#the picture of damien gray

[theladyofshalott1989]

trick or treat!! happy halloween 🎃 ✨🎃

Happy Halloween!!!

I love to put epigraphs at the beginning of my fics. Here’s some of the quotes I considered for the different parts of “You Cannot Put a Fire Out,”but that I ultimately didn’t end up using because they didn’t quite fit the right ~vibes~.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

all you have is your fire

Ao3 | 10k Words | Damien's POV

Damien had thought about falling asleep in Huxley’s arms many, many times, but never like this. Bleeding profusely from three, several foot long lacerations spanning from the edges of his jaw to the middle of his chest, barely conscious, listening to Hux breathe raggedly around the edges of panic and exhaustion. And Lasko was definitely never involved.

___

After the Inversion, Damien goes home. He tries to hold it all together. Instead, everything falls apart.

Huxley helps. Sofia makes everything worse.

TW: Inversion, scars, OCD, compulsive behavior, sleep deprivation, disordered eating, weight loss, abusive parent, emotional distress, internalized homophobia, homophobic slurs (used against oneself)

Damien had thought about falling asleep in Huxley’s arms many, many times, but never like this. Bleeding profusely from three, several foot long lacerations spanning from the edges of his jaw to the middle of his chest, barely conscious, listening to Hux breathe raggedly around the edges of panic and exhaustion. And Lasko was definitely never involved. 

But eventually, he did fall asleep. Well, maybe he passed out, but that was just semantics. The point was, when he closed his eyes, his nose was pressed into the junction of Huxley’s neck and shoulder, breathing in the scent of his sweat and fear and that earthy, subtle cologne that Damien could never quite place. And when he woke up, he was laid out in a scratchy, uncomfortable hospital bed, his skin stiff and dry from rubbing alcohol and slap stick, messy healing. 

Oh, and the loudest snoring he’d ever heard was setting off ringing in his right ear. 

“We’re going on hour three, now.” 

“Mother,” Damien couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. His voice was thick and lazy on his tongue. “You flew back out?” She was sitting to his left, clad in a pressed, maroon suit. She looked for all the world to be perfectly put together, except that her bangs were mussed across her forehead. Except that there was a crease between her eyebrows that he had only seen in elementary school when he had fallen off of the monkey bars at the playground and broke his humorous clean in half. 

The silhouette of calm was there, but the details were off, and his mother was nothing if not detail-oriented. 

She was worried. Very worried. 

“My boy was trapped in a bubble with a bunch of monsters.” She shrugged and smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt. “I took the first flight back.” 

“Is it bad?” He asked softly. He pressed his hand to his chest. There wasn’t any gauze, no bandages, just a stiff hospital gown. He didn’t dare crane his neck to see, didn’t try to assess the damage himself. He felt small and scared. 

“Healing magic is incredible stuff.” His mom tapped her phone impatiently, clearing a few text notifications from her lockscreen. It was a picture of the two of them from his high school graduation. “But you were badly cut.” 

“Clawed,” He corrected. “Never thought I’d get clawed by something.” 

“Yes, well,” his mom smiled softly, “my point stands. The… lacerations were deep and long. They healed the majority of the damage as soon as you got here, but you lost a good amount of blood, and you’ll need some more healing to mitigate the scarring.”

“I don’t care about the scaring.” He replied. If he had said that sentence a day ago, it would have been a lie. But it wasn’t. Not now. There was too much running rampant like smokey monsters in his mind to care about scars. He turned his head and caught sight of Huxley, his large frame pressed into a compact hospital recliner. He looked to have cleaned the dust and blood from his face. Somebody had given him a new t-shirt, and the gray fabric stretched snugly against his crossed arms. His forearms were scraped where they mostly covered the D.A.M.N. HEALING HONORS SOCIETY logo across his chest. He was still wearing the pants to his E&E Games tracksuit. Damien could see where the black material had gone stiff and dark with blood. 

“He’s loud.” His mother said, shifting in her seat. “And he hovers like a lost puppy.” 

“Leave him alone.” He replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s perfect.” 

“Hmm.” She hummed, inspecting her fingernails. Damien could tell before she opened her mouth that she was about to say something sharp and painful. He held his breath and braced for impact. “He’s leaving.” She said. “Going home. His mothers called while you were being stitched back together. So don’t get too used to the noise.” 

His heart stuttered a bit in his chest. Every time he looked away, Damien felt his nerves alight and begin to search for Huxley’s aura. He couldn’t imagine what he would do if Huxley left, how his panic would drive him insane. Huxley had been right there, at his back when he needed him since they’d met. He’d been there for the hours and days and years that they were trapped in that ward. Damien couldn’t bear to imagine him missing, couldn’t imagine the ringing left in his eardrums once it all went quiet. 

“He’ll come back.” Damein replied easily. His mother sighed and stood, brushing her hair back. 

“They said you could leave this afternoon. You’ll come home.” 

Damien knew better than to argue with his mother, not when he was stuck in an incredibly flammable bed in a room with an oxygen machine. He’d break the news to her later. There was no chance in hell she’d get him away from Dahlia without physically dragging him, and that was much too undignified for her. 

He stopped listening after that, and eventually his mother claimed that she was going to speak to a healer or consult a nurse or something. It was just an excuse to escape the heavy tension in the room. Damein stared at Huxley’s twitching form until his eyes were too heavy to keep open. He hadn’t stopped snoring, even as the room’s temperature rose a few degrees. Damien was grateful for the noise. Eventually, it lulled him into an uneven, dreamless sleep.

Huxley was gone when he woke. 

__

It was Huxley who called in the end, a week and some change after Damien had been discharged and three days after he’d finally gotten his mother to leave town. He had thought about it plenty of times, sure. He’d hovered his thumb over Huxley’s contact a dozen times since he’d been left alone with his thoughts, but he never went through with it. He couldn’t bear to. He couldn’t bear to break the tenuous silence that had overtaken his apartment. 

But Huxley did. Damien was sat on the floor of his living room when he felt his phone vibrating. He hadn’t gotten himself to sit on the couch since his mother left. He couldn’t get into bed. He couldn’t use his kitchen, couldn’t dirty a cup. Mother had left the place spotless. She had him scrubbing the floors a day after his chest was opened up by a creature from Death. After she’d gone, he couldn’t disturb the perfection she left behind. 

Huxley’s contact photo filled up his screen. It was a poorly taken selfie of the two of them walking home from the gym late one night. Damien’s stress-induced insomnia was almost always cured by a work out session at the twenty-four hour gym near Huxley’s apartment building. He didn’t always tell Hux he was going, but he when he did, Hux would drag himself out of bed at ungodly hours just to keep Damien company. Huxley always insisted on walking Damien back to his own place, seven blocks in the opposite direction. The photo was blurry and dark, and Hux had this huge, lopsided grin on his face that made Damien’s chest ache. His own brow was pinched in frustration as he tried to swipe his phone back. Huxley was so much taller than him. 

He answered before he had time to really consider what he was going to say. He’d been rehearsing an angry rant in the mirror for a few days now. It was full of ‘how dare you’s and ‘you disappear after everything’s, but now that he was faced with actually saying any of it, the words died in his mouth. 

They had been through an ordeal. Hux wanted to leave? That was fine. He was entitled to see his moms. He was entitled to crawl home after being beaten into the ground. He was entitled to mourn, to wail, to hurt. 

Damien couldn’t find it in himself to deny him that. Not even at the expense of his own peace.

He was angry. He could feel the heat coming off of his cheek where his fingers curled around his phone. In any other scenario, he would have been ranting by now. If it were anybody else, the bridge would be burning at his back in a moment. But this was Huxley. 

“Hey,” Hux’s voice came through the speaker softly, deeper than Damien remembered it. He’d only been gone a week and Damien was already sick of the silence he left behind. He sounded so tired. 

“Hey,” Damein replied. The anger extinguished in his chest. 

__

Huxley came home two weeks later. Damien was waiting at the airport with a ride. In the almost month that he’d been gone, Huxley’s student housing had lapsed and he hadn’t been sure he was coming back. That meant that he had no apartment, his shit was crammed into a teammate’s tiny dorm, and he had no real plans for what to do next. 

And that meant, of course, that he’d be crashing with Damein until he figured it all out.

Huxley looked smaller than he had before as he dropped his bags in a heap on Damein’s living room floor. He heaved out a heavy sigh and massaged his hand into the tense plane of his shoulders. Damien couldn’t help but stare at the line of his throat as it bobbed with his voice. 

“Your apartment is so clean.” He breathed out a half-hearted laugh. 

“Yeah,” Damein said softly. “My… my mother was in town.” Huxley looked around the room carefully. 

“Yeah like… three weeks ago.” 

Damien cocked his head to the side and followed Huxley’s gaze around the room. He’d been eating food straight out of the box or from styrofoam take out containers, so there were no dishes in his sink. He’d scrubbed that thing out until his fingers ached. He’d been taking showers at the gym so all of the bottles were still perfectly arranged where his mother had left them. The sheets on his bed were still creased precisely in her military folds. 

“Dude,” Huxley said. His big hand landed gently on Damien’s shoulder. There was plenty of room for him to step out of the touch. His instinct screamed at him to back off, to get away from the contact, but he was starkly aware of the fact that he didn’t want to. His muscle memory was warring with what he wanted, what he needed. He leaned into the touch despite himself. “Take a load off. This is your home, right?” 

Over the course of the next week, Damien came to the horrible realization that Huxley was messy. Not dirty, not disgusting. He cleaned his dishes and didn’t leave dirty clothes on the ground. Maybe messy wasn’t the right word. He… took up space. He spread out on the couch, moved the pillows, tossed the throw blankets over his legs when he got cold. 

Damien was probably being anal retentive, but every time he watched Huxley exist in his space, something in his chest sparked to start a fight. He didn’t. He swallowed down the smoke that bubbled up in his throat and didn’t let it spill out. 

Hux talked every second that he could, filled in the dead space. He sang little songs, snippets of verses that he didn’t remember correctly. Damien woke one morning, not sure when he’d gone to sleep, to Hux’s voice, low and tone deaf. 

“All you have is your fire…” 

__

When he did sleep, Damien slept on the floor. His bed was a king, large enough to comfortably accommodate him, and as soft and luxurious as a bed could be. He had reveled in it before the games, kept a precise sleeping schedule, enjoyed the occasional lazy morning in his heavenly, light sheets and breathable blankets. It was one of his favorite things. 

Once the healing magic wore off, every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was swaths of shadowy figures, razor sharp claws, breathy screams and moans filling up every inch of space in his head. So he slept as little as possible. 

His bed was too soft. It was too comfortable. It was so warm and soft around him. He couldn’t help but sleep when he laid down. At least on the floor, with the hardwood cold and digging into his hip and shoulder, his sleep was shallow and tenuous. 

Huxley was there for nearly two weeks before Damien’s body finally caught up with him. He’d managed to get by on a handful of hours a night if that, always startling awake before the sun rose. Huxley somehow slept like a log, legs hanging over the arm of his couch, snores loud enough to shake the whole fucking apartment. It must have been the noise, Damien thought, that helped him sleep. His place had been so quiet before Huxley got home. Now that he was close again, now that Damien’s body knew that he was there no matter the time of day or night, it couldn’t help but relax. 

He laid down, back cracking and sore, on the hardwood of his bedroom floor. He didn’t bother with a blanket or pillow despite the chill outside. January had come on fast and the cold hadn’t let up since the Moonbound Solstice. He couldn’t feel it anymore, not really, not like he had that night. The edges of it crept up on him sometimes when he wasn’t paying attention, curling around his toes and fingers, the tips of his ears and nose. 

His eyes were so heavy. He intended to stretch his back out before finishing up the last of the paperwork he needed to apply to his summer internships. He was sure to be offered more than one, most certainly the position in his mother’s office. He was a week ahead of the deadline, but if he didn’t get it all turned in soon, she would start calling him about it. He thought that if he had to listen to her lecture about the Rhone name being dragged through the mud by his late application, he would actually blow a fuse. He squeezed his eyes shut, frustration and heat flaring up in his chest when he thought about her. 

He opened his eyes and Huxley was hovering over him, big, warm hands framing Damien’s face, his voice high and tense with concern. 

“Hey,” he said softly, “hey, easy, easy, you’re okay! You’re okay!” 

“What-” he realized his voice was raw as he tried to speak. He sat up too quickly, his head spinning. Fuck, he was exhausted. It was dark out. Did he fall asleep? Or was Huxley just crazy fast and quiet? 

“You’re okay,” Huxley said again, his hands still hovering over Damien as he shifted. Damien noted, somewhere in his foggy brain, that Huxley slept shirtless, even when it was cold. He wanted to curl up in that chest again, to fall asleep in his arms. 

His mother’s voice sounded in the back of his mind; fag. 

“It was just a dream, dude.” Huxley said. He was talking low, his voice intentionally quiet, like Damien was a wounded animal he was trying desperately not to spook. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

“I know that.” Damien snapped. He ran his fingers through his mused hair, pushed it out of his face. “I’m… I’m fine, Hux. I didn’t even realize I fell asleep. I’m sorry I woke you.” 

Huxley stared at him for a moment, his face pinched in something like confusion. 

“You were screaming.” Huxley said softly. “Screaming for me. I thought… I don’t know. I guess I thought you were dying.” 

Damien didn’t know what the fuck to say to that. 

__

Huxley made waffles the next moring, and they were fucking delicious. Damien didn’t make a habit of eating shit like waffles, of course. Too much sugar, and he did his best to stay away from carbs as often as possible. But when Damien emerged from his room the next morning, there was a plate stacked high with homemade waffles waiting for him. They were topped with powdered sugar and fresh fruit and Hux had found his seldom used gravy boat to serve some brand new, store bought syrup out of. How cute. 

“I thought we could use a little pick-me-up.” Huxley smiled. Damien hated when he did that, said we when he meant you. He swallowed his protests as Huxley trucked food over to the breakfast nook that only seated two. He placed a cup in front of Damien as he sat, too big for his chair. 

“Is this…”

“I went down to that little coffee place Lasko likes.” Huxley admitted it like a secret, blushing handsomely as he looked away. Damien took a tentative sip from the little recyclable paper straw sticking out of the plastic take-out cup. He nearly melted at the taste. 

“You remembered my order?” He asked. 

“Well, yeah.” Huxley smiled gently. “I wrote it down in my phone.” 

Damien ate his waffles. They were fucking good. They filled in a hole he didn’t know was sitting in his gut. He hadn’t exactly been eating all that much since the games, given that nearly everything made him nauseous. Not this, though. This just made him feel… warm. 

He cleaned up. Huxley was a messy person and an even messier cook. He offered to clean up after himself, but Damien insisted. It didn’t feel polite to make him do all the work when he’d made Damien such a nice breakfast.

He washed each plate three times. Three felt good. Three felt safe. 

He scrubbed the counter with a sponge and soap to make sure any flour or batter was really gone from the dark marble surface. But then he began to worry about bacteria in the sponge. It was new and it didn’t smell, but he couldn’t be sure. He tossed the sponge and grabbed a sanitizing wipe from under the sink. Then he worried about bleach or whatever the fuck chemicals they put in those things getting on his cutting board or in his food. He was halfway through wetting a paper towel to wipe down the counter for the third time- three felt good, three felt safe- when Huxley interrupted him. 

“Hey Dames,” he said, and fuck, he could hear that nickname roll off of Huxley’s lips a million times and not grow tired of it, “want to go… like do something? Like um… what about a bookstore?” 

“A bookstore?” Damien parroted back. “Do you… do you like bookstores?” 

“I mean…” Huxley laughed, “I don’t know. I’m not like… one hundred percent sure I’ve ever been in one.” 

“Well I’m not dragging you around to bookstores just for my benefit.” 

“We can do something else.” Huxley said in a hurry. “Just… I don’t know. I’d love to get out of the apartment for a little bit. Spend some time with you.” 

Damien swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

“Let’s go for a run.” He said softly. 

__

Damien ran in this park nearly every day. It was quiet, especially in the early morning, tucked away from the roads and only accessible on foot. A paved running track circled a man-made pond, surrounded on three sides by a tree line meant to mimic the natural world, but just this side of too-thin to do so. It was cold out, and the early morning sun hadn’t yet melted the frost that consumed the browned grass surrounding the lake. Steam seemed to rise off of Damien’s exposed shoulders, what used to be a too-tight compression tank top falling a bit looser around his chest and stomach. He tried not to think about it. The cold crept in around him, phantom sensation biting at his exposed skin. 

It wasn’t real. He didn’t feel the cold. If he did, there was something very wrong with him. There was nothing wrong with him. 

Huxley was faster than Damien expected him to be. As big as Huxley was (and he was big, a fact that Damien’s brain couldn't seem to get away from in its current state), he didn’t sacrifice mobility for strength. That much Damien knew already, of course. He’d been pulled along, their hands latched together in a vice grip, across the whole of the E&E field. He had been shocked then by how quickly Huxley could move, but chalked it up to adrenaline. As they jogged down the paved path that wound through the park, though, he found that it was not a fluke.

Damien wasn’t slow. He reveled in cardio. He loved running. It wrung him free of the constant shake in his muscles, set a burn under his skin that he didn’t have to try and control. He had participated in a few 5k’s since moving to Dahlia, and finished in second in one of them. He was no slouch. He took his hobbies just as seriously as he took everything else. 

So it surprised him when Huxley easily outpaced him, his stride half-jog and his breath easy, while Damien struggled to maintain his unsteady trot. The lack of sleep was catching up to him. Everything seemed too difficult, every movement of his body too strenuous. He was so tired that he could likely lay down in the frosted, early morning grass and sleep while the sun rose and set. It would warm him, at least. He was so fucking cold. 

There was nothing wrong with him.

There was nothing wrong with him. 

There was nothing wrong with him. 

Threes felt good. Threes felt safe. 

He hadn’t realized that Huxley stopped until he ran face first into him. Hux let out a panicked little sound and wrapped a steady arm around Damien’s waist as he stumbled, planting his hands firmly on Hux’s chest. He flushed, stepping back. Hux’s touch went with him, big fucking hands wrapping around his hips. 

“Easy,” Hux said softly, “sorry, dude, I didn’t mean to stop so fast.” 

“No, fuck,” Damien shook his head, his palms still burning with the feeling of Huxley’s chest. Pervert, his mother’s voice accused. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” 

Huxley’s hands flexed on his hips, those wide, soft eyes flicking over his form before retreating. Hux managed a smile when he looked up and met Damien’s eyes. 

“Are you… cold?” He asked softly. Damien drew his arms up around himself, defensively tried to block him out. “It’s just… you’re shaking, dude.” 

“I’m fine.” Damien snapped, suddenly defensive. “I can’t get cold. Fire elemental.” 

“Right.” Hux nodded, his face still plainly concerned. It made Damien nauseous to watch the crease form between his brows. 

“What made you stop, anyway?” Damien huffed, desperate to change the subject. 

“Oh,” Huxley’s face split into an overt grin. He was distracted, it seemed, from whatever had bothered him about touching Damien in the first place. It was his heat, Damien knew it. Nobody touched him for long, not unless they were a fire too. He made people sweat. He had burned people before. He could hardly blame Huxley for staying away. “I heard a bird call. A red-winged blackbird.” 

Damien cocked his head as Hux paused, pointing towards the underbrush of the scant tree line. He waited, holding his breath, as the sounds of the birds and small animals around them washed over him. He’d never once stopped a run to listen to the birds. 

Then, a shrill, shrieking call rang across the early morning air, like a disk scratching in the middle of a song. A pause, then another call. Finally, the underbrush rustled, and a small, black body erupted from the cover. Damien watched, eyes wide, and caught a flash of red as its wings fluttered frantically, carrying it over the trees and away from the park.

Huxley sighed and Damien’s gaze drifted back to him immediately. His face was some strange mixture of fondness and grief that Damien couldn’t put a name to. 

“My Mama loves bird watching.” He said after another moment of quiet and birdsongs. “There aren’t a ton of birds that live back home and in Dahlia. So when I hear a red winged blackbird… I don’t know. I just think about home, I guess.” 

They finished their run. It took him longer than usual to complete a lap of the pond, but he forced himself to do another. Huxley kept pace with him the whole time. 

__

“I don’t know what to tell you, Mother.” Damien sighed, his phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear. 

“Nobody knows what’s going on in that class besides you and your professor.” Sofia snarled. Damien could almost feel the heat radiating off of her through the phone. “So do I need to reach out to Richard and find out that way?”

His fourth and final English credit was set out to be Historical Texts from the Empowered World, a class he’d been fighting tooth and nail to get into since his first semester at D.A.M.N.. It was a coveted seminar, one that only fifteen students a semester were able to attend. He’d been lucky enough to snag his seat within the first five minutes of enrollment being open thanks to Lasko’s efforts. Now, four weeks into the semester, he was eeking by with a seventy-six percent. It was the worst grade he’d ever received in a class. 

His mother found out, although he wasn’t sure how. She’d called him at three in morning, either unaware of the time difference from wherever the fuck she was or too concerned about the first C he’d received in his seventeen years of schooling. 

“Do not call him.” Damien snapped, louder than he intended. Huxley was sleeping in the living room. He didn’t want to wake him. Damien opened the door to his ensuite bathroom once, twice, three times before stepping in, stepping out, stepping in again. Even in the darkness, he could see how drawn and exhausted his face was. He hadn’t been sleeping when she called. “I’ve got it under control. There’s no need to bother him.” 

“Are you skipping class? Are you not doing the work?” 

“Mother, I have it under control!” He snapped, bending over to rest his forehead on the cool porcelain of his sink. He felt so hot all of a sudden. 

“Do not take that tone with me, Damien Rhone!” His mother replied in precisely the same tone. He was his mother’s child, after all. “Every day when you step out into the world, you represent me! You use my name, my reputation! You won’t tarnish it at my alma mater!” 

“Jesus Christ,” Damien shouted, his volume rising without his permission. “It’s one fucking C, Mother, I think your reputation will survive!” 

Silence from the other end of the line. He thought that maybe he’d managed to strike Sofia Rhone silent for the first time in her life. 

When he pulled his phone back from his face, melted plastic, metal, and glass stuck in his hair and against his skin. He’d gotten so hot he’d melted his phone. 

“Fuck!” He cried, prying his fingers off of the hunk of metal as he started to process the alien feeling of burn across his skin. What was left of his phone clattered into his sink, smoking and smelling of an electrical fire. He didn’t know if he should turn on the faucet or not, if that would help or just make it worse. There was a knock at the bathroom door. 

He couldn’t hide this from Huxley. He couldn’t slip out now, make it to the free clinic that D.A.M.N. ran and back before he woke up. Damien didn’t even know exactly what they would do for this, just that he knew he couldn’t fix this on his own. Huxley was awake. He was talking softly on the other side of the door, cooing sweetly about being there if he needed to talk. Damien touched the doorknob once, twice, three times before turning it and letting Hux in. 

Huxley's face twisted with horror as he took Damien in. He probably looked like a mess. 

“Dames,” Hux breathed, stepping closer, taking the uninjured side of Damien’s face in one big hand. He must have been unbearable to touch at the moment. A fine sweat had broken out over Huxley’s body. Fuck, he slept shirtless. Damien could see so much of his skin, rippling and wet and covered in pretty, floral tattoos (fag, fag, fag). He blinked hard, his fingers shaking. 

“I got too hot.” He said simply, his voice raw. “My mother…” he didn’t know how to explain it to Huxley. She made him angrier than anybody else on the planet. She was his favorite person alive. He wanted to strangle her. He would kill somebody if she asked him. She had narrowed his life down to be exactly what she wanted. She had put the whole world in front of him, ripe for the taking. 

“It’s okay.” Huxley said with such certainty that it must have been true. “It’s gonna be okay.” He wrapped an arm around Damien’s shoulders, his big hand circling Damien’s wrist like it was nothing, keeping his injured hand steady. “Come on. I’ll take care of you.”

__ 

“Have you ever had a burn debridement before?” The healer asked, tucking her hair up into a tight bun before bending over to get a close look at his face. 

“I’ve never had a burn before.” Damien said softly. “I didn’t know this could happen.” 

The clinic was freezing. That was all Damien could think about. His anger had fizzled out and his heat went with it. He was propped up on the paper-covered exam table, sat with his legs dangling over the side. He couldn’t lay down. He hurt too much to stay still. Huxley was sat in one of the tiny guest chairs in the clinic, clad only in a sinfully tight tee-shirt and pajama pants, having relinquished the giant hoodie he’d thrown on on the way out of the door when Damien started shivering. He was bent over, his elbows on his knees, watching every movement the healer made like a hawk. Damien had never seen him look this serious. 

Well… that wasn’t exactly true. 

“Never?” The healer asked, her face screwing up in confusion. She turned to her computer and read through his chart quickly. “Oh… you’re a fire elemental?” She asked. 

“Obviously.” Damien snapped, gripping his wrist tightly in his uninjured hand. Pain pulsed up his arm in time with his heartbeat, pushing out the sense and good manners that his mother had taught him. “How else would this have happened?” 

“Dames,” Hux admonished. Damien risked a look across at him through his lashes, and shame burned across his skin. He was being a monster. 

“I’m sorry.” The healer soothed, her tone changing in an instant. “I’m not great with auras. And your temperature is only ninety-nine point eight.” 

“That’s like… a fever, right?” Huxley said softly, turning to the healer. He gave her a soft smile, easing the burn of Damien’s fucking attitude. 

“For most people, yes.” The healer nodded. “But for a fire elemental…” 

“I usually run around one-oh-six.” Damein sighed, fighting not to stretch out his injured hand. He was itching to move it, to try and dislodge the hunk of metal that had fused with his skin. 

“So we’re definitely dealing with more than a fluctuating core, which is usually what causes this sort of accident.” The healer confirmed. “First thing’s first, though, we’re going to deal with the debris and the burns.” 

It was excruciating. It was a cycle of him trying to concentrate his heat in one area, loosening the material enough that it wouldn’t rip his skin off to remove. The heat tore through the injuries, leaving him in a cold sweat after every round. Huxley had abandoned his seat and wrapped one heavy arm around Damien’s shoulders, staying on his good side to give the healer space. When it got to be too much, Damien turned his face and pressed it hard into Huxley’s chest, puffed out his breath in panicked gasps, trying to hold himself together. 

He managed to melt off the large chunk of metal that had hardened the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger. The glass fused to his fingertips was harder, and though it peeled off his fingerprints, he managed it. 

She healed as they went, only taking long enough to run saline solution over each burn before pulsing magic into him with a brush of her gloved fingers. As the healing magic ran its course through him, and as his delicate control became harder and harder to maintain, a familiar chill ran up his body. He let out an embarrassing sound, leaning further into Huxley’s warmth as he began to shake. 

“What’s happening?” Huxley asked, his hand coming up to rest on Damien’s neck. Fuck, he could die right here, Huxley’s hands on him, warm and big and rough. 

“His temperature just dropped.” The healer huffed. “His core is tapped. I thought… well, I suppose it makes sense. His body isn’t used to being this cold. Let’s lay him down-” 

They kept talking, voices intermingling. Damien could feel Huxley touching him, could trace the brush of his aura as it smothered out every other magical trace in the room. His vision blackened and swam, but he held on to that touch, that magic, until everything around him faded away. 

__

“It wouldn’t impact you academically.” Lasko said, flicking through a form on his laptop before turning it on the coffee table to face Damien. “And your tuition would be returned for this sem-m-mester.” Damien watched as his mouth curled around the sound, his eyes flicking up in his struggle to vocalize it. ‘Mmm’ sounds were the hardest on him.

He used to get so impatient with Lasko’s stutter. It had certainly gotten less frequent around him as of late. Lasko’s was the type that was made much worse by stress, and Damien didn’t really stress him out that much anymore. He had also stopped sighing and tutting and interrupting Lasko when he was trying to say something. That probably helped. 

“I don’t need a semester off.” He sneered, his cold fingers tapping together as he fought the shivers that ran through him. “I need to just… refocus. I’ll be fine.” 

“You need rest.” Lasko corrected. That was the only downside of not stressing Lasko out so much anymore; he had a spine when it came to Damien now. “You need to recover. Chronic MDS isn’t something to fuck around about, Damien.” 

“I don’t have chronic MDS.” He said. “I had a bad night. I’m fine.” 

“Your ear is m-m-mangled!”

Damien liked it when Lasko stuttered in threes. Threes were good. Threes were safe. 

“I’m fine.” He said, and then it burst up and out of him again, a compulsion. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” 

“You’re not.” Lasko’s voice got quiet. “I’m worried about you.” 

“Please leave.” Damien didn’t yell. He didn’t have it in him. 

The healer had managed to get the rest of his destroyed phone out of his skin, but a good portion of his right ear came off with it. He had been assured that, with a few healing sessions, it would look more or less normal, even if he didn’t have sensation in the cartilage. He hadn’t gone back to see her in the week that had passed, hadn’t gone to see the specialist that she referred him to either. Huxley had taken him home that night, sat him down on the couch, and he’d barely gotten up since. 

Lasko stared at him from his place in Damien’s decorative armchair, his face twisted up. 

“I won’t abandon you, Damien.” He said simply. 

He got a new phone. His mother called incessantly. The grades in the rest of his classes plummeted. He didn’t leave the apartment for three weeks. 

___

There was a knock at his door in the early hours of the morning. Huxley was curled up on the floor next to the couch, sleeping with his face in the plush area rug like he had for the last three weeks. Huxley hardly ever left Damien’s side, only leaving the apartment for class and practice. As soon as he was home, he was sitting close to Damien, letting him huddle in for warmth. He made Damien stretch out at night, move from his position curled in on himself, and try to sleep. He rarely did. 

There was a knock at his door in the early hours of the morning, and Damien wasn’t sleeping. He jerked at the sound of it, a rhythmic one-two-three-four. Something in his gut twisted at the number. That wasn’t right. Whoever was out there was not safe. If they were safe, they would have knocked three times. 

The knock sounded again, one-two-three-four, and Damien rose from the couch, stepping around Hux’s sleeping form as he went. He was wrapped in one of Huxley’s gigantic team sweatshirts, his sweatpants hanging loosely from his waist. He hadn’t washed his hair in a few days. He probably looked like a mess. 

He unlocked the deadbolt, locked it again, unlocked it. 

“Mother,” he breathed, the coil of dread in his stomach releasing. She was dressed in her usual fare, a navy pant suit, her well-kept leather briefcase under one arm. She must have been in town for a meeting. 

“What in the fuck is this?” She shoved her phone in his face, his student portal open and displaying his B-C average. His breath stuttered. He had an eighty-three in Mastery of Fire-Elementalism. 

“Did you… how did you sign in to my portal?” He asked. It was the only thing he could think to ask. His mind was slow, syrupy, unsure. That was a password protected database that only he was meant to be able to access. He was twenty-five-years-old. 

“An eighty-three in Fire?” Sofia shouted, her face bright red. He could feel the heat wafting off of her. “Are you insane? Are you dying? Because I can’t think of a single other reason that my son would have less than a perfect grade in that class!” 

“Mother-” he tried to interrupt her as she pushed past him, her clothed shoulder still too hot against his. 

“I wrote the curriculum, Damien! You’ve been doing those exercises since you were thirteen! That was meant to be your easy A for the semester, and you’re flunking it!” 

“It’s a B, Mother, I’m not flunking it.” He flicked on the table lamp next to the couch and then bent to shake Huxley’s shoulder. The asshole could sleep through anything. Well, anything besides the sounds of Damien’s nightmares. Every time Damien had woken screaming over the past few weeks, Huxley had been bent over him, easing him through the aftershocks. 

Sofia came to an abrupt stop in his living room, looking down at Huxley as he startled and began to rise, hair sleep-mused and shirtless. Hux blinked sleepily between Damien and his mother, confusion painting his features. He placed one hand flat on Damien’s back, steadying him even when Hux was the one being woken by shouting. 

“Who is this?” Sofia snapped, her eyes sweeping over Huxley critically. Damien knew that look. That was the look she gave business proposals and overly presumptuous men. She was finding the foot and handholds through which she would deftly pull Huxley apart. 

“We’ve met before.” Huxley said. His voice rumbled, gravelly from sleep. Damien relaxed a bit into him, the sound and smell and heat of him, fuck, he was so cold. 

He could hear his mother’s voice, echoing around inside his aching head; faggot, faggot, faggot. 

“Don’t call him that!” Damien shouted, pressing the heel of his hand into one pounding temple. 

“Damien,” his mother admonished. And at the same time, Huxley’s gentle voice bled into his brain. 

“Dames,” he said, just that sweet nickname, he was so sweet, “sit down. You’re supposed to be resting.” 

“I don’t know what is going on here,” Sofia said, her voice full of accusation, “but it’s stopping now. You’re unfocused, Damien.”

“I’m-” Damien started, easing back to the couch with Huxley’s guiding touch. 

“No.” Sofia interrupted, stepping up into his space. He could feel the heat rolling off of her in waves. He leaned into it despite himself. “You do not interrupt me, young man. I fought tooth and nail to give you this life. I worked three jobs all the way through D.A.M.N. and never missed a single class! What exactly is so tumultuous about your life that you feel the need to abandon your classes for a month?” 

“He has MDS.” Huxley said softly. He was still standing, his hand on Damien’s shoulder, and he was facing down Sofia’s wrath unflinching. Damien was in love. 

Fag, fag, fag. 

“Stop.” He whispered, just barely audible. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sofia scoffed. “He’s fine.” 

“He nearly died a few months ago.” Huxley said. His voice took on a tone that Damien had never heard from him before. There was a growl to it, a danger. He could have drowned in it. “And he hasn’t talked to anybody about it. He hasn’t been sleeping, he’s barely eating. His core is fighting to keep him alive, so maybe we can cut him some slack!” 

Damien had never heard Huxley shout before, not really, not at someone. 

“I don’t know who you are,” Sofia said, stepping up to Huxley like he wasn’t a foot taller and twice her weight, “but you will not talk to me like that. Leave.” Huxley stared down at her for a moment, his lips pursed in concentration. Finally, he turned to Damien. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asked, his voice quiet again. Damien didn’t even have to think before replying. 

“No.” 

___

His mother’s name was on the lease. She filled his bank account. She’d taken care to make sure he never had to work while getting his education. She had done so much to give him this life. 

And so, when he disappointed her, she took it away. 

___

Damien didn’t mean to eavesdrop. They were letting him stay in their home, no rent, no strings. They were letting him crash on his couch at all hours, too exhausted to speak. They were essentially force feeding him. 

He was laid out on their couch, his face pressed into the pillows they’d taken off their bed for him, looking for all the world to be asleep. 

They were talking about him. He should stir. Open his eyes. Let them know he was awake. He didn’t move. 

“Is this a normal reaction?” Gavin asked softly. “I just… I haven’t seen somebody respond to trauma like this.” 

“He’s different.” They replied. They sounded almost sad, almost familiar. 

“Not from you. The two of you are… scarily similar.” 

“I stopped eating during the whole… Vega situation. And sleeping.” 

“He’s lost weight.” 

“Yeah. All muscle and skin. And even that…” 

“It’s like he’s just… fading away.”

They were quiet for a long time. Damien tried to count the time between their breaths. They didn’t do it right. One-two-breath. One-two-three-breath. One-breath. 

“I always knew this would happen eventually.” Gavin sighed into the silence. “That you all would just…” his voice cracked, emotion flooding into him, “fall away from me with time. I didn’t think it would be this soon. This fast.” 

“Hey-“ skin on skin, a hand sliding up a cheek, another scooping under clothes to steady against a back. They held each other in the quiet of their home, witnessed, observed. “We aren't fading away. He’s not leaving. He’s right here. He’s right here in front of you. He’s struggling right now, but you are not going to lose him. Not like this.” 

“Right.” Gavin said, although Damien got the impression that he didn’t believe that. “Right. Thank you, baby.” A kiss, soft and chaste. Skin on skin. Uneven, untimed breaths. He fell asleep to the uneven beat of them. 

___

His face was pressed into Gavin’s thigh and his stomach was painfully full and some cheesy Christmas movie was playing on the TV despite the fact that it was nearly April. Gavin’s fingers hadn’t left his hair in the last hour, not since they’d finished dinner. Gav was talking lowly to him, keeping up a one sided conversation that Damien hadn’t had the energy to participate in. 

“My better half is considering taking up yoga.” Gavin mused, twirling a lock of Damien’s hair over his forefinger. “Which I am, of course, all for. I don’t know how they could possibly get more flexible, but hey, I’m eager to find out.” 

“They were my first friend.” Damein said suddenly, cutting through Gavin’s undertone. Gav’s movement stopped, his hand coming to rest against Damien’s head. 

“Mine too.” Gavin nearly whispered, like it was a secret. Damien breathed out with the admission. “We love you very much, Damien.”

___

Most nights, Damien slept in the center of the Freelancer’s gigantic bed. He didn’t know how they had managed to squeeze their California King through the tiny apartment, but it most likely involved a few well-placed utilizations of Gavin’s magic. They had countless, silk-wrapped pillows, a heavy duvet, a never ending flow of downy blankets and skin. 

He was pressed up against Huxley’s chest, another warm body at his back, and a hand was trailing up and down his side as he tried and tried to sleep. When the nightmares woke him, there was always somebody there, cooing sweetly to him, pressing heat into his bare skin, reminding him over and over in counts of three; it was just a dream, it was just a dream, it was just a dream.

But he couldn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t sleep because Huxley wasn’t breathing right. He was usually so rhythmic, so consistent, he never varied or changed. Not unless something was wrong. 

Something was wrong. 

Something was wrong. 

Damien pressed his face further into the warmth of Hux’s chest, felt his heartbeat hammer away at his ribs. His breath stuttered, and Damien felt more than heard the small sound that escaped him. 

“Dames…” 

Damien pressed one open palm flat against Hux’s chest. He squirmed, trapped under the Freelancer’s heavy arm and Hux’s leg, thrown over his knees. Usually, the pressure felt good. It was grounding, having them on top of him, and he’d likely never be cool enough again for this much contact to feel good for anybody involved. But now it was oppressive, constricting. It stopped him from doing what he wanted. He tapped Huxley frantically, one-two-three, as his arms tightening around Damien’s shoulders, pulled him impossibly closer. As the pressure went from comfort to pain, Damien patted for Gavin’s wrist. His hand had gone still against Damien’s ribs, his breathing evened out. He jerked suddenly, fingers flexing across Damien’s skin before he moved. 

“What’s-”

The ground began to shake. Damien pushed against Huxley’s chest, trying to detach himself. Those arms tightened down harder as he tried to pull away. Damien couldn’t get a proper breath in. 

“Huxley,” Gavin said, shifting across the bed to try and pull him back. Hux let out a sharp, desperate cry. The furniture and lights and the pictures hung on the wall shook with the sound of it. 

Then the pressure was gone. Damien was pulled back, the Freelancer’s arms locked around him as they retreated. Huxley sat up straight in the bed, his body rigid and shaking. Gavin was knelt on the bed in front of him, hands spread out on his shoulders, murmuring softly to him. Huxley blinked hard once, whipping his head around to try and reorient himself. Damien imaged that, just moments ago, he’d been staring down a swarm of shades as they tore into Damien’s prone body. Gavin caught his cheek in one hand and turned his face back to him, forced eye contact, demanded his attention. 

“It’s okay,” Gavin breathed, “it’s okay, big guy. You’re here. You’re safe.” 

“Damien,” Huxley whined, breaking Gavin’s gentle hold to curve towards him. 

“I’m here.” Damien said, his voice shaky. He cleared his throat before he said again; “I’m here. I’m here.” 

Huxley huddled into his space, one arm coming to wrap around the Freelancer’s back, pulled them both close enough to protect, to hold and keep and not let go. He bent forward, his head coming to rest against Damien’s sternum. Damien could feel his lips move against the uneven scar tissue of his chest.

“You’re safe.” He said. 

“I’m safe.” Damien replied. 

___

“I don’t really know what to talk about.” Damien admitted, wringing his hands together. He had gotten warmer lately, but he stayed in one of Huxley’s hoodies almost all of the time. He only changed them out when they stopped smelling like Hux. 

“That’s fine.” Cam replied, setting aside his notepad and pen. He was taking on a more casual air, trying to make Damien more comfortable. “I know this sort of thing can be intimidating. Why don’t you start with why you decided to come in?” 

D.A.M.N. had stopped providing free counseling to students a month after the E&E games, and Damien had missed that window by a mile. He got lucky that Lasko knew a few people who were connected with setting up that program in the first place and was willing to relinquish his office during business hours for this meeting. Damien wasn’t feeling particularly grateful about it this morning when Gavin and the Freelancer were forcing him out of their loving and generously provided home. He’d grumbled and complained about it the whole drive, something the two of them seemed to take pleasure in. 

It was most likely a good sign that he had enough energy to grumble at all. 

Damien fiddled with the hem of his sweatshirt. He thought about rucking it up, exposing his chest, showing the scars. That would explain it all. 

Huxley had been trying to coax him into using his words as of late. 

“I was… I was in the ward. During the games.” He said. It felt like too few words to communicate the weight of the admission. Cam went still, his face betrayed him. He knew exactly what that meant, the horror hidden behind those two sentences.

“Okay.” Cam nodded. He rearranged himself, sat forward a bit in his chair, attentive. The soft glow of Lasko’s sensory friendly office cast him in such a soothing light. “Do you want to tell me about it? Any of it?” 

Damien swallowed. He didn’t.

“I don’t.” 

Cam’s face didn’t change, didn’t indicate that Damien had given him the wrong answer. There were no wrong answers. 

“Okay.” Cam smiled. “What do you want to tell me?” 

Damien thought for a very long time. 

“My mother’s name is Sofia.” He said finally. Cam was quiet, waiting for him to continue. “She’s… a difficult woman.” 

___

Cam sent him to a psychologist who sent him to a specialist who diagnosed him with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He was scheduled for an aggressive therapeutic course and given two prescriptions, two pills he would have to take every morning until he got better or died, whichever came first. 

His doctors warned him that, though treatment could drastically improve his life, this wasn’t the type of illness he would be cured of. It had been living in him, just under the surface, not interrupting his daily life for a very long time. The E&E games were just the final crack that sent the sickness flowing out. He could patch it with medication and therapy, but he would never be better. 

He called his mother. He was afraid she wouldn’t answer, given that their last conversation had ended in her kicking him out of his apartment and cutting him off. She picked up on the first ring. 

She had been twenty-five when she was diagnosed too. 

“How did you… I don’t know. You’re very put together.” He huffed into the phone. He was curled up on the Freelancer’s sofa, his feet tucked under him. “How do you live your life? Because I feel like I’m going to fall apart at the seams right now.” 

“I did, for a little bit.” She admitted. It was the first time he’d heard her admit weakness. It made him feel strangely afraid. If Sofia Rhone could fall apart, nothing in this world was sure. “I doubt you remember, but we stayed with one of my friends for a while when you were a baby. She pretty much took care of you. I was useless for a solid month.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” He asked. “OCD is hereditary.”

“I didn’t think it would develop.” She replied. “Or… I don’t know. I hoped it wouldn’t.” 

“You would have saved me a lot of confusion.” He grumbled, picking at the pilled fabric of his sweatshirt. He heard his mother take a deep breath, fighting the urge to scold him for being petulant. “I just mean that this could have been avoided. I could have been screened and diagnosed and… I don’t know. I think this would have been bad for me either way, but at least I wouldn’t have been going in blind.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to happen to you.” 

“It did.” He said. “It happened to you, too.” 

“You were supposed to be better than me.” She sounded ruined when she said that, like she’d given away her last secret, played her final card. Damien didn’t reply. “You are the best thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done a lot of extraordinary things. You were supposed to be the best of me.” 

“I don’t think that’s how people work, Mom.” 

“Maybe not. It’s just… you were supposed to be better. Better than this.” 

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could think to say. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.” 

“Me too.” 

—

His fire came on like the spring; slowly, and then all at once. That ball of heat in his chest, radiating out around him like a star, like a sun, started burning again. His threads sang with new music. He ate. He slept. He started running early in the morning. He listened to the red-winged blackbirds call. 

__

Bad Dog Tattoo Co. was a tiny, neon-lit building, tucked between a yoga studio and a bagel place just outside of D.A.M.N.’s campus. He had never once considered getting a tattoo before. It wasn’t for any moral objection but because he simply couldn’t have imagined them ever being his particular taste. He did like Huxley’s, the swirling, naturalistic flowers and vines that crept over his shoulders like they had grown there. He’d run his hands over them many times over the past few months, felt the ridges and rises of scar tissue and noted where the ink hadn’t held properly. 

“They’re great here.” Hux said, holding the door as they entered. “Cool people. Queer friendly, POC friendly. And they’re a good artist, so that helps.” 

As he entered, Damien felt the familiar, shivering tell of a ward pass over him. 

“They’re empowered?” He asked, turning as Huxley closed the door. 

“Dude, how did you know?” 

“There’s a ward, gorgeous.” A rasping, unfamiliar voice called from behind the counter. Damien turned as the undeniable aura of shifter slammed into him, crowding out his magical senses. They were as big as every other shifter Damien had ever met. They were certainly flirting with six feet and every bit of them was covered in muscle. The ripped, scant muscle tee they wore exposed their arms and a good portion of their midriff, loose jeans hanging on their hips, flashing the waistband of their boxers. Every inch of exposed skin Damien could see was covered in tattoos. A snake curled around their right arm, its tongue flicking out over their middle finger. Half of a pomegranate dripped juice like blood down the curve of their left. A naked woman had her limbs detached, exposing blood and bone as she danced across their flexing bicep. Their knuckles were adorned with tight, neat lettering as they extended one hand to shake his, sending a simple message; GOOD LUCK. “I’m Grip. You must be Damien.” 

He blinked, looking over his shoulder at Huxley. He’d gone red and was making intense eye contact with his shoes. 

“He talks about you.” Grip said, their mouth splitting into a vicious grin. Their face was cut nearly in half with a concave scar. He watched their smile morph with it, tugged this way and that, exposing gums. “He talks about all of his friends but…” they looked up and seemed to notice the embarrassment creeping across Huxley’s form. Their smile took on a mischievous glint. “Good to put a face to the name.” 

Grip set up their space religiously, ritualistically, and Damien felt what he now knew to be the compulsive part of his brain preen with affection for their attention to detail. Gloves on, space sprayed down, wrapped, new gloves, ink and machine set up, gloves off, stencil on, new gloves. Three glove changes. It wouldn’t get infected. 

“It looks straight?” He asked for the fourth time. He would feel the need to ask two more. He would try very hard to swallow them. His therapist insisted that breaking the compulsion was good for him, no matter how disastrous it felt. 

“It does.” Grip replied in the same gentle, patient tone they’d told him three times before. Their smoke-rasped voice talked him through the session, the needle breaking through the delicate skin of his wrist, the jerk of his muscles as the pain ran its course through him. All told, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it would be. It wasn’t a big pain, save for a few spots on the inside of his wrist, just a long one, stretched out over the course of an hour as Grip dragged careful, perfect lines through his skin. 

When they were done, Grip brought him to a mirror and let him see. 

“It looks straight?” He asked again. Grip smiled, standing over his shoulder. 

“It does.” They replied, tone unchanged. Damien wondered if they were a natural comforter, or if Huxley had warned them about his compulsions. “It looks good, Fire. Good choice.” 

Wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet in blocky, black letters; ALL YOU HAVE IS YOUR FIRE. 

___

“Hux,” Damien breathed, his hips aching with the strain it took to straddle him, “Hux, Hux-” 

“Just two, Dames,” Huxley groaned, because of course he was still keeping up with Damien’s EPR therapy even in the middle of their first kiss, “try for two.” 

“Fuck you,” Damien laughed, his forehead resting against Hux’s for a moment. Hux was pressed into the Freelancer’s couch, one thick leg thrown over the back of it, his arms laid over Damien’s back, keeping him close. Damien felt hot, he felt like he was on fire. He was going to burn Huxley. 

“You’re okay.” Huxley said, his lips finding Damien’s again. No tongue, no teeth. Just chaste, skin on skin. 

“Hux…” Damien whined. He ground down onto Huxley, his fingers shaking where they threaded into his hair, wrapped around his jaw and pulled him in. “Please, please…” 

“Good,” Hux nearly purred, his fingers flexing against Damien’s back. “Fuck, Dames. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.” 

___

“I’m not telling you my class schedule, Mother.” Damien said it all in a rush, his chest squeezing with anxiety. He tapped his finger against his phone in bouts of threes where he held it against his face. “And I need you to log out of my class portal.” 

There was silence for a long moment on the other end of the line. 

“Why?” She snapped. Damien took a deep breath. He counted to four in his head. 

“Because I’m an adult. I don’t need you to check up on my grades anymore. They’re my responsibility. You need to let go and let me handle them.” 

“That’s ridiculous.” She replied. “You are my responsibility.” 

“Mother,” Damien said, taking a deep breath, “it’s not up for discussion. You want to be in my life? This is part of it.” 

“There’s more?”

“I’m gay, Mother.” More silence. Damien counted to three, fuck, four, before continuing. “I don’t need your approval.” 

“Well, good, because-” 

“Please don’t interrupt me.” Damien snapped. He shook his free hand out and took a moment to check his heat. He didn’t want to fuck his ear up even further by exploding another phone. “I… I don’t need you to love me. Or understand me. But you could. If you wanted to.” 

More silence. 

___

“This isn’t oatmilk.” Damien said, staring down at his to-go cup. He turned it in his hand, the condensation already beginning to sweat against his skin. It had ‘oat’ written on it, clear as day in smudged marker. He screwed up his lips, trying to suss out the taste of whatever was in his fucking mouth. 

“Oh?” Lasko squeaked next to him, turning in towards him. Recently, they’d all been doing that, pulling in, getting as close as they could when they thought he might get caught in a compulsion. He’d only had to tell them once that they shouldn’t entertain them, that they should interrupt as often as possible, as often as his mood made it safe. 

Today had been a good day. Until the stupid barista put the wrong fucking milk in his latte. 

“Are you allergic to anything? Like nuts or-” 

“No.” Damien snapped. He closed his eyes, tried not to admonish himself for interrupting Lasko. The guilt didn’t help. Lasko would forgive him. If he didn’t, he would say something. He had to trust that, at least. 

“Is it the taste? Do you not l-like the… soy or almond or… whatever else they gave you?” 

“No.” Damien sighed. He pressed a hand over his face. “It tastes fine. It’s just… not right.” 

“I-I could ask for a new one.” Lasko offered. 

Damein could have melted when he said that. There was nothing more horrifying in this world for Lasko than complaining to service workers. And he would do it for Damien. 

“No.” He said, resolute. “No. It’s okay. I’ll… it’ll be okay.” 

Lasko looked up at him, something strange and sweet in his face. 

___

Summer passed in a blur. He ate. He slept. He started classes again. He trained his endurance a bit further every day. His core didn’t give out on him when the weather got cold.

He did not see Sofia for Christmas. Instead, he went North to meet Huxley’s moms. 

___

It was beautiful up there, quiet and secluded. Their little house, brick and vine and tree and birdsong, opened up to him like a pair of warm hands. 

Huxley’s moms were nice. Accommodating without being condescending, loving without crossing his boundaries as he laid them out in front of them. They didn’t share their names, seeming to know he would insist on calling them by them. Instead, they introduced themselves as ‘Mom,’ and ‘Mama.’ 

He and Huxley stayed up late their first night in, long after the winter sun had set over the snow-covered hills. They curled up, limbs tangled, on the porch swing, wrapped in blankets. Damien breathed out, his breath curling around them and adding a hazy quality to the warm porch light. 

“It's perfect out here.” He said softly. 

“Yeah.” Huxley replied. He wasn’t looking up at the night sky like Damien was.

Somewhere in the distance, a shrill, shrieking call rang across the late evening air, like a disk scratching in the middle of a song. A pause, then another call.

He could picture it, that flash of red as its wings carried it from the snowy underbrush, over the trees, and away. He closed his eyes, resting his head back against Huxley’s shoulder, and let his fragile control go. His core thrummed with that strange new music, heat without burn, light without fire. Huxley stopped shivering, sighing in him, his thumb tracing the lines of Damien’s tattoo. Damien relaxed into the knowledge that the cold couldn’t touch him, that he could warm Huxley, warm the house if he pleased. He had enough heat to spare, and it was a cold night.

[theladyofshalott1989]

Tell Me About Your MCs: Round Two!

Let's play another round of Tell Me About Your MCs!

For those of you who missed the first go-round (which was an absolute blast!!!), here's the link :)

For this round, there's a question. Pre-Hogwarts, pre-finding out they were ☆magic☆, who was your MC's hero, and why?

I'll go first! Damien would have said Oscar Wilde, the author of his favorite book, The Picture of Dorian Gray, which was first published as a novella in April 1890, shortly before the events of the game. Why? Damien appreciated Wilde's reputation of being flamboyant and having an extremely sharp wit. And here's my boy, Damien Evans! Please feel free to share screenshots or fan art of your MCs too. <3

[abbyunderground]

Rescue bots Aus 😋(except it’s based around Cody cause he’s more important)

OKAY #1

Percy Jackson AU 😎

I mentally created this au around the time reread the PJO books bc I love Percy Jackson and I thought it could be a cool way to explain why Cody is so “different” from his siblings. I personally think Cody’s godly parent would be his mom (lowkey kinda obvious bc he doesn’t have a mom in the show) BUT ANYWAY! I think his godly mother/parent whatever would be Athena cause it’s mentioned in the books that her kids are kinda all blonde with gray eyes and Cody is blonde, also Chief and Graham have the same hair color (chiefs hair is shown in a picture of Dani when she was little, I don’t remember what episode). Kade is ginger which is a recessive gene, and I think Dani got her hair from their mom or she’s dyes her hair. Anyway it could also explain Cody’s age gap with his siblings since Athena just kinda picks someone and poofs a kid out of her head and is like “Here! Have it! Raise this kid just so it can die before 25!” (Real good parenting Athena 🙄😒) but I think Cody’s mythical weapon thing would be like a dagger that can extend into a sword, that or he’d probably mesh a mythical weapon with some tech. That’s basically it, I don’t have like a plot or anything 😭 i just like rb and PJO

#2‼️‼️

Magic powers AU

He’s basically god 😭 basically it’s like this shimmery gold looking glitter mist and he can like, control it?? He can like destroy anything and it just crumbles into the mist/can create anything from it, and I mean ANYTHING. Bro can quite literally create fully functional human beings from nothing for fun. That’s basically it, I honestly have this power thing in most of the AUs if I get bored

#3/the last major one 😙

Deadly weapon Au

OKAY I ACTUALLY HAVE LIKE A PLOT AND A MAIN STORY FOR THIS ONE

Basically Cody’s mom (and his siblings mom but that irrelevant) was like raised as a assassin and she was super cool and stuff and people called her Medusa (not rlly relevant but I think it’s Skibidi 😎 also Cody would be called Chrysaor, which is the son of Medusa and Poseidon if ykyk ) ANYWAY she gets in a fight or smth with her dad idk and leaves their like league of asssains (did I mention this is kinda inspired by Damien Wayne? No? Okay well it is) shes in her like 20s and already has 1 kid (half sibling) and he’s like 3yrs old and getting trained to be a assassin (also the moms name is Maria) so Maria doesn’t gaf and runaway to griffin rock and meets Chief burns and they have kids or whatever (she like froze some of her eggs so while she was gone the league made her more kids idk) anyway so a few years pass and she has Cody yadda yadda yadda, she almost dies while giving birth but the league has been stalking her so they kidnapped her and Cody from the hospital and save her and they raise Cody as a assassin, and Maria is the president of the league or whatever, also her other kids are chill with her just abandoning them?? But Cody is like super cool and a weapon of mass destruction, he’s like Batman mixed with Jinx so 🤷‍♀️ he’s also emo teenager angry all the time. And obviously they can’t just disappear without a trace because OBVIOUSLY everyone needs to be soooo overdramatic 🙄 so maria and her 4 kids (including Cody) are famous and they’re like models and movie actors and business ppl idk kinda like Bruce Wayne and his posse of children. I like to think griffin rock is isolated from everyone else (maybe not on purpose, but shits crazy there so idk) so Chief doesn’t realize that his wife and missing child are famous and constantly getting followed by paparazzi 🤦‍♀️. That’s mainly it for this one, I might have forgotten some stuff but feel free to ask questions 😋😋

@oldeubagel

@ashlovesrescuebots

[fandomtrash24]

OK, I am highly sleep deprived and on new medication, so I want to talk about my Gotham sentence theory, and how that kind of leaks into the bats.

I feel like Gotham was always somewhat sentient, after all of the magic and curses, but what truly caused her to stir was when she felt something new, I hope that she could not really understand until she realized it was from Bruce Wayne.

(sidenote: I have my own ideas about how Gotham is the soul of the first person to die in Gotham, or maybe even a soul who was sacrificed there, and now protects it. Anyway, she probably would wake up intermittently through history, and I am now picturing her looking over the at the boy, sobbing in front of his parents and feeling sense of sadness and guilt. bonus points she was a mother before she became Gotham and that she is picturing her own child.)

So she definitely helps from time to time. As the years go on, she make sure that no grays stay and Bruce’s hair. She uses what little of her magic that she can to make Alfred feel younger to keep their bodies from going too far ahead of what she needs them to be. Maybe she even blesses Alfred and Bruce slowly, not even realizing it until years afterwards until she can sense them, no matter where they go.

I feel like with Dick Grayson, she blessed him only a little. He was the light for her Batman, something that brought joy and hope and kindness so if she made sure that her boy wonder didn’t break himself as he bent, that as he can torted his bones, stay flexible, and he never felt aches or pains the way many do.

(it hurt her a bit when Dick Grayson left. She heard the arguments. She knew the anger and their bodies that was misplaced. She wish she could stay but understood he couldn’t. Her blessing will always be with him though. He would always be hers.)

Lady Gotham did not lead Jason to the car that night, but she did muffle Bruce’s feet as he approached. She saw some thing in Jason Todd, a boy uncannily like her own. She tried to help some of the street kids when she could, but it was slow going, so bogged down by curses that she could barely lead any of them to fires or food that have been thrown out without good reason. She knew her Batman light again, so she made sure she would find a new spitfire.

(she felt it when Jason Todd died. She had been gathering her strength to give him a blessing, but even distracted, she felt the impact of his death. She breathed life back into him, hoping that he would crawl out of his coffin and into her Batman’s arms. She was more disappointed when he was taken and swore to Talia safe passage again)

(the Joker was a curse unto himself, a parasitic being that she could not be rid of no matter how hard she tried. Was too deeply cursed for her to fix it so instead, she made sure that all of those who stood with the joker would face unimaginable suffering under his eyes and only experience her kindness once leaving him.)

Tim Drake had become her as much before he became a robin. She had had to use little bits of her magic to keep him from falling off of grooves and terraces as he jumped after her boys, and she tried for him. When she saw him start to bring her Batman, out of despair, her relief was so strong that she blessed him deeper than she had the others, she blessed his mind. It would never fail him, making sure he would never fall.

Damien Wayne was both of hers and none of hers. He was the son of the betrayer the woman who had taken Jason from her and made him so angry and pain and disbelieving. She had trouble giving her kindness to the boy trying so hard to keep the bats from seeing Jason and red hood, drenching her blessings into crime, Allie to keep things clean while her boy fix it up, all she could manage for Damien was little parts of him.

(she gave him a different blessing than the others, a blessing that allowed him to be seen. She saw the fear under all the bravado. He would not allow any affection from any human, she saw as he walked through her city, as if he was stranger and a king, so she said the little animals, his way. She marked him as a friend, and soaked up the softness of his smiles when she could.)

As they all grew, and more and more enjoying the family, she only had so much energy to give. Still, she gave her all.

Stephanie Brown was a girl who she led to Tim, a temporary Robin, who was not meant to be Robin, but was still meant to be hers. And if Stephanie never felt backfire of her own pranks, never fell as she flew? Well, she did not want her spitfire to become quiet.

She could not save Barbara Gordon, though she desperately tried. She could not make the legs move again, so tired from all of her blessings and unable to save that much energy. Instead she gave Barbara a similar blessing to that she gave Timothy. Her brain became sharper, her eyes always able to notice an enemy. And if she added a dose of good luck to the girl who had given her leg and her freedom to make sure that her stayed alive? Well, Barbara Gordon was never kidnapped and always missed, sometimes by milliseconds, being kidnapped.

Cassandra Cain was similar to her, silent, and seeing, unable to speak her mind. She did not need help in fighting, but she could tell that Cassandra became overwhelmed and uneasy how sometimes the body would betray people and her. So Cassandra never spoke of how body language became easier to read, of how when she needed to. She could travel through shadow much easier than she could travel on foot. Cassandra Cain never spoke of how when running through shadows, she often felt a woman’s hand run through her hair, a gentle caress that was shaky and so faint most would not notice it.

(Duke Thomas did not need her blessing. She’d given him a small one long ago back when he had started a group, guiding him towards good towards finding what he would need. Duke never said a word about the aura on the bat family being so different so much more saturated than around others. he never spoke of he could sometimes see a woman keeping one of them from falling. He never spoke. Sometimes he could tell the woman was helping him, saving him from falling as well.)

She could not save them, could not give them their due for what they did for her city for her people. Still, she gave them all she could, as they continued to repair her, saving her streets and her people every day. Slowly, the claims became more and more distinct until whenever one of them left. It was known to any spirit that dared cross them that Gotham, spirit known for struggling and still surviving, had blessed these humans so heavily that they were drenched in her magic.

(no one spoke with the blessings, instead word was spread through all supernatural creatures alike that the lady of Gotham, a woman who had been known to be almost a queen before curses bogged her down, had chosen her champions, her knights. She had given them so much power that it was a wonder they weren’t supernatural being themselves. It was soon taught that no one was to touch them. The knights of Gotham were not to be trifled with.)

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

Damien/Huxley post inversion snippet!!

The wonderful @romirola tagged me in a snippet game. I don’t have much of the next chapter of the firefighter au written yet, so I thought I’d share a bit from a post inversion character study I’ve had drafted for Damien!! It deals with his relationship with his mother and then how that translates to his relationship with Huxley. It’s definitely not canon compliant, but hey, that don’t bother me too much! Here’s a bit from Damien’s recovery in one of DAMN’s healing rooms after the attack from the shade. Hope y’all enjoy and here’s hoping I’ll have the whole thing ready to post soon!!

—

“Mother,” Damien couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. His voice was thick and lazy on his tongue. “You flew back out?” She was sitting to his left, clad in a pressed, maroon suit. She looked for all the world to be perfectly put together, except that her bangs were mussed across her forehead. Except that there was a crease between her eyebrows that he had only seen in elementary school when he fell out of a tree on the playground and broke his humorous clean in half.

The silhouette of calm was there, but the details were off, and his mother was nothing if not detail-oriented.

She was worried. Very worried.

“My boy was trapped in a bubble with a bunch of monsters.” She shrugged and smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt. “I took the first flight back.”

“Is it bad?” He asked softly. He pressed his hand to his chest. There wasn’t any gauze, no bandages, just a stiff hospital gown. He didn’t dare crane his neck to see, didn’t try to assess the damage himself. He felt small and scared.

“Healing magic is incredible stuff.” His mom tapped her phone impatiently, clearing a few text notifications from her lockscreen. It was a picture of the two of them from his high school graduation. “But you were badly cut.”

“Clawed,” He corrected. “Never thought I’d get clawed by something.”

“Yes, well,” his mom smiled softly, “my point stands. The… lacerations were deep and long. They healed the majority of the damage as soon as you got here, but you lost a good amount of blood, and you’ll need some more healing to mitigate the scarring.”

“I don’t care about the scaring.” He replied. If he had said that sentence a day ago, it would have been a lie. But it wasn’t. Not now. There was too much running rampant like smokey monsters in his mind to care about scars. He turned his head and caught sight of Huxley, his large frame pressed into a compact hospital recliner. He looked to have cleaned the dust and blood from his face. Somebody had given him a new t-shirt, and the gray fabric stretched snugly against his crossed arms. His forearms were scraped where they mostly covered the D.A.M.N. HEALING HONORS SOCIETY logo across his chest. He was still wearing the pants to his E&E Games tracksuit. Damien could see where the black material had gone stiff and dark with blood.

“He’s loud.” His mother said, shifting in her seat. “And he hovers like a lost puppy.”

“Leave him alone.” He replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s perfect.”

“Hmm.” She hummed, inspecting her fingernails. Damien could tell before she opened her mouth that she was about to say something sharp and painful. He held his breath and braced for impact. “He’s leaving.” She said. “Going home. His mothers called while you were being stitched back together. So don’t get too used to the noise.”

[theladyofshalott1989]

Um. Hi! I’ve brought you something. He is 🥰

Actually, I drew it ages ago, but didn’t send it to you because I wasn't satisfied with the result. But since I’m not into drawing lately, and not sure if I can redraw it in the near future, sending you this now 👉👈

HI!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I love him, I love him, I love him! Did I mention I love him???? Diana, my beloved moot, you have made my day. Actually, you know what? You've made my week! (I've already decided.) Since Damien is carrying books (as he should, being the book lover that he is), here are some of his favorite quotes from three of his favorite novels: "He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time."

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

"One keeps a secret better than two."

from Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

"There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in this world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have but one objection, namely, that it is not true."

from The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding

[theladyofshalott1989]

Writer Interview Game

Thank you so much for tagging me @infernalrusalka! This was a lot of fun to reflect upon and type out. :)

No pressure tagging: @morelikeravenbore @ravenwind-75 @myokk @moongurl95 and honestly anyone else who wants to join in. I love reading about other writers' processes <3

When did you start writing?

Fanfic? When I was a young teen (roughly age 13/14). I wrote Star Wars (Anakin/Padme) fanfics on FanFiction.net.

Writing in general? When I was around 5. I used to "write books" (that is: take construction paper, bind it, and create little stories with pictures when I was bored at home, alone). Only child syndrome; am I right, or am I right? Haha.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

I enjoy reading angst, but I don't (typically) write it. I also read a lot of published nonfiction for fun, but I hated writing essays in school. I was more of a creative writing gal.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

You know, I've never actually thought about this, probably because I like to write for myself. I think it would be odd to be compared to another writer, even a famous one. I also read oodles, so it's difficult for me to choose an author I'd want to emulate. I suppose if I were forced at gunpoint to choose, I'd say John Steinbeck. He had a way with words; he turned phrases beautifully and his books have really stuck with me over the years, especially East of Eden.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

My office, which my husband recently renovated for me. It's Hogwarts: Legacy themed, naturally. My husband is the best; he loves to encourage my "Sebastian and Damien delulu," my words, but he would definitely agree and approve. XD

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Hmm, good question. I don't know if I have one actually, unless setting a writing schedule counts? I write every morning, rain or shine, for one hour before work. If I'm in the middle of writing a long-fic, I also write during my lunch break. I don't typically take days off either. So...I dunno? I do like to write while drinking coffee. Maybe that helps. Yes, let's say that.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

I tend to prefer writing morally gray characters that eventually have a redemption arc. Not sure what that says about me, but I don't mind it. Haha.

What is your reason for writing?

It's a type of therapy for me. It's the only time of the day that I get to myself. I work full-time and I'm a mom, and as thankful as I am for that, I have my own desires and passions outside of those two things that I don't want to lose. Writing is my way of keeping that part of myself alive.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

I love all types of comments, but I will worship the ground you walk upon if you're the kind of person who does reaction comments with quotes included. I try to comment this way too on other writers' fics to encourage more of this style of commenting because it's the best!

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

If someone reads anything I've written and comes away with the sense of joy that I felt while writing it, I'd be absolutely thrilled.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I have a few that I'm proud of. Dialogue, particularly banter. Push-pull dynamics in relationships, especially in established ones. Morally gray characters. Foreshadowing and twists. I'll even it out by saying I'm not as confident in my description-writing abilities, which is partially my fault. I tend to skim descriptions in published books because they more often than not bore the hell out of me. LMAO. So...that's my bad. Interestingly, I really enjoy reading descriptions in fanfics, possibly because they tend to be more unique. Descriptions in published books are often very cookie-cutter and I feel like I've read them a million times before. Oh well.

How do you feel about your own writing?

Some days I love it, other days I think my writing is the worst, but I'm finding that's pretty normal when it comes to creators. We are very critical of our own work. I try to be kind to myself on days when I'm in a negative headspace because I know the feeling will pass. <3

[sunset-sun-god]

Hi! Would you consider doing another Actor/Dark fic? It's really fun when it's Dark who does a bunch of teasing and acts all innocent and smug about it, so maybe something like that? They could be at an event of some kind and Actor gets so riled up that he drags him into a private room or closet or something >:3 I don't mind who gets to top, but Actor is kind of a really cute bottom..... ;)

These rivals fuck sometimes, idk what to tell you.

Warnings: semi-public sex, twin cocks, public teasing

   Being cast as the villain made it so Dark was frequently involved in various social events by Mark's side. These events often served as promotion and networking, and they really didn't enjoy it. It wasn't that they were against the idea, it was how overwhelming it could be. It was how often they felt people's eyes bore into their head. Like they knew something was off, though Dark took care to blend in.

    Dark swirled wine in their glass as Mark chattered on, getting an idea on how to occupy themself while people politely ignored them.

    They started off easy, passing by Mark and brushing his back. He barely noticed.

    They held out a chair for him, their long, graceful fingers brushing his backside. That was more like it. Mark looked up, surprised. Dark pretended to ignore him.

    They sat there and ate, perfectly mimicking humans and how they behave. Their foot drifted to Mark's leg, then to his thigh, then just barely, they pressed their knee to his crotch.

    "A-ahem-" Mark sputtered, "As I was… saying… They've been a great co-star all these years." 

    Dark smiled into their glass as Mark shot them a pointed glare. As if demanding they don't do this in front of the others. But that's what made it fun.

    After dinner, they get a little more bold. They adjust his tie for him, tightening it a little more than normal. Mark's face burned, unsure whether they were trying to kill or flirt with him.

    "Mark… why don't we dance?" They purr.

    "I thought you didn't like my dancing, 'Damien'…" His voice is barbed, forcing out Dark's now fake name.

    "Let me lead you. It could be a good learning opportunity." Dark took his hand, pulling Mark into a close tango.

    They lead him expertly, their smoky eyes full of lust. Mark stumbled, and Dark had no choice but to catch him, leaning over him so closely they could kiss.

     Mark let himself go, falling to the floor. He got up, dusting off his coat and pants. "You- what are you doing?!" He hush-yelled.

    "Whatever do you mean?" Dark batted their eyes. "I was only trying to help."

    "Help? This is not helping! Imagine what the press would think!" He hissed. 

    Mark hurried off, out of the room to get some privacy. Dark trailed behind.

    The two ended up in a closet together, all too close. Dark smiled, the picture of innocence.

    "I'm not sure what you're talking about, what would the press have to say?" 

    "That you- that- that I! That you!" Mark stomped his foot. "Ooooh, don't play games like that!"

    Dark gently held his jaw in their hand, fading back into their comfortable gray to save some energy.

    "Oh, Mark… all worked up, aren't you?" They pressed their nose to his, dropping to a whisper. "Do you need some help with that?"

    Mark opened his mouth to answer, before folding his arms and smugly nodding. He figured Dark would chicken out and knock it off. Dark instead chuckled.

    "Gotten bold, haven't we, dear snake?" Dark unbuttoned his suit jacket, setting it aside.

    "H-hey, hey, you can't be serious! You said we wouldn't fool around where others might see!" Mark flushed again.

    Dark halted. "Well, if you'd rather I not."

    Mark grumbled, now frustrated he had to make his interest explicit. He folded his arms again, trying to hide the fact he had been getting aroused.

    "My deepest apologies for misunderstanding." They cleared their throat, going to leave. Mark caught them by the wrist.

     Dark looked back, Mark trying to piece together words. "N-no… I… do… but don't get us caught, okay? I have a reputation."

    "As do I." Dark smiled softly, resuming where they left off.

    They pushed his tie to hang over his shoulder and unzipped his pants, letting his cocks free. They were half hard. Dark's cold hands circled his shafts easily, lightly pumping them until they were fully erect. Mark bit back a noise.

     Dark dropped to their knees, pausing before taking him. "Happy to see me, hm?" They tease.

     Mark's cocks twitched, and he reluctantly nodded.

     "Good. I don't know about you, but I was getting bored out there." Their hands grasped his thighs, marked with several scars.

     They took one of his shafts in their mouth, sucking the tip first, then deeper. Their throat hollowed, accommodating his length easily. Their long tongue slithered out, licking his balls slowly. Mark shuddered.

    "T-that's a new one-" Mark whispered.

    Dark smiled internally, pulling away. They took in his other shaft next, sucking and licking him carefully. Mark clung to a shelf behind him, biting his lips.

    Dark opened their mouth a little wider than anyone reasonably should, taking in both shafts. Mark let out a soft moan, knees weak from the stimulation. They swallowed around his tips.

   Mark dug his hands into their hair, trying desperately not to mewl like a cat. They reached up to shove a handkerchief in his mouth and help him.

    Mark gagged on the cloth, taking it out. 

    "W-what exactly are you getting from this?" He whispered.

     Dark pulled away, wiping excess drool. "Hm… Malicious satisfaction. A reason for you to let me have my way with you at home. I think I'll bind you to the wall, hunt you for sport and fuck you. How does that sound?"

    Mark whined softly. All he could do was nod. He tried to act all tough and in control, but he was putty in their hands.

    Dark returned to sucking him off, the tip of their pointed tongue gracing his perineum. Mark was sweating bullets, trying not to lose control of himself.

    His cocks came in tandem, shooting onto their throat. Mark fell to his knees, practically in Dark's lap as he caught his breath.

    Dark swallowed thickly, using the handkerchief to dab at their mouth and his forehead.

    "How was that, my Snake?" They rested their elbows on his knees.

    "... T… too good." Mark panted. 

    "Oh, poor Hero." Dark pouted teasingly, before getting up to leave. 

   Mark whined, reaching out for them. They returned to their previous intimate proximity, never intending to leave him there. They just liked seeing him beg, and they knew he liked begging.

     "C… can we do this next event?" Mark asked softly.

     Dark nodded, grinning smugly at how successful this little encounter went.

[jovenshires]

If Spencer is Spider-Man, do you have any ideas on who in the Smosh crew would be certain Marvel heroes?

okay SO. i have been thinking ab this a little bit, bc i would like to expand the spidey au universe to other heroes. BUT im not gonna talk ab what im gonna do with the spidey au (spoilers lads <3). instead im gonna talk ab vibes. who do i think these people could be hypothetically! there's like one spoiler in here but otherwise none of this has anything to do with the canon for my spidey-spencer-verse.

also i wanna say before i get into this - DISCLAIMER: idk jack shit ab comics and i don't keep up with mcu anymore so. we're flying blind baby! i am making shit up as i go!

amanda: @blandview and i talked ab this and i think we came to a few conclusions: either she'd be black widow yelena OR she'd be an anti-hero of some kind. think elektra, think black cat... yeah she's got options.

angela: okay blandview also suggested this one: kate bishop hawkeye. we are taking no criticisms at this time.

anthony: god...... i could go so many directions but my heart longs to make him a villain/anti-hero. he's so morally gray-coded imo. magneto perhaps. other options are loki and wolverine.

arasha: there's so many options here too but i kind of like miss america for her i think!!

chanse: i mean he's miles morales. spencer is peter parker and he is miles morales end of sentence. BUT if i had to pick a non-spidey option, probably wiccan. i wanna give him magic powers so sue me!! oh or maybe iron lad. those are my faves for him

courtney: SO captain marvel coded for many many reasons. like i don't even think i need to explain this one tbh

damien: okay im thinking of making him part of the hero verse in the spidey fic so i am seriously considering this one... on the one hand like. cyclops. he is so classic x-men to me. daredevil could be fun and sexy for him. oh OR the hulk bc he's bruce banner-coded.

ian: so ive got some ops here: to match anthony. professor x. obviously. OR ant-man. do you see my vision. he looks like that.

jackie: scarlet witch was my first thought! mostly bc i could see her tearing apart the universe for love tbh (i did not watch wandavision but that trope sticks with me)

keith: does keith even want to be part of this. no probably not. maybe gambit or star-lord?? i literally cannot picture him doing this non-reluctantly and that's clouding my vision i think DKNGKNGK

kimmy: specifically jane forester thor perhaps. dazzler or jubilee could be fun for her too!!

noah: out of Everyone, noah is voted most likely to be deadpool imo. i could also see him as quicksilver bc little shit (affectionate)

shayne: i mean. thats captain america. look at him. once again i am done speaking thats it.

tommy: god... tommy is the toughest one. he's so normie in a hero world to me. like 'same shit as always' going to work while everyone out there being insane. angel?? he's also kinda x-men coded to me. otherwise....... winter soldier? i'll be real i got Nothin for that one chief.

anyway hope this was not too much of a disaster love ya bye xxx

[nx08h63bitchyobservationnerd]

xhamstee

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[smosh-described]

[ID: A series of pictures of Smosh members with small pride flags edited onto them.

The first image is a selfie of Tommy Bowe, giving a closed-mouth smile to the camera. He has a man-loving-man, or gay male, flag on his cheek, which is a gradient of green and blue stripes with a white one in the center. He has tiny sparkle shapes drawn onto his forehead and chin in the colors of the flag.

The second image shows Chanse McCrary, sitting in an armchair on one of the Smosh sets. He is smiling tightly and looking toward the right of the frame. He also has a man-loving-man flag, which is edited onto his chest, and the flag color sparkles on his forehead and cheek.

The third photo is Damien Haas, shown from the chest up, on a Smosh set. He is looking to the left, softly smiling with an open mouth, as if he is speaking. He has a biromantic flag on his right cheek, and the demisexual flag on his left cheek. There are sparkles on his forehead, in the muted violet, lavender, white, pale orange, and dark navy of the biromantic flag. The sparkles on his jaw are in the white, purple, gray, and black of the demisexual flag.

Fourth is a selfie of Courtney Miller in a car, looking neutrally at the camera. They have a nonbinary flag on their right cheek, with matching yellow, white, purple, and black sparkles under it. On their left cheek is a pansexual flag. The sparkles above it are the same pink, yellow, and blue.

The fifth photo shows Tommy and Damien standing next to each other in the Smosh office. They are leaning toward each other, in matching poses, with wide stances and their hands in their pockets. They have the same flags from their previous images edited onto their torsos.

The sixth is Tommy and Courtney in folding chairs, holding gaming controllers. They seem to be outside, in the dark, with a large group of people socializing behind them. Both are smiling, but neither of them are looking at the camera. They have the same flags from the prior images on their chests, though the nonbinary one is on Courtney's leg.

Next is Damien and Courtney sitting on a couch together, with Damien sitting forward with his elbows rested on his thighs, and Courtney leaned against the back of the couch. She is holding her fingertips together in front of her. They both have their flags on their shoulders and arms.

The final image shows Courtney and Chanse, wearing black turtlenecks, standing in front of a red curtain. They have their sides toward the camera, with Courtney's back to Chanse's chest, and they are holding hands up next to their shoulders. Courtney's other hand is on her chest, and they are looking toward each other dramatically. They have their flags edited onto their torsos.

End ID]

Happy pride month to all our beloved LGBTQIAP+ Smosh members!!! 🌈💖🏳️‍🌈❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🩷

[velvet-jellyfish]

Part 2

Bedroom Hymns (2011), Florence and the Machine

For the Love of God (2007), Damien Hirst

Bonaparte Olive Wreath Tiara (1907), Cartier

Text: The Picture if Dorian Gray (1891), Oscar Wilde

[warningsine]

And the winner is...

The 80th edition of the Venice Film Festival has come to a close, with this year’s Competition jury, led by American filmmaker Damien Chazelle (La La Land, Babylon), awarding the coveted Best Film Golden Lion to Yorgos Lanthimos’ Poor Things.

The film succeeds last year’s documentary All The Beauty And The Bloodshed by Laura Poitras (a member of this year’s jury), and was a firm favourite this year on the Lido.

Scroll down for the full list of winners. 

We predicted that it was a two-way race between Poor Things and Agneiszka Holland’s Green Border for the top prize, and both got awarded major awards, with Holland’s stunning film taking home the Special Jury Prize.

Poor Things was the highest rated feature of the Competition with an average of 4,24 / 5, followed closely by Evil Does Not Exist (3,80 / 5) and Agnieszka Holland’s Green Border (3,76 / 5).

Lanthimos, considered the leading Greek Weird Wave exponent, directs an adaptation of Alasdair Gray’s 1992 cult novel, a “diabolical fuckfest of a puzzle” (as one character says referring to the adventure that slips from his grasp) which uses the language of Gothic conventions – with clear parallels to 'Frankenstein' and 'Alice in Wonderland' – to talk about the role of men and women in society. The director’s usual mastery of tone is a joy to behold, as is Tony McNamara’s mordantly funny screenplay. Thematically layered, raunchy, stylistically executed and above all fun, it’s got it all and feels like a well deserved win for Lanthimos. Read our full review.

The director’s previous Venice premiere, The Favourite, managed to accomplish the rare task of getting two separate awards in 2018: the Grand Jury Prize and the Volpi Cup for Best Actress for Olivia Coleman. The film went on to receive nine Oscar nominations, including for Best Picture and Best Director, and coming home with the Best Actress Oscar for Coleman.

Considering the oldest international film festival has a proven track record for premiering future Oscar contenders, you can expect Poor Things to be an early frontrunner for next year’s Oscars - alongside Oppenheimer, Barbie, and Killers of the Flower Moon – which premiered earlier this year at the Cannes Film Festival. You can also bet that lead actress Emma Stone, who has never been better than in her turn as the hilarious and evolving “pretty little retard”, will hoover up the performance awards in the coming months.

The runner-up prize went to Aku Wa Sonzai Shinai (Evil Does Not Exist) by Ryûsuke Hamaguchi.

After this masterful 2021 double-tap of Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy and the Oscar-winning Drive My Car, the Japanese filmmaker surprised everyone with the announcement of his new film, Evil Does Not Exist. It came out of nowhere and went straight into Venice’s competition selection. No complaints here.

The film follows a father and daughter who live in a small village close to Tokyo. One day, the village inhabitants become aware of a plan to build a glamping site, a project that will have a negative impact on the local water supply and endanger the ecological balance.

It sounds straightforward but it’s anything but. Enigmatic and allusive, Hamaguchi's parable offers up no easy answers and is a much tougher sell than his previous films. However, Evil Does Not Exist is a gently haunting revenge film of sorts that demands to be rewatched - and deserves to be celebrated.

The Special Jury Prize went to Zielona Granica (Green Border) by Agnieszka Holland.

Many saw the film winning the top prize; still, the Special Jury Prize is an important recognition for a vital viewing experience. 

“It was a struggle but it was a duty,” said Holland when accepting the prize, referring to the challenges of filming this unique work.

Green Border was one of the most talked about films of the festival. It tackles the migration crisis at the Poland-Belarus border over the past two years, and is an incisive indictment of a continuing EU crisis, as well as a reminder that many are still dying on Europe’s borders.

The migrants from the Middle East and Africa are caught up as pawns in a geopolitical standoff, and the film looks critically at the way Poland's security services pushed back migrants who were lured to the border by Belarus, an ally of Russia.

It also asks vital questions about collective responsibility and inaction in a geopolitical landscape Europe – as a collective – finds itself in.

“We are dedicating this prize to the activists,” concluded Holland on stage during the awards ceremony, in a moving speech.

Written by Holland, Gabriela Łazarkiewicz-Sieczko and Maciej Pisuk, Green Border is based on meticulous research, including interviews with refugees, border guards and activists – an urgent and compassionate work, which has already drawn the ire of Polish Justice Minister Zbigniew Ziobro, who labelled Green Border as “Third Reich propaganda.”

“In the Third Reich, the Germans produced propaganda films showing Poles as bandits and murderers. Today, they have Agnieszka Holland for that," wrote Ziobro on X (formerly Twitter).

Holland noted that Ziobro, who serves as prosecutor general as well as justice minster, commented on her film without having seen it and that she believed his words amounted to defamation, calling them “despicable.” She has demanded an apology from Ziobro and stated she plans to bring defamation charges against against him. She also demanded that he make a charitable donation of 50,000 Polish zlotys (approx. €10,800) to an association that helps Holocaust survivors.

Holland said the comparison to Nazi propaganda was offensive because of what Poland suffered under Nazi occupation during World War II and given her own background. She noted that she was both the daughter of a liaison in the Warsaw Uprising, the city's 1944 revolt against the occupying Nazi German forces, and the granddaughter of Holocaust victims.

“In our country, which experienced death, cruelty and the suffering of millions during World War II, a comparison to the perpetrators of these events is extremely painful and requires an appropriate response,” Holland said.

Its topicality and governmental slamming aside, Holland’s film cannot be reduced to its subject matter, as it is a brilliantly directed and acted black-and-white gut punch, and one of the Polish filmmaker’s very best in an already impressive filmography (Angry Harvest, Europa Europa, Spoor). 

The Best Director Prize went, rather surprisingly considering many expected either Bradley Cooper (Maestro) or Bertrand Bonello (La Bête) to win, to Italian filmmaker Matteo Garrone for his film Io Capitano. The film tells the story of the journey of Seydou and Moussa, two young men who leave Dakar to make their way to Europe. It is a contemporary odyssey through the dangers of the desert, the horrors of the detention centres in Libya and the perils of the sea.

Like Green Border, it tackles the topic of immigration and the pursuit of the Europe dream – its promise and sombre reality. Garrone’s film offers a reverse shot compared to the images we’re used to seeing from a western perspective, and like Holland’s film, gives a voice to the ordinarily voiceless.

The film proved to be a favourite amongst both Italian and international press, with an overall average of 3,62 / 5, ranking it the fourth best reviewed film of the Competition.

The film also saw its main star Seydou Sarr win the Marcello Mastroianni Award for Best New Talent.

On the acting front, Peter Sarsgaard won the Volpi Cup for his note-perfect performance in Michel Franco’s Memory. He plays Saul, a man suffering from dementia, and his performance is the furthest thing from caricatural. Sarsgaard delivers a deeply moving portrayal of a gentle man subjected to a disease that he has no control over. 

The American actor referred to the “shared communal experience that is a sacred sacrament of society” in relation to cinema and namechecked the ongoing Hollywood strikes. In particular, he referred to the threat of AI, stating that “an actor is a person, a writer is a person” – and that we risk of experience of the “sacred sacrament” being handed over to the “eight millionaires who own (AI)”.

Both Jessica Chastain and Peter Sarsgaard are excellent in Memory, which is stomach-knotting stuff - at times gut-wrenching, but also surprisingly tender. The way the film deals the topics of sexual abuse, dementia, denial, and Festen -level family dynamics is well judged and makes for an incredibly memorable addition to this year’s Competition.

Cailee Spaeny won Best Actress for Sofia Coppola’s Priscilla, which was the furthest thing from the toothless, estate-approved biopic it could have feasibly been. Instead, it was a sensitive and absorbing adaptation of Priscilla Presley's 1985 memoir 'Elvis and Me', central to which is 25-year-old Spaeny’s uncaricatured turn as the leading lady.

We thought she would win the Marcello Mastroianni Award for best newcomer, but the jury decided to give her the top prize. You may have glimpsed Spaeny in Bad Times at the El Royale, as the young Lynne Cheney in Vice, or in series like Devs or Mare of Easttown. However, this is without a doubt her big break, showing that she’s capable of shouldering a big production and acing the assignment.

Full list of winners:

Golden Lion - Best Film: Poor Things (Yorgos Lanthimos)

Grand Jury Prize: Aku Wa Sonzai Shinai (Evil Does Not Exist) (Ryûsuke Hamaguchi)

Special Jury Prize: Green Border (Agnieszka Holland)

Silver Lion - Best Director: Matteo Garrone (Io Capitano)

Volpi Cup for Best Actress: Cailee Spaeny (Priscilla)

Volpi Cup for Best Actor: Peter Sarsgaard (Memory)

Best Screenplay: Guillermo Calderon and Pablo Larrain (El Conde)

Marcello Mastroianni Award for Best New Talent: Seydou Sarr (Io Capitano)

[pimpneek45]

Riveting Drama Unfolds at Alabama Riverfront: Unbelievable Showdown!

Hold onto your hats, folks, because the Alabama Riverfront turned into a wild battleground that has everyone buzzing! Picture this: a sunny Saturday afternoon, the sparkling waters of the Alabama River, and a clash of epic proportions that had TikTok creators and artists alike diving in to capture the action.

It all went down at the famous Riverfront Park in Montgomery, where a group of spirited white boaters decided to stir the pot. But wait, it's not your typical riverboat cruise story. Oh no, this one comes with twists and turns that make it a must-watch spectacle.

Imagine a fearless Black boat captain, Damien Pickett, trying to tame the turbulent waters of misunderstanding. With the Harriott II riverboat in one corner and a pontoon filled with some raucous white boaters in the other, tensions escalated faster than a jet ski on a sugar rush.

As the Harriott II tried to dock, Captain Pickett valiantly attempted to communicate with the pontoon party for a solid 45 minutes. But instead of a friendly chat over the airwaves, the white boaters responded with gestures that weren't exactly a wave and taunts that left everyone scratching their heads.

Hold onto your life vests, because here comes the plot twist! Captain Pickett decided to take matters into his own hands and make his way to the pontoon for a heart-to-heart chat. Little did he know, he was about to dive headfirst into a sea of trouble.

Cue the dramatic music: Captain Pickett, a brave Black co-captain, faced off against a barrage of hostilities from the pontoon posse. It was like a classic Western showdown, but on water. Fists flew, emotions boiled over, and the riverfront became a stage for a battle of epic proportions.

But that's not all – enter Reggie Gray, armed with a folding chair and a flair for the dramatic! With a swing and a hit, he became the unexpected hero, defending justice and adding a touch of WWE-style drama to the whole affair.

Videos captured the chaos from every angle, as onlookers gasped and cheered in shock. Some applauded the brave souls who jumped into the fray, while others marveled at the reversal of roles, where history's dark past played out on the same docks that once saw the painful trade of enslaved Americans.

Now, the authorities are getting in on the action. Montgomery's finest are dishing out arrest warrants like a deck of cards, seeking justice for the riverfront rumble. Richard Roberts, Allen Todd, and Zachary Shipman are facing the music, with more potentially joining the dance soon.

As the sun sets on this riveting saga, one thing's for sure: the Alabama Riverfront will never be the same. Mayor Steven L. Reed wants us all to remember – this was an isolated incident, a blip in the vibrant tapestry of Montgomery. So, let's keep the riverfront rocking, the boats cruising, and the drama to a minimum. After all, this is a community that's all about unity, not hostility.

And that, my friends, is the wild tale of the Alabama Riverfront Brawl – a story that'll have you on the edge of your seat and grateful for the quiet moments on the river.

[theladyofshalott1989]

OMG, Carel!!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH. I absolutely adore this. It reminds me of watercolor paintings. Did you use watercolor??? Regardless, this is so impressive and I will cherish it forever. Damien wanted me to share one of the following Oscar Wilde quotes with you from The Picture of Dorian Gray (in thanks):

"Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself."

THANK YOU AGAIN <33333

MC Sketches #3: Damien Evans

Damien belongs to @theladyofshalott1989 (If a character can belong to someone. They take on a life of their own over time, right?^^) It was really fun to draw him, even though this art style isn't my comfort style. I used a reference I've found on the blog and I was so impressed by. His gaze held me captive, I can't quite explain it. I looked at it for a long time before I decided to draw it and couldn't even come close to that level of expression. I still I like my drawing, I hope you do too ! -> Go to @theladyofshalott1989 to see & read more about this pretty Oscar Wild-loving cutie💙 💙💙 Fun fact: I drew him first... but I posted the others before him (no idea why, haha)