I’m gonna do Dr. Iplierst for this one since you didn’t specify characters 🙂
Title: Oozing Tears
Still as a statue, he sat there. Sweat shone on his skin, and dark strands of hair mingled with gold to contrast his pale forehead.
He cried.
He cried, but not regular tears. His tears were tears of blood, carving jagged tracks down his cheeks, dripping off his chin to dot sterile, white hospital gown, to stain sterile, white bedding.
He didn’t so much as twitch when Dr. Iplier approached, concern etched in his eyes.
“Author?” He asked quietly, raising a hand to pull down his surgical mask before reaching to prod at the Author’s ruined eyes. “Author, can you hear me?”
No response. More tears oozed from his sockets.
He hadn’t responded in days.
Dr. Iplier sighed and brushed the Author’s hair back from his forehead before pressing a kiss to the clammy skin. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
Tag: the author
… I miss him.
Have my first, actually decent drawing of @markiplier ‘s ego, The Author
with the Host’s coat and bloody bandages wrapped around the bat.I Love The Author as a character. Just the concept of what he can do is frightening, and….. UGGGGHHH I MISS HIM. SUCH A GREAT EGO/CHARACTER. D:
Anywho~ Enjoy!
(Don’t repost/reuse without permission!! Reblogs are fine~)
Okay I hope it isn’t too early to request this but maybe 149 with Dark and Author?
This took me forever to write omg
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Warnings ahead for implied nsfw, blood, implied stabbing
Prompt 149: “Since when have we ever been friends?”
“Dammit, Author!” Dark slammed the newspaper down onto the table, his gray face set with rage. “Look at the mess you’ve made. I’m not here to clean up your blunders, Author. And I’m not here to put you back together.”
The Author scowled down at the paper and bit back a scathing retort about how, technically, he’d put himself back together. He’d stitched up the gash in his arm himself, taken care of the stab wound in his chest himself.
His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight as he skimmed the headline: Mysterious Man Prime Suspect in Stabbing.
Just below that was a black and white photo of a hunched, fleeing figure. And while the photo was blurry and not of good quality the figure was undeniably him.
Figures. He knew he’d heard the shutter-click of a camera as he’d retreated into the woods, but he’d convinced himself he couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t do anything but stumble blindly over sticks and rocks and into branches, all the while pressing both hands over the wound in his chest in a desperate- and futile- attempt to staunch the flow.
“Well?” Dark prompted, crossing his arms and fixing him with a cold glare. “Care to explain yourself?”
Hot fury rushed through him and the chair grated across the uneven wooden boards as he stood, ignoring the pull of the stitches and the hot spike of pain that jammed itself into his chest like he was being stabbed all over again.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he spat, and with a dramatic flourish he swept the newspaper off the table, sending the pages fluttering to the floor. “My characters are my characters, and I do with them as I please. Why the *fuck* do you even care? You never gave a shit about me. Why start now? Since when did we become friends?”
When he finished his rant, he expected Dark to lash out. To be angry. To rage. But instead, there was silence. Dark just stared at him.
Then he laughed.
And the Author could only blink in disbelief as Dark tipped his head back and laughed, like the Author’s spiel was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
Then his hands shot out and he seized the Author by his shirt.
The Author just barely suppressed a half-surprised, half-pained yelp as he found himself mere centimeters away from Dark.
“We’ve never been friends.” The words came out barely more than a hiss, but then Dark’s eyes drifted down, to the Author’s lips, and the Author swore he saw a flicker of something there. Longing? Lust? He wasn’t sure.
“But,” Dark added, continuing to stare at his lips, “that little rant of yours was hot. You’re very … endearing … when you get worked up like that.”
The Author’s breath hitched as Dark leaned closer, brushing their lips together. His mouth was cold, just like the rest of him.
Despite himself, the Author found he didn’t mind.
So when Dark leaned in again, crushing their lips together and kissing him like he was starving, releasing his shirt in favor of reaching up to wreath pale fingers through his hair, in favor of clutching him closer, the Author closed his eyes and reciprocated in kind.
27- Are you sure about this?, 26- Please don’t go, 28- You’re being dramatic, 29- Carry me, 31- I missed you with Doc Iplier and Author? Sorry for so many prompts in one request!
“Author I just- Are you sure about this?” Edward asks, gripping to the sleeve of his flannel. Author heaves a sigh, rolling his eyes as he turns to face Edward.
“You’re being dramatic, I’m not going to die.”
“Please don’t go.” Edward begs, and Author shakes his head while pulling his arm free.
“I’m leaving, Edward. You can’t stop me, but you can wait for me. I’ll come back, okay? I’ll come home.” Author steps closer for a moment to press a kiss onto Edward’s forehead before pulling away. “Stay safe while I’m gone.”He walks away, leaving Edward behind without a second thought.
Author returns to his boyfriend looking half dead, sleep deprived and worn down after what Author knows is too many long hours at the hospital. Edward practically collapses into his arms, nuzzling his face into Author’s chest as the taller man tucks him close.
“Carry me.” Edward mumbles after a few minutes of silent holding, and Author obliges with a soft chuckle. “I missed you.” Edward says next.Author doesn’t return the sentiment, but Edward didn’t expect him to.
/ You know Sweeney Todd? That movie?
/ Think of the scene were he gets his razors back and is like “At last, my arm is complete again” or smth alike
/ now imagine that, But with Author and his bat (or Host?)
“You’re being dramatic.” (okay but iplier to author? ) ( also all these prompts are so great for just. author being more seriously hurt and having to go to iplier (“Not this time!” “You’re lying!” “Get your hands off of me!” “I don’t need you.”))
“Writey Jim is very hurt!” Cries one of the Jims upon crashing unceremoniously into Dr. Iplier’s office. The man shrieks (in a mostly dignified manner) in terrified surprise, jumping out of his chair to face them. The two Jims stand just inside his room, one still in the doorway with the other properly crouched down inside. The doctor observes the both of them before shaking his head to make way for clear thinking and responding.
“Who?”
“Writey Jim!” One Jim wails, the other nodding mutely but emphatically behind him. Doc’s brain stutters as it tries to recall who the fuck they’re talking about, whether it’s really just another Jim or one of the other-
“Author?” He asks disbelievingly, and the two immediately point at him and nod.“Yes! Author Jim!” Shouts the crouching one before he bites his lip. “He is very hurt! Doctor Jim needs to help him!” Doc nods his head a bit, furrowing his brow.
“Of course, of course just- I need- shit- fuck- I need supplies.” The two Jims make various odd whining sounds as though the idea of him taking longer is that concerning, and with a chill Doctor Iplier realizes it could be that concerning.
“What condition is he in, Jims? How bad?” The doctor asks as he brushes past them and into the clinic to begin gathering things together.
“We think it was a shooty! We need to investimigate more but Author Jim was hurt so bad we knew we had to act fast to save his life!” Jim states firmly, and Doc Iplier nods his head.
“Right, okay. Fuck- alright. Lead the way.”
88- I’m better, now that you’re here, 89- I could never forget you, 94- I won’t lose you, too with Author and Doc?
“I’m better now that you’re here.”
“I could never forget you.”
“I won’t lose you too.”—
The Author was a god. A magnificent, all mighty god. The world was his in his hands, it bowed to his will, leaned to the sway of his voice, and let itself be moved by him. He was the strong hand of god upon the earth, he had the ability. The power. Perched inside his library like a king, he was all mighty.
He shouldn’t be heartbroken over Edward- no, Dr. Iplier. First names were too personal, that’s why he never told the doctor his true name. It was always Author, as it always will be. But this was a personal thing. Heartbreak. A heartbroken god. Who would’ve thought?
The Doctor had pushed him away, told him to give him space. Author was left outside of his room with his bat in his hand, journal in his pocket feeling red hot as it called to be written in. Regret- he actually was feeling regret. Laughable
What else did he have to lose besides Dr. Iplier? His magic felt like it was slipping through his fingers; things once effortless were now impossible, like milking stones. And now, the doctor was pushing him out too. He couldn’t lose him. No, not his soft little prince. When he gained back his powers, he’d make the world truly his. He’d be a god, Dr. Iplier by his side.
“I can’t lose you too,” he whispered to himself. He’d gone from Edwards room to the library, and seated himself in one of the chairs, journal in his lap. The journal…
Could he-?
No. He would never do that to Dr. Iplier.
But he was a god! The doctor was but a human. There are more important things to be done.
Author tapped his fingers on the journal. It was better to regret than be open chested, heartbroken for him. He reached to his desk, picked up a pen, and began to write.
—
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the library door, and Author shut the journal before casually tossing it across the room. He stood, sauntering over to the door and opening it to see Dr. Iplier, red eyed and hands shaking. The man relaxed as the door opened. He gave himself a second to admire the way words on paper turned to imagery, before falling into character.
“Come in, sit down.”
The doctor did just that, nodding and rubbing his eyes.
“Are you alright, Dr. Iplier?”
The doctor smiled, and Author thanked himself for writing that detail in.
“I’m better now that you’re here. I… didn’t want to be alone, I guess. You’re always good company, Author.”
A stabbing of longing rang though Author as he imagined how much sweeter that would’ve been if it was actually Dr. Iplier, not Authors hand guiding him. Maybe the words were just him speaking to himself through the poor doctor. The only good company was himself. He’d gone too far, and now he was just a lonely, heartbroken god-
Dr. Iplier was in his lap, kissing him with those soft, perfect lips.
“I almost thought you forgot about me,” Edward whispered between desperate, heated kisses.
“I could never forget about you,” Author cooed. That was true. Then, the doctor kissed him again, hands sliding under his shirt, and any thought that he went too far disappeared.
“ Stop hogging all the blankets! ” (what about author and dr iplier? :D)
I had to do this one first iweghviwufehkvoailvrd
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Prompt 79: “Stop hogging all the blankets!”
It was five in the morning, and they were snowed in.
Edward wasn’t sure when the blizzard had started- the teeny-tiny radio in the cabin wasn’t exactly the best at picking up any other channel besides a rickety old rock station that barely played anything but static- but roughly a half hour ago a very groggy Author had muscled open the cabin door and out into the blizzard so he could check out the state of things.
He- along with half a ton of snow, blown in on hurricane-force winds- had stumbled back in frozen and loudly exclaiming that there was no way they were getting out of there any time soon.
Edward wasn’t too worried by that. All his classes were cancelled and he was too comfortable, wrapped in his cocoon of thick blankets and pillows, to bother with how he’d have to dig out his car later.
What he did have a problem with was the Author climbing back onto the futon with wet hair and cold skin.
“Stop hogging all the blankets!” Edward whined, grabbing at the comforter as it was dragged off him and he was left with nothing but the dark chill that slipped over every inch of exposed skin.
“’M cold.” The Author grumbled, half-asleep. “An’ y’won’t lemme touch you.”
“You’re freezing.”
“Not my problem.”
“Ugh… fine.” Edward let the Author scoot closer, let him wrap his arms around him and bury his damp head into his chest with a heaving sigh.
Relief flooded him as he was once again wrapped in the warmth of thick layers of blankets. And it wasn’t really so bad, having the Author attached to him. The man gave off heat like a radiator.
He soon found himself drifting back to sleep despite himself, content to listen to nothing but the Author’s soft snores drifting through the early morning air.
“I can’t lose you.”/”This isn’t open for discussion.” For Dr. Iplierst?
This one did not come easy. Have some possessive!Docthor.
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Prompt: “I can’t lose you.” / “This isn’t open for discussion.”
He knew his woods. Knew every twist to every winding path, knew every nook and cranny and crevice. Knew every monster that grunted and shuffled far within its depths.
So why was his quarry proving to be so elusive?
The Author huffed and tightened his grip on his bat, using it to hit a low-hanging branch out of his way as he went.
They’d been playing this game of hide and seek- with Edward running and hiding and the Author ever-so carefully, ever-so patiently stalking him- for more than two hours. And it had been fun at first. He’d enjoyed it immensely.
But the Author’s patience was wearing thin, and the sun was rapidly disappearing below the treeline. It would be dark soon, and Edward would have to come out. It was either that or risk running into one of the many, many monsters that roamed these woods.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” the Author called to the whispering trees, to the whining insects, to the breeze that pulled at his clothes. “I won’t hurt you. I love you! And wouldn’t you rather be with me than out here after dark?”
A distant roar shook the trees, echoing through the dimming sky. Behind him, the bushes rustled.
“This isn’t open for discussion,” the Author continued, starting toward the noise, padding silently over the dirt and grass, “you need to come out now.”
He lunged forward, into the bush. “Ah-ha!”
But there was no one. No head full of black curls, no smug smile, no Edward.
There was another roar, and not a moment later a distinctly Edward-sounding scream.
The Author whipped around, taking off into the woods.
—
The sun was gone and night had fallen by the time he smelled blood.
“Edward?” The Author slowed, looked around, noted that Edward had made it a lot closer to the road than he would’ve liked.
But that wasn’t important now. The smell of blood hung in the air like a fog, and bushes had been trampled. Branches lay, splintered, on the ground. Some of them were as thicker than the Author’s arm, clearly having been destroyed by something of superior strength and size.
Whatever it was that had done this was gone now. The question was whether or not it had taken Edward with it.
The Author leaned to examine the blood-splattered trunk of a maple tree, reaching out to run his fingers over it. It was fresh.
Suddenly he heard a low, pained moan, and he turned, spotting the figure lying on the ground.
“Edward! Love!” He hurried over, dropped his bat to the ground, knelt by him.
Edward was lying on his back, clutching at a clearly broken arm. Blood trickled from a gash in his forehead, and from several more lacerations that were visible through ragged tears in his shirt.
Tears spilled down his face and he cringed away as the Author reached for him, giving a small, strangled cry as his injuries were jostled.
“No! It’s okay.” The Author held up his hands. “I won’t hurt you. I’m going to take you back to the cabin and we’re going to get you patched up, okay?”
This time, Edward let the Author touch him, let the Author pick him up to cradle him against his chest.
The Author bent so he could retrieve his bat, somehow managing to balance it and Edward at the same time. Then he started back toward the cabin.
“You’re safe now, I promise. Nothing will hurt you.” He murmured. “I will keep you safe. No monster’s gonna get you. Not while I’m around.”
Edward didn’t reply, just heaved a defeated sigh. He hadn’t been able to escape this time. Hadn’t been able to break free of the Author’s grasp.
“I can’t lose you, you know,” the Author continued, tightening his grip around him, ignoring Edward’s mumbled protest. “I could never write another one like you.”
emptynarration 