I wrote this in like five minutes.
In case you didn’t get it, TBT is a symbol of the stalker fans in the Markiplier fandom. Please for the love of God do not take this fanfiction seriously. I wrote it because I can’t shower and my pepperoni sandwich tastes good.
Word count: dunno wrote it on my phone
Summary: it ain’t that long
Rating: E for elastic underwear
Mark stared at the can in front of him, dripping with perspiration. The can. Not himself, that’s just weird. It was hot, too hot, and the can seemed to be talking to him. It was calling out “just drink me!” and boy was it tempting. But it was too hot to move, he didn’t want to reach forward and actually grab the can. It was too difficult a task.
“Mark.” Okay no wait, that was an actual voice. But it wasn’t coming from the can. Obviously. Cans don’t speak, duh. But the door was locked. He doesn’t remember anyone saying they were going to come over today… hmm. That was strange indeed. But the voice continued.
“Over here, Mark! Look down!” Look down… turning his head away from the soda can (who was doing its best to seduce him with its sugary temptations) he looked down, eyes widening. “Hey Markiplier! It’s me! Tiny Box Tim!” Yes, it was indeed, Tiny Box Tim, smaller then his foot. He had tiny little string bean noodley arms, and eyes that were so big half of them didn’t even seem to be connected to his… face…? Now, sure, this was a fictitious character of his imagination, but it seemed too… real.
“…” he had absolutely no idea what to even say. He was obviously having a heat stroke. Right? He was kind of hoping. But then the thing jumped on his foot, and he flailed, the little weird thing flying across the room with a “wheeeeee!”, Mark standing fast enough to give himself whiplash. He went to the sliding doors, stepping outside, ignoring the thing that was bouncing behind him. He didn’t close the door in time though, and the box followed him, babbling about Let’s Plays and shipping and God knows what else.
Mark simply ignored it as it scrambled all over his feet, but damn was the thing persistent and annoying. He understood if it wanted to sit and chat, but this was definitely excessive. Walking over to the garden hose, he turned it on all the way, holding it high above his head and letting it rain down on himself. He then put his thumb over the nozzle, getting ready, the boxes eyes widening. “No, Markipoo, waaaait!”
“I dunno, Tim. You seem pretty…” the finishing line. “THIRSTY!” And he sprayed that little shit full blast, watching as it went flying across the yard and poofing as it disappeared.
Mark was safe… except there was one thing left to do. Taking his shirt off, he proceeded to play in the water and do random smexy water montages. The End.