Rating: R (naughty words, naughty implications, general disturbingness, etc.)
Word Count: 1,103 (aprox.)
Pairings, Characters: Doctor Insano/Ask That Guy, mentions of Linkara, Nostalgia Critic, and the Angry Video Game Nerd.
Disclaimer: I am not affiliated in any way, shape, or form with thatguywiththeglasses.com, cinemassacre.com, or any their respective contributors. I mean no offence with my deranged fanfiction. If any of the persons contained within this fic come across it, I am sorry, please do not kill me. Also, I do not own the song from which I garnered the title.
Warnings: Second-Person narrative.
A/N: I started this about a week ago, then got busy with other things, and now all of the sudden everyone else is writing this deranged pairing, so I decided to work on it today. Set in freya_sacken’s ‘In Space’ verse, completely non-canon, etc. Written in Second-Person because I am crazy like that.
He doesn’t pay attention to you.
Oh, sure, in the early days after he teleported into your lab in a cloud of sulfur with his mad proposal, he paid plenty of attention to you. Together you and he pulled all-nighters perfecting the immortality serum, plotting how to accelerate modern space-travel programs, and outlining each and every one of the enhancements you’d be bestowing upon gamer and critic alike. There were times during those late-night sessions when you could have sworn you felt his eyes on you, felt something more in the way he clapped you on the back after a particularly difficult breakthrough. You felt a sense of kinship when you heard him laugh an evil laugh at just the right moment.
Centuries of working together, plotting together; scheming in dank spaceships and shiny penthouses. You watched together as pathetic humans colonized first the Moon, then other planets, and finally moved on to new solar systems, making endless supplies of popcorn and sharing questionable alcohol as the two of you laughed at their feeble technology that was so inferior to the things you’d created together. Gleefully, the two of you began to gradually inject serums into members of the Gamer and Critic factions, seemingly in random order, but there’s method to the madness you share with him, and he with you.
Now you and he have them all: drugged unconscious and chained to gurneys, awaiting and undergoing surgeries that will slowly but surely strip them of their humanity and make them into killing machines.
He ignores you, as he is wont to do when there is something more interesting around. Namely, the Critic: drugged out of his cynical mind and chained to the operating table, jacket splayed out and shirt torn open to reveal an expanse of pale, smooth flesh that will soon be riddled with imperfections, if the dark flicker in Ask That Guy’s eyes are any indication of what’s to come.
You flash back to October 2009, when you arrived home late, to an empty lab, to find that your Nurse had absconded with the last case of Red Bull and left only a post-it note farewell behind. You remember thinking ‘forget her, she was never around anyways’ and then realizing that your son was gone as well.
He snaps you out of your recollections with a laugh – his deep, sinister laugh that puts you in mind of a demon rather than a mad scientist – and you pretend to be engrossed in observing the progress of Linkara’s enhancements. This is simple enough, as Linkara has never ceased to hold your attention: taunting you, foiling your plans, fleeing into the black to escape you …
And now he’s yours: completely at your mercy. You can do anything to him, and there’s no one to stop you. With a few quick slices you could remove his healing organ and watch him bleed to death. You could have your robots drag him into your room, handcuff him to your bed, and perform unspeakable acts upon him. You could continue to enhance him with augmentation after augmentation, until his humanity was completely eradicated.
You want to do each of those things, and more besides. You have the rest of eternity to use him however you please.
Then a tiny, nagging voice in the back of your head speaks up, building momentum until you recognize its valid point: there’s only so long you could torment Linkara until he broke. That puppy-dog glimmer would leave his eyes, his tenacity would fade, and he wouldn’t even care if you took his hat away.
He’d be no fun at all then.
Your gaze flickers to Ask That Guy, who is leaning down towards the Critic’s ear, no doubt to whisper obscenities … or perhaps bite it off. You wouldn’t put it past him.
You glance back down at Linkara, a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, but a certainty in your heart that you get when you (correctly) predict the results of your experiments.
I think we should see other people …
You snort, then giggle, then begin all-out laughing. Ask That Guy doesn’t even react, but that’s one of the perks of being crazy: nobody bothers to notice when you’re laughing at nothing at all and when you’re laughing for a reason.
Soon, when his back is turned and he’s thoroughly engrossed in torturing the Nostalgia Critic, you’ll pounce on him. Perhaps you’ll stab him with a hypodermic needle and chain him to your bed with his own handcuffs. He’d like that, though he would complain and fight and grin that teasing Cheshire Cat grin, daring you on with his eyes all the while. He’d love every kink in your repertoire and comply eagerly. At the thought of him wearing Linkara’s hat you have to stifle a moan and clutch at the table for support.
You risk another glance at him, biting your lip as you fight the urge to take him now, experiments be damned, timing be damned, preparation be damned, but you hold yourself back and instead imagine the surprised expression he’ll wear when you do actually jump him.
He thinks he knows all the answers … well, he’s got another think coming, hasn’t he?
You smirk, and nod to yourself. Soon …
You turn around, smiling wildly to mask how calm and collected you are inside. “Mind if I take Linkara into my room for some, ah, personalized experimentation?”
He doesn’t even turn around. That alone makes you settle on your largest hypodermic needle for the inevitable jumping. He waves a hand absentmindedly. “Go on, you’ve only wanted to fuck him silly since 2008.” he looms over the Nostalgia Critic, stroking the man’s unconscious face. “I’d like to think that I can exhibit a little restraint where the Critic is concerned. Unlike Mr. Nerd over there,” he jerks his head towards the Angry Video Game Nerd’s gurney, despite the fact that he’s been talking to himself and you’ve started wheeling Linkara out of the room. “Hundreds of years of gratuitous, glorious violence, and it all could have been averted if someone had stripped both of them naked and locked them in a room for a couple of hours.”
He laughs, and even after working beside him for centuries it makes you freeze in your tracks.
That’s your cue to leave. So you do, wondering if you should operate on Linkara before or after you chain him to your bed and ‘fuck him silly’ as Ask That Guy so eloquently put it.
Both, you decide, indulging in a little cathartic evil laughter. Both.
- Current Location:Atop a purple swively chair.
- Current Music:A multitude of fanmixes. *drowns* Help!