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theknightmarket · 10 months

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Chapter 1

<> Chapter 1 <> 'You Were An Oh-So-Generous Imbecile' <>

You were pretty sure you hated your uncle. Hate was a big word, but it was a big sentiment that you harbored against him. If he wanted you to hate him less, then he should have actually told you what you were getting into – but he hadn’t, so you didn’t. That didn’t change where you were standing, that being in the front lawn of a rotting, decrepit manor with annoyance and fear steadily growing in your heart, on a beautiful summer’s day when you could have been doing literally anything else.

What a pain it was to be generous in this climate.

You slammed the door of your pick-up truck a bit harder than necessary, but it didn’t do as much to quell your anger as you had hoped it would. Instead, the only thing it did was startle the Jack Russel that had been peacefully napping in your passenger seat. The little thing jumped up at the indication you had arrived at your destination, beginning to whine at being in the car without you for more than a second. You rounded the hood, swung the other door open, and watched your pet leap to the dry dirt.

“C’mon, bud,” you muttered, mentally preparing yourself with a twist of your backpack’s strap, “let’s go see this damage.”

Buddy yipped at your feet as he trotted alongside you, only picking up the pace to be the first one at the top of the stairs that led to the porch. For him, it was completely silent with his rise, but your weight warranted a few more groans and creaks from the old wooden boards. Hopefully they would stay put until you had unloaded the boxes you brought with you. If they were to fall through, you were pretty sure you would boycott this entire thing.

However, for now, they were fine, meaning you were free to jostle the loop of keys that hung by your belt. The silver to your pick-up, the square to your apartment, the smooth to your work locker, and, finally, the rusted to the house. You eagerly shoved the key into the lock and twisted, not for want of seeing the interior, but more absolutely despising the texture of rust coming off on your fingers. With one hand, you pushed one half of the double doors and brushed the other off on your pant leg. It was the most you could do before putting on your gloves.

Buddy marched in before you, nose to the air and nails skittering over the boards. The bridge of light marked by your entrance didn’t let you see far, but it was enough to know that this place was going to be, to put it lightly, a lot of work. In just the foyer, you could see splinters in the floor, furniture scrapings along the baseboard, and too many holes to count in the walls. Half of the banister that trailed unhelpfully up the staircase to your right was snapped off, and a chill spread through your fingertips to the back of your neck at the sight of an extremely spear-like section at the curve.

You slung your backpack off your shoulder, landing it clean in the dust. Not ideal, but you were able to retrieve the notepad and pen that you had stashed in there from the depths, catching a flashlight and pair of gloves on the way out. Those went on before you pulled the bag back over your shoulder. The items left on the floor you brought with you when you stood back up straight, and, snapping the torch on, you noted down the damage in the notepad. Later, you would sort them out in order of importance, but now was time for inventory.

Once all your things were in order, and you had figured out a music situation that wouldn’t stop you from accidentally getting attacked by a racoon from not hearing it sneak up on your or you having no hands to defend yourself, you set out on your mission.

One that, by your count, took two hours, and that was just the first floor.

Now, when your uncle had offered you the ‘opportunity of a lifetime’ – which, really, should have been the first red flag – you hadn’t asked many questions. Only the basics you got answers to, like where the place was, when you could start, and how big it was. He posed it as a business proposition, you believed it to be a favor, and where did that leave you? Standing in front of this busted-up manor with the unenviable task of fixing it up to a livable condition, that’s where, and with three entire pages of repairs, it was definitely unenviable.

You flopped against the cardboard boxes in the back of your truck. Ceramics dug into your sides, and cushions cramped you into a box yourself, but it was the most you could relax in clear view of the second floor. A sigh forced itself between your teeth; to recount, there had been 11 rooms: a foyer, a kitchen, a living room, a dining room, an office, a game room, a library, a pantry, a sunroom, and two bathrooms, plus or minus a few storage closets. How this place had been considered a home and not a hotel was beyond you, but you did know that you would kill to live in a place like this. Currently, you were renting a one-bedroom apartment in the bad side of your hometown, though, your uncle was now occupying it while you managed the manor.

Glaring up at the shaded windows of the second floor, you wondered if you had been tricked, even if you were somewhat to blame for not asking more questions, not least of all how he came into such a building in the first place. Your uncle wasn’t rich, he wasn’t particularly well-liked enough to have inherited it, the most likely scenario that you could think of was that he had broken in and decided you would be the best person to make it all better.

You glared down at your hands; you were only getting yourself more worked up, and that was doing you no good. The best thing to do would be to check out the damage on the second floor, and then make your next plan of action, which would probably include setting yourself up in one of the bedrooms.

And yes, you knew that there were multiple bedrooms, only because your uncle had phrased it as being a good place for the family to meet up without having to worry about getting home to sleep. But, knowing him, you wouldn’t put it past him to expect everyone to sleep in a tent outside.

The size of the floor gave you some security in your idea, so you threw yourself out the cargo bed and strutted up to the front door again. As you passed, you tried to keep your eyes off the growing pile of rats, mice, and other pests that Buddy had been delivering to the porch. You had never been gladder to have a hunting dog as a companion, the suggestion of finding all those vermin yourself practically making you gag.

But the journey up the stairs damn-near made you flinch. That spiked section taunted you as you neared it, and, even when you’d moved away by five steps, it felt like you were just one wrong move from impaling yourself on it. You could already feel that being at the top of your list from mere discomfort alone, but that would have to come after looking at the remaining rooms. You only hoped that they would be better than the downstairs.

When your feet came to a stop at the carpet in the hallway, you were greeted by the lovely sight of not-too-much-damage. It seemed to have been spared from the barrage of destruction that the rest of the house suffered from, with the walls looking good as new. No peeling paint, no scratches, no nothing could be seen in the dim light given by an overarching window. The decorations didn’t look bad either, with the only thing off being a knocked over vase, luckily, empty. The corners of your lips perked up in relief. This wasn’t so bad.

Or, you had thought, before you took a couple steps forward and your left leg fell straight through the floor.

You cursed and panicked and flailed, the jagged edges of broken floorboards jutting into your leg and pulling the skin from the flesh of your calf. Immediate lines of pain struck like lightning; the true damage hidden from you by your thigh getting stuck in the hole. The few spots of light that surrounded you only hinted that there was going to be splinters in your leg, and the stinging agreed with that.

Alongside your squirming, your music played naïvely, not quite a mockery as it was a bystander not realizing they were a bystander. Past that, it was very quickly becoming a hindrance, clogging your brain with innocent lyrics, and tugging your attention in too many places. Your breathing hastened underneath the melody.

You needed to stop panicking. You knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier, especially when you could feel the beginnings of a trail of blood flow down your leg. Your breathing was stuck between calming down and speeding up, mind desperately trying to keep up with your instincts. It was an unfortunate purgatory that you found yourself in while your body fought with itself to decide your next course of action. The second that you started to shift in the hold of the floor, pain leaped out and stopped you dead in your tracks. You tried to take in a deep breath but even that felt like the wrong move. A million and one questions sprinted through your mind; how were you going to get out, how long would it take, where was your dog, were you going to die? That one was unlikely, but you were understandably scared.

Which meant that you needed to calm down, and that was somewhat easier now that the shot of adrenaline was emptying out of your system. So, planting your hands against the floor at your sides, you sucked in a breath, held it, and began the task of bringing yourself up. The first seconds were the hardest, since you were also taking the splinters of wood that were still attached to the boards with you. When they snapped, you, trusting that it wasn’t the sound of your bones breaking or something, managed to wedge yourself out and lug your body onto more stable ground.

You couldn’t help but let out a pitiful laugh. The first day wasn’t even over yet, and you’d nearly fallen through the second floor. You could try and get some compensation for that, but then you wondered if this was even legal, and you were already too tired to deal with your uncle, let alone law enforcement. That left you lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, and hoping beyond all hope that there wasn’t a secret third floor.

As you let your head loll to the side, another aspect was added to your hopes; that being that you hadn’t somehow gotten head trauma from this whole incident – because, standing at the end of the hallway, bathed in the light from your flashlight, was a person. A full, in-tact, random stranger, who was decked out in a black suit and white dress shirt. A similarly ashen cane was planted next to stainless dress shoes, giving the impression of high-class society. That, coupled with a ribbon on their lapel, hinted that they weren’t actually there.

You rubbed your eyes with one, dusty hand, and then brought yourself to look in their direction again. They hadn’t disappeared.

Were they real?

You called out a shaky, “Hello?” to which they didn’t respond.

Not real.

They blinked.

Real.

You collected yourself and stood to your feet, albeit without much confidence now that you were once more above the hole, but you managed to take a step closer. Again, they failed to react.

Not real.

But they weren’t a trick of the light, and your head felt relatively fine, so what was causing this illusion? Was it an illusion in the first place?

“You… nobody’s supposed to be here,” you mumbled, barely loud enough for it to be heard. Nevertheless, it seemed third time was the charm, because this did earn a response from the suited stranger. That being, they twisted on their heel and walked into one of the adjacent rooms, not even the sound of their cane coming down on the floor trailing after them.

Without much else to do, you pursued.

“Hey, wait!” you called, skidding to a stop where they once stood, “I’m gonna need to talk to you!” Your own heartbeat overtook the sound of your shoes against the boards as you rushed to open the door that they had presumably closed behind them. “You can’t just—!”

They were gone. There was nothing else to say, apart from that they were gone, like a fire’s smoke dissipating into the air. You didn’t know how, considering that you were only two seconds behind them, and there was no feasible way out of the room, apart from the door that you were obviously blocking. If there were some secret passage, it wasn’t visible to you, and they wouldn’t have had enough time to close a door behind them when you had gotten into the room.

You hated this.

But you still had a job to do, so, having the chance to brush yourself off, you whipped out the notebook and pen from your back pocket, put the flashlight in your mouth, and started to inspect the room. All the while, you tried your hardest to dismiss the stranger as an adrenaline-created illusion.

It was pretty obvious that the room was another study, a lot like the one downstairs, if not smaller. That would have made it appear cozier, but the tighter constraints were only balanced out by the sparse décor. It was simple; a desk, chair, and – when you approached to grab at the string – a broken lamp were stationed underneath the singular, large window. The draws were entirely empty, save for a fine layer of dust that similarly permeated the air. In fact, everything was coated with the stuff, from the shelf and mirror at one end of the room, to the chest of draws at the other. Why such a thing was in there was beyond you, but, like the desk, they were all empty. It was a good thing, too, because, as soon as you pulled one of the handles, the whole thing collapsed in on itself, as if it had never been stable in the first place. Next to the note of its damage, you scribbled down a reminder to just throw the whole thing out.

Apart from that, the damage in this study was less unique. There were the common scratches along the floorboards and the peeling paint, though those could all be fixed just as the rest of the house. You left that room feeling infinitely more positive about your chances than when you ran into it.

Those positive feelings were dashed as soon as you stepped foot into the room across from it.

What looked like it should have been in a hospital instead of an old manor, also would have suited a dump better. Five beds, headboards aligned against the walls, gave the whole place an asylum-esque feeling. The cold metal outside, the spilled first aid boxes, a collection of pill bottles in the corner, and a stain on the floor that you wished was just weird-old-house-juice but was definitely just blood. A horror scene that had happened years ago.

“Oh, what the fuck,” you sighed. You repeated this as you stumbled through a forest floor of old clothes and spare rags, not a single one looking useful anymore. Picking your way over them, you made your way to the bottles in the corner. It would give you an indication of the furthest this house could have been occupied.

After locating one with a semi-legible label, you twisted it around to look at the expiration date. March 1995. March 1995. 23 years ago. You quickly dropped the bottle.

Well, at least it explained the state of the place. 23 years was plenty of time for raccoons or bandits to come along and pick it apart, not to mention the damage it could have sustained from the owner themself, especially given that this specific room looked more like an infirmary than a normal bedroom. It was anyone’s guess as to what the entire manor was used for.

Your shoes clicked at the door a few moments later, when you were entirely done looking over the room. They weren’t normally this loud, but, when the only other inhabitant of the building was your dog – who was who-knows-where – and a possible ghost, there wasn’t much else to fill the void. In fact, it was an eerie quiet, a worrisome quiet, a something-is-wrong quiet.

Why had your music stopped?

Your hand trailed to your ear.

What happened to your earbuds?

You patted your backpack’s pocket.

Where was your phone?

You didn’t have the time to have another freak-out, nor did you want to, so you elected to take a deep breath in and turn back to the infirmary room. You valued the thing that held all your information, contacts, and way out of the manor over your body not contracting some minor disease, so you retraced your steps to the best of your ability. It was like diving without a mask, you would keep coming back out of the piles of stained rags and medicine bottles to get oxygen, and then you’d go back down to try and find your phone amongst the wreckage. Along the way, you discovered a worrying number of bullet holes in the floorboards below – 13, you counted – and a couple cinder marks marring the baseboard. The piling concerns for the building’s integrity didn’t help the fact that you did not find your phone, but you had been sure that you had it when you first entered. Where else could it have been?

Sighing, you admitted that there was a lot of places it could have been, and your not-so-enviable task of searching for your phone was not-so-kindly extended. Ten minutes turned to thirty, thirty minutes turned to an hour, and then an hour turned to two, until you had wasted two whole hours looking in every nook and cranny, even the rooms you had yet to explore. After scouring the hallway, study, and the infirmary for a second or third time, you moved on to the rooms the other side of the staircase.

The first were quick busts; two bathrooms that would have suited a haunted house more than there, with growing mold spots you were not excited to deal with. The porcelain of one of the sinks had been cracked so much that it would spill any water poured into it if the pipes worked at all. You doubted it very much so, especially for the second toilet that had duct-tape haphazardly wrapped around a portion. It also had you making a mental note to look up when lead pipes were banned.

Next up was a bedroom. The master bedroom, you presumed, given the larger bed and the adjoining bathroom. You gaped at the red satin sheets when you first entered, marveled at the canopy drawn around them, which were an equally rich color, and let out an expected wolf whistle for the impeccable mahogany posts. Looking at it nearly brought tears to your eyes, not only because of the unimageable design, but because it looked untouched. No damage for you to deal with. You felt the bright light of hope claw itself from the depths of your stomach. If you weren’t still missing your phone, you would have collapsed onto the plush pillows.

You shuddered with the burden of a sinner when you forced yourself to disturb the room to search – was it worth it, though – and you were quick to leave when you found nothing. When your boots stopped outside the room, you couldn’t help but laugh. What were you, a maid too scared to get caught in the master’s private quarters?

You stopped laughing when you realized that was just what you were.

Onto the next room! You scuttled from the master bedroom to the room opposite. What you thought was a room, anyway, a belief that was broken when you opened the doors to see the outside. A balcony that stretched from the door you had just stepped through to the room one over. That same mahogany danced the border between you and the rest of the world, the same as the bedroom, but with notable cracks and divots. Patterns were inscribed in the pillars supporting the roof above, and, for a brief moment, your shoulders dropped, your lungs exhaled, your weight disappeared just like that. With how creepy the manor appeared, you had forgotten that it was still a home. One that people lived their lives in.

Carved into the banister were notes. Some were small, some were full sentences. ‘Don’t forget Tiny’s birthday’ – ‘violet, moss, garlic’ – ‘o’ slow-winged turtle, shall a buzzard take thee?’. None of them lined up in a manner of tone or handwriting, it just showed you how many people had taken to this place enough to leave something of themself there, ingrained in the wood. You would probably be passing this onto your uncle when you finished up, and, for some reason, that almost disappointed you. Sentimentality was a fickle thing, you had your ups and downs with it, and yet you rapidly found yourself wanting to make the same connection that these people had made, even though you knew it would be short-lived and painful. But maybe that was what it was like for them, too.

You wished you could meet them.

Pushing off from the balcony’s edge, you decided that this wasn’t something you needed to fix. Instead, you would focus on getting your phone to finish up the day. It was already getting late, with the sun dipping into the horizon behind you, so it was the most you could do to make use of the light. You only hoped you could find it soon, or else you’d be stuck for the rest of the night in the dark, alone. The mere thought made you shiver as you pulled open the other door along the balcony.

And then you stopped.

“Okay, then.” Your quiet muttering was left drifting in the air. You tried to conjure another thought to replace it, something more helpful, but you only managed another, “Okay.”

The floor space was relatively empty in the room. A single leather chair sat next to a small table in the middle, while a bookcase leaned against one wall. In contrast, the walls were what caught your attention; from one corner to the next, the tanned wallpaper was splattered with mounted animal heads like bullets from a shotgun blast. The largest was a bison, complete with the two horns and furry head. Surrounding it was a wolf, moose, and elk separately mounted. Golden plaques were screwed in below some, though others had either fallen to the ground or disappeared entirely. As you side-stepped a crack in the floor that was barely hidden by a dusty rug, you were sympathetic to the smaller wolf head that had a clear bullet through its forehead, one not taken in its death. Whoever had been in there before you had an obvious distaste for the décor choice.

The room itself unnerved you. The glossy eyes of dead animals both mocked and pitied you as you walked towards the centre, like the angels of death that couldn’t make up their minds. The lack of… well, anything made you grimace; there was no smell, no sound, no sight for the blackened edges of the room that neither your torch nor the windows could reach. But the feature at the head of it all, the one that had you debating taking off from the balcony behind you, was your phone on the table.

Your phone, on the table, in a room you hadn’t even known existed.

Why were you doing this again?

Oh, yeah, because you were an oh-so-generous imbecile.

Your damn-near jumped out of your skin when your phone started belting a tune to an old song you thought you’d forgotten. It would have been nostalgic in any other situation, but you rushed forward to scoop the offending device up and jump to the door. The eyes of the taxidermized heads trailed your boots, burning holes into your back and bringing a cold shock up your spine. You didn’t look back, refused to look back, until you were safely crashing into the front seat of your truck. The door slammed next to you, making both yourself and Buddy – who had been peacefully snoozing away in the passenger seat – rear up like horses.

“Damn it,” you mumbled, elbows on the steering wheel and the heels of your hands boring into your eyes, as if, if you pushed hard enough, you could gouge the fear out of your brain. It didn’t work.

But the adrenaline was leaking out of you now that you were inside something that wasn’t an ancient manor dead-set on giving you a heart-attack. You even managed to crack a smile when you felt the wet texture of Buddy’s nose push against your side. Bringing one hand to scratch behind your ears, you steeled your nerves and stared daggers into the window opposite you.

You weren’t going to be beaten. Not by a house that could be knocked down by a bad gust of wind. Not here, not now.

“C’mon, bud,” you announced with a confidence that was half-convincing your canine companion, “let’s go set up shop.”

You lugged the borderline camping gear out of the bed of your truck, Buddy helping by carrying his dog bed as best he could, and through to the foyer. It was only the question of where you would be sleeping. The bedrooms were no-go, the master was definitely out because you would feel like you were disgracing a 1600s lord, and you were not sleeping in a bathroom. Most of the downstairs rooms were out, as much as it pained you to say it, just from the concerning amount of bullet holes in the walls that meant it was as cold as a grave down there. That meant that the best bet was the study.

So, that’s where you found yourself, ten minutes later, with an old mattress covered with a comforter you’d found buried in your closet draped over it. A flat pillow marked the top of the bed, while Buddy’s little nest sat next to the bottom. With him with you, you could find relief in there being no rats, at the very least.

It was when you were getting dressed into your nightwear that you received a message from the one person you had been dreading talking to, who was also the someone you’d missed a call from out of your panic.

Throwing your last shirt over the chair, you tapped on your uncle’s contact and skimmed over his message.

‘Hows it going champ’.

You scowled.

‘Really appreciate you doing this for me’.

Your fingers moved quicker than your brain, but, at 11 o’clock at night, with your physical and mental energy zapped, that wasn’t an accomplishment.

‘I hate you.’

His reply was immediate. ‘I know’.

You flopped onto the mattress and pushed your face into the pillow. With your luck, maybe you’d suffocate before the morning.

But that wouldn’t be the end of it. Not for you, because something in the manor was stirring. While you slept on the second floor, the first floor was alive with whisps of shadow, light, laughter, and graveness.

This was not an uncommon occurrence. In the past 100 years that this house had stood, there had been many a meeting in its halls. Now, the dining room was being used as the hub for nine very uncommon individuals.

At the foot of the table, on the right-hand side, sat someone only shadowed by the brim of their hat. A strap stretched from one shoulder to the other, the same color as the table at which they sat, and it ended at a satchel marred with soot, similar to the rest of their outfit. A button-up shirt and, noticeably, two different belts to hold up their pants. As was typical, a smirk was carved into their mouth, like they were getting just what they wanted, regardless of whether they knew what that was or not. What was not typical, however, was that it was closed.

Opposing them was someone who looked vastly brighter and bubblier. No smirk, just a calm, welcoming grin, almost golden retriever like. Given the late-night mist practically pooling around their feet, their attire was the most suited to where they sat; a beige jumpsuit thrown over a spotless turtleneck, adorned with patches and badges that hinted at a wider experience than what was given by their disposition. A belt wrapped around their waist – just one, this time – but it was decorated with little machines with readings and logs and all manner of technical things that lit up once in a while. In general, they looked happy to be there.

Next to the first person was a figure hunched over, calloused hands squeezed between their legs. A myriad of tattoos drifted up their arms, breached their neck and curved down their chest, not that all of them were visible. A plain white shirt blocked most, but that didn’t cover the scratches and bruises that dotted their face. A plaster here, a bandage there. Some looked like they had never fully healed, while some appeared as though they had been sewn into the skin.

That was nothing, though, given who they were across from. The most notable thing about them was the bloodied rag wound around their eyes, the middle pushed in as if the sockets were empty. The trail of velvet dripped down from the cloth to the dress shirt to the collar of their trench coat, marrying the fabrics together. This figure sat straight, straighter than any of the others before them, and yet was just as relaxed. They found comfort in their knowledge, which scattered from their mouth with no sign of stopping.

Continuing on was someone situated diagonal to the blinded. Had there not been a constant flickering of light from their right, one might have thought they were hidden in the darkness, bathed only in the light of the shadows. They were completely grayscale, not a single article of clothing or expanse of skin was natural. A gray hat with a black band – the shadow it threw down nearly invisible compared to the rest of them –, darkened eyebrows that hinted at nothing but curiosity, a tie loosened around their own dress shirt that offered the strictest contrast. Their head was tossed to the side, but it was held aloft just enough that they were able to guide a glass of whiskey to their lips.

Despite this phantasm being a contradiction of color in of themself, the one perched haphazardly in the seat over the table was an insult to their monochromatic scheme. They were dressed head to toe with a sugary motif, like cotton candy turned to silk. The two shared a drink, however, as one of their hands curled around a martini glass. The bright pink handlebar mustache was a surprise and the fluffy hair that dropped over their forehead threw the only darkness on their face. Even the air around them seemed to pop and fizz with eccentricity; fireworks on the fourth of July.

A much more arrogant space wavered around the one on the next diagonal. They laid back in their chair, like it wouldn’t dare fall over with them in it, no matter how far they tipped it, something they did with proud elegance. Slicked back hair that tapered out at points less effected by product swayed as they rocked, not a single piece out of place enough to touch the collar of their shirt. Their outfit looked plucked straight out of a catalogue, nothing odd or unkempt or even ruffled. A deep crimson suit jacket sat atop the dress shirt, with a black bowtie peeking out between the folds. Although it appeared without fault, the person donning them looked like they would rather be wearing anything else; otherwise, the scowl was just a permanent quirk of their face.

Their opposing guest dropped the vibrancy, settling, instead, for the classic suit jacket, shirt and pants that high-class society adorned. Slicked back hair, more so than the previous figure, but the only feeling expressed was a strict somberness. A prisoner accustomed to their fate, their eyes were trained on the reflective surface of the table, their hands fiddled with a cane that was their only tethering to this world.

All of these phantoms of the night were gathered in the same place, for once in a blue moon, to discuss a single matter. Each had been questioned in turn, and, while some were let off without a comment, others were heavily berated. Often times, they weren’t sure of what these meetings were for, but there were the odd occasions, the rarest of the rare, that it was obvious.

The dismal creature at the head of the table, sitting with their hands wrapped firmly around each other – as if the last speck of patience they held was caught in their fingers –, had announced the communion for one reason, and one reason only. The room flexed around them, and the blinking of red and blue lights struck lightning into the walls. Their grasp was so tight, not as if they were running out of patience, but because they were. Collected in a black shirt and white suit, ashen skin only rivaling that of the monochrome guest, it was easy to imagine it cracking.

“Now,” they spoke, slowly rising to their feet in what felt like a millisecond, “what are we going to do about the new owner?”

And crack it did.

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bookwormscififan · 2 hours

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Let's see how about some fluff with Host and Night on a date? ❤️

Fluff!

“I never thought you’d be the one to make us run late,” Night joked, watching as Host wrapped the bandage around his eyes.

“My appearance is not for vanity, but for others’ comfort,” Host replied, adjusting his sleeves before turning to face Night. “We can go now. Take me to this place you said good things about.”

Night chuckled before taking Host’s hand, leading him out of the house and toward the small grove of trees at the end of town.

What he didn’t tell Host was that he’d prepared a picnic dinner under the stars in the clearing of the woods where supposedly “magic” things happened.

“Two more steps, then you can sit down,” Night stated, letting go of Host’s hand and guiding him to sit on the blanket laid over the grass. “Now, would you like wine or something else?”

“You have wine?” Host asked, frowning at Night’s offer in confusion. “It feels like you brought me into the woods.”

“I prepared a beautiful dinner for you,” Night replied, smiling at Host’s blush. “All you need to do is sit back and enjoy the meal.”

Host smiled, leaning into Night’s presence as the god began to gently feed him pieces of food, punctuating each mouthful with a light peck on the lips. Each kiss made Host blush, giving Night the best view as the starlight illuminated the rose of his cheeks.

With the dinner finished, Night guided Host to lie back, resting his head in his lap. Gently massaging his head, Night described the sky above them, feeling Host relax against him.

“Are you falling asleep, my owl?” Night asked, tone light as he looked lovingly down at Host.

“No,” Host mumbled, settling more with a half smile. His smile only grew as Night laughed, a rumble deep in his chest, and he reached up to hold the god’s elbow when Night leaned down to kiss him again.

“Sleep if you need to, dearest. I’ll be here with you all night.”

The stars shone brightly above the couple in the woods, a romantic backdrop against the pleased company of the duo.

———————-

@iamvegorott @brokentimewatch

#asks #answered #ariesshower #writing #fanfiction #markiplier fanfiction #god of night #host #noist #fluff

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intolerable-sushi · 3 months

Text

What ego would you like to see me write next?

#markiplier #markiplier egos #darkiplier #wilford warfstache #googliplier #googleplier #markiplier illinios #yancy #yancy ahwm #illinios ahwm #the host #actor mark #fanfic #poll #blog polls #tumblr polls #markiplier fanfiction

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eternalegohell · 2 years

Note

Host with placing a soft kiss on their forehead?

Hey hey there!!! I was working on this all day, so I hope you like it! (not very long tho :') I was gonna add more but my brain!!! It said no.)

I wasn't given a ship so this one's an x reader (my very first x reader, wow!) and I tried to make it as gender neutral as I could.

Word Count: 585 (IT FEELS LIKE IT SHOULD BE MORE... I'M SO SORRY ANON, I TRIED.)

Summary: The Host takes you out for a walk to the lake.

You bask in the comforting silence of a warm autumnal day, your back sinking into the soft cushions of the sofa beneath you. Only about half awake, what’s left of your conscious thought enjoys the warmth your wooly sweater absorbed from the golden rays of sun, shining through the window.

It’s quiet, save for the soft, distant sounds of nature that sneak into the house.

“The Host sits in the window sill, his knees to his chest, and his head against the cold glass of the window,” the Host narrates softly, his words making their way into your mind, slowly pulling you back towards reality “he enjoys the gentle chill the breeze provides him.”

You keep your eyes closed as your boyfriend’s words put you at ease.

“The Host very much enjoys the sounds of nature… the leaves of the trees rustling in the wind… the birds chirping… the only thing he could imagine being more calming is the sound of waves washing against a shore in the distance…” he says, getting up and unfolding his cane.

“The Host is deciding to go for a walk along the boardwalk. He’s wondering if his significant other would like to join him on his afternoon stroll…?

You agree, and the Host gives you a small smile.

He offers you his hand, and you take it happily.

Silently, he leads you to the boardwalk, considering you’re still new to the area.

You step onto the wooden planks, the breeze growing cooler as you approach the lake.

Once there, the Host lets go of your hand and walks ahead of you, but only slightly.

He smiles as he finds a bench to sit on, and takes a seat.

“The Host sits down on a bench, but encourages his partner to look around and enjoy the view… he knows it is quite beautiful.”

You smile and say “Okay,” before going over to the fence blocking off the edge of the platform, and resting your arms upon it.

Waves wash against the shore, a mesmerizing push and pull of glistening water under the autumn sun. You take a deep breath in and out, enjoying the smell of the fresh air over the lake.

After a moment of silence, you join the Host, sitting on the bench beside him…

A chill overtakes you as a breeze cuts through your sweater.

You shiver, to which the Host looks at you “The Host presumes you’re cold…?”

“Y-Yeah a bit,” you reply with a nervous chuckle.

“Here— The Host will take off his coat and give it to you,” he says, taking off his trench coat and handing it out to you.

You feel your face warm up with blush before taking the coat and putting it on.

It’s still warm from being worn…

It felt cozy… It felt fuzzy…

It felt like love… a comfortable warmth being transferred from his body, and back to yours…

Enveloped in this soothing warmth, the calmness of the lake consumes you as you lean into the Host and begin to drift off.

The man besides you giggles lightly, enjoying the comfortable weight of you lightly pressed against him.

He lets you rest whilst enjoying the serenity of the lake…

The light breeze, the rustling of the tree leaves, the sounds of the waves, and his beloved partner, nestled against him for warmth…

He smiled, and as he leaned over and lightly pressed his lips against your forehead, only one thought ran through his mind…

…He couldn’t be happier…

#iplier egos #markiplier egos #the host #x reader #the host x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #guys I think I forgot how to write SDFGFDSFGF #like..... kinda hate this.... kinda not good....#but Imma put it out into the world anyway!!! I hope you like it at least a little bit :')

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juju-on-that-yeet · 1 year

Text

Unravel (17/20)

Work Summary: Antisepticeye has a plan to destroy Darkiplier, steal his power, and take over everything - and he might just succeed. What starts with Yandereplier going missing evolves into a messy web of betrayal and grief, of blood and tears, of old wounds and new faces. However this ends, Ego Inc. will never be the same again. Chapter Summary: Things are finally starting to improve at Ego Inc., but there’s still more to do to prepare for Anti’s return - including a return to a place thought lost, for a person thought gone. Warnings: None

Read on AO3

Enjoy!

It happens only a day after Google, Chrome, and Bing finally finish repairing Oliver and Plus. After this, there’s truly nothing left to do but wait for something to happen. Many days have passed since the battle with Anti and his puppets, and the thought of him coming back still looms large. Surely Jackie and Marvin are alive again by now, given their popularity.

But before Anti can return, something else happens instead.

One day after Oliver and Plus are repaired, Chrome is lingering in the workshop anyway, ostensibly creating some small gadget but more aware of his brothers than the metalwork in his hands. He is impatient as he always is. Google is outside the workshop using a video game for distraction, and Chrome has tried that, but felt the need to be close to his brothers. Maybe a part of him knew what would happen, maybe his internal connections to his brothers let him know that something was going to change.

Whatever the reason, Chrome is in the room when Plus wakes up.

His eyes shoot open, and his whole system stutters in what would be a gasp if he were human. But Plus has no real need for air, so instead, he’s seized by a body-wide glitch, but only for a moment. In the next, he is sitting up, astonished, frozen in place by the shock of being alive.

He glances around, and sees Oliver, still dead. He sees Chrome, also frozen, staring at Plus in amazement, the way early man might’ve stared at the sunrise. For many long moments, nothing happens. Both are in too much shock. But it passes before long, as memories start to flood into Plus, and emotion starts to flood into Chrome.

“Green,” Chrome gasps, walking towards his brother. Walking, but then running.

“Red,” Plus says back, voice just as strained, unable to get out anything else before Chrome slams into him, squeezing him hard enough to crush if he were a human.

Plus sobs, tears falling out of him without his control, hands clinging to Chrome’s shirt, looking for grounding. Chrome is crying too, as he has done many times in the recent past, but this time it feels different. It still hurts, but the hurt is warm, red-hot with love and joy that he has his twin back.

It’s at that moment that Google, attracted by the noise (and immediately recognizing the sound of his once-dead brother’s tears) slams open the door of the workshop, too single-minded to care about damaging it. Google sees the pair of them, and his core thrums with that same sort of joyful pain that Chrome is feeling too, but he sees something else just beyond them that makes his eyes go huge. Chrome and Plus look at Google and turn to track his gaze.

In their reunion, they didn’t notice Oliver sit up in his own stretcher, hand over his core at the memory of it being ripped from him, gasping. He feels eyes on him and looks up, sees his brothers staring.

“Guys?” he whimpers, already teary-eyed, already strained, already rendered quiet from the sobs building in his throat.

Google’s by him so fast it’s like he teleported, holding him close, and Oliver feels the tears of his stoic, cool-headed big brother seep into his hair. That’s all he needs to start crying too, much harder, much messier than all four of his brothers. He glitches, not as bad as Plus did, but repeatedly, emotions running so high that even his sophisticated metal cortex can barely process them.

Each pair comes together, in a circle of equal parts relief and joy, terror and regret, pain, love.

“I’m sorry,” Chrome sobs, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry–”

“I-It’s not, no-o-ot–” Oliver tries to say, but can’t get through his sentence for glitching.

“Ollie’s right, i-it wasn’t your fault,” Plus explains and affirms, leaning forward and letting his forehead touch Chrome’s.

“We’re okay,” Google murmurs, the only one not talking through sobs, though his voice is still warped from tears. He kisses each brother’s head. “We’re all okay now.”

He’s hyper-intelligent, they all are, yet none of them can think of anything more to say. It’s so very human, the way their emotions are clogging their throats and scrambling their thoughts, but none of them care. Their family is whole again, and nothing else matters.

The news that Oliver and Plus are alive spreads fast, and the egos are overjoyed for them, relieved to have something good to break through the fear and despair they’ve all been feeling, happy to have Plus and Oliver back, glad beyond words that they did not fade away into the ether.

The Host is happy for them too, he supposes.

As happy as he can be, while Dr. Iplier remains dead. Google stitched him up days ago, yet he still hasn’t woken. Oliver and Plus woke up immediately after being fixed, but here is Dr. Iplier, body whole, yet without a soul to call it home.

Host is with him now, in Dr. Iplier’s room and sitting at his bedside, as he always is lately. He only ever leaves him to sleep in his own room (he did try to sleep alongside Dr. Iplier once, but he was too cold and too still, and it provided Host no comfort). He only ever stays away when his despair prevents him from getting out of bed. Yandere at least has Chrome to concern himself with, and Yancy and Wilford to turn to when he desires a break from staring at Dr. Iplier’s motionless face, and is thus here less often than Host is.

But Host has no one else. Dr. Iplier is his all. It hurts Host so desperately to be in the room with him, to hear the silence where there should be breath, to feel how much colder Dr. Iplier’s hands are than they should be. But what else can he do? He loves Dr. Iplier, he can’t stay away. If Dr. Iplier faded away while Host wasn’t with him, Host would never forgive himself for not being there. He wonders if this was how Dr. Iplier felt when The Author died, when he was waiting and hoping for him to wake, dreading the thought of him disappearing, consumed by paranoia and terror and slow, aching agony. Host would not wish this feeling on even Dark.

But he wishes it on Anti, if only the man had someone he loved enough to be hurt by. Host is only ever not numb or depressed when he thinks about Anti, no doubt annoyed at the last battle’s stalemate but otherwise content. Meanwhile, here is Host, dying the slow death of grief. When Anti ripped out Dr. Iplier’s heart, he ripped out Host’s heart, too.

There’s a meeting today. Host was summoned. He does not care. He will stay here, by his doctor, because now that Oliver and Plus have woken, it’s only a matter of time before Dr. Iplier either wakes or fades. No matter which it is, Host will be there for it. He can’t help but narrate every so often, just so he can visualize Dr. Iplier and make sure he isn’t going transparent. He’d probably feel it if it began to happen, feel Dr. Iplier’s hand become incorporeal in his. But he doesn’t want to take the risk, so he narrates, even as it pains him to see his love this way. He used to talk more, used to whisper to Dr. Iplier, tell him how missed he was, how loved, how desperately needed. But Host has run out of things to say, and he finds himself always exhausted, too tired to speak much at all. He used to cry, but he can’t muster it now. His eyes bleed anyway, enough to have Google changing his bandages every day, but Host never sobs, and his voice, though raspy and quiet, does not waver with tears. Were Host human, he would surely have bled out a hundred times over since Dr. Iplier was killed.

But he will stay, stay until Dr. Iplier comes back to him or leaves him forever, and either way, he will bleed out a hundred times more.

At least, that is his plan, until Wilford comes into the room after the meeting Host skipped.

Host doesn’t need his eyes to know it’s Wilford. His steps are heavy, louder than they need to be, but springy in a way that the similarly weighty steps of the androids aren’t. Wilford’s not alone either; feather-light steps come behind him, suggesting a small stature and subdued manner, yet with a similar bounce to them as Wilford’s. But Host mainly recognizes Yandere’s steps from all the times he’s heard them in the recent past. Wilford and Yandere come into the room, and one of them (probably Yandere) closes the door behind them.

“Host,” Wilford begins, “We missed you at the meeting.”

Host lets out a noncommittal mumble.

“We have…” Wilford starts, unsure of the words to use, “We have a plan, something we want to do to help us with Anti and help bring back Dark. But we need you to help us do it.”

“What exactly is this plan?” Host asks. He doesn’t direct his head towards Wilford’s voice, or really move at all, but he is somewhat curious. As current second-in-command, he supposes it’s for the best that he cares.

“Well, Celine has gotten a bit…restless, lately,” Wilford says, and Host can hear the tension and frustration in his tone. “She’s been going through Dark’s office, looking for anything useful. Damien wasn’t aware of anything there, he said as much, but Celine looked anyway, and she found something.”

Host isn’t surprised to hear about Celine’s restlessness. The emotions between Wilford and Celine were so thick in the air that Host could sense them without even narrating, and it had only seemed to get more intense the longer Wilford helped Celine develop her magic. Though Host was rarely with them while they trained, he could sense the romantic turmoil they were feeling even when he encountered them separately. Wilford certainly had it more deeply, but Celine had love for Wilford too, Host could tell. Maybe she still does, but something happened not very long ago that changed the air between them. Their emotions around each other now are much more subdued, sadder, solemn, frustrated. Host doesn’t know what happened, but whatever it was, it affected them both greatly, apparently enough to make Celine look for an escape.

“What did she find?” Host asks.

“Notes. About…” Wilford huffs out. “About the manor. And a map. Dark…” Wilford huffs again, sadder and slower. “Dark knew where it was this whole time.”

Host sits up straighter at that. It astonishes him, that the manor exists out there, the pure fact of it, and then the fact that Dark knew about it, and finally the knowledge that Dark kept it a secret. But once the initial shock wears off, he finds it to be unsurprising. Of course the manor exists, why wouldn’t it, given the magic it held? And if it exists, it follows that Dark would be the one to find it, given his deep connection to the place. The fact that he hid it is harder to swallow. Host is, frankly, amazed that he never noticed what Dark was hiding this whole time. But then, he always knew Dark kept secrets, kept things close to his chest. Host never cared to reveal them because he doubted it would lead to anything useful. If anything it would only draw Dark’s ire, the last thing Host wanted. Wilford, in his normal less-than-lucid state, would have never sought out the manor or questioned if Dark knew about it. There was no one brave enough or clever enough to figure out what Dark was hiding…no one until Celine, herself a part of Dark.

Host turns his body to Wilford and angles his head to face where his voice is coming from, though he remains seated with a hand grasping Dr. Iplier’s.

“That is quite the revelation.” An understatement, but Host is still reeling. “Do you know why Dark kept this to himself?”

“From his notes, and from knowing him, it seems like he was worried about setting off Actor. He’s never bothered us, even with all of Mark’s projects, and maybe messing with the manor could put him on our paths again.”

Host can understand that. All these years, none of them knew if Actor could pop back up again, and what kind of havoc he’d cause if he did. And Dark, one of the very few who knew firsthand what he was capable of, would have wanted to keep him contained. Host can imagine Dark trying to figure out how to root Actor out, how to kill him, but failing, and thus resolving to keep the manor hidden and secret so no one could set him free. All the more reason not to tell anyone about the manor, lest some curious or adventurous younger ego find it and release Actor by accident.

All that considered, Host can tell in Wilford’s voice that there’s more to the situation. He didn’t just come to relay information to Host, he said there was a plan.

“But…?” Host prompts Wilford.

“But…Actor’s not the only one still trapped in the manor. The District Attorney’s there, too. They’re stuck there, but Celine thinks that if we freed them, they could help us reform Dark. Since there’s always been the problem of not having his body anymore…maybe this would help us get it. And who knows what sort of power the DA could have now; that could help us, too.”

Host considers this. That makes sense, too; DA was kicked out of their own body and left in the manor’s mirror, by all accounts they could still be there. And the DA is much less feared than Actor. They’re an audience insert, and though Mark’s audience is fickle and fanatical in equal measure, the community is bursting with joy and humor and love for Mark and his creations. If the DA is still in the manor, they’d be as much of an ally to the egos as Actor is an enemy. The DA could be a huge help in defeating Anti and bringing back Dark…but getting the DA could free Actor. And Host still doesn’t know why his help is needed.

“The Host is intrigued,” Host admits, “But he wonders what his part in this is meant to be.”

Wilford sighs. Not the short huffs he made before, but something a little longer. Yandere makes the first sound he’s made since he closed the door earlier – fidgeting on his feet, shuffling quietly.

“I need your vote on whether or not we try to free the DA, for one thing,” Wilford says, “And, well…if we do go get them, Bim and I are going, but we might not be enough. You’re nearly as strong a reality-bender as I am. So you would have to come–”

“No.” Host turns away from Wilford in an instant, refocusing himself towards Dr. Iplier’s bed. “The Host is not going anywhere.”

“Host, come on–”

“The Actor could do much worse to us than Antisepticeye if he was able to get free of the manor. We cannot risk that, not for the reward of a potential body for Dark. Either way, The Host is staying with Dr. Iplier.”

“Host.” Wilford is annoyed, his voice is short. “This could be the edge we need against Anti, and we can’t just not stop him. We have to try every option. We already failed against him once, we can’t afford to fail again.”

“There is no “we” failed,” Host snarks, “The Host recalls using his narration to salvage the fight and stop Anti from causing more deaths. Host has earned the right to sit this out.” He clenches Dr. Iplier’s hand tighter. “Oliver and Plus have woken up. Dr. Iplier could wake up or fade away at any second. Host cannot leave him now.”

“Host, I hate to play this card, but you’re second in command right now. You have more than just Doc to think about.”

“Convenient, then, that your role and the situation we’re all in allows you to only think about Dark.”

“That’s not the same thing and you know it!”

“Answer this, Wilford,” Host intones, voice dropping lower, “If you could return to the past, return to when Dark was still here, in the clinic, healing from his burns, would you have left his side, knowing what you know now?”

Host can imagine Wilford opening his mouth and closing it again, but he doesn’t narrate, doesn’t know for sure if that’s what Wilford is doing. But he hears no good retort, only a long pause, followed by an angry growl. Wilford stomps out of the room, opening the door so roughly it slams the opposite wall.

But Host does not hear a second set of footsteps follow him out. All is quiet for a moment.

“The Host knows that Yandere is still here,” Host says. His voice is not so low, now. Only tired, as it always seems to be.

“Yeah,” Yandere acknowledges. He moves, but only to shut the door of the room once again. He doesn’t leave.

“Why have you stayed? If Wilford could not convince Host to cooperate, why do you think you can?”

“I…” Yandere steps closer. “Well, I get where you’re coming from, at least.” His footsteps stop when he’s right beside Host, right at Dr. Iplier’s bedside with him. “I love Shishi, too.” Yandere’s voice is suddenly wobbly.

Instead of responding, Host narrates to himself, and sees Dr. Iplier’s face in his mind’s eye. He wishes every time that this time might be the time he sees color flow back into his doctor’s cheeks, sees his eyes open, hears him breathe, feels his hand squeeze Host’s hand back. But this time is like every other, Dr. Iplier seems no closer to waking, but no closer to eternal death.

“Katarite-san, I know you miss Shishi,” Yandere whispers, too choked up to speak more loudly, “I miss him too, and I miss Yami, I know how you feel. I know how it feels to…to lose your person.” Yandere sniffles. He must be crying now. “I don’t know Shishi as well as you do, b-but I know he…he’d hate to see you like this. And h-he’d want you to help us beat Anti. He’d want you to help fix what he started.”

“Is that how you think of him? Of this?”

“N-Not really, but he would. You know he would.”

Yandere has a point. God, Dr. Iplier would despair, wouldn’t he, if he could see Host now? If he saw how many meals Host has skipped, how much sleep he’s lost, how sad and empty and angry he’s been. And Dr. Iplier hated himself for the lies he told, for the awful things he did to create the situation the egos are in. He’d be begging Host to help, begging Host to go with Bim and Wilford to get the DA and get a step closer to fixing things.

But. Host feels glued to his chair before Dr. Iplier’s bed. How could he leave him now? What if he fades? It may be selfish, but Host cares more about his doctor than anything else now. Without Dr. Iplier, Host has nothing. If Dr. Iplier disappears without Host there, the regret will destroy Host for the rest of his life.

“Host can’t leave him,” Host whispers. His voice is low again, not angry and cutting, but quiet, sad, desperate.

“I’ll be here,” Yandere says. He sniffles again, but Host can hear the brush of his hands as he wipes his face, hear him take determined breaths to stop weeping. “Katarite-san, if you go with Wil and Bim-san then I swear I’ll stay right here and tell you as soon as anything changes. I know how to contact you, and I promise you I will if something happens. And Wil could teleport you back here in an instant.”

It’s an offer anyone could make. An offer that Host should refuse. Fading is often fast; by the time Host receives the message, it could already be too late, even with Wilford’s teleportation. But it’s not anyone making this offer, it’s Yandere. Yandere, who’s already lost the person he loves most. Yandere, who doesn’t love Dr. Iplier the same way Host does, but loves him just as fiercely. Yandere, who understands more than anyone could the full gravity of what’s at stake, who understands exactly what Host has to lose. Yandere, who is making this offer with the utmost sincerity, who would take it more seriously than anyone else could. Yandere, who has reminded Host of what Dr. Iplier would choose for Host if he were able.

All of these things play a part into why Host thinks for many long moments, but ultimately sighs.

“Fine.”

“You – wait, you’re gonna…?”

“The Host will go with Wilford and Bim to the manor, if you promise to stay with Dr. Iplier, and to call Host if anything at all changes.”

“I promise, Katarite-san, on my life!”

Host believes him. Before getting up, he begins to narrate to himself, under his breath. Maybe Yandere can hear him, but if so, it would be just barely.

“In front of Host lies Dr. Iplier, as still as he ever is, as cold and absent as he’s been for many days. His expression is neutral, empty. But he is still Host’s doctor. Host can imagine now exactly how his features would appear if they sprang to life in this instant. It is this image that he hopes to ingrain in his mind, just in case.” Host leans forward, closer to Dr. Iplier, lays a hand on his cold cheek. “Host asks his doctor to stay, just a while longer, at least until Host can return to him.” He leans further, until his lips are a breath away from Dr. Iplier’s forehead. “I love you,” he says, so quiet he hardly hears himself, before closing the gap and kissing Dr. Iplier’s forehead. He lingers there for a moment, but eventually forces himself to pull away and stand.

He doesn’t trust his voice any longer, and instead moves to leave the room (Dr. Iplier’s room is familiar enough to him that he needs no words to navigate). He hears Yandere take his earlier seat, hears him get in the chair and scoot it a little bit closer. Host finds Yandere hard to trust in most respects, but he trusts him now, with this.

Host finds Wilford (and Bim, and Damien and Celine) in his studio, no longer so angry at Host’s earlier refusal but pensive and worried. Host isn’t noticed right away, so he lingers where he is for a moment, observing.

“Well, even if Host doesn’t want to go, can’t we just go on our own?” asks Bim, anxious, but whether he’s more anxious about confronting the manor without Host or about the tension in the air of the studio, Host can’t tell.

“Host wasn’t much a fan of us going anyway,” Wilford admits. Host can tell he’s biting his thumbnail through his words; a nervous habit he’s had for a long time but one that he rarely feels enough nerves to do. “It might have been an excuse so he didn’t have to leave Doc, but he has a point. I mean, Dark was worried enough about Actor to let this lie for so long…” He sighs. “It’s still so hard to believe.”

“It’s hard to believe you didn’t find it sooner, Damien,” says Celine, sharp. “Dark’s office has been yours since you woke up, and in all your effort to figure things out here, you couldn’t find what I found in a few days?”

“I’m not a snoop,” Damien mutters, “What are you trying to say?”

“Celine–” Wilford starts, not quite warning, but almost pleading with her.

“Maybe you didn’t want to find anything to help get Dark back,” she says, “You never seem very excited about the prospect in meetings.”

“And you are?” Damien scoffs.

“I understand what has to be done,” Celine snaps, “I always have. And you’ve always been in denial.”

“Celine,” Wilford says again, still pleading.

“That’s hardly fair!” Damien yells. By the sound of it, he gets up from the chair he was sitting in. “You can’t seriously call what I was doing back then “denial,” not when you were trying so hard to keep me there!”

“Well, I’m not trying anymore!” Celine yells back. Host gets the sense she’d stand as well if she could, but as it is, her wheels click, and a breath of narration tells Host that she moves right up to Damien to get in his face, even though their eye levels don’t match. “I’m not trying to keep you from understanding anything or hiding the truth anymore, so what’s your excuse for ignoring it this time??”

“Host! How long have you been here?” Bim suddenly exclaims.

Even without narration, Host feels the atmosphere of the room change as the others notice his presence.

“Host?” Wilford asks. “Are you…?”

“The sooner we go to the manor and find the DA,” Host says, “The sooner Host can come back to Dr. Iplier.”

“Okay. Okay!” Bim says, trying to hype himself up for the trip.

“Alright then,” Wilford says, clearly wondering what prompted the change of heart but not wanting to ask and risk Host changing his mind. “Let’s go. There was a photo of the place in Dark’s notes, so I can teleport us there easy.” He pauses, and Host narrates enough to see Wilford turn towards Damien and Celine. “Are you two…good?”

“Good enough,” Damien mutters, sullen. Celine says nothing.

“Alright,” Wilford says awkwardly, not believing him but not about to push it.

In the next moment, Host is weightless, and the smell of cotton candy fills his nose. In the moment after, his feet hit the ground and he nearly stumbles.

Under his shoes is grass, Host can feel the bounce of the earth. The sun is shining, the breeze is light. He hears the gentle rustling of tree branches in the wind. He wonders where exactly they are. Still in California, surely, but Host can’t know for sure. The place sounds and feels nearly idyllic. But Wilford and Bim are silent, aside from the awed gasp they each let out.

“Holy shit,” says Bim.

“Bully,” breathes Wilford.

Host narrates.

“Before the three men is the manor, the place where Wilford and Dark were made. It looks as old as it is; the walls are crumbling, moss runs up the stone, the windows are broken with cobwebs replacing panes of glass. Yet it is huge, it towers over the landscape, and despite the bright sun surrounding the group, all three feel a chill staring up at it. Though they came here with a purpose, they hardly want to go inside. The manor is stirring something in their blood, as if their very bones know the significance of this place.”

“We’re gonna have to go in eventually,” says Bim, though he does not move.

A long pause. Though Host is still eager to finish the task at hand and return to Dr. Iplier, he finds he’s much less eager to go into the manor. The building should be benign, now; Dark’s aura is no longer there, after all. But there’s still magic emanating from it, so strong that even Bim should be able to feel it. Magic that is perhaps keeping both the DA and Actor contained. Instinctually, Host doesn’t want to disturb it.

“Come on, then!” Wilford suddenly says, brisk and sharp, practically storming off to the manor’s front door. Bim and Host follow.

Wilford hardly has to push the door; it’s so frail and the wood so rotted that it nearly opens itself, and the group step onto the cracked tile of the entryway. Host narrates to himself as the others look around.

“This room was grand, once. The ceiling is still high, the chandelier still hangs, the furniture still exists. But much like the outside of the manor, the room too shows the years it’s sat here abandoned. The fabric of the couches are ragged and rotting, the chandelier is broken and useless, the ceiling has holes that let sunlight leak through. The balcony above is sagging under its own weight, the wood railing is splintered and cracked. The mirror at the other end of the room is cracked in a familiar pattern, and it and the table before it are covered in dust. Bim is looking at the place with amazement and only a little disgust at the mold and rot. Wilford wanders about as if in a trance, taken in by memory.”

“Shoot, are you gonna be okay, Wil?” Bim asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilford replies absently, “Just…taking a look at the place, is all.” Host’s narration shows Wilford ending up at the mirror and laying a hand on the table in front of it, taking no notice of the dust. “It’s funny, the place doesn’t feel so…so ominous anymore.”

“You sure about that?” Bim mutters, no doubt eyeing the decay of the space.

“The aura’s not here anymore,” Wilford murmurs, almost sadly. “This place is just a building, now.”

“Nearly,” Host says, “The manor is still a magical centerpoint, Host can feel it. It was marked by what happened here, and there are forces here still at play, however subtle.”

“That would explain how it’s managed to go undisturbed so long,” Bim muses, “It’d probably have a few squatters otherwise.”

“Makes sense,” Wilford says, still quiet, and – Host guesses and confirms – still looking at the mirror.

Host resumes a slow walk around the ground floor of the manor, narrating to himself as he goes. He takes in the scenery, the rays of light coming through the windows and holes in the walls, the peeling wallpaper, the dust, the mold – the cracks in the tile and steps down that threaten to trip him up. Even now, the manor has its tricks. Host has to wonder what happened to the chef, the butler, the groundskeeper, whether they escaped with their lives somehow or if the manor subsumed them like it did Actor and the DA. He figures that if one of them was still here his sharp ears would’ve heard them by now. As it is, there is little sound at all, aside from birds chirping outside, the occasional wind blowing through the decaying walls, and the soft footsteps of himself and the others. Host isn’t quite sure what he’s searching for, but he knows he’ll understand it when he finds it. The magic in the air is still humming at a constant flow, never seeming to increase or decrease.

Host narrates, trying to see if Wilford or Bim have found anything. Bim is at the foot of the staircase, regarding the dark, rotten steps with trepidation, probably trying to decide if it’s safe enough to climb. Wilford hasn’t moved from before the mirror, still staring at it intently. His gaze is no longer wistful, his brow is slightly furrowed. Host makes his way to him, planning to ask him what he’s noticed, but Wilford yells out in shock before he can.

Host nearly jumps at the sudden noise, and hears the crash of Wilford falling backwards.

“Wil??” cries Bim, rushing from the staircase to help him up, “What happened, are you okay!?” Host continues to Wilford more calmly.

“I’m fine,” Wilford says, “The mirror, I saw something moving in it, I saw–” He cuts off.

“Oh my god,” Bim gasps.

Host can already sense something, he already feels something from the mirror, a magical energy he’s never found before, one that he can’t quite pinpoint. Its resonance matched the rest of the manor earlier, but its signature is much clearer now. Once again, he narrates.

“In the mirror, obscured by the dust but unmistakable, is a person. Surely, it is the DA, but…The Host cannot tell for certain. The person in the mirror is difficult to make out, their features are indistinguishable, only a human form is visible. Whoever they are, The Host feels their eyes on him, though he – and the others – cannot see them. They are being blocked out by more than dust, the mirror seems deeper than the pane of broken glass that comprises it. The person in the mirror radiates power, unlike Host’s, unlike Wilford’s, unlike Bim’s, unlike even Dark’s or Celine’s.”

“It’s gotta be the DA!” Bim cries. He pauses. “Unless it’s Actor. Oh shit, what if it’s Actor?”

“Old friend?” Wilford asks, having gotten up from the ground and approached the mirror again, “Is that you in there?” His gaze is far away.

“Wil, hold on a minute,” Bim frets.

“Whether it’s DA or Actor or someone else there,” Host says, “Wilford may be the best person to call them forward enough to be discernible.”

“But what if it is the Actor??”

“We knew that would be a possibility, did we not? We can’t go back now.”

Something in Host tells him not to be worried, even as Wilford lays a hand on the mirror, fingers spread across the cracks, making marks in the dust.

“Come out here,” Wilford murmurs, “It’s been so long, and…and there’s so much I want to say to you.”

Host whispers his narration so as not to distract Wilford. In his mind’s eye, he sees some fog clear away from within the mirror, and the figure comes closer.

“It is you,” Wilford says, shoulders drooping with relief, “Of course it’s you, who else would be in this mirror?”

“Why do they…” Bim squints, “Why…why do they look like that?”

Host furrows his brow, narrating louder as he concentrates.

“It is the DA in the mirror, now closer to the surface, fully visible as they are, but their presence provides no clarity. Their appearance shifts every second, features changing every moment. A few forms seem clearest, however. One is brown hair, long enough to brush at their ears and sweep across their forehead, brown eyes deep enough to drown in, and skin so white it’s almost gray. The other two forms are familiar to the group looking upon them. One resembles Amy Nelson, but younger, hair curled and dyed blonde instead of straight and dark brown. One resembles Ethan Nestor, again younger, hair swooped up and bright blue like it used to be years ago. Each form represents…represents the different parts that make up the DA. Amy and Ethan, in part, portrayed them in the videos that made them, but the DA is also a blank canvas, the audience insert. The DA is everyone, no one, themself. The DA stands in the mirror, mouth in a line. They must see the group in front of them, but they make no move, say no words.”

“Oh,” Bim murmurs, awed. “Wow.”

“Friend,” Wilford whispers, tears in his eyes, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Host knows through his own whispers that the DA looks at Wilford, gaze piercing.

“It happened a lifetime ago,” says the DA – at least, they seem to; their mouth doesn’t open, their throat doesn’t move, but their voice is audible all the same. “My forgiveness must mean little. But you have it, William.” Their words are resonant and echoing, deep and high, sharp and soft, loud and quiet in equal measure, as varied as their face.

Wilford sniffles, laughs a little.

“That’s not my name anymore.”

“Of course, apologies. You’ve been Wilford longer than you’ve been William.”

“What about you?” Bim asks. “What’s your name? We’ve just been calling you the DA, but…”

“My name has been lost to time. I have none now.”

Host would expect a person to say something like that with great sadness, but the DA presents it as neutral fact, without emotion.

“We can’t just call you the DA,” Host muses, “That’s hardly a proper name to refer to a person with.”

“I remember their name!” Wilford insists. “They’re…they’re District Attorney…oh, it’s in there somewhere…”

“It isn’t,” the DA says, still matter-of-fact. “My name is gone. I may not have had one at all.”

That much could be true. The DA is an ego, after all, and if Mark didn’t give them a name and the fans couldn’t agree on one, then the DA has nothing but their title.

“What should we call them, then?” Bim asks. “Maybe Daniel? Or Danielle, it could be both at once.”

“That’s boring,” Wilford scoffs. “They deserve a name with more pizazz!”

“Dahlia?” Host offers.

“Maybe. But it’s so frilly, there’s not enough power in it.”

“Darcy?” Bim suggests.

“That’s more powerful, but still too frilly! It doesn’t suit them at all!”

“You said you wanted pizzazz!”

“Yes, but not fancy! The DA wasn’t prim and proper back in the day, a fancy name would be weird!”

Host notes with some amusement that DA, the subject of this discussion, is watching silently, with a slight look of bewilderment.

“Well, what ideas do you have?” Bim sniffs at Wilford.

“Maybe we can call themmmmm…” Wilford thinks. “Dana!” He exclaims. “Dana, there’s a good name. Short and simple but not boring, very handsome and/or beautiful.”

“Perhaps we should ask DA what they think?” Host says with a slight grin.

Bim and Wilford look at the DA expectantly. They are silent for another long moment before speaking.

“Dana is fine,” they say.

Host can practically feel Wilford’s triumphant grin, no narration needed.

“So, now what?” Bim asks no one in particular.

“Now we get them out of the mirror!” Wilford says.

“Hm,” Dana says. For once, their voice has emotion: a touch of discomfort.

“Do you wish to stay in the mirror?” Host asks.

“I’m not overly attached to this realm,” Dana explains, “But I do not wish to re-enter the surface. It has been too long, and there is nothing for me out there.”

“What!?” Wilford exclaims. “But there is! There’s a whole building full of egos for you to meet, and, well, we need you.”

“For what reason?”

“It’s a long story,” Wilford sighs, “But basically, an enemy of ours killed Darkiplier and took his aura. He’s killed a few of us with it, plus a whole bunch of other people, and he’s looking to kill us all. We need help to stop him, and we need help to reform Dark.”

Dana outright sneers at that, so vitriolic that Host’s voice wavers just a bit as he narrates it and Bim takes a step back.

“It is Dark’s fault that I have become this,” Dana says, voice low and angry. “Dark abandoned me here, when he had every opportunity to free me. I used to beg him to release me, to use his power to undo what he did and allow me to exist again. He rebuffed, he rebuked, he ignored.”

“But I thought you didn’t want to leave anymore?” Bim asks, confused.

“Just because I’m making that choice now doesn’t mean it should’ve been my only choice. At one time I would not have chosen this. But too much time has passed, Dark has taken too much. I will not return, and I will certainly not return for Dark.”

“But it’s not just about Dark!” Wilford insists, “There’s so many egos who’d love to meet you and who need your help, and I bet you’d get along great with them! And Damien and Celine are here right now, you’d get a chance to see them again!”

Dana straightens at that, but almost immediately deflates again.

“What is the point of seeing them again if they’re meant to become Dark again?” they mutter. “I have little affection for Celine as it is, but Damien…” They look away. “I cannot see him again, if he will be forced to leave so soon.”

Host doesn’t need any further narration to read into that tone, to understand Dana’s averted gaze. It’s love, Host can see it clearly.

“Even without the other egos you could meet, even ignoring the stuff with Dark,” Bim says, “Wouldn’t it be nice to leave the mirror? To exist out in the world?” Bim gestures out towards the door he and the others came in. “The weather’s so nice outside the manor, it’s nice back in Los Angeles where we live. Outside the mirror you can walk around, eat, play a video game or a sport, talk to someone, do something. If I were you I’d be bored out of my skull!”

“You are not me,” Dana says, voice cold. “I have no need of the outside. I do not wish to see how the world has moved on without me. I have no interest in anything offered there. I am not content, but I will never be. I will stay here, rather than expend effort to feel the same as always, or worse.”

No one seems to know what to say to that. Host’s narration tells him that Bim is awkward, staring at the ground and fidgeting, trying to think of something to say. Wilford is crestfallen, sad at meeting his old friend and having said friend want to stay put, where they can’t help the other egos. If no one says anything, Dana will retreat back into the mirror, and they will be unlikely to return if called.

Host steps forward, past Wilford and Bim, closer to the mirror.

“The Host does not understand how Dana feels,” Host begins. “He doesn’t know what it’s like to be trapped and stuck for a hundred years, he doesn’t know what it’s like to be so demoralized that freedom no longer feels like a cure.” Host breathes in. “But Host does know, very well, what it’s like to be changed. He understands how it feels to be subject to forces beyond one’s control, to be irrevocably damaged.” He can’t stop himself from adjusting the bandage around his eyes. “Host imagines that you were not always the person before us now. Host was also not always the man you see. Change of this sort is painful, horrible, unfair. Host understands this.”

Host pauses, in case Dana has anything to say. They remain silent, but Host can feel their eyes, knows they’re still there. He continues.

“The Host also knows how it feels to love as deeply as you appear to.” His breath hitches just slightly. “Host has not had a hundred years to love another person, but he has had two lifetimes, and he knows what it’s like to have a person be one’s world. He knows how it feels to lose that person. But…” Host ducks his head, wills himself not to sob. “But Host is here because he knows that this is what his love would want. He died trying to fix his mistake, the mistake that led to Dark being destroyed. He would’ve wanted Host to press on looking for solutions, and so, Host is here, pleading with you.” Host lifts his head again. He can feel blood streaming down his cheeks. “If where you end up matters so little, then Host asks you to picture what your love would want. Host asks you to decide if your love would want you to be this miserable, or if he would want you to have a chance to start over, to have happiness. And if that is too selfless for you, Host wonders if you could be convinced to leave the mirror to see your love again, even if only for a short time, even if it reopens the pain of loss when he goes.” Host smiles sadly. “If Host had to make that choice, he would choose it every time. He would give anything at all to see the man he loves again, even if not forever. He suspects that, somewhere deep within, you might feel the same.”

A long silence stretches. Host hardly dares to break the silence with narration, but he does, just the slightest breath of volume to know what Dana is doing. Their face is the most emotive it’s been so far, twisted in anguish. Their eyes are teary. The endless cycling of their form has stopped, and they have settled on the version that’s ghostly pale, the one that looks like themself, not like Amy or Ethan.

“Will I survive it?” Dana asks, a tear rolling down their cheek. “Will I survive losing him again?”

“Maybe not,” Host admits, blood still dripping down his own face. “But would that make it any less worth it?”

Dana purses their lips, trying not to sob. Tears continue falling, and Host’s whispered narrations pick up Wilford and Bim’s stares, equal parts amazement and concern. It takes a few moments for Dana to regain their composure, to finally raise their hand and wipe their tears away.

“Fine,” they say, voice wavering at first, then stronger word by word. “Fine, I’ll go with you.”

“And you’ll help us?” Wilford asks, eyes big and pleading.

“I suppose.”

It’s good enough for Wilford, who breathes out a relieved chuckle.

“Awesome!” exclaims Bim, “But, uh…how do we get you out of the mirror?”

Dana steps forward, even closer to the mirror’s surface.

“Dark suggested it was a matter of pulling me out,” Dana explains, “With strength, but moreover with magic. There was…is a risk that disrupting this place could shatter it completely and set free more than just me.”

“We know,” Wilford sighs, “But we’re willing to take the risk if you are.”

It’s Dana’s last chance to back out, but they steel themself instead.

“I am,” they say.

Wilford and Bim walk up to the mirror, Host following behind, whispering narration all the while.

“Wilford and Bim each place a hand on the mirror, and they can feel Dana just beyond the glass, feel the churning of the mirror’s dimensional pocket, feel the power contained there. It is a null space, emptier even than Dark’s void, yet it thrums with its own life, like the floor of the deepest ocean.” Host can sense when Wilford and Bim start to use their magic, feel the increase of power in the air, smell the cotton candy of Wilford’s magic and the lavender of Bim’s. He raises his own hands and continues to narrate. “Host reaches out through the mirror, between the cracks, finding the curling black of the void space, and Dana standing just there, ready to leave it. Host’s own power feels around, searches for Dana’s answering hands. Behind and around are Wilford and Bim, Wilford pushing back the mirror dimension, Bim extricating Dana from its grip, little by little. Host assists Bim, the scent of ink and golden tendrils melding with purple, further reaching, offering something for Dana to grab onto.”

Host hears Dana gasp. Host can see through his power, see Dana there in the dark, see them find Host’s hands, find Wilford’s hand, Bim’s hand.

“The closer the three get, the more power they funnel, the more the space between the mirror and its dimension widens, the more space there is for Dana to come forward, the more fragile the mirror becomes. It is already cracked, but the cracks get wider, they splinter off into the previously-unbroken panes, threaded with pink and purple and gold. Wilford and Bim’s hands phase through the glass, they come out on the other side and reach something tangible. It is Dana, guided by Host’s power, bringing their hands together. Wilford has one, Bim has the other, Host is behind them both, and they all pull at once.”

It is Host’s power that allows him to see Wilford and Bim pull their hands from within the mirror, each holding one of Dana’s hands, pulling them through the mirror and out into the surface. As Dana leaves it, the mirror shatters. Glass rains around the trio, but they ignore it, and Host spares a sentence to prevent them from being harmed by the falling shards. Dana stumbles forward, unsteady on their feet, but with Wilford and Bim gripping their hands tight, they stay upright.

Out here, in the surface world, they don’t look quite so ghostly. Host’s whisper tells him that Dana’s skin is not as deathly pale now, their form continues to be stable, their hair is still soft brown and gently ruffled. But there are deep pockets under their eyes, and said eyes are so dark brown they’re almost black. They’re a bit shorter than Bim, and much shorter than Wilford. They look up and meet Host’s sightless gaze with awe.

“I’m out,” they gasp. Their voice still doesn’t come from their throat or their mouth, but it is no longer so imposing. It still slightly echoes, but the tone is even, gentle, slightly monotone even in awe.

“You are,” Wilford replies, his own voice soft.

Bim has already let go of Dana’s hand, but Wilford hasn’t. Host’s narration tells him that Wilford’s grip is gentle, friendly, but maybe a little protective, a little afraid to lose yet another piece of his past. Dana doesn’t seem to mind, though; maybe because of all that time they spent in the mirror without touch.

“Do you think…” Bim begins, looking back at the remains of the mirror.

“The Host can’t tell,” Host says, “This building is still magical, that has not changed. But that doesn’t mean anyone is still within.”

“You mean Actor, don’t you?” Dana says. “I can’t say I know, either.” They glower. “That’s why Dark never let me go.”

“A reasonable fear,” Host admits, “But we have no choice, now.” He smiles just a little. “How do you feel, now that you’re out?”

“I feel…” Dana puts a hand over their own chest, feeling the clothes on their skin, the temperature of the air. “Not exactly as I did before the mirror, but…much closer.”

“Is that good?” Wilford asks.

“I think so,” Dana answers. For the first time, they smile. It’s slight and subtle, but unmistakable, and Wilford beams to see it.

“Well then!” he exclaims, finally letting go of Dana’s hand only to smack their back, brisk. “Let’s get outta here!”

Wilford ushers Dana, expression slightly alarmed from the smack, out the door, as Bim and Host follow.

Host has just left the steps of the manor’s porch and began to feel the sun on him again when his cell phone rings from his pocket.

“Call from, Yandere,” the phone chirps, and Host freezes.

This can only mean one thing: On the other end of the line, right now, the love of Host’s life is either waking up or disappearing forever. Yet Host can hardly bring himself to answer, because what if Dr. Iplier is dying? What if Host is about to lose him?

Host’s breath is caught in his throat, so he has no idea if Wilford or Dana can hear his phone ringing. But Bim is right next to him, and he’s just as still as Host. Host feels Bim’s hand squeeze his shoulder, sympathetic. Bim, too, is familiar with that endless wait, the paranoia of wondering whether or not he’s going to lose his person. It ended well for him, Oliver woke up. But will Dr. Iplier?

“You gotta answer,” Bim murmurs, voice uncharacteristically even and solemn. And he’s right, Host can’t let it ring forever. He can’t let it go to voicemail. It’s too important to ignore.

His hand still shakes as he removes the phone from his pocket and tells it to answer the call.

“Yandere?” he asks, and he could cringe at how small and scared his voice sounds if he wasn’t too anxious to care.

“K-Katarite-san,” Yandere says – no, sobs. He’s crying on the other end, so hard he can barely talk. But he is, like he promised he would. The tears make Host’s heart rocket faster. Yandere cries so easily, his tears could mean anything, but Host fears the worst.

“Yandere, please,” Host gasps. A trail of blood comes down his cheek, he can feel the new wetness cut through the drying tears from earlier. There’s so much to say, and nothing at all. “Please.”

“Shishi, he’s…” Yandere gasps, trying to catch his breath. Host stiffens all over. “…he’s awake, Katarite-san, h-he just woke up. He’s okay.”

Host could collapse. He almost does; body doubling over. Something inside him breaks open, filling his chest with warm, spiky pain. After all the sleepless nights, all the tears, all the whispered bargains and begging, Host had feared it would never lead to this. He had felt so desperately that leaving Dr. Iplier to come to the manor would be the last he ever saw of him, the last time he touched him. He has never been more glad to be wrong. His chest still hurts, hurts with emotion bursting out, breaking up the numbness that’s been lurking there for so long. Host can hardly breathe, his throat is closed over with sobs. He can’t even begin to narrate to orient himself against the tide of feeling, so it washes over him, and he is pulled under. It hurts more than anything. It’s unbearable. Host has never been happier in his life.

“Host!?” Bim asks from beside him, alarmed. He takes Host’s arm, the one not holding his phone, making sure he doesn’t fall. Host can’t blame him for worrying; his tears are coming out in full force, sobs are falling out of him without control.

Dr. Iplier is awake. He’s awake. He’s alive. God, Dr. Iplier is alive. And now, finally, so is Host.

“I’ll l-let you go,” Yandere says, sniffling, but Host can hear the smile in his voice. “We’ll be h-here when you get back. See you.” True to his word, Yandere hangs up then.

“Host, is Doc…?” Bim asks Host, voice frayed with nerves. In response, Host laughs. It’s quiet and choked, but unmistakably mirthful.

“He’s alive,” he gasps, “Yandere said he’s alive.”

Bim sighs in relief. Host keeps weeping. He’s not sure he’ll ever stop. The sun on him feels warmer than before, the ground beneath him softer, the air smells sweeter, the chirping birds in the woods sound more pleasant. The world is better, now that Dr. Iplier is in it again.

“Hey, what’s going on??” Wilford exclaims, followed by his footsteps running closer. He must’ve finally noticed Host’s tears.

“Yandere called,” Bim explains on Host’s behalf, voice giddy, “Doc is awake!”

“Bully!” Wilford practically shouts, so joyful he doesn’t care to moderate volume. “You gonna be alright there, friend?” he asks Host, voice a bit more gentle.

“The H-Host has never been better,” Host says, laughing a little yet again, wiping blood off his face with both hands. “He would like us to go back to Ego Inc. now, since we have found Dana as we desired.”

“True,” Wilford says. “Let’s go now!”

“How are we getting there from here?” Dana asks, possibly attracted into the conversation by their name. “There don’t seem to be any roads.”

“We don’t need roads,” Wilford replies, in a tone that Host knows is paired with a cheeky wink even without narration. “I can teleport!”

“Maybe brace yourself,” Bim warns, “He teleports through his void, and Wilford’s void isn’t anything like the mirror dimension.”

“I see,” Dana answers, a note of curiosity in their tone.

Host has never been excited to teleport with Wilford; his void is disorienting even for the sighted egos, and it’s much worse for Host. But now, there’s nothing more he wants to do than go through that void and go home.

Home to his doctor, at last.

#markiplier the host #wilford warfstache #fanfic #my writing #markiplier fanfiction #markiplier #unravel #kristin says stuff #i love this chapter aksjhsdk

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frozenrose105 · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 5

Prompt: Every Whumpee's Needs

Characters: demon!Author, human!Host

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

======================

Upon waking the second time, the Host had no memory of what happened to Bim. He supposed that was a good thing, considering all of the things he did remember.

There had been more killing. Some days, slow, torturous deaths done by his hand. On other occasions, it was a massacre. The Author would start and not stop, losing himself in a frenzy- too powerful for anyone to stop him, including the Host himself.

That was the fucked thing, the Host realized as he once again pushed himself out of bed. He hadn't wanted to stop him, even if he was able to. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking about the Author's thrill at hurting people- about how it had become his own in those moments, in place of his normal apathy towards the deed. He did what he had to do when he needed to, he had never done such things for fun.

Regardless, the Host diverted his attention back to the task at hand. He needed to rid himself of the Author. But even as he thought that, he realized how very awake the Author was in his head. He was being watched almost curiously by the demon possessing him, and he felt himself tense. It was akin to being an animal in a zoo, unable to escape but very aware of the eyes upon you. The Host waited a long moment, prepared to fight the Author if he was intent on taking back control. Still, the Author only watched.

"What is your end here, Author?" The Host asked aloud. In response he felt the Author's amusement- and then he felt the Author's urge to narrate, to bend reality with his words, as though the other was willing it on him. The power hadn't worked when he'd tried it last time, but the compulsion to try had him speaking the same words as before. "...The Host's vision returned to him." This time, the Author seemed to guide him, and he could feel the power in his words. There was a relief to using his power, though he wasn't sure if it was the Author's or his own. He wasn't sure if there was still a difference.

The Host also felt blood fall down his face like tears from his eyes as his vision did indeed return to him- though not in the traditional sense. It returned to him in brief images of the room as he narrated the scene around him. It confirmed his suspicions that the room was his own, but the images faded as his narration stopped, his voice choking up involuntarily.

Can't lose too much blood. The Author's voice in his head was quick to remind him of that in a singsong tone, as if the thought of it amused the demon. The Host growled lightly and stood from his bed, moving to his adjoining bathroom to clean his face of blood. The Author also guided him that way, able to see much better than the Host. But the Author only had so much patience for mundane things- that, the Host knew from experience- and as soon as he was done the Author was nudging at his mind. He didn't take control entirely, but it was clear what he wanted.

He wanted to kill. He wanted the Host to kill for him. ...And the Host wasn't sure where the Author's desire ended and where his began.

He knew subconsciously that he should be resisting, but he felt the Author's compulsion to kill as his own.

So he let the Author direct him.

The demon still wouldn't take control of him entirely, but the Host heard his whispering in his head telling him where to go, feeding him increasingly violent scenarios that only had the Host moving more desperately to follow.

He followed these whispers out of his home, able to see his surroundings via narration, which came more smoothly as time went on. He could hear the whispers in his head of the Author's narrations, keeping him from bleeding more with the use of the power. When the Host stopped, he found himself in a graveyard. The place was unfamiliar to him, but he moved expertly through it until he came to a hole in the ground.

Six feet deep. A coffin at the bottom. The panicked shouting of someone within, accompanied by the pounding of fists on hardwood. The Author had set up the perfect scene while the Host was a prisoner in his own body. And now, the Host was unchained.

He was unchained and the Author had shown him how to use his power. The Author wanted him to finish the job. It took only a moment of narration for gasoline to appear in his hand.

You know what to do. A wooden coffin burns nicely.

The whispers only got louder the longer he delayed, coupled with the shouting of the person in the coffin- though their voice was clearly growing hoarse.

Hurry. You want to hear them scream.

It took another moment to set the coffin ablaze.

And he did hear the scream. He heard the scream and then the coughing as his victim began to run out of air, and he heard it devolve into pained sobs. He felt the heat of the flames and the visceral satisfaction as his narration told him of the fruitless struggling from within. And his head was his own again, the Author's voice quiet- for the time being, anyways.

It wouldn't be long until the whispering started again, urging the Host to kill more and more. He chased the quiet it gave him, unaware that the voice in his head driving him to do so was none other than his own.

-----

Meanwhile, the Author lurked in the shadows, stalking the Host for a long time. He was no longer possessing him, like the Host seemed to think, but he didn't correct the man. In fact he moved on quickly, in search of a more permanent vessel.

For now, though he was still bound in a less physical form, his job as the god of corruption was done.

#whumptober 2022 #no. 5 #every whumpees needs #hyperthermia #blood loss #running out of air #fandom #fic #em writes #writing #fanfiction #the author markiplier #the host markiplier #disunity au

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lostcybertronian · 8 months

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Egotober - Day 6

Prompt: Pillow

Prompts by @tracobuttons

---

“What’re you doing?”

Bim jumped back from the doorway. “Sh!” He hissed, and behind his sunglasses, Bing’s eyebrows rose. “Quiet.”

“What’re you doing?” Bing repeated, quieter now. He nudged past Bim to peer into the living room. The only source of light was the television, playing some ancient horror movie that spilled from the screen to the couch on the far side of the room.

Sitting on the couch, back ramrod straight, face bathed in pale light, was the Host. Lying with his head using the Host’s lap as a pillow was Dr. Iplier, still dressed in blue scrubs and dead asleep. One of the Host’s hands was buried in the doctor’s hair, while the other clung tightly to his hand.

Bing backed away. “That’s fucking creepy, bro.”

“Right? Why is he watching if he can’t even see?”

Bing made a face. Then, he crept forward and peered in again.

The Host was looking directly at them.

“Holy fuck!” He jumped a mile high, nearly colliding with Bim. “He knows we’re here, dude.”

“Yes I do.” This time it was Bim who crept forward, saw that even with the Host’s face once more turned toward the TV he could see the single drop of blood trailing down one gaunt cheek. “And if you bother us again, I will dismember you and organize your parts by alphabetical order.”

Bim opened his mouth to say something, but Bing grabbed his arm. “He means it, bro. Let’s bounce.”

He dragged Bim away, leaving the Host to absentmindedly pet Dr. Iplier’s hair, murmuring quietly to him about things to come.

#egotober2023 #dr iplierst #dr iplier #the host #bim trimmer #bingiplier #markiplier egos #writersofmark #fanfiction #ego shipping #lostandwandering #lost writing tag #horror #hurt/comfort #fluff #q

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septic-dr-schneep · 30 days

Text

@whumpril Day 24: No Time to Rest

“Predictions for the conversation ahead of us, Host?” Dark prompted, arms folded, aura lashing expectantly.

Pressing the heels of stiff hands into his old bandages, the Host sighed. The air smacked of dried blood and stale coffee. “Dark will sardonically ask if the Host plans to sleep anytime within the week. The Host will retort that his visions cannot be postponed.”

“Recordkeeping can.”

“If the Host was confident of that, he would have retired of his own volition forty-eight hours ago. Dark, however, feels some measure of responsibility and control over his friend, and is capable of…more manipulative methods to put him down without resistance.”

“Is that a request?”

“…An observation.” His head was already so heavy with the pressure of future flashes, Dark’s intrusion sounded soothing by comparison.

“Well, then…” Dark’s whisper was suddenly, startlingly close, his hand already kneading at a knot in the Host’s drooping shoulder. “Observe.”

#markiplier #fanfiction #drabble and a half #darkiplier #the host #dost hark #whumpril2024 #whumprilday24 #no time to rest #overworking

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leighsartworks216 · 2 years

Text

Please Stay

The Host x gn!reader

Requested by @captain-wordy-and-nerdy:

“Hello lovely human. Might I request #2 and #26 from the Hurt/Comfort list with The Host (Markiplier) with a nonbinary reader?”

2. “If I could, I would kiss away all of your scars.”

26. “Please stay. I’d like some company.”

I went with the universe where all the egos stay in a manor because I love that idea that they all just hang out and Dark has to put up with everyone's bs so they can take over the channel. I also went with a theory I saw for how the Author lost his eyes to become the Host that said he removed his own eyes but I didn't go into it, I just sort of implied it

Warnings: hurt/comfort, lots of blood, wound descriptions, implied self-h*rm, awkwardness, just sorta the beginning stages of a crush so its really cute lol

Word Count: 1865

Masterlist

The Host didn’t particularly enjoy company. When someone was nearby, he got a scratch at the back of his mind. His fingers would itch to type out the story his brain would concoct. His mind would always flash back to that dark room he was abandoned in during these times. To when he lost control of himself and took control of others. So, for fear of hurting one of the other egos or guests, he kept to himself.

The only people he did interact with, through necessity more often than not, were Darkiplier - who often had to demand he attend meetings with the others - and the good Doctor Iplier. Though, he only allowed the doctor to help him when the Host couldn’t help himself.

Today, he could not help himself.

He woke up frantically describing everything around him, biting his tongue when he felt the names of others on his lips. He would rather not drag anybody else into this. Instead, he locked himself up in his room - a bare space with a desk and its own chair, a typewriter, a waste bin, and an armchair. A few of his old best sellers sat unacknowledged in the corner. The good Doctor, his only source of help in this tormented state, was out, doing god knows what. If he let his mind wander, he could almost feel where the ego was - but he elected not to think on the topic too long.

His plan worked, for the most part. Nobody truly ever sought out the Host unless there was a meeting or another urgent matter to attend to. That is, until, a guest to the Manor began knocking on his door.

For the last few weeks, Wilford had been bringing along a new intern. The Host was unaware of this fact until he entered the kitchen one late night for a glass of water and narrated your presence. Since then, you hadn’t shied away from him, but you also hadn’t actively sought him out.

More often than not, the two of you would simply happen upon each other. You would be taking a break from Wilford’s antics, catching your breath from following the interviewer everywhere, and find yourself in a secluded corner of the Manor or the surrounding grounds where the Host liked to hide. Or he would be dragged into another meeting and find himself narrating your presence next to Wilford, anxiously making sure he didn’t pull his gun when the egos inevitably refused another one of his wild ideas. Neither of you spoke much to each other, simply existing in each other’s presence comfortably.

Knock knock knock.

“Host? I didn’t see you at lunch.” His mouth narrated your thoughts that he hadn’t been at dinner either before you had a chance to say it. He bit his tongue to shut himself up from saying anything more. “And you weren’t at dinner. I just wanted to check if you were alright.”

Fine, he wanted to say. You had a very kind nature, and the egos all enjoyed your presence. He didn’t wish to upset you and get on everyone else’s bad side. But, his mind couldn’t just will his mouth to shut up.

“The Host is struggling with his narrative abilities today. He asks that Y/N not come in or worry.”

It was quiet outside the door. He could feel your thoughts on his tongue, prodding at his mind. He could feel your worry through the door.

He sighed.

“The Host crosses the room and opens the door. Y/N is just outside. They look concerned,” he narrated. He tilted his head, brows furrowing over his blindfold. “‘Concerned’?” It was an adjective he hadn’t been expecting.

“Host, you’re bleeding.”

He didn’t have time to process your statement before you were making your way into his room. He could hear you opening drawers at his desk, looking for the emergency medical kit each room was equipped with. (Orders from the Doctor, of course.) Sure enough, when he reached up and touched his blindfold, it was soaked through. The warm, stickiness of blood latched onto his fingers.

He heard your command in his head before you said it out loud. Sit down. He shut the door, making his way to one of the armchairs.

“Sit down, Host.” You had the kit open on his desk by his typewriter, grabbing bandages and gauze. When you turned to the armchair, he was already sitting in it. His hands were set on his thighs and he was seemingly looking forward at the wall.

“The Host can take care of himself.”

You scoffed, almost offended by his remark. “I’m sure you can, but does it really hurt to let someone else help you?”

He tilted his head, covered eyes pointed toward the wall behind you. Despite your insistence on helping him, you still had not approached the chair he sat in. You were waiting for approval.

“The Host gives Y/N permission to help.” He couldn’t shut his mouth fast enough before he was narrating, “At the Host’s approval, Y/N smiles. They step forward with determination and-” He shut his mouth with a great effort, teeth grit together. “He apologizes for his narration. He does not wish to take away Y/N’s sense of free will on accident in this state.”

You knew very little about the Host, to be honest. Wilford had brushed off your concerns when you asked about him, offhandedly remarking that the ego was an author and liked to be alone. The Host was always reclusive and isolated, and no one seemed to worry much for him. If anything, Dark seemed the most concerned when the Host was late to meetings or hiding all day, but he never showed it. The most he did to combat his worries was to send you in his place to ask after the ego. After all, if something was happening, Dark had to be in the know.

You pushed your rampant thoughts of the ego aside and focused on the matter at hand. Setting the gauze and bandages on the arm of the chair, you hesitated to remove his blindfold, even after he gave his permission. Perhaps sensing your uncertainty, he leaned his head forward in your direction. This gave you plenty of room to untie the cloth.

You hadn’t expected what awaited you underneath. His eyes were, well, missing. Scars of what appeared to be scratch marks littered the area around his sockets. The empty sockets stared from behind his eyelids; gaping wounds, oozing blood like tears.

“How did this happen?” you found yourself asking before your mind had time to catch up with your mouth. “I mean- You don’t have to tell me. It’s just… Doesn’t it hurt?”

The Host had to think on that question for a moment. Did it hurt? Could he even feel the pain anymore? As you began to tenderly dab at his eyes - or lack thereof - with the gauze, he hummed. “He does not know. The Host has adjusted to living like this for so long, he does not register the pain as any more than a dull throbbing.”

The way you so carefully wiped blood off his cheeks, away from the creases and folds of his eyelids, had his shoulders relaxing. Doctor Iplier was never this gentle. When he cleaned his wounds, he was rough and mechanical in the way only a doctor could be, spouting medical nonsense as he did so.

Instead, your softness had his head tilting back to allow you better access to his wounds, and more than once he had to force his eyelids from falling closed in relaxation. They shot open to stare at nothing when he felt the unmistakable touch of fingertips brushing along the scars around his eyes.

“If I could, I would kiss away all of your scars,” you whispered, soft as a mouse.

He wasn’t even sure if you were aware of your statement. But there you lingered, tracing his marred skin. It was only once your fingers brushed too close to his sockets that he flinched, and you pulled back, startled out of your revelry.

You stammered out apologies as you grabbed the bandages from the arm of the chair and began bandaging his eyes. He almost missed the feeling of your fingers on his old wounds.

“There,” you breathed out a moment later, stepping away as though being too close to him would burn you. “All done. The bleeding seems to have stopped, so, that’s good.”

He hadn’t even noticed. His mind, the voice that creeped out of the deepest wrinkles of his brain, was quiet. He no longer felt his vocal chords lurching out commentary and commands, nor did he feel the need to.

“The Host thanks Y/N for their help.”

You chuckled lightly, awkwardly. You didn’t wish to admit that you had enjoyed the experience perhaps more than you should have. After all, he had been bleeding and struggling with whatever abilities he possessed when you got here. It felt wrong to enjoy him at his most vulnerable.

“Yeah, of course, anytime.” You gathered the used up gauze and what was left unused of the roll of bandages, busying yourself cleaning up and putting everything away in the kit. “I mean, not anytime, because I’m sure it’s not a great experience for you, but, like, anytime you need help I’d be happy to.”

He hummed, but said nothing. For once, he did not feel the need to fill the silence in the slightest.

“Uhm, your blindfold is kinda…”

“The Host asks them not to worry on his behalf. He has plenty of extras due to situations like this.”

You nodded, but realized quickly he couldn’t see it. “Okay. I’ll just… throw it out then.”

He listened as you moved around his desk. The crinkle of the plastic trash bag as you threw away everything bloody told him that you were on the side of his desk furthest from the armchair he sat in.

You stood awkwardly by the desk for a moment afterwards. “I should go.” You didn’t know what else to say to leave him here in the safety of his barren room. And the Host did not seem to make any arguments as he followed your footsteps making their way toward the door.

He sensed your hand touch the knob, heard it from the voice deep inside his brain, and felt his heart lurch at the same time. “Please stay,” he suddenly called out. His heart hammered anxiously against his chest. He cursed himself for succumbing to his lonely desires, but he had never been treated so softly before. “The Host would like some company.”

His mind suddenly felt quite loud once again as he waited for any response. His head tilted and turned to try to hear better, understand what was going on around him better. He stilled when he heard footsteps approaching once again. The unmistakable sound of his chair being pulled out from under the desk sounded next, along with the creaking of wood as you sat down in it.

“Okay.” His anxiety faded once more at your gentle presence. “I’ll stay.”

This was also my first time ever writing for the Host so I hope it was okay and I hope you enjoyed it!!

#fanfic #fanfiction #the host #markiplier #markiplier egos #the host x reader #markiplier egos x reader #hurt/comfort #fluff #light angst

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