a dog in your heart (skinner fanfic)
| Dennis Skinner/Original Male Character | NC-17 | Transmasc MC |
Summary: Henry is a young transgender actor. He's kind, insecure, hungry for life, and full of contradictions. He shares a house with two friends, nurtures his passion for art, magic, and the unspoken longing to be seen, touched and loved. Dennis is the new roommate. Mysterious, gentle, captivating. And he's looking for a new hunting ground. A relationship quickly forms between them. It's sensual, visceral, unsettling. But what Henry doesn’t know is that Dennis carries a primal hunger within him, stitched together with needle and skin, and a silent devotion to the body and the art of transformation.
And when passion begins to blur into terror, the nightmare takes shape.
The diner smelled of old coffee and congealed grease. The stuffing in the chairs was poking out at the edges, and the pale light filtering through the clouds reflected on the counter like a crooked smile. It wasn’t even noon yet, but both the day and the hushed murmur of the few patrons already felt tired.
Dennis sat at the back of the room, next to the dusty window. The day’s newspaper was spread open in front of him, between a plate of scrambled eggs and a coffee too watery to truly deserve the name. He wore an eggplant-colored flannel shirt, the top button undone, his leather jacket tossed beside him on the bench. The bag he always carried lay under the table, wedged tightly between his feet.
He watched the people go by outside the window, eyes half-closed behind his glasses, as if judging the quality of a worn-out tape. A woman doing her makeup as she walked. A man pushing a shopping cart overflowing with junk. A trio of teenagers perched on some entrance steps, all far too young to be smoking. He liked how the city flowed, unaware, beneath his gaze. He knew how to make himself invisible, anonymous.
Every city had a scent that set it apart: Los Angeles reeked of hot concrete, scorched buildings, and dreams left to rot under the sun. He had crossed too many States to get there, and each mile had stripped a piece from him, but here, at this precise point on his mental atlas, something seemed to promise a fresh start. All that anger, those lives lived on the edge... he felt like a child about to plunge into a ball pit.
He lazily flipped through the newspaper, skipping the news, the obituaries, and the ads, until something in the classifieds caught his eye.
Cozy room for rental in Boyle Heights. Male tenant wanted.
Quiet, multi-ethnic household, gay and trans friendly. Smokers and pets allowed.
Available immediately. Price negotiable.
The number was printed in bold at the bottom of the column. Simple, no frills, like a direct invitation. Dennis thoughtfully ran his fingertip over it.
Boyle Heights. He only knew the neighborhood by name, but it was enough to know it was central, diverse... and poor enough to promise quiet. It seemed like the perfect place for him: a place to watch from, before striking.
He fished a coin from his wallet, rolled it between his fingers, then stood up, leaving a generous tip. The bag went on his shoulder, the newspaper held over his head to shield him from the rain.
A payphone waited just across from the diner, next to a battered mailbox.
Dennis dialed the number and waited. One ring... two rings... the third seemed longer than the others, as if it hesitated to disturb whoever was on the other end. On the fourth, finally, someone picked up, a groggy male voice.
Dennis didn’t reply right away. He always liked to leave a moment of silence, to study how the other person would fill the gap. He had learned many things in other people’s held breaths.
“Hello?” the voice repeated, a fine line between confusion and a hint of irritation.
“Hi.” Dennis’s voice, in contrast, was calm, controlled, that soft, neutral tone he adopted when he didn’t want to scare anyone… when he wanted people to think he might be polite and trustworthy. “I’m calling about the ad in the newspaper. Says you’ve got a room for rent?”
A brief pause. The other man’s voice perked up: “Oh, yeah, right. It’s still available. Do you... do you want to know anything about it?”
Dennis shifted his weight from one leg to the other, fingers tightly gripping the handle of his bag.
“My name is Dennis. Dennis Skinner,” he introduced himself. “I just got into town, looking for a room at a good price. Boyle Heights seems like a good spot for my work.”
Something changed in the other guy’s voice, something that sounded like a smile. “Cool,” he replied. “I’m Henry. I live here with two roommates, but they’re not home today. If you’re interested, you can come by this afternoon. I’ll show you the place.”
Dennis tilted his head slightly, as if he could study the man through the phone line. Henry . He liked the name. It sounded delicate, nostalgic…
“That works for me. What time?” he asked.
Silence again, a soft beat between words.
“You’ll need the address, I guess.” He heard Henry’s voice break into a small, embarrassed laugh.
Dennis found a pen in his jacket pocket. “Go ahead.”
Henry gave it to him. It was a standalone house on Evergreen Avenue.
“We’re just two blocks from Mariachi Plaza,” he chuckled. “Alright then, see you later.”
Dennis gave a faint smile. “Yeah. See you later.”
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