#writersofmark

So, guess who's not dead even while actively suffering through writer's block? xd I've been perpetually staring at my WIPs and adding a sentence here and there, but that's about it. Anyway, here's finally an answer to this at least <3 hope you enjoy

Tell me in the comments what you think!

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Prompts by @tracobuttons

Prompt: Calm

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It felt like forever before he was finally able to squeeze himself into the tiny booth, the guard– Manny, a nice enough guy, not too bright– relieving him of his handcuffs so he could sit comfortably, and answer the phone if you showed up.

Yancy fought to keep himself calm. Today was the day. He could feel it in his bones. It was the third Sunday, the day for outside visitors, and you would be in line to visit him, and he could finally, finally tell you the big news.

He fidgeted in his seat, leaning forward to press his face to the glass. The makeshift booth on the other side of the thick, bullet-proof barrier prevented him from catching a good glimpse of anybody waiting, so he gave an impatient huff and sat back. 

Time passed. The clock ticked. Visiting hours were drawing to a close. 

Behind him, Manny heaved a sigh. He wanted to go to chow. But Yancy turned and shot him a scathing glare and he straightened, avoiding direct eye contact. Newbie.

But he was getting hungry, too. He’d give it a couple more minutes before–

On the other side of the glass, a whirlpool of blue-black blossomed into existence, and you stumbled out, dressed to the nines in a fancy-looking space-suit, complete with blacked-out helmet. Yancy couldn’t see your face, but he’d recognize you anywhere.

HULLO

Word Count- 1263

Request?- Yes!

Summary- Life goes on, even out here. Unfortunately that also meant all the more inconvenient aspects.

Warnings- None

Another year has come and gone, but this time, Damien is by himself due to everyone close to him having other obligations. But that’s alright, as a city comes alive on New Year’s Eve with fireworks.

But can he find a good place to watch them?

Warning: There’s suggestions of PTSD from firework explosions, but it is not discussed in detail.

Previous New Year fics: The Perfect Year, New Year(?), A Bumpy New Year’s Eve

Word Count: 1,387

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Mark had gotten big news on Christmas Eve. He had been invited to a big event in a city out of state. With the journey that it would take to get there, he made the impulsive decision that himself and Celine would spend New Years together on vacation. Celine was surprised at this announcement, but it had been some time since Damien had seen his twin so excited about something.

He happily waved the pair off on the 29th, and left the Manor in the care of the staff.

With Mark and Celine out of town, and William on duty in the barracks, it would be the first time in many years that Damien would ring in the new year on his own. Even if it brought a small pang of loneliness, he didn’t mind. The other option was to spend it with his parents, and… He would rather do a full night of office work instead.

The staff in the Mayoral residence were given a few days off. He didn’t want them to feel they had to keep him company, not when he had a plan all his own.

As the night rolled in, he pulled on his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and set out for a late walk. The fireworks were already starting, and they painted the pavement in flashes of blue and green. Damien had spent his whole life living in shades of black and white. Seeing the world alive in colour brought with it the simple joys of life. 

Would the burst of colours symbolise the beginning of a brighter future, or would the fading to monochrome reflect the status quo continuing despite his best efforts?

Or… Could Damien stop thinking about work and politics for once and actually appreciate the moment without attaching symbolism to everything?

The whirring of film being read echoes in Jameson’s ears in the little camera booth. He watches through the hole projection room’s wall as the theatre fills up. He smiles, threading film around the camera’s wheel, a sense of pride filling him as he does his job well. He sits at the wooden table in the room, the chair cruel and wooden on his aching shoulders and back. Flip the switches and thread the film. Simple enough, yet well-paying for a war-time job. Distracted by the rolling of the camera and the safety of the projection booth, the high pitched whining in the air goes unnoticed.

An hour later, the movie ends, The Last Rose of Summer echoing in his head. Jameson hitches up his belt, sighing and straightening out his clothes. They are a bit tattered, a bit tight-fitting, but it helps the time traveler blend in in this post-depression era. Ready to close for the night, his boss hurries him out of the room, leading him scurrying from the door of Trimmer’s Theatre without even signing goodbye. 

He pulls his jacket around himself, shivering. Now out in the open, a high little whine fills the air, though the song plays on in his head.

When true hearts lie withered,    And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit    This bleak world alone?

“Alone?”

Jameson whips around as a hand touches his shoulder. No one... is there anyone? He swears someone’s eyes watch him from the darkness. He pulls his coat tighter, huffing out anxious breaths, turning to walk to his apartment swiftly, steps unsure and fainting. He cannot wait to get to the apartment’s solitude and travel back to the future with his warm little house and caring little family- 

Something shoves him hard. He crumbles to the ground, waiting for the feeling of smacking into it- But the feeling doesn’t come. Rather, a thick blackness, like ink but smelling of flesh and earth, surrounds him entirely. He is laying on an unseen floor. Whispering voices circle him. His eyes dance around wildly, curling up in his jacket, panting so hard he feels his lungs will fail. 

“Alone, Jameson?” A voice echoes all around him, and he jumps up to his feet, scrabbling for a knife at his side, eyes darting around looking for the obvious threat. 

Something steps from the darkness. A corpse that might’ve once been a man, or a woman, with glowing, piercing blue eyes and bedraggled rotting hair. Jameson takes a shaky breath, stepping backward. 

“Looking for this, little time traveler?” The figure holds up his knife, now dripping with black shadows and half-consumed by the monster’s hand. Jameson bends slightly at the waist, ready to fight. But the monster throws the blade forward, the deafening clatter echoing through the ink. “No matter. Here, take it. You cannot kill me in any way that matters. I have... a proposition for y- 

An hour later, the movie ends, The Last Rose of Summer echoing in his head. Jameson hitches up his belt. Oh god. He stands suddenly, his chair crashing to the floor. Someone, or something, has found him. They know he is a time traveler, his name, his weapons, his whole being. 

He shakily brushes curls from his face, tucking them into his hat. 

Psst.

Jameson whips around, eyes wide. The light buzzes in his ears. 

Suddenly, he is in the theatre. He is sitting in one of the chairs, flipped down and accommodating, a bag of popcorn sitting on the armrest. 

“As I was saying, little traveler,” sounds a voice from the darkness. Jameson whips around, gripping the armrest, his gaze sharp and ready to kill. Rather than the corpse, there is an absolutely gorgeous man sitting next to him. Jameson blinks in surprise, shocked by the soft brown eyes and grey-tinted but clear and bright skin, the swirl of raven black hair covering one of their eyes, and the prim proper suit. 

The being turns to face him, the room dark except for the glowing, empty screen. 

“You are fascinating, I hope you know. Thinking you could escape timelessness, bah.” The being chuckles darkly, smiling a bit too widely with perfect teeth. Jameson scowls, having no time for this shit. 

“What do you want,” he signs. 

“I don’t speak BSL-”

Before the being can finish, Jameson pulls out a notepad and a ballpoint pen, his lips set stonily and eyes radiating frustration. 

What do you want? he writes, shoving the pad in the entity’s face. The being peers at him around it with eyes that are far to friendly. 

“Oh, not much, don’t fret. I simply came for a chat. You fascinate me, as I have said. It is rare a human does, consider yourself lucky.”

What makes me fascinating?

“No matter, all in good time. For now, little traveler, you may call me Dark.”

Jameson stifles a cheeky grin. 

He holds up the pad with a drawing of a middle finger raising hand on it. The being blinks, then raises an eyebrow. 

“I suppose the politeness of the British was a lie, of course,” it comments. Jameson turns away, setting the pad on his leg. 

I could just time travel away.

“Then why haven’t you?”

“Scared, scared, scared,” offers Dark’s echo. Jameson closes his eyes. It is true, he’s scared. This is the first supernatural entity he has spoken to without Anti there to defend him. His confidence is a façade and he can tell Dark knows it.

“You have immense power. Even greater than mine. Forgive me for flattering, but you may just be the most powerful magician I have ever come across.” Jameson startles as the entity reaches into the pocket of his suit and pulls out his watch. The dark hand fiddles with it, feeling the radiating magic that smells of dust and blood. “I would love it if you would... assist me. There is someone I want to make pay. Name your price.” Beautiful brown-gold eyes glint up at JJ as the being lets the watch fall back against his chest. His mustache twitches. He glares, raising an eyebrow. 

He picks up the notepad. 

Sets it down.

Picks it up. 

Protection. I have a demon, my monster. Keep him away.

“I know of your demon. Our creators introduced us long before we played these silly games.” Dark picks at his suit. “Very well then, consider it done. You have never been safer than in the hands of my soldiers and myself. Jameson Jackson will be the name your Anti dies fearing.”

Jameson smiles, a twinge of blackness slipping into his eyes as whispers surround him, light playing over his face from the movie screen. Make him pay, echoes through his brain. Make him pay for all he did to you. 

garrote | choking | gagged 

@whumptober-archive

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He does not remember falling, only that the water is dank and cold around him. Dark surfaces, coughing, something pulling him towards the shore by his wrists. Pressed into stone and sand, he looks up through blurry eyes. 

“Damien!” scream thousands of voices at once. But he is too weak to respond, a groan sliding out from his weak throat, marred by coughing and hot burning water in his lungs. He struggles to his feet, coughing out a thick, black liquid that no longer passes for blood after all his years as a corpse. 

He looks downward at his wrists, seeking the source of the tug. 

Strings. 

Thick, red cords wrap endless circles around his wrists. He tugs at them, frustrated, clawing at them. 

“Well, well, wellwellwell,” a voice taunts from the shadows of the beach. Dark whips his head upward. It’s him. It is, after all this time of silence, all this time of building a life beyond his games, and here he is. 

The Actor stands in front of him, his form flickering at the edges. “Look how the mighty fall~” 

“What do you want?” Dark asks.

“Help help help,” offers his echo as he glows bright red at the hems of his rough-sewn being. 

“What do I want? You. You are lacking in our games lately. If I didn’t know better, well, I’d say you had stopped looking for me. One little madman shows up and suddenly you don’t care about the hero of our story?”

“Hero,” Dark cackles, “You are not a hero, no matter how much you delude yourself into it.” 

“I am more hero than ANY of the soldiers and failed creations you hide away in that mirror with,” spits the Actor, snarling. 

“Even Jim is more hero than you, you snake, you fucking reprobate.”

“Shut up!” Actor growls. “Or do I have to do it myself?” 

Strings suddenly envelop his skin, a thin cord wrapping roughly around his neck. Dark gags on his own breath as the string tightens roughly around his jugular. The red, glowing ribbons drag Dark through the sand and pebbles, drawing a cry from him. The Actor’s foot comes down on his head. Strings wrap through his lips, sewn by invisible needles that sting. Another foot comes down on him, the impact echoing through the Otherworld.

“Now that I’ve got you quiet,” teases the Actor in an overly friendly voice, leaning pertly on his cane. “I need some more... acting from you. Some pizazz, some spark. Before I get bored of you and decide you’re not worth being in my stories. I can always recycle or create anew to find a new villain. You’re just so boring lately, my old chum.”

Dark glares at him, hands being held above his head by the strings as the cords around his neck nearly hang him, barely allowing a breath to pass his lips. Dark struggles, but the string ‘round his neck gets tighter. 

“Ugh, this is what I mean, so cliché and boring.” The strings fall away, sending a gasping Dark to the ground, bright irritated burns left in his skin by the string. “Look, friend, just freshen up a bit, get your madman to hunt me down or your soldiers to cut me up, I don’t care anymore, I just need some spunk from you on stage!” He grins, grins with far too many teeth and curled, smile-lined cheeks. 

There is a sudden beeping noise, echoing through the darkness around the lake. 

“Uh oh~ Looks like time is up for now, my old enemy. Au revoir and be prepared!”

Dark shocks up awake in bed, his alarm blaring loudly. He slams his hand on the snooze button, then lifts a shaky hand to his throat. It still burns. He looks over in bed at the swirl of pink hair peeking out of the blankets, the loud snoring annoying, but not echoing. No more echoing except from Dark. 

He cannot help but ask himself, is it worth it to keep playing his games, even if just to keep his Wilford and his other friends safe. Is it worth it to listen to ghosts of Mark when he has such a fine little life hidden away in his mirror dimension of safety. 

It had been such a long time since Dark came to visit. Normally he’d have no need, he trusts the bounds of his control and reach, and knows it to be solid. But this one, this time, the bond is weakening. Not yet severed, but not as strong as before, and Dark feels a tug, almost painfully so.

So, he finds himself in this dingy little cell, smelling of rust and dirt, to stare at the one occupant inside. The man is sleeping, or appears to be sleeping. Dark says nothing as he reaches for the man’s arm to inspect the tattoos on his arms. They’re still there; there’s no magic tying those tattoos to this man, so there’s no need to fix this problem either. However, Dark doesn’t need to inspect the entire jail, he already knows the source of the problem.

There’s a lingering smell of another figure. Probably a brief prisoner who shared this cell, someone who had strange ideas and implanted them in this one’s head. Thoughts of escaping and living a different life...

Not if Dark has anything to say about it.

He doesn’t need to use powers. He doesn’t need to do much other than crouch down, pressing his lips close to the man’s ear, to repeat the same mantra he’d implanted in his head close to a year ago.

“Yancy.”

“Mmm?” The reply is slurred, groggy, but not yet with a coherency that would come with him being awake.

“You don’t want to be free,” Dark whispers. He slowly wraps his fingers around Yancy’s wrists, pinning him in place. There’s little resistance, with Yancy moving his arm once, then relaxing again once he’s pinned on his back. His head rolls to the side, eyelids twitching as if caught in a dream.

“You belong to me, remember?” Dark’s a little more forceful as he works to instill his commands back in Yancy’s head. Sweet, precious, stupid Yancy. “You’ve always been mine, you always want to be mine.”

“I’m....” Yancy’s lips are barely parted as he starts to repeat the mantra, but stops as he rolls his head to the other side. His brow furrows with an unconscious resistance.

“You belong to me,” Dark repeats. He spreads his own aura out, shadows creeping up around the pair, with tendrils of shadow and smoke curling around Yancy’s head, almost caressing him. “You will not think about breaking free, or working for parole. You only want to stay here, where you’re safe and protected. Where I can protect you.”

Yancy seems to relax, though he licks his lips. “But Y/N...?”

“Who?” Dark’s lips curl upward in a smile. “There’s no one by that name. Don’t worry about it.” Best to nip this in the bud before it spirals out of his control. “You belong here, Yancy. To me.”

“I...belong to you...” In his relaxed state, there’s no accent, no bravado. Yancy is just a sleeping man who seems to be enjoying the comfort of his mysterious protector. “Only you.”

Hm. He didn’t need prompting for that one.

“Good.” Dark pulls his aura back, letting Yancy’s wrists go. “It’s only you and your current inmates. No one else exists, you’re happy here. You’ll always be happy here, as long as you obey.”

“I don’t wanna be free.” With his new freedom, Yancy rolls to his side, humming some quiet jingle before letting out a snore.