#damien x district attorney

[westanthewaterman]

Tomorrow, Tonight - Damien x F!DA/Reader

Rating: NSFW

Word count: 1700+

Contents: public sex, semi-public sex, fingering, drunk sex, drinking, brief mention of a gunshot, dubious consent (sexual acts in front of others who are unaware the acts are taking place [Marc probably knows though]), porn with plot

AN: I hecking love plot. This fic was inspired by my Kinktober #8 entry which you can find here.

This fic is a prequel to 'Feel You' but can be read standalone.

Fic Masterlist - Find it on AO3

The manors’ residents have all retired after a bodacious night of reverie. Drink and merriment were shared freely among old friends as they celebrated their reunion. Years of tension and grudges melted away as the night went on, momentarily forgotten by all but one.

The house is quiet, or rather,  almost quiet. Faint noises can be heard; soft groans, whispered words, and the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin. Two of the manors’ inhabitants remain wide awake. Downstairs in the lounge, the city’s Mayor and the newly elected District Attorney find themselves lost in the throes of passion.

You’re not sure how you got into this situation, bent over the poker table while Damien drives his cock into you over and over again with fervor. The night had gone well; you’d mingled with old friends, catching up over Poker and drinking games. It was just like old times, before everything went wrong. And just like old times, you'd felt Damien’s eyes on you since the moment you'd stepped foot in the manor.

~

“It’s good to see you, old friend. I must congratulate you on your new position.”

He took your hand, kissing it and giving you that dashing smile of his, the one you knew all too well.

“You look beautiful.”

It was easy at first to ignore his flirtation, to smile and roll your eyes as if he was just teasing you. But there had been a magnetic attraction between the two of you since you’d met back in college, and you felt its pull grow stronger as the night went on. You’d tried to ignore it, to remind yourself why the two of you could never work, why you had left, but every drink softened your usually sharp mind.

Damien fared no better, the alcohol loosening his lips and dulling his sensibilities. The two of you slowly navigated towards each other, always within arm’s reach, steadily moving closer and closer.

Your resolve, hung by a thread,  finally snapped late in the night. It was after the third or fourth round of shots. Damien and Marc sat out for the round (Although you couldn’t recall seeing Marc have a single drink the entire night), leaving you, Abe, and William. With the edge of the shot glass between your teeth, you tipped your head back too hastily, rivulets of tequila spilling down your front, dripping over your collarbones and into the hint of cleavage peeking out of your dress. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and set the glass down, meeting Damien’s gaze from across the room.

His deep brown eyes were almost black with how blown wide his pupils were, and the hungry look on his face sent electricity zipping up your spine. He raised an eyebrow at you, tongue swiping over his bottom lip, and you threw caution to the wind.

It didn’t take long after that for you to end up in Damien’s lap for the next round of Poker. Abe cracked a joke, and William teasingly offered the detective a place on his lap, to which Abe threatened to shoot the Colonel. Marc gave you a knowing smirk, but there was something in his eyes, a twinge of emotion you were too inebriated to decipher.

Damien’s hand slipped under your dress while the five of you played, inching higher and higher up your leg. He dug his fingers into the soft skin of your thigh, pinky tracing over the heat between your legs and you yelped, drawing all attention to you. Your addled brain came up with some excuse to satisfy the others. All the while, Damien smirked against the back of your head and slipped his fingers into your underwear to rub lazy circles over your clit.

You had your first orgasm of the night like that, hiding your face behind your hand of cards while Damien worked you open on his fingers. When the game ended, the other three men made an excursion to the kitchen for more hors d’oeuvres.

“It’s been too long, my love.” Damien whispered in your ear. “So desperate for release, you’d have me fuck you open with my fingers in front of our dear friends. Who knew the District Attorney could be so obscene?”

Before you could respond, Damien slipped his fingers into your mouth, forcing you to suck your release off them. You burned with shame, but god if it didn’t get you hot.

The rest of the night went by in a flurry of music and laughter. Damien continued to tease you until you felt about ready to explode. Just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, Marc announced he would be retiring for the night and the other two men followed suit. You and Damien waved them off as they went up the stairs, explaining you were going to catch up a little before heading to bed yourselves.  

It took all of two seconds for you to end up straddled across Damien’s thick thighs. One of his hands was in your hair while the other was planted firmly on your hip as he licked a broad stripe up over your collarbones and to your neck where he started nibbling a mark into your skin.

“I never stopped wanting you, dear heart, never.”

“Damien-“

“Tomorrow, I want to prove to you that I’ve changed, that I can be the man you married, but tonight I need to feel you.”

~

“Damien,” you mewl softly, scraping your nails over the poker table’s felted surface.

“That’s it, my love, let me hear how good I make you feel.”

“Someone’s going to hear us and come downstairs.”

You can feel the way he smirks against your shoulder, never stopping the frantic thrusts of his hips.

“Funny, you didn’t seem to mind an audience earlier.”

“That was diff-”

Damien’s fingers rub harsh circles over your clit, and you cut yourself off with a moan.

“Fuck.”

“What foul language. Are you already so far gone, dear heart?”

“D-Damien.”

He moans at the way you clench around him. “Oh, my darling, how I’ve missed this. You were made to take my cock. Did you miss this? Did you miss me?”

Groaning, you nod the best you can. It’s been five years since the two of you separated, five years without feeling him fill you.

“Please Damien.”

“Please what, dear heart? Tell me what you want.”

“I want,” You gasp at a particularly rough thrust of his hips. “I want to cum, I’m so close.”

“I want nothing more than to feel you cum around me. But I need something from you first, my love.”

You whine helplessly.

“Shh, there’s no need to fret. I ask only one thing of you.” Damien pauses his thrusts, cupping the side of your face and turning your head towards him. “Say you’ll be mine.”

“Damien, I…you know I can’t do that. I-It’s been so long.”

“Then tell me you don’t love me anymore. Tell me and tomorrow we’ll act like this never happened.”

You open your mouth to respond, but you’re silent. Staring into his deep brown eyes, feeling his warmth pressed against you, filling you, you can’t find the words. You’re overcome with emotions, grief, fear, anger, hope…love. You love him. God, you’ve never stopped loving him, even after all this time, despite all that you’d been through.

“I-I can’t.”

Damien kisses you with a ferocity and a passion that is unmatched by anything you’ve ever felt. You grab his hair, giving as good as you get, moaning when he snakes his tongue into your mouth. Damien resumes his pace, slamming his cock into you, frantically chasing your release.

“Please, dear heart.”

The sound of his deep voice moaning in your ear sends you closer and closer to your release. You nod frantically.

“I’m yours, Damien. I’ve never stopped being yours. My heart belongs to you.”

He groans. “God, I’ve ached to hear you say that.”

“Do you…still love me?”

“Yes, dear heart. I love you more than words could ever express, nothing could ever change that, not time, not distance, not even death. You are mine and I am yours.”

Tears sting at your eyes and you don’t know what’s causing them, whether it’s the flood of emotions or the frantic pulse of your orgasm as it draws closer.

“Damien, I’m-”

“I know, so am I. I want you to cum with me, dear heart.”

His fingers returning to rub over your clit sends you careening over the edge. You arch your back, resting your head back against his chest and digging your nails into his shoulders. Damien grins down at you, his thrusts never faltering.

“That’s it. Cum for me, darling, say my name. I want the whole world to know you’re mine.”

You moan his name, not even attempting to remain quiet as waves of pleasure wash over you. Damien follows close behind, hips stilling inside you as he groans your name low in your ear. You feel the warmth as he finishes inside you, drawing out your orgasm.

As the two of you come down from your high, Damien tucks himself back into his pants. He scoops you up into his arms and heads upstairs. You rest your head on his shoulder and trace your fingers over the buttons of his dress shirt.

“I missed you.”

He pets your hair. “I missed you too.”

“We have a lot to talk about”

“I know, dear heart, but there’ll be plenty of time to discuss it all tomorrow. Tonight, just let me feel you.”

The two of you climb into bed, curling up in each other’s arms. Being with him like this feels like coming home after a long time away. You don’t know how you went so long without him beside you, and you can’t imagine ever being apart again. Upstairs in one of the guest bedrooms, the Mayor and the District Attorney drift off to sleep.

The house is quiet, or rather almost quiet. Outside lightning flashes across the sky and thunder cracks like a whip. Two of the manor’s inhabitants remain wide awake. Downstairs in the wine cellar, the Actor and the Colonel play a little game. A gunshot rings out, masked by another boom of thunder.

One of the manor’s inhabitants remain wide awake.

[elenavr13]

Echoes of Old Friends

Darkiplier x DA

Warnings: swearing

After the events of WKM, the DA attempts to move on & create a life for themselves despite being trapped in the mirror. Against their hopes & wishes, their past seeks them out in the form of a familiar face.

*What Could Have Been- Sting*

*I may expand this & turn it into a complete story in the future.*

--------------

            Daylight filters through the cracked glass reflecting the main entrance of the decrepit, forgotten manor. Mindlessly flipping through the pages of one of the books I have read a thousand times, I suddenly feel a chill crawl down my spine. What the hell? The physical feeling startles me back to reality because I haven’t felt anything like that in years. Immediately, I close the book & scan the room, nothing not even in the outside world. Faint tapping screams through the silence-drowned manor. Probably just the weather. After a few seconds, it occurs again. This time I realize the odd sound is coming from inside the house. My mind starts spinning with ideas of what type of animal has climbed through a broken window or one of the rotting walls. Maybe it’s another raccoon coming to search through the rubble or maybe the squirrel I saw the other day has come back. Excited to see a living creature, I get up to find it. Before I can even travel to the next reflection, a voice freezes me in place.

            “Y/n, I know you’re in there. Come out.” There’s people here!

            “Y/n?” I whisper to myself. Something about that name tugs at my heart. Then again that voice is also eerily familiar. I jump from reflection to reflection searching for any sign of the people with no luck. Suddenly, the realization hits me. Y/n, that was- is my name. My name is Y/n. I haven’t heard that name in years. The last time I…that voice…Damien?  Appearing in the mirror that holds my soul hostage, I see the man who used me & shattered my heart. Sorrow in addition to hope consumes me upon seeing him but it quickly gets replaced by bubbling rage.

            “Why are you back?” I seethe.

            “You don’t seem very pleased to see me.” His smooth voice provokes me.

            “& why should I be? You’re the last person I ever want to see.”

            His jaw clenches but he continues. “I can get you out of there.”

            “I don’t want your help.”

            He smirks. “Stubborn as always but I can give you what you want. All I’m asking is that you…”

            “I want you to leave.” He appears taken back.

            “Even after all these years you still blame me. We were happy before that night & we can still be happy if you will only listen to me.” Anger emanates from his voice as it increases in volume.

            Unfazed by his temper, I snap back. “We? There is no ‘we’ not after what you did, Damien.”

            “It’s Dark now.” He sneers

            “Oh, I apologize, Dark.”

            “That snake took everything away from me! I was merely protecting you from him. It was for the best.”

            “You know what would have been ‘for the best’? If I had never agreed to your fucking deal. I trusted you & you betrayed me. Mark may have been the cause of all this but he never did anything to me. You on the other hand took everything away from me! I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. Just leave me alone! Leave me alone like you have for the past however many years it’s been.”

            “91” My anger immediately dissolves from his simple answer. 91? It’s been 91 years since that night? I’ve been trapped in a reflection utterly alone for nearly a century?

            “You just expect me to agree to your plan after you abandoned me for a century? I’ve managed to make some semblance of a life without you- without anyone for that matter. I Don’t Need You. Why do you even want to ‘help’ me? I don’t have anything anymore. I am just a reflection of a person because of you. So tell me, what are you going to gain from ‘helping’ me? ”

            He continues to stare back with a blank expression which only ticks me off more. Before I do anything irrational –like I could– I begin to leave to another reflection in the manor. “I miss you.” His baritone voice stops me.

            Without turning back around to face him, I say, “Little late for that, Damien.”

            A deep growl keeps me in place. “I tried to play nice & you still view me as the bad guy. I thought you were better than that.” This time I spin on my heels to face the man I used to believe was my friend.

            “& I thought you were better than to destroy what we had.”

            “I didn’t destroy…”

            “Go ahead, keep blaming Mark for your actions.” Suddenly he takes a hold of the frame surrounding my vision of the outside world & rips the mirror off the wall.

            “I have heard enough of your insolence.”

            “Put Me Back! Damien, put…”

            “Stop calling me that name!” I glare daggers at him but he seems to be amused by it. “How are you even going to stop me, doll?”

            “I’m not your doll.” Rage gets the best of me I throw a punch which would have made contact with his smug face if not for the glass separating us. Instead of flinching, his smirk just grows as he leaves the manor with me in tow. I attempt to jump to another reflection but some force keeps me tethered to the single, wretched, glass prison. Knowing there is nothing I can do, I fall silent, exhausted from my outburst. Why can’t I just be happy? I was just starting to get better & move on. Now Damie- Dark is back to remind me of the life that was stolen from me. What did I do to deserve this endless suffering?

[buc-eebarnes]

truth is only hearsay

Start with misdemeanors and we'll make a business out of them.

pairing: mayorattorney

tags: pre-wkm, moral dilemmas, implied extortion, corruption, tension

rated G || 991 words

“I—I don’t know what you want me to say, Damien,” you feigned a laugh. Your palms were sweating. Your mind felt like cotton. “Are you—are you yanking my chain right now?” He shook his head. His voice was gravelly. “No. No, I'm not.” After a beat, “What would be the charges?”

read on ao3!

[human-gutz]

# title ; he'll let your world burn [ chapter one ]

# pairings ; actor mark / reader

# word count ; 3,541

# trigger warnings ; guns, vomit, actor mark being an asshole

# notes ; zombie apocalypse au! i meant to post this sooner, decided to get some of chapter two done first but it's here now. requests are open. will hopefully get a oneshot posted soon + i have plans for another chapter book.

Diinnngg.

Glancing up at the top of the door, taking notice of the bell chime. Holding it open for Mark to walk through. Not really wanting the chime to go off a second time. Letting go of the door as soon as Mark stepped past you, watching it close for a moment before turning and scanning over the gas station.

The place looked mostly untouched other than obvious signs of quick evacuation. Normally this would be a bit of a shock, but this gas station was practically in the middle of no where.

Walking behind the counter, grabbing one paper bag. Heading back out to the main area, opening up the bag and grabbing a few snacks and small candies from the shelf. Shoving them inside of it. Setting sack down near the entrance.

Glancing back over to the counter at the sound of another bag being opened. Mark was grabbing cigarette cartons and putting them in a bag. After a moment, he took notice of your staring, a frown fitting his face.

"What?" he sounded annoyed, "I have no clue when the next time we'll come across a store, much less one that isn't ransacked."

You just rolled your eyes, not bothering to give him a response as he went back to grabbing cartons. Instead heading towards what you assumed was storage.

Pushing open the door, taking a peak inside you spotted boxes stacked up everywhere. Along with exactly what you were searching for.

Walking inside, leaving the door propped open with a random box. Picking up one of the cases of water bottles you found, walking back out of the storage area and setting it near the bag of snacks, and now Mark's cigarettes as well.

Seeing as you hadn't heard the door open, you assumed he was filling up his own bag of snacks.

After all, he was right. Neither of you had a clue when the next time you'd find a place to get food would be. Most of the places you two had stopped at were abandoned houses. With most of the food either rotted or animals had gotten into it. Most of them were a good way to get gas at least.

Siphoning wasn't too hard, that being said Mark absolutely refused to do it. Something about him being a 'man of class' or whatever. You never really paid much attention to him most of the time.

Snapping out of your thoughts as another bag was placed next to the two already there. Turning your head to look at Mark, his face still just showed annoyance to you. It always felt like that now.

Setting the bags on top of the water case, picking them up and pushing the door open with your foot. Standing by the passenger door, watching Mark open it up. Pulling foreword the seat, you leaned in to place the waters in the back. Moving the bags off top of the waters and instead setting them in the seat next to it.

Pushing the seat back into place and climbing inside, shutting the passenger door. Mark had already gotten in and was starting up the car by the time you got yourself situated.

As he pulled out of the station, you debated asking the question that had been festering in your head ever since this roadtrip began. The way there was easy, you had the map and directions all written out, but in a rush to leave the city. You had none of it left.

"Are you sure we've actually been going in the right direction?" There was almost a bit of nervousness in your voice, glancing in his direction as you asked.

Mark didn't take his eyes off the road, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. His frown deepened at the question, or you assumed that was the reason.

A sigh came before he spoke, "Pass me a pack of cigarettes." He completely ignored your question. Part of you wondered if you were right and he just didn't want to admit it.

Staying still for a few more seconds, watching him glance over at you for a moment with a glare which quickly got you moving.

Unclicking your seatbelt, twist around to reach through the gap in the seats. Prying your fingers under the cardboard, flipping them to the side and wedging your fingers in. Pulling out a pack, turning back to Mark. Setting them down in the center.

Without looking away from the road, he moved a hand down to grab the pack. Tearing the thing plastic away, just tossing it to the floor. Opening the lid and pulling out a cigarette, setting the box back in the center.

"Light it."

The cigarette was held out towards you, tilting his head towards the lighter that also laid in the center for a moment.

Part of you wanted to be shocked by the other commanding you around but it was Mark. It would be a surprise if he didn't do it to someone.

Picking up the lighter, flicking it open and rolling the flint wheel. Seeing the flame spark to life. Placing the flame under the cigarette, the edges began to crisp up and burn, pulling it away after a moment. Closing the lighter and setting it back in place. Quickly moving to roll down your window, spinning the crank.

Hotboxing the car wasn't exactly an experience you would like to have.

Staring out the window, feeling the breeze run over you. It was.. pleasant. Probably one of the few nice moments you had on this entire trip.

God.

This entire trip was a disaster.

You hadn't even been the one meant to go. Damien was, but he had an important business meeting he couldn't miss so y—.

"It shouldn't be more than a day or two left."

Mark snapped you out of your thoughts.

Turning back to look at him, he still had his eyes glued on the road but his grip on the steering wheel had relaxed. It had been nearly two days without him being able to smoke, so seeing him relaxing now that he had one.. made some sense.

He took another drag of the cigarette, "I've driven this route plenty of times. If I wasn't fucking sure of myself I wouldn't of even tried," not looking still, but a fake smile took over his face. "If you'd like to question me anymore, I'd more than gladly pull this fucking car over and leave you for dead. Capisce?"

It felt like your stomach did a flip, turning from looking at Mark to the floor. You couldn't tell if it was a joke to scare you or the truth. When it came to him, it could be anything.

Just giving a small nod. Not even checking to see if Mark acknowledged, or even saw it.

---

It had been a few hours since you two had left the gas station, the car was silent other than Mark telling you to light a cigarette for him every now and again.

You were in a place you actually recognized finally, it was a small town about six or so hours from where Mark's manor is. There wasn't much here, just a grocery store, a few houses, a gas station, some other buildings, and the whole reason you were here. A motel.

Mark pulled into the lot, turning the car off and just sitting there.

You didn't bother waiting, quickly unbuckling yourself. Going to open the car door only for Mark to grabbing your wrist tightly, keeping you in place.

"Stay."

He opened his own door, stepping out of the car. Leaning down, pulling out what looked like a small handgun out before shutting the door. Watching him head towards the reception room, disappearing inside.

Understanding Mark was.. hard to say the least. He seemed to like playing the nice, friendly, friend most of the time. He would protect others from threats, the people closest to him knew he just liked playing the hero.

He was an actor, through and through.

After a few minutes, Mark emerged. What looked like a set of keys in his hand.

Motioning for you come follow him, you opened the car door and finally stepped out. Walking over towards the other, going a quick pace before slowing down as you reached his side. Keeping just a step behind him.

Stopping by a nearby door, you couldn't see what he was doing but seeing the door open a moment later, it was assumed he was unlocking it.

As soon as you spotted the singular queen bed, you glanced over at Mark. He didn't seem to care, not even acknowledging it. Instead walking over and untucking the comforter, shaking the dust off it.

You were confused, "What room am I staying in?" The two of you wouldn't be sharing a bed.. right?

"Here. There's probably extra blankets and pillows in the closet." His voice was matter of fact, no room for protest.

Not like that would stop you from doing so.

"I'm not sharing a bed with yo—" He cut you off with laughter.

Taking a moment to calm before turning to look at you, crossing his arms. Tilting his head, a wide grin on his face. "Fuck no, we aren't sharing a bed.. but with how things are, you aren't staying alone. It's not safe." Turning back to brush the dust off the pillows, "you can sleep on the floor. Probably would be more comfortable than sleeping at your desk like you normally do."

Just staring for a moment, on one hand you wanted to just tell him to go fuck himself and go get your own room.. on the other you knew Mark wouldn't hesitate to lock you in the bathroom or somewhere to keep you here.

Walking to the closet, you decided it was easier to just go along with it than fight with him on this.

Pulling out all the pillows and blankets from the closet, dragging them to the side of the bed closest to the door. Dropping them on the floor and kicking them around with your feet. When you were ready to sleep, you could fix it up later.

"You're not smoking in here then."

There was silence for a bit, he was probably thinking it over.

"Fine." That was the only thing he said in response, he sounded annoyed by it, but there was only much pushing he could do before you would stop cooperating with him.

Walking back out to the car, you opened up the passanger door. Pushing the seat down once more. Grabbing the two snack bags and a few waters. To make sure he really wouldn't smoke inside, you left his cigarettes and lighter in the car. Shutting the door behind you, heading back towards the room.

Setting them down on the desk, shutting the door to the room. Grabbing a random bag of chips from your bag and sitting down in one of the chairs. Opening it up and snacking on it.

It clicked with you how hungry you were once you did, the last time you ate was probably a day ago? That wasn't something you were trying to pay attention to until now. Practically tearing through the first bag, tossing it in the trash and grabbing another.

"Hungry?"

You glanced in Mark's direction, realizing how ravenous you were acting. Pausing, staring down at the bag then back up him. Just giving a small nod.

"Go get in the car, we can go down to the grocery story and see what is still… edible. There's plenty of stuff here we can use to start a fire or something if we need to."

His voice seemed gentle, almost caring. It was.. odd. You didn't want it to end though, so you just gave a nod. Setting the chip bag down and heading back to the car.

Mark followed after, the both of you getting in the car. It came to life with a rumble, he quickly pulled out of the lot and started towards the grocery store.

As you road around town, it was surprising to see the fact this place also seemed untouched. It was probably one of the towns that completely evacuated before things got bad. Made things easier for the two of you at least.

The car came to a hault just a few feet from the entrance, waiting a moment, seeing if Mark was going to stop you again. After seeing him step out without saying anything, you followed along.

Stepping inside, a horrid smell hit both of you instantly. At first you wondered if you were wrong, there really were people here.. or, whatever what was left of them.

It only took a few moments before realization set in, it was the smell of rotting meat. The electricity was down, nothing was keeping the food here was fresh. That didn't make it any better, the smell was still nauseating.

Before you could process it, everything you just ate was coming up. Quickly stepping back outside, spitting it up over the concrete. The smell still was invading you but it was getting easier.

Glancing back towards the store, you didn't see Mark. He probably went farther in to go grab stuff.

Walking back to the car, opening the door and reaching into the back. Grabbing one of the water bottles and opening it. Taking some water into your mouth and just swishing it around, spitting it out on the concrete. Doing it a few times until the bottle was empty, dropping it on ground.

Hesitantly walking back towards the store, slowly pushing the door open and trying to breath through your mouth instead. Doing your best to ignore the smell.

"It's not that bad, there's no need to be all dramatic about it."

You heard Mark speak from somewhere in the store, a scowl running across your face. It looks like he was going right back to being an asshole.

Peaking down the aisle he was standing in, taking note of the fact he was smoking. Walking towards him, he seemed to be looking over all the canned food.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." It was the only response you could be bothered to give.

He glanced over at you for a moment, a more neutral look on his face. Looking back at the soups, he grabbed two off the shelf. Handing you them both. "Go wait in the car. I don't want you puking again."

There was slight hesitation before you stepped back and turned, walking back out to the car. Setting the cans on the floorboard, just watching the door to the store. Waiting for Mark to emerge.

It didn't take too long, he came out carrying a full grocery bag. Opening up your door, setting it in your lap before shutting it.

Glancing down, you peered inside. Looking over everything as Mark got in and started up the car. You saw some more cans, a bag of marshmallows, a box of graham crackers, and a few bars of chocolate.

A small smile crept up on your face, looking over at Mark. He still held a impassive look, glancing towards you for a moment then back on the road.

"If we're gonna have a fire might as well have something nice."

It didn't take long before the two of you made it back to the motel, Mark grabbed the bag from your lap and stepped out of the car. It was only then you noticed him grab another bag from the floorboard.

Picking up the two cans from the beginning, shutting the car door and following after him. Setting them down on the concrete next to where he set everything else. Not bothering to follow Mark into the room, knowing he'd come back out.

Seeing him come out with one of the chairs and two rolls of toilet paper, setting the rolls next to you. Dragging the chair a bit farther down.

Taking a small step towards him, "Wha—."

CRACK.

He had grabbed the top of chair and slammed it into one of the support beams. One of the legs came completely off, two more cracked while the last was still undamaged. He slammed it over and over until all four legs were on the ground.

You just stared at him, a bit of fear hit you. It just reminded you of how strong Mark really was, motel chairs weren't very light and he picked it up with ease and slung it around.

He picked up four broken chair legs, walking back over to you. Crouching down and arranging them in a square. Placing the two toilet rolls in the middle of the square. Pulling the lighter from his pocket and setting one of them on fire, then placing the sitting piece of the chair on top of it.

Sitting down on the opposite side of him, listening to the flames crackle as the fire began to spread to the chair. Mark grabbed from the bag he had at his feet, pulling out a small metal pot then grabbing the two cans he gave you earlier.

Turning your head away from Mark, letting him do the cooking. If you said anything, he'd probably make you take it over.

This was tiring. No one could ever expected something like this. No one probably did.

You weren't even sure who'd still be around when the two of you finally got home.. who'd even be alive.

People tried escaping towards the cities but that only seemed to cause mass chaos, they were absolutely horrid when the two of you finally made it out. You remember having to practically beg Mark not to leave you behind. He said if you could make it to his car, he'd bring you.

It was pure luck you even made it.

Turning back to face Mark, it was hard to see him as the person he was now. He was always so kind back in college. Supporting both you and Damien with your careers. He was madly in love with Celine, doing practically anything for her.

Then something changed.

You weren't sure when, maybe it had always been a facade. Maybe Mark really was just.. a good actor.. it was hard to tell.

Turning towards the soup, he was stirring it with a plastic spoon. It was boiling now, he pulled it off the flames. Pouring it out into two paper bowls. Sticking a plastic spoon in yours before handing it to you.

You honestly could care less about how hot it was, you dug in. Hissing slightly at the burn, pushing past it and continuing to eat.

Glancing up, noticing Mark was just staring at you. He had set his food off to the side, probably giving it time to cool first. Setting your empty bowl into the fire, watching it burn up.

"Want me to make some more?"

You shook your head no at the question, just watching the fire. Moving to grab the marshmallows instead before realizing, you had no way to even cook them. You could probably go and find a stick, but with how dark it already was.. it probably wouldn't be the best idea.

Pushing yourself off the ground, you stared at the fire for a bit longer before stepping inside of the motel. Sitting down on the makeshift 'bed' of pillows and blankets.

A few candles had been lit around the room, probably by Mark. It was a nice source of light. He'd probably put them out before he went to bed.

Kicking your shoes off, setting them off to the side. It wasn't the most comfortable, but you planned on leaving the rest of your clothes on. Just in case.

A few minutes later, you could hear the sizzling of water being poured on the fire. Moving to your knees, peaking out the window.

Mark was dumping a few water bottles onto the fire, using the top of the chair which the flames never reach to spread the ashes out. He just seemed to be staring and waiting, so you moved back to sitting.

Laying back and closing your eyes, trying to get comfortable enough to get some rest.

.

.

.

"Here."

Opening your eyes back, seeing Mark standing in front of you with another paper bowl and spoon.

Pushing yourself back into a sitting position. Grabbing the bowl and spoon, looking over it. It was a s'more.. kinda? From what it looked like, he crumbled up the graham crackers, put down some chocolate and marshmallows, then another layer of graham crackers.

Glancing back up at Mark, he had already walked off. Locking up the room and taking his own shoes off. Getting himself ready for bed.

Digging your spoon into the dessert, taking a bite of it. It tasted just like a s'more, so there were no complaints from you. Finishing it up quickly, you set the bowl and spoon on the bedside table beside you.

Laying back down, pulling one of the blankets over you. Exhaustion was hitting you like a truck now. Closing your eyes once again, the candles being blown out and Mark moving the sheets around were the last thing you heard before sleep took over.

[theknightmarket]

um i really wanna see a fic where damian takes care and looks after da. idk maybe da is sick but came to work anyways. maybe they were overwoking themself and eventually collapse. maybe they get injured somehow. just our dear mayor being concerned for them and looking after them

"You're too stubborn to die."

In which Damien helps the DA in a compromised state.

TW: angst, injury, blood

Pages: 15 - Words: 6,000

[Requests: OPEN]

A regular Sunday for the mayor of Los Angeles was, surprisingly, incredibly similar to that of any other thirty-year-old working man. It was one of Damien’s only days off in the month, and he treasured them like the holy grail; if his job was to hold endless amounts of paperwork, incessant meetings with countless people, and public speeches to bore the masses and himself, then his day off would be filled with as many relaxing activities as possible. 

Damien wandered around the apartment, a watering can in one hand and his cane in the other. The doctor had long since said that he didn’t need it anymore, and that his insistence that he did was only psychosomatic, but it was more than that. To him, it was a grounding tool. If things got rough, and, in his profession, it was more of a when, he could grip tightly onto the stick and find comfort in the stability of it. Metal is not an easy material to break, and he much preferred it to messing with his jacket’s edges or cuffs. That meant, no matter how many of his veins popped through paled skin, it would always be there for him. 

Now, though, he was content. The sun was shining, the windows let a blissful breeze flow through, and there was the distant hum of the radio from the kitchen. It couldn’t be more perfect. Sundays were always this way, like entering another dimension where famine had been decimated, all wars ended with the flick of a pen, greed, pride, envy wiped off the map. Even the air he breathed felt lighter. 

There was a bounce in Damien’s step as he moved around, singing quietly along to the tune and thinking about his next projects. Getting all of the plants watered was number seven on his checklist – and, yes, it was in his back pocket while he went through the motions – but with only nine left to go, he thought he could get some recreation in. Maybe pick up a new book, you were raving on about ‘The Mysterious Rider’ yesterday, or he could swing by Celine’s place. Though, that place always did give him the creeps…

And you were going to be back in an hour. 

The memory still made him smile, how could it not? He had been so excited but so nervous to ask you on a date, he’d double-checked and triple-checked and one more check for good measure. Hell, he’d planned the day out to a T, given that you’d even say yes. But Celine had convinced him you would, so he prepared flowers, reservations, outfits, all so that nothing could go wrong. 

Then everything went wrong. He didn’t like focusing on that aspect of the story, it only made him wonder how he ever got you to go out with him again, but it all ended in a pretty fun evening, if he did say so himself. You’d assured him that it wasn’t all for naught, and that you’d had a good time, going so far as to ask if he was free a couple nights after. That one night turned into three nights, and then nights turned into days, and then, after a good few months, you’d gone right ahead and moved in together. 

This was your apartment, too, it was where you came back to every evening with a tired smile and ready to have dinner together – and this night was to be no different. 

Or Damien thought, until that hour passed, and he remained the only person in the room. But that was fine! He could hold out, and you probably only got caught in traffic or something. It just gave him time to get started on that book. It was absolutely nothing to worry about. 

After taking it gently from the shelf, he settled onto the couch, a pillow behind his head and comfortable in evening clothes. The first sentence crossed his eyes, and he took in all the information he could as he read through the first chapter. It left him with questions, but that was fine, because you still weren’t back. Another half hour passed, and when he looked back up from the pages, he noticed that he had unconsciously shifted to be angled towards the front door. He tried to tell himself that everything was alright, he didn’t have to worry, work was probably just getting the best of you. Lord knows he wasn’t one to talk.

So, Damien kept reading, and when his eyes started to strain and holding up the book was too large of a chore, he went and made a cup of coffee. This was the first time you’d been late home, and what kind of partner would he be if he was asleep when you, surely, came back. 

Minutes later, he was sipping idly at the kitchen island. The window across from him showed shimmers of orange and red, the cityscape of Los Angeles almost teasing him where he stood. You were out there somewhere, and he felt lousy not knowing where that was. 

He took another sip. 

The wall-mounted clock ticked by. Seconds felt like hours, and every one that dropped into the bucket pushed him closer to the edge. His jacket swayed on the hook, his shoes just below them. It would be so easy to get a cab over to your building and check how you’re getting on – you’d be hunched over your desk, taking a call from precinct cops who couldn’t do their jobs right, and then you’d see him, and you’d apologize for not getting back. He’d be fine with it, of course, and he’d end up helping you in the case that had its claws in you. 

Oh, but he knew that he couldn’t do that. His heart thudded in his chest, his hands shook, but he respected your boundaries. It’d only been a month since you moved in, after all, and he didn’t want to overstep anything that quickly. Heaving a not-so-relaxing sigh, he vowed that he would stay right there in the apartment until you got back, no matter how long it took you. 

By the third hour, he was starting to reconsider that. 

The soles of his shoes were burned into the wooden flooring, his pacing surely annoying the neighbors below, but he could care less. Show him that you were alive and well, and he’d stop, but he had yet to see any clue as to your wellbeing, so they’d have to deal with it. He hated this, he hated this so much. Pointless waiting and irreverent, troublesome thoughts. They had no use to him, but he didn’t know how to get rid of them. They burrowed into his mind like an infestation of roaches or disease. 

Tick, tock, tick, tock. He was going to throw that clock out of the window if he didn’t get ahold of himself. But what else was there to do? He’d completed all of his chores, even the ones he promised to leave for the next day, and he found himself waiting like a puppy at the front door. His eyes wavered over it, hoping for it to open just an inch to show he wasn’t stuck in purgatory. 

Whatever higher power there was seemed to take pity on Damien, because not two seconds later, the creak of old wood broke the ticking of the clock. He almost sprung to his feet and launched himself at you when you entered, but he held himself back, if not for decorum, then for the sight of you. You were the most gorgeous person he had ever laid eyes upon, but he was not one to lie to himself; right now, you looked terrible. Your skin tone had lightened so much that you appeared ill, and your chest was rising quicker than before. Were you sick or had working three hours after your shift finally got to you? Damien didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Taking care of these symptoms was his top priority. 

“Darling?” he called out, still restraining himself from rushing to your side. 

You didn’t answer. Instead, you lugged yourself towards the bedroom, completely dismissing hunger. You were far too tired to think about that, the bed, comfy cushions, and a warm blanket calling to you. 

Damien caught your arm before you could get too far, though, with a concerned grimace playing on his lips. “Are you alright?” 

He sounded worried, and that was the last thing you wanted – never mind the fact that it was well-warranted – so you heaved a tiny smile and muttered, “I’m fine, love, just tired.” 

He still wasn’t satisfied, that was obvious, but you weren’t paying attention to that. A kiss on his forehead from you, a noise of discontentment from him, and you were on your way to the bedroom, trying to focus on your feet as to not trip over warping wood. Everything was slowly fading away at the edges of your vision, consumed by blackness and turning the rest fuzzy. 

You knew exactly why this was happening, you knew it was bad, but no way in hell would you let Damien know. You loved him more than anything on the earth, but he was bound to worry about you more than necessary. You’d be fine, you silently promised him. You had to be. 

Nearly six hours later, the moon was high in the sky, casting a shimmer of gray dust across the landscape. Light reflected off of windows, night walkers stumbled over rocks, and dogs howled in the alleyways. Patters of rain caressed against the city, warning of a dreary but calm morning. 

Even with that promise, Damien couldn’t sleep. He had work in the morning, his day off having ended at the stroke of midnight, and yet the thought of leaving you in the apartment was horrifying. You had knocked out the second your head hit the pillow, leaving him to his thoughts, and they centered around just one thing: were you alright? He couldn’t believe you were just tired, since you’d woken up bright and early the morning before. He was almost insulted you thought he’d fall for that, but he was too worried to mind. 

He dragged a hand through his hair. It tickled at the nape of his neck, though he hardly cared. What if something was wrong? Really wrong? His heart thrummed against his ribcage, like if it hit hard enough, you’d wake up and tell him what was wrong. But his ribs didn’t crack, and you didn’t wake up, and Damien was left sitting in the armchair by the window with tired eyes. This wasn’t doing any good, and the sun was due to rise in a few hours; he figured he might as well make you both some breakfast. 

Damien shuffled out of the bedroom, a dark robe swaying across the floor and his cane stepping beside him. He held it tight while he made his way to the kitchen, where he noticed blurry chatter. He started confused, which quickly morphed into fear, and then his cheeks brightened in silent embarrassment. What he had thought was a robber was just the radio he had forgotten to shut off. He was glad you weren’t awake to see him creep around the corner, stick raised to thwack however was in there. 

He turned the volume down and went to work. After so many times missing breakfast, Damien wasn’t sure what to make, so he decided on the only thing he knew how to decently cook – waffles, and even then, there was a chance they would come out burnt. 

The crack of eggs and dust of flour was comforting in a way to him that only a childhood meal could be. In the earliest hours of the day, there would be no consequence to adding a gram more sugar than needed or cooking them for a second too long. The waffle iron steamed and sizzed in front of him once the batter was poured on, almost making him laugh. He let himself smile for the first time that day, the sense of warmth and lightness filling him. 

“It has come to our attention that – last night, at the Dimmock Public Health Centre – the district attorney of Los Angeles was shot in an attempted assassination—”

Damien’s smile collapsed. 

“—The D.A was rushed back to a car that was seen heading away from the scene, while police were contacted to find the assassin. We have not heard back from our sources about their wellbeing, but we have been assured that they are no longer in danger. Despite this, there has been speculation as to their current location and the reaction of federal agents—” 

His own heartbeat cut off the radio, pounding against his head like an overzealous drummer. The smell of burnt food wafted into his nose, his vision toppled over the edge, his hands sweat, his feet moved before his mind could catch up. You weren’t ill, you weren’t overworked, you were shot. And he didn’t realize, and you didn’t tell him, and you weren’t waking up. 

You weren’t waking up. 

His cane slammed against the footboard, but you didn’t stir, not even a huff. He would have begged for you to groan or berate him or say anything, but you didn’t. You stayed quiet, and Damien’s breathing grew louder. 

He tossed himself to your side, strew the bedsheets across the floor and saw, red as a rose, blood. It seeped into the fabric, like bacteria overcoming a wound. God, your wound. Normally, he would ask your permission to lift your shirt, but this was urgent, so he disregarded the crimson staining his hands and pulled the hem up. 

Tears flooded his eyes as fear flooded his heart. A lazy medical patch had been slapped onto the entry hole, half of it having peeled off already and the other bled through. Damien had never trusted the medical professionals present during speeches, and this only deepened his distaste for them – but he’d deal with them later. For now, he had to wake you up. 

First, he whispered shakily, “Come on, wake up, dear.” 

No response. He tried again. 

“Dear, please.”

No response. 

“C’mon, you have to wake up, please.” 

No response—

A cough. 

You were alive, you were panicked, but you were alive. Eyes shot open and limbs rushing to get you out of bed, but you were stopped short by your own hiss. It felt like you had been shot again, more tissue and muscle ripped through with no regard for the nerves there – it made you think the bullet had been laced with something, hellfire, poison, but no. Dismally, you remembered the paramedics removing the metal as quick as they could, but speed was favored over kindness. The hole pricked again in response. 

Coming down from the small adrenaline high, your eyes focused back in on Damien, who kneeled in front of you. He looked worse for wear, and you wondered if he had been injured, too. This wasn’t true, of course, and the drop of his shoulders gave you some relief, though the slight wet patches dripping onto his cheeks had you furrowing your brows. 

“A-are you okay?” you mumbled, tentatively grasping his hand. 

A weak chuckle tumbled out of him, fading like the whizz of a stone dropped down a cavern. He squeezed your hand tighter, remaining wary of your state, and asked, “Are you?”

Your attempt to nod was interrupted by a rack of coughs shaking your very body. They didn’t stop, not even when pain splintered away from your wound and all breath vacated your lungs. You weren’t fine, that much was obvious, but, when you’d calmed down from the fit, you settled on staying quiet. 

Damien had been your friend for the majority of your life, but, after a year at the very most, it was obvious how much he worried. If you told him there was a crack in the pavement, he’d cross the street to avoid tripping – and if you told him that you were at risk of passing out from pain, you’d be suffocated from his fear. He was such a mother hen; the thought nearly made you laugh but you stopped yourself before you could be overwhelmed by coughs again. 

The man sighed at your silence. Unbeknownst to you, not giving him an answer was making him more scared as the seconds ticked by. He pushed away stray hairs that had fallen into your face, trying to see the truth in your eyes. Comforting, obviously masking injury, you stared right back. 

“We have to get you to the hospital.”

If it were Damien in your place, you’d agree in a heartbeat, but you were the one lying in bed, blood sticking clothes to your side. Your partner, however, was the mayor of Los Angeles, they could barely go a day without him. You didn’t want to risk taking up his precious time, when some disaster could strike that he’d have to report on. In your mind, it made the most sense for you to go about your daily lives and for you to just deal with it throughout the day. The shot wasn’t that bad, and you’d seen bills for a paper cut before.

Considering this, you found it in yourself to clear your throat and reply, “No, we don’t, I’ll be fine.” 

“We have to get your wound checked out, I mean,” he gestured vaguely to the stained area, “those medics were clearly frauds- they didn’t even dress it right, and it’s coming off already, and you’re bleeding—” 

You pulled his hands closer to you, fingers curling around his own in a silent reminder to calm down. His volume was steadily rising, which meant his heart rate was, too, and you knew how he got when he was overwhelmed. These past hours had already put more strain on him than you had wanted. 

“I’ll be fine,” you repeated, offering a smile. He responded in kind, but his was more placating than agreeable, “if it was anything to worry about, I’d be in the hospital, now, wouldn’t I?”

Damien mulled this over in his mind. On one hand, your logic was sound, as always, and arguing with you had long since proved a fruitless venture. On the other, he didn’t like the thought of leaving you to your devices, as if you’d never been injured in the first place. What if something happened to you and you didn’t notice? With nothing else to do, he decided on a compromise.

“Okay,” he conceded, and, for a second, you thought yourself safe – you might have even gotten down to the offices for some paperwork – but Damien’s hands darted to the discarded sheets and re-tucked them around you. 

Damien was going to look after you himself.

He was scarily efficient in how he moved around the room, gathering spare pillows, blankets, anything that would make you feel more comfortable in the bed. By the end of his little escapade, you looked more like a bird in a nest than a human. You couldn’t deny how proud he looked, though, and it would be easy to let your eyelids slip down for a few more minutes…

But you snapped to your senses and summonsed your will to talk. “Don’t you have to go into work today?”

He paused, back turned to you, at his position drawing the blinds. “…Not necessarily.”

“Damien,” you drawled.

The hairs on the nape of his neck pricked up and his face felt the power of a furnace. “Well,” spinning around, he did poorly at hiding his blush, “technically, yes, I do – but the office can handle work without me, just for today.” He slid into place beside you, resting a hand onto your shoulder. “You are more important.”

Normally, you’d jump at the opportunity to spend more time with your partner. Your schedules weren’t exactly kind in allowing you to be together, and moments with him were treasured more than those without. However, at this second, your eyebrows furrowed, and your lips pouted. Most of the time, you’d be forced to get rest, confined to bed while Damien ran errands to ease your weary soul. That was the last thing you wanted, and the only way to convince him to hold back would be to get him out of the apartment entirely. Besides, this wasn’t as big a deal as he was making it out to be, you were sure.

As if he could sense your resistance, Damien whispered, “I still have three hours until I go. I’ll take care of you, and then we’ll assess the situation.”  

Sneaky. Damien might have been reserved and shy in public, but you have seen you’ve seen your fair share of his mischievous, sly side. Despite hardly ever getting practice, he was worryingly good at getting what he wanted via cunning means. You both respected and feared that aspect of him. 

He left a kiss on your forehead, now, and rose from the bed to restart his preparations. If he had the time, he would’ve crafted some kind of checklist, but getting you a glass of water and medical equipment was top priority. That, and salvaging what he could from those burning waffles. 

When he was back at your side again, your eyes having slipped closed once or twice, skin being tugged away from muscle caught your attention. The patch had been badly applied, but adhesive remained against the wound that meddled with blood slowly spurting out of the cracks. Divots sprang red and raised flesh curled around the hole like a mountain range. It made Damien’s stomach squirm and flip, but he focused his expression to clean the area.

As you looked down at the man, ruffled dark hair a mess from stressing and still in his robe, your heart swelled with love. He was your partner, and it was crazy to think you were his. Even after four months, everything felt like a haze, a dream you were scared to wake up from, because you knew nothing would come close to this. Carefully, you shifted your arm to caress Damien’s cheek.

He glanced back up at you quizzically, a look you only returned with a smile. Shaking his head, he returned to his work slightly more comforted than he was before. 

Nearly half an hour passed in this fashion; Damien patted off the dried blood, replaced that medical path with a bandage around your waist, and managed to get your mind off of the wound with excerpts from ‘The Mysterious Rider’. You appreciated everything he was doing, down to the way he’d pause when he noticed your eyes drooping. Most of the time, you would shake yourself awake again with a yawn, but there were the odd times when you felt yourself drift off for seconds at a time. These bouts of fatigue never lasted long, and, while you were thankful for the brief rest, the expression on Damien’s face had you staying awake longer. 

Every time the curtains closed even slightly, a mix of emotions spurred in him, melting over his eyes, and giving you a first-row seat to his thoughts. Half of him was glad to see you comfortable enough in this nest, it liked seeing you warm and sappy – but the other half was always scared that it might have been the last time you’d close your eyes, as if he hadn’t done a good enough job to keep you alive, and it would be all his fault that you… slipped. But that all wiped away when they opened again, revealing your familiar and welcoming irises. Full of life. 

Even though you both knew how he felt, he prefaced the start of the next chapter with, “You can fall asleep, you know.” 

You couldn’t deny the fact that you were tired – getting shot would do that to you – but worrying Damien any more than he already was, was at the bottom of your bucket list. So, you lightly shook your head and replied, “Nope, I’m so awake, I could—” 

You were, helpfully, cut off by a yawn. Damien looked at you from his armchair, unimpressed, but you continued, nevertheless, “—I could finish a case. Maybe go back to work, in fact.” 

At this, he became alert, the sharp spike of fear prodding him in the side. “No, not yet.” 

“Damien,” you pleaded.

“I said ‘no’.” As he stood, his cane felt like an earthquake against the wooden flooring. Inwardly, you sighed; you’ve never liked getting into arguments with him, mostly because he was normally the one in the right, but it was unavoidable. Damien had work in two hours, and getting there was a quarter of that, and, before that, there was changing into his uniform. He was neglecting doing any of these to take care of you, and you found it hard not voicing your opinion about that. 

“Look,” you started, sitting up straighter in the bed, “how about we do a test run?”

Damien stopped himself from getting through the doorway to listen to what you had to say. Still, he was thinking through getting a cold rag in case of a fever, but most of his attention was directed towards your proposition.

You continued, tentatively, “You go on a walk, alright?” Disagreement stirred inside him the second ‘go’ came out of your mouth, which you could see and began battling immediately, “And we’ll see how I get on alone.” 

He thought over the scenario, practically moving his head to the direction of his thoughts, until he rushed to your side and kneeled down. Your hand was soon encapsulated in his fingers, warm and worried. “What if something goes wrong?”

“It won’t,” you promised, leaning forward to peck at his lips. Really, you couldn’t be sure it would be alright, but it was worth trying just to see the blissful and hope-ridden look on Damien’s face. “It’s not like I’m going to die if you’re away for two seconds, love.”

With one more sigh and a slightly longer kiss for good luck, he began to get ready for a walk outside.

Five minutes in, Damien was spiraling. 

His tolerance for being away from you had plummeted since the day before, and the glum of the streets was getting to him. It was indeed raining, turning his polished boots gritty from dust swept through the pathways, and it was difficult to discern what were droplets from the sky or from his skin. Despite the cold brushing against him, the worry he was experiencing was sending him into overdrive. He couldn’t tell if he was warm or cool if he was still walking or if he had made it past the first few steps to your apartment. It felt like he was having withdrawals, but there was no way he’d go back. Not only would he still be scared for you, but the disappointment you’d feel seeing him was something he’d do anything to avoid. 

So, he took in a deep breath and tried to steady his beating heart. It was horrible, but he put himself through it. For you. He hoped you’d be proud, but he also hoped you’d be asleep when he returned. 

The day was… nice, he supposed. Not many people were out this early, a few older gentlemen he passed with a wave, but the most popular of the species were stray dogs. One in particular he saw often when he was heading to or from work. The street had a nickname for the poor thing, and they’d elected to keep it there with spare scraps from the table or chew toys out of old pig’s ears. Benjie, if he remembered correctly, a golden lab that had been around for the last three years. 

Fondly, Damien thought back on when you and the dog first interacted. He knew you loved pets, especially the over-active, wholesome ones. You’d requested him stay with you as soon as you saw him, even wagered you’d get him groomed and trained into a proper house dog. He rolled his eyes, you patted on his arm and vowed that, one day, he’d be the most pampered pup in all of Los Angeles. 

But that had yet to come to fruition. Benjie was still out on the street, taking leftovers of roast dinners and maintaining a rough coat. Maybe, when this whole ideal was over, Damien would bring him home. 

It was with that thought that a whole new cavalcade of bad ideas flooded his mind. They stopped him dead in his tracks, and – following that them – paled him beyond recognition. He flopped against a brick house, steadied his cane in the ridges of cobblestone and thought back on the very reason why you were in this position to begin with. 

There was an attempted assassination. Someone had attempted to assassinate you. It hadn’t settled with him, until now, that someone powerful had hired a killer to end your life. And they had nearly succeeded, and you had nearly died, and—

And if they weren’t able to do it the first time, who was to say they wouldn’t try again? 

Damien’s vision blurred together, buildings crumbling together and horses in the distance clicking like the trigger of a gun. He had to get back home, to you. God knows what could’ve happened to you in the time he was gone. You’d said you’d be fine, sure, but you were suffering from massive amounts of blood loss, and he loved you, but you were never the most logical person in the first place. 

His feet were moving regardless of thought or will to. His eyes were clouded with possibilities and his mind overtaken by sorrow. If you weren’t okay when he got back, it would be all his fault. Why did he have to be such an idiot? He should have stayed with you, and he didn’t, and now you were suffering the consequences of his stupid choices. 

He stumbled across the stones, plucked his cane from holes and brushing off the coattails of early risers. They were confused, but he didn’t care; all that mattered was getting back to you as quick as possible. Tears pricked up in the corners of his eyes, those wide windows scanning the street for your front door, and when he came to it, he all but ripped it off its hinges in order to get in. 

Going two steps at a time was too slow for him but falling back down the stairs would be of no use to anyone. Still, he pushed himself to get to your apartment at a record pace. One mantra echoed through his mind while he struggled to your front door. Please, be alright. It was wish, to you, to any higher power, to anything that could better the chances. 

His heart plummeted in his chest when he saw you lying on the ground.

Damien’s eyes whirled around, inspecting, for a second, for any hint as to what happened. Your arms were flattened out in front of, appearing to have cushioned your fall, and the only blood visible was what had leaked through your bandage. 

Nevertheless, he fell to his knees next you, tilted your head up and looked for any other sign of injury. Hope overcoming horror, you seemed okay. Passed out, but okay, so he took his time in carefully drawing a hand up and down your body. Your heartbeat was steady and fine, your skin was barren of unexpected blemishes, and your eyelids were just beginning to flutter open again. 

“Damien…?”

The second that he heard your voice, Damien captured you in a tight hug. Of course, at a hiss of pain from you, he pulled back, but you were going nowhere. The strict shift in temperature from the outside had him in whiplash and waking up with your back against the floor was doing you no better. He buried his head in your neck, both to keep you as close as possible and hide the tears beginning to flow. Not entirely sure of what was happening, you pat his back with one hand and cradled his head with another.

You shushed him and pecked at where you could, in the midst of whispering, “Hey, it’s all okay. I told you I wouldn’t die.” 

Damien sobbed. 

You held him tighter, an embrace solid enough to assure him you were really and truly there. 

Exhale shivering in the air, he mumbled against you, “N-no, you’re… oh, you’re too stubborn to die.”

You smiled, ignoring the situation and thanking you lucky stars that you’d landed such a loving man. 

“I’m here, love, everything’s okay.” Another kiss, and he lifted his head up to stare at you. Despite you being the one to have been shot, have passed out cold on the ground, you were comforting him. How had he ever gotten such a kind soul? He didn’t know, but he knew he was grateful, and that he’d do anything to keep you. 

Shakily, he muttered, “Come on.” He secured his arm underneath your shoulder and lifted you to stand, against the twitching of his cane. The weight of two people was forgiven when you were up fully, and he gently sat you down at the island while he gathered your shoes and coat. “We are getting you to the hospital,” he announced, and that was that.

Being the mayor of Los Angeles had some drawbacks; long working days, the eyes of the press, social obligations – but there were definitely some advantages, not least of all being able to order anything with impunity, whether that was a public car, table at a restaurant, or being to stay in the room while nurses flittered around your partner. At this point, leaving your side felt more hellish than he expected hell to be, and, though he hated abusing his power, he was not about to wait in the hallway for the next hour. 

So, by your side Damien stayed. The nurses poked and prodded at you, uncaringly prescribing you unlabeled medication, and redoing the bandages. He wasn’t ashamed to say he relaxed when they left you along, finally. At least he understood when enough was enough – or, he thought so, because if he told you that, you’d probably regard him unimpressed.

He caught your hand – noticeably less pale than it was before – in his own, and cradled it against his chest, as if fearing you’d disappear when let go. But, with you safely inside a hospital and treated by professionals, he could finally calm down. His nerves had been going haywire ever since you’d been late to dinner, but they found no reason to not settle down under his skin. 

“You know, I love you.”

Damien perked up before sending a confused glance your way. Why were you telling him now? Was there something that he didn’t know? Had you been shot, had someone tried to kill you again—

“I nearly died yesterday, and,” you laughed awkwardly, as if you were telling a crude joke, “I kept thinking, what if I never get to tell you again?” 

Now, he was fully turned to you, and it was then that he saw you were started to cry. He’d never seen you look like this before, wet cheeks and red eyes. His eyebrows involuntarily bent, and he squeezed your hand tighter. 

You continued on, “I don’t want you to forget how I feel, and I think that if I had to live without you, I—” You cut yourself off with a sob. 

Without a second thought, Damien moved to sit next to you on the bed, bringing you into his chest and cradling you as you cried. He peppered some kisses along your ear, neck, anywhere that could comfort you. He thanked his reputation for getting you a private room, lest you have to deal with people looking in to see the mayor and the district attorney communicating affection. 

“I love you, too,” he responded, tone having never been more sincere. 

You stayed like that until the nurses came back in, singing praises of Damien’s handiwork and pointing out your conditions. You would have to stay for a while longer, and you didn’t miss the proud smirk on your partner���s face when they told you that you should’ve come in sooner. Still, you laughed, rolled your eyes, and kissed him on the cheek. That normally shut him up, and this time was no exception. 

Sighing, he sat back in his own chair, hand still caressing yours. “Do you still want me to go back to work?” he teased.

You brought Damien’s hand to you face, planted a well-intentioned kiss on the upper part of his hand, and winked. “Never.”

He felt himself lucky for being in a hospital; he was sure he could have died from a heart attack right there and then. 

[Thank you so much for requesting - I'm sorry this took so long, but I'm glad that I got it out in the end! Gotta say, when I saw that I was allowed to injure the DA, I was already scheming. It did suck that I couldn't put a heart-rate monitor joke in though, since they hadn't been invented yet, but eh, the trade off is that we get nervous Damien waiting for you to come home. Again, thanks for requesting]

[bloodgreyhare]

Uhm..

(the 2nd pic, I just woke up earlier and drew that.. because I'm..I DON'T KNOW MAN-)

(The ship is stuck in my head.. help-💀)

[zee-stars]

*slams open the drawer I've been hiding in*

Some dude just found your blog!

I'm thinking, dark, yes, but DAMIEN. MY MAN IS WAY TOO HOT.

So Damien/dark whatever, with a DA who gets killed instead of like actor mark, they die instead in the events of WKM.

If you can GN reader :)

-out of pocket anon

OMG yes!!!! This is an amazing idea!! Sorry I took so long to answer lmaoo

Anyways, I was gonna wait until I wrote the fic to post this but I'm so bad at actually writting so I'm just gonna make a small blurb for now but probably making something bigger later!

Okay so like I'm thinking the night of the party you and will sneak off to play a little game.

Will told you there wasnt any bullets in it, you dont remember where he got it but you remember Mark had given him something thing earlier so you assumed it was from Mark.

So you play a few rounds, both you and Will laughing each time you hold the gun to your heads and pull the trigger. Nothing happens.

Except one time you feel a sharp pain in your head, and Will stops laughing. Your vision goes blurry and you feel really dizzy.

All you remember is you falling to the ground and Will sits above you crying asking you to stay awake.

You wake up again, as a ghost, you watch the events go on of WKM and here's a really cool thing,

One time Damien falls asleep out of exhaustion and in his dream he sees Mark loading a gun with one bullet, giving it to Will, you guys playing the game and you dying. He has put it all together.

Next thing you know he's going after Mark saying he killed them and all that.

That's all I can think of rn but again I will probably make this into a bigger fic.

Thank you so much for requesting!!

[missxfaithc]

Can anyone recommend me some good DarkiplierxReader fics?

[thatchaoscreator]

Nightmares

(Word Count: 385)

DA x Darkiplier

TW!! Mentions of death, brief mention of rituals, Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attack

Reader discretion advised

_________________________________________

I woke up with a start, a bead of sweat on my brow. I could only hear my heart pounding in my ears. It was another nightmare about that night.

I feel the bed shift before his arms wrap around me. I must have woken him up. I was still gulping breaths like I had just nearly drowned. I was surrounded by his cologne helping to ground me from the terror that shook my bones and sent electricity through my veins. I took a deep breath letting the smell of pine and peppermint fill my nose.

"Morning, Damien."

"Good morning. Are you alright?"

I turned to get a look at his expression. His dark raven hair draped around his face framing it like a portrait, his eyes a heterochromic red and blue, his appearance tainted from the cruel events that still torment my mind.

"...yeah, I'm okay. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

He pulled me closer, resting his chin in my hair.

"You're still getting those nightmares, aren't you?"

I fall silent. It seems even after all these years he can still read me like a book.

"Yeah…"

"How far did it get this time?"

"It started with the ritual…" I pause. The next part was always the hardest. I always wake up shortly before or after my death. "I woke up when I landed." My voice died in my throat as I held him close. My stomach was still recovering from dropping to my feet after having been forced to relieve my death again. You never forget the feeling of falling to your death.

He didn't speak, merely nodding as he stroked my hair comfortingly as I rode out the final tremors of anxiety and adrenaline. Once my body deemed it safe to relax again, I slumped against him releasing the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. He still didn't speak much to my surprise. Then again, there were times where his voice alone was able to throw me into a panic. I appreciate his caution and consideration.

"Damien?"

I got a hum in response.

"hmm?"

"Thank you… for staying with me…"

"Of course."

The rest of the night was spent holding each other tightly as we ward off any more lingering memories of the night that tore us apart.

At least we have each other now.

[fgfluidity]

nye

Summary: The attorney’s got a new hyperfixation, and Damien’s along for the ride.

Pairing: Damien/DA

Warnings: Damien is a chronic overthinker; alcohol; a bit of suggestiveness

i did a lot of research for this one and it’s late but yknow

i have a ko-fi here

@opprose @statictay @volbeast @mirrorslament @otterlyinluv

Damien impatiently taps his cane at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for a pause in traffic. He has a call to make, and the wait in the late-December chill makes his leg ache something fierce— something that only worsens his mood.

Finally, thanks to the traffic cop, the torrent slows; with a short nod to the man— who isn’t looking, but it feels impolite not to acknowledge him— Damien crosses the street as quickly as his leg can carry him.

The last storefronts before the city gives way to more residential zoning are pulling down their Christmas decor, red and green replaced by gold and silver, bells and tinsel in place with noisemakers and bottles of sparkling juice.

At least some of those are actual alcohol, but Damien isn’t the sort of mayor to tell on his constituency. He’s not innocent of sending along a few bottles, himself.

All this to say, Christmas is gone, and now it’s New Year’s Eve.

He grimaces, though not entirely due to the twinge in his leg.

The New Year has always been a bit of a double-edged sword in Damien’s mind.

There’s a certain excitement in preparing for the calendar to shift, celebrating with loved ones as the world passes from December into January. He’s always loved the idea of new beginnings, fresh opportunities; God knows he always dreamt of it, with his family.

There’s privilege in wealth and status, but such loneliness, such severe detachment, that he never could help wishing for something different.

As a child, he and Celine would be ushered off to bed no later than 9 o’clock; any later would make for miserable children, as his father always said, and would disrupt their strict scheduling. No breaks for holidays in his father’s book— though it never stopped him or his sister from sneaking down to take canapés, desserts, and a single glass of champagne a time or two.

It was never as fun as Christmas, but at the very least they could be left to their own devices.

Adulthood is a similar story. He works hard to ensure the city is protected and working smoothly, that his people want for nothing. It takes work all year round, work he’s happy to do.

The last week of December, though, feels as lawless as the Old West.

Between Christmas and the New Year, even his motivation begins to lag, and it’s difficult to stay on task when so many relax in the holiday haze of food and merriment. When no one else is willing, his work suffers, and a Damien who can’t work…

He’s been called relentless and obsessed, but he can’t help the irritation that creeps in with each passing day of leisure. Like a particular sort of dog, if he can’t work, his environment suffers for it.

Perhaps it won’t be all bad, though. The invitation in his pocket, cream stock and elegant inking, promises a wonderful night with close friends— something he hasn’t had since his election.

“You’re coming to this one,” Celine had said to him that morning, fluffing up her fur wrap to protect from the chill in the doorway. “I’m not taking any arguments.”

“Huh,” Damien had replied— mostly because she hadn’t even phoned about her coming. “Coming to..? Celine, come in, it’s cool out.”

“I would, but I can’t stay. Socialite business.” She gave him a wry smile, and a creamy envelope to go along with it. No— two, one carefully tied with his with a satiny red ribbon. “We’re hosting for the New Year, and I’ve about had it with you dodging our invitations. You used to love parties, Damien, and at the very least you should be at this one.”

Damien huffed, though lightly, as he pulled at the ribbon. “I still love parties,” he protested. “Not all of us can take off at a moments’ notice to have a night out— and a hell of a morning afterward.”

“As if you ever had a hangover in your life,” Celine commented, and he chose to ignore it. “The office is closed for New Year’s Day, I know it is, and you’ll want to be there for this. I’ll be there, and Mark, of course. And…”

She trailed off as he flipped over the second invitation. Not his name, not a plus one, but the attorney.

He looked up sharply, only to be met with her smug smile, a note of triumph in her eyes. “They’re coming.”

“Of course,” she replied. “They need their invitation if they’re going to make it on time. If you’d be a dear?”

In lieu of wrinkling the invitation, he briefly tensed his jaw, thinking over what might be a legal way to get one over on his meddling sister. “Why couldn’t you? Since you’ve decided to be a messenger, and all.”

“Only for you, baby brother. Besides, I think they’ll take the invitation from you much more favorably.” She fluffed up her coat again. “Be sure not to be late. You could even come together, if that would help. Best clothes, Damien.”

His aching hand pulls him out of the reverie; it still rankles him so that he stops to work the blood back into his knuckles.

At least mistletoe won’t be involved at New Year’s, he assures himself. God knows his sister and brother in law would concoct some sort of scheme to get him to admit… something.

Something he refuses to acknowledge, at that. He pointedly puts it out of his mind the last few blocks to the attorney’s abode, striding purposefully down the sidewalk.

It’s the same as ever, with the climate’s lack of change with the seasons, but it’s still a comforting sight; small, yes, and a bit unassuming, but the inside is where the real treasure lies.

Like his friend— and the thought is immediately catalogued away into Things Not To Think About.

The closer Damien draws, though, he notes something a bit strange— namely, that one of their windows are open, and every now and then, something flies out to join the small pile amassing underneath it.

It’s decidedly unlike his friend to be so cavalier about their possessions, and the confusion and worry spurs him on faster. A burglar? A collections officer?

All— or, rather, most— of his worries seem unfounded as he draws up to the window. The attorney is indeed the one tossing out old papers and broken pieces of furniture, sleeves rolled up and a bit of sweat on their forehead.

“I don’t think it’s time for spring cleaning just yet,” he calls through the window. “What on Earth are you doing?”

They pop their head up, confused, but a bright smile crosses their face as they lay eyes on him. “It’s you,” they say, and then quickly, “I mean— hello! I’m doing a cleaning for the new year. You know it’s tradition in some places?”

Damien raises an eyebrow. “It’s tradition to throw things out of your bedroom window?”

“In some places,” they repeat excitedly. “Most places have a tradition of just cleaning, but throwing things out the window is a way to get rid of bad luck without darkening your doorway.”

They must have been on some sort of research kick to know that— he could even guess from the bright look in their eye, how their words tumble over each other.

It’s been that way since they met, long nights over books and his friend regaling him with all the new knowledge they’d managed to gather. He was never interested overmuch in the intricacies of animal social behaviors, but God if he didn’t soak in every word.

He’ll admit— it’s quite the endearing trait.

“Well, if you don’t mind something else darkening your doorway,” he jokes, “I have a letter for you. Special delivery.”

“A letter?” They set down some large box of things, tilting their head. “I can’t imagine why you’d have mail for me, but— sure, come in. It’s a walk from your house, you need a sit.”

Damien could protest, but they’re already hurrying away from the window and into the depths of their home. Besides, they’re more careful with his bad leg than he is— any opportunity to host or tend him is one they’ll jump at the chance to take.

Without them, he might be worse off than a cane.

He rounds the side of the house, but he’s only just begun to ascend the stairs when the front door swings open. The attorney is a touch less disheveled than they were in their bedroom, sweat dabbed away and sleeves rolled back down, but they’re still in comfortable housework clothes.

“Come on, get in from the chill,” they urge, sweeping him in with one arm. “I put water on, but I can’t say I have any of your particular beans. You’ll have to settle for tea.”

Damien heaves a long-suffering sigh as he sheds his jacket, allowing his friend to help him hang it. “I guess so. If I must, to avoid being a rude guest, I’ll drink your tea. You know…”

They raise an eyebrow, pausing mid-shuffle of a foot stool.

“If I’d known you were doing housework, I may not have worn my suit. I feel a touch overdressed.”

His friend snorts and pushes the foot stool the rest of the way to him. “I wouldn’t expect you to go back to our college days for me. Get your shoes off and come in for tea; I’m curious about that letter.”

He’d like to go back to the college days, really. Simple and easy, running around with his closest friend with little regard for propriety or image— he regularly aches with nostalgia, but especially being in their presence. More doors seemed open wide, then, more futures at hand where they weren’t quite so locked into place.

Now he’s bound by duty, and the use of a shoehorn. It’s not how he’d have liked his future to go, much less predicted, but…

In the midst of yanking his foot free of shining leather, he hears a small clatter, followed by a muffled, “Oh, nuts.” He can’t help but smile, lining his shoes up alongside theirs; regardless of other twists and turns, they still have each other.

“Are you—“

“I’m fine! Just a bit of a butterfingers today.” More clattering, boxes and bags and cups rifled through before the solid thump of a cabinet. “Which is why we’re both having a snack with our tea and news.”

“Both?” Damien courteously returns the foot stool to its previous location. Once it’s comfortable, he follows suit on the attorney’s squashy couch, easing into the cushions with a pleased sigh. “I haven’t been throwing things out all morning.”

“You always forget to eat something when you’re buzzing.” The attorney aims a pointed look at him over a tray loaded up with mugs and various foods. “You’re out of sorts and you probably only had your coffee, so you’re eating with me.”

Damien meets their gaze, doing his best impersonation of a clueless stone wall. “You think I’ve been buzzing?”

The attorney sits right next to him on the couch, not bothering with the polite distance they give him in public, and reach for their plate. “Your cane is smudged, which means you’ve been wringing it all day.”

“Not necessarily.” He takes a sip of tea. Black, tannin-rich— just how he prefers. “Perhaps I’ve just been too busy to clean up.”

He gets a nudge at that— the warm, solid line of their thigh pressing harder into his. “I’d believe that if you didn’t match your tie to your scarf— which is mine, by the way.”

“I won it fair and square, if you recall.” Certainly hard-won, at that— he had to have used up every last scrap of luck to beat them at poker. “You know I like to keep up appearances.”

“Don’t you just.” They take a long sip from their mug in lieu of explaining themself, though the tired, far-off look in their eye gives him an inkling, along with a smidgen of guilt. “But that would include polishing your cane. You did that on the way over, after you put effort in.

“Which means,” they continue, a note of triumph coming into their voice, “that something frazzled you enough to still be on your mind, something related to the news you bring. The only person who can get you that out of shape is Celine. What’d she say?”

Damien blinks at them, then huffs a laugh. “Quite sharp. Are you sure you don’t want to swap careers to be on the police force? They’d kill for a detective like you.”

Their nose wrinkles a little over their mug. “No, thank you. Besides, the same skill set works wonders in the courtroom— and I could read you like an open book, we’ve known each other so long.”

Hopefully not too open. Damien clears his throat and digs in his pockets for the invitation. “Ah— here. She asked I hand-deliver it, though she’s perfectly capable of doing that, herself.”

“Sure, but I prefer a visit from you. You’re far less intimidating.” Paying little heed to his offense, played up as it may be, they open up the envelope. Their bright eyes scan the creamy card stock, then again.

Damien tilts his head to see their face better, but it’s irritatingly blank. Damn their poker face, for all the good it’s done them. “Is something the matter?”

“Hm? Oh— no, there’s nothing wrong, sorry.” They laugh a little, sliding the card back into the envelope. “Just— personalized, and you know how he is.”

God, does he ever. The ripped off section with detailed instructions on how to woo the attorney is presently in his trash bin under coffee grounds. “And what did he say?”

“Typical Mark teasing.” Again, that unreadable expression as they shrug, and he burns to know what they wouldn’t share with him.

As they reach for the tray, grabbing up a handful of plump grapes, he asks, “Are you coming?”

“Of course I am.” They give him a little smile. “We might be busier these days, but it’s a holiday, and I haven’t seen everyone in some time, besides.”

The knot in his chest loosens slightly, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. We may all be friends, but it’s nice to have you along.”

“Would you miss me, otherwise?”

Their eyes shine even brighter, and he’s thankful a blush can’t show on his skin.

“Eat your grapes. Aren’t they good luck?”

“Yes. Which is why you should eat them if you want to keep that scarf tonight.”

—

If it weren’t for his sister and brother-in-law’s machinations, he’d have been happy to stick around all day long, basking in company that demands so little; alas, after their lunch, he excuses himself.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me in another tradition?”

It isn’t fair to play that sort of card when he’s already thin on resolve. “What kind of tradition, exactly?”

They stop stretching their left arm over their chest, swapping over to their right. “I was thinking of going for a spin around the house, actually, but I also have some more things to toss out if you’d find it easier.”

They’re grinning, eyes shining, but he still can’t tell if this one is a joke or not. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to pass up both. My leg, for one, and for the other… well, they aren’t my things. Maybe that’s bad luck.”

“Very possible,” they muse, nodding. “You’d probably want as much strength as possible, anyway, party animal.”

“You’re one to talk, little monster.” It’s too fond to be much of a comeback, but it’s worth it for how they smile afterward. “Shall I meet you there?”

They pause in stretching, mouth open as if to say something, but they must think better of it; instead, they bend a bit to help stretch out their feet. “Sure thing.”

So… it stays on his mind a while.

Could they have wanted to join him? It’d save on a drive, yes, but surely they know the whispers that would follow.

Not that he’d give a damn, really. He’s been doing this for too long to care quite that much, and his reputation could probably do with a scandal— however false— to keep things interesting.

Celine’s words, not his, though he’s begun to see the appeal.

He should have said something. Should have offered, at the very least, to be kind.

What if that wasn’t their intention, though? What if it was a different train of thought entirely, their brilliant mind going a mile a minute, and any such offer would make things tense?

He looks down to the mild ache in his knuckles; just as earlier that morning, they’re white with tension, the gleaming wood and metal of his cane once more marred by oily fingerprints.

Damn it. With a sigh, he whips the pocket square out of his jacket to polish the worst of the smudges away. It might be a more intimate party, but he’d still like to keep tidy.

A few moments later, the black wood is about as good as it’s going to get without proper polish. Hopefully no one will look too terribly closely.

(No one ever does, but he worries.)

The handle hooked over a forearm, he goes about refolding the pocket square; only a few folds in, however, the back of his neck prickles. It’s the odd feeling of being observed, and not passively, either.

There’s no attorney when he looks up, but there is his sister, dark eyes sharp and keen as flint. Her intense stare would be bad enough for him, but after a moment, the corner of her moth lifts, and her eyes turn to the foyer.

“Oh, our esteemed guest, welcome! It’s been some time, you know,” Benjamin says, overdone accent and all muffled by the distance and din. “We’ve missed you at the tables, Mx.—“

Oh.

Before whatever Celine has in mind for him comes to pass, he needs a good drink.

A strong one.

—

Several strong ones later, he’s feeling light as a feather.

At the very least, Damien’s in good company; nearly everyone else in the ballroom is in a similar state, leaning into arms or lounges or walls. They’re merry, though, laughter and snippets of song joining in with the blaring radio at the far wall.

Even Mark and Celine look a bit bright-eyed, which is a sight. He hasn’t seen that sort of inebriation with them in years.

He can’t say the same for the attorney, for better or for worse.

A notorious lightweight, despite their absolute best efforts, he could estimate they’re as sloppy as he feels; they slump into his side, eyes glassy, though their slur can’t stop their mile-a-minute chatter.

“There’s so many, Day,” they enthuse, one hand clenching his suit jacket tight. “Everyone everywhere has a tradition, how amazing is that? Everyone does something different and new! There are ones even I don’t know!”

“I don’t know about that one, little monster,” he laughs. “You really seem to have done your research.”

“Research… that’s it!” They look up at him, as if they’ve found the discovery of the century. “Damien… what if I researched it? And wrote a book?”

If he’s honest, he’s surprised they haven’t by now, in some discipline. “You could, but it’d be a lot of work. Might take you years.”

“I have years,” they insist, “or, I could. If I wasn’t an attorney.”

“You’d give that up?” He frowns. “I thought you always wanted to be one.”

They shrug. “It comes and goes. I wouldn’t be upset, really. I could do whatever I want, then— and I’d still have you.”

They would. They’re always going to, no matter what, but if politics wasn’t in the way…

He’s pretty sick of it.

They’re here and soft and lovely, and everyone’s counting down, and he may not have done the research but he’s damn certain of one important tradition.

He pulls them in and kisses them.

It’s a little off-center, but it’s wonderful. They’re soft, warm, tasting like the dessert course and champagne, bubbles of sugar and alcohol coursing through him, enough to nearly make him take flight.

They… aren’t moving, though. Just in place, not pulling away but not leaning in.

Panicked, he pulls back, but the look of awe on their face halts any words before he can begin to say them.

“O-oh,” they say, so soft, and then they giggle. Not a laugh, but a giggle. “Um— yes, that… that could go in the book. And…”

“And..?” His breath catches, heart pounding.

“Well.” They smile a little, shy but under hooded eyes, and lean in a little towards him. “There’s another tradition. You’re supposed to wear red for luck.”

He eyes them. Not a drop to be seen. “Aren’t you worried about bad luck?”

Their sly grin grows. “No. You can check for yourself, if you want?”

Thanks to the alcohol, it takes him a good minute, but by then…

Well, they aren’t too worried about clothes, anymore.

[alaroweq]

Back on my markiplier universe songs bullshit. Going under by Evanescence but it's DA and Dark. That's it that's the post.

[i-am-03]

Currently making some powerpoint for my business plan and

now all im thinking is the d/a and damien just half jokingly plans to build a dessert bakery shop together if they didnt go with law or retirement

THEY DONT EVEN BAKE THAT GOOD BUT GOD DAMN JUST IMAGINE JUST ALL THE GIGGLY FITS THE HAPPY LOVEY DOVEY DAYS OF THEM TRYING AND TRYING TO BAKE CUPCAKES

THE FLUFF GUYS- THE FLUFF AKDHSJAJ

[melancholypancakes]

I can’t handle the cuteness 🥺🥹🥹

Activity on my roleplay blogs have picked up lately, so I’ve fallen behind on things I want to write here. In the meantime, I’d like to offer this. The quote itself is from W.elcome to N.ightvale, from an episode called ‘R.umbling’, and I was reminded of it in my tag for dating a mayor. It’s a simple quote, yet so heartfelt.

[westanthewaterman]

Feel You - Dark x GN!DA!Reader

Rating: NSFW

Word Count: 1700+

Summary: Reunited after a century apart, Dark and the District Attorney spend some quality time together. Or more simply put, love sick Dark -> feral Dark.

Contents: handjobs, penetrative sex, no pronouns or body parts used for reader, standard Dark pet names (dear heart, pet, etc.), mild voice kink, blink and you miss it references to Dark's mind powers

AN: Idk where this came from, but it was fun to write. I'll post to AO3 and add all my usual links later, I should've been in bed an hour ago. If you're still here despite my hiatus, I appreciate you.

This fic is a sequel to 'Tomorrow, Tonight' but can be read as a standalone.

Fic Masterlist - Find it on AO3

         Dark hikes your leg up onto his hip. He relishes in the softness of your skin beneath his fingers, a concrete reminder that you’re here, that you’re together again after everything.

         The new position allows him more space to roll his hips, grinding down against the heat between your legs. You shudder beneath him. He repeats the motion once, twice, and you throw your head back against the pillows.  His hungry, grey eyes follow the column of your throat upwards until they land on your mouth. Your lips part around a whimper and he can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss against them.

“I’ll never tire of hearing you sing for me, dear heart.”

“Damien,” You whine before hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

“I think it’s a little late to hide from me now.” He chuckles. “What’s gotten you so shy, darling?”

“You never talked this much before.”

         Dark tenses, a familiar, far-away look in his eyes, one he always gets when the two of you discuss the past. You cup the side of his face, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. He blinks. A melancholy smile settles on his face. You pull his head down so that you can press your forehead against his.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, my love. There are bad memories, yes, but also good ones. In fact, I can recall quite a few memories of us just as we are now, bare in each other’s arms, locked in the throes of passion.”

There’s a wry smile on his face, one that reminds you of evenings spent tucked away between bookshelves, sneaking out of dormitories at the crack of dawn, a rendezvous in the storage closet of a crowded chapel. Your heart aches for all the two of you have lost and can never get back. But despite everything you had been through, the two of you were together again.

Dark presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I can feel how your mind races. I think about it too, even now. Almost a century without you and I never stopped feeling your absence. I ached to hold you in my arms, to have you beneath me, to feel you tight as a vice as you come apart around me.”

A thought creeps into your mind and turns your stomach to lead. He had been by himself for so long, sure you were gone forever. You couldn’t blame him or be angry, but still the thought makes you sick.

“Was,” you pause a moment, steeling yourself for his answer. “Was there ever anyone else? In your heart, or your bed?”

He looks at you as if your words have burned him. When he speaks, his voice is firm, unwavering.

“No. My dear heart, there could never be another. I vowed to love you in sickness and in health, in love and in death. There could only ever be you.”

“Oh.” You blush.

The intensity of his answer makes you feel foolish for even suggesting such a thing. You drop your gaze, absently picking at the sheets beneath you. It’s Dark’s turn to take your face in his hand and bring your gaze back to him.

“I loved you deeply, but I know my actions did not always convey that. At times, I allowed my responsibilities and ambitions to blind me to how I was neglecting you. You deserved a better man than I knew how to be back then, and I have spent a century regretting it. But now, despite terrible circumstances and the battles still to be fought, we have a second chance, and I intend to use it to do right by you.”

“Damien, I…I don’t know what to say.”

“There is no need to say anything, dear heart. I know you feel as strongly as I do; I feel it through our bond, and soon I’ll feel it here as well.”

Dark presses a finger against your entrance, pressing it into you slowly. You cry out, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him flush against you

“You said earlier that I never used to talk very much when we were intimate, and you were right.” His voice drips with venom as he continues. “The prim and proper mayor, so worried about civility and manners. Too obsessed with his image and what was ‘acceptable’ to truly speak his mind.”

You want to argue, to defend Dark’s former self against his own harsh criticism, instead a moan rips its way out of your throat when two more fingers fill you. Dark’s grin is wicked. He ducks down to press his lips to your ear, taking your earlobe between his teeth and giving it a quick tug. You clench around his fingers, earning an amused chuckle.

“I have no such worries. My only concern is pleasing you and, by the way your body responds for me, I can tell I’m doing just that. This little hole of yours is so hot and tight around my fingers, and it’s all for me, isn’t it?”

A shudder wracks your body and you moan, digging your nails into his shoulders.

“Oh,” Dark purrs. “Now what got that reaction? You like when I talk to you like this, don’t you, pet?”

“Y-Yes.”

“But what is it that has you so responsive? Is it my voice in your ear? The things that I’m saying to you? Or maybe none of that matters. Perhaps I could say anything, and you would respond just as wantonly, so long as I have you filled with my fingers or my cock.”

“All of it, it’s all of it. Damien, fuck.”

“Dear heart, such foul language. Have I already wrecked you so thoroughly?”

You scowl at him but you both know there’s no mirth behind it. “Fuck you.”

         There’s a wicked glint in his eyes as Dark grabs a handful of your hair, pulling just enough to force your head back and bare your throat to him. Sharp canines scratch playfully against the sensitive skin of your neck.

“You should be careful what you ask for, my love. I am a changed man with a century of pent-up sexual frustration. I could take you over and over and over again, never tiring until I have given you every drop of my spend and the only word you know is my name.”

Dark sets a languid pace thrusting his fingers in and out of you.

“You want it now, just as much as you did back then, isn’t that right? You wanted the serious, respectable mayor to break. You craved to be taken passionately, for him to make love to you like a man starved.”

“Yes, yes.” You nod frantically, bucking your hips against his hand.

“I have hungered for you for so long, dear heart; I feel almost ravenous with it.”

Dark removes his fingers from you and fists his leaking cock, stroking himself slowly. You find yourself mesmerized by the motion and the way his stomach muscles tense and flex with every stroke of his hand. Your eyes follow a drop of his arousal as it drips down the underside of his cock. You lick your lips. Knocking his hand out of the way, you take him in your own, his length hot and heavy in your palm.

         He groans appreciatively as you stroke him from base to tip, occasionally rubbing your thumb over the head of his cock. You guide his hand to rest over your heart.

 “You’ve spent all this time talking about what I want and how you can please me. What do you want?”

“I want to make up for lost time. I want to give you everything I could not before.”

“But that’s still about me. Damien, what do you want?

He falters. “I…I just want you. I want to feel you. I want to know that you are real, and not just some illusion he made to torment me.”

“I want to feel you too.” You guide the head of his cock to your entrance. “I’m here, my love. I’m real. This is real.”

Dark presses into you in one long, slow thrust that has him buried to the hilt. Both of you moan at the sensation. You wrap your legs around his waist and urge him forward, forcing his cock deeper inside.

“Fuck, my love, I never thought I would feel you like this again.”

You smirk. “Such foul language, Damien. Now who’s wrecked who?”

Instead of a response, Dark grabs your face and presses your lips together in a passionate kiss. So much is shared between you in this single moment of contact, decades of sorrow and grief, an emptiness immeasurable by time. But there is also hope and joy, lust and elation. Most importantly, there is love; a love that has weathered the test of time and survived even the most unthinkable circumstances.

The two of you pull apart, both crying and holding each other like your lives depend on it.

“I love you, dear heart. Thank you for coming back to me.”

“I love you too, Damien. Thank you for finding me.”

Dark speeds up the pace of his thrusts, breathing heavily in your ear.

“I am afraid it has been too long, my love. I have spent a century waiting to feel you like this again and now I find myself unable to hold back my release.”

“I’m close too. You feel so good.”

“I want you to cum with me now. Let me feel you.”

         He grabs your thighs and presses them back so that he can rut into you, ruthlessly. You cry out at the way the new angle causes the head of his cock to brush against a sweet spot deep inside that has you seeing stars. Your orgasm washes over you and you finish with a cry of his name. The tight heat of you bares down around him and the dam holding back Dark’s climax breaks. Waves of pleasure crash over him as he stills inside you, filling you with his release.

         The two of you lay together in silence, collecting your bearings. You think you might fall asleep until Dark gives a shallow thrust, his cock still hard inside you.

“How-”

He gives you a wicked grin and presses his lips to your ear.

“I told you I was a changed man, dear heart, and we have quite a lot of lost time to make up for.”

[theknightmarket]

“Do you want to do this again sometime?”

In which Damien and the DA end up going to a party under false pretenses.  

TW: sexual references (teasing)

Pages: 20 - Words: 8000

[Requests: OPEN]

“You have to help me.”

Hearing that as soon as your friend of, at this point, 20 years bursts panting and sweating profusely through the door was not the best way to start the day. Good thing that you’d had your fair share of French toast and coffee, so you were able to swirl around in your chair to gauge the situation soberly. Damien didn’t look scared, if a little nervous, but he wasn’t happy. You remembered him talking about some dinner party the day before, which he would attend a few hours after he left. Still in his formal attire, so he had spent the night unwilfully. He also lacked a bowtie.

“Did you hook up with someone?” 

Much to your amusement, he went beet red the second the words escaped your mouth. It was painful to try not to laugh, but the single chuckle that breached the air had him rushing over to sit next to you, and he laid his cane on the table. A small attempt to hide his face was made with his free hand, though, you knew better. You had seen better, too, so you pat him on the back and left to pour another cup of coffee for the poor man. 

From your position at the countertop, you heard him mutter, “You don’t have to say it like that.” 

Oh. 

Normally, it felt great to be right. It was your favorite hobby, actually, but this time… this time was something different. Your eyebrows crossed and a faint intake of breath made it difficult to focus on the mug in your hand. Grip steadily clenching and loosening, the thump of your heart stilled. This should have been more concerning, the idea that some medical defect would put an end to your life before it had even begun, but Damien having stayed the night was somehow worse to you. 

Still, like any good friend, you brought the cup of coffee over to him and, making sure to avoid jostling him, set it down near his crossed arms. The steam faded into his eyes while he stared at the intricate design; he had always liked this mug, it was probably the best one out of your whole collection, in his opinion. A little golden retriever with a Christmas hat. Cute. 

He took it gratefully and gulped it down within seconds, the warning that it was hot not fully registering in his mind until half of it was gone. Then, the pain started, and it started strong. Damien was never one to curse but, in this moment, that didn’t matter. All the words in the book came pouring out of his mouth, alongside any coffee left that could cause more pain. It wasn’t until the glistening burn started to dull itself into a sting did he cease the speaking and start the fanning, not that it would help. 

You looked on with empathy and a small tinge of told-ya-so-ness. Either way, you quickly fetched a cold cup of water and bottle of honey, which, from experience, would work better than just waving at the burn. It didn’t take any coaxing to get him to open his mouth, so it was comparatively easy to help than when the roles had been reversed. 

Luckily for you, Damien wasn’t physically able to point out this fact, so you mumbled, “You’re such an idiot,” as you handed him a slowly melting ice cube. 

He rolled his eyes, momentarily distracted from the pain, but the curl of his lips downward and hiss were back the next moment. 

After some minutes of pampering and healing, the mayor was able to speak again, even if it was only a few words per sentence – his coffee had gone cold by now, too, and you rose from your chair to throw it down the sink like a prisoner into jail. Yours was already gone, drank in an orderly and non-painful fashion, so you just placed your mug into the sink next to Damien’s empty one. 

Despite the interlude, your mind still wandered back to his situation. Whoever he had been with, they must’ve been special to get with the mayor of sunny Los Angeles. You wondered what it was that drew him to them; maybe it was their looks alone, but Damien wasn’t that shallow, was he? Maybe they had a nice chat and it just escalated from there. You wondered how his sister would take it, since she was always so protective of him. You wondered if they would continue to see each other, if they knew each other already, if they had been together for a while now and you just didn’t know it, you wondered—

“I didn’t… hook up with anyone, you know.”

Oh, thank God. 

It had never felt so good to be wrong! You would have paraded around the kitchen if you hadn’t company, but that company you did have was Damien and he had not been with someone last night. Shoulders relaxing and that easy-going smile returning to your face, you whirled around to look at him again. 

“Then, why on God’s green earth, would you need my help?”

Damien sat up straight, pressed his hands across the table, and steadied his breathing. These were tell-tale signs that he was going to delve into a story, probably go off on a tangent, too, if you knew him well enough. With this knowledge, you cheerfully dashed back to your seat and dramatically leaned in close. 

The sudden burst of crimson on his face didn’t go unnoticed, but the reason for it did. You were too excited for the story of why he came back your apartment disheveled and lacking a bowtie to care. 

He started with a cough, “So, I went to that party last night.” You nodded. You were one to send him on his way with a good pep-talk and adjustment of his collar. “I’m aware.”

“I got there around six-fifteen, stayed in the car for another fifteen minutes and then went inside. I spoke to the Mr. Witz and his daughter Bethany.” You knew about Mr. Witz, he was an old guy in his late 50s and hell-bent on establishing his banking systems in L.A, hence why Damien was invited. “After being offered drinks, I took one and went to talk to, um, I think it was Mrs. Peterson, Mr. Daveed, and Mr. Ockley.”

With a light chuckle, you interrupted, “I’m starting to think you’ve killed someone and are trying to construct an alibi, Dame.” 

“I’m not! I didn’t, I just—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you didn’t,” waving him off, you finished, “Please, continue.”

Another cough to clear his throat, and he was speaking again, “It was around half-nine when I spoke to Mrs. Harrows and then was I introduced to her daughter, Penelope, I believe her name was. We were talking nice and having a fun time, but it was obvious when we got into the subject of, uh, romancewhy Mrs. Harrows really brought her daughter to the party.” 

You nodded, knowingly, because, after most nights out with the rich and infamous - Mrs. Harrows amongst them­ – Damien had a habit of bursting into your apartment and ranting about whatever had gone wrong or even right this time. You always welcomed him with a smile and a drink, something that should have become tiresome after the thirteenth time that month, but they key word there was should. It didn’t, surprisingly, but you thought you knew why, and to be completely honest, that idea scared you. This exact scenario was the reason behind that fear. 

“Mrs. Harrows, I would never speak ill of her, but she was determined to get her daughter into my, well, good graces. Of course, I wasn’t initiating by any means, but then she left myself and Penelope alone to get some champagne, and I realized that this determination might’ve been genetic.”

You grimaced at the implication, feeling bad for both Damien and the girl, but less so for her because… obvious reasons. Nothing that you wanted to trouble yourself with, in the presence of Damien, you wanted to pay as much attention as you could. 

“So, for the better half on an hour, she was trying to charm me, and I was trying to get away. I even resorted to asking Mr. Witz about his insurance schemes.” His speaking was speeding up, and his tone was growing gradually more nervous, to the point that you were wondering if he was going to have a stroke. Eventually, though, he completely stopped still at the end of a sentence. His eyes held a look of remembrance, faint fear, and a hint of something else. You couldn’t quite pinpoint it, and you didn’t have his monologue to distract you from thinking about it. It wasn’t confidence, it wasn’t excitement, it was almost sad in a way. Disappointed, but for what, you didn’t know. 

“And then,” he began again shakily, “she asked if I would like to go for a stroll around the gardens.” 

“Scandalous!” you mocked, even though you knew full well what that really meant. You had been invited to a good amount of those kinds of social gatherings, and, nearly every single time, someone would approach another and ask to go out around the gardens. At this point, it was basically a marriage proposal, but no one was insane enough to refuse such a request if not for a good reason, none of which Damien had. Penelope Harrows was a nice girl, beautiful and, by all means, well-off. Damien, meanwhile, was single, equally rich, and with no one at his side throughout the evening to drag him away. So, there was the question – if Damien hadn’t lied to you, why had he not gone home with her?

The mayor rolled his eyes, smiling all the while, but he continued the story, “Of course, I said no – but she was insistent,” that blush rose from the dead, coating over the bridge of his nose to both ears, “and, when I refused again, she asked why.”

Damien was already getting choked up with words, them bundling together in the middle of his throat and halting breathing altogether. He knew what he wanted to say but getting it out was a much harder task than putting the sentence together. After a few seconds of floundering, his resolved crumbled – just as his knees felt despite being sat down – and he opened his mouth with a sigh. 

“I told her I was engaged.” 

Oh.

“To you.” 

Oh. 

You don’t know what you had expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. Hell, you would’ve been less surprised to hear he had just insulted her and gotten fired. However, that was not what had happened. And you had mixed feelings on the idea. 

For one, this was going to be difficult to fix. With so many influential people around Damien at the time, word was going to spread faster than a wildfire, and possibly damage a lot more, too. There were going to be death threats in your mailbox, which was par for the course, and fear for both your reputations as unbiased and objective swelled in your heart. Though, beside that little feeling was something else. A light feeling, as if the calm glow of the moon had leaked out of your stomach and into your heart. It was ludicrous and dishonest to be called Damien’s fiancé, but that didn’t stop you from grinning behind your hand. Your heart thudded in your chest when your eyes met. 

“We’ve been extended an invitation to attend another social gathering tonight at Mrs. Harrows’ estate. Seven o’clock sharp, dancing and socializing included, expect to depart around eleven.” He recited the information like a script, as if he’d rehearsed it time and time before – knowing Damien, he probably had, even in his mind to get the wording just right. 

You nodded. “Okay.” With that, you started towards your bedroom, specifically the closet which held most of your formal outfits. Shuffling through them, you picked at the ones you thought most suitable: the off-white one with cut edges, a completely black one that might have been too funeral-ly, and a more modern mix of the two. You heard the familiar footfalls of Damien’s dress shoes and his cane thumping against the wood as he approached, your head delved into the cabinet to scout out some appropriate shoes at the same time. 

“You- you’re not mad?” 

Ducking out for a second, you asked, “Should I be?”

“No, but… I mean, I didn’t ask permission to call you my fiancé.” 

“Probably half of L.A knows about us now, so why bother pretending we called it off overnight?” Besides, you wouldn’t mind it being the truth eventually. 

Your eyes blew wide and the hanger you had grasped in your hand clattered to the floor. That thought, had it actually come from you? You hadn’t focused much on romance since you landed a job as the D.A – though the odd thought about asking Damien out to dinner or a walk down the beaches would occasionally pop into your head – but now your imagination was running wild. You had a few suits in your closet in view, and each time your eyes glossed over them, you saw that damned mayor in it, standing at the end of an aisle. Were you the marrying type? This was unknown territory, way out of your comfort zone but you couldn’t deny the shaky excitement rising in you. Even the memory of your parents nagging you about getting into a relationship gave you pause. 

But was Damien considering anything? You knew he took his mayoral duties seriously, probably too seriously to be considered healthy, so would he be open to setting some time aside for anyone, let alone you? Breathing picking up and heart pounding in your chest, you realized that you were being overzealous. You could start by asking him out if you could even get past that hurdle. 

Meanwhile, Damien hummed in agreement, sitting on the bed behind you. His cane flipped between hands, a habit he had adopted when nervous ever since he had first gotten the thing. He barely needed it to walk anymore but he claimed it was just to be safe - you thought it was something to fiddle with to take his mind of off whatever bothered him. 

“So, what’s the problem, Dame?” Finally sticking your body out of the closet and toting two different outfits, you catch Damien off guard. He sputters and avoids eye contact for a few seconds, before settling on laughing quietly to himself. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. 

You lay the clothes down on your desk’s chair and come to sit down next to him again. 

“Well, there’s obviously something.” 

Silence. You tilted your head to look him in the eye, he looked away again. You moved closer, he shuffled back. 

“Damien—” his gaze immediately met yours, deep chestnut mudded with uncertainty, “—tell me what’s wrong.”

“What if it goes wrong?” 

The stark fear that consumed his voice, laced it with poisonous pessimism, had you squeezing his hand before you could think to move. His fingers clamped around your own and captured the assurance you gave him, warm and solid. 

Now having all his attention, you asked plainly, “What is the worst you think will happen?” 

His scenario was quick to flood out of his mouth, shaking every word, “You and I will show up and they immediately know that I lied, and they’ll get us alone and pick apart our stories like doomed vultures – our reputations will be ruined, you’ll lose your job, I’ll lose mine, and then I’ll be forced to marry Penelope Harrows, even though I don’t want to, and you’ll marry someone else and move away and—” Tears were brimming in the corners of his eyes, overwhelming him to the point that his sentence cut off by the silent splash of water against your connected hands. 

“Okay,” you started, rubbing tire tracks into the back of his hand, “and what’s the best thing that could happen?” 

This one took longer for him to come up with – and, all the while, you sat by him, pushing away the tears that fell and smiling to calm the ones just starting to flow – until he mustered up the words. “We go to the party and… and everything is fine.” 

There looked like there was something else he wanted to say, something else that tapped at the border of his lips, but you let it be. This was, after all, a big improvement from the bad scenario. 

Finally, you asked, “And what’s most likely to happen?” 

Damien stopped completely still as the dead. The cogs in his mind whirred at a pace faster than you were able to keep up with. Then, he spoke slowly, “We go to the party, and we talk to the other guests. They ask us questions, but we give sensible answers, and maybe they something’s it’s a bit odd, but it’s common courtesy to not poke holes in public, so they won’t prod. We go home around eleven and sleep until the morning.” 

You smiled tenderly; Damien was a rational person with rational thought processes, it just took some coaxing to get them out of him, and coax you did. This happened often, especially for public parties, and you couldn’t count on two hands how many times you calmed him down before a speech. It gave you a sense of pride that you had this down to a T, but seeing the aftermath was all the more rewarding.

You snapped to attention when your hand was squeezed once more, this time by Damien, as he whispered, “Thank you.” 

“Happy to help.” 

And there you two sat, watching each other like the most interesting show in all of Los Angeles. For you, the sparkles in Damien’s eyes danced along, bursting and cracking with the intensity of supernovas – bright oranges and blues and purples were born and died in those masses of brown. They never ceased to amaze you. The swirling, the twinkling, the parts that played against each other to create this amazing spirally galaxy. 

But, as Damien looked in yours, he found his lungs completely empty, breathe stolen away when he stared straight at you. Confined within the color of your irises was adventure untold and affairs whispered in the darkest of nights, to the one you trusted the most. There was danger sparking bombs, bombs that exploded chambers, chambers that held reward unimaginable. He hoped – promised himself as twilight overcame the sky – that he would, one day, be the only one to lie next to you and bear witness to those stories so intricate he believed he was there himself. 

What a world that would be, huh? 

He knew it was only a dream, distant and so, so tantalizing that it pained him whenever he glanced in your direction. At the same time, he couldn’t hold back. The love and loss bound to happen if he let himself slip wasn’t something he wanted to risk, but his body forced himself to. It forced him to step one inch closer, forced him to say one more ‘goodbye’ and ‘hello’ when he saw you. It forced him to recognize that, maybe, the lie of being your fiancé was more than to protect himself.

Damien felt the bed puff up at your sudden vacancy. A confused look sent your way, which showed you looking equally so.

“What time is it?” you muttered, wandering off back to the kitchen. When you arrived, the clock showed it was barely half-past ten, seemingly giving you all the time in the world, but that was a trick. You knew it would take around an hour to get to Damien’s place, then you’d have to actually get ready for the party – shower, dry, dress –, you’d end up having dinner at his, too, because God forbid someone expect to be fed at a party. Then, there was the matter of preparing yourselves with excuses and stories and—

You leaned back into the bedroom doorway and asked, “Do we need rings?” 

Damien’s face reddened and the grip on his cane tightened so much that you thought it might snap in half. Chuckling, you smiled and moved forward to sit beside him.

“It’ll be fine,” you whispered, swinging an arm around his shoulder, “if we’re together, we can get through it.” 

You heard him audibly sigh, the breath shaky and unstable, but he trusted you. That was all you needed. 

After a few seconds, you patted him on the arm and picked up the two outfits you had selected, as well as a pair of shoes you could feasibly dance in without breaking your toes. Or Damien’s if that was to happen. 

You grabbed his hand with the free one of your own and guided him to the front door. He was quick to adjust his jacket before creaking the wood open for you. A mock bow, and you were out into the fresh air, Damien closing and locking it behind you. 

“By the way,” you asked casually as your shoes clicked against the stone path, “why were you so… disheveled?” 

“I slept in my car.”

“Of course, you did.” 

The manor was a sight to behold and, standing at the base of cobble stairs, was nothing less than intimidating. Cold air rose goosebumps on your arms despite the jacket wrapped around you, fog accumulating in front of you every time you exhaled. Multiple unsteady breaths, and you still didn’t feel better off, until your hand was grasped by Damien, who stood beside you. Sounds of wheels rolling over gravel and metal doors opening behind you fell to deaf ears when a reassuring pressure calmed your heartbeat – though, there was a constant thrum not caused by the daunting role ahead of you. 

But that was all this was, right? The role of dutiful fiancé to the mayor of Los Angeles, ready to put in a good word or story with the man. You were also the District Attorney, but, somehow, you knew that wouldn’t be the focus of tonight. 

Hand in hand, you and Damien strolled in. 

Beautiful golden chandeliers dangled overheard in the foyer, spreading a unique glow to every square inch of the floor. Two staircases intertwining at the middle lead to a second floor, while a rug that pooled where you now stood trailed up the centre towards the dining room. Everything was polished to perfection, looking as though nobody had lived here for quite some time, but that was impossible to imagine with how many people flooded the rooms. Doctors, generals, even some lawyers you remembered seeing in court decorated the edges – each one was its own piece of silver-plated furniture. 

You swallowed and held Damien’s hand a little tighter.

“Oh, my good mayor!” a voice unknown to you called from the top of the staircase. 

Now, you had never met Mrs. Harrows but, by what Damien told you, this was either her or a very good copycat. Salt and pepper hair always tied up with a satin ribbon, some long dress she was sure to trip in, and mountains upon mountains of jewelry draped across her skin – her voice was even the same as he had described, high pitched but not squawking. More like a mouse that went through puberty. 

The lady rocketed down the stairs, fast despite her age, and landed perfectly in front of Damien. A small smile cracked over his mouth, and he let out an awkward chuckle. 

“Mrs. Harrows, always a pleasure to see you,” he spoke cautiously, every word running through millions of checks and balances to get it right. 

You suddenly dreaded what you would have to deal with for the next four hours. 

Brining her hand towards Damien to occupy him, she turned her sight, instead, to you. “Hmm, and this is your lovely fiancé, is it?” she asked, looking you up and down. It was, strangely, threatening for a 5’1” old woman. 

Your cheeks were already hurting from smiling so much, but you continued to do so to placate her. The grin threatened to fall when you were reduced to only Damien’s partner, though you held strong as you replied, “You are correct, Mrs. Harrows, and thank you for inviting us.”

 “Oh, it’s my pleasure, dear. I’ve always told our mayor that he needs a strong partner to help him in his life.” 

Awkwardly, Damien chuckled at his side. If his bowtie wasn’t strung so tight, you could’ve sworn you’d see smoke billowing out like a busted machine. “Yes, well…”

Mrs. Harrows smiled at him kindly, and then turned to you, asking “Now, when did you meet?” 

“We’ve known each other since we were children,” you responded. These kinds of questions were the easy part, the part that was already real and didn’t need any sudden improvisations.  

“Young love!” the lady gasped, “When did you get engaged then?”

In your mind, you were noting down everything that could come up again, the loose info that might land you in hot water if you didn’t keep it all straight. It was a tactic you used in court, but you supposed it wouldn’t hurt to exercise it here, as well. You started, “Actually, just a month ago. We went out to the town we grew up in, saw the places we made our best memories at, and then Damien proposed to me at the restaurant we used to sneak out to.”

A mischievous gleam appeared in Mrs. Harrows’ eyes, and Damien’s nervous gulp was nearly audible. “Sneak out, eh?” she whispered, in the way old grandmother’s do when anybody paying a sliver of attention could still hear them. 

You elaborated, “Every Friday afternoon, we’d get out of our houses and go to this family-owned place a couple of blocks away. They knew us and Damien tutored their youngest kid, so we got free ice-creams or milkshakes. Chocolate and mint, huh, Dame?”

The man looked completely lost in the conversation. The focus in his expression only returned when he responded, “Uh, yeah.” And then, he went back to staring into the distance. He was surprised, and worried, about your uncanny ability to make things up out of thin air. It was something good for a lawyer, sure, but it had him blinking away the shock many times in your conversation. Shoving the end of his cane into the tile, he tried to take his mind off it. 

“But we never told our parents, so we’d always have to climb in through trees or awful sounding back doors when we went back,” you finished your story with an eyeroll.

Mrs. Harrows giggled, “I won’t tell a soul- oh, but I must ask, when did you know it was right?”

That question. It appeared to stump you, and Damien took hold of your hand to assure you that it was okay. If you wanted, he would take the reins and give his own skills a try. However, you knew that was a fool’s game, so you sucked in a breath and answered, “Hmm, it was just after a dinner party, I think, when Damien practically took my door off its hinges to get into my apartment. He was all flustered and tired, and I had just finished making some coffee, so I was finished and sitting on the couch for the night. He didn’t really say anything when he came in, but he came in and laid down, looking out of it. We didn’t talk, we didn’t do anything, we just sat together until it got to around midnight and we talked. I think… that was when I realized he was it for me.” 

Damien’s grip on your hand tightened, his back straightening and his eyes widening as he remembered just that very occasion. It could have just been you drawing inspiration, but the memory was too similar – down to, regrettably, the door and midnight you mentioned – to one that happened exactly two months ago. 

“That’s precious, dear,” Mrs. Harrows cooed, and she shot a glance over her shoulder to where her daughter was chatting with a group of her friends. “I hope my Penelope finds someone like that.”

You smiled. “I’m sure she will, Mrs. Harrows.” 

“But tell me, what do you do during the day? I’ve heard all about the mayor’s duties, what do you do?”

Finally, you were able to talk about something familiar to you! Your job, something you treasured, was vastly easier to talk about. “Ah, well, I’m the District Attorney for Los Angeles, but I’ve been in touch with the other states for work, too.” 

Her once squinted eyes and pursed lips immediately disappeared with recognition. “Oh, I’ve read about you in the paper!” Without another word, your arm was wrapped by her own and you were gone from Damien’s side before you could think to protest. 

The man watched as you disappeared into the sea of strangers, a hesitant wave ducking between two gentlemen the last that he saw of you. Not even a full half-hour in and he had lost you. His first thought was to chase after you, and his foot lifted from the tile just a centimeter until he realized that the both of you would be fine on your own, that you would be fine on your own. So, he relaxed his shoulders and focused on finding someone to talk to. It didn’t take much searching for him to locate a group of friends – or, rather, people he had shared a conversation with before. 

In fact, Mr. Ockley was holding court over four men surrounding him, telling some story about the political crisis in Germany. Damien jumped in with his own opinion of the Weimar Republic, grimaced when half of those gentlemen turned out to be against the democracy and tried to play it off with a light laugh and subject change. 

The next hour continued much like that, with the mayor jumping from group to group and attempting to play nice. His battery was wearing thin though, only made worse when the most that he saw of you was the shade of your jacket in the midst of reds and blues, or the occasional smile you sent him when you noticed each other at the same time. He coped by assuring himself that he just had to wait it out until the bell rang, which reminded him too much of your days in college for his liking, and then he’d see you at the dance. Being supposedly engaged, you’d go through the motions together. You were a team. He didn’t have to worry. 

So, despite his constant affirmations and whispers of comfort to himself, why was he? Why did he continue to worry so much? It was like a curse set wild upon him by a damned witch from his past – it shook him to his core and infested his bones. And, the worst thing, he knew exactly why but couldn’t voice it. Just once he wanted to come right out and say something. Tell you his feelings and let whatever came of it be, he didn’t want to think about it. But something always stopped him. Whether it wasn’t the right time, or someone interrupted, or the words simply got caught in his throat before he could tell you.

That he loved you. 

“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes!” 

Even in his imagination, another person had to come and ruin the moment – but he couldn’t say he didn’t expect it, after all, considering who that person was. 

Damien swiveled on his heel, cane grounding him like a third leg as he came face to face with Mark, one of his oldest friends, and, behind him, his twin sister. Celine didn’t look thrilled to be there, but he couldn’t blame her; he didn’t feel lie being there anymore either, now that disappointment and sorrow filled his heart. 

“I could’ve sworn I saw our dear little District Attorney somewhere in here, so I told Celine that you’d be here, too,” Mark stated when he was within steps of the mayor.

That seemed to pique the lady’s interest because she was quick to squint her eyes at Damien and ask, “You’re not on a date, are you?”

“Ah, well, you see—” 

“I knew they’d get together eventually; I should’ve made a bet,” Mark interrupted, as he was want to do. 

Damien tried to explain, “What happened was—” 

This time, Celine was the one to cut him off, saying, “No, I definitely would’ve said he’d bite the bullet around now.” 

“No, you misunderstand—” 

“We don’t know how long they’ve been together for, maybe it was a long time ago.” 

“But that ring, Mark, it’s clean.”

“Damien is a careful man – he wouldn’t let something so special get dirty.” 

“So, it could go either way—” 

“Excuse me!”

The two, as well as some of the people close enough to eaves-drop, stopped short of another argument. Damien felt like a child in the midst of their parents’ divorce, and, somehow, the topic of his supposed relationship had devolved into their failing marriage. Not that he would say it out loud, or in public, at the very least. He paled to think what they would be like when you two really got married. If. If he really got married. 

Damien coughed to clear the air for a second before explaining in a low tone, “I accidentally told someone that we were engaged to stop them pursuing me, that is all. We are not… we’re not really engaged.” 

There was a moment of silence for the three, the rest of the party continuing to chat amongst themselves, but, for them, it was quiet while they processed the information. Mark was the first to speak, as always, but Celine did look somewhat disappointed before she looked away. 

“Well, that’s certainly more boring.” And that was that for him. The actor wandered away into the crowd, leaving Celine behind with Damien.  

Sighing, she whispered, “You really should tell them.”

Damien’s heart plummeted for fear that his emotions were that obvious. “Tell them what?” He feigned ignorance.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Damien, don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing dumb, I…” His eyes lowered when he realized he wasn’t going to get past the woman he shared a womb with for nine months. Whatever went on in their lives was no secret to the other, like Celine’s marriage or whatever Damien had going on with one of their oldest friends. Slowly, he conceded, “I only wonder when is the right time.” 

“How so?”

“Well, we barely spend any free time together, and any we do have is often after a large social event that we both would need to unwind from. I don’t want to add to their already-heavy workload, and I fear that my feeling may be unreciprocated.” 

Celine was still, thinking through a plan, it seemed, which gave Damien more fear than running for office had. He fumbled with his cane, wringing his hands around it to find some kind of comfort without you there to help. It wasn’t until she spotted something in the distance that she grabbed her brother’s arm and tugged him out of the room. Rushing through waves of strangers and acquaintances, he could barely see where they were going. Eventually, however, after side-stepping a considerable number of shoes and elbows, they came to a stop right where the night had begun.

People gossiping against the walls – shiny decorations spread to show the Harrows’ wealth – golden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling – and, at the head of it all, the pair of staircases that led to, now, two people. Mrs. Harrows and you. 

And, by the will of God, you looked like an angel. 

The glow of gold that praised you, the sparkle in your eyes even from this distance, the impeccable confidence you held in the cross of your hands and bend of your back over the wooden banister. You looked out over this ocean, parted it with your vision like the red sea for Israel, and saw him. Because, of course, you saw him first. You always had. He didn’t know whether he wanted to run from this manor or run towards you, dip you backwards into a gentle kiss that could speak a thousand more words than he ever could hope to in your presence. 

Celine paused just below the landing, from where you waved with a grin before indulging Mrs. Harrows in more idle chatter. Damien’s shoes felt rooted to the floor when your eyes met, and he was only able to breathe again as you shifted them away. 

“Tell me, right here, right now – that you think they’d consider a relationship with you ‘work’.” 

Try as he might, Damien couldn’t, but the weight on his heart was none the lighter. There was still the glaring question of whether you thought of him like that, after all. 

“And don’t think for a second they don’t think of you like that.”

God damn it. 

“I don’t know if you’re deaf or blind or both, but you should have noticed by now how they act towards you.” 

Damien glanced, genuinely confused, towards his sister, to which she sent back a blunt look. 

“First of all,” Celine began, “there hasn’t been a day gone by that they haven’t spoken about you like you’re the end-all-be-all of the entire world. Really, it’s getting on my nerves, and you don’t even notice it! Every time I’ll go to their office, they’ll ask how you’ve been, if you need any help, and then there’s those looks they’ll send you when you’re obviously not looking. They put you on a damn pedestal.”

Damien was sure that she was still talking, but he wasn’t listening. He was too caught up in the idea that Celine might actually be telling the truth – that you really did feel the same way and there was a chance this could all go well. In fact, it could be the best thing that could’ve happened that night, because Damien hadn’t told you everything that he thought would be the best. He had kept hidden the part where you admit your feelings to each other and go for a walk around the gardens. You both knew what that meant. 

But, although it was the best outcome, he was terrified to initiate it, so he pledged to himself that when the bell chimed to begin the dance, he would take your hand and slip outside for some time in the fresh air. Lord knows he can’t dance with his leg.  

That was the plan that would be put into action mere seconds later, when a handbell was rung from the main hall. Damien immediately regretted thinking this but was swept away with the crowd before he could leave for good. You were slightly better off, and, although you lost sight of your friend, it was obvious where he was headed towards. Accompanying Mrs. Harrows, you moved toward the dance hall. 

It was a great place, stained glass windows that detailed wars and marriages lining each wall to the outside. Rows of tables sat flushed against those walls, which held bowls of fruit and pastries too beautiful to be eaten. It felt disgraceful, sinful, even, to be in there with such glorious views, but nobody had much choice in the matter. People would match up soon enough, Mrs. Harrows looking over her guests and making sure their needs were met. The two of your parted when she left to ask after a bachelor for her daughter – this wasn’t an assumption, she told you this as she left your side. After wishing her good luck, you went to find your own man, whose tailcoat you saw between a group of people. 

It was tough to make your way through, but you managed it, if only to see the way Damien’s eyes lit up when he caught sight of you. He fought against the tide to fall in step beside you, and he took your arm in a classic gentlemanly fashion. You ended your little journey by one of the walls, both happy to be together again after the whole night spent apart. Still, it was quiet between you two, flanked by the sound of dress-shoes tapping against the floor and the swishing of dress fabrics. 

“So, you spoke to Mrs. Harrows,” Damien started plainly. Inwardly, he berated himself for going back on his plan, but you were none the wiser as you leaned against the brick. 

You nodded and replied, “Yeah, she talked by ear off about her late-husband and kids. I’m surprised I haven’t gone deaf yet.”

Damien laughed, the sound reverberating in his chest and flowing like a river into the air. Such a pleasant sound had you chuckling alongside him. “That sounds like Mrs. Harrows, though I’ve never heard her mention a husband.” 

“I think she murdered him.” 

“Like I said.” 

The laughter trailed off into the crowds, which left you watching the dancing couples with faint interest and Damien starting to sweat. Was now a good time to ask to leave? Or would you think he was getting bored and wanted to leave the manor entirely? Good Lord, he hated this, why couldn’t he just invite you out for a normal date, like a normal guy with a normal love. No, he had to be dramatic and start out a possible relationship with lying to the masses about already being engaged, because he was dramatic, and a liar, and, worst of all, a coward—

“Do you want to take a walk?” 

But you weren’t. Your words infested his brain and took control of his like some parasite. It made him malleable and suggestable while you waited for an answer. When you hadn’t received one in five whole seconds – which, really, wasn’t as long as it felt with bated breath and a rushing heartbeat – you shrugged it off and offered, “Or, we can stay here and watch people dance. Your choice.” 

“I’d like to leave.” That was not how he wanted it to come out, but the words had left before Damien became aware of what he was doing. 

You were startled by his abruptness, leaving you to mutter barely loud enough, “Oh, uh, okay. It’s not eleven yet, but I’m sure we could get a car.” You were disappointed, but you were here for him, so you stood up straight and began the way out of the hall. 

Damien was quick to grab your hand, holding it like his life depended on it. You retraced your steps and sent him a confused look, to which he cleared his throat and spoke, “I meant, yes. Yes, I would like to take a walk.” 

And again, you smiled! Completely disregarding his mistake and pretending like it had never happened in the first place. He was surprised your cheeks weren’t hurting with how much you were stretching them, but you continued to do so – shoot everybody who waved at you or called your name a grin – until the two of you were safely out of the back doors. 

The air was crisp and fresh, you noticed as soon as your foot crossed the threshold. The garden was as beautiful as the dance hall, more so, even, because every inch was covered with greenery or natural effects. The gravel underneath your shoes was intertwined with stray leaves and chestnuts from the trees above, and the paths were lined with bushes of a variety of flowers. It almost looked artificial, with how perfectly placed the roses were in mossy shrubs. They winded towards a silver fountain in the centre, but that was awhile away with how sprawling the garden was. 

You seemed to be the only couple out there, and you liked it better that way. Damien did too, because it meant that he could forget social norms and the fake engagement and worry only on what was right in front of him. You, and the cacophony of fluttering butterflies you let loose in his stomach. 

You tugged your friend by the hand and started to wander along, listening to the faint cheer of the band and the crunch of gravel. 

Content to stay quiet, you inspected the surroundings, not noticing Damien’s moving mouth. No words were coming out yet, his nerves strangling any attempt to make a sentence, until he eventually whispered, “I ran into Celine and Mark.”

You hummed. “How’re they holding up?”

“Well, Mark left when I told him we weren’t really engaged, but Celine… she stuck around.” He wasn’t about to tell you what happened with her, but it was a topic of conversation he had chosen, so he had to reap the reward. Hands twisting around his cane, he spoke, “I guess, we talked about love.” 

“Did she tell you about Will?” 

“What?”

“Nothing.” 

You grimaced, hoping he wouldn’t prod further into what you knew about the affair, and he didn’t, luckily. Instead, he continued, “It made me think about what I really want, and how I’d like to go about, well, getting it.” 

There, you stopped at the edge of the water fountain. The faint trickle of water soothed you when you looked back to Damien. In the dark, it was hard to see, but his cheeks were painted red, and his breathing was catching up to him. 

“You’ve already got the whole of L.A at your fingertips, what could you ever want?” you asked, both teasing and genuinely interested. 

He was struggling for the words, the confusion getting near painful now that he was seconds away from blurting it out. “You see, I know what I want, I just don’t know how to ask.” 

You stood still for a moment and let the scenarios rush through your head. If you were right, and it was likely, then you knew exactly what he meant. You swallowed, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Of course.” 

“Then, I think I can help you.” 

He watched with eager eyes as you turned to him, your entire body matched with his. “You just have to look them straight in the eye and do it. Don’t think, don’t worry, just do it, or say it.” 

“You say that as if it’s easy.”

“It’s not. I know, because, if it were, I would’ve done it months ago.” 

There was a determination in his eyes that was revealed in the next few seconds, as if he had received blinding confirmation. A surefire confidence you had never seen before. You would’ve asked what that was, but you found yourself unable to speak for the moment; lips bound by Damien’s, you were sure those fireworks and flames were real. Every sense was enraptured – his woody cologne, your hands lightly brushing his lapels, bursting notes deafened by those brick walls, your mouths moving in unison. You couldn’t help the smile that broke the kiss momentarily, but your date was back again with a smile of his own. It was warm and sweet, contrasting the fresh air around you and it had you leaning in so far you were worried you would topple over

Still, when you formally separated, the glint in his eyes told you all you needed to know. 

“Do you want to do this again sometime?”

You laughed that glorious, genuine laugh, and laid another, this time shorter but just as sweet, kiss on his parted lips. 

“Sure.” 

[fictionalsownme]

the feminine urge to write damien x district attorney from their days back at university (silent yearning, a drunken kiss they both pretend to not remember, confiding in each other & taking care of each other in small ways no one else would notice) but knowing it would all end in tragedy anyway