#rust cohle au

[atinylittlepain]

Ptolemaea - the Prologue

rust cohle x f!oc

series masterlist

the case was closed and they parted ways. but time has a way of eating itself, and turning back to where they began.

series warnings | 18+ smut, dark themes surrounding crime investigations including murder, child abuse, religious trauma and corruption // marital infidelity, boy-man go to therapy challenge, familial trauma

wordcount | 2.5K

.........................................................................

“We’re not doing this if you’re on something right now.”

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“My point stands.” There’s a heat, a heaviness that passes from skin to skin when he steps closer. Familiarity, and a surprising openness when he widens his eyes and lets her look for the swim and spread of his pupils. She doesn’t find it, only an unwavering stillness, his eyes that won’t leave hers even as she holds the hilt of his jaw in her hand and turns his face this way, that. The slightest curl of her fingers into bone stitching to feel the way he’s grinding his teeth, waiting for her with a thin patience. 

“Am I sober enough for her righteousness?” 

“What have you been taking?” She rubs her thumb over the knot of tension that furls high in his cheek, jaw stilled, and she knows she’s flirting with the thin line of too much, of him flinching and flickering away. But he stays for now, still held in her palm, mutters a low answer to her question, usual stuff, nothing new. 

“Are you sleeping?”

“When I’m not sober, sure.” Half a smile pulls muscle taut, his words cracking and shimmering in that slow, low melt he tends to. It has taken work, practice, for him to be so quiet, so slow, she knows. She’s heard him get loud, get quick, and she thinks that is his more natural state, distilled. He’s a man who’s meant to be a hair, a tooth, a nail out of control, and he muscles all of his effort into avoiding that, when he can.

“Marty said you showed up drunk to his house, again.” And he doesn’t like that, finally too much, shaking his head out of her grip, curled honey hair slipping sweat damp into his face. Livewire man, all shock and simmer.

“He keeps inviting me to dinner. You’d think he’d learn not to do that by now.”

“He’s trying to be nice, Rust.” And he is, she knows that. Marty trying to extend an olive branch, an anything that might get Rust to soften. She had told Marty to forget it after he told her about the last dinner attempt, a worn down and wan Rust showing up with an unfortunate sway in his gait and a thousand-yard stare that turned dinner as silent as a funeral. He seems easy enough around you though, and she had schooled her face at that comment, no chance to respond anyways as Rust sat down at his desk alongside them. 

“Don’t have much use for nice, do we?” That we is everything, she knows. Rust has decided she is like him, and she can’t really argue with that. Something beneath the skin, more animal than human, a shared grief understood, similar but parallel. At the very least, she thinks she understands him. At the very least, she lets him think he understands her. 

“If you want this case to move you’re gonna have to throw him a bone. He doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re weird.”

“Weird.” A little flicker of amusement as he steps back into her orbit. She doesn’t flinch, gives nothing away when his fingers press into the nape of her neck, sticky heat blooming beneath the skin. 

“You smell.”

“I mowed your lawn.” 

“And you smell like it, come on.” 

He would never admit it, but she’s near certain he continues to show up on Sundays because he knows he’ll get this. Care, simple and plain and without expectations of what that care means. They get into the shower, wordless, body knowing body, making space for body. She places index, middle, and ring over the three raised snarls of skin along his ribs, presses in just a little until he grunts, makes it hurt just a little, catch and release, a sigh when she smooths her palm over tan, wet skin. 

She makes him smell like her, soap and shampoo and enough pressure behind her hands to make muscle move, to make his eyes heavy, watching her work with his chin tilted down. It is some of the best silence she gets from him, the gentlest she gets from him when he returns the favor, a particularity in his hands. Something aches inside of her when he curls over himself to soap her ankles, fingers working over bone and ligament, a meticulous accounting of her body that works up and up and up until his fingers are playing the highest vertebra of her spine again. 

…

“What about Cohle and Reed?”

“What about them?”

“They were close, were they not?”

“Well, they worked pretty damn good together. Sometimes I felt like they were in on a joke I didn’t know about, if you get what I mean.” 

“Were they romantically involved?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I don’t think she would’ve gone for that, but I always thought he had a little crush on her, in his own way, I suppose.”

“In his own way?”

“Rust wasn’t exactly a romantic, but he liked her, seemed different around her, more at ease.”

…

“Maggie says she wants to set me up with someone.” 

“Oh yeah?” It’s stifling in the bathroom, the warm afternoon haze mingling and crushing with the remnant steam from the shower, tacky skin and cloistered lungs, a faint breath of relief stepping out into her bedroom, box fan whining and kicking up more hot air. He sits down on the edge of her bed, towel loose around his waist, watching her make nothing out of the movement of opening and closing dresser drawers, turning the fan up another notch. A pretense of disinterest, though there’s a held breath in her chest.

“I told her no.”

“Why? You should go, do a double date with mister and missus normal.” Eventually, when there’s nothing left for her to fret with, she steps between his legs, water drying cool on bare skin. His hand curls at the hilt of her hip, a little bit of hurt behind the pressure that she tries not to give away, though she knows he sees the quick catch of an inhale that holds high in her sternum, his eyes dragging over muscle and matter. 

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, you are pretty shit company.” 

“And here I thought you liked my company.”

“You make up for your faults with your dazzling sense of humor.” Something always softens, his brow settling, mouth drawn in the slightest smile, more muscle twitch than anything else. She runs her hand back through his hair, still damp, and he lets her, leans into the touch, the heavy drop of his lashes over hollow cheeks. He murmurs into the lines of her palm, come here, come here, and she does, hitches one knee up onto the bed, the other, thighs draped over his hips and him leaning back, muscles jumping and folding to make room. She’s already wet, already wanting, but theirs is a game of patience, this she knows, so she settles around him, arms hanging loosely over his shoulders, little tilt of her head. 

“Has Maggie tried that with you?”

“What, playing matchmaker? Mmm, she gave up a while ago after I kept saying no.” They touch each other with an unwavering certainty, her palm at his chest, curling over his shoulder blade, and his finding the line of her thigh, over her ass to the base of her spine, splayed, fingerprints kneading at the skin. 

“Not interested in a double date with mister and missus normal?” Always give and take, faking and feinting in and out, her chin tilted down and the line of her nose brushing his, the graze of her top lip against his before she pulls away, just a little, just enough to make him show his own hand of want with the way he ducks forward, lips parted and eyes wide. She gives him what he wants the next time, no teasing, open mouths, open sighs, licking at each other’s teeth. 

…

“Rust was comfortable around me, yes.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“Well, we had both lost someone. Someone young, you know. I think we understood each other because of it.”

“It was your little sister, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. And anyways, Rust’s was worse than mine.”

“His daughter.”

“Do you know about it?”

“He told us the details.”

“So you’re talking to him too?”

“We are, yes.”

“How is he?”

“It would be imprudent for us to discuss that with you.”

“No, right, right, that was a stupid question.”

…

“Marty told me something else.” Salt on her tongue, open mouth against warm skin, she has him how she likes him, splayed in rumpled sheets, and here, and here, heat pressed across his chest, teeth to clavicle and his sigh hitches, halts high in his throat, making her mouth curl into a grin.

“Marty sure tells you a lot.” She unfurls her spine, sitting back on his thighs, taking in the amused tilt of his head.

“Must be my womanly nature.”

“Right, that’s what it is.” He follows after her, curling up, mouth meeting the dip between her breasts before letting his chin drag up to look at her. Hands wander, ribs expand and contract in an easy choreography, easy synchronicity.

“He said you got a little fresh in the locker room.” She punctuates her point by taking one of his hands in hers, fingers working between his fingers, bending them in a way that she wants to hurt a little, and she thinks it does when she sees him wince, quick to school his face even though he’s been caught. 

“He had it coming.”

“Everyone knows he’s fucking that girl, it’s better to leave it alone.”

“Maggie doesn’t know.” 

“No.”

“She should.” She sighs at that, finally smoothing out the hurt she caused, her palm fitting against his.

“No, I don’t think she should.”

“Why?”

“Because if she did, then they wouldn’t be mister and missus normal any more. And they need that, they both do.”

“How do you know what they need?”

“They aren’t like us, they need simpler things.” Easy like this, ease like this, both of them deciding that they’ve toyed with one another enough, waited enough, she takes him inside her with a sigh, with stillness, both of them settling into each other’s warmth. Curled into and around each other, still seated so deep, shared respiration, where she breathes in, his forehead against the inhale rising in her sternum, and his exhale pulling her closer into him.

“And what do we need?” Breathed out on a sigh, his words starting to syrup and stick together thick, close heat against her skin.

“I don’t think either of us know the answer to that, do you?” He gives her no response, hands coaxing movement, coaxing hips. They pull pleasure taut and strung from between each other’s ribs and hold it between their teeth, aching jaws, soft jaws, each other’s names resounding in their throats. 

…

“What happened between you two?”

“When Marty and I parted ways, we did too, it’s not really a difficult equation to sum up.”

“But you two were close, that’s what Marty said.”

“We were partners, sure. I liked her better than Marty, I’ll tell you that much.”

“So you and her never?”

“No, no, we weren’t the type. Passing ships, wandering souls, whatever it is that people call souls anyways.”

“Was she satisfied with the way that case ended?”

“Think you oughta ask her that question, seeing as you’re talking with her and all.”

…

On Sunday nights he sleeps in her bed. There are no pills, no drugs, no drinks, and yet he sleeps. Bare, on his stomach, face softened like a child’s in sleep, scrunched to one side by how his cheek rests on her pillow. Nothing seems to wake him when he’s like this, even when she slips out from under the heavy weight of his arm draped across her stomach. 

She makes it through half a cigarette before he stirs, surprising her with a questioning sigh of her name. She leaves the window cracked, a still warm breeze and the drone of crickets filtering in, gets back into bed. And in the darkness, in the faint wash of night sounds, they have no need for pretense, for faking anything, being too cool, too cold for anything. Their want, and maybe even their need, is young and unashamed. 

The weight of him settling over her, his face tucked into the stitching of her throat, is a relief, the soft give and press of her ribs against his body with each breath slowing everything down, simple, and just this, and only this. Her palm settles between his shoulder blades, running a circuit over muscle and bone, feeling his own inhales and exhales. 

“You really think I should take Maggie up on it?” At first she isn’t sure what he’s referring to, a beat, a blink of silence within which she remembers. No, feels good threatening in her throat, but she swallows it, her hand curling at the nape of his neck, taking something for herself in some other small way.

“I think it could be a good bone to throw. You only have to do it once. It’d get them off your back, at least.” His fingers are running up and down her side, razing something deep and warm in the nonsense patterns he’s drawing. She wonders how many people have seen him like this. She doesn’t think very many.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Suit yourself then.” Nothing left to say, sleep returns easily to the both of them, pale darkness washing over the tangle of their bodies. They will wake up in the morning and forget this closeness, this care for another week, a sort of cyclical amnesia, and an eventual returning and remembering every Sunday.

…

“I’m not really sure why you’ve called me in when I haven’t touched this case in nearly twenty years.”

“We’re just trying to be thorough, get as much information as we can.”

“I had a feeling, you know, back when we thought we closed it. It felt too easy, too simple. Marty didn’t believe me, but Rust, well, yeah, you’ve talked with him.”

“You both had doubts then?”

“Are you gonna show me the new file?”

“We’d like to hear your accounting of events first.”

“Right, well, there’s not much to tell that you don’t already know. Case was closed in 1995, I worked in Vermilion Parish for seven more years with those two, and I left in 2002.”

“Can you tell us what happened in 2002?”

“There was– a disagreement between myself and my partners, and it became clear we could no longer work together, so we parted ways.”

“What exactly happened between you three?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to this current investigation.”

“So you haven’t had any communication with Rust since you parted ways, as you said?”

“No, I haven’t spoken to Rust since 2002, and I imagine I won’t be speaking to him any time soon.”

[scrimtas]

Watched True Detective [s.1 only for now] and was attacked with a little stupid crossover thought :] I'm rather bad in drawing real people, for many reasons, but it was fun anyway.

though the idea was inspired from su episode about rose, because, uhhh, this moment really got me.

[the-dark-ghost]

Surely This Is All For Me

I recently started to think that there are actually very few fanfics for the second season of True Detective. (I know very well that it is not at all similar to the first season and that it is not close to being the same in quality by far, but come on, are there really so few fics?)

It turns out that I have some kind of idea about two of the characters from both seasons.

Rust Cohle and Ray Velcoro

I just think they would make an excellent duo. There isn't a very good explanation, I just think that because of their different personalities, things could work out between the two of them. (Or very bad too, who knows?). Summarizing all this idiocy, I leave you one of the stupidest fanfics I've ever written:

Rust is not a very good talker, in fact, he is far from it. He hasn't bothered to socialize at school since he arrived two and a half months ago from Texas.

Ray is not new at all, he has been at the institute since his first year but in any case his character has not given him a good reputation. He doesn't have a single friend and too many people don't like him, too many people to stop and count.

During a normal day at school, both Rust and Ray end up detention for various reasons. When Professor Hart gives the detention students the task of organizing three school sites as punishment, Rust and Ray end up in the same group and finally meet, while having to clean up the mess in the school library.

•

It's ridiculous, but you might give it a chance and end up liking it, even if just a little :)

By the way, for some reason I also published it on Wattpad xd.

[awesome-cherry-fan]

True Detective AU: Rust Cohle as tatoo master & Marty Hart as florist

[glitterslag]

He wasn't supposed to be a cop he was supposed to be a boy cat who gets adopted by an all-girls college house

[inknopewetrust]

going on vacation tomorrow so here’s a list of things I’m working on getting published in the next few months:

1. Rust cohle x fem reader… drama babes, we’re going for Ethel Cain realness here.

2. Eddie munson x fem reader breakfast club au that’s been sitting half brewing in my drafts for 2 years and I freaking love it.

3. Once dune 2 comes on streaming, I’ll wrap up my Duncan Idaho x fem reader fic that’s been unfinished but so generously loved lately.

[kafkaguy]

Rust au if he never went undercover or left Texas https://youtu.be/5CNG3oDzdyw

losing my mind. rustin cohle if he had a silly manic soul and was even more of an asshole regular cop . crying

[floyddl]

ALL HIS STARS

(Plot-Idea)

how earlier this year i had some kind of weird obsession with Heimfrost (Heimdall/Loki). I literally went through all the websites trying to find more of these two (either in English or in Spanish)

I found several things, some very good I must say. But from there, once, while I was having a horrendous migraine pain and was trying to get myself a coffee with a couple of chocolate candies I came up with an idea for a somewhat ridiculous and absurd AU.

Loki breaks out of his prison in Thor 2 and opens a portal that doesn't actually take him exactly where he would have wanted. In-World It's pretty weird at first for Loki but he knows full well he can get used to it, after all there's already a kind of grumpier Heimdall out there. Although that is entirely good.

I consider that this Heimdall from the new world is not as interested in Loki as the original. Furthermore, Roland has not had good experiences with magical people so, as soon as Loki shows his true personality as a god of lies and his sorcerer phase (something he does not take long to do in less than two or three seconds) Roland sends him to his waiting list to be named one of his enemies… as soon as Loki does something bad.

Of course, Walter is still missing. Assuming he managed to escape just in time. Roland is very stressed about this and his worry goes beyond his limit so he doesn't have much time to meet Loki, who has already started to become famous in the city (Delain). Still, Jake has some suspicions, his gift (assuming Walter's machine didn't completely take it away from him, because that's not made clear in the movie) starts to make him see things about Loki that worry him.

Sure, Loki loves the attention and adoration, but he wants to return to a more familiar place. What he doesn't know is that Thor is already following him and is very close.

Now, Walter hears about Loki as soon as he returns to his hometown (Delain) seeking refuge while his wounds heal and under a new name and appearance [perhaps a younger McConaughey or at least something like a Rust Cohle (True Detective 2014) or an Adam Meiks (Fragility 2001)]. At first, he dislikes Loki, partly because he sees him as a threat and partly because he knows he is getting closer to Roland.

(Since, according to the books, Walter really has an unhealthy obsession with Roland and hurting him. Something that is admitted by him in The Dark Tower 7)

Still, after thinking better and realizing that he is extremely weakened, he decides to try to convince Loki to join him. (It is up to you to decide whether Loki rejects, considers, or accepts the alliance offered by Walter. One important thing to emphasize, however, is that in the end Loki will probably back out, if he accepts the offer.)

Of course, most of the "attention" they give Loki is significantly negative because the people in Delain haven't had good experiences with sorcerers, just like Roland. (If you have read The Eyes of the Dragon you know what I'm talking about). Loki doesn't see this as a bad thing because he trusts that nothing can stop him. As time passes, Thor finally manages to reach the In-World with Heimdall and things end up getting complicated there...

Imagine, that exact moment Roland and Heimdall meet when they are clearly almost a carbon copy of each other.

Of course, the plot can go in two directions: a more positive one if Loki rejects Walter's offer and a more negative one if he doesn't. A serious problem is that, in In-Wolrd, the spirit of rebellion is revived by a leader who tries to follow in the footsteps of John Farson. (Walter may or may not be driving it.) This leader decides that he wants to take over Delain and leave it in the same state as Gilead.

Roland worries but now he is not alone. Jake is with him and he can't take the liberty of taking many risks or dangers. Walter, at this, is extremely happy but Thor and Heimdall begin to worry him because they are visibly powerful. Loki, now, is between the disaster of whether it is better to help Roland, Jake and Delain (risking Heimdall and Thor finding him) or continue with Walter whether he accepts the offer or considers it. If he rejects it, he only has two options: flee or help and face its consequences.

You can add anything, an internal soap opera between Loki and Walter (XD), drama, angst and some other things. It may also be mostly humor, crack or smut between whatever characters they are. (There could even be more characters involved in this), I for one have no idea... I left this behind and probably no one wants to write it so... You know, this idea of staying this idea here, at least so that it is not totally forgotten.

anyway, nonsenses :)

[filmsmysterieux]

Season 1 True Detective

D'abord, nous avons notre duo dynamique, Rust Cohle et Marty Hart, joués respectivement par Matthew McConaughey et Woody Harrelson. McConaughey, qui semble avoir confondu cela avec une audition pour le rôle de l'homme le plus déprimé du monde, livre ses répliques avec l'enthousiasme de quelqu'un qui lit le manuel d'un micro-ondes. Pendant ce temps, Harrelson semble constamment se battre pour se rappeler s'il est toujours dans "Cheers" ou si cette partie de sa vie est terminée. Ensemble, ils ont la chimie du pétrole et de l'eau, et pourtant, d'une manière ou d'une autre, cela fonctionne, de la même manière que l'on ne peut s'empêcher de fixer un accident de voiture. Le mystère lui-même est aussi épais que l'accent de la Louisiane, et à peu près aussi clair. L'émission nous emmène dans un voyage à travers un gâchis emmêlé de cultes, de meurtres et de drames familiaux, avec tellement de fausses pistes que vous pourriez penser être au marché aux poissons. L'intrigue tourne et vire plus qu'un politicien dans un scandale, entraînant les téléspectateurs dans une chasse à la fois exaltante et légèrement nauséabonde. Le style visuel est indéniablement saisissant, avec des plans si magnifiquement composés qu'ils pourraient être accrochés dans un musée. C'est-à-dire si les musées avaient des sections dédiées au désespoir et à l'angoisse existentielle. Le réalisateur semble avoir un fétiche pour la couleur grise et les scènes qui vous font questionner le sens de la vie, ou au moins, pourquoi vous regardez encore. Et n'oublions pas les dialogues, qui oscillent entre profondément profonds et "Je suppose que je suis trop bête pour comprendre." Les monologues de Cohle, en particulier, ressemblent aux divagations d'un étudiant en philosophie qui vient de découvrir le nihilisme et pense que c'est la chose la plus cool qui soit.

[scrimtas]

fem!Rust is currently the last [not chronologically, i just didn't post it here yet] fanart for the true detective I did, as simple as self-indulgent. Love you, tired depressed woman <з

design idea belongs to mha friend and im a bit obsessed with it and her smarrrrt brain, so maybe i'll doodle detective girlfailures later

[the-dark-ghost]

I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT (YOU DON'T WANT TO BE ALONE)

It was strange, it really didn't seem normal to him. Marty was probably quite accustomed already, even if there were moments when he was puzzled, but Ray was a difficult thing, he struggled to get used to... he wasn't one to easily understand others, to be empathetic. Rust was odd, of course, depending on who you asked about the matter. Although one of the few things that were indisputable is that he obviously wasn't a "normal family man, going to work every day and watching football on Sundays, on the couch, with a cold beer in hand." Not even Ray was that man, but it was hard for him, he didn't have such an open mind, he was simply like a rock, cold and outdated, lying on the ground unmoved, heavy and sad; and Rust was practically the same smoke from his cigarette, wandering the earth for a short time, completely gray, getting lost in nothingness itself, within his thoughts, intoxicating others around him, whether those people had picked up the cigarette or not.

Most of the time, he simply endured it, the urge to respond to his soft voice. Ray didn't say anything at all. It was almost always like that, since he had moved from Vinci to Louisiana, even since the first time he saw Rust. But there were moments when everything became a bit dense, like a hard mouthful to swallow, where even though he was just doing his job, minding his own business and only speaking when necessary, somehow it was more irritating. His way of looking, as if Ray were a contemptible object, or so he thought himself, looking through Rust's tired and steady blue eyes, those eyes almost on the verge of fading away forever. Sometimes he wished he knew what Rust was thinking when he looked at people that way.

Ray never got used to it, neither to Louisiana, nor to his new desk, nor to the people around, not even to his own apartment. He was restless, bothered, as if he wished to have bolted at any second, fleeing from everything without leaving a single trace. It's not that he didn't think about it; on the contrary, he almost always did. Running away would probably be like embedding a bullet in his own skull in Ray's mind, but he couldn't do it, he would never do it, so all he could do was to remain silent, almost with his head bowed and his eyebrows slightly furrowed. He supposed that.

At that moment, Marty was on leave. He had broken his ankle trying to catch a suspect. So only Ray and Rust were left, who before barely saw each other at the station or in specific cases like a crime scene. By then it was already winter, both on their way to a new scene. Ray was driving the car with the windows halfway closed, feeling a slight cold breeze hitting his face. Rust looked out the car window all the time, probably only occasionally looking at the sky. Ray glanced away relatively and subtly, just for a couple of seconds. He watched Cohle during that brief moment, expressionless, feeling something rising in his stomach, a sensation he recognized... his discomfort. A part of him wanted to say something right there, any nonsense, anything to extinguish the silence with a Rust who had woken up in the morning utterly gloomy and pessimistic, anyone would say much more nihilistic than usual, but that was simply impossible.

The day unfolded almost identically to the journey. The forecast had not been wrong; this time it rained all night, unlike previous times, where it was just drizzles of one or two minutes. Rust didn't sleep in bed; he stayed awake in front of the crucifix in the kitchen, smoking more than usual. Ray didn't sleep either; he stayed awake thinking about his son, Chad, his ex-wife, Vinci, Semyon, and a million other things while lightning and thunder adorned the dark sky. It was a long night but also very cold, beyond the physical, deep in Rust's heart, as it drilled into Ray's brain like a drill.

"What's synesthesia supposed to be?" Ray asked once, as they were driving in the car. Rust drove with an unreadable gaze, hands firmly gripping the wheel. His eyes slightly reddened from a night of poor sleep. He detested answering questions, but above all, he detested having to talk in general; afterward, he wouldn't be able to keep quiet, and Rust knew it.

“Why do you ask?”

"The other day at the bar... you talked to me and told me about that, you said, 'I have synesthesia' when I asked you about your problem of sniffing colors. What's that supposed to mean?"

"The senses," Rust begins to say without taking his eyes off the road, "get activated when another sense is stimulated, it's like the brain gets confused. It's psychological."

Ray stared at him, his eyes closing in slow blinks. He sighed bitterly and looked ahead, just like Rust, the usual uncomfortable silence breaking loose, flooding the entire small space of the car. Ray rested an elbow on the open window, letting his face fall onto his open palm; he wished he were somewhere else or nowhere at all.

————> ༒ <————

A small part of a fanfic that I haven't finished yet. I like these two together, I don't know why...

Read on Ao3:

[downs1de]

#DOWNS1DE — an independent & selective multimuse rp blog written by HART (27, SHE/HER). Mid to low activity, mature (18+) content present.

★ 〻　MOST ACTIVE

House, Gregory (House M.D.) (Canon)

Cohle, Rust (True Detective) (Canon)

D'Amico, Benjamin (Fandomless) (OC)

Winchester-Davis, Samuel (Supernatural) (AU-based)

Catch me on Wire for plotting and OOC conversations: downs1de

[jessicaavon]

So remember when I said I didn’t ship Rust and Marty? 😅

Anyway, this coming from a soulmate AU I’m planning/writing in which: Everything starts the same in 1995, Rust and Marty still have their fight in 2002, but instead of reuniting, Rust goes to Carcosa alone in 2012. He doesn’t wake up from his coma. Marty is still his emergency contact, and a kindly doctor contacts him in the hopes that he’ll help with an experimental treatment, in which a person can enter another’s subconscious and try to find them, and lead them out of their coma. Think Inception. Rust’s subconscious world takes the shape of his Alaskan childhood, and Marty has several sessions in which he goes there and tries to convince Rust that he’s still wanted/loved, and that he should wake up. Thus ensues a LOT of trauma/healing, pining, flashbacks to both of their previous lives, and hopefully something happy in the end. Someone kill me, I wish these things would just write themselves. 😭😭😭😭

[mypoorsqheart]

True Detective HDM-verse

Rust & Stellare (hare)

Marty & Macy (rottweiler)

Marty didn’t know what the hell to think when he walked in his office and found a fucking hare on his desk. Fellow attached to it wasn’t much of a talker. Not that it mattered because Marty was too focused on trying to remember if he’d ever seen a detective without a canine and his mind was coming up blank.