9 Works by captaincornwall
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Augustin knows a good deal when he sees it, and he’s not stupid enough to waste a lovely fucking flat just because his flatmate doesn’t want to wish him good morning. And other than not being chatty, he is a paragon of housemate-ly virtues: he never leaves a mess in the kitchen, never plays loud music or watches TV in the living room til 3 in the morning, or has loud annoying sex on the other side of the wall. In fact, he is, apart from the absolute refusal to engage with Augustin, the perfect flatmate.
Just Like Heaven AU.
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Word has spread through the camp, and the survivors have begun to stagger out of the barracks, needing to see it with their own eyes. No one has come out of this room, though, and Paddy does not understand why until he walks in and sees the colour of the inverted triangles sewn across their chests.
In 1945, Paddy Mayne is involved in the Allied liberation of Bergen-Belsen.
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A creature designed to cut him down at knee: this boy with his burnt-umber eyes and the freckles that cannot possibly be real, down here in the dark; with his sun-peach skin and the rabbit-down flicker of his eyelashes and the way he tilts himself towards Paddy like it is instinct, head down, mouth a long uneven trenchline.
Paddy knows only two things: he is in Death’s domain, and this beautiful, human-hearted ghost is a trick.
Paddy manages to get himself lost in Hell. A spirit with huge spun-silk eyes and strangely familiar hands is there to guide him back out.
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“You always die,” Paddy tells him. “And you never believe me.”
Paddy tries every way he can to save Eoin McGonigal. It makes no difference. Eoin dies and he dies and he dies.
Groundhog Day AU.
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Sometimes, Paddy thinks the mad dog that bays for blood and the ghost of Eoin McGonigal are the only parts of him left.
He will follow one of them into oblivion, and only time will tell which.
Paddy spins out after Eoin's death. Somewhere east of this, Eoin is trying to get back to him.
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again, and again, I say, again, again. by captaincornwall
Fandoms: Dead Boy Detectives (TV)
01 Feb 2025
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“You must not touch him,” she says. “And you must not tell him why.”
Charles stares at her.
“What kind of a rule is that?” he asks.
“It’s a test,” says the Night Nurse, still looking at Charles. “If you fail it, his soul is forfeit. This time, there’ll be no second chances.”
Charles goes down to hell to rescue Edwin, but there's a catch. Still, how hard can it be?
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Paddy is in the middle of overseeing the operation, directing stretcher bearers out to the waiting vans, when one of the skeletons slumped against the far wall raises its emaciated head and says, in a voice that Paddy has heard night after night in his dreams, “Paddy.”
The whole world narrows to a single point. For a moment, Paddy sways on his feet like a staked bull, not moving, not able to lift his head to look, because— because it can’t be, it can’t be—
And then the figure staggers to its feet, limps unevenly towards him, and Paddy’s eyes snap up and.
And it’s Eoin.Dismantling a PoW camp in 1945, Paddy stumbles across an old ghost.
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Despair is not a new feeling: he is intimately familiar with it, its shape, the song it sings to him in the dark. He knows that temptation is half of the punishment, understands that the brief desperate hope of freedom, the fleeting sight of Charles’ face, the moment, time after time after time, before Charles’ rejection, where his love hangs in the air between them and somewhere there is a future where Charles doesn’t turn away— he knows that this is all part of the torment. He’s read his Classics. He knows all about damnation.
Or, Hell got a bit more creative with its torture this time.
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“Do you really want to put yourself through hell, just on the off-chance your friend makes the choice to follow you back?”
And the thing is, Eliot's pulled back so many times. Back from the opportunity, the chance at something more, something bigger, something good. Pulled back so many times because he’d been so afraid. But he’s been living in a world without Quentin for five days. Five days, which is ten, a hundred times more time than he needed to figure out that all the fear he’d felt his entire life was nothing compared to this. He would walk through hell and back on a thousand to one odds, a million to one, if it meant there was the faintest, vaguest, slightest sliver of a chance that Q would be waiting for him at the other end.
“Yes,” he says.
Or: Quentin Coldwater is dead. And Eliot Waugh isn't having it. Enter The Dante Clause.