gold & pearls

flip, 21, any prns.

18+, independent, headcanon-heavy blaine dartwright from layton brothers: mystery room.

single verse.

about / bio , smut / nsfw sideblog

rules under cut:

He’s definitely taking in the sight of the old injuries, even if it’s just from the corner of his eye while he takes something else from the duffel bag on the floor and shoves it beneath the pillow where he’ll be sleeping.

The country’s strict gun laws didn’t keep officers from being shot at, he knew that much, but the amount of healed scars littering Blaine’s form, ones that looked to much like his own, was surprising and had him wondering about the detective even more.

Was he unlucky or too slow?

“That’s about the only thing Sasha is good for, seeing as he didn’t care much about your, ah, entrance then.”

His accent jumps out with the name, said more traditionally, and he allows himself to wonder how badly said dog was bothering his neighbor right then.

“You aren’t handsy in your sleep, are you?” he remarked, back into the air of lighthearted teasing, standing up to pull on the matching sleep pants.

Heh, what a nice dog. Sasha was a change of pace from a guard dog or two recalled in Blaine's memories. The Agonni family owned large hounds dedicated to protecting their family from potential hits, but that was a time where Blaine needed to sneak around. He's no longer in his prime, so he quietly thanks Sasha for minding its business.

Blaine sits back down in his chair after getting fully clothed, stretching his legs out.

He silently gasps, narrowing his eyes. "What do you mean by... No, of course not! I tend to keep my hands to myself, thank you very much."

"How disappointing, though I suppose it wouldn't do for you to be spreading fingerprints."

the rumor mill - [ ill add the link here later ]

The choking scent of Blaine’s cologne had flooded the room like a wave the moment he’d entered before, mingling with the smell of a freshly lit cigarette that clung to Bronev; all in all, a bit nauseating- he had half a mind to light another, but this wasn’t a smoking room.

He’d keep to that moral until stress or annoyance pushed him past it anyway.

With the comment, he paused, just briefly, the muscles in his back coming to a still to show that despite his age, he was very physically fit, and he had definitely heard Blaine’s whispered exclamation.

“Forgive my presumption this was fine; I’m unused to sharing quarters.”

He slipped the sweatshirt on over his head, brushing his hair out from the collar, and glanced back over his shoulder at the detective as if he was expecting something else.

Wrinkling his nose, Blaine hunches over and fidgets with his gloves while sparing a glance at Bronev. 

“Good grief, you’re alright. I was simply caught off-guard.” And he was wrong to. He’s participated in his own fair share of gang wars and criminal violence, but the amount of collateral done to this old guy’s body over the years shows. He’s not messing with Bronev, period.

He’s careful to stand up and remove his suit in a swift manner, but his movements are messier than in his early youth. Blaine’s skin has some blots, healed gunshot wounds, and leftovers from experiencing the underworld. Most of the damage shows in his arms with clean slash marks and bullet grazes.

His gloves are never coming off.

Blaine changes into his striped Chanel pajamas, clearly bought firsthand, and folds everything onto the chair.

The irritation bleeding from Blaine’s voice only succeeds in eliciting a larger smirk. “Try not to miss me too much, when you depart.”

The clothes he sat on the bed were plain, a gray sweatshirt and soft matching trousers. Sure, it wasn’t exactly on par with the outfit the detective produced, which earned him a snort, but it looked comfortable enough.

Bronev unbuttoned his vest, apparently not seeing any value in excusing himself from the room to do so, and the dress shirt he wore underneath quickly followed, exposing the expanse of his back he kept turned to the other.

Deep scars littered his shoulders, mauled skin that looked as if it had been burned in a few places even, and his upper left bore the titular icon of Targent, a two-faced bird with one eye. If a gaze was on him, he didn’t notice- or didn’t care.

“As if.” 

He needed to cool off after a hard day’s work of examining a corpse and sorting through evidence. Motherfucker stank, but Blaine’s wearing five layers of vanilla perfume to mask the scent of death. It was for his own sanity to spray a lot of it around.

(Now, he’s down to five bottles compared to the seven that he started with today.)

Catching sight of Bronev’s marks and the exposed brand boring down into him, Blaine stares and finally blinks once he’s understood what he’s looking at. He bites his lower lip, side-glancing over to the room’s wallpaper in the high hopes that things wouldn’t get awkward.

Blaine whispers, adjusting his cuffs. “... Oh, damn.”

“Oh, you’ve dropped the mister? I didn’t know we were that close, Dartwright.”

No more ‘detective’, it seems, and Bronev looks more than amused by it.

In his own bag, that he kept zipped and nudged halfway beneath the bed until he proceeded to search it for a change of clothes, he had the overnight necessities similar to Blaine, though buried at the bottom was the same gun he’d threatened the man with a few weeks prior.

“How long are you booked for this room? I myself have 3 nights- simply curious if we’ll need to be in each other’s company longer than just tonight.”

Blaine puffs, annoyed. “Stop it. I’d rather die than consider you my acquaintance, or even so, a friend. I’m only tolerating your presence, that’s all.”

He can’t pity the elderly when they’re in charge of a massive organization that’s stronger in power than the Yard. He yanks out his pajamas, proceeding to remove his fancy, leather shoes. They’re in need of an early morning cleaning, but that’ll be dealt with after waking up.

His eyes dart to the clock, then back to Bronev. “Only a night. I’ll be departing later after waking up. I’m on the move a lot, it’s needed as I’ve investigated a crime scene for the past few hours.”

“I believe you think yourself more important of my time than you really are.” This was said laced with humor, though he was sure the detective wouldn’t take it that way- not that he particularly cared.

The room was finely decorated, a nice choice for the night if neither of them had to share. He claimed the left side of the bed, sitting his bag down next to it.

“What would those at Scotland Yard have to say, knowing the detective inspector was rooming with the Targent commander?” He seemed almost smug.

Blaine scowls at the old-timer, stretching out his arms. His own duffel bag is settled next to the chair he’s sat in, hands reaching down to unzip it. Necessary items such as his toothbrush, lenses cleaners, sleepwear, and everything needed to keep Blaine secure is right inside. He’s keeping the brass knuckles buried underneath everything else, that’s for emergencies.

“Excuse me? You’re not going to slit my throat in my sleep, so there’s nothing to worry about.” 

There’s no way in Hell that he’s rooming with Bronev, but he’s rooming with Bronev. Blaine already spent his hard-earned cash on the hotel room - he’s not uncomfortable sharing it with an acquainted stranger. At the same time, he doesn’t know if he should keep the gloves on or off when asleep.

“No need! I merely spoke truth!” Meteor admitted, keeping the joy present. He took his time to study the stranger’s reaction to the place itself, and him. It was as if he were confused, as if he found himself in a place he didn’t actually know about. Odd, as he didn’t seem like an adventurer.

“Uh, it’s… It’s in the North Sh- wait... Are you from Sharlayan, perhaps?” He did look like a man who’d like to read books and be diplomatic… or something. Maybe Alphinaud and Alisaie would recognize him! “That would explain your confusion! Did you arrive a few bells ago? I could help you set your footing!” Meteor was quick to extend his hand towards the other. 

“My name is Meteor! It’s a pleasure, sir!” 

This man’s kinder than his subordinates, maybe, he doesn’t have to completely understand someone’s intentions. Nothing ulterior, just... kindness. Blaine raises an eyebrow, clasping his hands together over his lap.

“Sh... Sharlayan?”, he asks. “Ah, no. I’m not from Sharlayan, good sir.”

The foreign word rolls on his tongue, Blaine doesn’t know if Sharlayan’s on Earth’s map - of course, it isn’t. He hadn’t studied geography past his secondary classes, but he’s educated enough to know this is... absolutely not his country.

(Or his world, for that matter.)

“To the best of my ability, yes.”

It’s very clear that Bronev doesn’t trust Blaine, there would be absolutely no reason to, and the stare-down he was giving him was easily detected, but this was his life’s work they were talking about. He thought he had a reason to be overprotective and the detective before him hadn’t exactly 0toved himself trustworthy thus far.

“Come in whenever you’d like then, Detective Dartwright, I’ll have one of my elites show you around the grounds and answer any questions you have.” Almost sounds too good to be true, but the offer is real, whether it’s poison-laced or not. He drummed his fingers on the counter, then pushed the chair back and stood.

“If you have any further concerns, don’t hesitate to reach out to me- I do believe my new address has been filed correctly with the Yard.” A pause; a sly smirk crossed his features. “But for the love of God, use the door next time.”

They’re not going to lock him in a basement and torture him. They’re not going to do that, Blaine. He deeply inhales, having trouble concentrating. “It’s no big deal, Mr. Reinel. I’ll be sure to stop by when I have a chance to.”

Preferably, during his off-shift hours. Nobody needed to know where he’s heading when he can intrude Targent’s headquarters on his own time. It wouldn’t be up to the Commissioner on whether or not he should leave, nay, Blaine is his own man and a made man, he is no longer.