How He Moves (drabble)

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Do You Trust Me? Epilogue.

“And I will see all you dudes...IN THE NEXT VIDEO!”

You laughed as the outro music started playing, dropping your arms and rubbing your throat. How does Jack do that every day? God, his vocal cords must hate him. Flicking through the comments, it made you grin to see so many people chatting about the game, a few people yelling the catchphrases. There were even a few good puns this time, that was nice. You were staying for the outro clip again, lately having gotten into the habit of staying just a little longer, out of some slightly silly hope. You commented on every video now, sliding subtle references to your adventures into every one, hoping that Jack would see it. Even if you knew you couldn’t reply, it was nice to think that Jack was in his room, seeing your words in the code and thinking of you fondly. “That was another good one, Jack. Though I must say, that shark’s getting the better of you. Your raft’s gonna need to step it up, man,” you rambled absently as you flicked to another tab to finish a fanfic you were writing. After all, that adventure was too good not to be told, wasn’t it? And you thought it might entertain Jack to see it written up. You wondered if he’d show Mark.

“Really now? Three stories of raft isn’t good enough for you?! It’s fantastic!”

You flicked back to the video so fast you almost closed it out by mistake. “Jack?” He grinned in surprise, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “Hey!” You couldn’t help but smile back.

“PLEASE!”

That might have been the first time you’d ever heard Dark speak sincerely, or say the word “please” in any context other than sneering dismissive commentary.

He was hanging by one arm, trying desperately to get a hold with the other but failing because his hand was broken to shit, shattered into little pieces by the fall. If no help came for him, he’d fall into the crumbling void, and whether he’d die there or not you’d never know.

But you couldn’t seem to move.

“CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?! GET ME OUT OF HERE!” His voice was cracking underneath its echoes and distortion, and it was clear from his tone he’d given up on his “I need no one” attitude that’d been his trademark. He genuinely sounded afraid, and in that moment, so much like Mark.

That, you decided, was the reason that you scrambled over to the ledge and grabbed his arm, grunting from the pain of trying to pull him up. He scrambled along the wall and after a tense moment, managed to crumple onto the ground beside you. Neither of you moved for a long moment, just heaving in labored breaths and trying to get your sense back.

“Why?”

You turned to look at him, frowning in confusion. He was sitting up slightly, hunched forward and holding his broken ribs and hand. You struggled to sit up.

“W...why what?”

“Why did you save me?”

“You asked me to, asshole.”

He glared at you, but the usual deadly malice was missing. He just looked tired. “I’ve asked you for a thousand things. I’ve forced you to do a thousand things, and you...you had the chance to be free, to get rid of me, why didn’t you...?”

You sighed heavily, lying back down to stare at the...ceiling? Was it a ceiling or was it sky, or was it neither? You supposed it didn’t matter too much. “Because...you sounded afraid.”

“Why does that matter?” There was a little bit of anger in that one, but it didn’t seem to be directed at you.

“I’ve never heard you sound like that before. You sounded like...”

“Like him.”

A long pause. “Yes. And no.” He frowned at you, and you elaborated. “You sound like Mark, yes, but...mostly, you just sounded like a person. Any other person. Someone who didn’t want to die. And I don’t think I could live with myself if I let you fall, and there was any chance that you were...”

“What? Human?” A sigh, again, and then, disdainfully, “There is nothing human left in me.”

“Left?” That was a surprise. Since when had there been anything human about him at all? But he didn’t seem willing to tell you any more. You thought for a moment. “Well, it sounded to me like there was something left. Small as it was, it was there. Maybe...maybe whoever you were originally isn’t as far gone as you thought.”

The look he gave you then was terrifying. Not in his usual “I’m going to rip you apart just to see what makes you tick” way, but in a way that was more subtle, and more chilling. He looked at you as if you’d given him hope he didn’t want, and he looked very much like a man that was just too tired. Done up in that suit of his, disheveled and broken, he looked like he could’ve been some politician, caught up in some scandal he hated, just wanting to do the best he could to make the world better. He looked like a different person completely.

“What was your name?” The look hardened. “Before you were Dark, what was your name?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. That person is dead, and anything they were is dead along with them. What’s dead should stay that way.” He stood, cracking his neck sickeningly, and seeming to pop some of the bones in his chest back into place, and turned away, starting to walk. “If you can’t get up, then die here. If you can, then follow me so you don’t.”

You stood, certain he would be good to his word and let you die here if you didn’t. But you could never look at him the same way ever again.

If Darkiplier was reaching out to you, would you help or let let him die?

You choose.

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Packing

Pairing: Ten/Rose, unrequited!Tentoo/Rose

Rating: PG for strong angst

He pulled open a drawer.

Ties. This was where he kept the ties. Browns and blues mostly. Some in shades of red. He took a few of those, and one of his favorite brown silk ones.

He opened one of the cupboards.

Converse, stacked up high on the shelves. He took a pair of the reds, a pair of the whites, a pair of the blacks.

He walked to another part of the wardrobe and looked through a rack until he found what he was looking for. A long brown coat, not the same one, not perfect, but as close as he was going to get, and he didn't have time to be picky. He shoved it awkwardly into his pocket.

He left the wardrobe, feeling numb. Never in his long life had he been faced with this reality. Never would he have expected it. Now that he didn't have much time left here, he was starting to panic.

Not about not having a ship, he knew he would be taking a piece of the coral with him, even he couldn't be that cruel, so that wasn't gone forever. But about not having this ship.

He'd never see Susan's room again. Or Ace's. Or Sarah Jane's. He'd never see any of Romana's books again, or any of Adric's formula sheets. He'd never see Martha's extra jacket, or Donna's sketchbook full of shorthand notes, caricatures, and tic tak toe.

He skulked out, toward the console room, and stopped just before he entered.

He peeked in.

They were in there. And they were talking. And she was smiling.

Her smile was so beautiful. Her eyes crinkled at the edges, and her tongue poked cutely out between her teeth. How many times had he been temped to forget whatever little adventure they'd been on when he'd seen that smile, to just forget every limitation and kiss her, to tell her how much he loved her against that smile.

She laughed at something he said.

It hurt, physically, to see them talking, see her smile, hear her laugh. He knew he wouldn't be hearing it much longer. Why would she choose him? His hand snaked up to feel the single heartbeat in his chest, the constant reminder that he wasn't the real him. That no matter what his mind said, no matter what memories and feelings he had, no matter what he looked like, he was just a copy. A fake. A poor recreation. He was going to age, and die. And he'd be doing it alone.

But wasn't he used to alone? Wasn't he used to the universe teasing him with the chance of happiness and just when it seemed like he'd always have a hand to hold, taking it away from him? That didn't make it any easier.

He scowled in the empty corridor. Nine hundred years, all to end up dying as a human, in the wrong universe, alone. Maybe it was exactly what he deserved.

He said something, and she agreed, and they moved toward the hallway. He ducked quickly into an alcove and stayed there until they passed. Then he hurried out into the console room and over to a side panel on the central pillar. He flipped a few switches, tapped the screen a few times, and turned a few dials before pressing one last button and waiting. A few seconds of whirring later, a sonic screwdriver plopped into the little slot at the bottom of the panel, and he picked it up and tucked it into his pocket. He moved over to another panel and smacked it a little too violently. A drawer popped out, and he picked up the extra psychic paper and put it in his pocket as well. He spotted a picture of Susan, and, heart wrenching alienly, took that as well. Then he shut the drawer and looked up, just staring around the room he'd called home for seven hundred years.

His teeth clenched and his hands gripped the coral edging tightly as he suddenly fought back a sob.

It wasn't fair. Nothing was fair. He could be so much more than this. And maybe he would be. But this him, this counterfeit, never would. Was this his punishment for all that he'd done? By all rights, it hadn't even been him! Why make him conscious? Why make him share the same mind?

Why hadn't he just changed?

Someone coughed. He didn't need to look up.

The other him walked slowly back into the room. He stared at him for a minute with a look of mixed pity, sorrow, and guilty fascination. It was sickening.

He looked up, and their eyes met. By the way the Doctor winced, he could tell that he knew exactly how he felt. Something flashed in his eyes as well...regret? Pain?

Whatever it was, it felt almost perverse.

Then he coughed again, and spoke, softly.

"I haven't told her what you are yet. Not about..." he tapped his chest. "I'll leave that to you."

"Thanks," he said acidly.

The Doctor rubbed his neck awkwardly, almost ashamedly, then grabbed his jacket off the jumpseat and shuffled out of the room.

"Take whatever you need," he said over his shoulder as he went back to Rose.

He very nearly slammed his fist into the console. His hand was raised and clenched when Donna came in.

"Don't you dare, Spaceman."

His hand dropped limply to his side as he turned to look at her.

Without another word, she walked up and threw her arms tight around him. He hugged back.

Neither commented on the oddness of only two hearts beating between them.

After a minute, she pulled away from him, handing him a small book. He recognized it as her most recent sketchbook. Gripping it tightly, he met her eyes, and, almost ashamed of how desperate he sounded, blurted, "You can't come with me?"

"No," she sighed, patting his arm, "I've got to stay. For Mum and Gramps. You know that."

"I know."

She hugged him again, briefly, before walking off down the hall, presumably to find the other one and Rose. He almost smiled. Donna would have liked to get to know Rose. His almost smile turned into another almost sob, but he held his composure. He would not lose it until he was truly alone, he promised himself. He wouldn't let them see him break. He couldn't do that to Rose, or to Donna. He supposed he couldn't even do that to himself.

The TARDIS landed with a loud groan and a dull thud. He glanced at the screen. A beach appeared on it, the beach he hated more than almost anything in the entire universe.

His single heart was beating out the word that had started it all, and would end it all, for him.

Run.

Text Conversations With the Boys

Rating: G

Pairing: Reader/Each of the members of TFW

You: Sam, where r u?

Sam: Out.

You: Real specific Sam.

Sam: Just out! I promise!

You: You're not doing anything shady, right?

Sam: ...

You: Sam?

Sam: :)

You: What does that mean???

You: *two hours later* THERE'S A CANDY GRAM AT THE DOOR, WINCHESTER.

Sam: :)

You: I love you, you moron.

Sam: Ily2 babe. XD

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean: (Y/N)!!!!

You: ?

You: Um hi Dean. XD

Dean: (Y/N) did yuo no that yur vry pretttty

You: ...are you drunk again?

Dean: Nooooooo

Dean: I'm fnie!

You: ...where r u?

Dean: Te barr down the rode

Dean: Roda

Dean: Rood

Dean: Close neough.

You: Stay put and don't get kicked out, I'm gonna come pick you up.

Dean: Tooo late

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cas: adKLNPgkl,2485u

You: Um...Cas? You ok?

Cas: I'm sorry. I dropped my phone.

You: You have an iPhone, how did you get that by dropping it?

Cas: ...I may have dropped it on my face...

You: XD

Cas: >:(

You: WTF When did you start using emojis??

Cas: Sam taught me.

Cas: What does WTF mean?

You: ...ask Dean.

It’s Theory Time Again!

Mark is hinting at us again and it’s interesting and there’s a lot to dissect so in this post I’m just gonna worry about the two pictures he’s posted on tumblr.

So, here on the good old Hell Hole Site, Mark’s dropped some cryptic images:

Image 1:

Image 2:

Source: Mark’s tumblr

THEORIES AND DISCUSSION UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE THERE’S A LOT GOING ON HERE!

Let’s take a look at the first picture, brightened (Turning highlights to 100% and Fill Light to 100%) and with a couple of things pointed out:

So, discussing in order:

No. 1: It clearly says “Kill” next to “Security Mode”. What/Who is getting killed, and what/who is doing the killing? Initially, I was leaning toward it being Mark on the receiving end and Dark/Will doing the deed. I’ll explain why this thought changed later.

No. 2: Where are we? It looks to be the livingroom/den of a large, wealthy estate, given the marble fireplace and generally elegant trimmings of the room. So the castle that they were filming at in “secret” a while ago? If so, why? Why are we seeing this opulent room, and, possibly more importantly, who’s estate is this?

No. 3: What is that on the table? This might be completely unimportant, but it looked out of place to me.

No. 4: “Designation: Little Buddy.” Now, in the past, Mark has always referred to Tiny Box Tim as his Little Biscuit, and his Little Buddy. So what does TBT have to do with this room? Or, alternatively, who is this “little buddy”? Whose “buddy” is it?

Moving on now to the second image, with the same conditions applied as the first:

Again, discussing in order:

No. 1: Again, we have “Little Buddy” as the designation. Is this a code name? If so, for what operation?

No. 2: Who is the figure on the left? As far as I can see, he’s wearing a trench coat and a deerstalker, lending him a Sherlockian image, which could hint at this being a murder mystery. If that’s the case, then this is our detective, but who is he?

No. 3: Who is the figure on the right? It looks like he’s wearing a suit (or possibly a leather jacket, though I’m not sure why he would be), has something over/on his eyes, and has gelled hair. I’m thinking this is possibly the Host back when he was the Author, which implies that we’re getting a backstory on how he became the Host and lost his sight (WHICH I WOULD LOVE). Another possibility is that this is Dark, but, as some other lovely theorizers have pointed out, his hair is not parted toward us, on the left, as is Dark’s signature. The last possibility is that this is someone new, and if that’s the case, I’m not sure what to tell you other than I’m excited.

No. 4: They’re shaking hands, which could mean a couple of things.First, it could mean that these figures are meeting for the first time, but that has a couple of problems that I’ll discuss in a second. Second, it could mean that they’re making some sort of deal, which seems more likely to me, as Right appears to be smiling, as if he’s gotten something good out of it.

No. 5: The date and time. 1;17am. Why are they meeting so early in the morning? This is my main objection to the idea that this is a first meeting, or that these two don’t know each other. Obviously, this has been set up ahead of time. And the date, October 7th, is today. So this meeting happened today, in the early hours of this morning. What would be so urgent that two people (apparent people?) would need to meet behind closed doors (as suggested by the fact that we’re seeing this through blinds, as if the subjects don’t know they’re being photographed) at one in the morning? This suggests some underhanded deal is happening, something sinister.

Given all of the information these two pics give us, I’ve drawn a couple of conclusions:

1. This is a story about The Host.

2. This story is currently happening, in real time with the clues being given.

3. This story is about a deal (Code-named Little Buddy?), possibly a deal gone wrong, that happen to someone in a position of wealth and/or power. Hence, 

4. The Host was once the rich Author, and made some kind of deal that resulted in the loss of his sight/eyes and his siding with/serving Dark.

But again, this is all speculation based on the two images Mark put on tumblr. This doesn’t even take into account the Instagram posts or the twitter video, or the black-outs of the profile pictures on Twitter, Tumblr, and Insta. If you guys want me to look into those, I can do that too in another post. Let me know what you think about these pictures and my theories, I’m super curious! And on top of that, I’m having a great time Sherlocking my way through all these hints, and I’m excited to see what happens next. So until we find out, remember,

THAT’S...JUST A THEORY.

I can get a doodle of it done tonight maybe!

*squeeeeeeeeee*

Alone. (A Who Killed Markiplier Drabble)

The first thing he noticed was that he was in a tremendous amount of pain. His chest was on fire and his head was pounding, it was like every muscle in his body was rebelling against him. His eyes were the only thing that seemed to be working, and all he could see was the domed ceiling and the chandelier above him, oddly tinted and out of focus.

As it came back into focus, he noticed a second problem: he didn’t know who or where he was. Through the blinding pain, there was no name coming, no picture of what he looked like, no friends or family’s faces or names, no fond memories...no memories at all. Just a vague feeling of...dread? Or anger?

He grunted as his arms and legs finally decided to work for him to lift him up, so that he was panting and kneeling on the marble floor. Shaking his head, he looked up, finally trying to guess where he was. His eyes locked with someone else’s.

He was starting backwards, a voice in his head screaming “MURDERER” before he had a chance to think for himself. The other man was on his feet in an instant.

“Oh no, no! It’s okay!”

Colonel. The old title came to him as the man talked about thinking he was dead. Had he been dead? The thought distracted him for a moment so that he lost some of what the man was saying. Surely he wasn’t dead, he was thinking, he was here...and yet...why could he see the Colonel, in front of him, a gun smoking in his right hand? Why could he see two hands...his hands...rising to his eyes, covered in blood? He could almost hear a voice, the Colonel’s panicked voice, saying...

“Did Damien put you up to this?” The name was like a bucket of ice water over his back. He knew it, and he’d been known by it. But...that wasn’t right, was it? Why hadn’t the man recognized him then if he was this “Damien” he seemed to know well? He wanted to ask, but the Colonel wasn’t listening anymore, and he couldn’t seem to make his voice work anyway. As the Colonel wandered away from him, calling for someone to answer, Damien again, and someone called Celine, names he barely knew but felt like he had always known, his heart gave a funny pang. He almost went after the strange officer, going so far as to take a step toward him, mouth forming a name he didn’t remember, but his eyes were drawn to the silver and black cane the Colonel had put down on the table. As he picked it up, another shot of pain went through him, and he looked up.

The face in the mirror before him...wasn’t him. It might once have been, he wasn’t sure, but now...it was different. Hollow, and gaunt...monochrome...

Dark.

He scowled at the face, and it scowled back. More pain stabbed through his neck, and he twisted it to try and alleviate it. There was a loud crack, and when he looked back in the mirror, straightening himself out, he knew he hated that face. But it wasn’t his face, it was the face of a man who had once worn it that he hated, who’d forced him into it now. Vague memories that didn’t make any sense swirled in his head, and they didn’t seem to matter anymore, except for being the cause of the heavy, burning anger that seemed to be all he could feel, the piercing ring that stuck in his ears. There was only one thought in his head as he turned away from the mirror with a jerk and went to clean himself up and get to work:

Mark would pay.

Yoooo @therealjacksepticeye look at this!!

After 3 months of hard work, we have finally completed and released the full demo for The BOSS!

INSTRUCTIONS:

-BE SURE TO FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS IN THE FILE TELLING YOU TO READ IT BEFORE YOU PLAY. Trust me, you don’t want to ignore that.

-Definitely let us know if you find a bug. Of course, a lot of it isn’t finalized.

-Let’s Plays are 100% welcomed. We will watch them all and take your comments into consideration. Seriously, we’d love to see them!

-Feedback is welcome!

Now go play! Let us know what you think!

A Really Rather Dumb Bet (Schneep and Chase Drabble).

A/N: Because everyone needs a little more fluff and comedy for these two fools.

The horrid crashing sound was more than enough to send Henrik careening out of bed. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to loud noises, he made plenty of them himself and hell, he was good friends with Jack. It was just that this particular loud sound had been made at two o'clock in the morning when he'd thought he was alone in the house. Anyone else might have been inclined to do something rational, like call the police or go back to sleep. Henrik, however, knew much better, which was why he swung his door open with great gusto, walking confidently into the living room, brandishing a stethoscope like a garrot and yelling "WHO IS IT ZAT DARES TO DISTURB ZE REST OFF ZE GREAT HENRIK VON SCHNEEPLESTEIN?! VHAT CRIMINAL IS STUPID ENOUGH TO CONTEST HIM?!" Honestly, even in the fluorescent pink pajama shorts and haphazard glasses, he struck an intimidating figure. What greeted him was not an awestruck-and-or-blinded-by-the-neon-PJs burgler, but a broken window, a collapsed side table, a few scattered remote pieces and magazine pages, and a very dissheveled, very drunk, widely grinning Chase Brody. "DOC! AH'M -hic- SO HAPPY TAH SEEEE YOOOOOU!" This was met with a blank stare, to which Chase pouted considerably. "Aw, c'mon -hic- Schneeps, you've gotta be h-hic-happy to see me too. I hav'n ev'n seen you in like...like...ever!" "Chase, vhat ze fuck?" The good doctor shook his head and went to help his terribly inebriated friend to sit on the couch. "First off all, vhy are you here at two in ze morgen?" "Because I wanna see-" "See me, ya, I got zhat. Sank you, ze sought is appreciated." Clearly he wasn't going to get a better explanation. "Second question, zhen: vhy did you come through ze vindow?" "The door was locked." He would have facepalmed if he'd had a free arm that wasn't busy trying to shove said window back into the gaping hole it'd created on the way down. "Off course. And vhy are you drunk as an Irish sailing skunk?" "Because Marv gave me -hic- some awesome whiskey! And bet me -hic hic- I couldn't finish it all in one go! I won! Ha!" Chase laughed. The laughing quickly turned into a vague wretching. He turned very green and Henrik didn't wait to be asked before he pointed down the hall to the open bathroom door. For a drunk man, Chase moved surprisingly quickly and with surprisingly few casualties. Henrik only had to dive to catch one vase and three paintings before the door shut behind him. He sighed. Tomorrow, he supposed, he'd have to get some more answers out of that man, and a sound apology from Marvin. Tonight, though, he simply went to the closet in the hall and pulled the door open to reveal a set of shelves with extra linens on them. He ran a finger down the edges of the shelving. JJ, Marvin, Angus, Robbie...ah, there it is! Chase. He pulled out a set of Nerf sheets, and began to make up a bed on the couch. BANG! CRASH! THUMP! "Hennnnnn-!"

Sigh.

He stood, straightening his shorts. A doctor's duties never cease.