#I assumed I would like reynauld the most

[sweetmapple]

Went in to start blocking out shapes and this page skipped straight to lineart for… reasons

[bi-naesala]

Dismas and lovers

4. Bounty Hunter

Dismas knows that giving the person who wants to kill you even more reason to hate him is an idiotic move, but when Tardif pins him to the wall, his bounty tightly held in his fist, he can’t help but to crack a joke at him.

“What? Wanna make out?”

The only reason why Tardif doesn’t paint the wall with his guts is because Reynauld – bless him – manages to drag him away, as Junia frantically explains that Dismas is under the Heir’s protecting, therefore is untouchable.

Tardif doesn’t say anything, just tuts, shaking Reynauld’s hand off of him, and stomping towards the exit, definitely plotting against him.

 When Reynauld and Junia turn towards him, however, he can tell they’re not happy about how this “exchange” went. Well, what can Dismas do about it?! It’s not like he was the one who decided to attack someone out of the blue – or not, after all he did have it coming.

At least he’s the one who got the last word in. That counts as a victory, for him.

  After that “incident” things go back to normal, as normal as they can get in the Hamlet.

Scratch that, they’re not normal at all: Tardif is acting weird. Not that Dismas has enough of a base to be able to actually tell, but he has a hunch that something must be wrong.

Sometimes, Tardif won’t leave his side, and without saying anything too, which makes it extremely creepy – and also makes him suspicious that he’s plotting something against him, despite his supposed immunity – and then, other times, he avoids him completely, which makes things harder than they need to be when they’re sent out in the same group, with one teammate pretending the other doesn’t exist.

The worst thing is that there’s no way to understand what the fuck is going on inside his head, because the asshole not only doesn’t talk for shit, but he always keeps his face hidden, so he can’t even read his facial expressions, like he would usually do.

Talking to a brick wall might wield better results.

 It’s gotten to the point that even the others have noticed that something’s going on, but when they come to Dismas for an explanation, he never knows what to tell them.

  This goes on for a while, until Dismas decides that enough is enough: he’ll get to the bottom of this, no matter what, even if that means finding Tardif himself alone – he’d never fess up to anything personal with other people present – and even if that means that, when he goes to poke his arm, his survival instinct takes over, and he slams Dismas against the wall. Huh, he’s having a déjà vu.

“You again?!” Tardif roars, as if Dismas had gone his way to torment him since the accident – whatever happened, it was all in his head.

Seriously, what’s his problem?! Has Dismas really started to inhabit every corner of his mind, is that what this is all about? Does he really care so much that he can’t cash in a bounty… or is there something more?

Now that Dismas thinks about it, he remembers that there was a certain something he said that got to Tardif and maybe, just maybe, that’s the reason why he’s being acting this weird.

Oh, there are so many things Dismas could do with this information – assuming that his supposition is true, of course – with most of them ending in death, but damn if he doesn’t want to try it. After all, what’s life without a little bit of danger?

And well, if Tardif really wants to… Dismas wouldn’t be opposed. He’s big and strong, after all, exactly his type; you could argue that he’s tried to kill him, but eh, all the people he’s made out with in his life have done the same, sooner or later, so it’s not that big of a deal, not for him.

He flashes a grin at Tardif, as if he couldn’t just smother his face with his fist if he says the wrong thing, and shoots his shot.

“All this just because I offered to make out with you?”

There, he said it. If Tardis kills him now, it’ll be worth it.

Tardif doesn’t kill him, at least not outright.

What he does, instead, is… nothing. He just freezes in place.

“Oi, big guy, you there?” Dismas asks, because he thought he was going to be the one dying, that day, not the one doing the killing.

He awkwardly pats his arm, just to make sure that Tardif is still alive, when he growls something that he doesn’t understand – something about him being impossible, maybe – before raising the piece of cloth covering the lower half of his face, just enough to press his lips against Dismas’, much to the other’s surprise.

What isn’t surprising, however, is the way he kisses: just like when he fights, he’s brutal, without giving his enemies – or Dismas, in this case – not even a quarter. It’s overwhelming, that’s for sure, but Dismas doesn’t mind, he doesn’t mind at all; it actually feels good, losing himself completely like this. It hasn’t happened in a long while – since he’s made his way to the Hamlet, actually.

Tardif makes it hard for him to breathe, but the following lightheadedness only makes it better – yeah, yeah, laugh about good old Dismas being a freak, as if he doesn’t know already. He grasps at his shoulders, holding onto them while Tardif keeps kissing him like he wants to devour him – for how long did he hold this back?

His lips feel rough, against his own, and Dismas knows he’ll feel the burn of his stubble against his skin. He could really use some more self-care, but oh well, so does Dismas, if we have to be honest about it, so they’re even.

It’s… It’s great, everything he could’ve asked for.

As good as it is, however, Dismas is in desperate need of air, but right when he was about to push Tardif off, he pulls away on his own, probably for the same reason. Here they are, now, intensely staring at each other – at least Dismas thinks Tardif’s staring at him – as they catch their breath.

Even with his face half-visible, he can barely see anything, and although Dismas is mighty curious about what that helmet hides, he doesn’t try to sneak a peek. He’s pushed it enough, for now. Besides, if the man wants to stay hidden, he must have a reason for it, and who’s Dismas to go against his wish?

“Better, now?” he asks, because he might be able to respect the man’s privacy, but he sure as hell cannot keep his mouth shut to save his life.

To his surprise, Tardif’s answer doesn’t involve any kind of violence; he simply lowers the cloth to cover his face again – Dismas bets he’s blushing, under there – and grunts affirmatively.

That’s all he does, though, as he’s stuck in place like he doesn’t know what to do next.

Dismas would’ve never expected such a scary bounty hunter to act like this, but… it’s nice, to see that there is indeed a person hiding in there.

Eh, he wonders if it’s the same can apply on reverse, if Tardif can now see what’s beyond the crimes he’s committed, or not. Well, for him to have gotten this close and still be able to breathe, he must, right?

Ugh, this is getting too deep for Dismas’ tastes. He needs a drink, and he needs it now.

He should go to the tavern and relax a bit, but not before teasing Tardif one last time – now that he knows he can get away with it, he’d be an idiot not to take advantage of it.

He makes a big show of walking away, before stopping after a couple of steps to turn towards Tardif – who still hasn’t moved, though his head is turned towards him – and he smirks.

“And next time, don’t hover around me like a complete dumbass, alright? Just ask,” he says, before walking away.

Tardif doesn’t reply, or if he does, Dismas doesn’t hear it. And just like last time, he’s managed to get the last word in; not only that, but he’s managed to turn the tide of a potentially lethal situation, so good job, old boy, you still got it.

He can’t help but to wonder if Tardif will actually come back to him, if further down the road he’ll need to vent all the pent-up frustration he unleashed on Dismas just a few moments ago.

Well, whether he does it or not, it’s fine – it’s not like he lacks companionship, down here – but, somehow, he has the feeling that he’ll come back…

He’ll just have to see, he supposes.

[thesugarhole]

mismatched (and mostly shieldbreaker related) hcs i got that serve no one but me:

-amani was left handed. doesn't share that fact with anyone on the hamlet because of the heaviness of the religion (light being based of christianity and all its sub-sectors, she doesnt want further persecution). frequently points to things with her stub before catching herself and switching. Is extra dedicated in battle practice as well as learning how to write with her right hand, and the most observant people (like alhazred & barristan) figure it out as the reason eventually but dont share it with others

-amani has reasonable 'wanted' payout bounty (escaped high profile slave, murder, theft?), higher that reynauld (defector, theft), along the same monetary compensation as dismas (killed a mother and child of unknown but reasonable to assume at least well off status, again theft) but not as high as sarmenti (killed a king & his court) and possibly... baldwin (killed his own court -> persecuted by friends and family of those who planned to betray him, would have the monetary means to put a high price on his head)

-figuring out a tier list for how high everyones bountys would be could be fun. incidentally, tardif has a copy of almost everyones in his cringe little bounty belt. since he ended up staying at the hamlet* and not pursuing them further it kinda functions like a grandpas wallet full of photos of his """"loved ones"""". sometimes others ask to look at the drawn portraits and compare the likeness.

-*he stayed because of morbid curiosity of whats down there, + he can keep killing and hunting without worrying much for livelyhood if he stays + can pursue baking sidehobby

-everyone loves tardifs pancakes/flapjacks. he doesnt give any to dismas until he finishes the leather boot he so """"lovingly"""" roasted for him. says everyone had to eat a boot before they could get flapjacks (they didnt) (he just likes to see dismas in particular suffer)

-you have to trust me on this. amani has had yuri moments with all the other women in the hamlet. and when shes not having a yuri moment the absence of yuri is also yuri (jokes)

-amani has trouble trusting and getting along with other men because of her past, but it becomes easier if they have their faces covered and keep their distance. the ones she ends up getting along first and easier are sarmenti because of their shared interests (performance, murder of abusers if you must) and tardif because they can stay in comfortable silence. dismas breaks the mold by not having his (whole) face covered but always making his intentions clear and having an overall friendly atitude. reynauld breaks the mold because despite adhering to covering his face and distance keeping, he is a crusader. their acquaintanceship never goes beyond tenseness and bitter one line exchanges. (getting along with dismas doesnt change much of anything)

-for some inexplicable reason she gets along better than most with damian. (dlc buddies) (the inexplicable here is: im actually borrowing hcs from the fic 'denouncing the desert' and i like the plotline of people suspecting shes a vampire because of her developing fangs and whatnot on account of her blight powers, but damian, known vampirehunter, always rebutting it, telling others to knock it off and not hunt her down. she appreciates that and overlooks whatever else insa- sorry i mean neurodivergent shit he gets up to with his own cult like convictions in the light. it might not fit as well outside that context though)

-already said this in a different post but slapstick hijinks with paracelsus where she becomes slightly obsessed with learning from where exactly amani is generating blight to use in battle (its not as clearcut as bigby, and amani evades conversation of this as much as possible) and is always trying to get samples from her much to her chagrin. moments of closeness where amani DOES need her wounds checked out allow para to get some samples though. (and then they kiss. love wins <3)

-(this one isnt to everyones liking but thats ok) junia sometimes leaves some of her 'works' in the library of the hamlet under anonymous author. amani by chance clocked her secondary handwriting she uses for those (she was specifically looking for wlw material just in case it was actually threre) shyly asks her about it and one awkward conversation later they have a shared hobby and bond over it. shes her fanfiction diary entries beta reader where she helps changing everyones names (junias fatal flaw is that its all always rpf. sad!)(jokes) before leaving it as "anonymous author" in the libraries. swears up and down she wont find it weird, and to let her read, the shieldbreaker x others fics she wrote (junia doesnt let her because she WILL find it weird. would you tell your raunchy fanfic buddy how much her abs and biceps make you unseasonably warm? hmm.)

-expansion of the above but junias miscellaneous yaois(joke) and other tales involving the guys would make the warming-up process easier for amani because if shes ever afraid she imagines all of them in a loving embrace and it makes her snort. junias just happy she has someone else to talk to about this, as unlikely as a nsfw appreciator partner amani may seem (and then they ki-)

-audrey has taught amani how to waltz (so she has more different dance styles in her reportoire, of course). "i hope this doesnt awaken something in me" <- audrey while leading (and then t-)

-likewise with boudica, they would compare their different fighting styles and take notes on how to improve based on the others performance. (and then they. and then)

-shes quiet shes demure etc etc but amani would get silly with the ones she trusts the most if the others personality would allow it. mainly thinking sarmenti, dismas and audrey here playing a little private show of noblemen and rich people stereotypes for their own amusement

[pawacelsus]

ALL MY VESTAL LOVING RAMBLES UNDER THE READ MORE--

So. Junia. The Vestal. The dedicated healer, the “noob trap,” the nun terrified of her own thoughts.

not of murder or something like that, oh no. Alas, she was simply horny.

Honestly, while this blog is very clearly PD themed, I gotta say that Junia holds a special place in my heart. Perhaps my favorite character in the entire game. She’s simply interesting.

Something I like to note is comparing her lines to Reynauld. Both devout followers of the faith, there are some interesting differences: Junia talks more about her own suffering, whereas Reynauld does not.

A few examples of this can be seen in her masochistic lines, shown below:

“ You shall suffer as I have! “ “ The Mother Superior would be right to impose ten lashings instead...  “ “ In my life, suffering has been a potent motivator...  “ “  Why does everyone hate me? Even the mother superior...  “

I could quite easily pick 100 lines that show this clearly, but these few feel like they get the point across. She also seems to compare her life as a nun to slavery, which is another thing to mention.

She quite clearly hates her old life, and she was most likely forced into it. There aren’t many lines that seem to show this, but the there are several I find the most clear, when she is irrational:

“ Mother - Father! Too late! The convent has taken me... “ “ Mother! MOTHER! “

A scared little girl, begging for her parents.

Most of the others at least had some choice. Audrey didn’t need to continue to rob graves after her debts were supposedly paid. Reynauld did not need to stay away from his family. But Junia... There was no choice for her. It was decided for her, at a supposedly young age.

And we can tell her time was not exactly the nicest. Again, looking to irrational, we find many examples of how she truly feels:

“ Please! Be kind to me, Sisters! “ “ It was a beautiful hymn, sung by the pigs of St. Martha's. “ (Note: this line seems a bit more ambiguous, but seeing as she refers to the others of the order as “pigs,” I say it counts) “ That Sister Abigail... always a cheat. “ “ Hah! Even the pigs of St. Martha's can carry that tune! “

She clearly does not hold those memories fondly. When irrational, like most other heroes, between her mumbling and whispering, there are very clear things. 

And compared to the other heroes, Junia cries and screams a considerable amount. She is mentioned as crying three times, but she screams around 4. This does not seem like a lot, but I could not find many other mentions of heroes crying or screaming (screaming being a line that ended in an exclamation point and included either all capitals, or words that would be best emphasized as screaming. In general, she’s quite loud, so it’s all up to interpretation!)

But there are a few lines of Junia’s that stick out far more than the others, at least to me.

“ But I am only a child. How can you ask that of me... How.. “ “ I am no hero! Just a little girl in a woman's garb! “ “ I will not fear martyrdom. I will not! “

Whether she is young or not does not matter. Junia sees herself as a young woman, a child. I assume she is no older than thirty, with twenty-five seeming the logical higher end of her age. And if she is but a child, then her line of not fearing martyrdom feels even more off. What is is it they asked of her when she was only a child? Were the duties too much? Was it lashes with a switch? Or was it something darker, something far more awful?

Junia is... afraid. When I compare her to another one of my favorite heroes, the plague doctor, I find many, many differences. When Paracelsus is afraid, she attempts to remain logical. She does not cry, she does not scream, she falls silent and tries to find the best solution. Junia, on the other hand, simply begs for mercy.

Another note I wish to make, is during the final boss. Spoiler warning here, for any who is still unaware but wishes to remain spoiler free. 

While Reynauld, a warrior for the Light, does not fear the Heart of Darkness, Junia does. While this may simply be Reynauld being so hardened by his time in the crusades that he can steel himself against the terror, Junia cannot. And yet, they are both described as warriors. Junia cannot handle the sight, while Reynauld can.

I shall end this one for now with a final list of my own beliefs.

- Junia is young. If she has to be an adult, then she is no older than twenty-five. She is young, and it shows. - Junia had experienced some sort of traumatic experience while a member of the Covenant, perhaps multiple. It was something no child should ever experience, especially against (assuming) their will. - (I have to thank @goddammit-bio​ for this one, as it was a potential idea I completely missed despite dealing with an anxiety disorder myself) Junia may suffer from an anxiety disorder, dealing with it by journaling and fidgeting 

In the end, however, I want to say that one of the most wonderful parts of darkest dungeon is the fact that any and all heroes are unique in story. The goal Red Hook went for was to have you, the player, write a story for your own heroes. This is how I interpreted Junia, shaped by my own experiences and understanding of traumatic childhood experiences. If that’s not how you see her, then by all means, that’s perfectly fine! This is simply the way she comes off for me, after looking at her dialogue for quite some time. Every way of looking at her is valid, and technically correct. Unless Red Hook comes out to say “this is how she is supposed to be interpreted,” then there is no right or wrong way. 

[bluraaven]

Smoke and Mirrors

El Abuelo is the most notorious of crime bosses, and it falls to Special Agent Reynauld Maurouard to take him down.  His only lead: Dismas, an ex-bandit whose outfit was in the mobster's hire. Things go downhill from there.

Chapter 1

Special Agent Reynauld Maurouard couldn't say that filling out forms was his favourite occupation, but paperwork was a necessary evil when you worked in law enforcement.  When a shadow fell over him, blocking out the light, he put down his pen and straightened.  Reynauld could have sworn that he could hear as well as feel some disks in his back pop into place.  Or out of it.  Something to worry about later.

"How's it going?" the man leaning on his desk asked, a faint smile playing around his mouth as he surveyed the battlefield that was Reynauld's workspace.

"How'd you think?" Reynauld grunted, rubbing his hands over his face until he saw stars.  For the past hour the letters had been running together, but he needed to finish this before tomorrow or he'd have his superiors breathing down his neck.  "I'm elbows deep in reports."

"Ain't we all?" Guyot asked.  In the clinically cold light of the neon lamps the dark circles around his eyes were all the more prominent, and his freckles were a stark contrast to his pale skin.  He looked just as exhausted as Reynauld felt.

As if he had read his thoughts, Guyot lifted a silver can, giving it an inviting swirl, and instantly the rich aroma of roasted beans permeated the stale office air.  "Coffee?"

When he saw Reynauld hesitating, he was quick to add, "It's good, I tested it.  On Marci."  Guyot looked around, guilt written all over his face, but in the end he just shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

Reynauld chuckled.  When some higher ups had thought it a great idea to put the PD and forensics in the same building – talk about corruption – and some of the doctors were evidently as mentally unstable as the criminals they pursued, caution saved you from getting yourself into a lot of trouble.  "Is she still among the living?"

"Aye, the living and the conscious," Guyot replied easily.  

"Then yes, please."  Reynauld had to shift some folders to find his mug buried underneath them and held it out for Guyot to fill.

Which he did, right up to the brim, eying some of the papers strewn all over the desk in the process.  "What'cha got here?  Montgomery case?"

"M-hmm," Reynauld hummed and took a sip of scalding hot fermented–bean–juice.  He  closed his eyes for a moment to savour it.

"What a shitshow," Guyot observed.  "Don't get me wrong,  I'm glad we got him.  Just because the man was in politics and old money, don't mean he's above justice."  He stopped; they'd talked more than their fair share about it.  The case had been all over the news for weeks, and by now everybody who had worked on it was fed up with it.  It was time to wrap it up and to move on.

"Anyway, the guys wanna know if you're coming to the track run.  We're up against the boys from Eastside distinct."

Track run.  That rang a bell.  Reynauld frowned; he had quite forgotten about the charity event.  "When's it?"

"Next weekend."

"I can't," Reynauld replied and didn't have to fake the regret.  Those competition between departments were usually a lot of fun and a good way to get to know new people, make some contacts.  "Thio's over, and I promised him we'll go camping."

"Aw, damn.  We're losing our best man."  But Guyot said it with a smile.  He knew how much those weekends meant to Reynauld.  "How is the big man?"

"Growing bigger every day."  The thought of his son never failed to put a smile on Reynauld's face.  "I can't believe he's about to turn eight.  Eve wanted to have a party.  You're invited of course, provided you can stand a horde of children high on sugar.

"You know I'd never miss out, and Lucy's been wanting to visit anyway.  We'll pop in, say hi, and evac if it gets too bad."  Guyot laughed and Reynauld had to join in.  Fair was fair.   They had served in the army together, and when they had quit the force it had been his friend's contacts that had given Reynauld a job here in the city.

"Chin up, soldier.  One more week and it's over," Guyot said.  "Maybe the chief's even gonna give you a promotion!"

Reynauld snorted at the thought, which should be answer enough.  If you couldn't find pride in the police work but wanted praise, you had to join the K-9 units.  As a dog.  On most days, Reynauld did enjoy it; doing something good, something useful.  He thanked Guyot for the offering of artificial energy that would get him through the evening and waved when the other man took his leave.

Just a few more hours, and he'd be able to go home.  Put a lid on the whole thing and give himself a pat on the shoulder.  From a framed picture, one of the few private possessions he kept at work, Reynauld's family was smiling at him.

He sighed and picked up his pen again.  

Reynauld wished a person could refuel on good mood like a vehicle could on gasoline, because Monday came cloaked in chaos, like a true harbinger of a bad week.

Over the weekend, he had taken Thio out of the city and to a natural preserve that had a nice lake and easy trails.  Maybe when his son was older, Reynauld would be able to take him hiking in the Hinterlands, but that would be in a couple of years at the earliest.

Now, he was running late for work since his alarm had given up on life sometime in the middle of the night.  Thanks to years of military service and an affinity for the early morning hours, he still managed to wake almost on time.  Maintenance works on the train rails forced him to take his car however, and he promptly found himself stuck in an unmoving column of other unfortunate souls braving the morning traffic.

When he had finally made it to the intersection, he almost had an accident when some idiot on a motorbike ran a red light and cut him off, disappearing between a delivery van and a taxi before Reynauld had a chance to catch his plate number.

The rest of the drive passed without incident, thankfully.  The RPD, the Riverside Police Department, was located some two miles outside of the city center, and just about ten walking minutes from the Riverside train station.  The building had a long history, beginning with it originally being built as a summer residence for Emperor Harauld.  Since then it had served as university, a hospital, and finally the casern it was to this day.

There was nothing inherently inviting about the grey and cheerless stonework, but it was far from the worst place to work.  In the large courtyard, Barristan had some sweaty-looking recruits in training clothes lined up.  Reynauld returned the wave the one-eyed drill sergeant greeted him with, and hurried on.

As soon as he pulled open the door, he was struck by the lack of usual activity.  The quiet of the waiting room was disturbed only by the hum of the ceiling fan, its blades rotating lazily.  The air was thick with the smells of stale coffee and smoke, even though smoking inside had been prohibited by law several years ago.  Underlying those was a faint odour of office: a less-than enticing mix of sweat, paper, and cleaning agents.

There was nobody seated behind the two front desks, and that was unusual enough to make Reynauld double-check his mobile and pager, nervous about maybe having overlooked a message.  Special Weapons And Tactics carried those to call them to operations too dangerous for regular police officers to handle.  Riot control wasn't much of an issue these days anymore, so they mostly handled search warrants and cases that involved organized crime, which in turn were usually linked to weapon or narcotics dealership, or illegal betting.  They had special training; and were authorized to carry military equipment, but the rest of the time, they were law enforcement agents like any other.  Reynauld did   his fair share of patrols, reports and other sorts of office work.

Both the pager and his phone's screens were blank, so he had not missed some emergency.  He decided to go to his office first; maybe Guyot would be able to tell him what was going on.  He never got that far though, because Reynauld almost collided with Marci when he jogged up the stairs.

"Where is everyone?"

"Mallory's office," the young police officer replied, sounding out of breath.  "Linesi's taken out two teams – there has been another robbery."

Another one.  Reynauld's heart sank.  "Where?"

"Central," Maci replied, biting her lip.

Reynauld nodded, and hurried past her.  Mallory saw him and waved from the door to her office.  She was a tall, no-nonsense kind of person who wore her black hair short and whom he had never seen out of a suit.  She had worked her way up to deputy director and it was generally assumed she would one day replace the Chief when he retired.

She was holding a meeting, and a grapevine of people was clustered in the room which seemed too small all of a sudden.  Gatherings like this didn't usually happen unless it was someone's birthday or something bad had occurred.   Reynauld didn't need Marci to tell him which one this was, he could have guessed by the absence of cake and smiles upon the faces of those around him.

Reynauld took up position in the back of the group.   He had to stand on his toes to be able to look over all their heads and see what held their attention.  The flatscreen was a video playing footage from what could only be a security camera.  Reynauld had missed most of it, but he arrived just in time to see a black-masked burglar breathe steam on the camera's lens.  The quality of the recording was not good enough to tell whether it was a man or a woman before fog was all they could see.  And then a heart appeared where the condensation was wiped away with the tip of one finger.  Seconds later, the tv flickered to black, and that was it.

In the silence that followed one would have been able to hear a pin drop.  And that was saying something since the office was carpeted.

"When did this happen?" Reynauld finally asked when he realized nobody else was going to.

"We received the tape this morning," Mallory answered, and turned off the television with an annoyed flick of her wrist.  "This was recorded on Sunday evening."

"I thought the cemetery had a security firm doing surveillance, and we'll get notified as soon as something happens?" someone to Reynauld's right called out.

A muscle in Mallory's jaw twitched, but her tone did not betray her frustration.  "They disabled the security system," she informed them.

"Shit!" somebody else cursed, which earned them a glower from Mallory, but by then the room had burst into chaos; everybody was calling out ideas and talking one over the other.

"Rey."  Mallory's hand landed on his shoulder a moment later, and her voice lowered, despite the chance of being overheard being close to zero.  "The Chief wants a word."

Reynauld nodded at her and left the room, leaving her to bring back order to the meeting.  His boss was not the most patient of men, and there was no reason to antagonize him, especially since he very much did not want to draw attention to his tardiness.

The Chief's office was at the end of the second story corridor.  A golden plate was screwed to the door, but Reynauld did not even glance at it.  His knuckles had barely made contact with the wood when he was told to enter, and he stepped into Chief Vvulf's domain.

The room was just like he remembered it.  Most of it was taken up by a large desk, and the walls were lined with shelves that were slowly beginning to bend under their load.  At some point an effort had been made to make the office look more homely, but the plants had not lasted long.  The Chief had kept but one, and the fact that it was a cactus really spoke for itself.

He was in his middle years, with short grey hair and the figure of a powerful man who was slowly getting out of shape.  "What did she tell you?" the Chief began without so much as a word of greeting.  He was seated in a big leather armchair behind his desk.

Guessing that he must have meant Mallory, Reynauld answered, "The central cemetery was hit by a masked felon nicknamed the Graverobber."

The Chief nodded, then made a hand gesture for Reynauld to close the door and take a seat.   "This ain't for anybody's ears," he grunted.

"Sir?"

Vvulf laced his fingers together on his stomach, fixing his unblinking gaze on Reynauld.  "There's no point tiptoeing around it.  I don't shout it from the rooftops, but my family's history goes back a long way.  The mausoleum that was hit yesterday wasn't just anyone.  These attacks are have become a personal matter now.  We, the police, are being targeted, and the situation has gotten out of control."

Reynauld had not known that the Chief was related to any of the old nobility, but then perhaps the knowledge should not surprise him; one did not rise to the rank of Chief without some good connections.  There was very little Reynauld actually knew about the man who was his boss, despite having worked for him for years.  Vvulf was someone who valued his privacy and didn't get too friendly with his subordinates.

"So we take down the ones responsible," Reynauld deducted, still unsure why he was here. Certainly it was not so that his boss could make that little confession?

"You're a smart man, Maurouard," Vvulf pointed out, a hint of irritation in his voice.

"You don't think they're acting out of their own agenda," Reynauld deduced, remembering the video Mallory had shown them.  The Graverobber's actions had struck him as being... provocative, almost.  They certainly had wanted to be seen, maybe to send some kind of message.

"No.  I do not," the Chief confirmed with a pleased nod.  "Whether we like it or not, the old families are the foundation which this city is built upon."

Reynauld noticed he spoke as if he did not belong to one of them, despite his earlier admission.  

"And there are those who would benefit from weakening it, from sowing discord, uncertainty and fear.  From making us look weak and incompetent.  If the people do not feel safe," the Chief said and leaned forward on his elbows as if he was to share a great secret, "Whom will they turn to for protection?"

"So these attacks are not a coincidence," Reynauld summed up.  Everybody had presumed as much, but they still lacked solid proof.  "And you suspect one of the northern cartels?"

Vvulf was shaking his head before Reynauld had even finished speaking.  "Not just any one of them."   Reynauld wanted to ask if he really thought he could be behind all this, but the Chief continued.  "El Abuelo has plenty of reason to target us," Vvulf pointed out.  "We may not know what his final goal is, but men like him feed off chaos.  They always look for weaknesses, for a way to expand their power.  We need to stop him – ," the Chief broke off abruptly, and Reynauld imagined he could hear the ghost of an at all costs.

He did not comment.  El Abuelo was one of the, if not the most notorious of crime bosses.  Reynauld was still trying to come to terms with everything he had learned, when Vvulf said,

"I want you to be the Special Agent in Charge on this case."

"Me?"

"Do you see anyone else in this room?" Vvulf demanded to know.  "Yes, you."

"Why?" Reynauld blurted out, which, in hindsight, probably wasn't the smartest thing to say.  He was still reeling from all the information – a moment ago he had not even known there was a case; now he had been told he was to lead a major investigation that involved one of the most dangerous men in the North.  And was not the most experienced man the Chief had, and huge cases like this were usually given to the senior officers.

Vvulf's lips pursed in thought.  "You did some good work," he finally said, but even guff praise from the Chief was quite something.  "I like that you are efficient and discreet and I trust you to handle delicate matters without causing a scandal.  This is your chance, Maurouard.  Prove me I'm right, and who knows, this seat might one day belong to you," he added and laughed at his own joke, a rare sign he had a sense of humour, buried somewhere deep inside.

The corner of Reynauld's mouth tugged upwards.  "Thinking about retiring, Sir?"  It would be hard to imagine the PD without Vvulf there to lead them, he was such a huge personality.  A tough boss with high expectations, but a fair one.

"There's one of them Southern beaches that has my name on it," Vvulf said, but his eyes were already narrowing.  "You look like there's something on your mind.  Spit it out, what is it?"

"I was actually hoping to take some time off," Reynauld confessed.  He was tired from merely thinking about the upcoming work load.  He deserved a vacation, and he still had three weeks good from last year that he was going to lose soon – as his boss knew very well.

Vvulf leaned back, making his leather armchair creak.  "Tell you what," he decided.  "If time wasn't of the essence, I'd let you go right now.  I will let you keep your three weeks, and if we get El Abuelo, I'll top it off with a month of paid leave extra, so you can spend some time with your boy – family's everything, after all.  How does that sound?"

"Sounds like a deal, Sir."  Reynauld could barely believe the offer he'd been made; it was quite unheard of.  But he trusted his boss not to pull him over.  And if they got El Abuelo, Vvulf would be basking in the attention of the media.  He might even be hailed a city hero.

"Excellent," the Chief said, sounding pleased.  "You'll be happy to know we already have a lead."

That certainly was news.  "We do?" Reynauld asked, cocking his brow.

"The Graverobber is not operating on his or her own," Vvulf replied.  "There is no way they could disable the security system and rob the mausoleum in time before we were alerted of the shutdown.  They have an accomplice."  The Chief turned and got up, reaching to take a folder off the shelf behind him.  He dropped it on the table and flipped it towards Reynauld who opened it.

The first page was taken up by a close-up of a man's face.  For reasons unknown the photograph was black and white, but Reynauld did not need colour to recognize him.

"Dismas," he said, remembering the name because it was actually that of the penitent thief from the Verse of Light.  An alias then.

Reynauld wasn't sure if the rogue was ballsy, or merely an arsehole.

"Aye," Vvulf confirmed, his greying brows drawing together.  "One right bloody fucker.  He's guilty of more than some harmless misconduct too.  The man's an ex-bandit, and former member of the Wolves."

Reynauld flipped the first page.  There was a list of information they had managed to collect on the man.  The first line read:

Real name:  Valance Paixdecouer.

"Paixdecouer," Reynauld said slowly, thinking.  "Is the name given to orphans raised by the Order."

Vvulf nodded.  "I see I chose the right man for the job.  Pick your team, Maurouard, and get started straight away.  This has top priority from now on until I tell you otherwise. "

Reynauld closed the folder with a snap and picked it up, resting it against the crook of his elbow.  "What about the Montgomery case, Sir?"

"Just hand it over to someone else," Vvulf said.  "Mallory will handle it, if no one else will.  You can report to her, if I'm not here."

Reynauld nodded, "You said Dismas  ran with the Wolves?"  He had heard a lot about the gang, but it had fallen apart and its members had scattered when their leader had disappeared.  Apparently there had been some sort of falling out between who they only knew as the Wolf, and El Abuelo.

"The Wolf was El Abuelo's hireling," the Chief said after a brief pause.  "Therefore, if we find him," Vvulf said, tapping one fat finger against picture-Dismas' temple, "Maybe we can retrace his connection right back to the source."

"Do we know his whereabouts then?" Reynauld wanted to know.  Despite himself, he couldn't help but feel a spark of excitement.  The Wolf had disappeared a little bit over a decade ago – either laying low, or killed by El Abuelo himself.  Even if he was alive, he had had enough time to cover his tracks.  It was unlikely they would find him – unlikely, but not impossible.

"Unfortunately, we do not," Vvulf confirmed Reynauld's suspicion.  "Every time we were tipped off and the team's gotten close, he has slipped through our nets.  Man doesn't hang out in one place for very long.  The good thing is: We got somebody who was close to him."

"How do you know-"

Vvulf waved his hand in a dismissing gesture and Reynauld dropped that thread to ask a far more important question.

"Has he told us anything?"

"Not yet," the Chief said in a tone that made it crystal clear he would, sooner rather than later – even if he had to wring the answers out of the prisoner himself.  "But he will.  And when he does, I want you and your team to be ready.  This could be the biggest strike against organized crime in fifty years!"

"Yes, Sir!" Reynauld saluted the Chief with the folder and turned on his heel.  Guyot was the first one on his team.  They had an uncatchable criminal to capture.  Reynauld had always liked a challenge.

AN: You can also find the story here, on AO3!

[the-ghost-writers]

Warm Water Pt.2

SFW story about Dismas and Reynauld getting a bit closer. Perhaps too close.

I have so many other pieces I could’ve worked on but this damn AU is just too good.

If you’re looking at this, you know who’s at fault for this coming into existence. 

“They can bite me.” Dismas speaks in mumbles, everything he says muffled by the scarf over his mouth and the arm he holds against his face. His words refer to the heir, Reynauld asking what happens if they require the highwayman when he’s snuck off to the cave. Before, Dismas was all right with going on the constant quests, nearly taking one every week. Now it’s become every other week that he goes out on a mission as he spends his other week with Reynauld. In about three weeks,  the zitiron has proven to be by far the best stress relief in the land. Although sneaking in and out of the cove isn’t always a cakewalk, both from avoiding enemies and his fellow adventurers. Leaning into the fish man Dismas lets out a sigh. He feels the heat of the fire in front of him dry his clothes but at the same time, Reynauld’s cold body gets him wet again.

The aquatic knight is sprawled out on the land, letting himself be something Dismas to lean on. Reynauld runs his fingers through the short hair of the also short man. “You land dwellers have such peculiar features. I find them interesting.”

“Yeah well, your interest is gonna make my coat smell like fish for a whole week.” Sitting up he shucks off his outer lays, tossing the thing by the fire to dry and hopefully not set alight. When he leans back again, he finds hands suddenly feeling all over him. He resists the holds, twisting to try and look at the offender. “Oi, what’s the big idea?”

He pulled a bit close as a tail wraps around him keep him from flailing. He’s made to turn around and face the zitiron as Reynauld is still roaming over him in curiosity. “I never knew you could shed your skin so casually. You changed colors as well, from gray to white. I never knew this of humans!”

Dismas has given up struggling, settling for glaring instead. “What are you blabbering about?” He looks down at the silver tail that is still wrapping around him. The thing never seems as long as it really is until it’s wrapping around his legs, a sight Dismas is very much used to by now. Still, those wispy fins of his can be annoying. At least that’s what he tells himself. Looking back up at the sea knight he frowns. “It’s called clothes. You put the stuff on when ya need it, you take the stuff off when ya don’t.”

Reynauld nods, his hands slowing down as they feel along the red scarf along Dismas’ neck. “I see.”

He clearly does not fucking understand as he starts peeling off all that Dismas is wearing. The highwayman manages to grab the knight’s wrists after he gets wrestled out of his shirt. The two stop and Reynauld looks at him in confusion. “What in the hell do ya think you’re doin?”

The creature speaks softer. “I just wanted to see what you look like. I thought your coverings were a part of you.” He looks away, apparently realizing just how embarrassing his actions must be.

“No, I got that.” Dismas lets go to push on Reynauld’s tail, urging him to let his legs free. “I mean why ya gotta manhandle me to do it?” Reluctantly, the zitiron releases those legs to let Dismas stand. The legs on the land dweller are weird, two separate limbs that allow him to walk about. They even let him swim in water, of course, not nearly as well as a tail could. The knight is pulled out of his musing as Dismas drops his pants, having been getting undressed the entire time. Reynauld sits up completely infatuated by the man. On the other hand, Dismas raises his arms like it’s nothing special. “Ya see? This is me, naked in all my glory.” He can’t help the grin on his face as he starts feeling coy about how the sea creature is looking at him.

Reynauld urgently beckons him over, his tail slapping on the ground to hurry him along. He forces out a sigh and walks to the zitiron and is quickly pulled down into those roaming hands again. Heat rolls over Reynauld’s fingers as he caresses the pale skin before him, losing himself in the feel of it. “I never imagined a creature could be so soft. Why would you ever hide such a beautiful piece of art.”

A snort cuts through his compliments as Dismas raises an eyebrow. “Most say ima piece of work, not art.” Despite his guarded words, he leans into the zitiron. It feels good to be in the arms of someone who cares about you.

Even if they’re not human.

The peace is ruined as he rests his back on, what could roughly be considered, Reynauld’s chest. The mixture of iron and water leaves it ice cold and resulting in chills running down Dismas’ spine. “Did I hurt you?”

He calms himself at those words. He twists to try and look at the knight, the worry in his voice lingering as he asks again. The highwayman closes his eyes to shake his head. “I’m fine. It's just you’re fuckin cold.”

Coming to realize he didn’t hurt his human Reynauld hugs him tight. “And you’re warm.” Dismas eyes the fire, wondering if he can get the medieval mermaid to snuggle with that instead. Reynauld rests his head between the human’s shoulder, speaking softly as he breathes slow. “I like it.” Dismas sniffles. On second thought, this is fine.

Minutes pass with little happening. Dismas is split between liking the arms around him and hating the feeling of being so exposed. He fixes it by spinning around so their fronts are facing each other. He puts on a frown, something he’s finding harder to do as the seconds tick by. “Okay little mermaid, I think it’s time ya show me your face now. Only fair since ya practically stripped me down.”

“You got undressed on your own accord.”

The man squints, mild annoyance bubbling in his chest. “Just get naked already.”

He’s met with a head tilt as Reynauld chuckles. “But Dismas.” He raises his hand so it’s in both of their vision. “I’m not wearing anything.” The human looks between the gauntlet and the helmet before as he brings his own arms up. He tugs on Reynauld’s hand, fingers hooking the edge of the metal to try and pry it off. The knight laughs when he hears Dismas grumble how this is bullshit. The highwayman tries a new spot, reaching towards Reynauld’s neck and feeling underneath the chest piece. His eyes widen when he touches where the scaled skin fuses with the metal. Reynauld brings attention to himself by speak. “A zitiron has a metallic top half, I suppose you could refer to it as an exoskeleton even if it's not.”

He’s surprised when Dismas starts laughing. He rubs his face, eyes glancing over to the creature under him to assure him this is real. “This whole time I thought you were wearing something.”

“And I assumed you weren’t wearing anything.” His muscles tighten when Reynauld wraps his arms around the small of Dismas’ back, speaking in a purr. “I suppose we’ll have to get more acquainted with each other.” The knight is surprised when Dismas starts really squirming, clearly trying to get away as he attempts to push himself away. He opens his arms and the man practically tumbles to the ground, rushing to his feet and throwing on his clothes. “Did I do something wrong?”

Dismas’ only stops for half a second. In the next half, he’s furiously shaking his head. “No, no. Ya didn’t do nothin.” His pants are already back on and he’s hurrying to put on the belt. “It’s just…” He turns around while he shoves his arms into his coat, the thing half on as he wears a sorry expression. “I got problems, I can’t rush into this.”

The two look but neither are able to reach the other. Reynauld breaks the stare with a heavy sigh. He holds up Dismas’ scarf. When the man goes to grab it, it's pulled out of his reach. “Wait.” The way he bites his lip shows that he clearly doesn’t want to but Dismas doesn’t move. Reynauld sets the scarf down, reeling back to his pool and slipping under. The highwayman fidgets and tries to find comfort by feeling for his gun.

There’s a splash of water as Reynauld jumps back to the land. He grabs the red scarf and in his other hand is a necklace made of the same pearls that lights his cove and held together by silver bands. He holds the both out, waiting for the human to approach. He bows his head when he sees the man hesitate.

He brings it back up when he feels weight taken out of his hands. He looks up in surprise, the scarf still in his hand. By the time he finally raises his head fully Dismas is finishing up putting on the necklace. The human looks at the knight one last time and gives him a tight nod. “I’ll be back in a week.”

He leaves in a hurry, climbing over the ship wreckage faster than ever. Once he’s out of sight, Reynauld slips back into the water and holds his top half out to rest on the land. He thumbs the cloth in his hand. Gently, the zitiron lifts it over his head and fits the scarf around his neck.

[bi-naesala]

Blood is the currency of the soul

Dismas goes to find an old friend with a specific request.

(Also on AO3)

(Spicy content up ahed!)

The way Dismas’ steps echo through the empty church hall will never stop being creepy, no matter for how many years he’s heard them. That’s something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to.

It’s not that he’s not used to creepy things, not when his job is to hunt down and kill all the monsters that fester the land, it’s just that this is supposed to be a place of worship and light but now it’s cold, dead and abandoned.

It’s such a weird place to be used as a house, especially if you are a vampire.

 “Hey.”

He cringes at the sound of his coarse voice; it’s certainly not something that should be heard in a church.

That simple greeting serves to warn the creature living here of his presence, creature that’s hiding behind the altar like he always does.

The first thing he sees are a couple of red eyes peeking from the stone surface, but they’re soon joined by a familiar head and a familiar body.

“Good evening, Dismas,” the creature says. He looks happy to see him, like he always does.

He begins to slowly walk towards him, until they meet halfway through their steps. The creature is imposing, but Dismas knows well that he poses no actual threat, especially to him.

“Good evening,” Dismas echoes him. When the creature steps into his personal space, he doesn’t move away not even an inch, and when he cradles his face in his hands - movements so tender for such a deadly monster - he can’t help but to smile.

“I missed you,” the creature says then, so earnest. Dismas rolls his eyes, though the smile doesn’t disappear from his face.

“You always miss me, Reynauld,” he replies, amused, though despite everything deep down he’s glad about this. It’s nice feeling wanted by someone, even if that someone is a vampire, but well, Rey is a special case.

Dismas still remembers their first meeting quite well, despite having been more than a couple of decades ago already. He was but a novice in the monster hunting business, maybe that’s why he let him live.

Reynauld looked so pitiful as he approached him - and what kind of vampire would voluntarily approach a hunter? - begging to be killed, that Dismas just… He didn’t have the heart to do it.

No matter how much he begged him, Dismas was paralyzed. He couldn’t bring himself to harm him! It was something so weird and unexpected that for a moment he feared that it was all a trick, a way to make him lower his guard, but no: Reynauld was being honest.

 That day, he left him where he found him, right there, in that wretched church.

The next day, however, he came back, and the day after again. The creature was still there, barely reacting to his presence if not to ask him to put an end to his life - or unlife, Dismas guesses - but the young hunter still couldn’t bring himself to do it; it should’ve been easy, right? The easiest kill in Dismas’ life, and yet he couldn’t help but to pity this creature who so much wanted to die. Hell, he never even attacked him! He never tried to take his blood despite the fact that he was clearly starving.

Eventually, he did something he knew he should’ve never done, something that goes against everything that had been taught to him: he got closer to the creature, removed one of his gloves and he sliced his wrist.

As soon as the smell of dripping blood hit the creature’s nostril, he recoiled like he’d been hit, crawling away from Dismas and muttering something that he wasn’t able to catch amidst as series of “no, no, no, no”.

“I’m giving it to you,” Dismas said then. Those were his first words towards the creature. “Take what you need.”

The creature made himself smaller on the ground.

“I can’t… No… Light please…” He began to crawl towards Dismas. “… NO!”

Before Dismas could react, the vampire lounged at him, making both of them fall on the cold ground. Dismas tried to move but all he could feel is extreme pain, like someone was sucking the life right out of him.

Then everything went black.

 When Dismas came to, first of all he was surprised by still being alive, secondly, he couldn’t believe that he fell for such an obvious trap.

Where was he even… Oh, he was still here.

Just what was exactly that creature’s plan?

 He heard the sound of sniffles coming from behind the altar. It must’ve been him.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he got up, trying his best to ignore the feeling of nausea that almost made him throw up. This time he didn’t move unarmed, dirk already in hand in case the beast tried some funny shit.

He walked with caution, measuring each step, circling the altar, until he got a view of the creature hiding under it. He was curled up around himself - almost like a baby - and there were crimson streaks across his visage.

Was the beast… crying?

 “Hey.”

Immediately the creature’s gaze snapped up, looking at Dismas with incredulous gaze.

“You!” he exclaimed. “You’re alive!”

Weird: even though he was clearly surprised, he hadn’t assumed any defensive position at the reveal. Actually, he even looked relieved.

“I am.”

Immediately the creature pathetically groveled at his feet, blabbering so fast that all Dismas could understand was “forgive me”. Alright, he had gotten enough of this story; he crouched down, putting himself at the same level of the beast, and put his hands on his shoulders, stopping him.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I forgive you,” he begun. “But what exactly are you?”

“What do you mean?” the creature asked, confused.

“I mean, what happened to you? Why do you act so weird?” Dismas replied. “What kind of vampire begs to be killed, then eats, then asks for forgiveness?”

The vampire didn’t reply immediately; he still looked confused. Maybe, Dismas realized, he didn’t know it himself; it’s rare, but he’d heard tales of certain victims that don’t end up quite dead as the vampire feeding upon them thought. A mistake in carelessness.

In these situations, there’s only one way to act: grant mercy to the newborn creature and kill it before it can become something dangerous. Still, with what heart could he do that?

 He tried his best to appear non-threatening, which might’ve been a bit hard considering that he was still holding his dirk in hand, but whatever, he was never good at this stuff.

“Listen, how about you and I have a chat,” he begins, “You seem in trouble and I might be able to help you.”

He could see the conflict in the creature’s eyes; he was clearly having a hard time deciding what to do. Well, Dismas didn’t blame him: if their positions were switched, he would’ve had a hard time too for sure.

Eventually, however, he weakly nodded.

“If you’re offering, then I suppose I can accept it…”

  “Dismas?”

He shakes his head, coming back to the present and - most importantly - to the amused Reynauld in front of him. He looks so different from the first time they met; he looks definitely better: with time he managed to accept his new condition as a vampire, also thanks to Dismas’ help. Dismas has no idea how he manages to balance the nature of his new existence - or un-existence he guesses - and his religious beliefs, but hey, whatever works for him.

“What?”

“You were spacing out,” Reynauld replies, tilting his head. “What were you thinking about?”

“Will you laugh if I say I was thinking about you?”

Reynauld’s smile grows larger at those words; Dismas finds it beautiful. When he closes his arms around his waist, pulling him closer, he rests his hands on his chest in order to keep himself uptight.

“No, but I can say that I’m flattered.”

They kiss, softly, Dismas humming against Reynauld’s lips a reply that is soon forgotten.

 Oh, how long it took Reynauld to accept his touch: at first he was too afraid for them to stand close to each other, afraid that the mere contact would be enough for his worse instincts - the one he always tries his best to keep in check - to resurface and take control of him, like when Dismas sliced his wrist to feed him.

With time and experience, however, he managed to keep himself in check, and of the fear that was holding him back there is no trace now.

 He can’t help but to roll his eyes when Reynauld pulls him up - an easy feat for him - and takes him to a familiar place, though the gesture is half-hearted at best.

“What would your god say if he saw us defile his church like this?” he teases as Reynauld lowers him onto the altar. Despite still wearing his clothes, Dismas can’t help but to shiver at the cold.

“’My God’, as you call him, has sent you to me, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t honor you the way you deserve,” Reynauld replies, before cutting off any possible reply from Dismas with another kiss.

Yes, in the years they’ve known each other, Reynauld has convinced himself that Dismas is some sort of godsend or some bullshit like that. He’s still unsure of how he feels about it, but he’s figured that, for Reynauld’s sake, he’ll put up with it.

This doesn’t mean that he can’t tease him about it, however. As Reynauld had learned in the years they’ve known each other, nothing is sacred to him, not even religion. It’s a wonder how patient he is with him in this regard; Dismas has always wanted to ask him about it, but each time he decides to do it, he stops himself before any word can leave his mouth. Things have always been like this between the two of them: they talk about their past, but never enough not to sound vague. To be quite honest, it’s one of the things Dismas appreciates more about this relationship: the ability to mind your own business; they both understand that the past is a tricky thing, so why suffer because of it when they can just focus on the present, on each other?

 Dismas’ train of thoughts is forcibly interrupted when Reynauld kisses him; Dismas chuckles, keeping him close with his arms around his shoulders, and returns the gesture in kind, parting his lips to sneak his tongue between Reynauld’s, caressing his fangs with it. He’s tempting fate like this, he knows it, but what’s life without risk? Boring, that’s what it is.

He’s rewarded by an animalistic growl from Reynauld, a sound he makes only when the most bestial part of him takes control, and he’s pushed with his back against the altar by the same Reynauld who’s now pressing his body against his, leaving him with no way to move. It’s like Dismas is trapped, and he loves it.

This aggression doesn’t last long, however, and soon they’re back to exchange soft kisses and caresses. Dismas has always liked it when Reynauld goes hard and fast, but lately he’s finding himself enjoying this side of him too; maybe he’s mellowing out with age.

 He can’t help but to cringe at that thought. Yes, he’s getting old, while Reynauld…

Dismas has never been one to care about looks. It just never was his priority.

Now, however, he can’t help but to be a little self-conscious about his aging body, about the wrinkles that are starting to appear, at the gray that has begun to pepper his hair, at the loss of muscle mass.

Reynauld is always quick to shut down his insecurities whenever they come up, even when Dismas doesn’t voice them - by now they know each other pretty well, enough to know what they’re thinking.

He always takes his face between his hands, caressing his cheekbones with his thumbs, kissing each and every wrinkle, caressing his graying hair.

“You’re as beautiful as the day we met,” he always says, and what can Dismas do, if not to believe him?

 Still, he likes it less and less to be naked in front of him. He doesn’t feel adequate, that’s all: Reynauld’s beautiful, powerful, and he’s not so thin that he might snap like a twig if someone blows his way. How is he supposed to compare?

Things are going to get worse and worse as he gets older, he knows this. On one hand, it’s reassuring to know that Reynauld would never dream to abandon him just because he doesn’t look as young as he once did, but on the other…

 They have talked about it once, during a moment of weakness on Reynauld’s part: the pain of knowing that eventually he’ll lose Dismas was too much to bear, and he asked him to allow him to turn him. He begged even, on his knees, something that took Dismas so much by surprise that he couldn’t find the words to say.

After that episode, they never spoke about it again, but as of late Dismas has been wondering, wondering a lot. Most importantly, he’s reached a conclusion, which brings him to the main reason why he’s come here in the first place.

“Reynauld,” he calls him in fact, taking his face between his hands. “I want you to turn me.”

He hears the way Reynauld’s breath hitches at those words, how it quivers into something resembling a whine. How much as he thought about this?

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice trembling, despite the fact that he looks eager to do it, he still waits, he still wants to make sure. Dismas loves him so much, though his consideration this time is pretty useless. He nods.

“I think I’ve waited too much…” he mutters then. It was supposed to be a joke, but of course Reynauld takes it seriously.

“We waited until you were ready,” he replies in fact, going back to mouth at his neck. “If you’re worried about your appearance, you should know that--”

“That I’m beautiful as the day we met, I know, you always tell me,” Dismas interrupts him, unable to hold back a cheeky smile that Reynauld immediately kisses away.

 Dismas thought that he would’ve gone straight for the turning, but he doesn’t. Actually, Rey’s acting like this short conversation never happened, beginning to tear Dismas’ coat open and then his shirt, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers. It makes Dismas almost forget about it too.

“R-Reynauld!” he manages to mutter however, once Reynauld has unbuttoned his shirt and is not getting comfortable with his head between Dismas’ legs. He raises his gaze to look at the hunter; his eyes are ravenous, but not in the dangerous way, it makes Dismas shiver.

“What?” he asks then. Did he truly forget?

“Didn’t we say…” Dismas begins, but thankfully Reynauld understands immediately what the deal is; so he hasn’t actually forgotten. Good.

“Let me have you as you one last time.”

… As you? What…

“Rey, I’m not going to turn into a monster or something. I mean, you haven’t, so why should I?” Dismas points out. Is there something about the turning process he’s not privy to? Something Reynauld hasn’t told him?

“I know, I know, but…” the other replies, succeeding immediately into calming Dismas down - he doesn’t have to worry about too unpleasant side effects at least - but then he continues. “Let me just have this, please?”

Oh well, if he puts it that way…

“Fine,” he says, but when Reynauld still doesn’t move, he adds: “Are you going to ravage me like the big boy that you are, or are you just going to stand there all night?”

At those words, Reynauld rolls his eyes, though there’s a fond smile on his face. Dismas is about to say something else, but he’s quickly shut down by a kiss.

  When Reynauld lowers himself between Dismas’ legs again, the other also sighs for the relief; he’s been building up more and more tension without any way to release it, but now hopefully Rey will put a remedy to that.

He shivers at the light bites Reynauld presses into his thighs; in all the times they’ve known each other, Rey has always tried to keep himself in check when it comes to biting, aware that if he lets go even just one bit, it might lead to some unpleasant situations. This time, however, there’s none of his usual hesitation in the way he covers his skin in red marks.

A moan leaves Dismas’ lips when, once he’s satisfied with his work, Reynauld immediately takes him in his mouth, without any kind of warning. He bucks his hips up, surprised, but Reynauld keeps him still as he begins to suck him off with a speed and vigor that Dismas is now mad that he’s always withheld from him.

Still, he’s ever so careful in the way he moves his mouth, mindful not to brush his tusks against the sensitive skin; not that Dismas wouldn’t like it but, judging by the time in which he came immediately after he had accidentally grazed against his cock, he would like it too much, and Reynauld wants this to last.

 Apparently, however, that doesn’t go along with Dismas’ plan, who begins to grind his hips against him, trying to get more.

“Reynauld… Rey, c’mon,” he moans, impatient as ever. Were Reynauld free to move as he pleases, he would’ve shaken his head.

In the end, if he has to be honest with himself, he doesn’t really mind it, quite the opposite actually. He knows he just gives more voice to the most egocentric part of himself, something that he shouldn’t do, but hearing, feeling, how much Dismas wants him is something that he’s come to need the more time they’ve spent together. The thought of someone needing him, still wanting him despite his nature, has kept him from making very displeasing thoughts, and helped him come to terms with the fact that, even if his life has been irredeemably changed, this doesn’t mean that he can’t try to make the most of it, even if he keeps staying hidden from everything and everyone, except Dismas.

 That’s why, once Dismas begins to beg, he gives in.

He gets up, already taking care of his pants, lowering them enough to pull his cock free, giving it just a few tugs.

Oh, he can’t wait to be inside Dismas. What? He’s not the only one with an extinguishable desire, even though Reynauld has a habit to hide it; after all, Dismas acts enough for the two of them already, there’s no need for him to give his contribution too.

“Oil… Do you have oil?” he asks before he can do anything though. It makes Dismas rolls his eyes - he’s not made of glass for fuck’s sake - but he guesses he appreciates his care.

“Pocket…” he mutters, reaching for the jacket that Reynauld has left on the altar. After fumbling a bit, he manages to procure himself a small vial of oil, and to offer it to Reynauld. “Here.”

Reynauld takes it, opening and beginning to smear some on his fingers, only for Dismas to stop him.

“There’s no need for that…” he says, making a meaningful pause as the meaning of what he said sinks in. Oh…

“You scoundrel…” Reynauld mutters, though there’s no heat in his voice. He’s smirking, actually. “Did you want me that much?”

“Of course, you old fool,” Dismas replies through gritted teeth. He never liked having to openly admit this kind of stuff, which makes extorting the truth out of him a huge pastime of Reynauld, though he usually has to work harder than this to obtain some resorts; he must be very desperate.

Oh well, it is what it is. There’s something more important to think about, now.

 As he pushes his oiled cock against Dismas’ rim, Reynauld can’t help the shaky moans that leaves his lips, not that Dismas is quiet, quite the contrary actually. Yes, they make quite a pair, the two of them, with how loud they are. Good thing they’re in an isolated place, right?

His voice trembles once Reynauld bottoms out, and he tells him to get a move on.

“We don’t have all day!” he says, which, as a matter of fact…

“We do, technically,” Reynauld retorts, although he gently begins to rock his hips back and forth, finding it hard to remain still, not when Dismas is so warm and inviting. He always talks big game about patience and all that bullshit, but then he’s the first one who can’t resist the temptation of a warm body beside his; not that Dismas is complaining of course. Whatever floats his boat.

Frankly, as long as he doesn’t stop moving, he doesn’t care.

 Gods damn it, he really isn’t young anymore, not with the shitty stamina he has nowadays, because he already feels close to coming. Thankfully for him, Reynauld isn’t that far off himself, so at least he doesn’t have to be too embarrassed about it, but that’s just because Reynauld gets overwhelmed easily during sex no matter how many times they’ve done it.

“Fuck…” he mutters, gritting his teeth.

“Language,” Reynauld reprimands him, but Dismas doesn’t let him utter another word as he grabs him by the hair and draws him closer for a kiss, clashing their mouth together. For such a big bad vampire, he sure can’t handle a few swear words here and here.

At least he seems to get the message and doesn’t stop pounding into him. Dismas’ back is beginning to hurt, but he sucks it up, not wanting to interrupt the moment. Besides, the pleasure he’s feeling is far greater than the pain.

He has no problems digging his nails in Reynauld’s back, leaving red marks, keeping him as close as he can. It makes Reynauld shiver, but he keeps going. Thanks to his vampiric abilities, besides, those wounds heal quite fast, though Reynauld would lie if he said that he wouldn’t mind if he could be able to wear them for longer, just like Dismas wears his. Would Dismas feel the same way he does if he could see the visible signs of what he’s done on Reynauld’s skin? He can’t help but to wonder, though now he should be focusing on something else, shouldn’t he?

 Dismas’ voice echoes through the empty church, filling it with his moans as he comes. It would probably be considered a sacrilegious act if only someone else was there to witness it; hell, Reynauld might’ve thought so at first, but after years of being together he’s gotten more tolerant to it, still without losing his faith, even if for the people who share it he’d be considered a monster. And yet, Dismas can’t help but to think, Reynauld is way more human than some of the people he’s met throughout his life.

“Gods above, I love you so fucking much,” he can’t help but to mutter before he can’t stop himself. He’s usually not one for these kinds of words: he’s more of a man of action, not words. Even when sometimes he says them, it’s mostly in response to something that Reynauld tells him first; sometimes he’s wanted to be the one pronouncing them first, but there’s always something that blocks him, a sense of shame that he’s never entirely gotten rid of, not towards his feelings per se, let’s be clear, but about having to voice them.

There’s nothing of that hesitation this time. He’s saying it with a sincerity that he hasn’t managed to reach since forever. All because of this man in front of him, a man that has become the most important part of his life, the man he can’t live without.

He can’t help but to smile, seeing Reynauld being thrown off his rhythm by that quiet admission, but he soon recovers.

“Me too, Dismas,” he says then, pressing his forehead against Dismas. “I love you too. Dismas… I love you so much.”

He comes. It makes Dismas squirm as he gets filled up, but it’s not unpleasant, not at all. He doesn’t have the time to say anything else that Reynauld’s back to kiss him with a softness that it almost hurts; it used to hurt once, when Dismas was still young and angry at the whole world, but not anymore.

 Still, there’s something else Dismas wants, and he wants it now, during this moment.

“Rey, c’mon… I’ve given you what you wanted. Now it’s my turn,” he urges him, eagerly baring his neck to him. This is something that goes against every lesson he’s been imparted in his youth, but the tiny scars that Reynauld’s fangs have left time and time again demonstrate that there isn’t really a risk behind it, not with Rey at least.

However, Reynauld still hesitates. “Are you sure? You won’t be able to go back to how things once where if you do it.”

“I know.” Dismas rolls his eyes. “Just do it already.”

Reynauld kisses him, just a soft peck on his lips, then he bares his fangs. This isn’t the first time this happens, but never with such intent. It sends a shiver down Dismas’ spine.

 He leans closer, always closer.

Dismas’ breath begins to itch.

He wonders if he’s making the right choice. What if he regrets it?

Ah, to hell with that. He wants to be happy, and he knows that Reynauld makes him happy. Besides, who would keep him company if he died?

 Then Reynauld bites him.

The sharp pain is familiar - it always happens during the biting - but soon Dismas is overwhelmed by a new sensation, something he’s never felt.

He wants to scream his pain out, but his throat burns, just as the rest of his body, and not a sound manages to get out.

It feels like he’s being burned alive. Did someone accidentally start a fire?

He can barely see Reynauld with how clouded his vision is, and he can barely hear him call his name.

 It burns and burns and burns and burs…

Until Dismas dies.

  It’s like being in a dream.

Dismas feels suspended into a sort of limbo.

He can’t see anything but he feels.

His body is changing, and he can’t stop it.

It’s getting colder and colder, almost soothing after the sensation of being burned alive he felt a mere moments ago, or is it more than just seconds? He has no way to precisely tell how much time has passed. For all he knows, it might’ve been centuries.

 Then, a pull, towards something that Dismas doesn’t know.

Maybe it’s…

 He opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is the church’s stained glass, or at least what’s left of it.

How long…

 Mmh, he’s on the ground; he can feel the cold stone pavement freezing his butt off. When he tries to move, however, he finds himself unable to. At first he fears he’s been tied up, but he soon realizes that the reason is far different from that: he’s being kept in Reynauld’s arms, which are squeezing him so hard that he feels like he’s going to break him.

As soon as he notices that Dismas is awake, Reynauld softens his hold on him. When he turns towards him, he’s smiling, though Dismas can see the faint red marks on his cheeks that indicate that he has cried while he was asleep. Did he think that he had killed him as he cradled his body? Did he think he made a mistake?

“You’re awake…” is all he’s able to say, and Dismas nods. He reaches out for him and rests his hand against his cheek. For once, he doesn’t feel cold.

Actually, now that he pays attention to it, his hands, and therefore his skin, are visibly paler than how they used to be. Does that mean that…

“We made it?” he asks, half-incredulous. Did it really work then? He can’t lie, he’s had his doubts right at the end, but not about the thing as a whole: it’s just that it hurt so much that Dismas thought it hadn’t worked, but apparently it’s part of the experience. “You could’ve warned me about the excruciating pain,” he points out then, without any real bite in his words.

Reynauld’s smile becomes more sheepish as he replies. “To my defends, I don’t remember much of how it felt when I turned…” He rests his head over Dismas’ shoulder and he’s back again to squeeze the life out of him, but hell, he doesn’t mind at all.

 A new beginning. New chances. Reynauld.

He can’t wait to get started.

[the-ghost-writers]

The Old Road Pt.2

A SFW of Dismas and Reynauld setting the path for others to follow while the two find they’re beginning to enjoy working with their unlikely companion.

The story is for @hotmilky and follows (roughly) their ideas.

The story will be given in chapters of various lengths.

All characters are from Darkest Dungeon and belong to Red Hook Studios.

“Hey, tin can.” Despite the words, Dismas speaks without joy. His tone is deadly serious as he walks behind the crusader taking point. “Remember what I said about there being no monsters of the dark? Yeah, I take that back.” He runs his finger along the trigger of his flintlock. His eyes are always scanning the dark corners of the ruins, looking for the stark white of bone to betray a skeleton’s hiding. While he doesn’t find an enemy, he still finds danger. Flipping his dagger around, he grabs at the crusader’s shoulder. “Hold up, there’s a trap.” He steps in front of the knight, kneeling as he looks over the holes in the ground.

Reynauld turns around to look at the others. Right before their journey had begun the caretaker reined in the stagecoach with two others enlisted for the task. Like himself, a vestal was sent by the church to help against the acclaimed dark forces. She, Junia, was smaller than him. While he was trained to fight she was trained to heal, leaving her spending her time pouring over the holy verses instead of getting herself stronger. Despite this she was clearly stronger than the average citizen, toting around a massive chest piece and mace. If his memory serves him, she hasn’t smiled once since she’s arrived.

Their fourth companion is a woman as well, but that is where their similarities end. Paracelsus is a woman of science, an achievement she was disappointed didn’t impress. Every inch of her skin is covered in dense layers of cloth, even her face hidden by a plague doctor mask to suit her title. She tends to speak little and always has a hand on her satchel, clearly something of worth in it.

“Ya blockin the light.”

Reynauld looks over his shoulder to find Dismas still hunched over the trap. Stepping aside he moves his shadow off the man so he can work. Looking back up to the others the crusader is filled with the sudden urge to speak. “These things are something we did not know were real. For some time the church has known of those who pursue the secrets of the occult, but this is something else.” He looks to Junia to see her nod in support. “These skeletons and cultist are something bigger, I just know it. But no matter their plans we can not let them be. We must rid this world of their filth and we will. Stand tall and may the Light be with you.”

The vestal repeats that last phrase and even carries herself higher. But with the plague doctor not reacting and the highwayman behind him snorting it becomes evident they did not care for his speech. There’s a terrible screech of stone against iron as the trap activates. Dismas stands up with a smirk, hidden but still present. “Nice pep talk, but maybe we oughta get something across first.” Stepping up to Reynauld’s side he shoves his left hand into his coat. “We neva traded names. I’m Dismas.” His right hand sticks out to hang in the air void of the dagger typically in it.

The knight shifts his sword to his left and shakes the hand. “Reynauld.” He looks behind Dismas to check out the hallway they’ve yet to explore. When he’s sure that it’s clear, he turns to address the entirety of the party. “We should press on. These creatures seem to grow in numbers and strength when they’re under the shroud of darkness, we can not afford to linger and let our light dwindle.”

Laughter is an odd sound considering their setting yet Reynauld has been hearing much of it from their highwayman. Dismas nudges the knight as he starts walking again. “Coulda just said ta get goin.”

Reynauld walks past him to retake the lead, this time bearing the torch so he can carve a path through the black. The four hold their breath as they reach the end of the hall and meet a door again. Reynauld slowly opens it, and relief comes when the room is empty of people, instead they only thing in the chamber is a large sarcophagus. The party enters the room, all of them taking a moment to rest despite their crusader’s words to move on. None would rush to face such horrors of this place.

Dismas makes his way to the sarcophagus and takes a shovel from his pack to start prying off the lid. He gets it only a few inches away before the shovel is yanked out of his grip from behind. He looks to see Reynauld behind him, the shovel held high and away in his grip. The knight sure sounds peeved as he fails to hide his anger. “Do not disgrace the dead with your thievery.”

The highwayman rolls his eyes, now shoving his shoulder against the partially opened sarcophagus. “I ain’t a thief.”  When the lid is halfway open, he stops pushing, putting his left hand in his pocket as he grabs his dagger. “And as fa disgracing the dead, I got over that tha moment one swung a fuckin sword as me.” He flings his blade out to catch the knight by surprise. Stepping back Reynauld raises his arms in instinctive defense. When he puts them down, he catches the weird look Dismas gives him. THe highwayman wasn’t going for him, his weapon instead dug deep into the head of the skeleton in the sarcophagus. With a twist of his wrist and the blade following after, the skull cracks into two pieces. Pulling back his blade he wipes it on his pants, something more out of habit than necessity as a skeleton has no blood to wipe off. He never takes his eyes off the knight, letting it be clear on his face he doesn’t appreciate the holy man’s lack of trust. “I don’t wanna be caught off guard by this thing jumpin out at us.” He lowers his voice while the malice in it grows. “And don’t ya go about pointing your holy finger at me claiming I'm a thief. You’re in no position to talk, sticky fingers.” Pushing off the sarcophagus he walks over to the plague doctor to leave Reynauld to his own thoughts.

The two don’t share a word for the rest of their journey. It’s near impressive how they both stay silent in the midst of their battles, even if it’s only with two more groups of skeletons. In their travels back to Hamlet the sound of foot falls and restless scribbling is the only real sound. Reynauld stops, allowing the others to walk past him until he’s beside Paracelsus as writes down her findings. Before he speaks Reynauld looks into the doctor’s journal, the thing a mess of smudged drawings and her rushed handwriting. “You are a scholar?”

She doesn’t respond at first as she wants to write down her thoughts before she loses it. She forced to stop when she reaches the end of her journal, something she apparently didn’t expect to happen. “Should’ve brought an extra…” The beak of the mask dips before suddenly flying up as she looks at the crusader. “Yes?”

Reynauld looks at her, trying hard to look past the goggles on that mask. When it ends in failure, he merely repeats himself, although he already has his answer question. “You are a scholar.”

“Yes.” She nods, the action near comical because of that beak. When the knight doesn’t say anything, she carries on. “I studied the human body and the various sicknesses that affect it.”

“I assume you are certified?” Seeing as how she gave him something to stop his wounds from bleeding, he most certainly hope she is.

“I should be but I was removed from the academy for unlawful research.” Reynauld rolls his arm as the bandages wrapped around it no longer gives him comfort. Before he can speak Paracelsus cuts him off with a raised hand. “But alongside human anatomy, I also ventured into human behavior. And the reason you’re talking to me is that I'm furthest from the front where Dismas is and you’re avoiding interaction with him. You would speak to Junia but she would bring up the highwayman’s behavior and you’re trying to prevent any mention of him because you are aware that you’re in the wrong with your accusations against him, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.” She lowers her hand once she finishes up. Even with her mask on, he can tell she holds no emotion on her face.

“Are you not about to tell me to go and absolve for my sins?”

He can practically feel her eyes roll. “No. Your actions are your own and my words won’t sway what you do. But if anything do not pray to your god to forgive you but right the wrongs you’ve done to your fellow man.” Her voice sounds tired, the most emotion she’s used all day. The knight’s armor gives away that he’s looking up at Dismas in the front. “But,” The plague doctor grabs his attention again, the feeling one way as she’s opened her journal again. “Seeing as you’ve listened to me without disagreement, you’ve known that this entire time.” And just like that, she’s back to pouring over her notes and ignoring the crusader as they keep marching.

With a clear end to the conversation, Reynauld speeds up to go back to the front. He’s stopped by a mace gently tapping his chest piece. Junia turns her head to him, nodding slowly as she speaks. “While the doctor is right, I would still suggest praying for absolution. It can never hurt.”

She let him go and like Paracelsus, she reads her own book. Although this one full of scriptures instead of sketches. Reynauld comes back to the front walks alongside Dismas. “I apologize for what I said before, I jumped to conclusions.”

“Stuff it.” He doesn’t even look at the other man, just keeps walking with his left hand in his coat pocket. “Sorry don’t mean much, not really. Ya said very clearly what ya think of me, don’t go around thinkin I’m forgettin that.”

The crusader closes his eyes, taking deep breaths to calm himself. There’s no point in making this whole thing worse. “What if I pay for a round of wine for you?”

THe highwayman doesn’t say anything on the matter as he keeps walking. Reynauld follows his eyes and sees that Hamlet is quickly approaching. Dismas raises his right hand to start counting off. “First; rum, not wine. Second; two rounds. Third; get ya weapon out a my face.” His armor clinks together as the knight leans away in mild confusion. The smaller man finally looks at him and jerks his head the sword resting on the knight’s shoulder. “Ya got your weapon between us. I find it real hard to like a man who can’t trust me.”

Despite his better judgment, he goes on the defensive. “You say this but you’ve been holding your flintlock this entire time.” Dismas stays quiet for a second.

He stops at the entrance of the town, his eyes watching as the other two of their party goes off to rest. When they’re alone, those eyes coming back to land on him. Suddenly, that helmet of his seems all too small. Dismas makes his actions clear as he takes his left hand out of his pocket, lifting a coin between them. He returns it to his pocket and uses his right to pull his coat back, revealing his pistol hanging from his hip. He lets the coat fall back into place and waits on the knight to try and defend himself.

Reynauld shifts the sword to the other shoulder and raises his now free hand. “Three rounds.”