Septiplier One-shots! (MarkiplierxJacksepticeye)

How Would YOU Do It?

Mark's POV:

I chuckled to myself as I heard shouts and screams of loud frustration echo through the walls.

Even with sound-proof foam-pads, the one and only Jacksepticeye could be heard shoutin' up a storm. No wonder his neighbours absolutely loathed him and his presence in their neighbourhood.

There was another shout, then a bang, and then strings of curse words and offensive slang; just another day for him, right?

I rolled my eyes, finishing off my mug of coffee and then dumping the empty mug in the dishwasher.

I then softly padded over to the recording room, lingering at the door with my back pressed to it, listening to every intense word spoken from the Irishman's mouth. A long smile crossed my lips and I sighed, enjoying my private listen-in of the episode.

My enjoyment lasted for what felt like hours, until I began to take note of the same sort of environment being described in a fiery rage, the rage concealing his clear, almost-American accent until it sounded like he was a full-blood, alcohol-drinking Irelander.

A scowl took over my at-peace smile as I thought about how enraging it must have been if he really was stuck on the same level as he was when I first got here. I, personally, knew how it felt so I was eager to help; I just hoped he wouldn't edit me out or be angry at me for degrading him in the skills department.

My right hand was placed delicately on the door as I used my left to twist the handle, slowly slipping in and shutting the door behind me. I jumped in my skin when I heard a HD, up-close, mad Jack.

"YOU BITCH-ASS MOTHERFUCKER!" The accented vocals strained out, a hot feeling feeding the listener's ears.

With wide eyes and a confused expression, I stared at his computer and swiftly bounded over to him, grasping onto his headphones and ripping them off. He was playing Happy Wheels, on a level of which I'd never seen, but it contained a lot of green, so I suspected it was made for him.

He shrieked a bit, then forcefully swung around in his chair, brows furrowed and fist clenched to repel any surprise attacks.

When Sean saw me, his bushy brows fluttered up and his hand slowly fell out of their volatile position. He blinked once or times, then threaded his brows together, crossed his arms and mumbled words I never thought I'd hear coming out of the Jacksepticeye's mouth (to me, anyway):

"Oh, it's you."

My spine automatically straightened and I fixed my glasses to their assigned spot, before looking snootily down at him in joking spirits.

"Well, yes, t'is me," I uttered in feign-hurt with a hand on my chest, my voice becoming the honey-like slurs that were relation of Wilford Wharfstache's accent, "and I'll have you know many would kill to be in your position right now!"

The Irish boy smirked, his bright blues flicking up to me to reveal his humour before he returned to his hateful pout, spinning back to face the computer. With an outstretched hand, he gestured in outrage to his screen, or more specifically, to a character on a bike with his son.

"Yeah, yeah, don't hit yer massive head on the way out. If you're wondering why the fuck I'm yellin' so much, this bitch Billy continues to make my life a living hell!"

He pressed one button on the keyboard which lead to his characters flying off the edge into rocket boosters where they were immediately raised and impaled millions of times with metal spikes. There was a short pause, then a scream,

"SCREW YOU, BILLY!"

I glanced in amusement to the man who carried amounts of rage that even I don't think I could ever surpass, before smirking to myself and shaking my head.