#darkhost

maybe i haven't been looking at the sky.

The Host, bleeding alone as the universe shatters somewhere far away. From the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, even old scars opening up. He is so, so deep in his power, leaned over the sink, trembling like a leaf. Between desperate, scrambling narrations he is panting, heaving, barely ever stopping for a breath. So many stories are coming through and out of him at once that he doesn’t even remember what world he’s in. 

Dark comes to his room to ask about present business, but by the time they find him in the bathroom, he’s pale as a ghost, like all the blood is drained from him, only being held up by his tight, stiff grip on the sink. Dark tries to snap him out of it any way they can, but he doesn’t stop. He looks into their eyes and tells them their own story, Host’s face contorted with grief and fear. Dark is taken aback by this, momentarily frozen in the reliving of it. 

But once they recover, they shake away the anger and ear-piercing ringing, the encroaching void around the bathroom. They choose to hold him instead, picking up his waxily catatonic body, carrying him to his bed. They pull out his spare bandages, and swathe every injury and most of his head in them. Host still mutters out stories, but he is no longer panting or gasping for breath. 

The Darkness keeps vigil beside his bed as the bandages slowly refill with blood, only to change them out as soon as that comes. 

“Old companion, old ally, I know how power can consume. Rest yourself, let it have its hold until it tires. I will get back at him for this. I will.” Dark prays over him, holding his hand softly in a distant attempt at comfort. 

Dark is a workaholic and The Host writes for fun. Dark leaves for work and The Host is left alone in the house. The Host will write about Dark the entire day. that or narrorate him because he misses him.

Its a ship, i was thinking darkhost but now i actually dont know

anon i hope you know i have been losing my shit at Dost Hark since i got this ask, thank you for blessing my day

TWS: implied violence (minor), blood (small mention), implied nsfw at the end

With a sigh, Dark gets up and brushes himself off. He had no clue whose bright idea it was to try and jump him and the Host as they left the restaurant, but whoever it was, they were currently lying passed-out on the floor. They certainly put up a fight, but between the two of them, they didn’t really stand a chance.

The Host quickly rushes over to him, placing a hand on his arm and quickly trailing it over him, trying to check for any injury.

“Are you okay? It- it sounded like they landed a hit on you," he says. Dark smiles softly and reaches up to take one of the Host's hands and squeeze it.

"I'm fine, let me see your face," he mutters as he uses his free hand to tilt the Host's chin up. His bandages are wet again and there are thin trails of blood running down his cheeks, no doubt from having to use his power to defend himself. Dark sighs again, carefully wiping away some of the blood with the sleeve of his shirt.

"Come on, let's go home and get you cleaned up, okay?" he asks as he starts to lead them out of the alley. He looks around carefully, but at this late hour, there's hardly anyone else out. None of them seem like they're going give them a second glance, so Dark continues to guide the Host along the street.

He tries not to seethe, but it's hard when the anger starts to boil. How dare someone attack them? How could someone even dare to think about hurting the Ho-

"Dark," the Host says, snapping him out of his thoughts with amusement in his tone. It's only then that he realises how tight his grip on the Host's hand is, and he loosens it apologetically.

"We're both okay. I'm going to trust that you're fine, and say that neither of us got hurt other than a couple scrapes and bruises. Our date wasn't ruined. If anything, it was fun to have a little action," the Host adds. He tugs on Dark's hand to bring him closer so he can lower his voice.

I mostly picture them as best pals, they're each other's sarcasm buds, but I wouldn't mind them together. They'd be a pretty chill ship. :)

I really enjoyed this one. I do enjoy the Host/Dark

Tags: @authorsathenaeum @redraspberrycats @darkstache-iplier @tiny-yan-an @holyshitsnakesandspace @kawaiihetaliana

Prompt 16: “Stop telling me you’re okay”

“For the last time, Warfstache,” Dark’s voice held a sinister edge as he spoke from the opposite end of the table, yet his face betrayed nothing but cool indifference. “Those names are off-limits. Pick new ones.”

    “But they’re perfect for these characters!” Wilford protested, “Damien means ‘devil,’ and William-”

    “I said pick. New. Ones!” Dark stood, slamming his palms down on the table. Several Egos flinched as his shell cracked and the room flooded with monochromatic gray.

    The Host, however, kept on muttering narrations to himself, voice so low that not even Dr. Iplier, sitting next to him, could hear. He knew how this would end. “Bim tentatively begins to speak.”

    “Can we at least keep ‘Celine’?” He asked carefully, playing with the edges of his sleeves nervously. He looked anywhere but at Dark or Wilford.

    Dark slowly turned his head to focus the full force of his murderous wrath on Bim and the show host seemed to shrink into himself.

    “The silence was so thick that all Egos could’ve heard a pin drop.” The Host whispered.

    It lasted for several long, agonizing minutes. No one dared so much as breathe.

    Finally, Dark straightened and adjusted his suit, a dangerous glint to his eye. “Do whatever you wish. It matters not.”

    A grin spread itself across Wilford’s face and he opened his mouth to speak but the entity was already gone: disappearing in a swirl of black.

    No one else dared speak, except for the Host. “The Host rises from his seat with intentions to follow. Dr. Iplier grabs his hand-”

    “In my professional opinion as a doctor, Host, don’t follow him. You might get hurt.” Dr. Iplier sounded worried, but he didn’t try to stop the blind Ego as he withdrew his hand.

    The others merely watched him go. No one tried to stop him. Even Wilford, normally the first to follow Dark when needed, was too wrapped up in his own self-satisfaction to notice that anything was amiss.

    He allowed his narrations to guide him down the hallways, allowed them to lead him to Dark.

    “He finds Dark in his office, where he knew he would be, where he always goes when he needs to wallow.” The Host’s voice was bitter as he opened the door and slipped inside. “The Host knows his presence is unwanted.”

    “Go away, Host.” Though the entity’s voice was firm, it lacked conviction. The Host’s narrations told him Dark sat on the floor, back pressed up against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him. His tie was undone. His hair, previously neat and well-groomed, was ruffled and hung in his face.

    As the Host’s soft descriptions lead him further into the room, he picked up on the fact that the stack of papers on the desk had been swept off, the chair overturned. Books had been thrown from the shelves to lie in various states of dishevelment on the floor.

    He stepped over to one, picked it up, carefully smoothed the crinkled pages. Then he closed it and set it back in its designated place on the shelf. He crossed his arms and stood there, back to Dark, silent.

    “What do you want, Host?” Dark’s held an edge now. “Do you take pleasure in seeing me weak?”

    “Does Dark enjoy being weak?” It took all of his control to keep his open, exposed back to the entity as he said those words. But he knew that Dark wouldn’t dare hurt him. “Does he enjoy wallowing in the past?”

    “I am not weak.” came the snarled response. There was the rustling of fabric, footsteps, an icy presence that indicated Dark was standing right behind him. “And I don’t wallow.”

    Still, the Host didn’t turn around.

    “Host!” A hand clamped down on his shoulder- and even though the Host was entirely aware of Dark’s presence he still jumped- and spun him around. “I am not weak.”

    “Stop telling me that.” The Host brushed Dark’s hand away. “Stop telling me you’re okay.”

    His voice rose. “Every mention of names, every small memory. It breaks you down.”

    “I. Am. Not. Weak!” Dark’s shell cracked and the Host’s mind was flooded with hate, with rage, with unimaginable loss. “Say it!”

    The Host drew himself up until he was nose-to-nose with the entity. “No.”

    There was a pause. A moment where both of them were quiet. When both of them were raw.

    Then Dark was kissing him, shoving their lips together fiercely, pushing the Host back against the bookshelf, hands clutching fistfuls of the blind man’s jacket.

    But the Host forced him back, away. Slapped him. Wiped one hand across his mouth.

    Dark didn’t react as the ego pushed past him, but hushed narrations revealed that the entity was clenching his jaw, rubbing at his cheek.

    The Host paused at the door, mid-reach for the doorknob. “Dark has to decide. He has to decide whether he wants to be Darkiplier, or whether he wants to be Damien.”

    When the entity didn’t respond, he continued, “Dark will come find the Host when he chooses to be Darkiplier.”