#knuckles is wearing some modern active wear which is so nice for him

[seagull-scribbles]

GRADUATION DAY!

[river-bottom-nightmare]

Dick and Wally together are sports culture.

Different tennis shoes littering the hallway, worn out and held together by duct tape. Traded shoelaces, so they both have a piece of each other wherever they go. Different patterned leg warmers as Christmas gifts. Early morning stretching, just the two of them sitting on the floor of their apartment, Dick leading and Wally following, working the soreness out of their muscles. Random equipment for sports they don’t even play in the closet. Cold and refreshing showers. Eating so much food, both relatively healthy stuff and pure junk. A Flash water bottle with a Nightwing keychain. A Nightwing water bottle with a Flash keychain. Using the doorframe as a pull-ups bar. Washing the sheets every other day, not because of all the sex (though the sex is often) but because one of them will come home, all sweaty from a workout, and just collapse on the bed for a couple minutes before taking a shower. Daring each other to show off parkour skills in civvies. Jumping into a pickup basketball game with a bunch of strangers, ending the game with a group of new friends. Buying deodorant whenever the go to the store bc you can never have too much deodorant. Trailing off sentences and just staring because holy shit those are some nice back muscles and biceps. Actually decent sleep schedules. 

Jason and Roy together are peak casual academia.

Everyone knows Jason spends his free time reading literary classics. And everyone knows the grease on Roy’s fingers won’t ever wash out. Bookshelves crammed full of old paperbacks, everything from Wuthering Heights to The Optimist’s Daughter to The Importance of Being Earnest. Goggles shoved over green eyes and a freckled nose as an invention sparks to life in rough hands. The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy is a guilty pleasure of both of theirs. Thousands of pens littering an apartment for scribbling down notes whenever they strike. Jason poking plot holes and other criticisms faster than a bullet, character analyzations sharper than his jawline, a lecture about the problem with many contemporary and modern novels longer than his dick. Excited rambles way too early in the morning about some new polymer Roy can work into his arrows. Jason tutoring students in both Lit and Spanish at the public library. NPR playing on the radio. Being in a bent over position for so long they sigh in relief when the other offers them a back massage after smirking when they let out a pained groan. Never throwing anything away because you never know what could be useful. 

Tim and Kon together are skate culture.

Tim wraps his boards with tape because, even though he has to replace it every couple of weeks, he likes the designs. Kon sets some time aside every couple of nights to make sure his rollerblades are doing okay, unscrewing and rescrewing the wheels becoming a habit. Tim’s jeans are ripped to hell, but he still wears them over and over again, saying “I’ve got kneepads it’s fine.” Kon wears his round red sunglasses with increasing frequency; Tim says it makes him look like a dork but Kon knows he secretly likes it. Tim likes taking aesthetic photographs of Kon while skating, and since he’s a damn good photographer, the pictures turn out beautiful. Kon likes taking pictures of Tim, but he’s not as good and he uses a blurry iphone camera. Even so, they’re in-the-moment and raw and Tim loves them anyway. Kon loves practicing tricks: skating backwards on his in-lines has become a smooth, practiced motion for him, his misfits are vicious, his savannahs make spectators terrified he’s stumble and fall. He does them all, with a rakish grin, and comes to a stop with his head held high for applause. Tim, on the other hand, just skates. he’ll roam the streets and sidewalks of Gotham, mindlessly pushing his skateboard, going over pits and bumps with practiced ease. The constant, repetitive motion is a form of meditation for him, but still active enough to keep his mind alive. Every week Kon changes his nail polish color, and usually it’s Tim painting his nails for him. Tim’s wardrobe consists entirely of 6 or 7 oversized sweatshirts and sweaters, and when he’s not cycling through those same clothes over and over again, he wears Kon’s shirts. They hang loose on his frame, but that makes him love them even more. Kon rarely ever takes his fingerless gloves off. In contrast, Tim’s knuckles are constantly busted up to hell. Ton’s got a bold undercut that would look stupid and try-hard on anyone else, but somehow, it works really well for him. Tim’s hair is always just a little overdue for a haircut. The two of them have so many socks, like a huge drawer full of them. They’re patterned and textured, long and short, and they’re constantly in use. Tim collects stickers to overlay the bottom of his board with. Kon gets around the city as a pedestrian wearing roller blades more often than actual shoes. The kids frequenting the skate park are a second family.

Damian and Jon are art culture.

Charcoal and marker ink staining Damian’s hands. Callouses littering Jon’s fingertips, because he never pulls up his invulnerability when playing. Blank canvases that rarely get used in the closet. Screenshotted and printed out sheet music never in the folder they’re supposed to be in. Damian hiding spray paint cans from Bruce. Humming at all hours of the day. Homemade paper lanterns as decorations. Pencils in a leather pencil case. Pencils in a two dollar plastic case. Pencils on the sheets of the bed and in a cup near the sink and on top of the coffee table. A guitar pick collection that never gets used. Refusing to buy new sketchbooks, arguing in vain that they’re reusable. Jon bsentmindedly playing out a melody on the piano when he’s thinking. Paint splattered jeans. A painted denim jacket. Tuning a violin regularly but always forgetting to rosen until it becomes a necessity. Damian drawing all over Jon’s arms. Falling in love with the stranger ones of the old composers. Beautiful handmade cards for every required occasion. Drawings and paintings based off a piece Jon played. Sweeping and emotional music pieces based off something Damian created. Half finished sketches of Jon littering every sketchbook Damian ever gets. Days of playing the same chords over and over again before being struck by an idea for a song. “I made this for you.”

yes i am aware roy’s characterization in this is based off rhato which is a terrible characterization to begin with. no i do not care. look at how fucking long tim and kon’s is i’m not sorry

tag list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @subtleappreciation @screennamealreadyused @pricetagofficial @catxsnow @bikoncon @dangerduckjpeg 

[the-slasher-files]

OC: DOMINIK DIMITRI KULOKOVA

SON OF ANDREI KULOKOVA AND XAVERIA LAH-MO

This is 100% a collab with @horrorslashergirl

Nickname: Dom, Niki, White Wolf, Dragon

What he calls his s/o: Babe, beautiful, lapa (Russian for little paw meaning sweetie pie)

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Demisexual

Nationality: Russian, Norwegian, American

Languages: Russian, Norwegian, English, Romanian, Dutch 

Voice: He is pretty soft spoken and doesn’t talk much but when he does, it demands attention. Dom grew up around many different people so his accent is unique; At first you hear a faint Russian accent but after a while he sounds more American from his mother and uncle (Akshay Lah-Mo) then there are a few words that he almost sounds Romanian from growing up around Decebal, Nadia and Alexander.

Occupation: Animal rescuer, exotic pet trade breeder and self taught engineer

Location: Northern Russia (status: still living with parents)

Hair: Snow White faux hawk that goes all the way down to his neck 

Eyes: Icy blue, sometimes look white in the reflection of snow on a sunny day. Intense. Sharp. Powerful. When he is killing his pupils are blown wide and a darkness seeps into the blue from the rims almost making them look black.

Height: 6′3

Body: Quite lean but powerful, definitely not a show off with his body and hides it under baggy clothing

Tattoos: Soft tattoos for the soft boy. Both arms, his whole torso, back and neck are covered in tattoos of women, nature, animals, cherubs and soft quotes in Russian and English

Clothes: Cyberpunk modern streetwear clothing. He sticks to mainly blacks and greys. Often wears cargo pants with lots of straps and oversized pockets, hoodies and large over sized jackets to hide his frame, along with vests and harnesses. When killing he wears his hood up and a black half face mask.  

Weapons/fight style: Extremely skilled in hand to hand combat from his father and the people he grew up around. Skilled in guns but doesn’t like to use them. He makes his own weapons such as the blades on his forearms, also uses brass knuckle knives.  

Preferred Method of Kill: This is the interesting part about Dominik, he doesn’t kill until he absolutely needs to. He will torture and maim a person but gives them a chance to change their ways, if they don’t he will come back and he will use slow torture, using his blades to cut people open then apply various types of animal venoms on the wounds making someone die slowly and painfully.

Motive: Killing/hurting people that illegally trade exotic animals and poachers 

Smell: Fresh rain and blood orange with hints of violet leaves, black tea and motor oil

Relationship with parents: As a young boy Dominik was very close with both parents equally not being able to see a flaw at all within them and getting equal attention between him and his twin sister Anastasia. 

However, as he got older and started to become his own person he was hardly aggressive and loved to just be quiet and play on his own, even just going into the woods by himself only to get lectures about leaving the home alone, especially from Andrei but that was just out of love and protection for his son. Dominik was also always more of a softer boy which Andrei didn’t really know how to ever deal with which lead him to be harsher and colder with Dom even though he loves him so much, they just do not get each other.

Having the rocky relationship with his dad, Andrei, Dominik found comfort in his uncle Akshay Lah-Mo and his mother, Xaviera. On many occasions Andrei was busy with Anastasia so he would often feel like Andrei’s little disappointment when in reality that isn’t true but, Dom would always go to Akshay for fatherly love and he was more patient and understanding, they would take long nature walks and just get everything off his chest, the white wolf feels very deeply and has a lot of thoughts he needs to get out. He would also do the same with Xaviera and she taught him everything about animals and how great they are so he took up a lot of her animal rescuing traits and how to deal with the most dangerous like a charm. 

Dominik prefers the quiet and peace that Akshay and Xaviera have along with their gentle nature towards him, Andrei’s brutish and blunt approach confuses him. He just doesn’t understand why Andrei is the way he is with most things, his temper, the desire for the kill and a lot of his values so Xaviera becomes the closer parent.  

Personality: When you first meet Dominik you might take him for a little awkward or a loner or even cold but once you get to know him he is a really cool dude. Just because he doesn’t talk much or like to be around the crowds doesn’t make him weird, he just wants to in his room listening to his music while taking care of his animals or working on his weapons. 

He is definitely the guy that only speaks when spoken to, often times he won’t strike up a conversation unless you are very close with him or if he is standing up for you. Dom is comfortable with the silence and just enjoying the company of the person beside him so don’t be put off by that, he’s not mad or upset he just is more interested in observing people than speaking with them. 

Once you break the quiet exterior and learn more about him, Dominik is a very nice person and he feels very deeply. He is more for profound deep conversations then mind numbing meaningless ones, that’s for sure. With feeling deeply comes thinking deeply, and Dom has a very active mind, not to the extent as his dad but it is pretty busy and he always has something on the go, from tinkering with his motorcycle to rescuing a new animal. One of the best ways to get to know Dom or help him clear his mind is going for a nature walk, the calmness and peace of the wilderness brings him out of his shell.

Having Andrei as a father this brings some of his qualities, Dominik is a bit of a dare devil that loves to race his motorcycle through the streets and he loves to play with some of the most dangerous reptiles on earth. Another quality he gets is his dad’s temper, but it takes Dom a long time to explode but when he does it is scary and you better run before getting your face punched in.   

[wilwywaylan]

Tangled Up in Blue - part 1

Fandom : les Misérables

Modern!AU, Enjolras & Bahorel & Grantaire & Feuilly oh my !! - 3300 words

Written for the @lesmissamepromptficchallenge, "Person A gently tilts Person B's head up". Of course I Couldn't finish it in one go so have the first part right now.

Béta-ed by the amazing @paon-de-jour

For @mu-mumie and @citron-au-miel, my eager readers !

Also on AO3 !

-

Left, right, left again. The fists struck the leather with dry, satisfying thuds. Bahorel was humming under his breath, following the rhythm of his hands as they hit the punching bag. That was the part of his training he liked the most, when his gestures became automatic, on autopilot, a metronome lulling his thoughts in an almost hypnotic way. During those few precious minutes, he was as close to peace of mind as one like him could be.

A noise came to disrupt the rhythm, pulling him out of his trance, steps coming from the open door. Of course, it couldn't last. Most of the time, he could only get a few minutes a day of this glorious state of being, before being cruelly called back to the mortal world. A glance at the clock told him that it was already a few minutes past six. All lessons were done with since four, and he hadn't any appointement he could remember. Then again, he tended to forget those, as they were only for the added paycheck and usually consisted of too-eager people who had watched one action flick too many. But as hard as he tried, he couldn't remember having any lessons today. So either someone had gotten lost in the hallways, or that someone was looking for him. Which one was better, he didn't know. Maybe if he stayed completly still and silent, the person would just go their merry way and not bother him.

A knock at the door. Ah. So much for not being seen. He vaguely thought about scaring them away, playing the role of the big bad asshole. But no. That would probably hurt at least his job, if not his reputation. And as much as he wanted to be on his own, he wasn't an asshole on purpose. So he composed himself a friendly smile and turned to the door.

For now four years that he'd been teaching boxing and kickboxing here, Bahorel had seen many different people cross that door, from children, impatient to start learning, to women looking for self-defense classes (they were often wary of him, but quickly warmed up to him), to people trying to stay in shape. Tall, small, large, thin, burly, willowy, he'd seen all.

But that one... Bahorel had never seen anyone like them. Not because they were tiny, even if they totally were. Almost pocket-sized, Bahorel inwardly snickered, but he'd never say it because he was not a totall ass. That one was tiny enough to get into heated conversations with Bahorel's collarbone, but there was something about them. What exactly, Bahorel couldn't put his finger on, but you couldn't just brush them off. Not just because they were cute. No, scratch that. Cute was for the tiny girls in the ballet room at the other end of the hallway. Or for the puppies he liked to pet in the park. Or... but not that one. As a lover of fine persons and pretty faces, Bahorel had seen his share. But that one could blow every one out of the water without even trying. Because they were not even trying. They were wearing a very baggy, faded red sweater that fell around their thighs, black leggings, and red converse that had certainly seen way too many things. Their long, blond hair fell in soft curls to the small of their back, but it was hastily gathered together without care, and from there, looked quite tangled. The few strands that had escaped framed a very delicate face, a soft oval with high cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose. But the skin was pale and a little red around the eyes. Nice eyes, even from there. Blue and large, with long eyelashes. And a black bruise around one eye. Another one marked their cheek, a dark purple almost shocking on the pale skin. Looking closer, the pretty mouth was split in two spots, and there was a cut across their forehead. Bahorel could recognize a severe beating from across the room, and that one was quite an impressive one.

He suddenly noticed that neither the intruder nor himself had moved from their respective spots. He stepped forwards, offering his hand. The tiny blond one shook it, firmly. Their knuckles were scrapped raw. At least they gave back as much as they got. Good. From up close, they were even prettier. Or they would have been, had they not been scowling that much. Granted, they still looked angelic, but in a ferocious kind of way. Really, Bahorel was starting to like this one. Several badges were pinned on the red hoodie : a purple, grey and black one, a red one with a white slogan, and a large, very obvious rainbow one. No need to be a genius to understand that one.

- Hello, kid, he said with a welcoming smile. I'm Bahorel, pleased to meet you. Pronouns are he / him. What can I do for you ?

The newcomer's expression briefly crumpled a little at "kid", but it smoothed as quickly when they heard the rest.

- I'm Enjolras. He / him too.

So the tiny one was a boy. Good. Not that Bahorel had anything against girls who wanted to learn boxing. Or non-binary people.

- And what can I do for you, Enjolras ?

- I need boxing lessons.

- That, I can guess.

Enjolras frowned for a second, then seemed to remember either where he was, or the wounds on his face.

- Can you take me as your student ?

When someone came at him for lessons, Bahorel usually gave himself a moment of reflexion, assessing his future student's stamina, determination, and especially their willingness to stop and listen. But there was something about Enjolras... He couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe the attitude, the way he was carring himself, ready to take on the whole world. The wounds on his hands were proof of it. Or something else entirely. Some kind of... radiance. A magnetism. Since he'd come in, Bahorel hadn't been able to take his eyes off him. And there was an edge in his voice...

Suddenly, his hand flew to Enjolras' chin and lifted it a little. To Enjolras' credit, he didn't flinch, just looked at him, a little wary. From up close, the bruise around the eye was really impressive, all black, purple and blue, the swelling still noticeable. What did they hit him with, a brick ? That must have hurt like hell...

Bahorel suddenly noticed where his hand was, and quickly let go.

- Seems like you can give as good as you get.

- I don't turn the other cheek, Enjolras retorted. So ? Can you ?

Talk about determination. Bahorel clasped his hands, to break the weird spell Enjolras seemed to cast around him, and announced :

- Well, ki... Enjy, how about you show me what you can do, and then we'll get the paperwork going.

Enjolras scrunched his nose a little at the nickname, and Bahorel was sure he was going to bolt without looking back. But no, he put his bag down, pulled the sweater over his head, and joined Bahorel near the punching bag.

- Okay, Bahorel started. First, you need to stretch, like this...

~*~

The chime of his phone pulled Bahorel out of his concentration. He glanced at the clock. 7 PM. It was time for his next lesson. Usually, he would have been quite cross to be kept so late, when there were so many best things he could have been doing instead. But he couldn't bring himself to be more than a very little bit annoyed.

He barely had time to stop the punching bag from moving, when Enjolras came in. He looked way better than three weeks earlier ; no more traces of what had happened. Maybe there was still a very faint white mark across his forehead, but you'd need to be very close to him to notice.

Enjolras took off his jacket, and walked to Bahorel.

- How are you today ? Bahorel asked with a smile. Ready to box ?

- I'm fine. What about you ?

- Strong as an ox ! Bahorel boasted, hitting his chest with a fist.

The gesture made Enjolras smile, and Bahorel's heart did a little jump. Of course it did, Enjolras' smile was beautiful, radiant, without a hint of cynism. Bahorel knew of many people who would have given their right leg and the foot attached to it for a smile as gorgeous at that one. Bahorel did his best to keep a straight face, and went through the warm-up moves with him, as usual. And it was a good thing for him that he was so used to the course of his lessons, because Enjolras' presence was very distracting.

When it came to aesthetic preferences, Bahorel was quite flexible. None of that "prefers blondes" or "only dates pretty ladies with long legs and nice boobs". It didn't take much to reach his heart : a nice smile, a fun-loving view of life, gorgeous eyes, lots of stamina, .... Nothing too complicated. Just someone who could keep up with him in every activity. A pretty face and a nice body were just a bonus.

At first sight, Enjolras may not fit with his criteria, as loose as they were (the criteria, of course. Bahorel wouldn't judge anyone for their promiscuity or lack thereof). His words were laced with fire and determination, but not the fun kind that Bahorel loved. The way he focused on the bag, as everything he did, told him that Enjolras was quite the serious person. Not that he never had fun, he probably did, everyone did. But not the kind of fun Bahorel liked to have.

But there was still this presence, this vibe that attracted the attention as soon as he came in and seemed to suck in all the oxygen in the room. Staying around him hadn't help with making Bahorel immune to that effect, either. Even now, as he was several feet apart, he could feel the draw, guiding his eyes back to the slight form of his student. Which didn't help in the slightest with his predicament. He was supposed to work (out), not oggle him. And still, every time he tried to focus on his gestures, on the way he hit the sack, and note what would need to be corrected. Instead, his eyes kept crawling back to the back in front of him. Enjolras was wearing only a long, thin shirt and leggings - leggings ! Each time he moved, the hem lifted, unveiling a thin band of skin. And those legs... Bahorel had to refrain himself from going higher than mid-thigh. He was a gentleman, at least in that regard. But his self-control was wearing thin.

Finally, after what seemed both like three seconds and an eternity, the clock struck 8 PM. Bahorel signaled the end of their session. Enjolras stretched his back, arms thrown over his head. Bahorel did a titanesque effort to keep his eyes glued on the floor. Only when the red hoodie disappeared from the bench it's been thrown on did he deem the situation safe enough.

- You're getting good, he said as offhandly as he could.

- Really ?

Oh please, no, don't sound that giddy. But Enjolras did, with a smile so bright it put the fluorescent lights to shame. Bahorel's heart did a sommersault, but he did a great job at bringing it back to its righteous place.

- Yeah. Soon your punches will be as devastating as mine.

- Don't mock me.

There was no hint of hurt in Enjolras' voice, and Bahorel was glad he didn't take offense.

- I'm serious, he insisted. You're making progress.

Enjolras nodded. As he gathered his stuff, he suddenly dug through his bag, and pulled out of it a slightly crumped sheet of paper that he held out. Bahorel's first reaction was to wonder if it was some kind of invoice, but no. Why would Enjolras give him an invoice ? Besides, it was brightly colored, too brightly, even, with large letters announcing something. Nothing incriminating there, he could take it.

It was a flyer, advertising some kind of social justice club. Very ugly flyer. They probably didn't have any graphic designer or art student in their little group. But the name in large, blocky letters was the same than on Enjolras' badge, and he seemed so proud that Bahorel would bet his montly wages on him being the leader, or at least had a hand in creating the group.

- What's that ?

- We meet each Friday night, Enjolras explained, beaming. Well this, and rallies. On Sundays, usually. We'd like to do it more often, but it's difficult getting everyone... (He coughed a little.) We're holding meetings to discuss all kind of social questions, discuss them, and try to set up ways to either implement changes, or raise consciousness about them.

Bahorel nodded along. He was right, it was a social justice club. Not that he minded them, of course. But he ? In a club like this ? because Enjolras giving him the flyer meant that he wanted him there, to talk about issues and march to protest them. All good, but Bahorel's approachs tended to be a bit more... hands-on. What could he bring to a group of well-meaning students ? But Enjolras was looking at him with such an expectant look that he couldn't bring himself to crush his hopes.

- Maybe I can drop by, he finally answered. I need to check first.

Enjolras gave him the kind of brillant smile that made him want to do something very stupid, and left with a wave. Bahorel glanced again at the paper in his hand. Then again, maybe it could be fun ? He wouldn't lose more than a few hours of his time, going there, and it's not as if his time was accounted for and precious. Going there wouldn't ask too much of him, and maybe it wouldn't be too much boring. And even if it was, there was still Enjolras to stare at, discreetly, of course. Whatever happened, the evening wouldn't be lost on him. Yeah, he would definitly check this out. All in good fun.

~*~

- So, how is the new kid doing ?

Bahorel refrained from telling Grantaire his new pupil wasn't a kid anymore, but that was Grantaire for you. Anyone younger than him was a "kid", except Bahorel, and that was only due to the fact that he could throw (and already had thrown) him through a (first floor) window.

They had gone for coffee after their training session, as usual. For three years now that they've been practising together, it's become their own ritual : a no hold barred match, followed by coffee and a snack, and eventually some first aid applied to their bruises and bumps.

Finding a sparing partner, getting friendly with him and setting the routine had been way easier than choosing a good coffee shop. They had tried almost half of Paris', but always, there was something wrong with them : the place was not clean enough, the coffee was subpar, the baristas were stingy, it was too cold, too warm... always, there was something wrong, and they were left coffee-shop-less once again.

Until they stumbled into the Café Victor, by accident. It's been raining all day, but the weather patiently waited until they were outside to unleash all its fury with a hail hard enough to cut them into pieces. They rushed through the nearest door for shelter. And that shelter was a little coffee shop. Like every trendy place, it had the dark metal / light wood combo, with fancy light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, and those weird high chairs that had a very low back. Grantaire hated those things. But it managed to have a distinct atmosphere, with many plants scattered around the room, and the walls being covered in frames : pictures, drawings, collages, in black and white or vivid colors. The main room was connected to a second one by two steps, with chairs of normal-height. A low stage had been set against the far wall, under a large, abstract, very bright piece. All this managed to give the place a cozy, welcoming feel, and Grantaire and Bahorel happily adopted it as their favourite coffee place in the world.

To the displeasure of one of the baristas. "Fiery redhead" surely sounded like a cliché, but Bahorel had never meet someone that fit it so well. He was a bit on the short side, built like a twig, covered in an array of freckles, and always gave the impression that Bahorel had been put on Earth for his personnal aggravation. Which wasn't entirely wrong. Bahorel was a flirt and a bit of a smart mouth, nothing too mean, of course, but the guy didn't seem like he could take a joke, and he had a tongue sharp enough to retort everytime. Which, of course, was like an invitation for Bahorel to keep his act.

They ordered their drinks, gigantic and full of an unhealthy amount of sugar, but that's what you needed after a good sparing session, the bruise on Bahorel's face bearing witness of the energy they put into it. The redhead was already busy behind the counter, but it didn't stop Bahorel from winking at him as he grabbed his drinks.

Once seated, Grantaire asked, around a gulp of coffee :

- So ? The kid ?

- Good, good. Lots of fire.

- Of fire ? Is that a metaphor, or real fire ? Because if it's like that girl, the one with...

- It's not like that ! Bahorel quickly amended. He's not an arsonist. Just.... very enthusiastic.

- I like that in a man, Grantaire said with a raised eyebrow.

- You like everything in a man, you scoundrel.

- And women, don't forget, but what can I say ? My love is a pyre that only needs the smallest spark to catch on fire.

- And you'll burn your wings.

- Such is the life of Icarus, what can I do ?

Bahorel fondly rolled his eyes, but they knocked their mugs together.

- So, Grantaire said again after drinking almost half of his coffee in one gulp, tell me a bit about the recruit.

- You're weirdly curious, but I'll humor you. So... just picture this : this high (he gestured above the ground), with long blond hair, very curly. Blue eyes, too, and...

He didn't go farther than that before Grantaire dissolved in a fit of giggles. Bahorel knew that it was no use trying to calm him down or ask him anything. So he just enjoyed the rest of his drink, waiting for him to stop.

It took almost five minutes before the giggles finally died down enough for Grantaire to breath again. He hiccuped a little, but managed to wheeze :

- Are you telling me that Goldilocks came into the bear's house and asked him for boxing lessons ?

Bahorel pondered on the merits of pushing him backwards, then decided to let go.

- Keep your snark for yourself. He seems like a nice guy.

Also, he's really cute, he mentally added, but did he want to say this ? Of course not. He'd never hear the end of if, not in this life, and maybe not even in the next.

- Oh, I bet, Grantaire retorted. A paying customer...

- You're despicable, Bahorel said in his best Daffy Duck impression.

Grantaire snorted in his cup. The redhead barista, who was refiling the napkin dispenser, glanced at him, but quickly went back to his work. Probably rolling his eyes. Bahorel stuck his tongue at him, causing a new eruption of giggles.

They ordered a new round of drinks, and went on to chat about their last training session. The wind was blowing the rain across the window, but it was warm, inside, and the coffee was delicious. Neither was in a hurry to go home, and they stayed there, enjoying their drinks and each other's company.

[incorrigible-rapscallion]

A Serial Killer’s Guide to Men and Manslaughter -- SCRIPT (pgs. 30-44)

[pgs 1-2; 3-7; 7-14; 14-23; 24-30]

EXT./INT. DAVID'S CAR - NIGHT - TRAVELING

David drives throughout the town of Pleasant Grove at night. Achilles sits in the passenger seat.

David white-knuckles the steering wheel and gear shift as neon store signs and street lamps pass over his troubled face.

MONTAGE: DREAMSCAPE #2

David, once again, replays images of day's events--this time featuring his blind date dinner.

Key images that David focuses on are:

   -Thomas seated at their table, waiting for David to arrive    -Achilles rolling on the floor with oddly docile behavior    -Thomas with a cheerful expression    -Thomas with a concerned expression    -Thomas with a vacant expression    -Thomas cutting into the meal's tenderloin with a steak knife

This segues into another sequence of implausible scenarios involving Thomas killing someone during their dinner:

   -Thomas breaking Achilles' neck while the dog waits for a belly rub    -Thomas grabbing the Waiter's pen and stabbing it in their neck    -Thomas lunging across the table to, once again, strangle David

Like before, all of the killings are concluded with a flirtatious wink.

                                                                                              END OF MONTAGE:

David has stopped breathing and Achilles licks at his hand on the gear shift. David then pets Achilles' head, almost aggressively, as he calms down.

David notices that the lights are on inside the PLEASANT GROVE POLICE STATION as he approaches it at an intersection.

David abruptly pulls into the parking lot.

               DAVID        (to Achilles)    Let's do the fandango, buddy.

He exits the car with Achilles and single-mindedness.

INT. PLEASANT GROVE POLICE STATION - NIGHT

David enters an empty yet nostalgically-attractive lobby. It splits in two different hallways. There are small signs above each door that indicate each department, reminiscent of 40s-style administrative offices.

David zeroes in on the "Records and Evidence" sign. He walks forward confidently despite his shoes making squeaky sounds against the antique hardwood.

INT. RECORDS AND EVIDENCE OFFICE - NIGHT

David reaches a room not unlike a library, teeming with shelves of files. There is a WOMAN WITH BIFOCALS humming to herself at the back of the stacks.

David clears his throat. The Woman doesn't respond.

               DAVID    Excuse me, ma'am?

The Woman still doesn't respond, but instead shakes her hips at the song she is humming. Eventually, after an exaggerated lip sync performance, the Woman notices David with a start.

               WOMAN WITH BIFOCALS    Cheese and crackers!

The Woman comes forward to a banker's desk. Her name tag is upside down and reads, "Dotty."

               DOTTY    What can I do for you, honey bun?

               DAVID    I'm here to request any cold case files that you might have for missing persons.

               DOTTY    It's awfully late for something like that. Usually we need something first, what is it called...?

               DAVID    A release request?

               DOTTY    No, not that...Actually, yes. A release request.

               DAVID    Can I get one started then?

               DOTTY    No.

               DAVID    Why not?

               DOTTY    We don't have any, what did you say you needed?

               DAVID    Missing persons reports, specifically any that are on "Cold" status.

               DOTTY    We don't have any of those.

               DAVID    Any of what?

               DOTTY    Missing persons, cold cases.

               DAVID    I don't understand. You mean to tell me that in all of these records, there is not one missing person file? Or a cold case?

               DOTTY    No.

               DAVID    What do you mean, "no"?

               DOTTY    No, we don't have any missing persons. This is a safe town. Nothing ever happens here.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON (O.S.)    What seems to be the problem?

Sheriff Livingston enters holding two coffees.

               DOTTY    Oh, nothing darling! This young man just wanted to see, what did you say you wanted?

               DAVID    Missing persons reports.

Sheriff Livingston strides forward and places one coffee on Dotty's table. She uses her free hand for Achilles to sniff before patting him on the head.

               DAVID    I think you can gather why I might want to look into them, Sheriff.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    Please, call me Hannah. Everyone does. As a matter of fact, I wanted to catch you after the town hall last night. I was serious when we met at the park; I'm incredibly interested in picking your brain on the criminal mind. We don't get a lot of action here in Pleasant Grove, so it'd be nice to "talk shop," as it were, with someone from the big, bad city.

               DAVID    I just have an overactive imagination. Nothing special.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    On the contrary, I think an imagination is something that is uncommonly special. Dotty can relate to that, right Dotty?

               DOTTY        (searching for her glasses, which she is already wearing)    Hmm?

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    But back to your request. You said you wanted to look at missing persons reports?

               DAVID    That man at the town hall seemed to think that the whole county is rife with unsolved crimes. Why would he so fervently believe that if, as you say, you don't "get a lot of action here?"

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    I've never seen that man before. I think that he just wanted to cause a controversy over pure speculation. It's possible that he was a journalist from Pleasant Valley wanting a scoop on us for whatever reason.

               DAVID    Regardless, I'm curious about the missing persons that he brought up. Dotty informed me that you don't have any.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    That would be correct. All of our cases are closed. I've gone to great lengths to make sure that we, as a department, provide answers for families that are looking for them.

               DAVID    What does that mean?

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    We have a large forest and mountain ranges that are prone to landslides surrounding this area. This means that all the deaths and disappearances in our town have reasonable and natural explanations.

               DAVID    What does the State have to say about your lack of hard crime reports?

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    They've been more than understanding about our situation. We, quite tragically, had a fluke electrical fire break out in our old department building. All of our old files, including our former sheriff, went up with it. This room contains all the documents that we were able to recover.

David takes note of the singed file-folders on the shelves and Dotty, as she has gone back to humming in the stacks.

               DAVID    I suppose that is, as you say, a reasonable and natural explanation. Since you have nothing here to offer me, I'll be on my way.

               SHERIFF LIVINGSTON    As will I. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have some paperwork to take care of--burning the midnight oil today, right Dotty?        (Dotty continues humming and dancing)    Please don't be a stranger, David.

               DAVID    Likewise, Sheriff... Dotty...

David waits for Sheriff Livingston to leave. She doesn't, instead clearly waiting for David to leave first. They are at a standstill of manners.

Sheriff Livingston breaks with an amused smile and salutes Achilles as she exits the room.

David promptly pulls out his notebook from his back pocket and begins writing:

   "Sheriff--expert liar, covering her tracks?    "No records, no suspects, no victims    "Pleasant Valley?"

David exits but Dotty, who has been humming and dancing, removes her glasses and keenly watches him as he leaves.

EXT./INT. DAVID'S CAR/PLEASANT GROVE - NIGHT (TRAVELING)

David opens the door to the passenger side and Achilles takes his usual spot. David climbs in and stares out the windshield into the darkly lit park across the street.

He turns the keys in the ignition. He pulls onto the main road through town and glances over at Achilles.

EXT./INT. DAVID'S CAR/PLEASANT GROVE - DAY (TRAVELING)

When David looks back at the road, it is daytime.

He comes to the intersection that houses the Wright Place Butchery and the cafe at which the RHS ladies sit, kibitzing.

This time, David takes note of the RHS ladies ogling him. He grimaces and turns back to a city and mile sign at the intersection.

The sign reads: "Pleasant Valley 36 / Pleasant View 52"

David continues on, the scenery still as picturesque as before. Once again, David drives through winding roads on a mountainside. A beautiful cloud formation hovers in and around the area.

EXT./INT. DAVID'S CAR/PLEASANT VALLEY - DAY (TRAVELING)

At last, David enters the town of Pleasant Valley.

Unlike the quaint feel of Pleasant Grove, Pleasant Valley is upscale and styled after mid-century modern architecture.

David locates the City Hall and police station easily.

David parks and locks eyes with Achilles.

               DAVID    Let's go get some evidence, bud.

INT. PLEASANT VALLEY PD - DAY

This police station has an art-deco design. It is bustling with activity, but no one pays David and Achilles any mind. David navigates his way to the Records and Evidence department.

A SULLEN STUDENT wearing beatnik clothing and reading a pulp novel sits at the intake counter.

               SULLEN STUDENT    State your purpose and reason for existing.

               DAVID    Purpose? To catch a killer. Reason for existing? Still trying to figure that out.

               SULLEN STUDENT        (smirks, but doesn't look up from their book)    You're the first guy to actually give me an answer.        (finishes page and sets it down)    What can I do ya for?

               DAVID    I'm here to start a release request for any missing persons or cold cases that you have on file.

               SULLEN STUDENT    No need. You can look at anything you want as long as I supervise and the documents don't leave the building.

Sullen Student slinks off into the deep filing area.

               SULLEN STUDENT (O.S.)    Also don't take any pictures or scans of anything. You can take notes, I guess. And sign in, I forgot to mention that.

               DAVID        (signing the sheet on the desk)    What got you into police work at such a young age?

               SULLEN STUDENT (O.S.)    I needed the volunteer hours.

Sullen Student enters with a push cart of filing boxes and comes around in front of the counter.

               DAVID    Volunteer hours?

               SULLEN STUDENT    For Honor Society. I'm the president. Sullen Student goes back to their seat behind the desk and continues reading their book.

David sets up shop at a neighboring table and opens the first box labeled "Status: Cold. 2010-[blank]"

The file on top contains a supplemental homicide report.

               DAVID        (mumbling)    Let's do the fandango.

               SULLEN STUDENT    Whatever floats your boat, dude.

MONTAGE: GATHERING EVIDENCE

David focuses on the descriptions of the case. He starts a new page from the back of his notebook and begins copying down information.

Key phrases jump out:

   Mixed weapons used; unknown relationship to victim; unknown circumstance proceeding murder

David flips to the next file and begins creating a list of information with tallies for similarities between them.

Key phrases jump out from the other cold case files:

Cutting instrument used 

Strangulation used 

Blunt instrument used 

Hands, fists, feet, etc. used

All the files that David is interested in have unknown relationships and circumstances proceeding the murders.

By the end of the box, David has compiled a list with the most common methods used: strangulation and mixed weapons having the highest number of tallies.

David starts back into the stack again, this time making a list of the victims' occupations.

Key phrases jump out:

 Real estate owner

 Dentist 

Dairy owner 

School district superintendent 

County recorder 

Justice of the peace 

And-- most damning of all--the former elected city sheriff

David gives a shout of surprise.

                                                                                              END OF MONTAGE:

               SULLEN STUDENT    Whoa, you alright there?        (sitting cross-legged on the floor, petting Achilles)    I tried to ask earlier for permission to pet your dog, but you were kinda out of it. I get that way too sometimes. Hyper-focus and all that.

               DAVID    Hyper-focus... Could you tell me your perspective on what happened to the former sheriff?

               SULLEN STUDENT    What's it to you?

               DAVID    I'm catching a killer, remember?

               SULLEN STUDENT        (not so sullen anymore)    So here's the thing--no one believes me, but I think that this whole place, this whole city I mean, is corrupt. I'm talking mafia-level conspirators. It's the only makes sense. I've watched a ton of organized crime documentaries and there is definitely something shady going on here. For instance, think about all those files you just looked through--yeah, I've read them too.        (leaning forward intensely)    Almost all of those cold cases are eerily similar, right? They all have immediate dead ends. It's almost like the investigators didn't want to follow up on these cases. They're covering their tracks by sheer negligence. I think the last sheriff got in their way or made someone mad, so he had to get the axe. But everyone here doesn't seem to notice; they are all super happy with everyone's replacements. But not me, I see the truth of it all. And it's definitely the mafia.

               IRATE MAN (O.S.)    Don't tell me you're trying to convert yet another poor soul into your tin foil hat club, Casey Andrews.

Irate Man enters the room. He carries a folio and a stack of developed photographs.

               CASEY    Awww, I hadn't even gotten to the best part yet with the mind control chicken nuggets and secret bunker under the football field!        (taking in David's shocked expression)    I'm kidding. That would be crazy.

Irate Man greets Casey from the floor with a one-handed yet intricate secret handshake.

               IRATE MAN    Sorry, do I know you?

               DAVID    No, but we were at the same town hall meeting a couple of nights ago. In Pleasant Grove.

               IRATE MAN    Ah, right. I remember your dog. You probably remember my... cross-examination of Sheriff Livingston.

               DAVID    That's one word for it. You actually inspired me to investigate the missing persons reports in town. Or, lack thereof.

               IRATE MAN    It's freaky, isn't it? All those files and not a single missing person. Even though our newspaper here in Pleasant Valley has printed a number of disappearances and suspected homicides in the area. Strange stuff. Name's Mick, by the way. Mick McMillan.

Mick sets his folio on the desk and David stands in greeting.

               DAVID    David...Truelove.

               MICK        (shaking David's hand like it's a contest)    Huh, you should write bodice-rippers with that kind of last name.

               CASEY    Actually, he writes crime thrillers. He's pretty prolific too.

               MICK    A novelist, eh? I'm not too big on reading fiction, more of a "just the facts" man myself.

               DAVID    Understandable. Now, what do you think is happening around here? Casey says that it's--

               MICK    --the mafia, right?

               CASEY    Well, it is! You just refuse to see the truth right in front of your eyes!

               MICK    I'm interested in answers, that's all. I am a private investigator and I've been hired by a "concerned citizen" to uncover the systemic issues with all these supposedly solved cold cases. As cliche as it sounds, every town has its secrets. I'm simply attempting to unravel them.

               DAVID    Sounds daunting. But you also didn't answer my question. What do you think is going on? Mick shares a dark look with Casey.

               CASEY    Go on, tell him. He's legit. He's been pouring over these documents all day just like we both did.

               MICK    I think...that there is an active serial killer in this area.

David schools his expression and closes his notebook tentatively, hiding it behind some papers on the table.

               MICK    I know, I know, that sounds outrageous. Casey's mafia conspiracy is probably more likely to happen than a murderous psychopath rampaging across Pleasant county. But... actually, let me show you what I'm talking about.

Mick pulls a desk lamp over to his folio folder and takes out his stack of developed photographs. Casey and Achilles get up off the floor and observe what Mick has to offer.

               MICK    I listen to the police scanners as much as the next guy. But whenever a call is placed on any hard crime activity or disappearance, I try to head out to where the action is. This is what I have to show for it...

Mick selects a photo from the stack. It is of a crime scene, but the focus is on the crowd that is gathered around the cordoned off perimeter.

               MICK (CONT'D)    You know what they say about serial killers liking to stay behind and put themselves in the hubbub after the fact. Well, I've noticed that there are a couple of guys that could be our unsub...

Mick fans out other photos which he has circled familiar faces in red ink at different crime scenes.

All the faces are unfamiliar. Except for one--Thomas Wright. He is caught on film at three sites.

David breathes heavily and Achilles whines. He scruffs Achilles' fur in order to hide his reaction.

               MICK    I believe that these guys are the biggest break I've gotten so far. I've already met with two of them. They seemed pretty normal and had credible alibis for being sighted at multiple crime scenes. But I haven't ruled them out until I meet with the other three.

               DAVID    That's reasonable, I suppose.

               MICK    Say...you haven't noticed any of these fellas in and around Pleasant Grove, have you?

               DAVID    Sorry, no. I just got into town a couple of days ago. I'm taking care of some...estate things.

               MICK    Then I recommend that you keep your eyes peeled. I stay mostly on this end of the county but it would be nice to have boots on the ground in the Grove community, if you know what I mean.

               DAVID    I don't how much help a novelist will be then for your investigation. I was just curious about looking into a real mystery.

               MICK    Can't fault ya about that. Say, here's my number and email. Get in touch if you ever want to take your little mystery a step further.

Mick picks up one of the photos with Thomas' face on it and scribbles his info on the back.

David takes this as his cue to begin packing up the documents in their respective boxes.

               CASEY    Hey, don't worry too much about making sure it's all neat and orderly. I'll take care of it tomorrow. It'll give me something to do other than wait for the sweet release of death.

Casey places the boxes back on the push cart and takes them behind the intake counter. Casey turns off the lights to the filing room and closes down the intake window.

David hurriedly straightens up and waves goodbye before exiting with Achilles.

Casey walks back to Mick, who affectionately ruffles their hair.

               CASEY    Dad, you're ruining my cool! And I worked so hard at it!

Casey notices David's notebook still sitting on the desk.

               CASEY    It looks like Mr. Truelove forgot this. We should've gotten his number...

Mick inspects the outside and inside flaps for contact information.

               MICK    Hmm, no address... Oh, now that's interesting...

Mick turns to the page in which David had jotted down his initial observations of the shop owners when he first arrived in Pleasant Grove.

Mick focuses on the most important line:

   "Mr. Wright--serial killer"

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke modern AU: Rivain

A wild vacation oneshot appears! This little epilogue for Damned Spot was inspired by BEAUTIFUL fan art by @schoute and @essequamvideri20, which can be found here and here. 

In which Fenris and Hawke go to the beach, and Hawke negotiates with Fenris to get more naked. 😎

For @dadrunkwriting Friday. ~2000 words. Read here on AO3 instead.

*******************

Hawke tossed her bag down on her beach chair and stretched her arms. “What a perfect day,” she said happily, then sat down and started rifling through her bag.

“It does seem rather perfect for the tanning activity you were hoping for,” Fenris said. He adjusted the umbrella, then settled himself in the shade of the second beach chair and leisurely stretched out his legs. The sun was blazing bright, and even through his sunglasses, he could tell the Rivaini sky was a perfect azure blue. The white-sand beach faded into the ocean in an exquisite gradient of cerulean and emerald, and Fenris had never seen anything like it in his life.

He straightened his black t-shirt, then contentedly folded his hands over his abdomen. Meanwhile, Hawke had pulled a bottle of sunscreen from her bag, and she began applying it to her legs in brisk practiced strokes. In contrast with the brilliant blues and sandy white of the beach, Hawke was a display of bright warm colours: golden skin and chestnut hair and those raspberry-red lips of hers, and Fenris watched with shameless appreciation as she rubbed the sunscreen in around the edges of her bikini.

She hummed to herself as she slathered herself in sunscreen up to her neck, then turned to Fenris with a smile. “Can you do my back?”

He held out his hand for the bottle and shifted his legs so she could sit between them. She continued to hum cheerfully as Fenris smoothed the sunscreen into her skin.

Then she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Once you’re done with my back, then I can do yours,” she said brightly.

Her expression was a picture of fake innocence, and Fenris eyed her with fond exasperation. “No, Hawke. The shirt stays on,” he told her for the third time today.

She groaned. “Come on, Fenris. No one else on this beach is wearing a shirt.”

Fenris didn’t bother to look. He knew she was correct. Even the women were mostly bare from the waist up; Hawke’s little bikini top was one of the few tops on this beach. But this fact wouldn’t change Fenris’s mind.

He smoothed the last dab of sunscreen under the clasp of her bikini. “No one else on this beach is covered from neck to toe in tattoos, either,” he said.

At this, Hawke turned around halfway and met his eye. “You’re wrong about that,” she said seriously, then jerked her head to the side. “Look around.”

He raised one eyebrow, then finally gave the other beachgoers a more careful look. And to his surprise, he noticed that she was right.

The beach was peppered with people whose skin ranged in colour from ivory to ebony. Most of the skin he saw was patterned with ink of varying intricacy spanning the full range of colours, from white to black, to gold and red and green and indigo and every shade in between. And exactly as Hawke had said, Fenris’s tattoos were hardly the most ornate on the beach.

One man’s entire chest, back, and legs were patterned with an intricate web of tattoos that seemed to tell a story. A dark-skinned woman had an exquisite pattern of golden triangles and whorls on her forehead and cheekbones that would have made any Dalish elf weep with envy. Another young woman who couldn’t have been older than Varania had a fine tracing of red and black dots and lines from the angles of her jaw to the tips of her middle fingers, and from her hipbones to the knuckles of her toes.

Fenris pushed up his sunglasses in wonder, then turned to Hawke. “Did you know…?”

“...that body art is a huge deal in Rivain?” she finished. “Yes, of course.”

He gazed speechlessly around the beach for a moment more, then looked at Hawke again. “Is this why you thought to bring me here?”

She laughed and awkwardly scratched the back of her neck. “Ah, I wish I could say I had that much forethought. But you know I was planning a trip here anyway, before we met. But this is why I didn’t change my travel plans once I knew you’d be coming with me.” She affectionately stroked the white lines on his chin, then lifted her own tattooed left shoulder coquettishly. “We fit right in, wouldn’t you say?”

“I… Yes, so it would seem,” he said dumbly. He tipped his sunglasses back down so he wouldn't be caught staring so blatantly, but he couldn’t help but gaze around the beach with wide eyes. He’d genuinely never seen so many heavily tattooed people in his life, and in Tevinter, Fenris had most certainly been the most heavily tattooed of all.

But it’s not the same, he thought. These tattoos aren’t like mine. The people on this beach had chosen their tattoos of their own free will. Every one of them probably had a story for where their ink came from, and their reasons for getting inked likely ranged from mundane to wild to purely aesthetic. But Fenris was sure no one else’s story involved an ugly combination of grief mixed with a misguided need to show fealty to a now-dead Tevinter mob boss.

Fenris’s tattoos weren’t art. He didn’t wear them out of pride. They were a constant reminder of the lies Danarius had told him and the life he’d suffered under Danarius’s thumb.

But… nobody on this beach would know that. For once in his life, Fenris might actually blend in.

He turned back to Hawke to find her studying him with a soft little smile. “So?” she said. “Are you willing to take your shirt off now?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Kaffas, she was single-minded. He smirked and raised one eyebrow at her, but before he could speak, she laughed and pinched his chin. “Think about it,” she said. “I’m going in the water.” She kissed him quickly on the lips, then rose from the beach chair and bolted down the beach toward the ocean.

As soon as her feet hit the water, she let out a joyful peal of laughter, then promptly fell hands-first into the waves. She clumsily rose to her feet, then shook her head like a mabari until her short dark hair was standing out around her head like a spiky halo.

She smoothed her hands over her wet hair and grinned at him. “Come on in, the water’s fine!” she yelled.

Fenris chuckled. He could barely hear her over the hissing crash of water on sand, but her message was clear. He waved a dismissive hand at her, then chuckled again when she turned her back on him and playfully shimmied her butt.

She laughed once more, then dove back into the water and rose to the surface to float on the easy wax and wane of the ocean waves, and Fenris simply watched her for a moment. Then he dropped his gaze to his black t-shirt.

He idly rubbed the hem of the shirt between his tattooed fingers. There was an odd feeling in his chest, like a simmering mix of anxiety and excitement. It should be easy to take his shirt off; it was just a brisk motion, no different than undressing for a shower or undressing before stretching Hawke’s naked body across his bed. But it did not feel easy or simple. The more Fenris thought about it, the more momentous it seemed to be - almost as though he’d be shedding something far heavier than a simple cotton garment.

He lifted his eyes back to the ocean. Hawke was standing knee-deep in the water, her expression happy but focused as she dug around in the sand for some thing or another: shells or sand dollars, perhaps. Her dark spiky bangs were dripping into her eyes, and the sun was shimmering on her salt-dewed skin, and Fenris could easily imagine her humming to herself in a sweet and slightly out-of-tune voice.

He pushed himself to his feet. Then, before he could think about it any longer, before the thought of it paralyzed him with nerves, he fisted his hands in the back of his shirt and pulled it off.

A warm, playful breeze unfurled across his bare shoulders and belly and back. Fenris dropped his shirt on the beach chair and adjusted his sunglasses, then took a deep breath and surreptitiously looked around.

No one was staring at him. Nobody was gaping at him in fear or unflattering curiosity. A few people briefly glanced at him then casually looked away, as though he was just any other person on the beach.

“Nice ink,” someone said.

He whipped his head around, but the girl who had commented on his tattoos was already walking away hand-in-hand with her equally tattooed girlfriend.

“Uh… thank you,” Fenris said, feeling utterly nonplussed. The girl glanced back and gave him a friendly wave, then continued on her way.

Fenris released a deep exhale, then slowly removed his sunglasses and placed them on the beach chair with his discarded shirt. Then, very slowly, feeling as though he was stepping toward the edge of a precipice, he stepped out of the shade and into the bright Rivaini sun.  

The sand was hot beneath his bare feet - almost unbearably hot. Fenris burrowed his toes into the sand, relishing the damp cool feel of it squishing between his toes. Then he closed his eyes and lifted his chin.

Behind his closed eyelids, the world became a blank but brilliant orange blur. Fenris breathed in the salty sea air, then simply sank into the strange familiarity of the sun’s brilliant rays warming his skin.

For the first time in years, the sun was beating down on Fenris’s bare shoulders. And for the first time in decades, he was actually enjoying it.

He smiled and opened his eyes. Hawke was watching him, standing in the ocean with her hands on her hips, and the smile on her face was the most joyful thing he’d ever seen.

He unearthed his half-buried feet from the sand and took one step toward her, then another. Suddenly he was running, running across the hot sand, running toward Hawke and leaving his black t-shirt behind, and then the salty ocean waves were licking at his calves and splashing up over his knees until he couldn’t run anymore.

Hawke grinned as he trampled awkwardly through the water toward her. Fenris reached out and grasped her hand, and a moment later, she was in his arms with her legs wrapped around his waist.

“I knew you’d like the beach,” she chirped. “I had a feeling.”

“I like being at the beach with you,” he said. He admired her brilliant smile, then lifted his chin and brushed her lips with a featherlight kiss. “Thank you for bringing me here,” he whispered.  

She pressed her forehead to his. Her fingers toyed with the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ll bring you anywhere you want, you handsome fool,” she told him. “I would go anywhere with you.”

Her words were guileless and candid and positively bursting with possibility. Hawke tilted her head slightly and kissed the corner of his lips, and as Fenris eagerly returned her kiss, his imagination floated away into the sultry sun-drenched sky.

Fenris was not much of one for travelling, not after his forced cross-country flight from Danarius. But this road trip with Hawke was nothing like that. There was nothing rushed or forced about this trip; ever since they’d left Kirkwall, it had been a seamless flow of sun and sky and winding roads.

Perhaps Rivain was just the beginning. Perhaps he and Hawke could start saving their money for a bigger, longer trip: one that would carry them from one corner of Thedas to the other. With Hawke by his side, he would happily go anywhere.

With Hawke by his side, Fenris could do anything.

[dragonologist-phd]

That’s The Spirit!

Wrote a fun modern AU for my Watchers Desta and Rudi in honor of the upcoming holiday and the @pillarspromptsweekly prompt: Spooky. It’s not actually spooky at all, but since one of my favorite Halloween activities is binge-watching Buzzfeed Unsolved, I thought I’d give my Watchers their own kind-of-a-crossover ghost-hunting fun. (Also here on AO3)

“This has got to be the stupidest thing we have ever done.”

“This is far from the stupidest thing we’ve ever done.”

Rudi turned and raised an eyebrow at Desta. “What I mean,” Desta clarified, “is that this is not stupid. Kana knows what he’s talking about.”

“I’m not worried about whether Kana got the history right, I’m worried about the police showing up and arresting us. Especially since we’re about to take video of us breaking in and then post it on the internet. I define that as pretty stupid.”

“It’s not breaking in if nobody lives here!” Desta dropped her voice an octave and said in a low, spooky tone, “But just because nobody lives here doesn’t mean it’s empty.”

Rudi looked like she wanted to argue but wasn’t sure which point to start with. Desta took advantage of her hesitation and turned to face the camera. “Ready?”

“One moment,” Aloth said, fiddling with the controls. Rudi shook her head in resignation and positioned herself next to Desta. Desta wasn’t fooled; for all of Rudi’s griping and eye-rolling, she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want to be. Desta doubted there was anyone, alive or dead, that could make Rudi do something she didn’t want to do.

Case in point- even though she was tapping her foot impatiently, Rudi couldn’t hide the smile on her face as she surveyed the insides of the old mansion. The building was old, one of the oldest in town, and poorly cared for. Old, mismatched furniture littered the rooms and hallways, creating a cluttered maze-like environment caked in at least an inch of dust. Every now and then, a gust of wind would sneak through the holes in the roof or the cracked windows, sending a chill down Desta’s spine.

She wondered if Rudi felt the same strange chill. She must, because she kept pulling her thick red flannel tighter around herself, although she would probably say that was just the weather. But Aloth didn’t seem bothered; he wasn’t even wearing a jacket. Desta found it a little distracting, to be honest, but she also took it as a sign that perhaps the spirits were more focused on the two ghost-hunters. Perhaps tonight the they would finally reveal themselves. It was Halloween, after all- what better timing could there be?

“You know, if we wanted to,” Rudi said as her dark eyes swept over their surroundings, “we could set up a pretty sweet haunted house in here. We could actually make money and scare people, for a change.”

Desta threw her arms out, exasperated. “We’re in a literal haunted mansion. There are real ghosts here. How is this not better than bad acting and fake blood?”

“Bad acting and fake blood is entertaining. The ‘real ghosts’ you think are there when you’re yelling at nothing…” Rudi considered her own words for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I guess it’s still entertaining. But in a different way.”

“Save the banter for the show,” Aloth called. Rudi scowled at him, but Desta shot her the best be nice look she could muster. They couldn’t afford to scare off the only person willing to act as cameraman for free.

To be honest, Desta was still a bit mystified by Aloth’s continued presence at their investigations. He claimed he was there to be a neutral presence, and yes, Desta and Rudi did have a tendency to go on rambling, argumentative tangents when left to their own devices. But it was still strange that he volunteered his free nights to follow them around with a camera and listen to them bicker about ghosts.

Whatever the reason, Desta was glad. Their first few videos had been taken on cellphones and were next to useless. She was still livid about the time that her phone had run out of memory right before a ghostly voice whispered in her ear. According to Rudi, Desta’s own account of the incident didn’t count as ‘proof’.

And it was just nice to have Aloth around. He at least listened to Desta’s theories without laughing. And despite the occasional nervous comment or look of trepidation, he hadn’t yet been scared off by the strange things they investigated.

At last, he lifted the camera and gave Desta a nod. “We’re ready.”

 “Tonight, we’re investigating the infamous Maerwald Mansion, an abandoned home that’s seen more than its share of history- and if the rumors are true, some of that history is still around.”

Rudi watched quietly as Desta relayed the story to the camera. She’d the heard the urban legend too many times by now for it to truly hold her interest, but Desta had a certain theatrical approach that was enjoyable to watch. Not as good as Kana’s original telling, of course, but they had to make do while he was away at grad school. And Desta had his same enthusiasm, especially tonight. She had even dyed her hair a striking green for the occasion. She thought it made her look ‘spooky’. But between the bright sunflower patches she’d sewn onto her denim jacket and the bright smile on her face as she told the story, even a set of devil horns wouldn’t make her scary in the slightest.

“Maerwald was once a respected man in the city- heir to a great fortune, diplomat to visitors, advisor to just about every political figure on the scene. Until the day he mysteriously disappeared from society. According to accounts from the time, he stopped leaving the house completely. Rumors circulated that he had descended into madness, although no doctor was ever allowed inside the home. Food was brought in to him by the only servant he had not fired, and despite attempts to draw him out, this arrangement remained in place for months.”

“And then it gets weirder. The servant was seen entering the mansion one night- and was never seen again. People began reported hearing strange, unnatural noises coming from the mansion at night. At last the police entered by force. But when they were finally entered the house…” Desta dropped her voice and spread her hands wide. “He had completely vanished. No trace of him was ever found. Since then, the house has passed through multiple hands, but every owner has encountered only misfortune and tragedy. Now it sits unused and empty- or so it would seem.”

Rudi fought not to roll her eyes at the last statement. This was why she didn’t do introductions- apparently, she always sounded ‘too sarcastic’. Desta, however, continued with a conviction that could only be genuine.

“Angry spirits have been reported to inhabit this house for decades. Countless incidents have been reported since Maerwald’s disappearance. We’re here to see if we can get one of those incidents on tape.”

“Look, there’s no big mystery here,” Rudi cut in. “This Maerwald dude was just a weird old guy who became a hermit and probably killed his servant.”

“And no bodies were ever found? How does a ‘weird old guy’ pull that off?”

“Maybe the police were lazy!” Desta scoffed, and Rudi held up her hands defensively. “It’s more believable than ‘ghosts got him’!”

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that by the end of the night,” Desta said, giving the camera a knowing smile. Rudi glanced toward the camera herself and shook her head. She knew how the night would end- they would see nothing, and Desta would still insist the place was full of spirits. At least the internet would get a laugh.

 “Now, remember,” Desta said as the group entered the master bedroom. “The spirits in this house are supposed to particularly angry, especially in this room. We should still try a peaceful approach, of course, but we need to prepared to defend ourselves if need be.”

“Sorry, I used my salt packet on the fries I had for lunch.”

Desta crossed her arms. “One day you’re going to get possessed, and you’ll think oh, if only I had listened to Desta and made a salt circle before summoning that spirit!” She heard Rudi unsuccessfully try to stifle a laugh, and chose to ignore it. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant. Considering the strength of the spirits at play here, I took the liberty of bringing this.”

Desta reached into her duffle bag and with a flourish produced a metal baseball bat. Aloth raised a concerned eyebrow. Rudi burst into laughter.

“Are you planning to beat the shit out of a ghost with a baseball bat? How does that even work?”

Desta bristled defensively. “It’s iron! Iron repels ghosts, that’s common knowledge.”

“I think that’s fairies,” Aloth stage whispered. Rudi dissolved into another fit of laughter.

“What? It’s ghosts, too, isn’t it?” Desta frowned and made mental note to ask Kana next time she saw him. “I swear, it works on ghosts, too. Ugh, this was so much cooler in my head. Maybe I should have just brought holy water…”

“No! This is great!” Rudi was beaming, her hands clasped together in delight. “Can I go get the brass knuckles from my car?”

“Iron! Brass knuckles wouldn’t work, and why the hell do you have them?!”

“Anniversary gift from Maia. And if you get a bat, I should get my knuckles. The only thing that might be enjoyable about meeting a ghost would be getting to fight it.”

“That’s not the point!” Desta protested. This was getting off track quickly- the whole point of this was to try and communicate with the spirits. “I have the bat because you clearly want to start I fight. I want to try diplomacy first. This is just… backup.”

Desta knew she was in trouble from the way Rudi smirked. “No, no, you came prepared with a weapon. I think you want to fight the ghosts as much as I do.” She tilted her head back and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hear, that ghouls? Desta’s ready to fuck you up!”

“No! You put that aggressive energy right back where it came from-”

“Too late! It’s out there, and you’re going to have to fend off Maerwald’s ghost with a baseball bat.” Rudi snorted and began to poke around the room, stopping occasionally to call out more insults into the air. A futile feeling began to creep over Desta as she watched her. Eventually, she turned and shook her head at Aloth.

“She’s going to get us killed.”

 Nothing had jumped from the shadows to try and eat their souls yet, but Desta was still looking nervous and clutching her bat as they inspected the room. Rudi couldn’t suppress the occasional sarcastic remark that escaped when she glanced behind her and saw the other girl peering into the darkness with suspicion.

Desta could say whatever she wanted; Rudi knew the worst thing they’d find would by ugly furniture and splinters. Her flashlight swept over rotting floorboards, dusty shelves full of knick-knacks, and a large, rather imposing chair. The chair was admittedly kind of cool, and even a little creepy- it had throne-like feel that wouldn’t be out of place in an old-fashioned vampire movie.

“Look at this,” Rudi said, motioning Aloth over. “You think Maerwald’s ghost would be mad if I sat in his chair?” She walked over, making to sit as Desta began to protest.

“Don’t touch the- ah!”

The high-pitched yelp rang out just as Rudi touched the chair, and she immediately leapt back up in alarm. Desta was, who had been moving forward to grab her, had stopped in her tracks. She had a flashlight in one hand and her bat in the other, and was pointing them both at a dusty marble bust. She brandished the bat as if it were a sword, readying herself against whatever spirits she thought were in the air. “It moved!”

“…What now?” Rudi asked.

Desta’s eyes didn’t leave the statue. “I saw it. I swear to you, that head moved when I walked by.”

Now that was a bold claim. Rudi approached the statue, swatting Desta’s bat out of the way. She peered closely at it, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just a marble bust- a woman, Rudi thought, although it was hard to be certain through the wear and tear. The inscription was chipped and caked in dust, and Rudi could only make a few letters.

All in all, a totally normal thing to find in a decrepit mansion. “I think your imagination ran away with you on this one.”

“No! No it did not! We can review the footage later, that head is in a different position- don’t touch it!”

Rudi tapped the side of the statue’s head. It was cold and solid and certainly not capable of movement. “Seriously, Desta, you’re losing it.”

But Desta remained insistent, hovering near the statue and asking it a few questions about the house. No answers came, of course, but she was still didn’t take her eyes off of it until they moved on and left the room.

 Desta had her proof that the spirits in this house were active, and Rudi not believing her didn’t change that. But after her encounter with the statue, they seemed subdued. The only other startling thing that happened that night was when Rudi opened an old cabinet and inadvertently disturbed a nest that was housing approximately a million spiders. Not supernatural, but it was a bit gratifying to hear Rudi’s scream.

Still, the lost potential of the statue stung. What they needed were those fancy helmet-cams, so she wouldn’t keep having these misses. But those were expensive, and besides, she liked having Aloth around as their cameraman.

“You believe me about the statue, right?” she asked him later that night as they packed up the camera equipment together.

His looked reluctant as he considered his answer. “I believe you thought you saw something,” he said finally, as diplomatically as possible.

“Aw, come on!”

He shrugged apologetically. “It’s difficult to believe that the laws of physics were unexplainably broken without some sort of evidence towards it. Maybe you saw something, but it’s not necessarily a supernatural sighting.”

“So you’re on Rudi’s side, then.”

“Well, no.” He paused, as if ruminating on his next words. “I’ve experienced… strange things, myself. I’m sure there are things in the world that we can’t understand or explain. But I would like better support for it than possible glimpses of moving statues.”

Desta mused over that thought. “Okay, fine. We didn’t get it on tape, so there’s plausible deniability as far as proof goes. Maybe we should go the more ‘scientific’ route. EMF’s, temperature measurements, that sort of thing. How much would it cost to get our hands on those?”

“Perhaps we can borrow some. I’m sure Ydwin has equipment like that.”

“Really?”

“Well, you’ve met her. Do you think that she doesn’t?”

“Fair enough. Although you should let me ask her- I’m pretty sure she’s still holding a grudge for that weird thesis dispute you two had.”

“…Fair enough.”

Desta grinned and playfully bumped her shoulder against Aloth’s. “Look at us! Our little show is getting professional! You and I should partner up against Rudi- you attack on the science side, I attack on the spirit side. We’d be unstoppable!”

A blush colored Aloths cheeks, and Desta remembered that he could be a bit camera-shy. She quickly added, “But you don’t have to if you don’t want to! A behind-the-scenes science expert is just as good!”

Aloth’s ears were still red, but he shrugged and said, “Perhaps I could make a guest appearance.”

 Rudi watched Desta and Aloth from across the room, trying not to make retching noises at the cheesy scene the two were putting on. Desta was very good at seeing ghosts and ghouls that weren’t there, but was apparently blind to the obvious signs right in front of her. There was a reason Aloth kept volunteering for these investigations, and it was the same reason he wasn’t wearing a jacket tonight, despite the chill in the air. Wouldn’t want to hide those arms from Desta, would he? From the not-so-subtle looks Desta kept shooting his way, the desired effect had been achieved.

If only one of them would actually do something about it.

A buzzing in Rudi’s pocket alerted her to a new text. She fished her phone out and grinned when she saw the new message from Maia.

Movies and popcorn are ready and waiting. Bust any ghosts yet?

Rudi typed out a quick reply. No ghosts, but I did meet a lovely demonic spirit that wants to possess my mortal body for nefarious purposes.

A momentary pause, as three dots popped onto the screen. That’s kinda hot.

Rudi laughed out loud to herself, and went to tell the two lovebirds to hurry up. They could continue their oblivious flirting later; Rudi had a night of watching horror movies and spooning with her girlfriend to get to.

As she approached, Desta gave her a scheming look, and Rudi knew immediately that she wouldn’t like what Desta was about to say next.

“Rudi, have you ever heard of this thing called a ‘spirit box’?”

[georgiabread]

i’m not in the swing of things (yet)

summary: Sometimes Dan hates university and sometimes any reason to visit Phil is a good one. 

word count: 2.6k

trigger warnings: a mild panic attack

a/n: dan’s laundromat story probably wasn’t as angsty as this but 

The first thing that hits him when he plods into the laundromat is the smell. God, the smell. It’s artificial lime, pungent socks and sweat all blended into one odor to assault his nostrils. It almost activates his fight-or-flight response. But Wash, Dry, Fold, Repeat is the only laundry place within a 2-mile radius of his university, and the skinny jeans and cowl-neck cardigan he’s wearing are all that’s left clean. So, while the taste buds on his tongue squirm at the soapy smell of detergent, Dan finds a place in line behind some bored 20-year-old and waits. And waits. And ignores the anxious thundercloud roiling in his stomach.

He shifts his basket of filthy clothes with his knee – the handles are burning into his palms, and that bitter fragrance of underwear has become a little too much for his nose. He’ll be standing here for an hour, at most. There’s at least ten people in this queue, and dozens more slouched upon bench chairs as their clothes tumble about in dryers. And they’re all students. Their buzz of conversation is white noise in his ears, making his fingers twitch and his eyes quiver. They’re intimidating as hell, because Dan only moved into his dorm a week ago and he’s barely 19. Yesterday he had his first proper conversation with one of his housemates – his first social interaction on campus.

Meet people, comes the nasal voice of his mother, banging around his brain. University is so much easier when you have someone to share it with.

And, yeah – that’s probably true. But with one glance at the students crammed into this shitty laundromat, Dan can’t spot any potential friends. He doesn’t feel the urge to strike up a pleasant chat. All he feels is the urge to throw up, really.

He’s a bit pissed. This is a laundromat, of all places, and those irritating fingers of anxiety still crawl into his stomach and churn his last meal like butter. The queue shortens, and with every step, Dan’s chest tightens. And then it hits him – he doesn’t even know how to use laundry machines. The ones back home were simple; his mum even taught him how to work the buttons. But these are modern and unfamiliar, and how could he know which setting to choose and where to pour the detergent and how long he’d have to wait and–?

Dan closes his eyes, drags a stumbling breath through his nose, exhales. It’s okay, he tells himself. You might screw up a million times and keep everyone waiting, but it’s okay. (It isn’t).

He can find a poster with instructions or something. He can ignore everyone else in the room, and their piercing eyes that probably aren’t judging him but definitely could be. It’s fine.

Dan takes another slow breath. The laundromat is loud, stirring the butterflies behind his ribcage, but he tries to drown it out. Two people leave the line; he’s getting closer. His heart staggers in his chest. Why is this such a dramatic affair? He’s just washing his clothes. This is normal. This is routine. Dan pulls his eyes across the other students again. They gaze blankly at their phones, flip the pages of a textbook they’re reading, laugh and talk in small groups. They are normal. So why isn’t he?

Suddenly there’s violent movement in the corner of his eye, and a guy with a black parka and a tattoo on his neck is yanking on the door of a dryer and – and taking out someone else’s clothes? Dan’s mouth hangs open as the prat shoves his own things inside, nicking the time for himself without paying, and an innocent person’s clothes are left in a pitiful heap on the floor.

When another creep wanders past and steals a single sock from the pile, Dan decides he’s had enough. He’s not leaving his belongings here like they’re free to browse, and he’s finding it hard to breathe and he has to get out.

Lugging his basket on his hip, Dan slips out of the queue and pretty much bolts from the laundromat, his stomach still a raging storm.

Outside isn’t any better. Manchester University’s ancient brickwork looms above him, a scornful reminder of his prison home for the next three years. Dan blinks, and remembers his first lecture – a room with a thousand pairs of eyes and a droning professor, and the seats at the back, mocking him. Like they knew that’s where he would always be. Far away. Hidden. Alone.

Unwanted tears sting his eyes. He’s waging wars with cotton balls in his throat. Hunched on a stretch of pavement, clutching a laundry basket as blood drains from his knuckles, on the verge of a sudden breakdown…Dan can’t fucking do this.

But he still needs somewhere to wash his clothes.

With an ugly snivel, Dan finds his phone in his back pocket and flicks to his messages.

TO: phill ^.^

i’m coming over to do my laundry

The moment the text is delivered, Dan feels stupid. Then guilt tugs his lips into a deep frown. What kind of adult has to go to his boyfriend’s house to do laundry? The house in question is, like, on the other side of the city. Phil must be having a great afternoon in his apartment, and now Dan’s gonna ruin it with his bucket of dirty washing and his incessant whining about the pressures of public services.

But he can’t think of anything better, so he calls a taxi and watches it trundle over to the laundromat 10 minutes later. The driver throws him a questioning look when Dan hops in, beady eyes stuck to him as if waiting for an explanation to crawl out of Dan’s pile of clothes. It doesn’t.

As the city passes by the window in a blur, Dan lets the guilt set in. He revels in it. Takes satisfaction in the way he abuses himself (You’re such a shitty boyfriend. So annoying. You can’t do the simplest of things without panicking. Everyone else can use a laundromat, you’re just a freak).

The taxi halts outside Phil’s apartment building a while later, and Dan steps out bruised and tattered – emotionally. He hasn’t checked his phone since he last sent that message. He can’t read what Phil has to say, probably disappointed that Dan is so reliant on him despite being in university. God.

Then there’s a fiddly entrance, an empty elevator and he’s facing off with the front door of Phil’s apartment. He wonders if he should walk away. Maybe Phil isn’t at home? Maybe Phil doesn’t want to see him? But logic reminds him of the two weeks they’ve been apart; he sniffles, blinks away stranded tears and knocks gently on the wood.

Phil is waiting with a grin behind the door. “So, you only keep me around for my household appliances, huh?” is the first thing he says, crinkles forming around his eyes.

“Sorry,” Dan says heavily, a pathetic attempt at laughter fizzling out. “It’s just – there was a laundromat. But I couldn’t be there. I can use your washing machine, right?”

Phil shuffles back to let him in, raising his eyebrows. “Uh, no you can’t. Not until my worth is measured by something more.”

Dan’s fingers stiffen around his basket, throat thick. “…Well, I-I can leave if you don’t–” His words fracture.

That’s when Phil catches on, jokey expression fading as he leans in and pecks Dan on the cheek. “I’m only joking, you numpty. Go sit down, I’ll put these on for you.”

Dan protests as Phil steals the washing basket from his hands, and stands defeated in the hall when his boyfriend prances off towards the laundry. “You’re making me feel bad,” he cries after him.

“You don’t need to!”

“Well…I do anyway.”

Dan wipes at the mess around his nose. Wandering towards the lounge, he hides in his hands in his pockets and takes a deep breath. It doesn’t tremble. His anxieties linger on his shoulders, taunting him, but he now that he’s with Phil, some tumble off and land with a smack on the floor. This is more of a home than uni could ever be.

He flops into the creases of Phil’s couch, eyes landing on Final Fantasy paused on the TV. He notes everything sprawled across the coffee table: an empty mug, a crumb-scattered plate, a few uninteresting documents (bills, maybe). And Phil’s York University hoodie crumpled on the corner.

Dan stares at the green piece of fabric. He narrows his eyes. He scrutinizes it. Then he shrugs it on, only because all his jumpers are in the wash, he’s cold and – okay, he hasn’t seen Phil in ages and he misses him and his smell and his everything, so he wears the goddamn hoodie.

“I made you some tea,” Phil says when he returns, nudging a warm mug into Dan’s hands. The washing machine is background noise to quiet affection.

Careful not to spill the drink (a drop of milk and three teaspoons of sugar, just how he likes it) Dan pushes his face in Phil’s shoulder and clings to his shirt with his free hand. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

Phil noses at his hair and hides a kiss amongst the curls, an unspoken you’re welcome. “Also, green looks good on you.”

“That’s a lie.” Dan’s cheeks are dyed pink. “Your clothes just smell nice.”

This is the first time Dan addresses the taboo subject of sharing clothes. He hesitates. His eyes focus on a stray thread, dangling from Phil’s sleeve. He squeezes it between his thumb and forefinger and tears it off. He feels like he’s broken a promise of some sort.

But Phil just giggles, leaning into him despite the zero space left between their bodies. “I guess you’ll have to keep washing yours here so they can pick up my scent.”

“Shut up. I don’t wanna keep bothering you with my laundry, anyway.”

“You’re not a bother.”

“Uh, yeah I am. What kind of adult can’t wash his clothes? And has to drive all the way to his boyfriend’s house to do it as some kind of security blanket?”

“Dan, if you feel more comfortable here, that’s…you know that’s fine. Besides, you pretty much live here.”

Dan knows Phil is staring at him, waiting for a sign that it’s all okay. It’s not, but Dan still meets his eyes, watches them soften ever so slightly. “Whatever you say.”

“Dan, I’m being serious.” And crap, he’s got him worried. “We’re bloody dating, of course I want you around.”

Dan digs his teeth into his bottom lip, glancing away. Phil sighs and tries a different tactic. “Okay, what happened before? You said something about a laundromat…”

“Yeah, um,” – Dan rubs his eyes, scuffs a bit of fringe out of his face – “It was horrific. Someone stole another person’s clothes. And then, like, there were people there and it smelt disgusting and I had to wait an hour in line. I just – didn’t want to be there. And I know it’s fucking stupid, having a panic attack in a laundromat, but–”

“Dan.” Phil’s fingers brush over the back of his hand. “You could’ve called me.”

There’s a shrug. “Yeah. It wasn’t, you know, dramatic or anything. I just had to leave.”

“Well, I’m glad you came here.” Phil presses his lips against his temple. “What about the whole week? Was uni good so far?”

And Dan snorts, even though this probably isn’t something he should laugh at. “Oh my God, Phil. It sucked. I hid in my room the whole time to avoid my housemates, and showed up late to my first lecture so of course I had one thousand fucking people looking at me as I went all the way to the back of the room. And my professors must be in love with piling intense pressure on their students on the first day. Seriously, I’m so fucking stupid. The workload is massive; I’ll never get it done.”

Phil blinks. “What are you talking about? You’re one of the most intelligent people I know.”

“Not when it comes to fucking law.” Dan whines in the back of his throat, throwing his head against the couch. “Already a week in and I’m regretting everything.”

“It’s gonna get better, Dan. Everyone has a tough first week.”

“Do they? I don’t think everyone has a breakdown in the middle of a supermarket when they’re supposed to be buying cheese. Wait – fuck, I wasn’t gonna tell you that.” Dan trails off. He glares at the lukewarm contents of his mug until his eyes water. He grimaces at the aftertaste of his words, wide open and vulnerable.

He can hear the pity in Phil’s breath. Hands reach down to remove the tea and place it on the table before the boy hugs him and shelters him. Dan curls into Phil’s side.

“You should’ve called me,” Phil says. “I don’t care what I’m doing, I just want to be there when you’re sad. I hate it when you’re sad.”

Dan closes his eyes. Fuck, Phil. Then he opens them. “I tried calling my grandma, but she didn’t pick up.”

“Dan. Promise me, if no one else is available, that you’ll call me when you’re feeling shitty.”

“But I always feel guilty. What if you get sick of my problems?”

“Never. You have to promise.”

“I despise you.” Dan burrows into Phil’s chest. His next words he sews into the fibres of Phil’s shirt. “I promise.”

Phil kisses his hair and holds him like he’s porcelain. “Good. And yeah, uni sucks sometimes. I actually burst into tears in Tesco while I was buying tea towels. And during my first lecture, I tripped over trying to find a seat and half my stuff fell down a few rows. Everyone gasped. But it’s mostly really fun and as long as don’t procrastinate and take notes, assignments will be easy.”

“How do you even manage that on your first week? And you know procrastination is a chronic illness for me.”

“You’ll just have to come over to study and I’ll motivate you.”

A small disgruntled sound leaves Dan’s lips. “Why are you so nice to me? Idiot.”

“I prefer to call it supporting and caring for my boyfriend whom I love so much.”

“And the medal for the soppiest lad out there goes to Phil Lester, everybody.”

“I’ll wear it proudly.”

“In that case, I can’t be seen anywhere near you.”

Satisfied with Dan’s return to okay-ness, Phil giggles and seizes his controller. “Mind if we cuddle and I play Final Fantasy?”

“Nope.” Dan pops the p, tugging his sleeves over his hands and wriggling under Phil’s arm. “You suck at battles, though.”

“Hey. Not as hard as your mum sucked last night.”

“What the fuck.”

And Phil begins to shake with laughter, a boisterous thing that puts stars in his eyes and makes Dan feel a bit dizzy. A smile wriggles onto his face when the boy tips towards him, sprinkling I’m sorries through his giggles.

“I hate you,” Dan says.

Phil turns to him, gives him a look. Dan’s gaze trickles down his face until he gives in and touches their lips together, chaste and warm-scented. “But I also love you.”

“See? You can’t fool me, Howell.”

Phil resumes Final Fantasy and entwines their legs on the couch. A grin glued to his face, the tempest of anxiety dribbling away, Dan nestles into the quiet and comfort that is his boyfriend and dozes off to Sending a Dream into the Universe. Somewhere in the apartment, there is an ambience of clothes tumbling about in the washing machine, constant and calm and always there.

phanfics

[birthclod]

have some hcs i thought up of + some when i had a modern au in mind (most are really messy and all over the place, sorry about that)

joshua:

tends to talk with his hands a lot

finds it hard to make eye contact most of the time; looks at people's eyebrows instead, though makes eye contact when he's serious

looks around him a lot when nervous

tends to bite the inside of his lip a lot; scarred it once or twice 

can't sleep on smth if its very soft 

can't eat very sweet things either

made his hat himself

tends to crack his knuckles as a nervous habit at times

ambidextrous, prefers using right hand

clingy sleeper (though hesitant at first)

modern au

baseball player; batter (i love lacett���s AU idea ok)

when crushing, he can get lost in thought/daydream thinking about them

can't do laundry for shit

rumored to be able to outrun a car

pulls his hair back a lot; has thought about braiding it more than once

keeps his room... mostly clean

rock music all the way

lives off of soda, tea, and bread

people rumor the relationships he’s had to be several across the campus, which is actually false; he's had only a couple previous flings, usually ending up in "we should just stay friends"

knows sign language

not a morning person

has seafood allergy; throat clogs up; not airborne

has a weaker sense of smell than most 

there’s more with forde and rennac under the cut!

forde:

named his horse after his mother

can't sing aloud for shit but sings really good lullabies (it's something he had to do for franz when they were younger)

nicked his left hand pretty bad in a duel, scarred across his palm (may/may not be the same duel he had against kyle)

most animals seem to gravitate towards him - ironic, considering at first his horse wanted (and almost still wants) nothing to do with him (she almost reared him in the face when they first met)

surprisingly picks up on cues really well

not very emotional, at least in front of others

favors autumn the most of seasons

tends to forget what he is saying in the middle of saying something

best at tentative kisses

talks in his sleep

took up sewing once a few years ago, never really got into it and decided to stick with painting (franz took it up soon after though)

nail biter 

modern au

art student

forgets to eat sometimes

wears contact lenses

learns more by hearing than by demonstration or writing things down

grades are average/maybe just below average

has glasses, just doesn't use them unless he forgets he's out of contact lenses

lives and breathes coffee

pda catches him off guard, even something so slight as holding his hand gently (he adores the feeling though)

has almost no concept of time

slightly sensitive hearing

listens to music, though it’s mainly more ambient than anything to help him sleep better 

probably owns a couple cats and spoils them rotten

usually a wallflower

wears whatever he wore that day to sleep in, will change if not comfortable with it though

rennac: (this is all mostly modern au in mind so i didn’t categorize them sorry)

gifted student, but doesn’t try at all

left-handed

if he really likes someone (which is rare) he'll lend them some money (rare but it can happen)

sneaks out of class often; one rarely even sees him throughout the day

can't do physical activity if his life depended on it; he hates the sweat and smell, and his stamina is godawful

owns a lot of really nice clothes but doesn’t wear them often unless it’s an at least mildly formal event; likes being a show-off about them too

oldest of 3 brothers; shares a mother with the middle brother and is closest to him (he’s really close with the youngest too, they’re just of different mothers); writes to/calls them often

fucking loves scarves

light sleeper and grumpy when woken up 

low-key theater enthusiast; fairly good actor, sometimes in plays

actually stellar at english and history classes but no one knows he is

lactose intolerant

doesn’t like coffee but drinks sparkling waters like they're going out of style

picky eater; cannot stand most fruits but will eat vegetables if given to him

can and will live entirely off of sweets

easily flustered and also tsun as all hell

snores lightly

always sleeps with an eyemask and varies from sleeping fully clothed to sleeping naked

tends to toss and turn in his sleep if not sleeping well

shaves his legs because he likes the feeling

to compliment his affinity for dancing, he's also a pretty good singer, though nobody really knows that either as he only sings when totally alone

ticklish around his sides and hates it

actually loves having his back scratched

champion at monopoly and super smug about it 

not easy to get gifts for, but is easily surprised; blows it off but actually loves getting gifts

[dargeereads]

CHAPTER 1 WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?

WREN I slip onto the empty bar stool beside the lumberjack mountain man who looks like he tried to squeeze himself into a suit two sizes too small. He’s intimidatingly broad and thick, with long dark hair that’s been pulled up into a haphazard man bun  thing. His beard is a hipster’s wet dream. His scowl, however, makes him about as approachable as a rabid porcupine. And yet,  here I am, sidling up next to him. He glances at me, eyes bleary and not  really tracking. He quickly focuses on his half- empty glass again. Based on the slump of his shoulders and the un co or di nated way he picks up his glass and tips it  toward his mouth, I’m guessing he’s pretty hammered. I order a sparkling water with a dash of cranberry juice and a lime. What I could  really use is a cup of lavender- mint tea and my bed, but instead, I’m sitting next to a drunk man in his thirties. My life is extra glamorous, obviously. And no, I’m not an escort, but at the moment I feel like my morals are on the same kind of slippery slope.

“Rough day?” I ask, nodding to the bottle that’s missing more than half its contents. It was full when he sat down at the bar an hour ago. Yes, I’ve been watching him the entire time, waiting for an opportunity to make my move. While he’s been sitting here, he’s turned down two women, one in a dress that could’ve doubled as a disco ball and the other in a top so low-cut, I could almost see her navel. “You could say that,” he slurs. He props his cheek on his fist, eyes almost slits. I can still make out the vibrant blue hue despite them almost being closed. They move over me, assessing. I’m wearing a conservative black dress with a high neckline and a hem that falls below my knees. Definitely not nearly as provocative as Disco Ball or Navel Lady. “That solving your problems?” I give him a wry grin and tip my chin in the direction of his bottle of Johnnie. His gaze swings slowly to the bottle. It gives me a chance to really look at him. Or what I can see of his face under his beard, anyway. “Nah, but it helps quiet down all the noise up here.” He taps his temple and blurts, “My dad died.” I put a hand on his forearm. It feels awkward, and creepy on my part since its half-genuine, half-contrived comfort. “I’m so sorry.” He glances at my hand, which I quickly remove, and refocuses on his drink. “I should be sorry too, but I think he was mostly an asshole, so the world might be better off without him.” He attempts to fill his glass again, but his aim is off, and he pours it on the bar instead. I rush to lift my purse and grab a handful of napkins to mop up the mess. “I’m drunk,” he mumbles. “Well, I’m thinking that might’ve been the plan, considering the way you’re sucking that bottle back. I’m actually surprised you didn’t ask for a straw in the first place. Might be a good idea to throw a spacer in there if you want tomorrow morning to suck less.” I push my drink toward him, hoping he doesn’t send me packing like he did the other women who approached him earlier. He narrows his eyes at my glass, suspicious, maybe. “What is that?” “Cranberry and soda.” “No booze?” “No booze. Go ahead. You’ll thank me in the morning.” He picks up the glass and pauses when it’s an inch from his mouth. His eyes crinkle, telling me he’s smiling under that beard. “Does that mean Imma wake up with you beside me?” I cock a brow. “Are you propositioning me?” “Shit, sorry.” He chugs the contents of my glass. “I was joking. Besides, I’m so wasted, I can barely remember my name. Pretty sure I’d be useless in bed tonight. I should stop talkin’.” He scrubs a hand over his face and then motions to me. “I wouldn’t proposition you.” I’m not sure how to respond. I go with semi-affronted, since it seems like somewhat of an insult. “Good to know.” “Dammit. I mean, I think you might be hot. You look hot. I mean attractive. I think you’re pretty.” He tips his head to the side and blinks a few times. “You have nice eyes, all four of them are lovely.” This time I laugh—for real—and point to the bottle. “I think you might want to tell your date you’re done for the night.” He blows out a breath and nods. “You might be right.”

He makes an attempt to stand, but as soon as his feet hit the floor, he stumbles into me and grabs my shoulders to steady himself. “Whoa. Sorry. Yup, I’m definitely drunk.” His face is inches from mine, breath smelling strongly of alcohol. Beyond that, I get a whiff of fresh soap and a hint of aftershave. He lets go of my shoulders and takes an unsteady step back. “I don’t usually do this.” He motions sloppily to the bottle. “Mostly I’m a three drink max guy.” “I think losing your father makes this condonable.” I slide off my stool. Despite being tall for a woman, and wearing heels, he still manages to be close to a head taller than me. “Yeah, maybe, but I still think I might regret it tomorrow.” He’s incredibly unsteady, swaying while standing in place. I take the opportunity for what it is and thread my arm through his, leading him away from the bar. “Come on, let’s get you to the elevator before you pass out right here.” He nods, then wobbles a bit, like moving his head has set him off balance. “That’s probably a good idea.” He leans into me as we weave through the bar and stumbles on the two stairs leading to the foyer. There’s no way I’ll be able to stop him if he goes down, but I drape one of his huge arms over my shoulder anyway, and slip my own around his waist, guiding him in a mostly straight line to the elevators. “Which floor are you on?” I ask. “Penthouse.” He drops his arm from my shoulder and flings it out, pointing to the black doors at the end of the hall. “Jesus, I feel like I’m on a boat.” “It’s probably all the alcohol sloshing around in your brain.” I take his elbow again, helping him stagger the last twenty feet to the dedicated penthouse elevator

He stares at the keypad for a few seconds, brow pulling into a furrow. “I can’t remember the code. It’s thumbprint activated though too.” He stumbles forward and presses his forehead against the wall, then tries to line up his thumb with the sensor, but his aim is horrendous and he keeps missing. I settle a hand on his very firm forearm. This man is built like a tank. Or a superhero. For a moment, I reconsider what I’m about to do, but he seems pretty harmless and ridiculously hammered, so he shouldn’t pose a threat. I’m also trained in self-defense, which would fall under the by any means necessary umbrella. “Can I help?” He rolls his head, eyes slits as they bounce around my face. “Please.” I take his hand between mine. The first thing I notice is how clammy it is. But beyond that, his knuckles are rough, littered with tiny scars and a few scabs, and his nails are jagged. “Your hands are small,” he observes as I line his thumb up with the sensor pad and press down. “Maybe yours are abnormally big,” I reply. They are rather large. Like basketball player hands. “You know what they say about big hands.” I fight not to roll my eyes, but for a brief moment, I wonder if what’s in his pants actually matches the rest of him. And if he’s unkempt everywhere, not just on his face. I cut that visual quickly because it makes me want to gag. “And what do they say?” His eyes crinkle again, and he slaps his own chest. “Something about big hands, big heart.” I bite back my own smile. “Pretty sure you’re mixing that up with cold hands, warm heart.” His brow furrows. “There’s a good chance.”

The elevator doors slide open. He pushes off the wall with some effort and practically tumbles inside. He catches himself on the rail and sags against the wall as I follow him in. I honestly can’t believe I’m doing this right now. He doesn’t have to press a button since the elevator only goes to the penthouse floor. As soon as we start moving, he groans and his shoulders curl in. “I don’t feel so good.” Please don’t let him be sick in here. If there’s one thing I can’t deal with, it’s vomit. “You should sit.” He slides down the wall, massive shoulders rolling forward as he rests his forehead on his knees. “Tomorrow is going to suck.” I stay on the other side of the elevator, in case he tosses his cookies. “Probably.” It’s the longest elevator ride in the history of the world. Or at least it feels that way, mostly because I’m terrified he’s going to yak. Thankfully, we make it to the penthouse floor incident-free. On the down side, now that he’s in a sitting position, getting him to stand again is a challenge. I have to press the open door button three times before I can finally coax him to his feet. In the time between leaving the bar and making it to the penthouse floor, the effects of the alcohol seems to have compounded. He’s beyond sloppy, using the wall and me for support as we make our way to his door. There are two penthouse apartments up here. One on either side of the foyer. He leans against the doorjamb, once again fighting to find the coordination to get his thumb to the sensor pad. I don’t ask if he needs my assistance this time since it’s quite clear he does. Once again I take his clammy hand in mine

“Your hands are really soft,” he mumbles. “Thanks.” The pad flashes green, and I turn the handle. “Okay, here we go. Home sweet home.” “This isn’t my home,” he slurs. “My cousin’s family owns this building. I’m crashing here until I can get the fuck out of New York.” I scan the penthouse. It an eclectic combination of odd art and modern furniture, like two different tastes crashed together and this is the result. Aside from that, it’s clean to the point of looking almost like a show home. The only sign that someone is staying here is the lone coffee cup on the table in the living room and the blanket lolling like a tongue over the edge of the couch. I’m still standing in the doorway while he sways unsteadily. He tries to shove his hand in his pants pocket, but all he succeeds in doing is setting himself off-balance. He nearly stumbles into the wall. “Thanks for your help,” he says. He’s back in his penthouse, which means my job is technically done. However, I’m worried he’s going to hurt himself, or worse, asphyxiate on his own vomit in the middle of the night, and I’ll be the one catching heat if that happens. I’ll also feel bad if something happens to him. I blow out a breath, annoyed that this is how my night is ending. I heave his arm over my shoulder and slip mine around his waist again, leading him through the living room toward what seems to be the kitchen. There’s a sheet of paper on the island, but otherwise it’s spotless. “What’re you doing?” he asks. We pause when we reach the threshold. “Which way is your bedroom?

He looks slowly from right to left. “Not that way.” He points to the kitchen. It’s very state of the art. I guide him in the opposite direction down the hall, until he stumbles through a doorway, into a large but simply furnished bedroom. Once we reach the edge of the bed, he drops his arm, spins around—it’s drunkenly graceful—and falls back on the bed, arms spread wide as if he’s planning on making snow angels. “The room is spinning.” “Would you like me to get you a glass of water and possibly a painkiller for the headache you’ll likely have in the morning?” I’m already heading for the bathroom. “Might be a good idea,” he mumbles. I find a glass on the edge of bathroom vanity—which is clean, apart from a brand new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. I run the tap, wishing I had a plastic tumbler, because I’m not sure he’s in any state to deal with breakable objects. I check the medicine cabinet, find the pills I need, shake out two tablets, and return to the bedroom. He’s right where I left him; sprawled out faceup on a massive king-size bed, legs hanging off the end, one shoe on the floor beside him. I cross over and set the water and the pills on the nightstand. I make a quick trip back to the bathroom and grab the empty wastebasket from beside the toilet in case his night is a lot rougher than he expects. I tap his knee, crossing my fingers he’ll be easy to rouse. “Hey, I have painkillers for you.” He makes a noise, but doesn’t move otherwise. I tap his knee again. “Lincoln, you need to wake up long enough to take these.” I cringe. I called him by name, and he didn’t offer it to me while we were down at the bar. Here’s hoping he’s too drunk to notice or remember. His name is Lincoln Moorehead, heir to the Moorehead Media fortune and all the crap that comes with it. And there’s a lot of it. One eye becomes a slit. “Every time I open my eyes, the room starts spinning again.” “If you drink this and take these, it might help.” I hold up the glass of water and the pills. “’Kay.” It takes three tries for him to sit up. He tries to pick the pills up out of my palm, but keeps missing my hand. “Just open your mouth.” He lifts his head. “How do I know you’re not trying to roofie me?” I hold up the tablet in front of his face. “They don’t say roofie, so you’re safe.” He tries to focus on the pill and then my face. I have my doubts he’s successful at either. His tongue peeks out to drag across his bottom lip. “The cameras in the hall will catch you if you steal my wallet.” I laugh at that. “I’m not going to steal your wallet, I’m going to put you to bed.” “Hmm.” He nods slowly and opens his mouth. I drop the pills on his tongue and hand him the glass, which he drains in three long swallows. “Would you like me to refill that?” “That’d be nice.” He holds out the glass, but when I try to pull away, he covers my hands with his. His shockingly blue eyes meet mine, and for a moment they’re clear and compelling. Despite how out of it he is, and how much he resembles a mountain man, or maybe because of it, I have a hard time looking away. “I really wish I wasn’t this messed up. You smell nice. I bet your hair is pretty when it’s not pulled up like that.” He flops a hand toward my bun. “Not that it’s not pretty like that, but I bet if you took it down, it would be wavy and soft. The kind of hair you want to bury your face in and run your fingers through.” He exhales a long breath. “I haven’t had sex in a really long time, but I feel like I would have zero finesse if I tried right now.” I smile and turn away. In the time it takes for me to refill his glass, he’s managed to get one arm out of his suit jacket. He’s made it most of the way onto the bed, feet still hanging off the end, but he’s on his back, which is not ideal. I set the glass on his nightstand, along with a second set of painkillers, which I’m assuming he’ll need in the morning, and give him another nudge. “Hey.” This time I get nothing in the way of a response. I poke him twice more, but still nothing. He can’t sleep on his back with how drunk he is. He needs to be on his side or his stomach with a wastebasket close by. I can’t in good conscience leave him like this. My options are limited. I shake my head as I kick off my shoes and climb up onto the bed with him. This is not at all what I expected to be doing when I brought him back up here. I stare down at his sleeping form. His lips are parted, they’re nice lips, full and plump, even though they’re mostly obscured by his overgrown beard. His hair has started to unravel from its man bun, wisps hanging in his face. He has long lashes, really long actually, and they’re thick and dark, the kind women pay a lot of money for. His nose is straight and his cheekbones— what I can see of them—are high. With a haircut, a beard trim or complete shave, and a new suit that actually fits, I can imagine how refined he’ll look. More like a Moorehead than a mountain man lumberjack. I shake my head. “I need you to roll onto your side, please,” I say loudly. Nothing. Not even a grunt. I pull on his shoulder, but he’s dead weight. Leaning over him, I make a fist and give him a light jab approximately where his kidney is. “Lincoln, roll over.” And roll he does, knocking me down and turning over so he’s right on top of me. We’re face-to-face. Good God, he’s heavy. His bones must be made of lead. He shifts, one leg coming over both of mine. I push at his knee, but his arm swings out and he wraps himself around me on a low groan, pinning my arm to my side. He’s like a giant human blanket. “How did this become my life?” I say to the ceiling, because the man lying on top of me is apparently out cold. I try to wriggle free, I even yell his name a bunch of time before I give up and wait for him to roll off me. And while I wait for that to happen, I replay the conversation with his mother, Gwendolyn Moorehead, that took place forty-eight hours ago and put me in this awkward position underneath her drunk son. I’d been standing in Fredrick’s office, still digesting the fact that he was dead. It was shocking that a massive heart attack had taken him, since he was always so healthy and full of life. Gwendolyn, his wife—now a widow—stood stoic behind his desk, papers stacked neatly in the center. “I’m so very for your loss, Gwendolyn. If there’s anything I can do. Whatever you need.” The words poured out, typical condolences, but sincerely meant because I couldn’t imagine how my mother and I would feel if we lost my father.

Gwendolyn’s fingers danced at her throat as she cleared it. “Thank you,” she whispered brokenly and dabbed at her eyes. “I appreciate your kindness, Wren.” “Let me know what you want me to handle, and I’ll take care of it.” She took a deep breath, composing herself before she lifted her gaze to mine. “I need your help.” “Of course, what can I do?” “My oldest son, Lincoln, will be returning to New York for the funeral, and he’ll be staying to help run the company.” A hot feeling crept up my spine. I’d heard very little about Lincoln. Everything from Armstrong’s mouth was scathing, Fredrick’s passing references had been with fondness, and my interactions with Gwendolyn had been minimal as it was Fredrick himself who hired me, so this was first I’ve heard of Lincoln through her. “I see. And how can I help with that?” I could only imagine how difficult Armstrong would be if he had to share the attention with someone else, particularly his brother. “Transitioning Lincoln.” Gwendolyn rounded her desk. “You’ve managed to turn around Armstrong’s reputation in the media during the time you’ve been here. I know it hasn’t been easy, and Armstrong can be difficult to manage.” Difficult to manage is the understatement of the entire century where Armstrong is concerned. He’s a cocksucker of epic proportions. He’s also a misogynistic, narcissistic bastard that I’ve had to deal with for the past eight months on a nearly daily basis—sometimes even on weekends. My job as his “handler” has been to reshape his horrendous reputation after his involvement in several scandalous events became very public. It wasn’t a job I necessarily wanted, and I was prepared to politely reject the offer, but my mother asked me to take the position as a favor to her since she’s a friend of Gwendolyn. Beyond that, my relationship with my mother has been strained for the past decade. When I was a teenager, I discovered information that changed our relationship forever. Taking the job at Moorehead was in part, my way of trying to help repair our fractured bond. The financial compensation, which was ridiculously high, also didn’t hurt. Besides, Gwendolyn is on nearly every single charitable foundation committee in the city, and since that’s where my interests lie, it seemed like a smart career move. “Since you’re already working with Armstrong and things seem to be settled there for the most part, I felt it would make sense to keep you on here at Moorehead to work with Lincoln. He’s been away from civilized society for several years. He’s nothing like his brother, very altruistic and focused on his job, rather than recreational pursuits, so he should be easier to manage.” I fought a scoff at the last bit, since “recreational pursuits” was a reference to the fact that Armstrong couldn’t seem to keep his pants zipped when it came to women. Gwendolyn pushed a set of papers toward me. “It would only be for another six months. And of course, your salary would reflect the double work load, since you’ll still have to maintain Armstrong in some capacity while you assist Lincoln in transitioning into his role here.” “I’m sorry, what—” Gwendolyn pulled me into an awkward hug, holding onto my shoulders when she stepped back. Her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. “You have no idea how  much I appreciate your willingness to take this on. As soon as your contract is fulfilled, you have my word that I’ll give you a glowing recommendation to whichever organization you’d like. Your mother told me you’re interested in starting your own foundation. I’ll certainly help you in any way I’m able if you’ll stay on a little longer for me.” She dabbed at her corner of her eyes and sniffed, then tapped the papers on the desk. “I already have an agreement ready and an NDA, of course. Everything is tabbed for signing.” I’m pulled back into the present when Lincoln shifts and one of his huge hands slides up my side and lands on my breast. At the same time, he pushes his nose against my neck, beard tickling my collarbone. He mutters something unintelligible against my skin. I’m momentarily frozen in shock. Under any other circumstances, I would knee him in the balls. However, he’s not conscious or even semi-aware that he’s fondling me. Thankfully, now that he’s moved, I have some wiggle room. I elbow him in the ribs, which probably hurts me more than it does him. At least it gets him to move away enough that I can slip out from under him. I roll off the bed and pop back up, smoothing out my now-wrinkled dress. My stupid nipples are perky, thanks to the attention the right one just got. Probably because it’s the most action I’ve seen since I started working for the Mooreheads eight months ago. I hit the lights on the way out of the bedroom, pause in the kitchen to grab a glass of water and check out the sheet of paper on the counter. It’s a list of important details regarding the penthouse, including the entry code. I nab my purse, snap a pic, and head for the elevators. I have a feeling this is going to be a long six months     

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Helena Hunting

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She's writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.

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[havenoffandoms]

The Demon and the Lamb Part Two: Forgive me Father, for I have sinned

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7201733

Pairing: demon!Dean x teenager!Cas

Warnings: graphic sex scenes, sub/dom relationship

Summary: 

“Have you said your prayer tonight, little angel?”

“No, sir…”

“Well then, what are you waiting for?” Castiel looked into Dean’s emerald eyes and begged for one last kiss, a wish that was not granted to him. Defeated, Castiel began reciting his nightly prayer.

“Brothers”, the voice of Reverend Novak resonated against the walls of the small church, richly decorated with paintings of the saints and of the Holy Trinity, golden chandeliers and stained-glassed windows bathing the church in a coloured light, “Behold the power of Lucifer. He is not dangerous while luring around your homes, but as soon as he manages to penetrate your minds. The devil is in the detail, brothers. Do not let him get a hold of you, but worship the Lord every day. Have faith in God and he won’t let you down”

Castiel tried not to think about the butt plug stretching his hole. He shifted slightly on his chair and got a reprimanding look from his mother as the wooden benches crack under Castiel’s weight. The young boy couldn’t stop thinking about his boyfriend Dean. Reverend Novak and his wife had been invited to a private party at one of their friend’s place and had decided that Castiel wasn’t invited. Which worked perfectly fine for the young man, who was awaiting Dean impatiently. The demon had promised to spoil him tonight, but had warned him to prepare himself beforehand. Castiel didn’t want to risk disobeying the demon.

“Brothers, remember that you are responsible for your own misery, as it was brought upon you by God who wanted to punish you for your sins. A devout man is never unhappy, for he feels the love of God and rejoices in serving him”

Castiel had learned much about Heaven and Hell in the past years, mostly thanks to his demon boyfriend, who had enlightened Castiel on many occasions. For instance, the young man didn’t know that Lucifer had once been God’s favourite and that he had been God’s most beloved son. Lucifer had been entrusted with the mark of Cain which had corrupted his mind in the end, contributing to Lucifer’s exclusion out of Heaven. Castiel had found it hard to believe at first, but had eventually caved in. He trusted Dean! As weird as it sounded, he would give up his life for the demon and the young man knows that his boyfriend would do the same for him, even though he would never for the love of God admit this out loud.

“Brothers, these are difficult times. We must all unite against Lucifer’s manipulating and corrupting powers. He manifests himself in our modern culture, through television, magazines and the internet. He tries to enrol your sons, rape your daughters and wives and burn down your household and family”

Castiel muffled a moan threatening to escape his mouth as the butt plug stretches him wider. He knew that Lucifer had better things to do than to corrupt humankind through the internet and television. He was far too busy trying to escape the cage he had been confined to eons ago. The King of Hell was a demon going by the name of Crowley, an “arrogant brat with a British accent, who sold his soul to a demon to grow a few more inches” according to Dean. Castiel had found it odd that a man would willingly sell his soul only to be a few inches taller. This comment had sent his boyfriend in a fit of laughter he had had trouble recovering from. Dearest angel, you are so innocent it makes my cock twitch. Castiel shudders as he remembers Dean’s words.

“… and therefore you shall love God and his creation, this love will keep you safe. With these words, I will let you go on about your Sunday activities”

The church was filled with the cracking of the wooden benches as the people started getting up and leaving the sacred place. Their hushed whispers echoed against the stone walls and a few isolated coughs could be heard among the hushed conversations. Castiel rose to his feet and tried to keep a straight face as thoughts of his boyfriend’s cock filling him flashed through his mind. His mother placed her hand softly on her son’s lower back in a rare gesture of motherly love. Castiel could never expect such a gesture from his father and he wouldn’t expect it from his mother either if she knew about his relationship with Dean. Castiel shook the nasty thoughts away. He loved his mother dearly, but he knew that one day he would have to flee the family home, or his father would force him to become a priest like himself and Castiel had other ambitions. Besides, he wanted to be with Dean.

“Your mother and I are heading to this party straight away son. Don’t expect us home before midnight at the earliest. This is a very important dinner, we hope to raise funds for the church renovation” Castiel nodded dutifully, trying to hide his excitement. It was one in the afternoon: his parents would be gone for almost twelve hours at least. Which meant twelve hours he could spend with his favourite demon. Castiel had to refrain himself from smiling.

***

Ad ligandum eos pariter eos coram me.

Castiel had been waiting for hours, he had sent Dean a message with the phone the demon had given him, but it had not been answered. This meant that Dean was either busy fulfilling Crowley’s will or that the demon wanted to tease his boyfriend. One way or the other, the demon’s absence made the young man feel sad and frustrated. Castiel was horny and since he had come back from church he hadn’t bothered to remove the butt plug, leaving this pleasure for Dean. Castiel knew how much his boyfriend enjoyed seeing him wide and stretched after wearing the toy for a whole day.

It was past 8 pm and Castiel was beginning to lose hope that Dean would eventually show up. Adding to this, he felt incredibly tired and craved for a good warm shower. Besides, if Dean didn’t come, Castiel would have to take care of himself and he didn’t want to wait until his parents had come back home to start pleasuring himself and granting himself the release he desperately needed. Indeed, a shower was in order.

Castiel made sure to lock the door behind him, not because he feared being disturbed, but out of sheer habit. He was used to his parents being at home whenever he showered and in order to keep some privacy, he always locked the bathroom door. His father had forbidden him to lock his bedroom door, probably out of fear his son would engage in uncatholic activities while he thought his parent couldn’t barge into his room and put an end to his pleasure. The fact that Castiel could never lock his bedroom door added to the sexual thrill whenever Dean paid him a late night visit.

Castiel’s skin was beyond sensitive at this point, the slightest brush of cloth against his bare skin making his cock fill more and more with blood. He let out a soft moan as his fingers brushed over his perky nipples, rubbing the sensitive nubs slowly, teasingly, the way Dean would were he there. Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut as he bit his lower lip in pleasure. He reconsidered taking a shower and opted for a bath instead. A nice, bubbly bath. While the tub filled with hot water, Castiel proceeded in taking off his pants, admiring his bulge in the mirror. He had had the feeling lately that his penis had grown a few inches. Nothing to be proud of, according to his father, but Castiel couldn’t help but beam. Dean would know to appreciate this change. Slowly, the young man took off his briefs and let his erection hang freely, hissing when his delicate fingers brushed over the already moist tip. Impatiently, Castiel grabbed his erection and started fisting it, closing his eyes as he felt the characteristic tingling announcing his orgasm build in his sack. When he was close to release, Castiel felt someone else’s hand on his penis. Gasping in fear and shame at being caught, Castiel forced his eyes to open and expected to see the wrathful face of his father, but lost himself in the beautiful green orbs of his demon boyfriend instead. Dean. Dean had come at last.

“Now little angel”, the demon whispered in Castiel’s ear, never breaking eye contact through the mirror and grinning devilishly, “You have still much to learn from me. See, your little teasing session with yourself at first was really, really nice to observe… but then you wanted to end the show so quickly… now that would be a shame, wouldn’t it little angel?”

Castiel moaned at those words and shot Dean a pleading look through the mirror, pressing his back against the demon’s strong chest.

“Please… I need you… I have been waiting for you all day and I thought… I thought you wouldn’t come… I needed release” Castiel was panting by now and he almost came on the spot when he felt Dean fisting him. But the young man knew better than to come without permission. Now that Dean was there, their rules were back in vigour.

“The only release you should crave for is that given by me! I thought you were a smart little angel, Cas? Aren’t you a smart boy?” Castiel whimpered at those words, nodding his approval. A wave of panic and arousal overwhelmed him as he felt Dean place a cock ring around his hard shaft. Castiel moaned pitifully. Dean smiled at him and kissed his temple softly, still looking at his and Cas’ reflection in the mirror.

“I see you want to take a bath. Mind if I join?” Castiel moaned again, followed by a litany of “please” and “I need you”. Dean pulled him gently to the marble bathtub, turning Castiel so that the young man was facing him. “Undress me”, the demon ordered tenderly, brushing his knuckles over Castiel’s flushed skin. The young man brought his trembling hands up to unbutton Dean’s blood red shirt, struggling a little and making soft, frustrated noises when the buttons wouldn’t cooperate. Dean chuckled softly at his boyfriend’s failed attempt at undressing him.

“Calm down, angel, patience is told to be a virtue” Dean said teasingly. Castiel took a deep breath and proceeded, this time managing to discard Dean’s shirt completely, folding it neatly onto a nearby chair. Then, he came back to his boyfriend and unbuckled his leather belt, pulling it out of the loops and hanging it on a nearby hook, careful to keep it straight. Finally, Castiel fell to his knees and unbuttoned Dean’s jeans before reverently pulling it down the demon’s long legs.

“Haven’t you forgotten to take off my shoes first, little angel?”

Castiel made another frustrated noise and looked up at his boyfriend with apologizing eyes. “I am sorry, I shouldn’t have been so hasty”, he said almost in a whisper and if Dean hadn’t been paying close attention to his words, he wouldn’t have understood a thing. Tenderly, the demon brushed a rebel strand out of Castiel’s face and smiled reassuringly.

“No harm done, baby angel. Now get back to work, the water is cooling”

Castiel finished undressing the demon and rose back to his feet, careful not to touch Dean’s cock as he hadn’t got permission to do so yet. He desperately needed to taste, feel or even touch his boyfriend, he had been dreaming of this moment for hours. He felt like his sack was about to explode. Softly, he let Dean pick him up and place him into the warm water. The warmth eased the tension in Castiel’s muscle and made the whole situation more bearable somehow. Castiel smiled softly and looked at the demon next to him. Dean admired the young human before him.

“You are such a precious gift, little angel. My Cas. I don’t know what I did to deserve a nice little pet like you” Dean knelt next to the bathtub and grabbed the soap and shampoo, “And such an obedient pet must be rewarded and taken well care of” Dean poured some soap into his open palm and rubbed his hands until they were covered in foam before massaging it into his boyfriend’s shoulder. Castiel mewled at the sensation and closed his eyes.

“You deserve this treatment, sweet angel. You have been really good today, even kept the butt plug when you thought I wouldn’t come. That’s an exemplary behaviour” Dean’s hands washed Castiel’s body thoroughly, not giving much attention to the young man’s erection, which almost got a frustrated groan out of Castiel, but he managed to stay quiet. Dean smiled softly as he washed Castiel’s hair and massaged his scalp slowly. Castiel would have fallen asleep had he not had a cock ring around his shaft.

“Dean?”

“Yes, Cas?”

“I have missed you” This comment made Dean’s heart, however small and cold it had become over the years, beam with pride and his cock swell with arousal. He rejoiced in the fact that his little human lusted after no one else but him, a demon. Castiel truly was a beauty and the purity of his soul made him worthy of ascending to Heaven, however the fact that he was dating a demon had progressively tainted his immaculate soul, month after month, day after day. If he were to die, Dean wasn’t sure if Castiel would still make it to Heaven, not because he had given into sexual phantasies, but because he had given himself wholly to a demon.

“I have missed you, too, my sweet angel”

Castiel had given himself to Dean Winchester nonetheless, the most feared demon under Alistair and now Crowley’s second in command. Not that Dean listened to Crowley, in fact he most of the time did whatever he pleased, screw Crowley. In fact, Dean thought he would make a fine King of Hell, however he was neither stupid, nor naïve. He knew that Lucifer couldn’t be imprisoned forever, one day he would step out of the cage and he would want to seek revenge on whoever had wished to claim his throne as their own. Therefore, Dean preferred to keep a low profile.

“Come out of the tub, Cas” Dean stood up and retrieved a fluffy towel from the cupboard, wrapping the thin and seemingly fragile human into its warmth. Dean knew, however, that Castiel wasn’t weak. His body withstood more than many people could ever imagine. This frail looking man had experienced things no human being in his right mind would have agreed to try out. Dean felt pride overwhelm him again.

Castiel almost purred as Dean began rubbing him dry, kissing him dirtily on the lips. Castiel let Dean take the lead and melted in his strong arms, letting the demon worship his body as if it were some sacred artefact.

“Have you said your prayer tonight, little angel?”

“No, sir…”

“Well then, what are you waiting for?” Castiel looked into Dean’s emerald eyes and begged for one last kiss, a wish that was not granted to him. Defeated, Castiel began reciting his nightly prayer.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments. But most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin. A-“

Dean groaned and kissed Castiel before the young man had a chance to finish. Castiel felt Dean’s erection press against his thigh, painfully hard. It always surprised Castiel as to why a demon would find a prayer arousing, but Dean kept explaining that it wasn’t the prayer itself, but the blasphemy of the situation that turned him on. Castiel shuddered in anticipation feeling the hardness of his boyfriend’s shaft. Castiel’s hands roamed over Dean’s chest, forgetting for a moment that he had not been granted permission to touch his boyfriend. But he was desperate and he was ready to face the consequences.

“Eager, aren’t we my dearest angel?”

“Yes sir, I want you to bury your hard cock up my arse, this butt plug is not satisfying me anymore, not now that you are here before me” Dean grinned at Castiel’s words.

“Well then, lead me to your bedroom angel mine” Castiel moaned and grabbed Dean’s wrist, pulling him towards the bedroom, however forgetting that he had locked the door. Another helpless sound left Castiel as he struggled with the lock. Soon, the door was unlocked and the young man quickly pulled his boyfriend through the hall into his bedroom, pulling him in for a passionate and impatient kiss. Dean was eager to reply.

The demon’s well-built body pressed against Castiel’s lithe one, pushing him towards the bed. Dean literally threw the young man onto the bed and grinned devilishly as he grabbed his sports bag. Castiel knew what awaited him and he mewled as he watched his naked boyfriend pull out the toys he was about to use on his boyfriend. Castiel was surprised to see that Dean chose only one toy this time, which meant that Dean would probably take him.

“Now, I will make you feel so good my little dove. You see this?” Dean held up a leather collar with two leather straps attached to it, silver clips adorned the tip of the leather straps “This is a very interesting toy. We are going to have such a good time, little angel. Turn around” Castiel did as he was told and shuddered as Dean made him wear the collar and attached the clips to his nipples. Castiel realized that he wouldn’t be able to throw his head back in pleasure without inflicting himself pain.

“You look so pretty, Castiel… so pretty” Dean took out his phone and snapped a few shots of his boyfriend, pictures we would keep selfishly to himself. He had no one he wanted to share those pictures with. “I want to hear you scream tonight, I want you to scream my name so loud my love”

“Yes sir, I want this so badly …”

“Yes, I know you do… my beautiful little angel” Dean circled Castiel’s bed and gently pulled the butt plug out of his arse, observing how his boyfriend’s hole gaped at him, ready to be fucked and used. Dean groaned, fisted himself a few times, before entering his boyfriend forcefully. He pounded Castiel for a long time, pulling his head back and causing the young man to scream in pain mingled with undeniable pleasure.

“DEAN… PLEASE MORE… DEAN”

By now, Castiel didn’t care if his parents heard him in the case they came back early. He knew that nothing could happen to him as long as Dean was here with him. All he could think of was the pleasure Dean was giving him. He felt his hole tighten around Dean’s massive cock, much bigger than the small butt plug he had used to stretch himself. His prostate was being assaulted violently and Dean didn’t seem ready to slow the pace.

“I will fill you up so good my dearest angel. I love your tight little hole, I love to fuck your brains out, fuck you right through the mattress”

“I … I….”

“You want to come my love?”

“If it pleases you, Dean”

“Be a bit more patient”

Dean pounded Castiel harder, if that was even possible, and felt his orgasm build up in his lower belly. He bit hard into Castiel’s shoulder and groaned when he felt his seed fill his boyfriend. Dean came so hard it leaked out of Castiel’s hole and the demon groaned Castiel’s name as he rode out his orgasm lazily. The young human under him was panting heavily and whimpering, needy to come. Dean grinned and flipped Castiel onto his back, took off the cock ring and took the young man’s penis into his mouth, massaging the base of Castiel’s shaft with his hand. Pitch black eyes looked up at Castiel’s face contorted in lust. Dean made sure to pleasure his boyfriend and licked his gland languorously.

“You may come, little angel”

As soon as Dean had uttered those words he felt the salty liquid spurt out of Castiel’s penis and shoot right onto the young man’s chest, coating his alabaster skin with streaks of white sperm. Castiel’s face was flushed and sweaty, he seemed to have trouble breathing. To Castiel’s horror, he heard the entrance door open and his parents taking off their coats. His eyes grew impossibly wide as fear overwhelmed him and tears welled up in his eyes. Dean merely grinned.

“You were a good boy, my sweet angel” he said, kissing his boyfriend goodbye. In a pop, he was gone, and so were the toys he had used on Castiel. Even the butt plug had disappeared, to Castiel’s relief. Quickly, the young man grabbed a fresh pair of briefs, put them on and opened the window to get rid of the smell of sex, before jumping on his bed and hiding beneath the covers as quickly and quietly as possible. It took his father ten minutes to open his bedroom door and check whether his son was asleep.

“He is a good boy Jimmy… I think we can be proud of our son”, his mother Amelia whispered to her husband, not unkindly.

“He will make me proud the day he joins priesthood. Until then, he hasn’t done anything to make me proud, besides obeying to my very word, and that is nothing to be proud of, it’s what very father expects of his son” Castiel had learned a long time ago to not let comments like these affect him. He heard his mother sigh as his father left to their bedroom. Amelia entered the room and Castiel saw through half closed lids that she wanted to pass her hand through his messy hair, but she quickly composed herself.

“I am proud of you, my son, no matter what your grumpy father says”

Castiel felt his heart swell at these words. He refrained from pulling his mother into his arms and apologizing for being such a bad son. She had no reason to be proud and she wouldn’t be if she knew her son was dating a demon. Castiel felt tears roll down his cheeks. He couldn’t continue lying to his mother this way, she didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. He couldn’t lie right into her face, he couldn’t keep up the role of the perfect son, because he wasn’t.

Castiel wiped his tears with his blanket and looked out of the window. It was time for him to leave. He had to leave this oppressing life, he had to leave his father’s authority. He would feel sad to leave behind his mother, but it was what was best for him. Castiel stood up and went to his wardrobe to retrieve the phone Dean had given him to contact him. The young man wasn’t allowed to have a phone, his father had forbidden it and thus Dean’s phone had to be hidden under the loose plank of wood of his wardrobe.

I need to get out. I will pack the essentials. Can you help me flee this hell? –Cas

Castiel hid under his blankets again, listening carefully in case his father decided to pay him another visit, just to be sure. Castiel felt his stomach churn with excitement at the thought of being able to spend time with Dean, even to live with him. He was excited to start a new life, to follow his dreams and ambitions. He had always been an excellent student and having finished high school a few months earlier, he had what it took to go to university. Castiel was eager, eager to start all over again. His phone buzzed, announcing an answer from Dean. The young man opened the message and smiled.

Tomorrow at dawn, I’ll pick you up with baby. Be ready to ride on a highway to hell, little angel. –D.