#docthorweek2k19

[lostcybertronian]

Docthor Week 2K19

Docthor is the pairing of the Author (pre-transition to Host) and Dr. Iplier, and will go from May 19, 2019 to May 25, 2019

Rules:

1. Anyone can participate!

2. Please tag your work (any media is fine. Moodboards, edits, writing, drawing, etc. I myself will be writing) with #docthorweek2k19 and do feel free to tag me as well! I will be reblogging everything I can find.

What is allowed: gore, death, violence, implied and suggestive nsfw themes, AUs

What is not allowed: explicit sex/nsfw, rape or non-con, you get the idea

Prompts:

5/19- First Meeting

5/20- Blood

5/21- Before/After

5/22- AU Day

5/23- Monstrous

5/24- Unexpected Visitor

5/25- Free Day (As in, you can do NSFW, Dr. Iplierst, really anything you want)

Tags: @bingiplierdaily @follow-in-darkness @foxtamer113 @fleecal @envorechy @darkiplurrr @purple-anxiety-blog

[tealquacks]

Starting with a Heart...

Docthor day 5: Monstrous.

This is really fucking weird

@lostcybertronian

It stopped pulsating after three minutes, the longest Author had gotten. He looked up from his journal as it stopped moving on the table, laying still in a sinewy, bloody hunk, resting in a halo of fluorescent light. Cursing, he tore the page out of his journal, watching the heart on the table fade into nothingness, as if it wasn’t even there. Then, he sat perfectly still, silently fuming. Damn. Damn! He’d gotten close this time. The first attempts were much more pathetic, quivering things that flopped like a fish instead of properly pumping. Whatever he was doing wrong was minute, precise, necessary, and fucking stupid.

He looked over at the journal, copying the words he had written. They shone gold, a heart being made on the table bit by bit, stuttering before pumping, pumping. Loud enough to hear from under the floorboards. Author chuckled at his own joke, watching the heart and the clock ticking on the wall. He held his breath, as if one motion could stop it again.

“Honey?”

Author jumped at his voice, nearly falling out of his chair as he turned to see Edward in the doorway. Author stood. His hair was flipped to the other side, staring at him with soft, sleepy eyes. A white blanket slung around his shoulders was the only scrap of clothing he wore, Author peeking at the bruises and bitemarks trailing down his neck and chest, lips still swollen from god knows how many kisses.

“Edward-“

“You promised you’d stay, and I woke up alone. Come back to bed, pumpkin...” he trailed off, looking past him. Author cringed.

“Is that a heart?”

Author squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, dear.”

“A human heart?”

“A crude replica of one-“

Edward snorted. Authors eyebrows shot up. Suddenly, he was walking to the table and taking the heart in his hand, staring at it with his soft, sleepy eyes. Blood poured down his arm, then reached the blanket. He held it close to his face and stared into the gaping holes where invisible veins stuck out, shaking his head rhythmically.

“Firstly,” he whispered, voice still rumbling and heavy with sleep, “you made it too big. If you’re trying to make a human, it should be roughly the size of a fist. But this? It’s the size of two fists. Either way- I think the main problem is that you have no central nervous system, and the blood isn’t being oxidized at all. And it’s beating too fast.”

Author blinked, eyes transfixed on the blood pouring down his arm, staining the blanket, all while Edward stared, cold and clinical. The heart was red in the harsh light, held aloft in Edwards hand. Alas, poor Yorik, I knew him well…

He set the heart on the table and slinked up behind him, bloody hands resting on Author’s hips, sending chills down his spine. His breath caught in his throat.

“Y-you’re not scared? Or- or mad?” Author whispered.

“Curious,” Edward breathed, his lips grazing Authors neck. “Go on, continue writing. Make lungs. Make it breathe.”

Author’s head spun, hands shakily writing words, conjuring flesh out of nothingness, shaping it through words alone. Edwards voice rattled on in his ear, hypnotizing and heavy, saying yes, go on, make them breathe; there are filters in the lungs, honey. Make sure it’s connected to the heart, honey. Oh, that’s beautiful. Good. Fascinating.

The fluorescent light buzzed louder than any word they whispered, beating heart soon sequestered away in heaps of flesh. Between two lungs, shrouded in a thin, silky membrane. Ribs guarded the chest, then muscle and meat and finally, skin. Edwards head rested heavy on his shoulder. His hands rested under his shirt, now, wet blood on his skin. He thought to that night, when he came home with his story carved in his skin. Edward was naked and bloody, but he had been clean. Clean.

His body pressed against his, the words in his ear- he was drowning in blood. The stench of it. The rush of it coursing through his ears. With a soft noise, the blanket fell to the ground.

“I never knew you could make life,” Edward whispered, nipping his earlobe, “I always thought you were stuck killing, and that’s why you do it. I like seeing this side. You could stop hurting people, make life instead.”

Author was mum, his tongue a lump of lead in his mouth. A future laid itself in front of him, one where he stopped this endless hunt, created life instead of taking it, Edwards breath hot on his neck. He gave the creature fur. Gave it a proper brain. Edward suggested another pair of legs to support the body, hand gently brushing through Authors hair. A little bit of blood dropped from his hair to the page.

“Sorry,” Edward giggled. Author laughed in spite of himself, knees almost giving out as Edward kissed his jaw. His hand jerked, the monster spasming. He could hear Edward gasp. The thing was breathing.

It was a huge, hairy beast that looked almost like an insect, six muscular legs jutting out of its sides. Knife like claws scratched the table as it fell to the floor with a tile cracking thud. The spine curved perfectly, ending with a long panther tail, swaying gently like grass in the wind. Its head rose up, looking at the both of them with huge eyes. They were blood red. There were too many of them. It opened its mouth as if yawning, huge white teeth harshly gleaming in the light.

Author tried to step back, Edward holding him in place.

“See? I knew you could do it,” Edward said. His voice kept him steady. “I knew that you could be good. That you could make life instead of taking it. Why kill, when you can create?”

“I have to,” Author choked out. Edwards grip on his hip tightened.

“Why?”

“They’re for my stories-“

“Why not make a story where good things grow and live? A happy one. No killing, none. Have you considered that you could make your characters happy?”

The creature growled, deep and low.

“And what have they done to deserve that? Lied and cheated and whored themselves out. Why should they be happy when I’m… Nevermind. Liars. Cheaters. Whores. Bastards. All humans are the same.”

“Are you calling me a whore?”

“I’m calling you a human. An irrational, emotional human.”

“You’re human too, dear.” Edward felt too warm against him. Like a fire behind a door.

“Let me go.”

“Not until you listen to me.” His voice was gentle, despite his words being daggers. “You’re as human as I am. That may make you a liar, a cheat, a whore, irrational, emotional, whatever you think that means, but that’s all you are, a human. See-“ Edward grabbed one of Authors shaking hands, and pressed it against his own chest. He felt a dull thudding. “-You have a heart, too.”

The creature was circling around, restlessly. Black fur shone like hot tar under the cruel light. Drool sloshed from its maw.

“I am a god.”

“Then be a benevolent one.”

Author turned around, mouth open and ready to argue, but then he was being yanked close by Edward and kissed hard, hands covered with dried blood tracing their way over his spine, one resting at his hip. The creature howled behind them, broken and loud, Edward tilting his head to get a better angle. Something hot dripped down his face. He yanked away, and felt his face. Licked his hand. It tasted like salt.

“Why are you crying?” Author whined like the monster behind him, heart thudding in his ear.

Edward shook his head, face dry.

“It’s okay, honey-“

“No it fucking isn’t!” Author sobbed. Edward stepped back, eyes wide and lips still swollen. He looked pitiful- no. He was pitying him.

“You can talk to me. Please. Just talk to me.”

“I’ve been trying to talk to you! But no matter what I say or what I do, you never listen to me. For the last time- I’m not human! I’m above them! I am a god!”

“Then be a benevolent one!” Edward screamed. The room fell silent. He was panting like a dog, chest heaving and hands bloody. “You’re so obsessed with death and power and it’s tearing me apart, I can’t bear to see you go out and kill and kill without end… but look,” he crossed the room, reaching a hand out to the monster Author had made, “you can make life. You can be good, benevolent.”

“I didn’t do this to be good!”

“Then why did you do it?”

The monster made strange, metallic noises, grating and loud, scraping his ears and echoing on the walls-

“So I wouldn’t be alone! That thing? That’s my clone! A monster made of words!”

“You’re not fucking alone! You have me!”

“Edward, you don’t love me.”

The room was silent. Authors chest heaving. Edward was still looking at him so, so sadly, and he was starting to cry, too. Author wanted to explain, tell him about all the pages in the journal, all the time he spent writing their love, but it died on his tongue when Edward came close, gently pressing a kiss to his lips.

“We can talk about this in the morning,” he whispered, trailing his fingers on Authors shirt before walking away, shutting the door behind him. The monster made a strange noise, scratching the tiles, leaving deep grooves.

A monster made of words.

He looked down at his hands. They were free of blood, but not clean. He wiped his face, letting out another choked sob, trying to make it sound like a growl at the last minute. The monster rolled over onto its back like a dog, the blood red eyes intelligent and clear as a lake. Benevolent. Life giving. Pathetic. So wrapped up in himself he couldn’t see the truth. Edward’s blanket was a loose husk on the floor. Without another word, he turned his back on the beast and grabbed his bat, swinging it around, and around, and around.

He could take his benevolence and he could fucking have it.

-

Edward kept walking to their room even as the sounds of howls and cracking bone echoed through the building. Bim’s door swung open.

He ignored it.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Oh,” Edward whispered, not caring he was naked, “just a thunderstorm.”

“My mom always told me thunderstorms are what happened when god was angry.”

Edward stopped in his tracks. He looked down at his hands, covered in dry blood, then back to Bim.

“No, not angry. Just lonely. Just lonely.”

—

That morning, Author and Edward woke up together, bloody fingers intertwined.

“You’re not alone,” Edward whispered, “I’m here. I’ve always been.”

Author made a noise in his sleep, and he knew he couldn’t hear him.

“You’re not a monster,” he continued, brushing dried tears off Authors face, “just... misled.”

Nothing. At least there wasn’t a denial.

“I love you,” he whispered, even though he knew he wouldn’t get any response, even if Author was awake. Slowly, he pressed his head to his chest, Author’s heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

“You have a heart, my love.”

[bing-iplier]

Blood

//docthor day 2 babe be

//no i don’t give a fuck if it’s not day two anymore i’m a Mess and today has been a Day

Author tasted like blood.

Every kiss tasted like iron, and late night passion smelled of sex and iron.

Author shouldn’t taste good.

Every kiss shouldn’t bring him back for more, every late night session shouldn’t have him mourning come dawn.

He should taste like the dead bodies Edward knows are in the woods. Should smell of rot and decay, of all the lives he’d killed.

But Edward couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Edward tasted like love.

Every kiss making his heart melt, and late night passion filled with soft ‘I love you’s.

Edward shouldn’t taste good.

Every kiss shouldn’t make him want to go back for more, every late night session shouldn’t have him mourning the time he has to leave.

He should taste of the regret Author knows he gives Edward. Should smell of disappointment and anger, of all the times Author has ever left him.

But Author couldn’t find it in him to stop.

Edward tasted like love.

And God, how Author ever regretted taking the first kiss.

[foxtamer113]

The Author: Hey handsome, so you're the new ego that Dark talked about~

Dr. Iplier: Please move. I don't have time for this.

Day 1: First Meeting

A quick doodle between studying for my exams

[egossideblog]

the doctors and the nurses they adore me so...

but it's really quite alarming, cause i'm such an awful fuck

day two, blood

at this rate of using my experiences in fics the next fic will be about not being to open a bottle and the following one about having a crush on a friend who is a med student- wait.

anyway, 560 words, blood mentioned

@lostcybertronian

The Author was restless. He just had what had to be the best idea in his career. He was not sure if his character would be able to survive executing this idea and he was not sure if this even was his problem but he knew Edward would find some time to discuss this.

He hasn't seen the Doctor in what seemed like years, both of them busy with their jobs ("It's not a job, it's passion", they would both say, refusing to admit they were just a couple of workaholics) but he couldn't wait to kick the door to Edward's office open and yell the idea at him. He didn't care that it was midnight, he knew the Doctor was always there.

The Nurse - probably the only person keeping Edward from actually dying from lack of sleep, bless this woman - had gone home hours earlier and the only light on this floor was coming from under the office's door. No one was there to stop him, nice. The Author entered the room, expecting a tired sigh from the direction of the messy desk, a quiet greeting, and a promise of coming to their rarely shared bed soon. There was nothing. The room was empty and quiet, so he approached the desk.

Nothing seemed out of place: there were some documents, a bouquet of pens (all out of ink), blood stains… Fresh blood stains. He had never seen fresh blood on Edward's desk before - the Doctor may have been a mess but he hated getting bodily fluids on his things. The Author knew it from experience, from that one time his eyes started bleeding out of nowhere which he barely remembered.

He heard a noise from the adjacent surgery room.

"Edward, are you in there?" he asked, opening the door, much slower this time. Who knew, it may have been Bim Timmer, the resident cannibal bitch, making food on one of the operating table again.

The answer was just a quiet, definitely not Bim Trimmer-esque "Hi" from the other side of the room.

The Doctor was sitting on the floor, pressing a piece of paper towel to his nose, looking up at the writer.

"What happened?" The Author asked kneeling next to him.

"Got a nosebleed, it happ-" he started coughing and it sounded as if he was choking or drowning. The Author couldn't help but put a hand on the back of Edward's head in a silent advice to keep his head down.

"What the fuck was this?!"

"I swallowed a blood clot, don't worry."

"Hmmm, tasty," the Author said, looking for something cold to put on the back of the Doctor's neck.

"It kinda tastes like you when you are back from the woods, to be honest."

"I am about to kinkshame."

"You can't really kinkshame if you show up here covered in blood just to kiss me."

The Author pressed a gentle kiss to Edward's forehead, it was weirdly warm.

"What happened anyway?"

"Well, it just happens sometimes." He shrugged and removed the towel from his face to check if his nose was still bleeding. It was.

"I think you need some rest, love."

"Probably, I don't know. I never know."

"So maybe… We stop this bleeding, get you to bed, and then i will tell you about my idea until you fall asleep?"

"It sounds great."

[fleecal]

5/22- AU Day

THIS TOOK ME FOREVER AND A HALF BUT I’M SUPER PROUD OF IT

I mention gun, murder, mental hospital and blood in this. Nothing graphic, but just a warning.

Dr. Valentine Iplier fumbled with his keys as he opened the door of his new apartment. He recently got a new job and luckily found a really nice apartment for a really low price not too far away. As of today, he was finally moved into his new home and ready to start living in it. He walked over to the couch and promptly collapsed onto it. He closed his eyes, dozing slightly when he heard a voice, clear as day, whisper “He is awake but too afraid to open his eyes.” Val sat bolt upright and looked around. He swore he heard a voice, but obviously, there was no one else in the apartment. Must have been a TV in another or something like that. Just the same, he did not close his eyes again.

That night, Val had a strange dream of a beautiful young man, sitting over a typewriter in a dark room. He looked tired, his amber eyes were dull and unfocused, his dark shirt and hair were damp with sweat. He was typing furiously, muttering to himself. Every so often he would rip a yellowed page from the typewriter and throw it to his left, where it would disappear into the darkness of the room. Val tried to hear what the man was muttering but all he caught was the word “End” before he woke up suddenly in his new bedroom.

He got out of bed and opened the window to get some fresh air into the room. He had never seen that man before in his life. But, in a strange way, he was familiar. His voice was familiar.

Things went on like that for a while. A few more times, he’d hear things. Sometimes snippets of words or sentences like something out of a novel. “The deceptive clutch of a mirage.” “The deep blue darkness around him.” “One last panicked look around his dreaded entrapment.” It just became part of Val’s daily life and he didn’t really think anything of it. Probably someone on the street outside. People in other apartments. His own mind conjuring words. Nothing to worry about, he'd tell himself. On days he heard things, that night he would dream about the man at the typewriter; watching him type and mumble. It never occurred to Val that the two could be connected. Just some weird dreams.

That is, until one night, a few months after he’d moved in, Val was reading before bed when he swore he heard a gunshot rip through the silence of the night. He over dashed to the window to see what had happened. The street was deserted other than some evening cyclists and pedestrians. Nothing abnormal. Maybe someone was setting off fireworks, he told himself, and he just didn’t see them. But he knew in the back of his mind that wasn’t what had happened. It had almost sounded like… like it was in the apartment. Heart still pounding, he turned off his bedside lamp and lay down.

He didn’t expect himself to be able to sleep that night, but eventually, he found himself in the dark room again. But this time it was different. It was like he was actually in the room. It all felt so much more real than all the times before. He walked over to the man at the typewriter. Val could see dark, sunken bags under the man’s eyes and blisters on the man’s fingers. Val looked at his page. The words were so clear. The story was about a man named Icarus Yoon, a writer living in an apartment. He was a bestselling author but his books used the likeness of some of his neighbours without their permission so he wasn’t very well liked. One day, one of the neighbours confronted Icarus in his own apartment about the books. While Icarus was hashing it out with the neighbour, Icarus was shot from behind by another disgruntled neighbour who had entered the apartment unnoticed. Icarus lay on the floor, bleeding out for what felt like hours. Every time the man got to the part where Icarus should have died from his injuries, he would rip the page from the typewriter and start over, muttering things like “No, no. That’s not right. Almost done. How does it end? Needs to be perfect. How does it end?” Val watched the man continue to work until suddenly, he looked up, straight at Val and said in a clear but tired voice. “Help me.” Val was about to ask how he could help when he woke up.

That morning, when Val went down to get his mail, he saw his neighbours William and Dominique Doom chatting by the mailbox. He greeted them tiredly, fishing out his key and opening his box. “Morning.” He said. Dominique nodded to the doctor, their expression as unreadable as ever but Will gave Val a wide grin. Sometimes Val wondered how two people who were so different could tolerate each other, let alone be married for almost seven years as Will liked to tell anyone who would listen.

“Good morning, chap! Late night at the hospital?” Will asked in a sing-song voice. Val shook his head.

“Had a really weird dream last night about a guy at a typewriter.” The doctor responded, looking through the letters he had pulled from his mailbox. Spam. Spam. Spam.

“Maybe it was the ghost of the man who got murdered in your apartment.” Will joked, causing Val to nearly drop the mail he was holding and look at the talk show host with wide eyes. Dominique elbowed their husband in the side.

“Will. Don’t scare him.” They warned, but Val shook his head.

“Wait, someone was murdered in my apartment? Can you tell me more about that?”

“Didn’t they tell you when you bought the place? Well,” Will began, as Dominique rolled their eyes and muttered something about going back upstairs and locking Will out, before leaving. “The man was a bit of a, shall we say, recluse. Not the nicest person either. Mostly kept to himself. Then, a year ago, he was having a dispute with a couple of neighbours when another man who lived here shot him in the back. I was home at the time, heard the gunshot and called the police but it was already too late. Poor guy. Least it was quick. Dominique and I live on the floor below you, so we didn’t know the people very well, but I think the one who shot him plead insanity and is in a hospital. The other neighbour moved out real quick after that.” Will finished, looking thoughtful, almost sad. Val tried to take in all the information he had just been given. That story seemed to match the one he’d read in the dream.

“What was the guy’s name?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“Well, from what I know his real name was Hanuel, but he started going by Icarus when he emigrated from Korea. Kind of ironic in hindsight.”

“Thank you very much, Will. This gives me a lot to think about.” He said, closing his mailbox roughly and hurrying back to his apartment without another word.

That night, when Val went to bed, he knew he was ready. After the conversation with Will, he had gone back to his own apartment and spent most of the day doing research about the murder of Icarus Yoon. Will was right. He was a best-selling thriller author, who had emigrated to the states from Korea when he was five. When he was 25, about a year ago, he was shot and killed in his own apartment by a neighbour who mistook the yelling for Icarus attacking another neighbour. Paramedics tried their best to save him, but it was too late and Icarus was pronounced dead on the scene. He left behind only his mother. From what Val could tell, he didn’t even have any close friends. There was a picture of Icarus too, probably from the about the author section from his books. It was the same man Val saw in his dreams, though he looked less exhausted in the photo. The articles talked about his death like it was a great loss to the world of literature but Val just felt sad for his mother, who had to bury her son. As he drifted off to sleep, Val knew what he had to do and how.

Then he was in the dark room. For the first time, Val looked around and realized this was his living room, just unnaturally dark. He walked over to the man at the typewriter, whom he now knew as Icarus, and for the first time, Val noticed that his shirt wasn’t just damp with sweat but also with blood from a hole just below Icarus’s left ribs. He was typing away on his typewriter and muttering to himself, as always. Valentine took a deep breath before he spoke. “I know who you are, Icarus, and I want to help you.” Icarus did not respond, continuing to type and type and type, muttering to himself the same things.  That’s when it occurred to Val, among other things, Icarus kept asking how it ended. He didn’t know how the story ended because he was dead. Gently, Val put his hand on Icarus’s shoulder and began telling him the ending. “Icarus sadly passed away on the floor his apartment as the paramedics tried but were unable to save him. He was pronounced him dead at the scene. The man who shot him plead insanity and is currently in a hospital receiving treatment.”

“And?” Icarus didn’t look up from typewriter. Val frowned. What more could he want? That was the end. The end of the story he died. Wait.  No. That wasn’t the end.

“A year later, a young doctor named Valentine Iplier moved into the apartment. He realized Icarus was still trapped there and looked into Icarus’s demise, figured out Icarus’s unfinished business and helped the writer finish his story so he could move on and finally be at peace.” Icarus smiled as he typed down the last words before giving a satisfied

“The End.” He took the paper out of the typewriter, but instead of throwing it, he placed the page on the desk before standing up to face Val. “Thank you, Valentine.” He sighed. Then Icarus gave him a kiss on the cheek and Val woke up in his bedroom, the morning light streaming in through the blind. He had crossed over. Val could feel it. Icarus was at peace.

Valentine didn’t hear things in the apartment or dream of Icarus anymore after that, as he suspected he wouldn’t. In a small way, he missed Icarus but he was happy he was finally able to rest.

A week later, Ji-Min Yoon was visiting her son’s grave when she found fresh flowers already resting in front of the headstone; white poppies. She smiled.

[Note: White Poppies represent Consolation, dreams, modern, peace]

[linkmy-boy]

Docthor day one. Prompt:First meeting

"Wh wha what ar-are you"

"Well what a little fella like you doing in these woods"

Well here is my little entry for the first day of Docthor week!

(Dothor week is done by @/lostcybertronian)

While exploring the smallish Dr.Iplier is surprised to find a human out of all things in this woods. However Author is suprized to find someone so well kept though a little small in these woods.

I hope you like it @lostcybertronian

[xpouii]

Docthor Day 5: Monstrous

This is Day 5 of Docthor Week by @lostcybertronian

Warning: Gore

               Edward woke up to screaming, and he tried to sit up, forgetting about the position he was tied in. The Author had a man tied to a chair with a bag over his head. He stepped over Edward to sit at his desk. “Hope you don’t mind; I lent him your chair.”

               Edward sat up against the desk, after much effort, and his stomach jumped, “Are you-“

               “How many times are you going to ask me that?” the Author said, opening a fresh notebook and scribbling at the top. “What’s your name? Hmm, you look like a Jerry. Fine.”

               Edward looked back to the man, and jumped when the bag was pulled away by invisible hands. Jerry’s eyes were terrified, and he desperately tried to talk through the duct tape over his mouth. Edward did his best to look sympathetic, but his own face was drawn with pain and fear, and there wasn’t much he could do to change it.

              The Author’s pen was lively, racing over the paper, and Edward squirmed, “Do I need to be here for this?”

               “Why not?” the Author said. “It’ll give you something to look forward to, right?”

               “But you can’t kill me,” Edward said.

               The Author paused, and the full fury of his dark eyes was focused on Edward. Edward looked back, the fear gone. He was tired, and he was ready to go home, and he was about to watch a man be tortured to death. The universe had dealt him the mother of all shitty hands, and here he was, hands going numb and the taste of stale coffee in his mouth. The fact that he should consider himself lucky didn’t help him feel any better.

               Jerry was sweating by the time anything happened, squirming in his chair. He wasn’t expecting it—of course—how could he? It wasn’t like Jerry knew about the Author, or the horrible things he planned to do, but he got a good idea when suddenly the tape was ripped from his face. He whimpered, and looked around. Then a red gash opened up on his cheek, and he cried out. Another small cut bloomed on his neck, then the material of his shirt split and tore itself away. Edward closed his eyes. He wasn’t ready.

               The cuts were fast, shallow and small, and Jerry reacted to each one like it was the first, fear and pain and confusion. He was sweating more, and it mixed with the blood that flowed down his body until he was more like a movie prop than a man. The Author was grinning as he wrote, and he only lifted his eyes a time or two to survey the damage—look over his masterpiece—before he went back to it. There was something strangely poetic about his movements, and the way he carried himself.

              Edward swallowed thickly as nausea hit him, but he couldn’t help but admire the lean muscles of the Author’s arm, the way his dark eyes skipped over the paper, and how his lips parted and muttered wordlessly as he checked his work. Heat flared up in Edward’s face and he shook his head, pulling his eyes away from the Author to look at Jerry again. The man was alive, and the cuts had stopped—mostly because there was little space left where a cut or smeared blood wasn’t marring his skin. The room had gone almost silent, nothing but the scratches of pen to paper and Jerry’s shaking breath.

               The splitting of bones and skin was deafening when suddenly Jerry’s knees were spun inward, and the gore that leapt from the wound reminded Edward of the man in the wreck. The Author audibly moaned, biting down on the end of his pen as Jerry shrieked, a sound of pure animal pain and terror. Edward’s heart dropped and leapt all at once, but he couldn’t look away. Perhaps some part of him felt like he owed it to Jerry to watch, to play silent witness to his brutal ending, and another part of him was afraid to miss any of the Author’s sweet expressions. Once Jerry had quieted down, probably going into shock from blood loss, the pen started writing again. It felt like hours, days, weeks had passed since this had started. Time was stretched and skewed, and Edward felt like he was losing his mind. He watched the Author as he stood up, and moved around the desk. He knelt in front of Edward and cupped his face, pulling him into a bruising kiss.

               Edward stiffened, but his body betrayed him as he kissed the man back, sighing into his mouth. Had he lost his mind? Was the Author controlling him? It didn’t feel that way, but why the fuck else would he be making out with a deranged killer while his victim bled out mewling like a dying cat? The Author hauled him to his feet and pushed him against the desk, his skilled hands untying Edward. Edward groaned at the pain as his body was released from the forced arch, and he tried to catch his breath, but the Author claimed his mouth again, and he wrapped his arms around the man’s neck. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he wanted this, whatever this was. But then he realized what he was doing, and he pushed the Author away, gasping for breath. They stared at each other for a moment, both panting. When the Author moved in again Edward flinched away, closing his eyes.

               The Author scowled, shoving Edward away from the desk; his legs were still weak, and he went sprawling, his hands smearing in Jerry’s blood. He scrambled to his feet, and the Author was back at his desk, “Get out.”

               “What-“

               “GET THE FUCK OUT!” the Author roared.

               Edward ran.

[lostcybertronian]

Docthor Week- Day 1

Prompt: First Meeting

---

Volunteer work and internships would help him get into medical school. That’s what his faculty advisor had told him. She- as well as seemingly everyone else Edward knew- also told him that getting in was difficult. And that it was “highly competitive.” But that volunteer work and internships would help his chances.

Of course, it was just his luck that on, his first day of work, they’d receive someone other than the drug-addled overdoses or alcohol-poisoned drunks that usually came stumbling into the clinic.

    The first man had gray skin. His clothes- form-fitting t-shirt, jeans, sneakers- were blacker than black, so black that the blood rolling in a slow dribble from the cuts on his arms and face were lost amidst the void-like fabric. He was being half-dragged, half-carried by a taller man with a black eye and a broken nose who, in between gulping down desperate lungfuls of air, gasped, “I need a doctor!”

    For a moment there was only shocked silence, during which his eyes darted wildly from Dr. Bloom to the woman who’d come in with a sliced finger to Edward.

    “Well?” He demanded.

    Dr. Bloom jolted into action, hurrying forward to relieve the taller man of his semi-conscious burden while snapping at Edward to “fetch a gurney!”

The gray-skinned man jerked into consciousness as they laid him onto it, blood bubbling at his lips as he muttered out curses and mumbled about someone named “Author.” He batted weakly at Dr. Bloom’s attempts to find the source of the bleeding before giving up and lying limp, head lolling.

    “Take care of our other patient,” was all Edward got for instruction before the gray-skinned man was being wheeled away.

    “I’d let you take care of me,” the man said with a breathless smirk, blatantly eyeing Edward up and down as he turned around.

    Edward fixed him with a glare, but nonetheless steered him toward one of the examination tables, drawing the paper curtain around them for some privacy. “Not unless you want your ass handed to you in pieces. Shouldn’t you be more worried about your friend?”

    “Dark? Nah. He’ll be fine.” The man hopped up onto the table, wincing as he did so. “He’s been banged up worse than this.”

    “You seemed pretty desperate when you came in, Mister . . .”

    “The Author. Just the Author.” A grin. Edward didn’t return it, merely scribbled it down onto a clipboard.

“Alright then,” he said, setting the clipboard aside and snagging a pair of latex gloves from the box on the counter, then a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of bandages . “Tell me what happened while I look you over.”

“I don’t kiss and tell.” The Author winked, and Edward snorted. “Yeah. I’m sure you don’t. Now hold still.”

The Author obediently held still while Edward examined him; bandaging up the shallow lacerations criss-crossing his upper arms and splinting his sprained wrist. A flush crept up his neck when he had to ask the Author to remove his shirt so he could get at the gash on his chest, and he pretended not to notice the Author’s self-satisfied expression as he cleaned and bandaged that as well.

It didn’t take long- though it sure felt like it did- and by the time he was finished Edward was well and truly red in the face, and he was extremely grateful to escape the Author’s presence when Dr. Bloom’s nurse beckoned him aside.

“Good news,” he said when he reappeared from behind the curtain. “Your friend- Dark, is it?- is a bit banged up, but he’ll be fine.”

“See?” The Author said, pulling his shirt back on with a wince. “Told you.”

“Dr. Bloom would like to keep him overnight for observation, however. He said he found something . . . odd.”

“Not a chance.” The Author hopped down from the table. “I can take care of it.”

“What?” Edward followed him as he shoved the curtain aside with a rattle. “That might not be safe-”

But the Author paid him no attention, merely sauntered- and the only word Edward could use to describe the way he walked was sauntered- over to the bed where Dark, who looked pale and tired, was already struggling to sit up.

He do nothing but stare as they seemed to trade insults- Dark snapping something that Edward didn’t catch and the Author responding in kind- before the Author helped him off the bed and they began the laborious process of limping toward the door.

As they brushed by him the Author paused, pulling a pen from his jeans pocket.

“Here,” he said, while Dark scowled. “Hold out your hand.”

Curious and not a little concerned, Edward did so, and the Author scrawled a number onto his palm. “Call me.”

“Uh-” Edward began to say something, perhaps along the lines of are you insane? but the Author and Dark were already gone, disappearing through the sliding doors.

---

    “You and your trivial affairs,” Dark spat as they emerged into the parking lot, the boiling heat of the mid-afternoon sun beating down on them from above. He shoved the Author away from him, straightening with a pained wince as his wounds protested. “Can we go nowhere without you attempting to woo someone?”

    The Author shrugged. “He was hot. I’d tap that ass any day.”

    Dark wrinkled his nose. “You’re disgusting.”

    “Just get us out of here. It’s too fucking hot.”

    “Very well.” Dark snatched the Author’s hand, and a moment later the two disappeared in a swirl of black.

[bing-iplier]

The Darkest Secrets are in the Woods

//GIVE IT UP FOR DAY 7 BOYS

//i’m actually proud i did most of the days bc Boy Howdy am i bad at this here whole memory thing

//anyways @lostcybertronian thanks for the fun event and giving my inspiration for the last day (go check out their story here!

//also @palpalbuddypal and @xpouii i’ve bene reading y’all stories this entire time and i am Dying they are all so good and God if i’m not a slut for pal’s God complex Author and Xpouii’s series (but that asylum fic holds my heart ngl)

“Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” How often had he heard that phrase? 

Wilford said it often when he was being nosy and going through other’s stuff. Host, however, always hated that phrase. “Some things are better off staying unknown.” He’d reply.

Edward wished he’d listened to Host as he ventured deeper and deeper into the library. 

The bookshelves had at one point become trees. He was sure of that fact.

Bookshelves don’t stretch towards an open sky. Don’t become rough and absent of books. 

Carpet doesn’t smell like decay, and hungry eyes don’t peak through gaps in the books. Not in Host’s library. But he wasn’t sure if he was even in the Host’s realm anymore.

The forest was painstakingly familiar and yet foreign at the same time. He recognized the trees, even recognized a river he eventually stumbled upon. He and Author used to swim here, laughing and hidden from the world. 

The farther and farther he went, the more and more the memories started coming back. Racing through the forest as something chased after them. Playing hide and seek while drunk. Chasing after Author while the other ran naked through the woods, covered in mud.

He heard Host calling him in the distance. He knew he should go back. Should go and run into Host’s arms and never look back. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He felt compelled to keep walking forward. Why? He didn’t know. 

Eventually, he reached it. He knew he would, but it still seemed impossible. 

The cabin.

It should have rotten away. Should have burned, or been destroyed by neglect. Yet it looked perfectly in tact. Almost like it was cared for. Numbly he wondered why there were lights on when it should be abandoned.

Host’s voice was more frantic behind him, practically screaming. But he couldn’t hear him. Not when the forest was hostile to foreigners, and Host wasn’t welcome anyway.

Edward, though. Edward was an old friend, a diamond in the rough. The forest loved him, and in return Edward loved it.

It’s the only reason he was able to reach the cabin alive.

The door creaked open. Author smiled, leaning against the door frame. “You’re late.”

Edward blinked, smiling in return. “Oh, shut up you hypocrite.”

Host’s screams were swallowed by the forest.

Author’s smile became a smirk as he pulled Edward inside, eyes glinting maliciously.

Edward didn’t notice the writing on the Author’s arms. All he noticed was how nice it was to be home.

The cabin door shut.

And the forest was silent once more.

[lostcybertronian]

Docthor day one

Thought I’d like the challenge since I’ve never written for this pairing before! (I only started over about three times 😅)

———

There was a banging on his door and Edward jolted in bed. Blearily, he rolled over and managed to smack the clock into view. The hour could only be described as obscene and the knocking probably already woke up his roommates too. He groaned and ignored whoever it was, hoping they’d go away.

The banging on his door continued. He rolled over again, pulled the pillow over his head, cursed some more, before finally huffing and pulling himself out of bed.

He threw the door open and the smell of cheap beer almost knocked him over. The guy was leaning on his doorframe, absolutely plastered and clutching his arm close to his chest.

“Oh hey,” he grinned despite the hour, “thought you’d never answer.”

“It’s three thirty in the morning,” Edward had exams in the morning. Hell, it was finals week so he was pretty sure all of his neighbours had exams too. This guy just woke up half the hall and was still smiling like an idiot.

The guy hiccuped. “Right, I heard you were a doctor?”

Edward ran a hand down his face. “I’m pre med, not a doctor. Just go to the ER.”

He went to slam the door shut and the guy pushed it back. “Look, I-I don’t have a car and I think I broke my wrist.” Edward gave him a flat look. “Pleeease?”

The guy looked like he’d been roughed up a little. Clothes rumpled, hair going every which way. Someone probably threw him out of a bar somewhere but Edward knew he wouldn’t be able to rest now.

Heaving a sigh, he finally let him in. “You’re lucky I have a splint somewhere around here.”

The way the man was stumbling had Edward amazed he didn’t immediately eat it in his front hallway. Edward shut the door, watching as he flopped onto the couch.

“Ow,” he whined, having jostled his arm.

It took some digging around in his closet to find the old splint he kept and some painkillers. When he re-entered the living room the guy was sprawled across the cushions, trying to kick his shoes off and failing.

“You got a name?” Edward pulled the coffee table closer so he could sit on it.

The man laughed a little. “My friends call me the Author.” At Edward’s questioning look he continued, waving his other hand, “ Creative writing major, not the most creative nickname.”

The Author winced as he took hold of his wrist. “How’d this happen?”

“Dunno, was at a party.”

Edward huffed. “It’s finals week.”

“Pfft, creative writing major, remember, I’ll be fiiine.”

“Oh yeah, I bet the hangover will really help the creative juices get flowing.”

The Author pouted, doing his best to cross his arms while Edward still had hold of the other. “Rude. Your bedside manner’s gonna need some work.”

As best as he could tell it was just a bad sprain. Still, Edward coaxed him into wearing the splint and taking some pain killers. His roommates will be pissed but they’ve brought plenty of strangers into their apartment already.

“I’ll drive you to the ER tomorrow,” he stood to go grab a blanket and the Author caught him by the pant leg.

“M'sorry,” the man mumbled, already well on his way to falling asleep.

“Tell that to your hangover tomorrow.” The author still didn’t let go.

“Lemme make it up to you, get you a coffee or, flowers, or something.”

Edward huffed a laugh. “I’ll take the coffee, thanks.”

He gently pulled away and went about cleaning up. By the time he went to turn the lights off, the Author was dead to the world. With a sigh he trudged back to his room, thinking it better one damn good cup of coffee if he was going to make it through the week.

[lostcybertronian]

Docthor Week- Day 6

I wrote this really late last night so I’m sorry if it’s incoherent. I had no time to post it today (so busy today), so I queued it at around 10PM xD

Prompt: Unexpected Visitor

---

It hadn’t happened suddenly. There was no moment of realization, no spontaneous spark, no burst of passion where they gave into the lust that’d been eating away at them for weeks, like in romance novels.

    It happened over time. Brushed hands, locked eyes, discussions about coffee. They both liked it black. Anything beyond a teaspoon or so of sugar was too sweet.

    Henrik knew he had a boyfriend. Knew who the Author was, and knew what he was capable of.

    But that night. That one night after the clinic closed, they were all by themselves, walking out across the parking lot toward their cars. They were joking and laughing, overtired and over-caffeinated to the point of breaking down into hysterics over the simplest of things. Edward dropped his keys- his hands shaky from long hours and too many cups of coffee- and after he stooped to pick them up Henrik was there, leaning in, blue eyes serious.

    Henrik knew he had a boyfriend. Knew who the Author was, and knew what he was capable of. But he kissed Edward anyway. Right there. Illuminated by the lights. In the middle of the parking lot.

Because he also knew- from all the times Edward came into the clinic hurt and frustrated- that the Author didn’t even take the time to greet Edward when he got home from his shifts. He was always too busy working, too busy existing in his own little world, where his books and his characters were all that mattered.

    That kiss led to more kisses. Stolen late at night and early in the morning. In the break room, over steaming cups of black-as-night coffee. In places no one would see.

    Edward began to feel loved in a way that he now knew the Author would never provide. And he felt for Henrik what he hadn’t for the Author in a long, long time.

    But, like all good things, this would soon come to an end.

---

    The Author was gone. Off at some convention that was stupid enough to sign him on for a panel.

    He’d boasted about it all morning, in between throwing clothes in a tattered suitcase and stuffing bites of toast into his mouth.

    Edward had barely even heard a word he said. Every nerve thrummed with excitement. He’d be able to spend the weekend with Henrik. And maybe, just maybe, he’d finally be able to muster up the courage to break it off with the Author when he returned.

    Never in a million years would he have expected the Author to come back early. Never would have expected him to waltz into the clinic with a bottle of wine.

    Not until it shattered against the tile floor, that is, interrupting the tender kiss Henrik had leaned over to give him while they were taking inventory of medical supplies.

    Henrik jolted away from Edward at the harsh clash of glass breaking, and both men turned toward the doors to see the Author, fury written across his face like a novel.

    “What the fuck?” He crossed the clinic floor, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. “What’s going on here?”

    “I- uh-” Edward could do nothing but stutter. He’d never seen the Author this angry.

    “Are you cheating on me?” The Author got right up in his face, even going so far as to give him a shove. Edward stumbled back, eyes widening. “You-”

    “Zat is enough.” Henrik stepped between them, crossing his arms over his chest, fixing the Author with a fierce glare. “Do not touch him.”

    “I’ll touch him if I damn well please,” the Author spat, attempting to force his way around the doctor to no avail. “That cheating bastard is going to pay.”

“Not vith me around, he von’t!”

The Author sneered. “Oh, and are you, the guy who’s been fucking my boyfriend, going to protect him? That’s-”

“Stop it, Author!” Edward burst out, shutting him up. He stepped out from around Henrik, doing his best to put on a brave face. “You need to leave.”

“I’m not going to-”

“I don’t love you anymore!” The Author’s eyes went wide, and his mouth opened in a little “o” of shock. “I haven’t loved you in a long time. But I was too coward to end it. To end us. So I’m ending it now. You need to leave.”

For a long moment, the Author only stared. Then, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes darkened and his mouth pulled into a tight scowl.

“Fine,” was all he said. Then he turned, stalked back the way he came. “Don’t come crawling back to me when that jackass gets tired of you.”

The doors whirred open and he left. And as soon as his retreating back disappeared Edward began to cry.

“Hush,” Henrik said quietly, pulling him close, rubbing soothing circles over his back. “He is gone. It is over now.”

Edward thought of the Author’s fury. Of the look on his face as he left.

But he chose not to say a word. Only sniffled and let Henrik hold him.

[lostcybertronian]

Docthor Week- Day 7

Remember this post?

Prompt: FREE DAY BAB-EE

---

The Host was nowhere to be seen. Strange, considering his tendency to manifest within seconds of Dr. Iplier’s entrance into his library.

    The doctor shifted his weight from side to side. Breathed in the wafting steam of two mugs of hot coffee. Peered past the towering stacks, into darkness that hung heavy, like a shroud.

    “Host?” He didn’t dare speak above a whisper. It felt forbidden, almost, to shatter the thick silence. And the Host would hear him regardless. He always did.

But as he waited, and no response came…

Maybe he’s working, Dr. Iplier thought to himself, tamping down the surge of concern and starting deeper into the library, toward where he knew the Host’s recording setup to be. He still carried the mugs of coffee in his hands, though they were half-forgotten and starting to cool now, in the chill.

Please be working.

---

    He’d gone too far.

    He wasn’t sure when. But at some point his beloved bookshelves had begun to warp into the rough, gnarled trunks of trees, and he had scarcely even noticed until their outstretched branches- void of leaves, they were like thorny fingers, like claws- had reached to tug insistently at his clothes and the floor wasn’t even the floor anymore but a soft layer of decaying organic matter that had a slight crunch underfoot.

    The Host realized, then, just how far he’d wandered, and froze in his tracks. Panic washed over him like a cold wave and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he forced himself to stand perfectly still.

    Somewhere behind him- far, far behind him- he could hear the doctor calling his name. But he didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer. Didn’t dare to even breathe.

    A breeze rustled the bare branches. Footsteps crashed through the undergrowth somewhere off to his left.

    He jerked his head in that direction, lips moving to silently narrate the sound. No doubt there were echoes of him still running around, flickering in and out of being with the ebb and flow of memories. Memories that the Host had tried so hard to erase.

    But the Author’s woods was a library in its own right. There was no erasing what remained there. No speaking or scribbling it out of existence.

    Blood began to roll in fat droplets down his cheeks, and a moment later he tasted its metallic tang in his mouth. He didn’t raise a hand to wipe them away. Couldn’t. He was rooted to that spot. Frozen with fear that crawled over his skin and raised shivery goosebumps.

    Don’t find me. Please. The Author was dead. He had to remain that way.

    “Host?” Dr. Iplier’s voice filtered through the trees. Still distant, but getting closer. He sounded frantic.

    But still, the Host did not answer. He focused on the footsteps as they faded away, waiting with bated breath until they’d disappeared completely.

    Then he turned and ran.

---

    “Host?” He all but ran down a narrow hallway, some part of the library he’d never been. His breaths came quick and shallow, desperation evident in the razor-sharp edge of his voice as he called the Host’s name over and over again.

    The Host hadn’t been working. Hadn’t been at his desk. So Dr. Iplier had left the now-cold mugs of coffee there and had gone deeper. Deeper, until the air grew heavy and musty and smelled of decomposing things. Deeper, until the shelves he passed were coated in thick blankets of dust and it was clear no one had been back there in a long, long time.

    “Host?” He called again, not caring anymore about the volume of his voice. He needed the Host to hear him. He needed the Host to be okay. “Host!”

    A pause. There was something. A noise he had to strain to hear. Footsteps. Running. Coming closer.

    Then all of a sudden the Host came barrelling out of the darkness.

    “Host!” Dr. Iplier cried, running forward just in time to catch the Host as he tripped and fell, gathering him tightly in his arms and gently lowering them both to the floor. “Where the hell were you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

    The Host didn’t answer. Blood flowed freely down his cheeks and stained the doctor’s lab-coat when he buried his head in his shoulder. His hands trembled violently as he clutched at him frantically, as if he’d disappear if he let go.

    “Host?” Worry turned to alarm. Dr. Iplier stroked the Host’s back in an attempt to calm him down. “What happened? What’s back there?”

    Dust on the shelves. That heavy, damp smell.

    Dr. Iplier glanced around, fully taking in his surroundings for the first time. The wood of the bookshelves looked . . . rough. Like tree bark. And some of them sported stubby protrusions that almost resembled branches.

    He shook his head and tried to ignore the chilly fear shooting down his spine. The dark sometimes played tricks on people. He was just seeing things.

    “It’s alright, Host. It’s okay.” He returned his attention to the Host. “Can you stand? Can you walk?”

    There was a pause. Then, slowly, the Host nodded.

    “Alright.” Dr. Iplier helped him to his feet, let him cling to him as they started back toward the Host’s desk. Back toward light and safety. “Let’s go get some coffee. I left some on your desk.”

    The Host nodded again, though as they left he tilted his head to the side, listening to something. Something Dr. Iplier couldn’t hear.

    The doctor didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.

[bing-iplier]

First Meeting

//I actually am writing for Docthor week, I know

//i promise not to abandon it like i normally do al;kdjf

Filthy. The man standing in front of Dr. Iplier was a wreck of a man, but the first thing Edward noticed was the filth.

He was dripping in mud and..blood? Who knew. With all the shit covering his body, Edward couldn't exactly even tell what color his skin was.

All Edward knew was he was making a mess on the waiting room floor, and someone, most likely Edward, was going to have to clean it up.

The man swaggered - Edward didn’t know whether to laugh or roll his eyes - up to the desk, leaning on it.

“Why hello, beautiful.” He spoke with a purr. “Do you think you could get me a doctor? Preferably one as attractive as yourself, if one such exists.”

Edward smiled, looking away shyly as he leaned in. “Well...” He slammed a clipboard with a form on it down in front of Author, expression blank. “I can get you a doctor after you fill out this form and wait in line.”

The Author’s expression fell slightly as he glanced down at the form then back up at Edward. “Oh no, sweetheart, I don’t feel out forms.”

Edward just gave him a stiff smile, ice in his eyes. “Well today’s your lucky day, sir. You now have the riveting opportunity to fill out a form for the first time in your life, if you can write.”

Instead of snarling, the Author couldn’t help but smirk. “Oh, I can write all right. Before I go though, can I at least ask your name?” 

The man behind the desk sighed, pointing at his name tag. “Edward. Edward Iplier.”

Author smirked, winking at him, although it was hard to tell with the mud. “Author. I’ll be seeing you soon, babe.”

Edward scoffed, rolling his eyes. “And I’m sure that will happen.”

He grabbed the form and trudged off, fully prepared to commit identity fraud via Mark. 

‘And once I get my note book, I’ll make sure you know damn well how well I can write, cutie.’

[lostcybertronian]

Docthor Week- Day 4

I worked so hard on this. I’m very proud of it. Have vampire!Author

Prompt: AU Day

---

The gas station was a beacon of light sitting just off the highway, but it wasn’t the light he was after as he made his way across the dimly lit, nearly abandoned parking lot, silhouette waving under the flickering lights.

    He had to force himself into a stumbling gait, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a drunk out for some munchies. But it wasn’t cheap convenience store snacks he was after.

    He could smell it from here. Could smell it the moment he emerged from his woods. It drove him forward, over cracked, weed-infested pavement and past ancient, dingy-looking gas pumps boasting advertisements for cigarettes. It sang to him, promising sweet relief to the hunger that roared in his stomach and brought spots to his eyes.

    Blood. Hot and red and pulsing. Spraying from arteries ripped open by the ivory fangs just beginning to poke out from beneath his upper lip.

The smell grew stronger as he approached the store, bumping by the lone car parked out front as he staggered up onto the sidewalk. His eyes shot through the window to the dark, curly-haired head bobbing over the shelves.

There. His nostrils flared and he ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the coppery tang of his own blood as it caught on his fangs. The cashier was the only one here. Easy prey, and an insignificant life that would not be missed in the slightest. This would be over quickly.

The Author allowed himself to be momentarily distracted by thoughts of Edward, who would be getting off his shift at the hospital soon. He could not be late getting back. Especially not today.

The head moved again, snatching the Author’s attention. He reached for the door handle, all thoughts of his boyfriend slipping from his thoughts as he pushed open the door.

The cheerful jingle of the bells was too lively for this filthy, depressing place, but the Author ignored the grime and the expired candy bars, focusing instead on the bobbing head, which had moments ago disappeared into the restroom.

All traces of his drunken facade melting away, the Author flew forward with lithe grace, fangs bared in a vicious grin as he yanked open the restroom door and vanished inside.

He caught the cashier just as he was about to enter the stall. By then his victim was nothing more than a blur. Nothing more than a heady stench of blood and a throbbing beat of veins. Hunger had overtaken him. Reduced him to animalistic instincts and fangs that flashed under the industrial lighting.

The Author tackled him to the ground with a snarl, barely registering the surprised yelp, the crack of a head against the tile. Effortlessly batting aside the cashier’s desperate flailing, he pinned him down and seized his head, wrenching it back to expose his pale throat.

Then he sank his fangs into the cashier’s neck.

---

    The hands grabbing at his shoulders were unexpected. They shook him loose, jerking him back and away from the semi-conscious cashier and spraying blood everywhere in the process.

    “What the- what the fuck?” Someone exclaimed, and the Author whipped around, tearing himself from the body on the floor. “What the fuck are- are you-”

    High on his own bloodlust, the Author couldn’t do much more than lash out blindly, catching the voice and sending it flying.

    The sickening thud of a body hitting a wall brought him back down to earth, and he stared at the unconscious body of the cashier. The *real* cashier.

    Then who-

    He spun. On the floor was a dark, curly-haired man. A familiar one.

    Edward.

---

    He’d gotten off early. It was their anniversary, after all, and he wanted to have enough time to pick the Author up something nice.

    But it was on his way home that his low gas light had dinged, and he’d pulled over to the one gas station in the area whose lights were still lit.

    Pumping the gas was easy enough, but finding the cashier so he could pay was not; the guy was nowhere to be found. Not behind the counter, not among the shelves. So he left twenty bucks on the counter and went to use the restroom. He’d head back to the cabin after, and surprise the Author with his gift: a new leather-bound journal.

    He hadn’t noticed anyone follow him in. Wasn’t paying any attention whatsoever.

    Big mistake.

    He yelped when his head smacked the floor and hot pain shot through his head. Still, he managed to flail his limbs weakly against his attacker. All his attempts were batted away like they were nothing.

    It was when cold fingers grabbed his head and wrenched it back that he saw who was pinning him down.

    “Author-” He gasped, renewing his struggles. “Autho-!”

    Then searing agony seized him, and his voice turned to a gurgle as razor-sharp teeth bit into his neck.

---

    Now, Edward stared blearily upward, barely conscious. The Author stood above him, looking stricken. Blood- his blood- covered his mouth, his chin, the front of his shirt.

    As he watched, the Author wiped his mouth. Accomplished only smearing it further across his face.

    “Author . . .” the word bubbled up like blood to his lips. “Author . . .”

    “Edward.” The Author’s voice was gruff. He leaned down, scooped Edward into his arms. The doctor mumbled protest as more pain bloomed in his throat and the back of his head, but the Author didn’t seem to hear it.

    “I’m so sorry, Edward. I didn’t know.” He was saying, but it sounded faint. Distant. Black crawled at the edges of Edward’s vision. He gazed upward, mesmerized by the sharp glint of light off the Author’s fangs. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

    I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

    Didn’t know what? Edward wondered, but before he could open his mouth to ask he passed out, head lolling against the Author’s shoulder.

[tealquacks]

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?”