myflawless: (watch me care)
-bakerstreet: Bathroom sex. TFLN. With Sirius Black and Barty Crouch.
-bakerstreet: This is different. Interrogation meme with Barty Crouch Jr.
-mostloyalservant: Dinner party. Nothing like an evening of palling around with Ministry folk... Oh, and with Barty Crouch Jr. How lovely it is to see an old schoolmate!
-bakerstreet: Alas for those missing teeth. TFLN. With Sirius Black.
-dear_mun: Reformation is all the rage. Post-war with Draco Malfoy.
-dear_mun: Exceeded expectations. With Barty Crouch Jr.

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Dec. 26th, 2013 10:35 pm
myflawless: (no i'm listening really)
Name: John Oswald Dawlish
Date of Birth: November 9th, 1963
Bloodline: Pureblood
Wand Details: 14 ½” / Walnut / Dragon heartstring
Occupation: Auror
House: Gryffindor
Year at Hogwarts (MWPP- finished in 1978): 1974-1981
Patronus: Bengal tiger.
Height: 6’2”
Eyes: Green with a bit of brown
Hair: Dark brown, well-groomed.
Face: Strong, but with a marked fairness. Something noble and something vaguely brutal.
Dress Style: Exact and costly. Has a well-developed sense of fashion and a taste for browns and deep reds.
Manner of Speech: Smooth and apparently effortless, typically with more than a shade of wryness; can easily switch to sharply commanding.
Manner of Movement: Confident, swift but without seeming hurry.
Goals: Head of the Aurors would be a nice start, but he's looking to move up into the position of Head of Law Enforcement, with an eye on becoming Minister for Magic.
Likes: Power, women, free reign. That certain scent of perfume, alluring but not too strong. Knowing news first. Making the right impression when necessary, getting under the skin of certain people.
Dislikes: Weak perfume on women. Being left out of or denied information. Unnecessary authority.
First Impression: Welcoming and confident, an obvious leader.
Finance: His father left enough money that he could live very well without working, if that gives a hint.
Parents: Father has passed on, mother still lives.
Sibling(s): Had a younger brother, at one point.
Marital Status: Married
Sexual Preference: Women, women, women. Also men, though he isn't entirely open about that.
Children: Claims that he'll have one or two when he's good and ready. This may or may not be a lie. And he may or may not be sterile.
Philosophy of Life: Make and seize your opportunities, and be certain to present yourself well. (You should, of course, also know when and how to have a bit of fun.)
Lied to a boyfriend or girlfriend: Sometimes a lie is kinder than the truth, is it not?
Innocent or guilty: Innocent enough for honor, guilty enough to be interesting and otherwise irresistible.
myflawless: (whatever you like)
Title: Chronic Charm of the Grotesque
Rating: PG, PG-13?
Pairings: John Dawlish and Alecto Carrow
Word Count: 4900ish
Warnings: Eh... blood?
Summary: Dawlish finds himself compelled to renew an old acquaintanceship and rediscovers the joy of knives.
Notes: Written for luciusmistress as a part of hpbeholder 2011 on insanejournal. This hazes (in potentially suspect fashion) through time, present being at some point during DH, ranging back to Dawlish and Alecto’s schooldays. The line from “Black No. 1” more or less sparked much of this, but The 69 Eyes’ “Sleeping with Lions” would probably be a more apt song for the pair, overall. Just sayin’.



“I went lookin’ for trouble, and boy… I found her.”
-Type O Negative, 'Black No. 1'-


Clawing out from a haze of unconsciousness—sleep or daze or, no, no, some deep confounding—his first clear thought is that this must be a nightmare. There is a grin he horribly seems to recognize, recalled from a face years ago, and there swimming into out of into focus is the face itself, scarcely changed from memory, only more insistent. Beyond the face, he barely notices stone walls grime moss a nondescript nowhere, a place removed from the world where it is only his rising consciousness and this, this nightmare.

But he sees the firm presence of her, that physical being so long unseen but never fully forgotten, and he knows that he no longer dreams. This familiar horror stands for actuality.

“Why, John, dearie, you’re awake!” The voice a grating sort of chirp, wavering between threat and fondness.

He tries to move but cannot, tries to speak but can scarce feel his own throat. He can only think, and even the double-stranded thought wavers, at once “You bitch,” and “Alecto, darling, you’re looking as noxious as ever.”

Without surprise, he notes that she holds a knife dangled half-negligently in her hand. Almost as if forgotten, but he knows better. Memory of pain desired and repeated, hot lash of recollection and even in his current haze, his numb defeat, he finds an old sense of pleasure and some fresh pulse of yearning.

“Darling.”

Disgust and desire. And when she draws the knife into action, he doesn’t flinch against the sudden steel, only drops back into blackness as a sharpness touches his mind.


How long had he been under, held inside himself against his will? )

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John Oswald Dawlish

April 2014

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