summary: Nate unwinds in the bath after a long day. (aka i wanted to talk about nate not fitting in a tub, just shh...let me have this.)
rating: uhh⊠T? nothing, really, but he is in the bath.
word count: 448
note: i donât wanna talk about it...
--
He slicks his hair back.Â
Darker, heavier, dripping. Long fingers catching over the shell of his ears, stopping to cup the sides of his neck.
Eyes (with the droplets clinging to already wet lashes) concede with a tentative flutter, serenity working into reluctant muscles. Perfumed water with bergamot and lavender suds hugging and slipping down the planes of his chest. Sweet, light foam gliding off a ribcage, floating away and forming part of a larger colony.
Gentle pressure works the knot at his nape, rolling his head in agreement.
A stream of air blows past wet lips, features (with rolling, rapid rivulets sliding down the high points of cheeks) twisting into brief discomfort. Upper lip curling to one side, a flash of teeth bared at no one while fingertips knead the skin warm.
Another breath, fuelled by contentment and laced with simplistic delight.
Bathwater dribbles down the side of the clawfoot tub, pools at its golden base. His feet kick up on the porcelain lip, unable to accommodate the full stretch of him. Ankles crossed one over the other, they twitch in response (a reflex he has carried with him from his previous life) to a dreamy tune of impressionist paintings forged into melodies.Â
The slight movement causes a delicate silver chain to glitter in the light, roped where his leg finally ends (resting wet on the brown flesh stretched taut over firm bone).Â
Another twitch and more water trickles down from powerful calves-- from the sleek and smoothed over dark hair of his legs.
An endless arm rises from the lukewarm depths and lays across the brim. Elegant, pianist fingers tap along to a grainy tune playing from the gramophone in the corner.Â
Itâs silent, despite the occasional clumsy slip, metal ring clinking on porcelain as he chases after the running arpeggios.
He hums, barely audible, as to not upstage the art in progress, but shows his appreciation nonetheless. The first note, rough in his throat-- smoother the longer he warms the folds there. A tremulous melody not quite reaching the edges of the intended rhythm, stretching to welcome the quaver.
The crackle of the needle running over the silent groove fills the room. A frequency he has come to enjoy over the years. Finally, he has a sound he can attribute to the murmur of peace.
âMy, my,â and he rolls his head along the bathâs high-back, stopping when he faces the door (a rogue pearl of moisture skates down an eyebrow, down the side of his face, craddling the underside of his stubbled jaw). Eyes gently fluttering open, dreamily staring ahead, he greets his favourite guest with a soft, lazy smile. âIt appears I have an audience.â
it probably started following them around during a patrol. M couldnât shake the cat to get out of their way. But then it does something endearing/funny like pounce on a grasshopper and miss...or something.
It makes M chuckle unexpectedly.
Then the cat gets skittish at a loud noise... which makes M frown and... they stop trying to get the street cat to no longer follow them...
Pairing: Nat Sewell x f!Detective
Rating: E
Word Count:Â 10.7kÂ
Notes: The 90s!Nate au that no one asked for and whose origins are murky to me now. Something about Mulder from the X-Files being on my dashâŠand something about Nate wearing his glassesâŠand somehow that became NATE in the 90s and now here we are?? It is long, and itâs about two people finding their way with each other, I believe. For @brightpinkpeppercorn and @tuagonia, without whom this wouldnât exist. Also posting during Hot In Wayhaven, Day #1: Foreplay. Shouts to the mods for a summer full of gorgeous content! (Pop over and read this on AO3, for self-indulgent endotes.)
____________________
I. October: oh when you walk by every night, talking sweet and looking fine
She saw him there on Fridays.Â
His long arms stacked with five or six movies while he contemplated another, squinting down at the backs of the cases as though he wasnât wearing glasses at all. She liked to watch him stoop (because he had so far to go), to search the shelves. Sometimes, he would lean and a swoop of hair would flop forward over his forehead. A combination of rakish and charming that made her heart beat fast.Â
you already know the drill, under the cut to see my misuse of capslock
I. October: oh when you walk by every night, talking sweet and looking fine
I already hate you.
 ...squinting down at the backs of the cases as though he wasnât wearing glasses at all.
Am i going to end up just like...quoting the entire fic back at you? Perhaps.
But youâre doing the thing again, the thing I donât have a name for. The organicness. The Trader Joeâs of the Writing World, Aj. HOW? This entire little section dedicated to sussing out his appearance is just making me all sorts of not good. Like unable to form actual words kinda not good. Just â heem tol.âÂ
Jujubes that threatened to pull her teeth out with each mouthful.
Shut up. Shut UP. SHUT UP. HELP!!! This is so visceral.
The faintly chemically smell of the carpet, with its bright, graphic triangles and squares running underneath her feet.Â
Omg and here it is. My favourite thing of all time. The thing. This decade-defining visual anchor. Hurts me and shocks me to life in one beautiful sentence which was meant to serve no other purpose but to bring us into the time and scene, but just elevates my emotions.Â
(And really, that sounded about right: Leigh Williams: Action Movie Girl. Good with a Glock, unable to cry, fully of quippy one-liners with inexplicably excellent tits. Some assembly required. Spare, barely lived-in apartment sold separately.)Â
What a clever and succinct way to paint us a picture of Leigh early doors and give us a chance to suss her out.
She wasted a lot of time reading the description for Basic Instinct (raunchy with Michael Douglas who did very little for her, but Sharon Stone, who did a lot)
A woman of taste.
THE ORCHIDS. My heart stopped. A very N Sewell thing to do, the modern day letter writing.Â
It wasnât trickery of a happy Friday night. It wasnât memory made sweet by her girlish crush.Â
Can i say this was my favourite line out of the whole story. I know youre not meant to pick favourites but likeâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠ.what you did to me when I read this line, had me near-smacking my forehead to the table. Iâm sorry, what? How? Where did you conjure this up from? I need to speak to it immediately as there are a few thoughts Iâd like to ponder too. Iâm taking you to court. For emotional distress.Â
This allure of what a Friday night brings at the stretch of a long week, the way it paints everything shiny and bright. And then drawing this emotion without overly describing it ... I have reread this... so many times. And this is the line that has stuck with me for DAYS. How many Fridays have come and gone since you posted this? And I still think of it. You are too powerful.
SO-
Once more, something we saw in the Adam!AU, the lovely nods to canon. Friedman, Bobby, the friend visiting Nate (please say itâs A. No no maybe itâs F???), Nateâs past with the ocean. Beautiful. Just, spectacular and genius.
Huhuhuuuu and now letâs talk about the Nate Sewell and the way his RUNS HIS MOUTH.Â
HOT. HOT! and the sentence that comes before the one below??? *loud jar clinking in the background*
She didnât know if he was asking her or if he was telling her or maybe he was begging too...
Not to like... incriminate myself further because this smutty scene is everything, but I am so happy for Leigh.Â
On screen, Alex Trebeck read out clues. A predictable, comfortable cadence that might have lulled her to sleep. A bright-eyed red-headed man thumbed the buzzer like it was trying to run away.
Hate you some more (affectionate)
Then pulled her feet in his lap while they watched Mulder and Scully view the footage of a sunken fighter plane, and discover mind-wiped people covered in black oil. Â
idk what itâs like to lose!
The progression of their attraction is so...potent. The draw berween them is the heaviest thing on the screen, from the moment you introduce their repeated awareness in the video store week on week (genuine tummy flips even thinking about it again) to that split second you think Leigh is about to get in get car and not Get It Good... !!! WOW.
omg this is so long already, but I have so much I want to say about the emotional journey Leigh and Nate go through. The ability to bring in something from canon and make it your own? This fandom is truly not worthy, this has been... such a treat. And that we get to revisit the way Nate and Leigh fall in love again and again, make each other want to be better for themselves and each other...and just being sexy (omg the desk scene, THE DESK SCENE).Â
Leighâs gesture to take them on that trip was something that really tugged at my heart strings. To present Nate with the chance to reunite his love for marine life and all its beauty... while also opening up himself to love Leigh.
OH AND the aquarium scene that made ME want to cry (so beautifully described too).
That conclusion was so very, very satisfying because it says so much about how theyâre not done here and itâs only the beginning.Â
okay this is long and i will shut up now and go reread for the fourth time...woozy emoji face
Rating: Explicit. 18+. Minors, please do no interact
Word Count: ~1.5k
Note: Wayhaven AU featuring Nate as a bookshop owner and Surina as a poet. For the @hotwayhavensummer 8/20 prompt worship + 8/21 prompt aftercare.Â
Find here on ao3Â for poetry credits in the end note (they are beautiful and not mine. Neither are these characters)Â
____________
She should have gone home, to her desk at the window which overlooked the lake, but he dripped his words - like a lazy heartbeat, mimicking the pentameter in which she writes - onto the back of her hand, trickling to her wrist like warm honey. And when his eyes lifted from her pulse point, presenting with them an arched brow inquiry, she returned a heavy, lust-laden gaze. With the locking of the door behind them, every single obligation was set aside for the remainder of the afternoon.
And heâd left her a mess in his loft above his bookshop.
He can lie with her in the meadow forever.
He can lie with her here, among the wildflowers she threads into his hairâ knowing there can never be enough daylight to savour this moment.
He can lie like this forever.
He can lie with her forever.
The incredibly talented and all-around fantastic @losingface brought this scene I kept coming back to to life: Olivia and Adam and a field of wildflowers. If you ever get the chance to commission her - please, please do!!
He can lie with her in the meadow forever.
He can lie with her here, among the wildflowers she threads into his hairâ knowing there can never be enough daylight to savour this moment.
He can lie like this forever.
He can lie with her forever.
The incredibly talented and all-around fantastic @losingface brought this scene I kept coming back to to life: Olivia and Adam and a field of wildflowers. If you ever get the chance to commission her - please, please do!!
Summary: mason thinks about mia at the townâs florist.
rating: T
warning: i think there's like...one swear word.
word count: ~1.7k
note: lol ok since i flopped at getting mason x mia done for the hotwayhaven event....
i have been waiting to write this for a while and the amazing event organisers at @wayhavensummer finally gave me the excuse I was waiting for to fully indulge in this. thanks for hosting and putting in all the great work!!
This is for Aug. 18 - Flowers.
Thatâs the word heâd used to describe them, making no effort to mask his distaste.
Instead, Mia smiled widely in response, reaching up to touch one at its faux-stalks. It stopped that distracting swing, back and forth with every slight movement of her head. Chuckling, and pride lifting her cheery tone, she told Mason she made them herself.
Lemony-yellow, mossy-green, the burnt-chestnut centre.
All crammed together outside of the tiny flower shop. Dozens upon dozens of them staring back at him; yellower under the blaze of the mid-August sun.
A makeshift sign stuffed among the mass of summer-ripe bouquets reads: âTOP QUALITY. Giant Sunnys ÂŁ14 per bunchâ.
Mason is just looking.
He tells himself thereâs no harm in just looking.
And anyway, theyâre hard to miss under the hot sun. Itâs not his fault theyâre in the way of his usual patrol route. Quite literally.
Bundles and bundles of large sunflowers, taking up the pavement. Usually, grey and cracked, now overrun with the sight of them. The floristâs quaint store looks like a childâs plaything next to the dramatic assortment.
He has to blink, thinking the sunshine and its heat has started playing tricks on him. Itâs almost as if they multiply; little suns with their earthly centres, drawing him closer.
From the moment he rounded the corner to the main square, he never stood a chance against the brilliance of them.
Mason should have kept moving. He doesnât have time for thisâ to stop mid-patrol, to idle in front of flowers.
But they remind him of her.
Not just of the â and his lip curls at the memory â weird handmade jewellery.
(A set for every occasion.
Cakes and candles for colleaguesâ birthdays, candy canes for Christmas, glittery hearts the size of her fists for Valentineâs Day. Tiny pieces of reflective plastic shedding onto her delicate neck).
They remind him of the sunshiney smiles. The ones she so easily tosses his way, like theyâre never any work, like they could never go to waste. Always patient, always bright, always...happy.
And as he glares down at them, he realises they donât offend him. The observation renders him sceptical, partly convincing himself heâs stopped to figure out why he hasnât felt repulsed at the overwhelming powdery aroma.
Itâs not floral. No. Instead, it reminds him of...reminds him of⊠Mason racks his brain and frowns accusingly at the vivid flowers opened up at him.
Mason reaches for one, fingers wrapping around its surprisingly sturdy stalk.
Heâs still just looking. He justâ he just needs to get a closer whiff to figure this out.
Honey. Thatâs what it is.
Masonâs frown deepens at the realisation. His grip on the flower shifts, the skin of his palm uncomfortable against the fuzzy stem.
Bright and honey-sweet.
(Thereâs that memory of her kiss, soft and saccharine as powdered-sugar; should make his teeth hurt.)
The crown of gold petals distracts him, fills him with a warm something that heâs more desperate than annoyed to figure out. He canât place it, canât place it, canât place itâ wants to know it.
Maybe itâs the frustration of chasing after the unnamable thing that makes him forget the purpose of stopping, the reason why he plucked the flower to begin with.
...so distracted he doesn't hear when the round-cheeked vendor pops their head outside of the shop, all smiles that he feels nothing for (not her like smiles, though. Nothing like her smiles).
They mention the weather and ask if they can be of any help, but Masonâs attention slides back to the sunflower in his fist. But he shakes his head, unconvincingly but heâll never know.
Itâs the heat, he thinks. The arse-end of nowhere town at the tail-end of an unforgiving heatwave.
But just as heâs about to slot the stalk back into its bucket, the vendor stops himâ shaking their head emphatically, their grin growing by the second. They sweep of their hands in a take it, take it, please motion, and send Mason off. They shoot him wink from overly-kind eyes.
Like they might be in on some big secret, and Mason will be the last in this entire godforsaken town to know.
Thereâs no harm in taking the flower, Mason insists, staring down into its dark-brown centre.
Heâll hold onto it until he can find the next rubbish bin, and in the mean time heâll try not to think about how it reminds him of the dusting of dark freckles across her nose.
(He gets it now. He gets it when heâs with Mia.
He understands â finally â why everyone before her kissed his freckles like they wanted to taste the stars.
Her galaxies, his constellations. Every time they meet, Mason expects a seismic shift to take them asunder.)
His usual strides have shortened, his pace slower than normal, his senses overwhelmed by the true yellow of its petals.
For a moment, Mason forgets all about the patrol and just...walks.
Itâs a quiet and lazy summer day. The sun (high and hot) urges residents to stay in the shade, seeks refuge in cool indoors. The streets are empty. Sleepy. So, he takes his time, the crease on his brow deepening with every side street he takes.
Itâs hot inside his boots. Thatâs the only reason heâs leaning against her tin can of a car, outside of the station, holding this ostentatiously large flower.
A quick detour for some shade. Thatâs all it is. And when thereâs a whisper of a breeze, rustling the leaves of the tree above him and the little crown of petals in his hand, itâs all the more cooler.
Mason can hear her colleagues moving in and out of the station, but pays them no mind as time moves on, still staring down at the flower in his grip. Itâs far too large to twirl it with sturdy fingers, forcing him to keep studying it and wondering what exactly about it brings Mia to mind.
Lively, but not intense.
(Her laugh, he guesses. Loud and clear, broken up by giggles. The sound of it never jarring.)
A drop of sunlight, buried underground. Persists and blossoms through cracked earth.
(Her kindness, he ascertains. Not to be mistaken for weakness. As easy as she can dole-out radiant smiles, her sharp tongue can just as quickly follow.)
...like heâs been holding a piece of her this entire time.
The taut pull at his cheeks is foreign, and he lets the corners of his mouth drop.
Pointless because Mason hears a familiar drumming, a quick skip heâs grown used to over the last years.
He looks up just in time to watch Mia push through the stationâs glass doors. At the top of the steps, she stops to survey the car park, and he feels a flutter in his chest when he realises those brown eyes are searching for him. He confirms it when her gaze lands on him and...that smile (the beating inside his chest is ten-fold) breaks out across her face.
She shields her face with a hand, squinting against the harsh glare of sun bouncing off windshields. With easy, unhurried steps she walks towards him and he drinks in the sight of her.
That scratchy yellow cardigan thatâs become synonymous with Detective Garcia is nowhere to be seen. Probably thrown over the back of her office chair and forgotten, along with whatever work sheâs been putting off all afternoon.
Dark curls scooped up and away from her neck, gives Mason a great view to the line of her throat and down her naked shoulders. A sage strappy shirt stretches down her small frame, trying its best to keep her cool in the heat...reminds him of the stalk in his hand.
He tenses.
Miaâs eyes flicker to the sunflower heâs holding and her smile (fuck, that smile will be the end of him) grows and grows.
All teeth (white, and...harmless with the dull edges) and she gives an airy chuckle.
âThat for me?â she asks with one eyebrow lifting into a curly fringe.
Pushing off the car, Mason musters up his best grimace and fights back the fear fighting its way up his spine. He doesnât understand it, doesnât know why fear is the first thing that possesses him when she stands this close and gestures to the flower with a tilt of her head.
Before he can respond, before he can let his tongue and fear get the better of himâ Mia makes for the sunflower in his grip.
Fear tells him this should be a mistake. This memory must be a mistake; one that heâs sure will be the only one to matter in a dizzying spiral of time: Mia smiling down at this sunflower.
The leaves rustle again, and sunlight filters through, dappling the deep brown of her hair.
She makes it easy, never has to wrestle with the feeling for too long before she distracts him. If itâs not a quip, itâll be an expression that should not be equal parts funny or cute. Spears Mason somewhere deep, somewhere he doesnât think heâs touched beforeâ doesnât know if it could ever be before her.
Mia speaks to the flower, a lone fingertip running over its petals. âItâs very pretty.â
Mason watches her stroke the large leaf at the stalk, leaning in nose-first to catch its scent at the centre, eyes fluttering shut. Dark lashes meet her cheeks, and he follows the line of her freckles (darker in the summertime).
He wants to take his time here too, with the same pace as he did those side streets (seeing parts of Wayhaven he would have never traversed without coaxing).
âYeahâŠâ his voice is rough and unused, studying as she looks up at the way the branches move above them. Sunlight casting down on her, and that easy smile fixed on her lips. âVery pretty.â
Pairing: Nat Sewell x f!Detective
Rating: E
Word Count:Â 10.7kÂ
Notes: The 90s!Nate au that no one asked for and whose origins are murky to me now. Something about Mulder from the X-Files being on my dashâŠand something about Nate wearing his glassesâŠand somehow that became NATE in the 90s and now here we are?? It is long, and itâs about two people finding their way with each other, I believe. For @brightpinkpeppercorn and @tuagonia, without whom this wouldnât exist. Also posting during Hot In Wayhaven, Day #1: Foreplay. Shouts to the mods for a summer full of gorgeous content! (Pop over and read this on AO3, for self-indulgent endotes.)
____________________
I. October: oh when you walk by every night, talking sweet and looking fine
She saw him there on Fridays.Â
His long arms stacked with five or six movies while he contemplated another, squinting down at the backs of the cases as though he wasnât wearing glasses at all. She liked to watch him stoop (because he had so far to go), to search the shelves. Sometimes, he would lean and a swoop of hair would flop forward over his forehead. A combination of rakish and charming that made her heart beat fast.Â
Chapter Two of Body Count is now available to play on Dashingdon!
Choose who youâd like to couple with for the first night.
Play a lil party game.Â
Share a bed with your new partner.
Say a friendly hello to the remaining cast members.
Find a body.
Word Count: Â 133,881 (+65k) | Average Playthrough: 23,889 (+7.6k)
Demo | Project Intro | Patreon |Â KoFi
Please make sure to check the updated trigger warnings before you play.
I havenât broken the saves, but I have fiddled with the stats a bit, so you miiiight want want to play from the beginning to be sure that scenes trigger correctly.
Evergreen reminder that Body Count is an 18+ game!
If you have a save where youâre romancing the first victim⊠keep it.Â
