#theashwrites

Summary: Where you bump into your dead lover and brother on the street after they go missing at a party the flu stopped you from attending.

Prompt: “could you write something were the Reader was Willams sibling and Damien’s lover and they run into Dark and Wilford on the street or something? Maybe they were supposed to attend the poker night but got sick so couldn’t? Hope this is specific enough sorry.... Thank you :) and again sorry” by anon

Warnings: mentions of drinking? Blood mention. Big feeling of dread that is correct.

Note: It’s no problem, this is actually a really good idea!!! Sorry it takes me 800 million years to do any one request. Can y’all tell that I had no idea what to call this? Because I didn’t. Also small warning that my writing reads a little off here? It’s not bad, but a little funky. I don’t know. But hey, day 3 of continuous posting due to staying up late!!

———

You had been sick. You woke with a fever and a pending head and a nauseous stomach. So you sent your brother with your well wishes to Damien.

He hadn’t come home. You chalked it up to him drinking too much and being too hungover to come home.

The next day passed. Still no William. Your illness was almost over. Just a small fever, infrequent bouts of nausea you were able to suppress. You thought he got too caught up in seeing Damien again, as the two had not seen each other for quite a while. Things with them had been tense -- it’s understandable that they’d get caught up in reconnecting, isn’t it? But without a note or a call, a heads-up that he was staying over?

The third day after the party, you began to worry. You sent a small letter to the Manor, inquiring if he was alright. The servant returned, saying that no one had answered the door.

Dread began to curdle your stomach.

Summary: In which the horror play you decided to see ends up becoming a real-life romance.

Prompt: “50, 51, and 70 with Dark? I keep thinking about a slightly sweeter ‘a date with markipleir’ ending” by anon

50: “We’d make such a cute couple.” 51: “I want to take care of you.” 70: “This is why I fell in love with you.”

Warnings: I ignore the ADWM script?

Note: dark is not a very romantic boy, but he’s trying.

———

“You really saved us back there,” Mark admits, hanging onto your shoulder as he laughs. “I thought the chef was going to skin us alive or something if we didn’t pay, thank you.”

“Well, I do like living, so I couldn’t not pay,” you tease lightly, shoving him off your shoulder. “But,” you continue, “you still owe me.”

“What is it this time?” he groans.

“Well... there is this small theater nearby and I heard that they’re playing this really good new horror play.” You look over at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“But you know I hate horror stuff,” he complains. “Do we have to?”

Summary: In which Dark is a much different monster.

Prompt: Goretober, Extra Limbs

Warnings: dark has two pairs of arms, low self esteem, bad self image, self doubt, gender confusion, I use both he and she to describe dark in the first half which might be a lil confusing, mental breakdown, surgery mention.

Note: day nine of Goretober. This ones a bit shorter, but I hope y’all like it!! I also had zero idea of what to title this.

———

Striding down the hall is different. Awkward, jilting.

He’s thankful that he still has two legs, not more, but walking is still strange. Her extra set of arms make the usual, swinging motion difficult to maintain. Her arms will bump into each other and it’s hard to keep her focus on walking when she has his focus on finding a smooth motion for his arms.

Walking should be easy. Her legs are still her legs, no extra add ons or manipulations. But it’s hard, for some reason, and he crouches in the hall, simultaneously hugging herself and hiding his face.

It’s overwhelming, almost, his mind torn apart and spread thin to control the extra set of arms, the thin pair sitting halfway down his ribcage. They ache, causing her a pain that’s precisely the opposite of phantom pain.

Something new is there, that shouldn’t be, and it aches. Phantom pain is the pain of something gone that used to be there. Opposite.

Similarly painful, equally jolting, despairingly difficult opposite.

It shouldn’t be this hard to cope. To come to terms and learn to control his limbs, old and new alike. Basic motor functions are thrown off wack, like he’d been on bed rest for years and was now trying to run. The memory is there, but her body is unable to conform to his wishes.

Try as she might, she cannot simply ignore the malformation done to him. The surgery and the stitches and the firey pain. He’s disfigured now, a freak.

Gray skinned, red and blue aura, too many limbs, freak. The kind of person put on stage at a circus for others to laugh at and mock.

Fingers digging into his sides, fingers digging into her scalp, she breathes raggedly. It’s too much, this new pair of arms. Her mind is torn to shreds, unused to controlling so much, unable to put arm movement in the background as unconscious thought. No, it was constantly at the forefront, standing in the spotlight and screaming ‘I’m a freak!’

He hates that she’s a freak.

Once, he was beloved, mayor of the town, seer to the less fortunate. She’d had a husband, a runaway lover, the peacefulness of singlehood. Old memories clash against each other, one screaming him while the other shouts her. He doesn’t know who he is anymore, if he’s still a he or her or something else.

Once upon a time, she was normal. No matter which life or body you look at, she — they? — was normal. Normal couldn’t be used to describe her now. Not since the manor. Not since the dreadful surgery that had made her a monster.

Stitched together, harsh black crisscrossing scars that would probably never heal right, she’ll never be normal again.

It feels crammed, in his body. Despite the extra room, it feels cramped. She can feel the mesh of the two souls within him, of the sibling duo forced together. There’s a harsh line, where they meet, fighting against each other and against itself.

Dark decides that he’s a they, now. Despite the masculine body, she is half female. There’s no better word that can appease both his mindsets, so they will have to do.

It’s a weight off their mind, deciding that. The half that they think is Celine, or what used to be her, settles a little. Two edges blend together a little more. Their mind and the yelling, arguing within it, settle.

More at peace. Mentally a little saner, a little more stable than before, but still not up to par, still not used to the new body and the difficulties of controlling it.

It was hard, having more body parts to be in control of. Disorienting, mind meltingly hard.

Practice makes perfect, so they’re trying. Really, really trying, but trying seems to only lead to more pain and more instability and to a mental breakdown, like they’re doing now. Sitting with their knees up, hugging themselves, and crying.

They don’t cry. At least, they’d like not to, but that just seems like yet another pointlessly out of reach goal. A child’s wish, worth no more than a wisp of smoke in the wind. So they do cry. Unwillingly, and that just makes them cry more, cry harder.

Why did this have to be so damn hard?

It didn’t, is the answer. This body, the disfiguration, didn’t need to happen. But they — Celine and Damien — had fallen prey to a man starving for revenge, for the perfect villain to their story. Stitching them together, taking parts of her and adding it to him, making a monster, had been his solution. A perfect villain, in his words.

He’d mangled them, marking them with harsh, unprofessional x’s all so he could be a better ‘hero’. To make his story more interesting. He’d wanted to be unique, to have a rival that was equally so and apparently neither of them were enough on their own, but together — literally, forced together — they were.

It was sickening, what he did.

And they — Dark — were going to make him pay for it. He’d turned them into something unsightly, something that others could only see as evil, and they would enact their revenge.

Mark had asked for a villain. Angry, boiling, they were more then willing to oblige. Once they perfected use of their body, there would be hell to pay.

———

Masterlist

Summary: In which maybe they’re too young to be married, but they’re in love and happy, so what does it matter?

Prompt: Goretober, Smile

Warnings: wedding doubts, fear of future, Mark loving his wife, this isn’t entirely angst, but still really angsty so don’t get your hopes up.

Note: Something that isn’t entirely angst?? What happened? Also day four and we’re still going! Hope you enjoy this one!!

———

Celine sits at the dinner table, taking small bites as she cuts her gaze between her new husband and his brother. She smiles tightly, the meaning of their conversation flying over her head as she thinks.

She thinks she’s made a mistake.

She thinks that they’d gotten engaged too soon, hadn’t dated long enough to be confident in the forever they’d promised each other.

Damien nudges her with his elbow and she turns her face, smiles and nods, and hopes it’s the right move. Mark’s smile widens, bright and blinding and oh-so-happy and Celine’s own smile wavers.

Mark places his hand on hers and she squeezes it reflexively, wondering if this is the right thing to do, if her mistake can be rectified, or if it’s already too late.

Looking at Mark, his over-brimming joy and infectious grin, she knows the answer. She’d said yes when he proposed and she’d said I do when the preacher had prompted her and she’d said I love you, too when he said it first. She’d said her wedding vows, had looked him in the eyes as she promised forever.

She’s promised him so many things. Forever, her love, her acceptance, her support. She’s promised him everything, holds those shackles in the form of a tiny, simple ring wrapped around her finger. She promised and she wasn’t one to break promises.

Even if she’s meant every word she’s told him, feels every bit of love she’s expressed. She doesn’t regret their marriage, doesn’t regret saying yes to him, but she feels like she regrets something, sensing a missing piece.

Smiling at Mark, smiling at Damien, smiling at William, she knows that her mistake could have been worse. Mark was a nice man, was in love with her. He adored her and spoiled her and she loved that at least, if not him.

She loves him, but she doesn’t know if it’s the all-consuming, ever-lasting kind of love a wife should hold for her husband. Those words seem bigger then her, bigger then the both of them, serious and binding in a way she’s not sure they were ready for. Captivating and challenging in a way they might not be old and experienced enough to commit to for the rest of their lives.

Forever was a long time, in the end. How could one promise that with such unwavering certainty?

Sometimes she wishes that they’d waited a little, but she’d been just as eager as him when he slipped the band of silver onto her finger and she’d said nothing to delay the big day. She’d been excited and in love and it had felt right.

That’s why she’s sitting at a table with her new husband and smiling.

There’s no doubt of his love for her. He loves her sweetly, with honey kisses and starry eyes and warm palms. He loves her like she’s air, the oxygen he lives off of, and she loves him like she loves the outdoors. From a little farther of a distance, softer, but not any less.

It’s still love. Hers just isn’t big grandiose displays like his. She wishes that she loved someone — him — like she’d die if she didn’t, she wishes that she craved his touch and his gaze and his smile like she craved a warm bath after a stressful day, unneeded, technically, but very, very welcome. She wishes she loved someone with absolute certainty that she’d die with him at her side.

And she does. Sometimes. But other times, she just craves a little space. Time without his constant need for touch, or for his chatter to fill her ears. She loves him, but sometimes she wishes he was just a little less clingy.

Wishes are futile, however, and she doesn’t crave him at all hours and she places him beside herself, but not above. Equals. She loves him, but sometimes she needs her space and she loves herself, too. She doesn’t think he’s any better then her.

But at the time, when he was on his knee and grinning up at her hopefully, nerves present in his trembling hands, saying no to marriage felt like saying no to him. She’d never say no to him.

So here she was. Wedded and happy with a tiny, seed of fear, anxiety for their future and if they’d be able to hold this up for the rest of their lives.

She may not love him in exactly the way she’s always dreamed, but she does still love him. Her heart still skips a beat when she sees him, jumping happily when she’s the reason for his smile. She still enjoys the feeling of their fingers entwined and his lips on hers.

She still loves him. Adores him, even. And maybe it’s not her that’s the problem, maybe her loving him less isn’t the issue, but him loving her more. He tells her big words, promises anything and everything and... she thinks he means it.

Smiling at dinner, pecking at her food and smiling fondly at the man who’s learned how to eat one handed just so he can hold hers for a few more minutes out of the day, she thinks she’s right.

He loves her in spoils, with gifts and fancy dinners. A hand in contact with her at all times, a brazen kiss in public, him grinning and her red-cheeked. She loves him a little quieter. A hand slipped in his jacket pocket cradling his, a warm imprint of her lipstick to his cheek, a note hidden in his bag when he leaves for work.

Soft, gentle, hidden.

Her love is different from his and she worries that one day, her little shows of affection won’t be enough for him. That one day, he’ll realize that he craves more and she won’t be able to provide it.

I love you. Those are his favorite words, his new catchphrase that he tacks on to the end of his sentences and they’re practically tattooed to her ears with the frequency in which they’re said.

She’d melted, the first time he said them. Had sighed and smiled shyly, her joy biting at her to spread it wider. She’d whispered it back, adrenaline racing in her blood, pounding her heart as she leaned up to kiss him. He’d kissed back, cradling her face like she was precious and important. Because she was, is. To him, she is everything.

She lifts her hand, dragging the tangle of fingers up to press a kiss onto his knuckles. She tugs on his arm, interrupting whatever he saying to William, and presses her lips against the stubble dusting his cheek.

It’s short and sweet, and she’s smiling as she pulls away, murmuring a soft “I love you” as she returns to her food and pretends not to notice the way he’s watching her.

She’s surprised him, interrupting dinner and conversation with a show of gentle affection. His heart had stopped, throbbing in a sickeningly sweet way as he stumbled over his words to William. God, he loved her.

Smiling coyly, she untangles their hands, patting his knee as she resumes eating.

He’s slow to return to normal, as he always is. He melts anytime she initiates, his brain malfunctioning like it’s the first time she’s kissing him and it’s a shock that she returns his feelings. He mindlessly, robotically, continues his conversation with William, Damien occasionally chipping in, but his eyes don’t leave her.

He’s infatuated with everything she does and that’s why he was able to promise the entirety of his future to her so easily. He loves her with everything, would literally do anything for her and that’s his problem. It is possible to love someone too much and he straddles that line.

Loving her is the best thing he’s ever done. The only thing he wants to do. Giving her his name had been an honor and a pleasure and a dream come true.

He smiles at her as he thinks of their future and she smiles back. They’re in love. Happily married and happily together.

If only their love story ended with happily ever after.

———

Masterlist

Summary: In which Abe is reborn to shed his lawful role and hunt for revenge instead of justice.

Prompt: Goretober, Rebirth

Warnings: cursing, anger, smoking, murder mention, jail mention, gunshot mention, blood mention, brief mention of Abe wishing to kill/torture William and Mark but no details, Abe trying to solve a case with little luck

Note: in regards to the prompt this kinda sucks, but, I tried. enjoy. day one of Goretober is a go, but how long will I be able to keep it up for? also I’m sorry for the lack of a read more, it’s not working and i don’t know how to fix it.

———

Abe is angry, burning.

His heart throbs and his hands shake and he bleeds betrayal. The bullet sits in his chest, crafted from false pretenses and forged in a tower of lies.

William had betrayed him, had betrayed them. He’d pulled the trigger, not one or twice, but thrice. Three shots, three bullets, three distinct bodies that didn’t simply fall dead.

Mark had died, but wasn’t dead. A docile threat for the moment, off licking his wounds. You— The DA, was gone. They had disappeared, vanished. Poof, a bullet to your gut and suddenly you live only in memory with no body and no corpse. And him — Abe. Alive, bleeding, angry.

Angry and starving for revenge, justice. None of this would have happened if William wasn’t so fucking goddamned trigger happy.

But it’s okay.

Abe was a detective, a policeman. This is what he did. Search for justice, carry it out, and return home to sleep soundly in his bed. This case was a little different, but still the same. Find William, pull his own trigger, and get a good nights rest.

He drags himself to his feet, groaning and stumbling as he clenches his hand to his chest. Blood slips between his fingers, soaking his shirt, dripping to the floor. He’d better get patched up first.

He stops by his office, not his home, or his workplace, but the small space he rents out to work in peace, away from noisy coworkers and pointless gossip. He stitches himself shut, fishes out the bullet himself and gets to work. Putting in a call to his coworkers, he orders them to come to him with any possible information on William.

Other then what he already has, of course. It turns out to be useful, that Mark had hired him to look over the attendance list before the party. He just needed to sort through it. The tower of files sits on his desk, off centered and messy.

Time to get started.

Hours drag, Abe peering at black words on white paper and marking down anything that comes to mind. He scribbles notes in the margins of the paper and scratches anything important onto the chalkboard, pinning essential bits onto the cork board and tying them together with string, framing the photo pinned to the center.

‘’

Fist slammed against the wall, Abe curses, “damn it.” The bricks don’t relent, standing tall and useless as he idles in an intersection of back streets. Turning on his heel, he slinks back to his office, pulling his vape from his pocket and huffing it in disappointment. He was so close to catching him.

Angrily, he crosses out a name on the board, ‘Waldorf Juniper’. He’d caught him, chased him and lost him. He’d get him next time.

‘’

He’s angry with himself. Furious.

Mark had hired him to do a lesser job, one beneath him in every way and because he was his friend, he’d done it. Part of him itches to find Mark, hunt him down like a rabid animal and get his fingers on his throat. Part of him wants Mark dead, for if he didn’t do that job, he wouldn’t be on a case he still hasn’t solved.

Hell, it wasn’t even a case. He was a detective, he was supposed to be ordered by his superiors, handed a file with a dead body and he was supposed to hunt its killer. That was his job and what he was doing now wasn’t.

It was just a stupid play for revenge.

If his superiors could see him now, he’d be fired. Disgraced. All because of William J. Barnum and his fucking trigger finger.

He has things he’d like to do to that finger, things that would land him in a jail cell. In that way, it’s good that he hasn’t found William yet. He was going to tear him apart, rip out his insides and torture the reasons out of him.

It was unethical, but he couldn’t care less about ethics and laws. He cared about finding William, making him pay, and then making him dead. Very, very dead.

He wonders when he became alright with murder — he puts people who think so away, he doesn’t become one of them. Then he remembers.

Uniformed photo of William on the wall, Abe remembers why. He’d killed their friends. He was alone now. A shut-in obsessed with work. William— hunting him was all he had now. He owed it to Mark and he owed it to Damien and Celine and you. Everyone at that damned party was innocent and if Abe has to break a few laws and become a criminal to enact his justice, then so be it.

‘’

He drives, car rumbling beneath him and cigarette dangling delicately from his fingers. The road stretches endlessly, passing beneath him and offering the same sights.

William is out there somewhere, giddily happy and partying. Enjoying his life, the music, the partygoers. Enjoying everything he shouldn’t have anymore.

He should be rotting. Dressed drably behind bars and paying for his sins. He was a murder and a liar and a heartless backstabber. He’d known Mark since they were children and that hadn’t stopped him from pulling the trigger.

If it was the last thing he did, he was going to make William pay.

‘’

“What?” Abe bites the word into the phone receiver harshly, teeth clenched and breath bated.

“Drop the investigation,” his boss says drolly, though with a measure of force. “We need you on more relevant cases.”

Abe stands, chair bashing against the wall. “More relevant cases? Barnum killed two people and shot me!”

“And where,” his boss’ voice comes out hard now, demanding respect, “has that gotten you?”

He flounders, gazing at the folders strewed across his desk, the filing cabinet stuffed with even more, the names and locations scrawled across the chalkboard. “I just ran into him,” he says, eyes pinched as he struggles for details. “He was hiding out in a cabin, I almost got him, but...” He trails off, brows together as he searches through his memory, cramming the phone into his ear via his shoulder to allow him to flip through a folder frantically.

“But what, Abraham?”

“He was in... Morocco,” he says, trailing over the word, photo of William perched in the corner, grinning stupidly, mockingly.

“There aren’t cabins in Morocco.”

“He was going under a new name. Uhh,” he scans the chalkboard. “Lord Waldo. No. Wally Jibbles? Butterfield? Wendy Jewel?” These names, he’s written them down, but when? In his handwriting, unfamiliar names are scrawled.

“Which was it?”

“I... I had him,” Abe says, “he was right there and I was close to actually catching him this time. I swear!”

His boss sighs. “Do you know how many times you’ve said that now?”

Abe ticks the fingers on his hands, mouthing them silently and struggling to remember each encounter before he’s cut off.

“Too damn many. Pick up another case or don’t bother coming in.” Abe closes his eyes, frustration bubbling to the surface.

A sigh, fabric ruffling. “Look, you’re a good detective, Abe, but we need you solving cases.”

The click and static prompts him to shove the phone back into the receiver. “Damn it,” he curses, fist slammed against his desk.

‘’

He was a weekend away from losing his job.

It’s unfair. He’d spent months, years, building up respect and getting the best solve rate in his department. Then Mark had asked for a favor — one that was far beneath his station, he’d stopped doing the grunt work of background checks after he was promoted. But Mark was his friend, and he was asking nicely, so he did it anyways and it ended horribly.

With bodies dropped and no killer behind bars or in the ground. A killer walking free, and him being ordered to stop chasing it’s fleeting scent. Like he was a dog chasing nothing more than a damn squirrel.

He was a detective, for crying out loud, the best one in the city. He wasn’t going to drop a case because of a few dead ends and false leads. William wouldn’t get away with this.

Even if he had to throw away years worth of work. William wasn’t special, he didn’t get a pardon just because he was a slippery bastard. No. He’d get caught and he’d be punished and then Abe will finally be able to get a night of sleep.

Until then, he just had to keep working. Researching and chasing and hunting. Eventually, he’d have to catch up. God have mercy when he did.

———

Masterlist

Well dang. This feels like a part one, where part two is just Wilford Motherlovin Warfstache, doesn’t it? Hope you liked it! I had literally no idea what to title it.

Summary: In which the Queen faces her punishment for the treason she committed against the King. Medieval!au

Prompt: Goretober, decapitation

Warnings: character death, infidelity mention, beheading, execution, blood mention.

Note: day seven!! a full week, wow. who’s surprised that I’m still here?

———

Water drips along the walls, pooling in the dip along the side of her cell. Settled on the hay, in her filthy dress, Celine stares stoically through the bars marking her a prisoner and at the guard watching her cell.

Admittedly, her head feels lighter, without the circle of jeweled gold sitting on it. Ruling a kingdom was no easy feat. Account for the fact that her husband cared more for his throne then he did for her, and it was awful. Lacking in any actual freedom, she feels more herself then she ever has before, in a dirty cell waiting for her execution.

A squeak comes from her right and the guard smiles when she flinches. A scolding, biting statement sits on her tongue, a retort of how she was royalty, used to silk and lavish bed quarters with servants at her beck and call then she was to wet, dirty hay and vile rodents. She’s a prisoner however, no longer Queen, so she swallows her ire.

She does tilt her chin up in indignation, sending the guard a haughty look he ignores. She has no power here. Not anymore.

But that’s what happens when one commits high treason against their king and country.

Infidelity. An unforgivable crime, when you were a Queen married to a King. She’d slept with a Kingsguard, a general. Maybe, secretly, she’d fallen in love with him. Publically, to the people, she was a traitor, not deserving of having a head upon her shoulders since she obviously didn’t use it during her affair.

To her husband, the king, she was an unfit ruler and all of her kind words she said to him in private, when they needn’t be kind, were false. She really had cared for him, at the start. It’s not her fault that his love for her had faded, turned to the kingdom he was leading. He loved the people. It made him a good king, but it also made him a terrible husband.

At the start, she had believed that it was possible for one to be both. A good ruler and a good spouse, and they were, for a while. Until the kingdom pulled him away and he turned to a mistress, instead of the wife in his bed. Leading her to turn to the general.

General William Barnum. He was so easy to care for, so easy to fall in love with. She thinks that she should regret sleeping with him, their affair. Sitting in a cold cell, disgraced, she doesn’t.

If she had the chance to do it again, she’d make sure they were more discreet. Their affair was only treason because they were caught.

Footsteps lead another guard to her cell, one with kind eyes who changes shift with the other. Waiting until they’re alone, he steps up to the bars.

“Queen Celine,” he greets nervously, bowing his head a little.

She laughs. “You needn’t bow,” she says, tone hard and bitter. “My reign is over.”

He flushes, stammering our his reply, “I know. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you.”

She stands, grime caked on her filthy skirts. Stepping to the bars, she presses her face to them, inches from the guard. “In a few hours time, I will lose my head. What could you possibly offer me?”

“General William is yet to face his own execution. He’s in the prison, facing punishment. I was,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “I could deliver a message to him, if you had something to say.”

Celine blinks, pulling back. “A message?”

The guard nods grimly. “Yes.”

“Why would you do that?” She squints suspiciously, scanning the guard for a clue to his identity, if he was one of her king’s trusted, perhaps. He seems familiar, but not like the kind of man her husband keeps close. He’s young, boyish behind the palace-issued clothes, the bit of grime smeared on his cheek, jacket hanging awkwardly off his shoulders. He’s a child, practically, new to the palace and new to war.

“General Barnes was, well, an inspiration. I worked under him and he was kind. It would be an honor to assist him one last time.”

His eyes glint from the torch burning beside the door, unshed tears. Celine nods, lips pursed. “It will only go one way, I assume?”

A shuffle of his feet. “It would draw suspicion if I were to do it twice, and well...” He looks at her in pity. “There’s not enough time for me to deliver something the other way around.”

That’s right. Her execution was at dawn and light was beginning to peer through the tiny, barred window. An hour left, if not less.

“Fine.” She nods. She’s already facing a beheading, can practically feel the blade on her neck with how close it is. There’s nothing for her to lose. “Tell him... tell him to remember the stables. He’ll know what it means.” Her eyes sting, words trembling as she tells the boy her coded message.

The boy’s face softens, at her show of weakness. It’s her first, since acending to the throne with her new husband at her side. Queens didn’t show weakness, but she wasn’t to be a Queen for much longer.

“Is that all?”

Jutting her chin out, she turns her gaze to the rough walls. “Yes,” she says, “that’s all.” Other words burn in her throat, a direct message, no coding or secrets, but they’re words she can’t say. Not even with her death in sight, her execution on the horizon.

She turns to the back of her cell and lowers herself to the floor, fighting for her composure. The uneven jagged rock digs into her back. The guard steps back to the opposite wall, resuming his position, and they wait.

Harsh, synchronized footsteps break their bubble of silence, their waiting. These guards are tougher, not young boys, but hardened men. Loyal to the king and country without fault.

Celine stands, taking on a dignified posture, like they’re here to escort her to a banquet and not her execution. Hands folded before her, demure, she stares as they dismiss the boy and pull out a string of keys.

The lock clicks, door swinging open and the men walk in, roughly grabbing her arms and dragging her to the hall. The floor is damp, under her bare feet, chilly.

“There’s no need to be so rough.” She tugs against their tight grip, bruises blooming under their fingers.

The one on her left laughs, tightening his grip. He grins, mocking. “No reason not to be,” he says, foul breath blowing in her face.

Her nose wrinkles, at the smell of his breath.

They drag her along, their grip still bruising in strength and she tells herself it’s for the power. Normally, they wouldn’t be allowed to touch her with a single finger, and now, they could grip as tight as they pleased. They find joy in manhandling a Queen, a woman of higher stature.

It doesn’t dull the throbbing any, but it helps to keep her composure. Just because she was facing the block, didn’t mean she had to throw away her façade. She was known for being coolheaded, rational. She’d die the same way she lived.

Scuffing footsteps of the boy guard follow. The door from the tower cell blows open, thudding loudly and announcing her presence. She pulls her chin up, eyeing the people in disdain as they boo her mussed appearance.

The steps to the block are few, but daunting nonetheless. The steps creak under the weight of their bodies, and they lower her to her knees before the guillotine.

Finally, she raises her gaze to meet with the King’s. He’s lounging on the makeshift throne, a smile tugging at his mouth. He’s proud to get rid of her, but she sees the bruises under his eyes. The hard clench of his fingers on the arm, the unease in his gaze.

He was a weak King, a good one, but only because he’d had a strong Queen at his side. Without her cunning, his reign would falter, weakened to his level. His precious country would turn against him. He’d regret this moment, one day. She had saved their country, had improved the life of the people. He had benefitted from her smarts, her orders. Soon, he would burn from her death.

His mistress sits on the arm of his throne, his arm wrapped around her. Celine hides her disdain, the repulsive look begging to be released.

Tightening her expression, she stares down the man who was her husband. Who had whispered words of love to her, in private, when there were no ears listening for scandal. Her husband, who was smiling as she kneeled, knees digging into the wood stage, hair a mess, dress dirty. Smiling with his arm wrapped around his mistress, the other half of his affair, the girl who got her own bed chambers for his convenience. Smiling as she was going down for a crime that was illegal only to her.

Staring in his eyes, she speaks, her final words. “You broke your vows first,” she says, tone flat and unforgiving, head raised and not lowered to the blade’s path. The guards push at her shoulders, trying to stop her from speaking. She continues. “And one day, you too, will burn for your sins.”

He’d turned from her before she turned from him. He drove her here, to the chopping block, to her death. She never would have strayed, if he was still hers. That’s what she’s telling him, and that’s the reason behind his bruises and unease. He knows what she is, what she does for the country. His doom is imminent and he knows it. It’s just a matter of time.

Face twisting, he orders the guards to get her in position. She smiles as they grab her hair and push her down. She’d gotten on his nerves, bringing up his infidelity, how he’d done it first. “You led me here!” She screams, her final cry an accusation.

Curved scoop of the guillotine, her neck sits, face turned to the floor of the stage and her words burning in the air. They will remember her, how she’d damned the King in her final moments, blaming him for her crimes. She will be known for her role in the kingdom, and they will know how it fell after her death.

She will be remembered.

Rope cut, blade singing, blood splattering, her head rolls. The crowd cheers and roars in approval. Her husband doesn’t smile.

———

Masterlist

Leave a like if you enjoyed this, please!! I’d like to keep writing for you guys, but it’s kinda disheartening that these aren’t doing well since I like some these quite a bit. Also, yes, another series starter. I know. One shots aren’t my thing, okay?

Summary: In the Kraken’s lair, William strikes a deal and makes a horrid mistake. LittleMermaid!au

Prompt: Goretober, Sacrifice

Warnings: deal making, unfair deal, skulls, mention of skinning mers.

Note: Markraen is pronounced “mark-ray-in”. Just did to make it sound more exotic and less normal, but I like it. Apologies that this is late!!! Hope you enjoy this, though, I’m loving this world so far^^

Part One

———

Dark inky water swirls around, the chill of it aching. Blood wasn’t what ran through kraken veins, they had no need for warmth and so they lived in the coldest parts of the sea. In the deep, the chasms, the one part of the sea not under the mer king’s control. The parts that remained empty and isolated until those who were desperate came along, searching for the gods of old.

Spikes rise up, bleached skulls of creatures appearing through the murky waters and hanging off the sharp points. Belonging to those who have angered the krakens, who had broken a deal, who hadn’t followed the rules. Symbols of anger, fair warning of what one was swimming into.

Life was forfeit, in these waters.

The mer king, despite ruling all of the seven seas, did not have control over the chasms and what lived in them. The krakens had been gods, once, had been rulers and kings and unstoppable. Then the tides had changed and the mers took the mantle of rulers of the sea. The krakens lived, angry, seething, but willing to offer deals to the mer, for a price. Losing their throne hadn’t stripped them of their magic.

Maybe it was coincidence that the mers who made deals were never the same after being submerged in the icy waters, in close proximity to the only things that were above them on the food chain.

Every mer knows to avoid the krakens, the chasms. To never, ever, ever strike a deal. They used to be gods and all they knew to do was take.

William swims forwards, scared but determined.

He’s searching for a particular kraken, a witch, one said to hold tremendous power, even when compared to others of his kind. One still angry, one who’s name is only whispered in frightened tones, a warning at the end.

If you must seek a kraken, do not go for that one. He will trick you into giving what he cannot take.

He’s passed the lairs and homes of the other krakens already. They had been bright, had been foreboding, but somehow not frightening, like all the stories said they’d be. Some of them weren’t angry, some of them were kind, almost. The further William swims, dives, the more harsh the homes become, the louder his instincts scream at him to turn back.

He doesn’t.

In the deep, where the water is darker then the night sky, then the dresses Celine had worn, is where the final kraken lives. The oldest, if the old folktales were to be believed. The one who hadn’t forgiven the mers for their upheaval, for the coup and for their banishment, loss of power. He lives in the part of the sea that’s almost too cold for a mer to be able to function.

The lair, home of this particular kraken, is sharp, all long, jagged edges and shadowed crevices. A soft light peers through the dark waters, and it is towards that light that William swims to.

Dimly, the light brightens the waters enough to see, but not warm the temperature any. Leaving all guests shivering and shuddering and anxious.

Disgustingly, horrifically, the inner walls are covered in skinned mer tails, stretched to lay flat against the wall. Scales shiny and gleaming and colorful in a way that means that the mer was living, when they were harvested. Living or very recently dead. Fins drip from the ceiling, tied together, preserved. William gags.

Movement. A deep, throaty chuckle. “My, my, is this the little king?”

William whirls around, a shadow skirting in his peripherals and more skinned tails lining the wall.

“Ah Ah,” the voice clucks at him teasingly. Cold water brushes against his back. “No peeking. It’s rude to barge into someone’s home, you know.”

William shivers, the sing-songy, low voice dredging up his fight or flight response. Fin twitching, he fights the urge to flee. “I want to make a deal.”

“A deal?” The voice rises in pitch, excitement and curiosity lacing through the voice. The kraken moves, tentacles wrapping around his tail and a finger notched under his chin. “Do you know who I am?”

The kraken is different from the mer. His human half is thickly skinned, leathery and muscled. His facial features are sharp, eyebrows edged downwards and lips plush and curled. Toeing a line between beautiful and terrifying. His fingers are sharp, tapering to a point that’s perfect for digging into something, ripping it apart. Eyes dark, a ruddy red with dim yellow lines drawn through it. Pupils no more then a pinprick, sclera as black as the darkest shadow, almost blending with the deep red of his iris. Hair short, black, waving in the water above his head like a demonic halo.

His lower half is black, but it winks a dark red in the light, frightening. Suckers line the underside of his tentacles, sharp-edged and able to dig into or stick to any surface. Able to cut into most anything, sucking nutrition out. The underside is a bright crimson, camouflaged against any blood that may be spilled against it.

“You’re the kraken witch.”

Pleased smile, the kraken nods. “And my name?” He whispers.

Gills flowing, breath taken, William whispers. “Markraen.”

“Excellent.” Markraen bares his sharp teeth in something that’s not quite a smile. “What could you possibly have to offer me, prince?”

Dull, murky red eyes meet William’s brown, probing for an answer. “Whatever you want,” he says, his own eyes darting between the two of the kraken.

The kraken sucks in water, teeth clenched pleasingly. “Those are dangerous words,” he says. Tentacles cinch around his chest, tugging him closer. “Anything gives a lot of wiggle room.”

“I don’t know what you’d want.” He tries very hard to keep his eyes from the wall of scales, the wall of his kind’s flesh displayed on the wall like artwork. He fails. Markraen looks behind him, smiling when he spots the scales.

Loosening his grip on William, sharp-edged suckers leaving circled marks all over, he gestures to the wall. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” He runs the backs of his sharp hands over the scales, slowly dragging it over the smooth surface.

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

“Hmm. Tell me,” he glides closer, tentacles waving over the ground in a way that’s somehow terrifying, predatory. “What do you wish to gain, little king?”

William flicks his tail, gliding away from Markraen’s hungry stare, sharp yellow cutting through the red. Celine’s soft voice hums in his head, a new measure he takes when he feels anxious and needs to calm down. “Legs,” he says. “Human legs.”

“Oh?” Surprise filters across the kraken’s face. “Legs? What use would you have for such a thing?”

He remembers Celine, her casual trust in him, her voice, her beauty. “What I want them for doesn’t matter,” he says. “You grant mers a wish, a deal, if they seek one out. Or is giving me legs something you’re not able to do?” His tone is sharp, instinct harshening his words without any thought.

Markraen leans forwards, face inches away. “Do not speak so brashly, mer.” He says the name like an insult. “You approached me for a deal and you should take care to remember who you’re speaking with.” Jagged yellow cutting through his eyes glow, casting a harsh light in his anger.

William flinches, eyes wide. “I— I’m sorry.”

Sneering at the frightened mer, the kraken backs away. “You have nothing to give that I want,” he says, eyes flat, yellow a little dimmer. “Leave.”

He should. He knows that. Celine— he doesn’t even know her that well.

“There must be something.” If he was smart, William would take this chance to leave with his life. Pushing one with more power usually didn’t end well. But he remembers the soothing effect her voice had had on him, how she had sapped away the pain of his mother’s memory. He had to do this.

“Nothing that is easily given. You are not exceptional, little king. Your blood is the only thing you have of value, and that cannot be taken without taking your life as well and then there is no deal.” The kraken blinks, face uninterested as he turns away. He gestures to the walls. “I have been dealing for a long time, prince, and there is little I do not have. Now leave while I still offer the chance.”

William swallows, instincts screaming at him to obey, to just leave. Eyes scanning the horrid walls, he stays. “What about my tail?”

Markraen turns, eyes sparked, yellow bright. “What do you mean?” He stares at William, gaze intense and pinning. He couldn’t leave now even if he’d wanted, not with those eyes on him.

“If you give me legs, you can have my tail. You don’t have the scales of a gold mer.” His gold scales, how they were revered by the people. He was the first to be scaled in the color of the mer palace. There’d only been rumors of gold-scaled mers and the people believed that it would make him a good king. Now, here he was, offering them to a kraken. For legs.

Red eyes turning to appraise the decoration in question, he nods. “That I don’t.”

False bravado, chin lifted, William offers a deal. “Then you can have it, as long as you give me legs.”

Hands clenched behind his back, shaking, he keeps Celine’s face in his mind, her words of him being better than her suitors. She is why he is here. He must keep that in mind.

Silence, grinding teeth, swirling arms. The kraken grins, teeth bared. “Alright, little king. We can strike a deal.”

“Alright.” William nods. “Deal made. Let’s do it.”

Markraen laughs. “Foolish prince,” he says. “We must discuss details. Deals are not so simple.”

William shakes his head. He knows about negotiations from his father, how they can drag out, take days, and in the end, make the deal fall through. He doesn’t care for the details.

“No.”

“Oh?” Mark slithers closer, eyebrows raised, lower appendages sneaking to encircle the foolish mer. Eyes dark, pupils shivering, teeth clenched and smile restrained, he does what he needs to seal the deal. “Are you certain, my prince? The deal cannot be undone, once it is made.” Despite all the nasty rumors and warnings, it was ridiculous how many mers didn’t wish to discuss the details. He could be fair, in the right circumstances.

It’s really not his fault that mers didn’t want to argue a better deal for themselves.

“Then you shall be bound to the usual rules, with details altered as required.” He extends his hand, lips curled upwards in the beginnings of a grin.

Hand outstretched, William shakes on it. Markraen produces a long scroll from behind his back, a too-wide grin adorning his face as William blindly signs the bottom, not reading any of the fine print. Maybe the basic contract should get boring, but the stupidity and blind trust of the mers never fail to bring him joy. It helps that the contract was effective and highly in his favor.

Bound by signature, the deal cannot be undone. All William promised must be given and he will receive what he asked and only that.

Foolish prince, William has made the worst mistake.

The details lie in the fine print. Krakens have a knack for giving what is offered in a way that is unpleasant. William, poor him, had asked for something very simple. Legs were easy to give. A mer with human legs, however, didn’t make a human.

One should never sign before negotiations. That’s what they all did, anyways. Foolish, stupid mers. Thinking that the old gods would offer fair deals, would be merciful to the lesser species after they fell from power, after it was wrested from them.

Hand shaken, deal signed, there’s no going back.

———

Masterlist

Sorry if this ended up being a bit filler-y, but it was needed. The next part is gonna be more exciting though. I’m actually really disappointed that this didn’t get out on time. Sorry again!! I’m gonna try to catch up soon, but I won’t be home for the weekend, so I might fall more behind. I’ll still do all 31 prompts, just no longer in a timely manner, unfortunately :/

Summary: Mark’s response to Celine leaving and his empty bank account.

Prompt: Goretober, Torn in Half

Warnings: downward spiral, betrayal, broken trust, numbness, loss of trust, self isolation, unhealthy love, grieving failed relationship, being reminded of Celine by everything, brief infidelity mention, pure angst, if this doesn’t make you sympathize with Actor!Mark I don’t know what will.

Note: day 10!! Apparently half of this month is just going to be different points of Mark grieving his relationship with Celine. Hope you don’t mind, but I like this one and hope you do as well, despite the repetitiveness^^

———

Fingers hooked and tense, Mark grasps the splayed edge of wallpaper, ripping it from the wall. Teeth bared, anger bubbling, he rips apart the walls of his home.

Laughter bubbling, laughter dying, Mark spirals. There’s nothing funny about this, nothing to laugh about, but seeing his home the way it was was making him sick. They were plastered over the walls, lurking behind the corners and taunting him with their memory.

They had left. They had betrayed him, stolen from him, broken him.

Mark had trusted them, loved them both, in different ways. He would have trusted them with anything, and they had thrown the shattered shards of his trust back in his face.

So he’s ripping off the wallpaper, the decorative paper that Celine had picked out, that William had volunteered to help put up. They live on the walls, in the now tattered vinyl paper lining the hall.

Alone in his home, the only occupant not paid to be there, he wants all reminders of previous inhabitants gone. They had left, had abandoned it, him, so their memory didn’t deserve to stay, to live as a coat on the walls, or a photo in his room.

Using the remains of his trust, broken, shattered, sharp, he cuts out the reminders of those who broke it.

Throwing the framed photo against the table, bits of glass spewing out, he breaks and cracks the glass protecting William’s photo. Grinning behind a web of cracks, the aftermath of his lies and betrayal, William sits, preserved and happy and safe. Curled lip, shaking hands, Mark destroys all evidence of the two who left him, but he keeps the photos.

Anger jolts through him whenever the one displaying him and William, together, happy, catches his eye. It’s a reminder, to be careful of who he trusts.

Strangled, torn out strings, Mark doesn’t trust anymore.

Not his butler, or the chef, or Damien, who has remained blissfully neutral on the matter. Sitting on the sharp edges of his trust, surround by the snapped, cut strings that had tied him to the people he’d trusted, he isolates himself.

The tattered wallpaper is burned and Mark feels nothing when he stands beside it and breathes in the toxic smoke. It clouds in his lungs, sticking to his throat, burning his eyes. He only leaves when there’s nothing left but a black stain on the stone and a layer of ash covering it.

Days, weeks, months pass.

He doesn’t speak.

He goes through the motions. Waking up, eating, sitting listlessly in a chair, showering whenever Benjamin forces him into the bathroom, going to sleep. Staring at the ceiling in the dark and trying to forget how his bed had felt when he wasn’t the only one in it.

He misses Celine, misses William, misses Damien and Abe and everyone he’s locked out. Keeping his silence is hard, when it’s just him and empty air, but when he hears word that someone is reaching out — a phone call, a knock on the door, a message sent through the post and delivered by Ben — then he wants to speak. Wants to break in the shelter of someone’s arms and have them assist in piecing him back together. But whenever someone shows, or when he has a chance to reach for their outheld hand, he locks up. His throat freezes and words climb up his throat just to die on the battlefield of his tongue.

Alone, empty, drowning in the silence he sentenced himself to, he feels lost. Lost to a prison of his own design, his own making, serving out a sentence no one placed upon him, a sentence he doesn’t deserve. He did nothing wrong, not really, nothing to warrant this self punishment.

In the end, he wasn’t the one who had lied and broken his vows. Yet he was the one left behind, shouldering a burden that wasn’t his to bear.

Celine should be bearing it, should be standing with the sky on her shoulders, like Atlas. She was in the wrong, but because Mark loves her, he is taking the fall. Even if this time, it all falls upon her and he has every reason to hate her.

He can’t bring himself to do so.

Loving her is all he has and even if it feels like poison, sharp hooks buried under his skin, piercing through bone and muscle, without it he has nothing. Loving her had been his redemption, his piece of good that couldn’t be disputed by the gossip magazines and tabloids.

Unwittingly, Celine has utterly broken the man she’d proclaimed to love.

Now, she was wiped clean from the house she had shared with him. Photos of her were no longer proudly on display, but broken and collecting dust in an old trunk Mark vows to never open. Clothes she’d left behind were thrown out, her perfume shattered in the bottom of a bin and clouding the foyer with the scent for days.

It had been pungent, strong and piercingly sharp. It had smelled like her, and the scent had overtaken the bottom floor, the staircase, the halls. The scent of her reeked through the house as if she was around every corner, behind every door and just a step away.

During that time, he kept thinking that she had come back, that she’d realized her mistake and was now looking for his forgiveness. He thought that she was filled to the brim with apologetic regret, was coming to apologize and grieve what she had ruined.

She never came back. It was just the scent of her perfume in the air.

There’s a secret, in the back of his closet, buried and hidden. Screaming, his heart begs him to be rid of any piece of her, big and small alike. Broken, lovesick heart, Mark can’t bring himself to obey. In the back of his closet, sits her wedding dress.

Identical red robes line the front, close enough so he can reach in and grab one without peering inside and spotting the white satin hanging in the back of the closet. After she left, he started to wear nothing but those red robes.

Cleared from any obvious space, Celine is dead to her house of marriage, the house of loving vows and matching silver bands. In the corners, in the shadows, in places of hidden sight, she still breathes. Turning her home of happy matrimony into a house of despair.

Divorced in heart, Celine still holds too much power over Mark. She is behind his every decision, beside him with every breath. She is a ghost, dead only to him, of whom he cannot shake. Poisonous to his mind, his deteriorating mental state, but she is what he’s clinging desperately to, unable to look at her, but even more unwilling to let her go.

Fine line, he holds her without having her. It’s gut wrenching and heart breaking and wrong. He knows that he needs to let her go, that he needs to move on and continue his life.

But moving on was too hard. At the start, when he gave it a try, it had hurt. Fire had burned in his lungs and clogged his throat with smoke. His bones had been fragile and cold and crafted from ice. His skin had been heavy, too tight and constructing. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t let her go.

He learns that the hardest part of loving someone isn’t losing them. It’s letting them go.

Wispy memories of her in his hands, he can’t bring himself to climb the mountain and feel the pain of letting her go. Cowardly, stupidly, he decides that he loves Celine Fischbach and he will love her until the day he dies. Probably even then. As long as there is a piece of existence that vaguely resembles him, in any form, he will love her.

Letting her go is a choice that he would have to make and doing so feels like giving up, like admitting that his love was a mockery and fake and just another act of his, another face he wore in front of the masses. It is a choice he can’t bring himself to make, not when the implications of doing so are false.

Despite the numbness, the distant realization that he should be in pain, he can’t let her go. Not when she was the only good he ever had. Even though she is already lost to him, he can’t let her go.

He doesn’t. Her memory, the only thing he really has of her, besides the wedding dress he can’t bear to look at and the hidden photos and the burn on the back porch from the fire.

Betrayed, broken, untrusting, mute, Mark forgives the worst kind of crime. If he didn’t, his love would falter. Wrongfully, that is his priority. No one can honestly accuse him of not loving her. Not when it was one of the few things he did right.

To him, the loyal, doting husband, that the only thing he can ask for that he has a chance of receiving. He’d like a time machine, to go back to when they were newly wedded and he still had her love.

He’s not sure when he lost it, where he went wrong and what he did to lose it. Short answer, he didn’t. Mark, despite his dramatic, flamboyant nature had done everything important right with her.

It was her fault that that wasn’t enough. Celine is the one with a list of faults, and she is one guiltless, free while her innocent husband rots in her failure to love.

Surrounded by broken things, sharp edges cutting out and snagging on his skin, Mark breaks. For her, because of her, he breaks. His love holds strong, dripping poison and edged with tempered steel. No longer a point of pride, a happy thing, he loves. Celine turned his love, his redeeming quality, the best thing he had, into something destructive and grotesque.

Broken wedding vows, discovered infidelity, Mark meets the start of his end, the prologue to his tragedy. Spiraling, tumbling, reeling, he falls. Stained love, skewered view, Mark doesn’t want to love her anymore.

He still does.

———

Masterlist

Sorry this is late, the end took a minute to figure out.