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doctordiscord123 · 1 month

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Could I request a small follow up to “Who’s who again”? Like adjusting back to their own bodies, or lingering effects of the spell?

In reference to this work here.

The Host sat in his library, silent, and staring at nothing. He'd come down here to work, but...he couldn't really focus on that. All he could do was play the images of Dr. Iplier's face over and over in his mind, committing them to permanent memory, knowing he'd never have a chance like that again.

He knew it'd been Hell for Dr. Iplier. No one, and he meant no one should have to experience the Host's visions besides himself. They were a burden, he knew that, violent and bloody and often left him powerless despite knowing. The Host had had over a decade to get used to them, to learn how to deal and cope with the power that had sprung from his blindness. Dr. Iplier...had none of that, combined with the sudden loss of sight -- the man was still adjusting to the light a dew days later, even after only a week in darkness.

...But for the Host...he'd gotten to see. He'd gotten to see his family, his love -- his only lament was that he could never truly see the natural expressions of Dr. Iplier, the way he smiled or laughed, the way he pouted or how grumpy he looked in the mornings. Those things had been mirrored onto the Host's face, and he could imagine, sure...but it wasn't the same. It wasn't the same, and the feeling left a cold pit in his stomach that wouldn't go away.

Somewhere above, he heard the telltale squeak of the library door opening, and not long after, footsteps were moving into his sanctuary, and a chin rested on his shoulder. "Hey." Dr. Iplier kissed his temple, then took one of his hands, pressing a warm mug into it. "Brought you some hot chocolate. Wilford made it, so you know it's good."

The Host smiled. "Thanks. What brings the good doctor down here?"

There was a brief pause, and a mumbled narration told him Dr. Iplier was raising an eyebrow. Such a pity, he had to go through the extra step... "Are you kidding? I can practically hear you thinking all the way upstairs. What's wrong?" Another pause. "Still thinking about the body swap?"

The Host sighed, and set the mug on his desk. Dr. Iplier promptly sat himself in his lap. "Just -- thinking. It --" He gestured to his own face. "The blindness, it feels -- darker, somehow, now. Just taking some getting used to."

"...Yeah. Now that I know what that feels like, it sucks! It's so --" Dr. Iplier waved a hand in the air, trying to find the word.

"Isolating?"

"A bit. Even with you there, knowing you were there, it's easy to feel alone when you can't actually see other people in the room. But you know all that already. Don't need my ass explaining it to you." This. This was a time the Host wished he knew what Dr. Iplier's pout really looked like.

In any case, he just shrugged, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Dr. Iplier's chest. "All the same...it's nice they have this as a shared experience now." He picked up Dr. Iplier's hand, running a finger over his wedding band, before kissing the back of that. "Just one more thing they've been through together, hm?"

Dr. Iplier sighed, and leaned against the Host more. "Just one more thing."

#ask discord #anonymous #my writing #the host #dr. iplier #dr. iplierst #dr. iplier/the host #the host/dr. iplier #dr. iplier x the host #the host x dr. iplier #markiplier egos

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lostcybertronian · 7 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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aceforwhatevenisthis · 1 year

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they’re married your honor

#ace draws #markiplier #markiplier egos #wkm #the host #the host markiplier #dr iplier #dr iplierst #wilford warfstache #darkiplier #darkstache #ego shipping #i’ve been thinking about them lately #miss them a lot #doodles

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voidsnarrator · 2 years

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This is my second time ever writing a songfic, so I hope it's good!!!

I LOVE this song, it's been stuck in my head ALL WEEK, and it just made me think SO HARD of Author/Host who's in a relationship and JUST WOW IT HURTS HUH

Yea anyways I hope you'll like this !!! :D

[Listen to the song here]

Waking up in shades of blue

I don’t know where I am or how I got to you

Try to reach out but I can’t move

I’m like a broken instrument, so out of tune

Oh woah

The bed was soft beneath him, the same bed he had slept in for years. The same bed he's been sharing with his love for so long. He was facing the sleeping man next to him, his forever blinded gaze lingering on the soft features of the other. His narrations spoke of the soft skin, the rounded cheeks. Slightly parted lips, a little chapped, thin and able to form the cutest smile. Brown messy locks hanging into his face, eyes closed in a peaceful slumber. Host craved to reach out to him, to know he was real and here with him. He knew he was. He knew the other was right there. The dip in the mattress, the gentle sound of breathing. He was there, and yet, he felt a million miles away from Host.

Why won’t they listen to me anyway?

I want to be and I’m not gonna say I’m sorry

Just so you’ll let me stay, no

Whatever you think of me, leave it alone

I don’t wanna live in the shade of her throne

When he had first come to the others, he had tried. He wasn't the Author anymore, he wasn't the same person anymore. He wasn't the same violent murderous man, killing innocent people for his own sick and twisted amusement. Why didn't they listen to him? Why did they not let him explain? They cast dirty looks his way, cursing him beneath their breath. Not calling him Host, not caring what had happened to him. They expected an apology, for Host to beg for forgiveness for all that he has done.

He quickly decided it didn't matter to him. He wouldn't apologize for past actions he didn't feel connected to. What did it matter what they thought of him anyways? It didn't. He had never needed them as the Author, and he wouldn't be needing them as the Host either. Returning to his cabin in the woods, forever stained in the Author's blood, the place he had called a home for years and years. He was the Host, now. The Author was dead, and it didn't matter anymore. Not to him, at least. He would not mourn who he once was, because he had died cold and alone, thoughts of the person he loved swimming through his mind. Until the Host was born, replacing Author. The same, but different.

I keep hearing pieces of a melody

Playing in my head

Fragments of a past that it won’t let me forget

Someone that I used to be hanging on a thread

A blurry silhouette

I wonder…

If Host had to describe himself, he would say that he was a mosaic. The picture that had once been Author, shattered into pieces, just to be put together in a new fashion. The Author had always loved coffee. He had always used sugar, never milk. He still didn't add milk, though he added more sugar than before. He liked his coffee sickeningly sweet. The Author had tortured his characters, and broken them mentally just like he had physically. Doing so simply for his own amusement, writing books to turn a profit he didn't really need. Host still took great pleasure in torturing characters. But now, the characters were fictional -and if not, they deserved their fate. The Author had fallen in love with the cute doctor looking after his injuries. The gentle smile, the cute exasperated sigh when Author didn't look after himself. The bright and loud laugh, the silly puns the doctor enjoyed so much. The Host loved him the same. He loved his chubby belly, his extremely soft hands, the way he always took such gentle care of him.

In his dreams, he'd see the Author. Nothing but a blurry silhouette, something he used to be, still hanging on by a thread. He was still there, and always would be, because the Host is the Author, no matter what he does. It's him, and he can never forget that. No matter how hard he tries to deny it, that those golden eyes haunting him were not his own.

When you look at me who do you remember?

Broken memories, time we spent together

Tell me honestly

Do you recognize my voice?

VOICE

Host was watching Edward, sitting at the kitchen table as the other made them coffee. He mumbled his narrations to himself, watching as Edward put milk and sugar into his own cup, before putting sugar into Host's. It was the perfect cup -for the Author. He accepted the cup with a smile, hiding the pain he felt in his chest. Edward's gaze never settled on his face anymore. Host stayed quiet, letting Edward talk about work, not muttering a word of narrations. He knew how Edward's brows would furrow, a crease forming on his forehead. He knew how Edward would glance at his bandages, before looking away. He knew how his hands would grip his cup tight, how his jaw would clench.

“I love you”, the Host would say, giving Edward a kiss as the man got ready to leave. His voice was soft-spoken, his hand gentle on Edward's cheek. He'd smile, gentle and loving, and think of all the time the Author had not seen Edward off for work. All the times Author would kiss Edward hard, demanding, holding him tight and unwilling to let him leave. “I love you too”, Edward would say, his eyes not looking at Host's face. He'd give him a smile, maybe he'd take his hand and give it a kiss. “Don't overwork yourself.”, he'd tease him, and Host would feel the pang in his chest. He'd huff, gently nudging Edward, assuring him he won't while Edward left. Thinking of the times Author would laugh, the times Author would have rolled his eyes, the times Author would give a cheeky grin and say “no promises”.

Sometimes, Host wondered if Edward still saw the Author. If he lived in a delusion, telling himself Host was still the Author, was still the same selfish man he once had been. Sometimes, Host wondered if Edward even recognized his voice.

Thin air, so hard to breathe

The wall that I’m facing is just too cold and too lonely

Wish that I still can feel

Still can feel the things that back then I used to fear

All I ever wanted was to be accepted by you

Wish that you and I still

laugh and say that someday we will

Sitting alone in his study, his old writing desk long since converted for his radio show, the Host would stare at the wall in front of him with an empty feeling in his chest. He couldn't help but miss what he once had had. He couldn't help miss Edward, miss his gentle touch, miss his soft kisses. He missed when Edward would look at him, and see him. In those moments, he wished he was still scared and confused about romance. That he didn't know what romantic attraction felt like, the weird stutters of his heart when Edward smiled at him, the incredibly light feeling when Edward would laugh. The confusing conflicting emotions when Author thought of Edward's gentle nature, while Author was torturing others so cruelly.

He's only ever wanted Edward to love him, and accept him as he was. He wanted Edward to love the Host, and not Author. He wanted Edward to want him like he had wanted Author. To need him like he needed Author. To hold him close, to tell him he loves him, fantasizing about their future together. It was too much to ask for though, wasn't it? To hope that someday they would laugh together, be in each other's arms. To be what they had been, once.

Why won’t you listen to me anyway?

I’m gonna be and I’m not gonna say I’m sorry

Just to save face

Whatever you think of me, leave it alone

I don’t wanna live in the shade of her throne, oh

He tried to talk to Edward. “The Host is not the Author!”. He was desperate, he was in pain, crying his bloody tears as Edward refused to listen to him. Refused to accept the reality they were living in -that the Author was gone, dead, and only Host remained. That yes, he had once been that man. But he no longer was, and he wanted Edward to know, to see, to accept. “You do not love the Host. You love who he was, you love the man who is gone. You do not care for me.”. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, and still he said it. Still, he cried, he yelled, he clenched his hands into the shirt on his chest, shaking as he spoke words he didn't want to be true. “You're mourning me, and yet, here I am.”. His voice, tiny, broken, hurt.

Edward did not look at him. He did not face the Host, he did not glance even vaguely in his direction. He left.

I keep hearing pieces of a melody

Playing in my head

Fragments of a past that it won’t let me forget

Someone that I used to be hanging on a thread

A blurry silhouette

I wonder…

His fingers moved over ink-stained pages, tracing the shapes of letters even he himself couldn't always read. Nothing he had ever written had he discarded. It was all still here, journals stuffed full with words, pages stained with ink and blood. The Author was in every inch of the cabin. The many ink and blood stains, forever staining the wood of the cabin and its furniture. The still broken door, unable to stay closed no matter what you tried. The collection of books in so many shelves. The heavy lighter from the time he used to smoke. The countless black button ups, and various jeans. Everywhere, he remained, his presence lingering. A constant reminder. You are him. You were the Author. He is you. No matter how much Host's appearance changed, it was never enough. Host was the Author, the Author was the Host. No matter what he tried, how long his hair grew, how much he hid his body in too large clothes. The Host was unmistakably Author, forever.

When you look at me who do you remember?

Broken memories, time we spent together

Tell me honestly

Do you recognize my voice?

VOICE

Edward would often make coffee for Author when he was so focused on writing. Would bring him a freshly brewed cup, would remind him to take a break. He'd make sure he would eat, and would eventually take his hand to gently guide him to bed. Edward would often ask Author for a hug, never needing words. Letting the taller man embrace him, hold him close. Author's hand running through Edward's hair, gently holding him, Edward's head resting against Author's chest. It never mattered why he sought out a quiet hug, because Author would be there for him. “I love you”, Edward would tell Author, and it would never fail to fluster him, to throw him off-track. It effectively shut Author up no matter what he was saying, always taken by surprise when Edward said those words so freely.

“I love you”, Host said it as softly as Author did. He smiled the same gentle smile, would hold the same hands so gingerly in his own. Would give the same soft squeeze, lifting those hands to press a feather-light kiss to their knuckles, the same as Author would. It was still him, he was still that same man, even when he tried not to be. Still, Host didn't think Edward knew the difference. He didn't think Edward loved the Host as he loved the Author. The man was chasing after someone long gone, someone who would never come back.

It looks so off to me

The picture you paint of us

I don’t need to remember

Let me be, take me just as I am

When Edward spoke of the two of them, it left a bad taste in Host's mouth. Often, Edward would talk as if he was talking to Author. Like he was imagining the Author when he planned dates, like he was thinking of Author when he got gifts. Host knew the man was hurting. He knew Edward was grieving Author, was denying that it was now Host, not accepting what had happened. He knew, and it felt horrible. All Host wanted was to be loved by Edward. To hear his name fall from the lips he wanted to feel against his own again and again. To be looked at with the same love and adoration that Edward had once given Author. It wasn't that much to wish for, was it`? To just be loved like he was now?

As everything disappears

I shout to heavens above

Please let him be. Please love him. Please accept who he is. He wanted nothing else. He only wanted his partner back, with him, for him. He just wanted to be his own person, to not be the Author. He wanted to be the Host, because that was who he was now. Just let him be. Just accept him. Please, please, please.

Bloody tears soaking into his bandages as he sobs, as he tears at his shirt, grips his hair tightly, sobbing and screaming. He was hurting, all he wanted was to be himself , and no one wanted that. No one accepted him, no one liked him, no one wanted him. The only thing that mattered was Author, and he was gone. But no one saw it like that.

Let me be, take me just as I am yeah…

I keep hearing pieces of a melody

Playing in my head

Fragments of a past that it won’t let me forget

Someone that I used to be hanging on a thread

A blurry silhouette

I wonder…

When you look at me who do you remember?

Broken memories, time we spent together

Tell me honestly

Do you think that I could ever find a voice to call my own?

Maybe one day, the Host would be accepted. He would have Edward's gaze on his, smiling at him like he would at Author in the past. He'd tell him he loved him, and Host would reply with a smile and a kiss, echoing his words to him. One day, Host would be able to speak with Edward, and the man would not hear the Author anymore.

VOICE, VOICE

#markiplier #markiplierGAME #dr iplierst #the host #dr iplier #the author #markiplier egos #iplier egos #admin writing #songfic #kira

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juju-on-that-yeet · 3 years

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Oooohhhh imagine Host had been awake in his library for days, never coming out the socialize or eat, least of all sleep. Dr. Iplier decides that enough is enough, and slips something into his hot chocolate....

Ohhhhh yesssssss >:D

He gets into one of those Moods where he’s holed up in library, reading, writing, muttering to himself, barely eating and hardly sleeping. Doc tries to talk him into going to bed or at least pausing for twenty minutes to get his bandages changed but Host won’t budge.

“At least let me get you something to drink, there’s no way you aren’t dehydrated. I’ll be back with some hot chocolate.”

Host at least agrees to that, and Doc comes back later with a cup. Host pretty much drinks the whole thing in one minute, and Doc sticks around for a while, talking to him. Almost like he’s waiting for something.

A few minutes after drinking the hot chocolate, Host’s eyelids start wanting to close, his limbs feel heavy, his narrations start slurring. And Doc...doesn’t look worried. Or surprised, for that matter.

“You...th’ hot ch...chocolate...” is all Host can say.

“I had to,” Doc admits, “You’d work yourself to death otherwise.” He gets up to help Host walk. “I’m taking you to bed, and while you’re out I’m making you dinner. You better eat when you wake up.”

“Mmmmom,” Host half-scoffs, half-mumbles.

“That’s Dr. Mom to you,” Dr. Iplier replies with a grin.

He gets Host into bed and tells him not to go anywhere, and Host is asleep before he can give a snarky response XD

#kristin says stuff #ask #anon #markiplier #dr. iplierst #my writing #kinda

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inkribbon796 · 3 years

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Brother Where Art Thou?

Summary: Patton and Nate set out to ERROR! <Story voided>

A/N: I’m sorry, it’s not

Patton was grabbing his equipment as Nate Ỳ̶͙͕͍̰̖̗̋̃̂Ǒ̷̺̖U̷̫̟̬͒̄͛̕͜’̴̣̲̯̝̲͖̈́͊͑͠Ŗ̶͍͈̹̱̑́̋͘͝E̴̬̠̽ ̵̪̹̔͊̽N̵̥̄̆̒͛̀͝O̷͇̬͆̈̂T̸̜͈̹̞̝̯͊̏̀̅̅ ̴͎̠̦̦͗̿̅S̶̯̻̤̫̿̓͛͂͘Ü̸͕̃͑P̴̡̤̬̳͇̏̑̍́P̵̫̾̏Ō̷͈͈̪̲͗̐͗Ś̸̛̪̥̩͔̱̫̽͌̈́̆̕Ẻ̸̯͆̇̐͋̚͠Ḓ̷̳̱͓̣̀͆̑̅̀̈͝ ̴̠̝̦̑̉̉̌T̴͚͉̳̥̋͑̽͌͜Ǫ̸̼͚̪̰͖͐̈́͆ ̴̧̦̬̟̤͕̔̐̃̕B̵̨̢̛̎̾̆͝͝E̴̢͔͔͖͉̩̙̐̓̾̆̈́͠ ̴̣͔̣͆͘͘͘Ḩ̷͎̳̞̠̪͗̿́͛̑͒Ȩ̴̯͔͍̣͘R̵͌̿̂͜E̵̫͓̲̤͉̎ ̸̡̨͔̠̦̬̈́͠Ẇ̷̧̠̬̟̥̤͗̋̈́͝E̵͕̯̒ ̷͎̥͚̮̋̀͜R̸̞̓̃̌̿̑͝͝Ḛ̵̳̩̀͗̋̍M̸͇̭̭̈́̕̚Ō̷̠̄V̶̨̩̥̉̌̄̽Ḛ̷̹͓̈̿D̸̞̝̝̺̜͐̌́̐ ̵̡̲͕̮̥̈́̀̈́̕̚͝Y̶̢̠̤͉̙̝͖͋̀͛̚Ò̷̞̥̮̘̑͑̿̽͘Ű̷̧̟̫̮̱̦͕̃̃̎̀ ̶̢̼͔̠̜̤͌̎̈́̓͜F̷̛͔͍̣̘̯̯̽̌̔R̵͓͒̾̌̑͒O̶͕͈̮͕̍̆̓M̶̙̘̍̆͂͝ ̵̩̟̒̑̄͌͘̚͘Ť̵̻̞̦͜͝Ḧ̶̳̩͕͍̝̣͇́̓́E̵̡̨͚̼͇̍́ ̵̨͉͎͇̲͛Ċ̵̜͙̜͖̊̈́͛̀͐I̷̡͈̰͂Ṭ̷̛͓͔̂́̐̈́͊̆Ÿ̴̜̹́͗̈́́!̴̘̱͇̻́̉̋̄ walked into the storage room.

“Ready?” Nate smiled.

Patton took a deep breath, and nodded. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be I guess.”

He stood up and the two heroes walked out of the base, to where Marvin was waiting for them.

Marvin gave an encouraging smile to Patton, “̸D̴o̷n̶’̷t̷ ̸w̸o̵r̴r̶y̵,̵ ̷h̴e̷ ̷w̸o̸n̵’̸t̵ ̷k̵n̷o̵w̸ ̵w̴h̶a̴t̸ ̵h̵i̶t̷ ̴h̷i̴m̵.̵”̵ ̶ ̷ ̷ ̷P̴a̷t̴t̵o̴n̸ ̵g̵a̸v̴e̴ ̶a̸n̴ ̶u̸n̷e̸a̴s̸y̸ ̶s̵m̸i̶l̴e̴ ̸b̴a̶c̴k̸.̵ ̷H̷i̷s̷ ̴s̴t̶o̶m̶a̶c̷h̶ ̴c̶h̸u̸r̴n̵i̴n̶g̴,̶ ̸a̴ ̶l̷u̶m̶p̵ ̶i̷n̴ ̸h̷i̵s̸ ̵t̷h̴r̷o̸a̶t̷.̶ “̴̝̇̾Y̶͙̙͈̋ͅe̵̦̾̽̆ȧ̷͍̼̦̀h̴̬̼͓̋͆͒.̶̱̘͕͐̀”̷̺̻̉ ̸̡̯̮͕̑̂̀̄ ̷̤̘̺̄̓̊ ̵̗͈̹̟̂ ̵̢͈̳̈́̈́ͅA̴̦̘̓͘n̴̩̈́̓d̵̹̯͑͋̓͂ ̸̛̖͗̅t̴̹̲̆ȟ̸̢̥̼͈̈́̾͑e̸̝̹͓͔̓͊n̸̳̣̔̚ ̶̨̲̉̑t̷̯̅̃ḫ̶̘̤̉̀̄ë̷̤̥̼̤́̏ ̴̼̘̇͌̑̓ṫ̷͔͋͐h̴̹̰̣̲̓̃r̷̝̾ë̸̡̨̨̜̽e̷̺̮̲̜̿̓͒ ̷̜̗͒̂͊̔͜ơ̶̝͖̮̱͆͂̏f̶̗̱̏̚ ̵̢̦͓͋̈́͝t̸̤̪͐́͗ĥ̴̛͓̜̏́ė̷̤̪̓͗m̸̞̟̪̑̈́ ̸̻͌͌s̶͕̥̕ệ̶̢̀t̴̛͙͐̾̂ ̸̙̓̌́͐͜o̷͙͋ͅf̸̼̂̓f̸̝͇͕̽̒͜ ̵̺̻͋͑̇f̴͔̾̌͒͝o̴̧̭̓ȑ̴̨̞͐̇ ̷͉̔͂͆ͅt̵̘̟͖̄̓̎h̵̼̜̅̎̿e̷̠̾͆ ̷̢̛̻͇̫̔M̷̭͓̤̯͒̂̔̎a̴̳͍͋ͅn̶̢̹̠̉̃̒̚o̶̡̪̞̠̎r̵̛̃͜

The Host rips the script in half and with that the story ends. Leaving only the tattered opening left.

“The Host asks for the readers’ indulgence but this story thread can no longer exist in the current arc and must be removed,” the Host stared at the reader through the gulf that separates them. “This story will continue in a new trajectory. We hope that you enjoy it.”

This week’s fic is in another castle. We kindly request you go there =>

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vociferous-chaos · 4 years

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Dr. Iplier: …Why are you on the ceiling?

The Host: How does Dr. Iplier know this isn’t the floor? Maybe he is the one walking on the ceiling.

Dr. Iplier: I-...You know what? Fuck it, I don’t want to know. I’m taking a nap.

@doctordiscord123

#dr. iplierst #dr. edward iplier #dr. iplier #the host #markiplier #incorrectegoquotes #incorrect ego quotes

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haazeycoffee-archive · 5 years

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#redraw #my art #dr iplier #the host #dr. host #dr. iplierst

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starryvioletnight · 4 years

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Crosshairs

Summary: The Host happens to be looking out for his lovely doctor when he "sees" his most cherished boyfriend in danger. Enjoy~

"The Host sits in his study, awaiting Dr. Iplier to return from his day at work. It's been a mostly slow day for the doctor, very few patients worthy of his time and merit. A few measely check ups, and two broken bones. How boring." He let out a long, drawn out sigh.

"However, the end of his day is approaching, which means he will get to return home and spend time with his doting boyfriend, who will gleefully kiss and hug all the dreary, boring memories away." The Host couldn't help but grin. "It will be splendid."

"Dr. Edward Iplier leaves his office, humming a song he heard on the radio while standing in the waiting room. He sips his paper cup of coffee as he approaches his car."

The Host started to bounce in his chair, and his grin consumed his face. He loved his boyfriend so damn much.

"Edward grips the handle of his car when... when he hears an altercation. Oh no... Edward..." He doesn't like this. "Edward follows the sound of the scuffle. He... he comes across a man trying to mug a woman, and he... Oh God Edward!"

He stood up and grabbed his coat. The Host hurried out the door, and mumbled as he ran. "The man holding the gun turns it on Edward, saying, 'Move along. This don't concern you.' Edward tells him it certainly- Edward just back off!"

The Host rounded a corner, close to Edward's office. He panted hard as he ran, his heart raced in his chest as he tried to get to him.

"Please, just walk away." A woman's voice trailed down the sidewalk and the Host followed it.

"I can't stand to see anyone in danger. I took an oath, as a doctor." Edward replied.

"Suit yourself." The mugger pulled the trigger.

"The shot rings out through the air, and the bullet goes flying. It clinks against the the metal pole standing behind Edward. The gun in the mugger's hand seems to now be malfunctioning." The Host, once in range, used his powers of story manipulation to take control of the situation.

Edward looked back at the Host, surprised but really he shouldn't have been.

"The mugger and woman in peril leave the Host and Dr. Iplier be." He continued, tense.

The two complied, and the Host turned to be facing his boyfriend.

Edward looked between the retreating mugger and woman before he looked at the Host. "What the hell was that?"

"You're asking me that question!? Edward you almost got shot!" The Host shouted. "And voluntarily!"

"There was a woman in danger, Anthony. What was I supposed to do, let her face it alone?" He scoffed.

"Yes! What if you'd been hurt? You could have been shot! Killed... then... then what..." His shoulders fell and he turned away.

Edward hesitated. He walked over and hugged his boyfriend tight. "I'm sorry."

The Host clung to his boyfriend and shook.

"How about we go home, have some hot chocolate and watch some TV?" Edward was smiling a little as he asked, and he hoped that it would turn the Host's mood.

The Host hesitated and nodded. "Yeah... Yeah I'd like that."

"Okay. Let's go." Edward pulled away, and lead his wonderful talented boyfriend to the car, where they would go home and snuggle all their problems away.

#hurt/comfort #dr. iplierst #dr. iplier #markiplier egos #markiplier fanfiction #nancy's writings #the host

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jailbirdsonic · 5 years

Photo

Inspired by that beautiful fanfic that is “The In-Between” by the amazing @doctordiscord123, I’ve made a Dr. Iplierst moodboard based off Jason Mraz’s “I Won’t Give Up”, in this case the Bonus Track Version. Hope you all like it! <3

#moodboard #dr. iplier #the host #dr. iplierst #markiplier #markiplier egos #aesthetic #jason mraz #i won't give up

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tealquacks · 5 years

Text

The start of the next chapter

Docthor day seven!! Free day!!!!

@lostcybertronian @bing-iplier @snarkyfinch

Burning the journal was the start of everything, the spark of a forest fire, the Big Bang of his universe. Edward laid in a bed of flowers, pretending to be asleep as it burned above his head. He wondered what he was thinking, if he was surprised, or if he could see it coming from a mile away. It burned slowly, each bit of it folding in on itself before completely collapsing, turning to ash in his hands. Smoke burned his eyes, a strangely familiar feeling. Something something flexing its muscles eyes burn eyes burn eyes burn burn burn-

He stares at the ash in his hands. His sleeves were rolled up- he could see the story carved into his skin, the only remaining bit of his history of creation that he had left. The rest was only ash. He smudged it in his hands. Ran it over his arms, watching it turn the skin black except for the ridges of scars. He smudged it in his face, running his hands over his eyes and through his hair. Silently, he stared at the remaining ash all over his hands. Still not clean. Never clean. Gods didn’t have clean hands, anyway. How many did they kill in the floods?

Exhausted, he laid down next to Edward, pretending to believe the man was asleep. Slowly, he wrapped around him, burying his head in the warmth of Edwards chest, hands firmly on his back. Stained his coat with ash. He shut his eyes and dreamt of foxes hunting in nights where the sky was nothing but a cloud of quilts.

—

Edward got him flowers the day of the awards ceremony, where one of his books were being praised. It was a new one, one Edward wanted him to write. A happy ending. No deaths. People loved it.

Author loathed it.

He stared himself down in the hotel room mirror, still wearing his suit while Edward was down in the ballroom, chatting to the guests. Why should the characters be happy if he wasn’t? And since when was he so content to be ‘benevolent’?

It’s good to change, to be good, Edward had said. He said it when Author couldn’t disagree, said it right before he kissed him and slowly lowered himself to his knees, teeth finding metal. Edwards tongue was good for more than manipulation. He could undo a button with it. Oh, and much more.

He could undo years of work, of persistent pushing, pulling parts and plans and plots to pieces. They’d been together for three years. Edward got him to swallow benevolence like a shot, and was now trying to convince him he was human.

There was a little part of him that thought it was true. That he was human. The rest new better.

He took off his tie, the red silk sliding over his hands roughly, unlike when Edward put it on him that afternoon. He was always so gentle. No matter what. As if trapped in molasses, he opened the buttons on his shirt, took off his pants, and flopped into bed. He shut his eyes. Almost automatically, he thought the same thing he had been thinking since the morning he woke up with Edward. The fox something flexes its muscles before something eyes hurt eyes hurt eyes hurt.

He could see the ballroom, clear as day, behind his eyes. He kept them closed, feeling his throat work without his permission to fill in the blanks with his voice. Knees giving out, he fell down onto the bed, blankets jumping as he fell. Looking around, he could see Edward drinking and talking to some woman, tie a little undone and face flushed a little red. Author bit the inside of his lip. For a second, he could see a fox. A rabbit.

“Edward smiles at the woman and-“

Every muscle in his body locked up. His eyes were on fire, burning, but he kept them closed, kept on talking. Frantic. Voice cracking.

“Edward smiles at the woman and excuse himself and comes to the Author.”

The burning reached a fever, and he was half certain his eyes were boiling in his sockets, spasming and shaking, jaw bobbing open and closed like a grounded fish, head shaking in a desperate, instinctual way for him to escape the fire. In his eyes he saw Edward smile, all white teeth and charm. He says something, and turns and goes.

Author opened his eyes, shooting up with a gasp.

Moments later, there was a knock at the door.

Author flexed his muscles before standing and opening it, practically falling into Edwards arms.

—

Their room was empty. Well, he shouldn’t call it their room anymore. Author drank. What a pathetic thing for a god to be doing.

You’re going to hurt yourself, Edward said. I’m really worried.

“I’m a god, sweetcheeks,” had not been the best response.

He’d been practicing with the new ability, reaching out with his eyes closed and changing. He didn’t seize up anymore, but no matter what, his eyes would always hurt. Like they were in the way…

Maybe Edward was right.

Author squeezed the bottle in his hand, and drank down the rest of it. It burnt his throat, making him cough. To be a god. Truly, to be a god. All powerful. All seeing. What was he willing to sacrifice for that?

It was answered by the sound of broken glass and screaming.

—

Years later, Host muttered to himself as they walked together, hand in hand. He didn’t need eyes to know that Edward was wearing the big floppy sun hat he wore while gardening, and he didn’t need narration to see the smile on his face. He could feel it like a fire in his hands.

Edward kicked a tiny little pebble, laughing when Host described it as “a barbaric thing to do something so harsh to something as innocent as a pebble. The Host’s dear doctor is a dark, twisted bastard.”

“I wasn’t as bad as you were,” Edward said. He could hear the smirk on his face.

“The Host was not as bad as Edward was, either. Irrational, emotional, a stain glass window that shines color even in the dark spots of everything. You kept me from driving a knife into my chest every morning, every night. He was alone, and he owes you everything.”

Edward huffs. Host narrated his blush smugly.

“You grew out of being a megalomaniac, at least. I’m still human.”

“I grew out of believing that I was nothing but a mortal. I grew out of believing that I was the most important thing. That I was somehow more deserving. I was crushed under my mortality. Lonliness. Yes, Edward is still human. But do you want to know something?”

He took a second to gather his thoughts, describing the world to himself. Bugs flew in the summer heat, trees still and proud in the windless, humid air. The sun was just on the edge of setting, teasing little streaks of pink along the horizon. He saw it all, and knew it was not his to control, not his story to finish. He was happy now, and they could be, too.

“The Host is human. He’s always been human. And he’s always loved you. More than anything. Edward-“

Well, there’s some things he could change. Make a small lump of coal and wire in his pocket into a ring, for example. He kneeled, grimacing at the ache it brought.

“Will you marry me?”

#docthorweek2k19 #docthor #dr. iplierst #dr. iplier #cyndago the author #the author #the host #cyndago the host #tw seizure #tw: suicidal thoughts #ya boy writes

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doctordiscord123 · 2 years

Text

Dr. Iplier & Yancy: *bickering over who gets to cuddle/hold the Host’s hand*

The Host, thoroughly amused: The Host has two hands~

#the host #dr. iplier #yancy #criminal record #dr. iplierst #listen #why have two ships when you can have a polycule

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lostcybertronian · 4 months

Note

For requests!!! “There’s always tomorrow” with DrIplierst please? <3

Post-Author Pre-Host ANGST

Trigger warnings for graphic depictions of blood and some gore.

---

Prompt: “There’s always tomorrow.”

There were no windows and only one clock in the clinic– in his office, where he couldn’t see it– but Dr. Iplier had the distinct impression it was late at night. He was, of course, right, but he wouldn’t find that out for a while yet. In the meantime, he busied himself with cleaning up the globs of blood-pus-soaked gauze, dumping his instruments into a tin of isopropyl alcohol on his way to the biohazard bin. He talked in a futile attempt to break the oppressive silence.

The Author did not talk back, like he might have a week ago. He slumped on his side in the hospital bed so his wounds might drain, empty eye sockets oozing blood and yellow-ish pus. He was deathly pale and had lost weight, but Dr. Iplier had gone to great lengths to keep him clean and well-hydrated; his hair thinned but it shone, brushed painstakingly back from his forehead.

He returned to the Author’s bedside and checked his pulse, then took his blood pressure, though little had changed since the last time, then sank into the chair at the bedside, his knees screaming with relief. The doors slid open and Google Blue appeared, his face set in its constant calm impassivity. “Has the Author regained consciousness?” He asked brusquely, without offering any form of greeting or forewarning.

Dr. Iplier didn’t bother standing up. He massaged his forehead with one hand and avoided Blue’s neon eye. “Not that I know of.”

“Can you even tell?” Something like derision flickered across the android’s face.

A shrug. “He doesn’t have eyes to open. Whatever did this to him made sure of that. And his heart rate is the same as it was an hour ago.” Dr. Iplier sighed. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

“Inform me when he wakes up. Or if he starts to talk.” Blue left the clinic without another word.

Dr. Iplier sighed again. Then he took the Author’s limp, clammy hand in both of his and squeezed it tight.

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aceforwhatevenisthis · 1 year

Note

FOR THE SHIP GAME IDK WHICH ONES TO ASK so I'm just gonna say rank three ships you really like / want to talk about 👀

fjsadjasdjk ty for the creative liberty boog now you get to listen to my thoughts

(in no particular order)

DrIplierst (Doc x Host)

they're both fucked up, they're both trying their best to be good, they get into all kinds of situations, i want to make them suffer (in a writer kind of way because the angst potential for them, my god)

Raeda (Raine x Eda)

they are everything to me, they deserve to be happy, they are rare older queers who make it through, they have always loved each other even when they were still figuring out their own selves and dealing with their own problems, hold on im gonna cry

Obi-Wan x Satine (i dunno their ship name)

"Had you said the word, I would have left the Jedi Order" WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS LEVEL OF ROMANCE DOING IN MY STAR WARS CARTOON AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (crying even more now actually)

#ace answers #shaniacsboogara #star wars the clone wars #star wars #obi wan kenobi #satine kryze #markiplier #markiplier egos #dr iplierst #dr iplier #the host #the owl house #raeda #raine whispers #eda clawthorne #i have so many thoughts on all three of these but my thoughts are just an unhinged incoherent mess rn

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punknerdmusings · 6 years

Text

Flu Season

It had been a long, tiring day for Dr. Iplier, and as such, he checked the clock. Doing so led to a string of curses as he realized it was only noon, and he was on shift for another five hours. It was too long, and too much, he just needed to relax for once...

Although seeing the clock helped him realize he hadn't seen Host yet today. In fact, the past three days, he hasn't seen him, which was worrisome in and of itself. The blind man needed to come in for daily checkups and cleaning for his eyes, otherwise a nasty infection could set in and do even more damage. And so, Dr. Iplier stood with a minor groan from sitting too long and scribbled a note saying that unless someone was dying, the clinic was closed. He then headed out to the library, which is where Host had made his room.

Once Dr. Iplier had arrived, he instantly knew something was off. The library wasn't in its normal immaculate state, which Host had to maintain to be able to easily and safely find things and navigate. Dr. Iplier then headed to Host's room, quietly opening the door.

Inside, Host was sprawled on his bed, face creased in discomfort, his chest's even and deep rhythm indicating that he was asleep. There was a pungent smell of vomit and dried blood, and an undercurrent of urine. Host was clearly extremely sick, and rendered 100% unable to take care of himself. And so, Dr. Iplier came over, gently pressing a hand to Host's burning, sweaty forehead.

Unfortunately, that woke Host, who came to with a hoarse groan. He then coughed violently, which led to dry heaving. He tried to curl up as best he could, but was too weak to move much. Dr. Iplier brushed some sweat soaked locks of hair away from Host's bandages sympathetically. He was a bit shocked, however when Host pulled away with a whine.

"Host... Hon, I need to get you to the clinic. You need some meds."

Host shook his head, coughing before speaking. His voice was a whispery rasp. "No... I... I'll be fine..."

Dr. Iplier shook his head. "No, you won't. You haven't been to the clinic in three days, there's the smell of stale urine and vomit, and you are absolutely burning up. You're coming with me. No argument, no debate." Dr. Iplier then gently scooped Host up, cradling him close to his chest. "I've got you, alright?"

Host shook his head again, somehow finding just enough strength to push himself out of Dr. Iplier's arms. "No... I'm gonna get you sick..."

Dr. Iplier sighed. "Hon, thos is my job." He went to scoop Host up again, but when his hands started to work under Host's body, he was violently pushed away, and Host raised his voice to the point where parts were only discernable through context. "Edward, no! I'm not going to the clinic, I can take care of myself! I'll be fine, just leave me the fuck alone!"

Dr. Iplier took a step back in surprise, and a small bit of fear and sadness. "I... H-Host..." He then sank to the ground, sobbing. The whole shitty day hit him like a truck, and he blubbered out an apology through his tears.

Dr. Iplier then heard a thud, and felt a warm, slightly stick hug. "Hon... I'm sorry, Edward, I didn't mean to, people have never really taken care of me when I'm sick so I thought you'd be the same way and god I've made you cry and feel like you need to apologize to me, I'm sorry, please, forgive me..."

Dr. Iplier, at first, cried even harder, freaking Host out more, but soon, the tears dried up and the doctor scooped Host up. "I'll never leave you to deal with this on your own, hon." He carried Host out, and down to the clinic, relieved when he saw that the place hadn't been overrun. He laid Host out on a bed, starting an IV line for hydration and fever suppressants, adding in some antivirals. He then went to work cleaning Host's eye sockets, being as careful as he could despite the three day buildup of dried blood. He then dabbed some antibiotics on a few problem areas before pulling up a chair and watching over his most precious patient.

#dr. iplier #host #dr. iplierst #dr. iplierxhost #markiplier egos #sick fic #hurt/comfort #wordsmith jim #flu season

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