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When he opens his eyes to the sunlight streaming through his bedroom curtains, he doesn't know who he is yet. Not unusual: the lines are blurring as the pieces slowly form a whole, so unless he's Jack it takes a moment to figure out which name fits for the day. Their first night back in LA, Darby had just called him 'babe' the whole time because everything else made him restless and itchy.
…Darby, who is pasted to his back and sleepily mouthing at the nape of his neck. Scapegoat—okay, Scapegoat—shivers, and presses back into him reflexively in spite of himself. He hates how readily his body betrays him, aches for more with the smallest touch, can't hide a reaction anymore when Darby's even close much less actually has hands on him.
It's not Darby that's the problem, it's…loving him. Where people can see, having a visible weak spot he can't hide. Someone will use it against him, someone will take it from him, this guy who he tried to kill for months and still decided yeah he's mine with such force he literally owns him now and Scapegoat, Jack, has his fingers snarled in the threads of Darby's soul.
"Can hear you thinkin'."
Scapegoat huffs with quiet laughter as Darby's breath feathers across his skin.
"Yeah, I do that." He replies.
Darby freezes, and Scapegoat wonders if he's done something wrong—
He's on his back before he realizes it, Darby pressing kisses across his face and onto his mouth to coax it open.
"Sweetheart."
Scapegoat bites back a noise that bubbles up in his throat, hearing that pet name breathed with such undiluted joyful recognition, like Darby wants to see him, has hoped to see him—
"Yeah, it—"
He makes it no further before Darby's staking his claim, pushing past his lips and teeth, carving his name into Scapegoat's every breath with scorching sweeps of his tongue. Warping his thoughts, twisting his already branded soul and leaving him shaking with desires he has no fucking right to, clutching at Darby's shoulders and whining into his mouth, trying to get closer and more and enough.
Fuck, who's the wraith here?…
"Can I ask you for something?" Darby whispers, catching Scapegoat's chin between his fingers and tipping his head back so he can mouth and nip at his neck.
"I…uh…"
"Need words. It's a big ask."
"It's—I…Darby, I can't—please—"
Darby lifts his head, and—oh, God, his smile is absolutely blinding. Smug as shit and infuriating and absolutely uncalled for, and deliriously pleased because he's pushed Scapegoat so easily past the point of coherent speech. Rather than being disdainful of his weakness or triumphant over his conquest, he's delighted. Like he'll never draw any greater pleasure out of life than making Scapegoat quiver and whimper and beg for Darby to take him apart.
"…nah, it can wait. You look too damn good." he finally sighs, bending his head to nuzzle his neck. "First, breakfast. Can I…?"
"You, uh—you don't have to ask me every time." Scapegoat assures him, given a moment to breathe—sort of, because Darby's found his pulse and his mouth's just hovering there with promises of anything and everything he could imagine.
"I know."
Still, he hovers. He waits. Scapegoat shuts his eyes and feels something inside him give way with a full body shiver as he tips his head back.
"Yes."
Darby's mouth seals around his pulse point, and that yielding is what he latches onto, pulling that thread until he's woven a blanket to wrap him in, giving up and giving in until he feels absolutely overtaken, overpowered…safe.
The feeling sweeps him away, until some time later Darby is kissing him awake again.
"Nnnnnh…"
"You're good for my ego, you know that?"
"I fell asleep."
"Exactly…c'mon. Feeding stomachs now, let's go. Outta bed, sexy…"
*****
"…I hate this."
"Hate what?"
"That you're better about the safety equipment than Jack is. Could mean it's Jungle Boy being careless, and he's such a fuckin' goober I can't yell at him with any real conviction…"
Scapegoat grins as he lifts the block of resin up to brush off the dust from the saw with one gloved hand and check his cut.
"You, uh…you wanna know a secret?"
Darby lifts an eyebrow from his place sitting by the wall, watching him with a sudden intensity that makes his skin prickle under the weight of his attention.
"Always."
"Jungle Boy's a manipulative little shit."
"Fuck off."
"I mean, he mostly uses his powers for good, but he absolutely uses them. That, uh—pout thing? With the big eyes? Yeah, he's fully aware of what he's doing."
"That little asshole…"
Scapegoat laughs as he reaches for some sandpaper to smooth a nick in the side of the handle. He can't…look at Darby right now, not now that he's exposed something about himself. Well, part of himself. The line between him and Jungle Boy is blurring, so it feels wrong to be telling tales, giving him something to use…giving part of himself away.
He's losing his fucking mind to be trusting anyone this much, least of all Darby Allin. What the hell is he doing? Maybe it's this thrall thing, maybe he's—fuck, is he—
Scapegoat is heading back to the saw to take another slice off to expose the wood when Darby's there in front of him, pulling the resin block out of his hands and setting it on the work bench.
"What are you—"
Grabbing his face, Darby kisses him—doesn't even bother with coaxing, just takes his mouth and makes it his, makes Scapegoat his until there's nothing left but curling his tongue around Darby's, letting himself be pulled flush against his body, letting Darby's fingers curl into his nape and his hip to bruise, messy and rushed, marking him not just as belonging, but as wanted.
"Darby…"
"Could see you spiraling." Darby breathes against his mouth, making Scapegoat's gut clench and his head twist to try and chase his mouth. Darby eludes him, and Scapegoat keens, a shamefully desperate sound that makes his cheeks burn with shame.
What's worse, what's downright scary, is when he forgets himself and reaches out to grab Darby's jaw and drag him in to kiss him himself.
Scapegoat would freeze, but Darby's knees nearly buckle and Scapegoat has to hold him up with an arm around his waist. He slips past Darby's lips, and his thoughts lose focus with the taste of jasmine and fresh snow flooding his senses.
And Darby—Darby whines into his mouth, his fingers scramble at his shoulders and his back, as greedy and as desperate as Scapegoat feels. Like he's enough to make Darby Allin weak with want, lost and incoherent without something only Scapegoat can give him…
Except that Scapegoat presses Darby back against his work bench, and he lets him. He kisses him, rocks his hips against Darby's, and Darby moans, a broken, breathless sound punched out of his chest and right against Scapegoat's cheek. Darby is rutting against him, clawing at him, trying to drag their mouths back together…
And Scapegoat is as terrified as he is emboldened. To feel this desired, this powerful, this important.
No title could make him as dizzy as he is when he lifts Darby onto the work bench and drags him to the edge. Darby's legs wrap around him like a vise, his hands slide over Scapegoat's ass to drag their hips together, and his mouth slides against Scapegoat's with a feral sound that starts him shaking.
"You are so fucking beautiful."
He doesn't mean to say it, but his head is spinning and he feels drunk on the way Darby clings to him and tries to grind against him, and he makes a noise as his whole body jerks…
Fuck. Scapegoat wants, and he's fucking terrified. This isn't something he gets to do, it's not something that a person like him gets to have. He's not even a real person, he's a bag of broken toys no one can fix…
Until Darby is mindlessly nuzzling against the grain of his beard, trying to drag him into meeting the greedy thrust of his hips, and the way it hits him, hot and sharp low in his body…he thinks it might be worth it to throw away every last scrap of self preservation he's ever fucking had just to brush his fingers against its hem.
So he wraps his arms around Darby, lifts him off the bench, and Darby clings like a limpet so Scapegoat can carry him out of his work shed and into the house.
"You're gorgeous, all of you. Wanna fucking drown in those eyes like I got dumped in the ocean…feel sometimes like if you stare at me long enough, it could fix me."
Darby whines again, and Scapegoat is lost. He presses him down into the living room couch, settles between his legs, and has to roll his hips, has to swallow each sweet sound as he lines them up and loses himself for a few delicious moments.
Grinds himself into Darby just to feel him shiver. Presses wet, openmouthed kisses to his throat just to hear him moan and babble incoherent pleas for more. Stares down into Darby's face, mouth kissed slick and red, eyes fluttering shut, arousal flushing down his cheeks and neck.
Watches Darby losing himself. Not in the void that rushed in when his soul was cut off, not the feed or the fight or thr darkness…but in him.
Scapegoat realizes he could absolutely fucking come like this. Watching Darby unravel. Feeling him lose control…listening to his voice go tight with hot promise as Scapegoat makes him sob with pleasure.
He collapses into Darby, shaking with need, and it's finally, finally too much. It's intoxicating and terrifying and nothing he's allowed to keep…
He pushes his face into Darby's neck, and Darby claws at his shoulders, claws and scrambles and clings, finding purchase and…holding on tight. Vibrating with desire, still panting under him, and yet holding on because Scapegoat needs it.
God, he's so fucked up. He's so fucked up, and Darby's holding him together while he's about to shake apart because he's that big a mess. He's got no business here…
"Perry."
There's something that wriggles down into his chest, warm and silky, at the way Darby says that one word. A softly spoken secret, a magic incantation he's sharing with someone who was denied power, but to his mind deserves to know this secret.
When he lifts his head, Darby's smile feels different, revelatory. He smooths a curl behind Scapegoat's ear, and one corner jerks up higher than the other.
"We got Jungle Jack, y'know? He gets a name that belongs to part of the whole. Scapegoat Perry."
It takes him a second to wrap his head around that…and when he feels like he understands, it still doesn't quite register. It still doesn't feel…it's too much. He's not—
Scapegoat curls a hand against Darby's cheek. Darby nuzzles into it, then catches his thumb between his lips and sucks, draws the digit into his mouth with hot wet pressure and the teasing lash of his tongue.
"Yeah," Darby breathes, hot against damp skin as he releases his thumb, "Scapegoat Perry…stop at nothing, won't go down…'less it's on me, please let it be on me, fuck I want your mouth on me, sweetheart please—"
His voice is going higher at the end, and that hint of unraveling has the…madness on him again.
Pulling away, he watches Darby's face as he scoots back to tug Darby's shoes and socks off. He opens Darby's jeans, tugs them along with his briefs down and off his legs. Darby must have a hint of what's coming, because he sits up, skins off his shirt, and reaches out to tangle fists in Scapegoat's still bound hair—
"Please—Christ, how do you do this? Feel like a fuckin' lunatic for how bad I want you, s' too much…shouldn't—want anything this much oh my God oh fuck oh shit—"
Scapegoat is gratified by the way Darby's voice goes out when he hooks one of his legs over his shoulder and presses forward, lowering his head and curling his hands under him for support so he can sweep his tongue across Darby's hole. His whole body jumps, and those curses are all breath as Scapegoat just laps at him, again and again before pressing inside.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuck—oh God, you can't…you can't…can't ju…ohhhhhhh, fuck…"
He's shaking with how Darby's falling to pieces, so hard it hurts. He uses that slick thumb to press carefully into Darby, laps around it while Darby writhes, trying to fuck himself onto Scapegoat's fingers and tongue. He eventually switches to two fingers, stretching carefully, and Darby tries to get more, deeper, harder, head thrown back in a gorgeous arch that makes Scapegoat's mouth water to taste.
"You're a work of art like this." He breathes, kissing the inside of Darby's thigh as he works spit-slick fingers deeper, curls up and finds that source of white hot ecstasy that shoots down his legs and has him wrapping them around Scapegoat's shoulders to squeeze with a delicious urgency.
Fuck, Darby's clawing at the cushions, the arm of the couch, dragging his hands down his face. He's feral with pleasure, an animal that only knows how to want, and in this second he shouldn't, he should not, but…he belongs to Scapegoat.
To him, no other part of Jack.
"You're gorgeous, you're perfect." He croaks.
"Sca…Perry fuck sweetheart, please—I need, I need, I need—"
"I know—you're absolutely stunning, you're so good—I don't think anyone in the universe could love you as much as I do right this second…"
Darby looks down at him—for an instant, barely that—and Scapegoat sees something in his face break as he tries to form words and can't, voice gone sharp and thin and so tight that he pulls his fingers out of Darby so he can open his jeans and wriggle them down far enough—
"No, please I need—"
"Shhh, I know, I'm here…"
He spits in his hand, slicks his cock, and pushes into him carefully. It's a little rough but he's still slick enough for a hot slide that nearly collapses Scapegoat's lungs.
"Goddamn, you feel like heaven, Darby…fuck you do fix me, every time I'm with you like this…little more every time…"
Darby moans, long and hoarse, dragging Scapegoat in for a kiss that's all slick tongue with barely enough coordination to find his lips much less the rest of his mouth.
"Never…feel more—more human…than when I'm with you, sweet-sweetheart…fuck, please, please…"
He's shaking with the overwhelm as he kisses Darby, fucks into him until he bottoms out. He groans at the way he tightens around Scapegoat when he finds that spot, the way Darby digs his nails in everywhere not carelessly, not to get off, but because he's so far gone he has to hold on or fly off the skin of the world.
"Close, God—harder—"
He grips his hip, drives himself deep, and Scapegoat comes at the same moment Darby does—shock pushing him over that cliff's edge when he feels Darby tighten and hears that wail of his name without even having to touch him.
The pleasure is so intense, so hot it burns his skin—so blinding he doesn't even realize he's walked into the forge for a second time.
*****
It's different this time. This time, the bonds are all there, the vampire's bite a memory. The heat builds, the metal glows, but he can feel hands steadying his as he holds the piece to the fire.
"I got you, okay? Just hold on…tap when it's enough, like you're submitting."
…he walks out of the forge, and glowing blue eyes fill his vision.
Darby's mouth finds his, and all the heat swimming under his skin is vented through that first pull of breath from his lungs…
Don't let me hurt you.
The command sings through his blood, Darby's voice and will and desire a living thing that takes full possession of him. He surrenders with a happy sigh that Darby drinks down.
It's nothing like last time. It's wonderfully cool, relief after the fire. It's pulling life from his lungs, leaving each breath harder to draw than the last, but there's something under every breath that's…building.
…oh, God…
He's still inside Darby. He was going soft…and that restless, growing urgency has him starting to move again. Darby makes a soft, wrecked sound into his—into Jack's mouth—and his hips lift to meet the slow, shallow roll of Jack's.
His next breath comes easier. The heat continues to bleed away, the temperature continues to drop.
Soon Darby is claiming his mouth in earnest, Jack is breathing hard but he's breathing just fine, and…they're fucking again. His heart is racing, he's hard and he's trembling and he's trying to find that spot inside of Darby again—
Darby bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and Jack comes, and he swears he can feel his heart stop.
*****
"There. Safe and sound—will you go lay…what the fuck's this?"
"Making the most out of a messy situation. You want me to rest when I feel just fine? We're gonna cuddle and watch a movie."
"…with Max?"
"You're such a fucking weirdo."
Darby just beams at him and crosses the living room to hand Jack the cloudy block of resin and wood with Max the snake head staring out of it. He wants to measure for a tweak he's making in the design, and he had to send Darby outside to the shed to grab it, and his notebook, just so he could get the covers on the couch cushions into the washing machine without him hovering.
He's…tired, but otherwise fine after a shower and drinking a whole bottle of water his fussy wraith boyfriend forced on him. Aforementioned fussy wraith boyfriend continues to doubt him, however.
Darby steals a kiss before passing the notebook, too, and moves towards the kitchen.
"Popcorn?"
"Two bowls! Sick of you stealing mine!"
"I'm just trying to hold your hand, y'know. Romantic shit."
"Yeah, that's how I end up with a single handful and an empty bowl by the end of the movie—two bowls, dick."
Darby flips him off with both fingers, vanishing around the corner into the kitchen while Jack goes back to laying out blankets over the bare couch cushions now spread out on the floor along with every pillow he could find in the house. It's dumb, but he's done it with his sister before as kids, and it's…kinda fun.
It's also the real thing that doesn't feel okay yet, and he wants to, needs to talk to Darby about it. So…
Within twenty minutes, they have sodas, popcorn—a pillow for Max—and Jack's got Anaconda on because Darby wouldn't stop snickering about it. Or "talking" to Max about forcing Jack to turn it on.
Jack gets the dimensions before Darby settles Max onto his pillow, and even snags a Sharpie to mark his cuts for tomorrow before they're under the blankets with popcorn. Their improvised futon is against the base of the couch so Darby is sitting up and Jack is under his arm, pressed to his side…and Scapegoat's memory of that morning settles comfortably into his head.
"Can I tell you something about…earlier?" He asks softly after a while.
"You okay?" Darby asks instead of answering. The hand he has curled over the ball of Jack's t-shirt covered shoulder shifts to push underneath, cupping his palm against bare skin.
"Yes, Darby, I'm okay. That's…that's what scares me. A little."
Darby slouches a little, draws Jack's head to rest against his chest, presses his face against the top of his head.
"…can you…be more specific? Do you mean the uh—unexpected side trip into soul smithing?"
"…no."
"So it didn't scare you, it scared—"
"Perry."
As always happens, Darby's hand finds its way to the bun at his nape, working it loose and saving the elastic for him, combing loose his curls.
"Liked that, huh?"
"Oh yeah."
Jack takes another breath, and doesn't worry about where that nugget of information will show up later. Like his hair elastic, when it leaves his head it always ends up in the same place. Steady, reliable…safe.
"…I never knew where I stood with Christian."
Darby stills. Not really, he's still touching Jack: fingers running through his hair, mouth pursing and thinning against his hairline just to feel the brush of skin, free hand curled over Jack's where he's got a hand splayed against Darby's bare stomach.
Every other part of him, however, is motionless and expectant, eerily poised to listen. Well, maybe just eerie to him. He's not used to…that. The hearing, the listening—his words holding any real weight worth considering.
"I know I haven't told you much about what happened with him—"
"And you don't have to."
"I know, but…part of the issue is that…not as much happened as you think." Jack admits. "If I wasn't immediately useful in some capacity, good or bad, I was…nothing. I mean he wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire kind of nothing, I was invisible and a fucking problem if I dared to be anything else in those moments between. And that was…the whole time."
Darby slumps further, and he doesn't have to prompt Jack to shift up so he can tuck his head into the curve of Darby's neck.
"I never knew when it was going to shift. I'd get my hopes up sometimes and he'd knock them flat. Some days I felt as…worthless as he told me I was but he needed something from me so I had to convince the world, myself included, that I was ready for it. And that's—it's painful when you have to lie to yourself like that."
"Jack, you fucking—"
He lifts his head to look into Darby's face with a wan smile.
"I know, babe. I know it's a lie…I'm working on the feeling part, and I think that's why this…got put into the final product. This problem. It's not something I have to fix or discard. It's…it's something I can heal. And I started doing that today."
"How?"
Darby's expression is so painfully bewildered…how can he not know? What it means to be so loved, so adored—to know how even the worst part of him can unmake Darby. He climbed Everest, he barrels into danger, leaps off balconies, and walks around with his middle finger permanently extended into the face of God and everyone.
Darby is a fucking storm, and he thought he was lucky to sit in the eye of that hurricane, sheltered by its fury…but today, Jack turned his face up to the lightning and it melted into a ray of sunlight for him.
"By realizing it doesn't matter where I stand." He admits softly. "Not knowing is…fucking terrifying, but if I fall? I always know where I'll land with you."
Darby stares into his face for a second, reaching up to rub his thumb against the grain of Jack's beard before smoothing it back into place. His expression is…rage and black, murderous fury. It's his eyes red with blood and his lips parted, teeth bared, ready to sink into waiting flesh.
It's terrifying—and it never touches Jack. It fills the room, circles around him, wraps as tight around Jack's ribs as Darby's arm when he slides to lay flat and pulls Jack on top of him.
Jack tucks his head under Darby's chin, and shuts his eyes with a deep breath.
This, right here, is where he lands.
Jack surrenders to the inevitability of it, and falls asleep for the second time that day by letting Darby overpower him.