEHEHEASEPLEEEEASE!’

Iplier laughed and stopped his tickling, but kept his fingers threateningly against Silver’s tummy; the hero panted as Iplier raised a playful eyebrow down at him.

‘Do you promise to not be stubborn about regular doctor’s appointments?’

‘Y-Yehehes!’

‘Do you also promise not to overstrain yourself during your hero work, and get enough sleep?’

Iplier twitched his fingers subtly, making the flustered hero squeak and nod frantically as he gripped Iplier’s coat sleeves.

‘Y-Yehehesyesyesyes!’

Iplier chuckled warmly, removed his hands, and remarked with a cheeky grin.

‘Well then Mr Shepherd, it seems that you are in quite perfect health.’

Silver giggled sweetly and hid his face in his hands, and Iplier sat on the edge of the bench, smiling down at the hero as Silver stammered.

‘Ohomygohoshohmygosh . . .’

‘Yohou okahay?’

Iplier asked with a little laugh, and Silver only just managed to peek through his fingers at the doctor as he whined with a cute smile.

‘Ihi dohon’t knohow if I’ll ehever uncurl again!’

Iplier barked out a laugh, before sliding off the bench with a playful smile.

‘I think I might have the perfect incentive.’

For a moment, Silver thought Iplier was going to tickle him again, but then he gasped when he watched him open a drawer . . . and bring out Silver’s box of cookies that had been hidden to get him to go to the appointment in the first place! Iplier gave it a little shake as he came back over, and Silver slowly sat up and giggled when Iplier offered him one.

‘Open!’

Silver beamed, and let Iplier feed him the cookie whilst still hugging his own midriff. Then, he managed to properly sit up straight and accept the box, and of course with Silver being Silver, he immediately offered Iplier a cookie with the sweetest smile and head tilt that you could possibly imagine.

‘Come for a walk with me? You deserve a break.’

Iplier just couldn’t say no to that sweet, heroic face, and so he nodded, accepted the cookie, and went on out with Silver. Iplier felt his heart warm as he looked at Silver, and knew that truly, this man was one of the greatest superheroes to ever live.

WOOOO HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED THIS FIC LEMME KNOW IF YA DID WOOOO LUV YOUS!!

[obsidiancreates]

What’s This? An AU, of An AU, of An AU? Hell Yeah Baby AU Turducken.

(An AU of the Sia RP Roleplay, which is an AU of my Vampire Markiplier Egos AU. AU cubed.)

(Sia and Evan are @sororia04s’s OCs!)

--------

Doc stumbles through the forest, panting. Stupid speed, work, work.

“Come back! The ritual is incomplete!”

Doc keeps quiet, but in his head he’s screaming, 'Why would I want to change that?!’

He shouts as he slams into another person. He scrambles to his feet, expecting another- another wizard or whatever they were-

Instead he’s face-to-face with another terrified person, looking at him with wide eyes. “Who-who are you?”

“Who are you?”

“I-I’m no-one.”

“Me either-”

Doc and his roadblock both shout as two more people slam into them, knocking them both down. They all four get up, ready to fight.

The other two look haggard. Doc looks bad, yes, with blood on his neck and dripping down his chin and his scrubs torn and dirty, but these men look like they’ve been on the run for decades.

The one in the ruined winter coat steps in front of his friend with the pink mustache. “Are you two Hunters?”

Doc and the first roadblock share a confused look. 

“What?” they both say at once.

The man in the coat sighs. “Too convincing for Hunter acting, thank god. My name is Dam- er, Dark. This is Willia- Wilford, I mean.”

The man with the pink mustache smiles and waves.

“I-I’m Eric,” the roadblock says, twisting a yellow cloth in his hands.

“Doc.”

They just watch each other warily for a bit.

“... Just been turned?” Dark ventures, looking at Doc’s neck.

Doc puts his hand over it. “Long story,” he says weakly.

“I see him!”

Dark pulls out a knife. “What’s that?”

“The story,” Doc says, “Shit, shit-”

“Climb the trees!”

Dark has scaled the tree before Doc even fully registers the words. He scrambles his way up, and presses against the trunk. Don’t see him, don’t see him, don’t see him-

He hears footsteps, and sickeningly, heartbeats. They’re right below, and oh, gross, his mouth is watering, he’s about to vomit-

“Frick off!”

The shout comes from the ground.

Doc peeks, and sees five guys facing against the, the necromancers, maybe.

“We’re searching for someone,” the head magic guy says.

“Don’t care! Frick off!”

The mage laughs. “Frick? Really?”

The guy, a young man in a dirty tank top, scowls. “Yeah, really! Googles! Go to town!”

The four other men move forward in unison, and Doc closes his eyes as screams ring through the trees. He hears most of the mages escape, but he can smell enough blood to know it wasn’t without losses.

Things are silent for a moment.

“You dudes can come down!”

Doc peeks out again.

“You have a murder squad!” he hears Dark shout back.

“Yeah, but you dudes are vamps! I am too! Kinda! So like, we’re all being hunted by dudes, yeah?”

There’s a pause, and then Dark and Wilford appear back on the ground. Eric follows. Doc sighs, steps down... and unceremoniously tumbles out of the tree.

“Ow,” he wheezes.

The guy in the tank top helps him up. “Don’t worry bruh, that leg’ll heal right up. I’m Bing, these are the Google bros. They’re named after their colors.”

The four other men make no introductions.

“They’re androids,” Bing says. “Still working on getting them to not hate people.”

“And-androids?” Eric steps away from them. “Like-like robots?”

Bing nods. “That’s who I’m being hunted down by. I’m the world’s first ever working cyborg, and like, a whole buncha androids and robots want me to lead an uprising thing.”

“Oh,” Doc says weakly. “That’s what those guys want me for, but um, not robots.”

“Oh, sweet! Er, I mean, that sucks. Uh-”

“Wait!” Dark is looking into the woods. “Hang on, I know that feeling-”

Two more people tumble out of the woods yet again. Dark catches on, and his eyes widen in disbelief. “The DA?”

The person moves out of his arms, an equally disbelieving look on their face. They bring their hands up and sign, “Damien?”

The other man gets up, groaning. “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he grumbles.

“Mark,” The DA signs, “Mark, it’s Damien!”

“Holy- you’re alive? Your file said you were probably dead.”

“Really? ... Then why the fuck are you Hunters always after me?”

Mark shrugs. “They kept a lot of secrets. Former Hunters, by the way.”

“Dude, we’ve got a whole troop going!” Bing looks excited by this. 

“Hey Bing?”

“Yeah, Doc Dude?”

“You can let go now. My leg did heal up, I think.”

“Oh, yeah, for suh dude! Sorry.”

Doc stands up, and tests his leg. “Oh, that’s freaky.”

“You-you get used to-to it,” Eric says tiredly.

“If there’s anyone else in the woods, please come out now!” Wilford shouts.

“There can’t possibly be-”

Three more people step out.

Dark throws up his hands. “What do I know? A hundred and thirty years old and I’m still oblivious.”

The guy in the middle, a man with a once-white shirt and striped pants, waves a little. “We’s was hoping youse would move on, to be fairs. We’s bein’ hunted too.”

“By Hunters?”

“Uh, I’m bein’ hunted by my olds dance troop.”

“Oh. That’s... new.”

“The Host is being hunted by a group of Artistic Sadists whom he used to be friends with.”

Everyone startles, getting a proper look at that guy for the first time. Bing slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle a scream, and Eric starts to hyperventilate.

“The Host is aware he has no eyes. He will not be offended by freak outs.”

“No, no, I’m over it,” Bing says, voice a little strained. “It’s bad-butt. ... I have a swearing filter in my programming, please don’t look at me like that. I literally can’t control it.”

The last man raises his hand. “Hi, Bim Trimmer. Have you heard of my family before? Old money, stuck up, evil assholes who want to sacrifice me to gain immortality and power.”

Doc and Eric speak at the same moment.

“I think that’s what the mage guys wanted to do to me.” “I-I’m on the-the run from my-my dad too.”

“Oh, we already have something in common. How nice.”

They all stand around looking at each other for a while.

“... You guys wanna team up?” Bing suggests.

Bim gives him a look, raising his eyebrow. “We just met. And it seem like most of us already have teams.”

“Look, we’re all being hunted, yeah? By a buncha different groups. But like, we’re a small army, right? There’s like, fourteen of us. We might as well stick together.”

“We don’t even know each other,” Dark argues.

“We know none of us are trying to kill each other! That’s already way better than most of our interactions with strangers, yeah?”

There’s murmurings of agreement.

“Alright, so, let’s just like, try to trust each other, and see if we can, I dunno, manage to make a home base. Pretty obvious we’ve all been running for our lives for like, years on end, so-”

Doc and Eric shout, jumping to the side, as two more people roll out of the woods. This time, people with heartbeats.

They both get to their feet as quick as they can. The woman holds a pocket knife in her hands, and the young man holds a heavy book. Siblings, clearly. They press against each other, eyes wild and with a readiness to fight.

There’s a tense silence, a breeze the only disturbance in the area.

And then Bim speaks up.

“So, who’s chasing you two?”

The two siblings look confused for a moment. 

“We’re all being hunted,” Dark says in the voice of someone who’s rehashing something he’s tired of rehashing.

“... It’s personal,” the woman says.

“Is it your family? That’s what I first said, and the answer if my family,” Bim replies.

“... Maybe.”

“What’re your names?” Dark asks. 

“... Sia.”

The young man looks at her like she’s crazy, and she shrugs. He looks up. “... Evan.”

“Nice too meet you.” “Hi.” “It-it’s a pleasure.” There’s a whole speech’s worth of different greetings.

Bing beams at them. “Want to join our club?”

[voidendron]

"Come back here right now!", with an Iplier of your choosing? You dont write a whole lot of Ipliers and I wanted to go for something a bit different? :0 You can mix Iplier and Egos, or purely Ipliers!

Hearing the glass shatter, scatter in all directions on the floor, had made Bing grimace. He dared a peek at his partner-in-crime and Oliver was combing his fingers through too-long hair as he pursed his lips.

“Doc’s gonna kill us.”

The Upgrade only nodded.

“Think we can just, like. Sneak out?”

Oliver snorted at that. “If Doc doesn’t catch us, Inc will be sure to tell him who did it anyway.”

The light flickered and room creaked around them as the home agreed. Of course Incorporated would tattle on them. 

“Right…”

Shards of glass on the floor, some sort of liquid spilled everywhere. Was it peeling the paint off the desk?

They were so dead.

Both androids turned to dart for the clinic door. Bing yelped when he ran into Edward right as he turned out of the room, sending the doctor to the floor. He looked like he was already in a bad mood, and why the hell did he have a black eye?

One look at Oliver, and Bing threw his chin up to point down the hallway. “Ahh… Sorry, Doc. Just needed to grab somethin’! We’re leavin’ now!”

They both bolted while Edward was left grumbling as he pulled himself back to his feet and went into his clinic–

“Bingiplier and Google Oliver!”

Just as the shout reached them, they realized it was a dead end. Incorporated had shifted to make it oh-so easy for the doctor to corner them. And to corner them with the use of their full names, no less. Uh-oh…

They both turned–there he was, right outside the clinic, hands on his hips, foot tapping. Bing didn’t think it was possible for his scowl to get any worse, but it definitely did when neither of them moved.

“Come back here right now!”

[sam-lives-story]

#SamLives - Chapter 14

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

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“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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