#darkmark

Artistic flat tattoo sketch of a dark mark with abstract red and black watercolor splashes

We talked about them, go nuts <3

A late night visit.

34: "It's just you and me."

"Is it just you here?"

It was past midnight, nearing the witching hour. Dark stood in the doorway, moonlight spilling around him to illuminate the dusty decaying thing the Manor had become. His white suit practically glowed in the deep dark dim.

"Come now." Dark chided, when no one-- nothing-- answered him. "I know you're here." He tilted his head to regard what used to be the parlor, gaze flickering to the shattered mirror glinting on the far wall before moving on. "Are you even able to leave this place?"

"Of course I can." A quiet hiss, snaking from the shadows. Mark appeared at the bench of the grand piano, little more than a blot of crimson and flashes of white. A broken note jarred the heavy pause. "You're alone, right?"

Dark spread his hands. His eyes were black pits. "It's just you and me."

Another note, discordant. Words slipping, slipping, sliding like oil. "No Celine, then?"

"Not unless you want me to wake her up."

"No." One more note. The piano was badly out of tune, and, Dark thought, possibly broken. "Let her rest. She's been through a lot, hasn't she?"

Turning. Emerging into consciousness draped in soft, silk sheets. His head pounded with the beginnings of the world's worst hangover.

Damien opened his eyes, squinted against the light pouring through the cracked curtains, and hoped fervently it was still morning.

One glance at the alarm clock on the-- mahogany, clearly expensive-- bedside table confirmed it was not; it was early afternoon.

Damien scrambled, throwing the covers aside and swinging his bare legs over the side, not sparing a thought for why he wasn't wearing any clothes, and why were his clothes from the party last night all over the floor?

The world tilted, a wave of dizziness washing over him suddenly, and he thought he might tip over, if not for the hand taking his arm, firm and warm.

"You stayed." Said the groggy voice from the opposite side of the bed, and Damien twisted to see Mark, blinking his eyes open, a soft smile gracing his face.

Damien melted a little. "Of course I did," he murmured, remembering last night, the stripping of clothes and the running of hands over skin. Out of every guest at Mark's party, he was only now remembering who it was he'd went to bed with. "I wouldn't just leave." He cocked his head. Smiled. "Didn't I say I'd always be there for you?"

"Well, get back over here, then." Mark tugged on his arm. "I know you have nowhere better to be."

Damien snorted, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again and slipped back under the covers.

===

"You're a bad liar." Mark picked up the empty wine bottle, examined it for a moment, and threw it. It shattered on impact against the opposite wall, inches from Dark's head.

Dark didn't flinch. He leaned back and rested his head against the rotting, cracking plaster. Looked up at the decaying ceiling like it held revelation. Maybe it did. "To which instance are you referring?"

"I'll always be there for you." Mark said, putting in a flawless reproduction of Damien's cadence. Of his earnest, genuine, puppy-dog love. This was absorbed by the closed in box of the second-floor corridor, the Manor eager to eat up anything and everything. He leaned forward, draping his arms over his drawn knees. "Is that how you put it?"

"Careful." Dark warned. Wine-drunk aggression and decades-deep exhaustion warred for dominance in the blue-red stammering of his outline. "Celine never was too thrilled about that."

Mark coughed a sharp bark of a laugh. "She going to wake up?"

Dark snorted, and one half of his dead, gray mouth twitched up into a bitter smile. "Fuck, no."

BODY. HORROR. MARK.

---

Prompt: “I’ve missed you.” / “Do not tempt me.”

There was a snake in man’s clothing standing at the base of the stage of Wilford’s set; immaculately dressed in deep red, one perfectly polished shoe tapping slowly but not impatiently, white-gloved fingers curled like talons around the diamond tip of a cane he didn’t need, head tilted up to regard the giant game-show wheel dominating most of the pink-painted set.

Dark opened his mouth to say something– something like “get out” was most likely– but Mark was already in the business of turning his head one hundred-eighty degrees, so his wickedly delighted, death-pale face could grin at him from the wrong direction. 

“And here I thought I’d only be graced to see dear William, today.” Mark said. “How I’ve missed you, Damien.”

Now he really did snarl, a bared-teeth roar that reverberated around the set and briefly plunged their surroundings into monochrome. “Get out!”

Mark’s body swiveled, realigning his head. “What’re you going to do, behad me?” hHe sneered, and reached up to pluck his head off his spine with a sickening squelch, stretching decaying tissue and muscle until it ripped and spraying black blood down his pristine crimson suit. “You’ve already torn it off once.”

“Do not tempt me,” Dark warned, but before he could do anything Wilford poked his head out through a curtained door leading to backstage.

“Dear me,” he said. “Both my guest contestant and Darkie, what a pleasant surprise! Have you met?”

Mark plopped his head back down to his shoulders, his entire body turning in tandem to address Wilford. “We go way back.”

“Oh Barty-“ Evan croaked

“Don’t oh Barty me! Everyone else thinks this is wonderful. I’m a Deatheater now Ev. This will be good for us, I can protect us. He won’t hurt us, we’re with him,”

Barty reached for Evan’s arm pulling him semi forcefully toward him, “He’ll protect you too, I promise,” Evan began to shake his head, “We just have to bring you to him, and he’ll give you the mark and then we can be together. We can be safe,” Barty brought one of his hands up to Evan’s face, “Can I kiss you my love?”

Evan stared momentarily into Barty’s eyes and bit his lip before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to Barty’s lips. Barty melts into his touch, in a silent momentary bliss.

Evan pulled away and pushed himself gently out of Barty’s arms. “Can it wait?”

“Can it wait?”

“The mark. Let them give it to me later, for now just let it be you and me,”

Barty released a shaky breath, “Of course,” The wild look softened a bit as he looked at Evan. Barty took a step towards him, and Evan reached out and grabbed one of his hands, “Come on,” Evan began to lead Barty out and away from the common room. Slowly pulling him up the stairs to his dormitory.

“Ev, where are we going?”

MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR GORE

Tagging @bing-iplier @takethepainawaybae and @cookieface678 because they may be interested in this.

---

Prompt: “I think that’s enough wine for tonight.”

The deep-throated rumble of thunder did little to forewarn the thick veins of lightning looking to split open the sky; it followed hardly moments later, indicating the storm was brewing right over the Manor’s roof.

Dark had been listening to it fester for an hour as they passed the bottle back and forth, wine the color of blood spilling through the gaping holes in the soft tissue of his face, skin and muscle and sinew rotted away by hate and time. It dribbled down his chin and jaw, dripped to the moldering fabric of his decades-old suit. What he could swallow tasted bitter and cheap. “This is all you could muster from your basement?”

“Yes. Hand it over.” Mark didn’t seem to register the storm; perhaps he’d tuned it out. He grasped with skeletal fingers barely held together by gamey strands of tendon, squeezing the bottle’s neck like he was trying to snap it. He tipped his head back to catch those last, precious drops, baring the cartilaginous rings of his esophagus. In a flash it was gone, replaced by his perfect facade, handsome despite the test of time. 

He scowled, and threw the bottle away; it clanked and clattered to rest at the feet of the grand piano, with all the others. His image flickered again; silvery-red intestines spilled to the floor, glistening against the flash of the lightning. They heaved with his every movement. “I think that’s enough wine for tonight, anyway.”

“Look at us.” It took tremendous effort to summon what was left of him to move. Still, Dark made a sweeping gesture, encompassing him, Mark, their crumbling castle. One trembling ligament snapped, and his arm fell to his side, useless. “There’s never enough wine.”

Mark tilted his head back. Barked a bitter laugh in time to the thunder rolling overhead. He was half-swallowed by shadows, but still his broken, cracked teeth gleamed. “Maybe we’ll get drunk enough that we won’t seem the scariest things here.”

I LOVED THIS ONE

Trigger warnings for death, blood, physical violence, body horror, and gun violence.

---

Prompt: “Don’t make me do this.” / “And for what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”

Time didn’t exist there, in the Actor’s world, so it was impossible to tell if they’d been fighting for hours or days. The bloodied, rotted stage creaked beneath their feet and the occasional board fell out of place, disappearing into black nothingness. Above them hung broken stage lights, framed all around by moldering maroon curtains. As they always did, rows of empty chairs provided an absent audience.

“I tire of this, Damien!” Mark’s voice had become hoarse. Black blood crusted his nostrils and made a ring around his mouth and both eyes were bruised. One arm hung broken by his side and he stumbled forward with a limp to his right leg. Still, much to Dark’s chagrin, he continued to monologue. “Give it up. You’ll never defeat me. I’m the rightful hero of this story.”

Dark spat blood to the rickety stage. Watched with dull, throbbing amusement as the Actor’s lip curled up in disgust. His own head pounded; he was sure to have a concussion. Every limb felt weighted with exhaustion. Still, he threw himself at Mark, fury splitting him into two, then three, all of which slammed fists and palms and feet into his adversary. Mark fell backwards, his head cracking to the old wood, Dark on top of him. 

Dark sunk cracked nails into the Actor’s shoulders and slammed him to the floor. Then again. Then again. Each time the Actor’s head struck the wood was punctuated with a, “Fuck! You!” 

This time. This time! This time he would kill him. Rid the world of his evil, once and for all.

“What is going on here? What is this place?” Through shades of gray and black and crimson came a splash of color. Neon pink and yellow invaded the theater.

Mark took advantage of Dark’s split second of shock to flip them, forcing him down and jamming his elbow into his throat. A wicked grin seemed to split his face in half as he leaned close, whispered in Dark’s ear, “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”

Then he spun off Dark. Then he was Dark, in shape and in appearance. Then he was stumbling toward Wilford as Wilford charged down the center row, his pistol drawn. “It’s Mark! Shoot him!” 

“Wil!” Dark forced himself to his feet, a rare spike of fear surging down his spine. He held his hands up, pausing only once to brush his hair from his face. “It’s Dark. It’s me.” He said. 

The barrel of the gun swung between them, and Wilford’s pink eyes– bright with something, Dark couldn’t tell– did the same as he stopped at the foot of the stage. He stomped one foot; it echoed loud. “Which one of you is the real Dark?”

“I am!” Mark and Dark said at the same time, and Dark snapped his head toward Mark, who shot him a subtle wink in between his blabbering. Only Dark was close enough to see the flickers of Mark’s facade; the crimson peering through the cracks. He could also see Wilford’s index finger, squeezing down on the trigger. He would shoot, regardless of the target.

“Shut up! Both of you!” Wilford demanded, but Mark ignored him.

“Don’t make me do this, Actor.” He spat in Dark’s direction. “Don’t make me do it.”

“Do what?” Wilford asked, but Dark only stared. 

“I’m the real Dark, William.” Mark stepped forward, forcing tears to his eyes. They streamed down his cheeks. “But my name is also Damien-”

Bullets tore through him; his chest, his shoulders, his stomach. One burrowed through his forehead, leaving a perfect hole. Mark collapsed to the floor, his body dissolving.

“Wil?” Dark stood, frozen. His hands were faintly shaking; whether it was from pain or shock or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell. He continued to stand as Wilford came up the stairs and onto the stage, pocketing his still-smoking pistol. “What-”

“I’ve never seen you cry.” Wilford said seriously, but there was a glimmer to his eye. “That’s how I knew.”

“Oh-” As Dark began to speak a massive beam crashed to the stage between them. The stage and surrounding theater began to crumble, the seats rotting in seconds and the stage-lights rusting through their supports.