Usually, he wore gloves. Thick, leather gloves that hid the scars and ink stains on his hands that hadn’t faded, even after the Author had died, long ago. Ink that shaped lives, ended them. Ink that let him bend reality to his will. It was shameful of him to ever think he could properly control that kind of power. He barely took them off, sometimes, he left them on while he slept. Or when he wrote. None of the others had seen his hands, and he knew it.
Except for Edward. The doctor wasn’t repulsed by the scars, the ink, the callouses- every bit that Host was ashamed of. Kissed them, brushed his fingers over them, held them in his own soft, warm hands. He let Host play with his hair with them, braid lavander and peonies in his hair, which had grown so much since Host was the Author. Now it reached his shoulders, and Edward tied it back every day before work. Their mornings were filled with coffee and the search for a hairtie before breakfast.
In a way, his hair was not the only thing that had grown. Edward was stronger now, sturdier, but somehow kept that sweetness inside of him. He pushed, instead of giving in, less of a pushover. He was the one to stop Host from trying to scrub the ink out of his hands, the one to insist he changes his bandages, the one to watch out for him.
And Host, looking back on himself, had grown, too. Now he was quieter, more content, the constant nagging to be better, do better, to gain and gain and gain almost completely gone. There were no more early mornings for him, he never wanted any. Nothing, not even all the power in the world, could compare to him waking up with Edward’s hand in his.
Prompt 70: “After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t think that I love you?”
It was impossible to be quiet when he was running for his life.
Every sound was magnified a hundred times: the snapping of dead twigs under the soles of his beat up sneakers, the rustling of leaves as branches whipped at his hair, his face, his clothes. The pounding of his heart in his ears.
Despite this, he could hear nothing from his pursuer. No footsteps. No shouts. That was bad.
Edward risked a glance over his shoulder. Nothing. That was even worse.
He whipped his head back and forth, searching, taking no mind of the branches that thwacked him in the face, taking no mind of the sweat that stung at his eyes and mingled with the blood dripping down his cheeks.
Was his pursuer there, waiting in the growing shadows that followed him? Or was he waiting just ahead, wearing a malicious grin and a blood-spattered t-shirt?
For all Edward knew, he could be just behind, reaching out, fingertips just brushing the back of his shirt-
His ankle caught on a fallen branch and he tumbled forward, crying out as he collided with cold, hard ground.
He quickly rolled over, clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes darting back, forth, back, forth, straining to pick up even a hint of silver against the multi-colored foliage.
He gave a soft sigh of relief when there was nothing.
That moment would prove to be fleeting.
A figure appeared above him and a second later a hand seized the front of his shirt, dragging him to his feet.
“I can’t believe you actually thought you could leave.” There was a hint of hurt to the Author’s tone, even as he laughed and wrapped an arm around Edward’s shoulders, steering him back in the direction of his cabin.
The same cabin he’d been keeping Edward hostage in for the past month.
“And, after everything we’ve been through, I can’t believe you still don’t think I love you,” the Author continued, shouldering his bat. “Like I’d ever treat you like another one of my characters. You’re so much more important than that.”
He continued to chatter as he hauled Edward along, but Edward had long stopped listening.
He wiped at the blood and sweat on his face. Blood from dozens of tiny cuts sustained from breaking the cabin’s window, from branches and thorns. Sweat from fleeing through the woods in the dead of night.
He pawed at the dark bruise around his eye. A bruise from when the Author hit him.
He realized with a jolt that he would never escape.
This one had me in a bind. I gotcha covered, tho 😉
Title: Waiting
The Host had been standing by the window for hours; his head tilted toward the frosted window as if he could actually see through it.
Not that there was much to see. The view through the window was nothing but white, whipping snow.
But still he stood there, arms wrapped around himself, muttering under his breath.
There were multiple attempts to dissuade him.
“He’s not going to be coming back tonight, Host,” Dark commented as he passed by. “Not with the blizzard. Maybe your time would be best spent working instead of just standing around.”
“Hostie!” Yandereiplier squealed, popping around the corner some time after Dark left. “Can you make my crush love me back?”
His lack of response soon extended her short attention span, but as soon as the navy blue of her skirt disappeared Wilford and the Jims came barrelling around the corner.
But all it took was the Host growling “Wilford and the Jims are better off somewhere else” to send them scurrying away.
He was left alone to continue his vigil after that, and continue he did, at least until a pair of headlights- that is narrations told him were just barely visible through the swirling snowflakes- sent him for the door.
Dr. Iplier blew in along with a gust of snow and wind. He was jet-lagged, exhausted, freezing cold, and he went straight for the Host’s arms, tipping over his rolling suitcase to the floor with a thunk as he did.
“Missed me these past few weeks, have you?” Dr. Iplier laughed as the Host’s arms enveloped him, clutching him tight as if he’d disappear if he didn’t.
“The Host missed you,” the Host agreed, and leaned down to kiss him.
He still couldn’t do much on his own, still was mostly nonverbal, but the Author was doing better since his eyes had been carved out of his skull and he’d been dumped on the doctor’s doorstep.
Dr. Iplier couldn’t quite say the same about himself. He rarely slept, and when he did he did so poorly. Blood-filled, gory nightmares stalked his subconscious, jerking him awake in the dead of night screaming and reaching for the other side of the bed, where the Author should’ve been.
Dr. Iplier heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, brushing the unruly curls from his face. Then he pushed up from his desk. It was time to change the Author’s bandages.
“Author?” He tried to keep his voice low as he left his office, but the Author still flinched at the sudden noise, still jerked his head in the doctor’s direction.
“It’s okay. It’s just me.” Dr. Iplier was quick to reassure him, and he grimaced as blood began to blossom against the white of the Author’s bandages. Seems he’d torn the stitches again. “It’s Edward.”
He went over, placing a hand on the Author’s shoulder to let him know he was there before leaning down to brush sweaty strands of hair back from his forehead before pressing his lips to the overheated skin. “You still have a fever, but I think it’s gone down a bit since I checked a few hours ago. How’re you feeling?”
The Author seemed to relax a little bit under his touch, settling back into his chair. He tilted his head and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
“I didn’t quite hear you.”
The Author tilted his head further, more blood beginning to flow down his cheeks. It was then that Dr. Iplier realized that he was indicating toward something behind him. “Dark.”
“Yes.” Dark appeared in the doorway, hands folded behind his back. He strolled in, eyes zeroing in on the Author as if he were some prize. A faint smirk pulled at his lips. “I’ve come to collect our dear friend here.”
“What- you can’t- absolutely not.” Dr. Iplier stammered, straightening and fixing Dark with a defiant glare. “The Author isn’t fit to leave the clinic.”
“Nonsense.” Dark gave a dismissive flick of his fingers. “He’s perfectly fine. And besides, I have some business with him.”
“What sort of business?” Dr. Iplier crossed his arms, continued to stare Dark down.
“None of your concern, my dear Doctor.” Dark brushed by him as if he wasn’t even there, leaned down to offer the Author his hand. “Shall we depart?”
“Author-” Dr. Iplier could only gape as the Author reached out and took it, allowing Dark to help him to his feet. As soon as he regained his composure, he moved to block their exit. “This is preposterous. Author isn’t going anywhere.”
“I’d say that was his choice, whether he stays or comes with me. Oh, and do inform our good doctor of what you’re calling yourself now,” Dark addressed this to the Author, who stood still and stiff as a statue beside him.
“The Host.” It was barely a whisper, but to Dr. Iplier it was as if he’d shouted. “His name is the Host.”
“Author-” Dr. Iplier reached out, but Dark was already steering the Author away, back the way he’d come, and the doctor’s fingertips just barely grazed the Author’s thin hospital gown as he passed.
“We have much to do, much to learn. Come along, Host.” Just before they disappeared from view, Dark twisted. “I will keep you updated on his progress, Doctor. I’m sure you will be most interested.”
With that, Dark and the newly-named Host left the clinic, and left Dr. Iplier alone.
The Host appeared in his office with seemingly no warning, his arms crossed his chest as he frowned down at the man sitting at the desk.
Dr. Iplier jumped, dropping his pen. It rolled under his desk, reappearing on the other side. “Jesus, Host! Don’t creep up on me like that.”
The Host stooped to retrieve the pen, rolled it between his fingers as he stood back up straight. He didn’t give it back. “It’s time for the doctor to cease in his work.”
“Host …” Dr. Iplier rubbed at his forehead. “I have too much to do.”
The Host’s frown deepened. He tapped his foot, muttered a few things under his breath.
“I hope that’s you talking about giving my pen back,” Dr. Iplier said, arching an eyebrow.
The Host continued to fiddle with it. “The Host is not giving the pen back.”
“Host. I have work to do.”
“Work that can wait until Edward gets some rest.”
A sigh. “And you’re so sure about that, are you?”
“Edward’s attitude indicates that he knows the Host is right.”
Dr. Iplier couldn’t help but give a half-irritated, half-amused chuckle. “Of course you’re right. But I’d rather have it done now.”
The Host slipped the pen into his pocket. Then he reached across the desk, took one of the doctor’s hands, pulled him up from his chair. “The doctor’s work can wait. He needs to rest now.”
Another sigh. Then a resigned smile as he finally accepted that the Host wouldn’t be giving up anytime soon. “Okay.”
The Host smiled and raised Dr. Iplier’s hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss there. “The Host knew he would come around.”
“Please wake up Author you need to wake up now Author wake up-”
The cabin door flew inward and smacked against the wall when Edward shoved it open, allowing him to drag in the Author along with a gust of frigid wind and a thick, swirling pile of snow.
But he didn’t have time to worry about that now. He had to get the Author inside. Out of the snow and the cold he’d found him in.
“Author, please.” Edward gritted his teeth, managed to heave his boyfriend up onto the threadbare couch.
The Author didn’t reply. His head merely lolled against the arm of the couch. His lips were blue and his skin was deathly pale and freezing cold. A thin line of blood trickled lazily from his nose and more blood caked the half-frozen wound on the back of his head.
“Author-” Edward tore off his mittens, fumbled for a pulse, but tears blurred his vision and his hands shook too violently for him to be able to detect it, if it was even there anymore. “Author, please be alive.”
He’d found him mostly buried in a snowbank on his way in to the cabin, unresponsive and slowly dying due to extreme cold.
Edward had somehow, despite the Author’s greater weight and the blizzard that raged around him, managed to get him back to the cabin.
But what if it was all futile? What if the Author was dead?
Suddenly he felt a tremor run through the Author’s body, heard him give a small groan and saw his eyelids flutter.
“Oh my god.” Edward leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead, choked back a sob of relief. “Author.”
He was alive. Half-frozen and wounded, but alive.
But he wouldn’t stay that way for long if Edward didn’t do something.
So, instead of burying his head in the Author’s frosty, sodden shirt and crying like he desperately wanted to, he got to work.
The bar was crowded and loud, but the Author knew exactly what he wanted.
If he craned his neck he could see him: shoulders hunched, jacket drawn tight around him, black curls disheveled and sticking out wildly all over his head.
But he preferred to go by smell, picking out his clean, sweet scent over dozens of other grimy-smelling, alcohol-soaked bar patrons.
He didn’t belong here, among the riff-raff. They were disgusting. The Author’s nose wrinkled at the very thought of tasting their blood.
“I wasn’t planning on asking you, but it appeared to me that life is short. Will you marry me?” Dr. Iplier’s voice is haggard, worn with watching, for what felt like the hundredth time in life, someone die because medicine couldn’t save them. Another death. He felt… He felt so helpless. He couldn’t save. He could only destroy.
The Host, being the Host, knew all of this. He took Edward’s cheek into his hand and pulled him down for a soft, lingering kiss. “My darling dear,” He whispered. “Of course I will marry you. Of course I will spend my life with you, enjoying the moments of happiness you bring to me. I could never refuse such an offer, not from you.”
Edward smiled and wrapped his arms around Anthony’s waist. He nuzzled his face into the crook of his neck. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He whispered.
Anthony wrapped his arms around his neck. “But… that doesn’t mean what happened today won’t happen again. Sometimes people just die, Edward. You can’t save them. Don’t beat yourself up thinking you could have.”
Edward squeezed his eyes shut. He held on tighter to Anthony, knowing he was right. But he couldn’t stop being a doctor. He did save some people. He had to be there for those people.
Anthony rubbed his back. “Let’s go to our room. We can cuddle together, and think. Maybe even watch a movie.” He smiled softly.
Edward nodded, and let his new fiance lead the way.
(tw blood, tw eye gore. i’ll put in the actual tags after this is posted) Send me fluffy prompts! (Although this one turned angsty)
“You have to hold on!” Dr. Edward Iplier told him, eyes focused as he tried to stop the bleeding. “Anthony please, hold on, okay? Just hold on!”
“I’m not dying,” The Author laughed, almost hysterically. “I swear to you that. I’m not dying. This had to happen. This always has to happen.”
“I don’t understand. I don’t understand, Anthony. Please, let me get you to my clinic, let me help you!” Dr. Iplier tried to hoist the man up to his feet, but the Author wouldn’t budge. He stayed laying on the floor of his cabin.
“Don’t wait your energy, Ed. Come on, just… just stay with me.” Blood poured from his eye sockets, down his face and staining his clothes. “Hey, hey hey hey. This is probably a bad time, but, uh, marry me?” He asked with a grin.
Dr. Iplier stared at the man, stared at the blood, and noticed a gold streak starting to stain a lock of his hair. He swallowed and nodded, before realizing the Author could no longer see him. “Of… of course, Anthony. You stay alive, and I’ll marry you.”
The Author’s smile turned warm, and he soon passed out, the blood loss getting to him. Dr. Iplier, with a heavy heart, lifted him up and got him to his clinic. He tended to the wounds, which never seemed to stop bleeding but did slow, and wrapped them in bandages.
It was months before Anthony and Edward were back to where they were before. Edward adjusted to the new Anthony, the one that wasn’t so rash, so bold. He was quiet, more reserved, the trauma having robbed him of his sight but given him a gift of narration. They were sitting together in the living room one day, sipping tea and coffee as they took in the rain pattering against the windows.
“I… I meant what I said.” Anthony said softly, sipping his tea.
“Mm?” Edward asked.
“I… I want to marry you, Edward. I love you. I know I’ve changed, and that I’m… I’m weird now… but…” He sighed. “I love you so much…”
Edward brought his coffee cup down from his lips slowly. “I… I love you too, Anthony.” He replied. “I think… Yeah, I think I want to marry you too.”
A bright smile adorned Anthony’s face. “Let’s set a date.”
Edward returned the smile with ease. “I’ll get my calendar.”
emptynarration 