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enkelimagnus · 1 year ago

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Something Stuck In Your Teeth

Read on AO3

True Detective Season 1, Rust/Marty, Rated E

Summary: July 1995, six months since Dora Lange, Marty and Rust are stuck in a sweaty car on a long drive and months of built-up tension come to a crash.

Warnings: The usual warnings that come with Canon True Detective, Period-Typical Homophobia, Anal Sex, Rough Sex, Hallucinations, Slurs

Review from a commenter: "porn, psychoanalysis and violence"

Full text below the cut

Some days, the sticky summer ones that Louisiana cannot help but spread out over May and October, riding in the car like this makes him feel like highway patrol. They’re chasing after someone who broke the rules, in their shirts darkening with sweat, in the stuffy interior where the radio spits out scraps of songs in accents incomprehensible to an Alaska native. Good thing he’s Texan.

The lighter is a pinpoint of sharp, electric heat when he lights his cigarette, barely there in the sludge of heat gathered all around them. Still, Marty looks over at him a fraction of a second, eyes on the red embers, then back to the road.

He knows now what Rust keeps at bay behind the thick screen of cigarette smoke. Cigarettes are guardrails against alcohol and the sort of drugs that made holes in his brain in the first place. Guardrails against the car crash waiting to happen, biding its time in the depths of Rust’s own mind. Aren’t we all glad he’s sticking to that vice and not falling back into the old fever of heroin?

Marty still always glances at him whenever he lights a new one, an evergreen surprise at how many Rust can go through in a day. Every time he feels those eyes on him, burning blue against his lips, he almost bites back.

There’s no escaping the knowing however. Rust cannot put Crash back in his box. They cannot undo Texas, and they cannot erase Ledoux. They would have otherwise.

It’s been six months. It wouldn’t be enough time to stop dreaming about it, if this was the kind of sight they could imagine forgetting. It’s still painfully detailed in the nightmares, always bringing with it the taste of sweat, cocaine and bile and the dead weight of a kid in his arms.

They don’t talk about it, they haven’t talked about it, barely enough to come up with a cover story that doesn’t sound like a toddler’s attempt at deception. It’s a wonder they didn’t realize they were lying and it makes Rust a little sick in the stomach to get confirmation, for the umpteenth time and far from the last, that they can really do whatever the fuck they want as long as it can be worked into someone’s agenda.

There have been two cases since then, easy as pie after Dora Lange, pedestrian and uninventive to say the least. At least Ledoux’s shit had been original, had made rusted-over cogs in his mind wind up again after all this time. It was almost too psychological and evocative for Ledoux, in Rust’s opinion. But his opinion doesn’t count and he’d rather bury his head in the bayou like some fucked up ostrich with a death wish than revisit it. At least not until the dust settles on that poor kid’s grave.

Marty’s been dealing with his own shit, trying to show patte blanche to Maggie and get let in the hen house again. Maggie’s a smart woman, she knows better but Rust knows there’s nothing like the familiarity and unrelentingness of a man like Marty Hart to get that kind of woman back off of the wagon. He’s too charming when he promises the world and peace and to never ever cheat again. He’s too convincing when he says it was a stress fracture and not a character flaw.

Rust doesn’t blame her in the slightest. If anything, sitting in sweaty cars with Marty Hart driving with his sleeves rolled up and his tie pulled down and that cocksure swagger for hours on hand with only cigarettes and the hallucinations for distraction, he’s the closest to getting what his wife goes through than anyone else.

So they haven’t been talking, too wrapped in their own car crash lives. Rust works himself into a frenzy over commonplace horrors and sleeps enough at night to wake up drenched in sweat and doubling over to vomit over the smell of all of it. Or he doesn’t sleep and that kid whose name he can’t seem to remember sits his whole corpse weight on his chest like a Renaissance painter’s favored depiction of sin. Those are the worst nights, and it’s only the weight of a kid, it’s not a grown man like Ledoux and it’s probably easier this way, easier than it could have been.

Some nights it’s Ginger too. Ginger’s just watching most of the time, with his eyes glowing in the dark with ecstasy and bloodlust, it’s red and virulent that look. Crash’s box is open and Ginger may be in prison doing the kind of time a man doesn’t walk out from, but Rust’s brain had been nothing if not punitive since she died.

At least, as long as Maggie is still mad at Marty and keeping him in the dog house, she doesn’t have the opportunity to try and introduce him to more shiny sugary sweet girls from whichever service of the hospital she thinks he’s most likely to be least bored by.

It was weird to him, those handful of double dates he’d been corralled into, cause Maggie was one of the few people out there to look right at him and see the red eyes and she still thought he’d be a good partner for those heart-on-hand, duckies-on-scrubs nurses she’d brought in.

He knows that’s what he needs to be doing. He needs to settle, shed the skin of Crash and wash off the smell of guns and blood and grime and replace it with some pretty girl’s favorite detergent. If he’s got someone expecting him to be normal, then he’ll buy a proper bed frame and open those boxes that have been waiting for long enough to make a baby in the corner of his house.

But what he needs to be doing is never what he wants. He has not an ounce of desire, or even lust, for a pretty girl with curled up hair and bunny scrubs who knows how to stick a needle properly in an arm and how to wash blood off of clothes. He can never tell Maggie what his type is. She’ll set him on fire in the middle of her beautiful, lived in kitchen.

Marty coughs next to him, a bit forced and empty, and Rust knows what he wants before he has to say anything. He rolls down the window and the smoke escapes and the hot air rushes in instead and he can feel his sweat seeping into his shirt in wider and wider aureolas, like blood around a stab wound.

Marty’s eyes flicker back to him, to the cigarette in his mouth, perched between two lips so that Rust could talk, if he ever wanted to. They move away immediately, to black bird feathers on his arm, to the slacks pulled tight and flat over his thighs. He’s seen him looking before. It has gotten worse since Crash. Rust knows he’s shameless when he’s high, and though he wasn’t that high before he left for Texas, he knows it was enough. He remembers pulling up his wifebeater and flexing his muscles, he remembers his leather on Marty’s shoulders.

The electricity of the image still fries the edge of his nerves and makes his blood boil. Marty wore it with innocence, like a cheerleader wearing her footballer boyfriend’s varsity jacket, and the comparison makes Rust’s teeth hurt. It’s that but on cocaine, a claim made in anyone’s eyes but Marty’s seemingly. Any other person, man or woman, with that look and that jacket, Rust would have fucked into the floor of his apartment. He still wanted to sink his teeth into the meat of Marty’s shoulder until he tasted blood. He doubted that urge would ever go away.

It’s an incredibly dangerous train of thought to have here, even with the cigarettes and the sweat and the outside air to cover the smell of him, he knows Marty is close enough to touch, and he knows that Marty’s been staring at his thighs.

The idea of getting caught like this, by Marty who has been looking but would probably react with the calm, peacefulness and self-confidence of a startled bobcat, has the opposite effect to the one desired. Marty’s always hurting for a fight, always grabbing at his shirt and threatening violence. Or at least he fought until he met Crash. Perhaps now he’s afraid that Rust, the crazed fucker, actually gets off on the claws and fangs. Cause he thought, against every reason he should have had, that his violence was intimidating.

Rust does not for a second think Marty would kill him. He might have threatened it a handful of times, called him an asshole enough times that few would believe they’re actually friends, but Rust has grown up with love hidden in ice cold water and silent stares, with care wrapped in barbed wire and splinters of wood from being taught how to build a shelter.

He grew up with two months of pure pitch darkness every winter and his father losing his marbles every day a little more until the sun rose and he could try and pick them up again, and every year there were new ones missing. Insults are more familiar to him than being called baby, and four years of Claire doing just that haven’t done much to dull the strangeness of it all.

Marty could have been lying to his family when he told them he’d never shot someone before, before Ledoux and everything else, but if it wasn’t, it fits in the image painted in Rust’s mind, of this man whose idea of taboo and transgression is fucking a nice girl, pretty and well-adjusted, who works a good job. This isn’t a man Rust will ever really be scared of.

Even if he was, he’s been through too much now not to know intimately that fear cannot reliably keep him from getting off.

So he sits in the car like this, lets his mind spiral deeper and deeper into depravity and thoughts of Marty’s hands shaping bruises onto his skin and burns through his cigarette like God the Son is waiting to put him out of his misery at the end of it.

They’re on their way back from an empty house without a trace of the suspect they’ve been chasing for a couple of days. It’s nothing pressing, nothing the press or the politicians are interested in so they have no pressure coming down outside of the stuff their own consciousness and sense of morals puts on them. Marty’s sense of justice is a twisted thing, a violent thing, but it still burns bright hot and spurs him on. Rust doesn’t have the same idea that they’re cowboys riding in to save the innocents, but he’s nothing if not a blood hound.

Their suspect is being moderately smart, sufficiently elusive to make Rust get slightly interested in this situation and make the endless ride back to Lafayette so much more frustrating. An hour in the sweaty car, an hour for his thoughts to spiral and spiral and he’s staring up at the sky and carrion birds circle and circle over the bayou.

“We’ll find him,” Marty says. “Can’t run forever.”

Rust exhales smoke through the open window. Electric lines blow in the wind like flags to a nation he wishes he wasn’t a citizen of sometimes. Thousands of electrons rushing through to keep computers running and keep money counted and keep the lights on somewhere in a dirty room where someone is doing something horrifying and wrong to another human being.

“Oh I have no doubt about that, Marty,” Rust replies, sighing a little. “He’s a mechanical rabbit at the racing track and we’ll get to the finish line eventually.”

Marty sends him another look that tells him to shut up and Rust fights down a smirk.

“How many laps are we gonna run ‘til we get bored of it and they find they’re not getting enough return on investment and we get too expensive to feed?”

“Jesus, Rust,” Marty mumbles under his breath. “You make doing our job sound....”

“Futile,” Rust completes the sentence for him.

Marty shakes his head and looks back at the road, appropriately and characteristically annoyed. His ego gets bruised whenever Rust says something disparaging about their efforts, something inside him rises up to meet the comments and defend the honor of his profession. It doesn’t trigger that hard-face, set-jawed look of pure rage that accompanies any dream of Ledoux in Rust’s subconscious, but it still elicits a reaction, and Rust does enjoy those moments.

He finishes his cigarette and stubs it out, and reaches for another. Marty rolls his eyes and looks over at him again, stares at his fingers where the cigarette rests, at the pack of camels he’s more than halfway through, at the lighter. He puts it in his mouth and Marty’s eyes follow and for a moment, Rust thinks he should tell him to watch the road.

There’s no one in front of them and Marty drives well, steady and confident, so Rust says nothing. Instead he lights his cigarette and stares back. He sucks in one first deep, burning inhale of tobacco, cheeks hollowing slightly, and Marty barely waits for him to exhale before his hand is reaching over and snatching it out of his mouth.

“You don’t exactly style yourself a man of few words so what’s got into you you saw harm in asking for one, man?”

“Didn’t want one,” Marty has the nerve to answer around Rust’s cigarette.

It feels like some schoolboy’s attempt at starting a fight, and Rust fights the urge to roll his eyes and ignore it. If Marty’s smarting for it, why not give him what he wants, for once? Besides, that’d be a good distraction from the sight of sweaty, glowing skin he can see where Marty’s shirt is open. If he occupies his mouth with a smoke and some words, it’ll keep him from thinking of the salt of it on his tongue.

Marty’s discomfort and frustration start blanketing everything in tight orange light behind Rust’s eyelids while he takes another cigarette out and repeats familiar, instinctive motions.

“Can’t live without one of those in your mouth, can you?” Marty asks, voice a tone louder and a tone sharper, the first crack of whatever storm he wants to throw himself into. “Either that or your pens.”

“Hmm,” Rust acquiesces. “Shrink in Lubbock said oral fixation. Freudian shit. Wasn’t loved enough by my mother. Or maybe too much. Given I haven’t seen her for damn near thirty years I’d theorize it’s likely the former.”

“Thirty?”

Rust doesn’t dignify that with a reply. He knows the simple math occurring in Marty’s head, the card with the comic 3 and 0 in blown up party letters and the box of half stale donuts that Cathleen had brought in that first month in.

She didn’t much care for him but she seemed to think of him with less of that blind animosity and scorn the others had been harboring since he’d walked into the workroom that October of ‘94. He’d never heard her use any nickname for him, in any case, just Cohle, or Detective Cohle. He didn’t aspire to the intimacy Marty seemed to enjoy with his colleagues, so that was perfectly fine by him. He had hated the focus on his age, or on his birthday.

“Anyway, Freud’s been laughed at by every corner of the psychology academic world for the past decade or so, and Lubbock was as close to purgatory you can get this side of the grave but I like the word for it.”

“Makes you sound so well adjusted, all that.”

“Stopped caring about what I sounded like a long time ago, Marty. You should try it out one of these days.”

Marty snorts, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, well here’s one thing that should make you rethink the whole brutal honesty shit. Out of the two of us I’m the only one getting laid.”

“Not right now, you’re not.”

It seems to hit where Rust was aiming it, watching the ripple of tension and anger over Marty, watching the muscle of his jaw jump. He glares at him like Rust’s the one who took his hand and shoved him into bed with Lisa, like he’s the one who ended it messily, like he’s the one who went and told Maggie.

Still, Marty’s eyes linger on his mouth one second too long and Rust can’t help but lick his lips.

“Don’t start giving me shit about the smoking, man,” Rust says after a second, and it sounds so disgustingly plaintive in his mouth that he has the urge to spit out of the window.

Marty rolls his eyes. “You can be such a pussy about ribbing,” he answers without any bite of insult. “Can’t take a joke Cohle should be your new nickname at the station.”

“I had to make the choice between being funny and being myself and I made it.”

“Nah, you chose being a fucking weirdo,” Marty shakes his head. “Staring at people and walking slow and drawing in that ledger of yours like you’re a fucking art student or some shit. Making drawings of the crime scene like they’re paintings and you’re at the Louvre.”

“The Louvre is overrated,” Rusty shrugs, but it’s just about keeping the conversation going now. He can see the muscles flex in Marty’s arm. He’s holding the steering wheel and taking them back home and his arm is a long line of tan skin and powerful hands and muscles flexing at the smallest of motions. It’s hypnotic. ”You’d be a Pigalle man.”

“What’s that?”

“Cabaret land. Moulin Rouge and all the stuff.”

Marty chuckled, that playful grin of unwarranted fucking confidence playing. “Yeah that’s right. You’re right on that one.” He’s seeing them, the topless dancers, playing their revue in his mind right now and his mouth is wetting at the very thought. “Wouldn’t think you’d know much about that. You seem to me like a fully sexless asshole most of the time. Don’t seem to rile you up none.”

Rust huffs. “Right, cause we see some good quality girls on the job. People you’d want to have a fucking relationship with, right?” He shakes his head. “I’m not really interested in the mundanity of a domestic partnership. That hasn’t been my scene for years.”

“People get remarried, you know?” Marty throws his way, a clumsy blow or a clumsy lifeline all the same.

“You tell yourself that ‘cause you’ve been in the dog house for half a year.”

And again, like clockwork, the blow lands. Marty’s arm flexes and his second hand, now free of the cigarette he’d stolen and promptly finished, comes to rest on the wheel as well. Rust stares at them for a second, at tendon and sinew and big, thick, strong fingers with the calluses of guns, how he knows they feel against him, the few times Marty has touched him.

Marty doesn’t know how to touch men, it’s always in violence, and Rust doesn’t mind that at all. He revels in it, at the impossibility Marty has to be any sort of tender with someone that isn’t a woman. It makes the touches, the hits, the strength of those fingers grabbing at him a sacred sort of touch, forbidden and special and he knows Marty feels that way too, from the rush of blood all around his face and neck whenever he holds another man close.

“You gonna stop bringing up my marriage? What’s up with you, are you so fascinated with what goes on in another man’s life?”

“You kept yapping at me about it when I couldn’t care less, and I had made that exceedingly clear,” Rust shrugs. “You brought this on yourself. Besides, you know I don’t care for sex the way you do. There is no use in you trying to hurt me with that.”

“You know they think you’re a fag, right?” Marty spits out like he’s been holding it forever, like he’s been trying not to ask him about it for months. Perhaps he has. Perhaps that came out with Crash too. “At the station.”

“They’re welcome to imagine me as depraved as they’d like if that’s what makes them hard, Marty, that’s none of my concern.”

He can’t exactly rebuke the claims without lying out of his ass, anyway, and he really doesn’t want to engage with any of that.

“Should be your concern, these are your people.”

“One day, you’re gonna fucking learn none of them are my people and they’re barely yours in the first place, then you’re gonna thank me for not being like them.”

“You don’t actually believe in any of that.”

Rust chuckles, blowing smoke towards Marty to add insult to injury. “That you’d thank me? Not for a second,” he replies. “But I know how to live with the reality of things.”

Marty winces and rolls his eyes in an almost simultaneous motion that Rust would find impressive if it wasn’t a common occurrence in this car. The radio between them is spitting static and torn off pieces of songs and it’s starting to grate on Rust’s nerves so he reaches over and turns it off in a sharp, frustrated motion.

“I was listening to that,” Marty complains for the sake of it, for the sake of throwing words in the air and keeping some sort of conversation going. Rust has noticed that habit of his, that even when Marty is begging for him to shut the fuck up he’s also immediately asking for more. It’s like alcoholism to Marty.

“What, the fucking static?”

“Makes more sense than all the nonsense coming out of that mouth of yours, for one.”

Rust shifts, stretching out one of his legs in a slow motion. They spent a grand total of ten minutes out of the car at the guy’s place earlier and the almost hour drive on the way there had been as sweaty and uncomfortable as this and he’s getting restless. He needs to get up and walk but they won’t be back to Lafayette for at least half an hour.

“We should stop at the next rest stop,” he mutters.

“We can just stop by the side of the road if you need to take a leak.”

“You’d have to pull out on one of the side roads, and there are few things I’d rather do more than spend longer than truly necessary in this fucking slow pressure cooker you call a vehicle. Also, I don’t need a leak, I need a walk.”

“What are you, a dog?” Marty bites back in a second, probably delighted by the bait Rust’s thrown his direction.

“If I let you walk me on a leash, are you gonna leave me the fuck alone?”

Marty almost chokes on his own saliva and Rust feels like punching the air in victory. He doesn’t, because he really would let him walk him on a leash before letting him see how much fun he genuinely has with these conversations. The sound of the blinker resounds in the car over the rumbling of the engine and they start inching towards the next exit.

Marty is a tense line of discomfort next to him still, even as he sighs and shifts and attempts to regain control over himself, or over the conversation. He hates not having the last word, something Rust constantly robs him off.

Turns out the heat is worse once they slow down onto the smaller roads, which shouldn’t come as a shocker considering wind has a lot to do with temperature perception. Still, Rust exhales heavily and lets his head fall back against the headrest of his seat.

The humidity makes every smell in this little box of metal and plastic a thousand times more present and he can swear he would be able to tell exactly what icecream flavor Audrey and Macie have had last time they were in here, if he wasn’t just smelling Marty.

Rust swallows, and it doesn’t do anything to help. His mind is clouded with thoughts of orange for the tension here, of long oval shapes and dripping water and broken faucets breaking silence every once in a while in the most infuriating way.

He senses, more than he sees, Marty’s eyes on his throat as he swallows again. Perhaps he is doing it on purpose now, riling him up in a different way than before, but there is one thing he can trust, it’s that Marty’s too repressed of an asshole to even consider doing anything about it.

That is the beauty of men like Marty Hart. They chase drugged up and slow prey out in the woods and get a thrill out of it like they did any sort of work. Men that don’t know the first thing about proper hunting, who don’t know the smell of blood from the smell of cheap liquor. They feel like riling up a bear in a zoo, safe behind the protection of glass. Except society’s got such a tight, terrified grip on them that they’re never going to leave their cage.

Rust will mention the divorce a thousand times before he ever thinks about bringing up Mary’s eyes on him. He still sees them though. They feel like fire and like iron, like the taste of blood in his teeth from biting or from getting punched in the face. Like danger and like power. Like one of Ginger’s mixes, the ones he cannot trust he’ll ever come back down from. Probably one of the ones that punched holes into his brain in the first place.

“Humans obstinate in settling in the worst places for humanity’s survival,” Rust starts talking, slow and lazy with the heat of the summer, partially because all that sweat is making him think of the biting cold of Alaska, partially because the tension is orange and he hates orange. It feels artificial anywhere but in the sky and the peel of a fruit. “We settle in the swamps and the tundra and the desert and expect it to allow us in.”

Marty sighs, long-suffering by his side. “Well, it hasn’t done us too much harm yet, right? We’ve been going on for that long, must be for a reason. Nature can’t want us dead that badly.”

“I think we want ourselves dead,” Rust licks his lips. “We’re control freaks. We see the world as something to dominate because it’s the only thing that keeps the pulsion of death away. If we own the world, the world won’t be able to hurt us. So we fill out the swamps and genocide mosquitos, we throw sands into the sea and make islands for more of us to populate. We farm every inch of land, we drown valleys to make electricity. We control… because we’re afraid of who we are without possession.”

Marty works his jaw in a tight motion and Rust sees something there, the cocky jut of chin when talking to a girl, the bills slipped in a young prost’s hand, the need to have a wife and a mistress at once.

“Like you,” he says, and Marty’s eyes find his in the mirror, and they’re sharp like knives and wide. “You can’t deal with the idea of not owning… Maggie, or Lisa.”

“Don’t fucking talk about my wife like she’s an object.”

It’s a warning, a crackle of thunder before the strike of lightning, and Rust takes it in stride and rises to the occasion, a snake ready to strike.

“Let me ask you, Marty, is she not, to you? You put that ring on her finger and you almost beat me up for mowing your lawn, or for implying I could know what her pussy smells like. But still, you can’t deal with her owning you. It’s own or be owned and the idea of being possessed terrifies you.”

It’s dangerous territory, talking about Maggie like that. Rust hasn’t tried to cross that line since the case, since that day he went and mowed the lawn. He knows what men like Marty do to the ones who threaten their hold on their women.

Marty glares at him in the mirror. There it is, the hard, violent set of his face into a hard, flat surface, the righteous fury of a strong man of Southern belief overcome.

“I’m not going to dignify that bullshit you’re cooking up in that junkie head of yours with a response.” Marty hisses back. He never brings up Rust’s habits, the ones he’s aware of at least, so that’s when Rust realizes truly what he’s done.

He slumps back into the seat and looks away at the flatland and the low cane fields, raised arteries of pipes in the distance like deep vein thrombosis. The menace laps at Rust’s bones and settles into him but the heat around them is electric and immediately more pleasant than the wet sluggishness of before.

“This one up to your standards, princess?”

Rust almost jumps out of his skin. The words are tight with tension but innocuous on the surface. Marty jerks his chin towards the rest stop coming right in front of them, old and half deserted and Rust can see metaphorical tumble weeds in between the two trucks and one beat-up suv.

“Just pull over,” he sighs at the nickname. He’s deserved it. He can’t help the smirk pulling at the side of his mouth. Thankfully for him, he can disguise it by shoving another cigarette in his mouth. He’s running low, too. “I’ll go in, pay and get a pack. You need anything?”

Marty pulls up by one of the pumps and shakes his head. “Nah. Take your time, stretch your legs, do whatever you need to be less of a dick when you come back, if it’s at all possible.”

Rust opens the door and stretches himself out of the car, his back popping satisfyingly. Fucking hell, he feels like he’s been curled up in a ball like a forgotten first draft of a teenage love letter.

“Not making any promises,” he calls back, and starts walking towards the little building before Marty’s even properly out of the car.

The place looks unsteady, like any strong wind would pull it off and fly away with it, let alone one of the hurricanes that always seems to threaten Louisiana. It’s deserted and smells like gasoline and piss, and someone probably spilled a beer a few hours ago. There is something disgustingly familiar with all of it.

The kid at the counter has probably seen more insane shit than most of the CID detectives and watches him walk him with a placid stare and a chewing gum stuck somewhere in his mouth. It reminds Rust of the cows looking up from the side of the road when they drove past fields with their bikes, and it’s an unkind and unfair comparison, but he’s never going to actually say it to the guy’s face so what is being said in his brain is between him and whatever’s waiting for him after he dies. He doubts the maggots care much for kindness.

“Pump 2 and a pack of Camels, Blue,” Rust calls out at the counter instead of a hello.

There’s no response, just a slow stretch of a body and some footsteps. Rust doesn’t actually mind for the moment, the place has a fan angled just right and he catches some of the stale air being moved around, and it actually feels better than being out there in the hell they call Louisiana summers. Sweat is cooling on his neck and under his shirt. He’s going to need a hell of a shower.

He throws a glance behind him and sees Marty at the back of the car, pumping gas back into the tank. They’re still half full, but there’s a habit in the force, keeping tanks full. Marty’s not looking down where he’s aiming, he’s staring at Rust. The look of danger is still there. Is this what the bulls Marty rode as a young man saw when they came into the arena? If he’d been them, Rust would’ve ran away.

He throws a tenner on the counter while he waits for the kid to go grab his smokes from Turkey itself, if the length of the trip is anything to go by. When he comes back, the eyes of the kid linger on the piece on Rust’s hip, obviously state-issued.

“Anything I need to worry about in the area?” He asks, and Rust wonders if he still has acne scars.

“Just stopping for a refill,” Rust shrugs. “You get any trouble lately?” He’s not highway patrol, but he’s hardwired and a hunting dog like the best of them, and there’s no reason for him not to ask, not really.

“None I can’t handle,” the kid grabs the money and slides over the pack of cigarettes. “Anything else?”

Behind Rust, the bells over the door ring.

If he wanted anything else, he’d have said so when he first came in, but perhaps getting in a fight with the first non-Marty person he encounters in an hour time isn’t the best way to get out his restless energy.

“Nah, I’m go-”

“Any of your showers free?” Marty’s voice comes out, washing over Rust’s shoulder. It’s such an out of pocket comment that it makes both him and the kid frown. “You need a rinse, man,” he continues and Rust feels a shiver run down his spine. It’s a statement and a threat at the same time, absolutely not a question.

The kid glances between the two of them. “Huh… yeah we’re all empty right now.”

Marty adds another tenner on the counter without asking how much it is. The kid either keeps the change or Marty’s been right on the money.

The towel Rust is handed has seen better years. So has the shower products, beaten up little bottles that barely contain anything anymore. There’s an odd sort of tension curdling in the silence here. The fan is background noise that doesn’t help his nerves. The taste of copper pennies fill his mouth.

Marty asks where the toilets are, gets the answer they're right next to the showers. He follows Rust in that direction, a shadow looming over him, filled with that anger he’s brought forth in the car and that has now escaped containment.

The shower room he’s been handed the key to is tiled in those beige tiles that will never look clean no matter how much bleach is used. It has a sink and a bench and Rust throws the towel down on it.

And then, he waits. There is simply no way this is about him needing a shower. They’ve seen each other covered in more than sweat, in blood and mud and brain matter. So he stands there and faces the door straight on. He’ll take what comes.

Marty comes in a minute or two later, because Rust didn’t lock the door. Why would he? This entire place is deserted and the kid at the counter doesn’t seem like the type to try and go through a cop’s things while he showers.

They stare at each other. Marty’s bull-headed and red in the face, blue eyes so intense Rust tastes cold mint that burns into his gums and makes him run his tongue over his teeth to quiet the feeling down.

This is Marty’s attempt at regaining control, whatever is about to happen, whatever he paid to do in this room where there’s no camera and nowhere to hide and the necessary instruments to clean yourself off. Rust feels cornered. It’s not entirely unappealing. He’s never seen Marty quite like this, with a metaphorical cloud of anger squeezed out of every pore, hovering over the both of them.

Adrenaline rushes up his spine and down into his groin at the same time, facing down Marty Hart like this, unarmed in every way but physical. He swallows again.

“Reminds me of my first day, you and I in a shower room,” he starts.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Marty lunges at him before he’s got time to do anything or say anything more and Rust brings his hands up to defend himself immediately, squaring up like this is a proper fight cordoned off on a ring somewhere, with a referee making sure they don’t kill each other. This is a shower room in a gas station though, and the only referee here is God, and that guy doesn’t have a good track record in keeping people from murdering each other. No, he usually just watches, the voyeuristic bastard.

Rust braces for a hit, for a fist to collide, for anything, so it takes him entirely, shamefully by surprise when he feels hands wrapping around both his wrists. Mary shoves him back, hard, holding his hands in vice-like grips until Rust’s back collides with the wall.

Marty presses against his front, shoves his arms up over his head and weighs his whole grown man, corn fed weight onto Rust until he feels his shoulder blades scrape against the tile painfully.

“Yeah, I like owning shit,” Marty hisses, so close that Rust sees teeth and feels his breath on his mouth. He’s so close he could kiss him without even trying.

It doesn't remind him of that first day, of meeting Marty over a locker aisle, of watching him like he was watching every single new face and like they were watching him, trying to figure out if he was one of them, how dangerous he was to their pecking order, how entertaining it would be to bully him into submission.

It does remind him of that day, the morning after Marty’s tryst with the court stenographer, the first sign of that telltale panic-addled violence that Marty wielded like a shield against accusations of weakness. This is the same violence, the same need to be the bigger man, the same desire to put Rust back in his place and just like that other day, a brilliant shard of need lodges himself down in Rust’s groin and stays there, radiating and burning all at once.

He wasn’t always like that, he tells himself on these occasions, when he takes his pulse and tries to quiet himself down. He tells himself that this, the need that comes with the violence, is a residue of Crash, one of the habits formed undercover that will never quite go away, like the chain smoking, like the lack of self control, like the sleeplessness. The truth is that he’s always been a bit of a wild thing when it comes to people, and always liked to play at lust like he’s being tamed, but it’s easier to remember Crash than to remember Claire, these days.

Marty presses him into the wall and he can’t help the small, delicate and absolutely pathetic sound of pleasure that escapes him at the pressure, at the weight, at the feel of a strong, violent body trapping him between the wall and itself. Marty’s eyes get so wide, so blue, and so fucking satisfied Rust immediately wants to punch him to wipe that look off of his face. That’s when he starts to fight back.

He pulls his knee up hard, colliding right in Marty’s groin and sending him doubling over with a yowl of pain. His hands loosen their grip and triumphant, Rust slips out of there and slides to the side. That oughta be enough to calm him down. Marty’s seen enough of him, knows enough of him, to know how lethal he can be if he’s pushed just right.

“What are you tryna do?” He asks, breathing a little harder than before. His mouth is still dry and he’s half hard in his stupid slacks now. He can hear his heart beating like a marching drum and the walls taste like ink and paper, like a case file and old polaroid pictures.

Marty’s face is bright red and there’s a vein popping on his sweaty forehead, and Rust could swear he’s snarling like a fucking dog and that’s when he remembers the sound of the door locking, and he’s still trapped.

Marty plants his feet widely apart, raises his hand in a gesture that would seem comforting if it wasn’t for the sting of those marks those hands undoubtedly burned into Rust’s wrists.

“Take what you’re offering,” he has the nerve to reply before he lunges again.

This time he’s coming for his face. Rust lifts his arms again to protect himself and feels fingers around his wrists again, pulling them apart, and then Marty’s mouth collides against his. It’s scratchy and wet and hot, full of teeth. He feels the door against his back in a second, Marty’s assault unwavering, but when Marty presses their bodies together this time, Rust can feel hardness against him and he knows that they’re both in the same fucked up train together, destination guilty, shameful orgasm. So he moans like a fucking whore into Marty’s mouth and gets pain, sharp and tangy for his effort, when Marty bites his lip enough to draw blood.

The taste of iron and knives explode in his mouth and he’s almost dizzy with it, vision going red, and he kisses back fully, as angry as Marty, and much more clumsily. He doesn’t have Marty Hart’s notches in his bedpost and he can hardly remember the last time he’s kissed someone while sober, but he gives, and gives.

The fingers around his wrist tighten again, a warning of danger he dismisses immediately. Marty takes a step back, that bull-headed look still on him, and twists his wrist cruelly until Rust lets himself be moved, be turned around and pulled until they’re back against the tiles of the shower and this time his front is pressed against the cool ceramic and he can taste the limestone scales all over them and smell bleach. His right arm is twisted behind his back now, used as leverage by Marty, his partner, his opponent in this, to keep him pressed against the wall.

Marty’s free hand is shoving down his front to his belt and undoing it with only slightly clumsy motions. He’s one long line of weight and heat against Rust’s back, hard cock pressed into his ass and he must be fucking dreaming, because that’s Marty Hart, shoving his pants and underwear down roughly, that’s Marty Hart, rutting against his ass like a teenager, breathing against his neck like a predator, grumbling words under his breath Rust can’t hear from how hard he’s breathing and how loud his heartbeat is.

He’s a fucking fool and a clown for believing Marty was too repressed to do something about the game Rust has played, for thinking there was only one violent path for Marty to take to deal with his feelings. No, there’s a second path, because men have been using violence and power to dominate other men without fearing for their masculinity for millenia and Marty Hart’s not better than any sort of ancient greek philosopher.

This is the one way Marty would allow himself to feel this, to act on this: domination and possession. Ownership, once again, and Rust can’t help but laugh against the tile, watch his breath fog up the beige surface as his pants fall down around his knees and Marty’s hand grabs his ass with immeasurable greed.

“This is funny to you?” Marty snarls into his ear and digs his fingers in the flesh of Rust’s ass and the sound that comes out of his mouth is another one for the record.

He lets go of him and fingers press against Rust’s lips instantly, begging for entry. He doesn’t allow it at first, fighting back in the one way he can, even if he’s rock hard now, and would be begging for it if either of them was anyone else. Marty twists his arm up a bit further and Rust gasps out in pain.

Immediately, two fingers are shoved into his mouth and his tongue is already lathering them in all the spit he can muster.

“Oral fixation my ass,” Marty chuckles. “Big words to say you’re just a fucking slut, Rust.”

He’s playing tough and big and in power, but Rust can hear the wavering in his voice, can feel how hard he is against his ass, knows he’s just as affected by this. Marty can’t deal with this without making it about possession, and Rust doesn't really mind being a man possessed. That’s his favorite fucking role.

Marty shoves his fingers deeper into Rust’s mouth and he can feel the weight of them scratching too deep, too sudden and his entire body contracts and he gags, trying to expel the intrusion. Marty doesn’t insist and pulls them out immediately, satisfied with his own little trick and Rust would rather die than admit he immediately misses it, misses the feel of them, strong and meaty on his tongue.

They’re glistening and drenched in saliva and that’s all for the better because, as Rust suspected, he feels them rough and sudden against his hole barely a second later. Marty’s confident at this, he’s done this before, of course he has. Rust’s pretty sure he’s heard him talk about it before, about doing it in the ass with some girl who wanted to stay a virgin on a technicality and how he’d been such a big man to agree. The closest to taboo Marty had ever gotten before this, before now, before the rest stop and Rust.

There's a victory in that, in being the one that’s made Marty Hart, poster child for masculinity, bend right out of the good straight path.

Marty’s not searching for his prostate, it's obvious that it’s not something he usually worries about, so when he finds it, it’s a shock to the system, a wave of blinding red pleasure surging through him and his dick jerks against the wall.

“Fuck, Marty,” he groans, low and needy. “Fuck.”

Marty lets go of his arm then and Rust has half a second to use it to brace himself against the wall before the fingers previously crushing it tangle in his hair and pull. Rust hisses under his breath but doesn’t fight it, he doesn’t want to fight any of it anymore, not in any way that would get him out. What he wants is more.

He’s starting to vibrate out of his skin so he goes and claws at his tie until it slips out of his shirt and fumbles out of that too, so there’s just the wifebeater on now, and his pants and underwear trapped at his ankles and the heat is just so much easier to deal with.

Marty immediately starts kissing the skin of his shoulder, the junction of shoulder and neck revealed now that he’s shoved the trappings of professionalism off. It’s just kisses for now, almost soft and tender and exploring and tasting the salt from Rust’s skin, lazy and unfocused because Marty’s focusing on something else right now, and honestly, so is Rust.

He’s got two fingers inside of him, moving continuously in the express purpose of loosening him up to take Marty Hart’s mythical cock, barely wet now that Rust’s spit has dried up. It’s raw and almost uncomfortable but then his prostate gets a graze of nail and he’s seeing stars. The pace slows for a few minutes, this is just preparation both physical and otherwise, for the main event. Rust is shivering with anticipation.

He wishes he could see Marty’s face right now, because violence has always been an incredibly attractive look on Marty Hart’s face, it makes him sparkle and come alive in a way that makes Rust lick his lips and stare, even when he’s sober. Marty at the Longhorn, jealous that his mistress was entertaining another man, dancing with his wife but unable to look away from the other woman, was a sight Rust has to admit he’s been carrying around in his head since then.

Will Marty become as possessive over him once they’re done here? Will he glare at any woman that tries to flirt up Rust, stare over the table as Maggie tries to set him up again? Will he come crashing into his door in the middle of the night to punish him for wanting someone else? Rust’s dripping pre onto the tile now, and there’s gonna be a picture painted there once they’re done, foggy breath and blood from his beaten lip and semen and sweat.

“You gotta fuck me now, Marty,” he says, trying so very hard to keep his voice steady, to keep his drawl lazy, to not entirely unveil that he’s begging for it. “I can take whatever you’re packing.”

He’s seen what that is a handful of times, not in detail but in a glance in the locker room of the station, on mornings Marty came in to shower, smelling like sex and beer and mistakes and in yesterday's clothes. Marty walks around with that confidence, with that wide stance that’s just boasting to the world that he’s armed to the fucking teeth, and from what Rust was able to catch on those days, he’s not fucking lying about it.

So it’s gonna be a tight squeeze no matter what, fingers or not, without lube outside of spit, but that’s fine, Rust can deal with that, he’s been fucking men for years in states of sobriety where he could barely remember his own name, in states where he could barely remember the boundaries of his own body were real and not imagined and imposed on him by some sort of arbitrary lottery.

Marty pulls out his fingers for a second, a second of loss and emptiness that makes Rust almost lose all fucking dignity. He can’t see what Marty’s doing but he hears spitting and then a bigger intrusion, but not what he actually wants. It’s three fingers this time, and his chest gets a little tight with it, because despite everything he says, everything he’s thinking, it’s been a while. He’s not as sexless as Marty says, but he’s sure less dominated by his impulses than most men he knows. He’s sure that doesn’t help his reputation.

Sounds fall from his lips, gasps and moans as quiet as he can keep them, but they bounce over the tile and Marty snorts in disbelief behind him.

“Had no idea you’d be so fucking needy,” he mutters, and then his mouth is back on Rust’s skin, teeth grazing in barely-there bites on his shoulder. He can feel sweat dripping down his spine and he wonders if Marty’s tasting it too, and if he likes it. All bets are off now on what Marty Hart actually likes. “But you know, figures. You talk like a guy about to die from loneliness, all that fucking philosophy’s just a cry for help. Please someone come deliver Poor Rustin Cohle from his suffering and fuck the brains out of him so he’ll shut up for once.”

“Fuck off, Marty.” That one lands like a blow in Rust’s chest and he shifts, tries turning around, ego bruised. “Not all us happy to let our brain rot out of our fucking ears.”

The hand in his hair pulls hard, making him keen in Marty’s grip, his back bowing. He can feel his hair getting ripped out of his fucking skull and for a moment, a bright flash of fear burns through him, because the wall is right there, and Marty’s got the perfect leverage to start bashing his head against it.

The hand slips out of his hair though and he breathes out one sigh of relief before it comes right up to clock him in the back of the head. The blow resounds in his skull like church bells on a fucking sunday.

“How many times will have I have to tell you to shut the fuck up before it takes, huh?”

Despite the tone, the hissing like a snake in Rust’s ear, the hitting, his fingers inside of him are all but gentle. He’s not forcing anything, he’s not going quite as fast as Rust would like him to do. He seems to give a fuck how hard a time Rust’s going to have sitting the rest of the way in the car, and Rust’s a cynical asshole enough to think that’s because he doesn’t want to deal with his squirming.

“Probably just one more time.”

Rust can feel Marty’s eye roll behind him, the force of his annoyance and judgment clear enough to taste. He pulls his fingers out and slaps Rust’s ass hard. It’s supposed to be a punishment. It’s a sharp, bright, wonderful heat against his skin. Rust fucking moans like a whore to it.

He’s keyed up so high he’s gonna blow his load before Marty even starts fucking him at this rate.

“If you don’t start fucking me,” Rust sighs, breath heavy. His heart is hammering in his chest, beating bright red against the beige tile. “I’m just gonna blow my load and leave you dry. Your window’s closing.”

Marty’s hand lands heavy on the back of his neck. It’s steadying, like petting a horse that’s just done spooking and Rust hates it and loves it equally. These are hands that comfort, hands that settle down, hands of a guy who won trophies for not getting bucked off broncos, hands of a guy with football jerseys and shiny buckles and medals. Rust is sweaty and panting and wide-eyed and he’s a wild horse Marty’s about to mount and being treated as such.

He can hear Marty’s breathing too and the heat coming off of him and he knows he’s affected as much as him, at least he hopes so. He hopes this isn’t just him being torn half apart with need, that Marty isn’t just humoring him.

The wrapper of a condom rips behind him. Rust freezes immediately, back going tight as a fucking bowstring. Marty’s thumb on his neck starts stroking, petting. Comforting. That is an insult, bitter in Rust’s mouth. Marty’s the one for whom this is a new experience. He should be the one getting gentled.

“Would fuck you bare but I honestly don’t trust you to be clean,” Marty mutters behind him.

He went through the whole battery of tests after Port of Houston, once they got him in a hospital. They needed to, after all. Four years of various drugs making their way into his body through various means, risky sex, blood and the weird rituals of gangs and bike clubs, there was cause for concern. He could have been as riddled with colorful shit as a Jackson Pollock.

“I’m only 50% sure I am.” Too out of it with pain and with withdrawal, they could have been telling him he was pregnant with the second coming of Christ, he wouldn’t have remembered.

“Jesus, Rust,” Marty whispers, but then he’s pressing in.

That hand on the back of his neck becomes an anchor point to Rust. Marty goes slow, and the condom’s helping, but a part of Rust can’t help but buck against it, go tight against the intrusion, wonder whether this is a good idea at all. It’s hard to think with the hurt of it, three fingers and no lube whatsoever except the trivial amount layered onto that condom and his chest feels hollow and thin. He smells rubber like burnt tires in the back of his nostrils, tastes it like a bad wine.

Marty starts petting down his spine, soothing, gentle and the worst part of it is it helps. Rust exhales, deep and slow, forcing his chest to expand, forcing his body to stop focusing on the parts that feel wrong and start focusing on the rest of it. He pulls the curtain of pain apart and dives into the rest of it, into the fire pulling into his lower stomach, into the fullness and the weight and suddenly the pain becomes salt in a fucking cake batter, a flavor enhancer. It feels fucking fantastic. His brain is lighting up like a Christmas tree.

Marty’s fingers on his hip tighten, he groans into Rust’s ear, breathy and strained and fulled of repressed need and that’s when Rust realizes how gentle the other man’s been, how considerate, how fucking caring he’s acting right now. Absolutely the fuck not.

He braces himself, puts his forearms against the wall and rests his forehead on them, just so he can turn his head and throw a glance back at the man currently balls-deep inside of him. Marty’s red in the face, breathing like a bull, blue eyes hazy with pleasure and pent-up rage and he’s beautiful in a way that Rust has never seen and has always hoped to see.

He catches a blink of himself in the mirror behind him too, drenched in sweat and wide-eyed and flayed open like a carcass on the side of the road and he averts his eyes immediately.

“Stop being a pussy and fuck me, Hart,” he snarls against the wall. “Leave your bedside manner for your fucking wife.”

The sound Marty makes as he starts to finally, finally fuck him, is animalistic and outraged and Rust would give his left arm to be able to hear it again one day. All that gentleness is gone, the hand on the back of his neck no longer reassuring but digging nails into his skin as if to keep him in place.

This is the endgame to what they’ve been playing, not that sentimental bullshit. They’re in a truckstop, god fucking damnit, this is no place for care and gentle and taking time to make sure everything is okay for everyone and Rust would much rather it not be that way. This will be easier for Marty to rationalize later, to excuse as part of his temper. This will make it easier for Rust to deal with in the aftermath, and he does get off on it something wicked too.

It’s fucking fantastic. Marty fucks him hard, and fast and Rust bucks back against him every time and they somehow manage to move in a way that makes Marty nail his prostate pretty regularly which feels like a miracle cause he’s not even trying to please Rust at this point. Rust should probably be ashamed of the noises he’s making, hungry, raw and so full of need he can hardly recognize his own voice when it bounces against the tiles right back into his ear.

All that glorious temper of Marty’s funneled right into this, into the digging of his fingers into Rust’s hipbone, into the hard thrusts of his hips against his ass and it burns hot like a wildfire in the prairie in July.

Marty’s mumbling – “so good, so tight, take it, you love it” – sounds like prayer, like worship and Rust’s closed his eyes, focused on the pleasure like crashing waves rocking through him.

“Marty.”

It’s ripped out of his throat, pleading and desperate and disgusting. He feels lips against his shoulder again, and then teeth. Marty bites him, hard, mean, staking his claim and punishing him in one fucking go and Rust can’t help it. He comes with a shout, body going stiff like he’s been electrocuted because it feels exactly like that, like being ripped apart.

Marty’s draped over him, hard and heavy and hot, mouth still against his shoulder and arm around his waist holding him there, in place, underneath him and curled into him and then he’s coming too, in jagged thrusts and ugly breaths and Rust feels him so deep inside it feels like he can taste it. His mouth is filled with salt and iron.

The coming down is atrocious. Rust’s starting to pick up the shredded edges of himself and Marty’s not even pulling out yet, going soft inside of him, when the red droplets of blood on the wall start to expand.

He watches, he sees, he tastes the blood roll like fat tears on the beige tiles, cover them in crimson, and he knows it’s not real, and he knows he’s shaking, shivering from head to toe, because Marty makes a sound of worry.

“‘M fine,” he croaks out, raw and tight still and watches a blood stain the exact shape of his body form in front of him. He watches, because there’s no use in closing his eyes, he’ll see it anyway. He just lets it roll through him.

Marty pulls out, but he’s still there, petting his sides, firm and praising and Rust wants to yell at him to stop treating him like a fucking animal but he’s been begging for it the whole time and he’ll be damned if it’s not pleasant to be handled like this.

Rust shoves off his shoes and socks and discards all the clothing he’s been still wearing, still facing the abomination in the shape of a man that stains the tiles in front of him, still shaking like he’s coming down from a trip. His brain certainly thinks he is.

Marty steps away to throw away the condom so Rust just steps under the shower head and turns it on and watches the gore of blood and semen get washed off the wall and off his own skin. It’s burning hot and too much and he’s still feeling out of it in the most wonderful way possible, so he just extends a hand out to Marty.

Their eyes meet for the first time. Armageddon’s come and gone since they’ve last faced each other. They’re breathing hard. Marty’s soft cock is still hanging out of his pants, obscene and divine at the same time. They watch each other for a moment and Rust briefly wonders what he looks like to Marty, now that he’s fucked out and coming down and glistening with sweat and blood. Is this appealing to him? Are men like Rust, tall and always hungry-looking a turn on?

It’s not exactly a look Rust cultivates per-se, he used to be less wild and lean when he was a father, when he was a husband, when he was a person. Alaska never raised him curvy and soft, but he was still more of a man back then, he had more shape, more substance. Is that what Marty likes in a man?

What Marty likes shouldn’t matter. What they just did is not about liking, not about compatibility or even not about desire. It was about power, about possession, about instinct.

And Rust’s washing it off now, feeling the sting of hot water on the bite mark on his shoulder, and extending his hand to Marty. Asking him to come wash off the stink of animals with him, so they can go back to being people.

Marty ends up accepting.

The kid at the counter doesn’t make eye contact when they walk out, hair wet and only wearing their wife beaters. It’s too warm to bother with the layers they’ve already shed so they’re carrying them, all the pretense of civility creased in their hands. Marty’s red, embarrassed and glancing around at Rust every so often, like he’s trying to figure out when Rust will break and start sputtering around in shame and discomfort.

Unfortunately for him, Rust’s so well-acquainted with shame, and with his own self. All he’s craving now is a cigarette. His ass complains when he sits down in the car and he knows the rest of the day is going to be absolute torture. He lights his cigarette and sprawls himself onto his seat, legs extended as much as they’ll go, leaning back. He’s tired now, it’s crashing down on him and lulling him into laziness.

“Good call,” Rust says after a while, once they’re back on the road.

Marty goes red again but before he can say anything, Rust quiets him down. “The shower, I mean. It was a good call.”

Marty hums, noncommittal, and focuses on the road again. Rust doesn’t keep himself from drinking in the sight of him again, but it’s lazier now, slower, more satisfied. There’s less electricity. He’s sated, full and warm with it, but Marty driving is like a window into a pastry shop in Paris, and sometimes it’s exciting to just watch.

Marty catches him in the side mirror and this time he doesn’t immediately look away. They stare at each other this way for a moment, until Marty licks his lips. Rust’s got blood dried on his, he tastes it when he imitates the gesture.

“I never really believed what you were saying about yourself,” Rust says after a moment. “Ego-stroking’s par for the course in the machismo-riddled spaces we orbit, but… The experience’s not disappointing.”

“Goddamn, you’d think getting fucked like that would get you to talk normal, but hey, you keep surprising me.”

Cigarette smoke rises between them, teasing, light. Rust swallows around the taste of ash and tobacco. His hair is almost dried by now, curled up a little tighter than usual.

“Did this surprise you?”

Marty takes a long time to reply. “Only… half of it. Always pegged you for queer. Can’t be spitting all that bullshit about not wanting humanity to reproduce, about how men and women aren’t supposed to work outside of making kids without a guy starting to notice a trend.”

For once in his fucking life, Rust has nothing to answer to that. He opens and closes his mouth like an oxygen-deprived fish and just stares openly at Marty. He’s always been some shade of queer, long before he started being a pessimist, but that’s not a fight he wants to start today.

“Those are… philosophical viewpoints that have nothing to do with my sexual preferences, but I can see how you’d… come to that conclusion.”

Marty sends him another long look but doesn’t start arguing about philosophy and sexuality and all of it. He doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on, Rust has pulled him in and they’re both sinking into the bayou together now.

Rust warned him months ago, he’s not apologetic about his nature these days, and he hasn’t been in a really, really long time. He doesn’t know when it happened, as much as the fact it did, one day, he stopped being ashamed of the burning in his gut at the sight of men like the lumberjacks that’d come work the forest around his childhood home at the end of winter.

Marty will hopefully, for his sake, get there one day.

“Always like ‘em crazy…” Marty mumbles under his breath, shaking his head, tired of his own bullshit for once.

Rust hums in answer, pulls at the cigarette in his mouth and inhales deep, watching the ember glow red and the ash lengthen at the end of it. He has a brand new pack to get to anyway, and he needs to put something in his mouth right now, needs the comfort of it, the burn, all that’s keeping him awake and sharp and focused. It’s a crutch, he knows it.

Marty glances towards him again and Rust can feel the game slide back into place already, the push and pull of insults and glances. He’d thought it would take longer.

“It goes without saying… No one can know.”

Rust huffs. “Who would I have to tell this to? Geraci? Give me a fucking break, Marty.”

There is only one way telling would end and Rust already has a terrible relationship with everyone but Marty. He can’t find it in himself to care what the rest of those macho assholes think of him. They had him pegged on day one and have not budge since. Of course, getting saddled with a guy from out of state with redacted files and no homicide experience must have been a blow but it isn’t like the Lafayette State Police station was a wildly interesting place to begin with. At least he brought novelty.

“I used to have friends, you know?”

Marty snorts, and Rust would feel insulted if he had no self-awareness whatsoever. He knows how it sounds.

“Are we counting the moose you spent your childhood going to school with in Alaska?”

“I do have to correct you on that one, Marty, I went to school with bears, not moose. Very different educational system.”

They chuckle and Rust rolls his eyes but it’s fond and comfortable for once. The tension between them has snapped, whatever had been building since Rust walked in in October, exacerbated by Texas and Crash and Dora Lange. If Rust had known it would take a good fuck to get them to settle down into a normal sort of relationship, he would have blown Marty on the side of the road within a week.

“In robbery,” Rust starts again. “I had people. Never like you have people, I was never a charmer. My old man made sure of that.”

He’s musing now, thinking back to those first years on the force, a rookie in his twenties, too eager and too smart for his own good. He’s always had a mouth on him, and a disdain for authority he’s certain is actually hereditary at this point. For some godforsaken reason, Paul and Ruddy at robbery had not balked at his northern attitude and his stories of bowhunting caribou and watching the sky come alive like a drug trip in the winters.

He had people who came over for dinner and sweet tea, people who were by his side when Claire called to tell him she’d gone into labor. People he could trust to have his back. Paul’s teenage daughter Kathy would babysit the handful of times they tried to get away from the house for a date.

And then…

“You know, you could try,” Marty points out, only half-hearted. “Sure, Geraci will never let you be anything but a crony, but Lutz is… a good man.”

Rust sends him a look that must show exactly what he’s thinking because Marty immediately raises a hand and recounts his words.

They settle back into the silence and the smoking but Marty doesn’t turn the radio back on. The highway’s getting more populated as they drive back into Lafayette. It looks like a nature documentary, herds of animals gathering around the watering hole.

They pull up into the parking lot and Rust reaches for his shirt before they get out. There’s a burning bite mark on his trapezius that no one else needs to see and a bruise around his right wrist slowly forming. His whole body complains when he unfolds himself from the passenger seat. He huffs unhappily and slams the door of the car. One of them needs to start carrying lube. Of course, they could just never do this again but Marty doesn’t know the meaning of self-restraint and Rust…

They walk towards the station and Marty clasps his hand over Rust’s shoulder, right where the bite mark is, firm and heavy and sending burning shards of pain through his entire right arm. He squeezes lightly over it, possessive, and that’s all Rust needs to know that this? Is going to happen again.

Marty Hart likes owning shit, and somehow Rust willingly just added his name onto the ever growing list of his kills. He’s coming home back to his lair with the limp carcass of his partner in his jaws and when he sets him down he’s still licking his lips clean of his blood. Unfortunately for Marty, he’s chosen Rust to play with now and Rust is nothing if not persistent. He’s going to be trying to get rid of him every day but he’ll stay stuck in his teeth no matter what.

#rust cohle #true detective #marty hart #rustmarty #rust x marty #true detective fic

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cemerplayground · 1 month ago

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Playgrounds are essential spaces where children can have fun, socialize, and develop physical skills. However, safety is a top priority when designing playground structures for parks. In this guide, we’ll explore the best safe playground equipment, materials, and design tips to ensure a child-friendly and secure play environment.

Why Safe Playground Structures Matter

A well-designed playground minimizes injury risks while maximizing fun. Key factors include:

Durable, non-toxic materials

Impact-absorbing surfaces (rubber, sand, or wood chips)

Age-appropriate designs (separate areas for toddlers and older kids)

Compliance with safety standards (ASTM, EN 1176)

Top Safe Playground Equipment for Parks

1. Swings with Soft Seats and Safety Harnesses

Toddler swings with bucket seats

High-back swings for added support

Rubber-coated chains to prevent pinching

2. Climbing Structures with Fall Protection

Low-height climbing walls with textured grips

Rope nets with secure anchor points

Platforms with guardrails

3. Slides with Safe Landing Zones

Enclosed slides for younger children

Gentle slopes to prevent high-speed falls

Heat-resistant materials to avoid burns

4. Spring Riders and Interactive Play Panels

Sturdy base to prevent tipping

Sensory panels for cognitive development

Rounded edges to avoid injuries

5. Sandboxes with Covers

Shaded designs to protect from sun exposure

Easy-to-clean, non-toxic sand

Covers to keep animals out

Best Materials for Safe Playgrounds

Powder-coated steel (rust-resistant and durable)

Recycled plastic (lightweight and splinter-free)

Natural wood (chemical-free treated for longevity)

Rubber mulch or poured-in-place rubber (excellent shock absorption)

Playground Safety Tips for Parents and Park Planners

✅ Inspect equipment regularly for wear and tear. ✅ Ensure proper surfacing beneath play structures. ✅ Supervise children during playtime. ✅ Follow age guidelines for each play area.

Which Certifications Should Safe Playground Equipment Have?

Playground safety certifications ensure equipment meets international standards for durability, materials, and injury prevention. Look for these key certifications:

1. ASTM F1487 (Standard Consumer Safety Performance for Playground Equipment)

Covers structural integrity & fall protection

Required for public parks in the U.S.

Tests sharp edges, entrapment risks, and load capacity

2. EN 1176 (European Playground Equipment Standard)

Mandatory for EU countries

Includes:

Part 1: General safety requirements

Part 6: Swing safety

Part 10: Fully enclosed play structures

2. EN 1176 (European Playground Equipment Standard)

4. TÜV & CE Marking

CE = Meets EU health/safety standards

TÜV = Additional German safety testing

Conclusion: Building a Safe and Fun Playground

By choosing high-quality, safe playground structures, parks can provide children with a secure and enjoyable play experience. Whether you're a parent, park planner, or community leader, prioritizing safety ensures that kids can explore, learn, and have fun without unnecessary risks.

Looking for durable and safe playground equipment? Explore our range of certified play structures designed for maximum safety and fun!

#art #design

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timelessmulder · 8 months ago

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31 Days of Horror day 25: Highway

The courier traveled across the splitting seams of a ribbon of highway.

It stretched across an overgrown landscape, where crumbling buildings had started to be overtaken by the nature that was claiming what was rightfully theirs. The pavement cracked from decades of negligence, the push and pull from summer to winter and back again eating away at the foundations. Vines wound their fingers around the guardrails. Moss overtook the stone barriers, and hardy grass poked through the fissures.

The engine of the courier's motorcycle roared in the stillness of the midmorning. The world had woken up, but he was the only human for miles. He hunkered low against the growling machine's hull, against the rush of wind, adrenaline pounding a second heart in the narrow frame of his ribs. There was a tilt of earth beneath the wheels of his bike, the dying groans of an abandoned beast. Or at least he thought so, as he maneuvered around the jutting rock and odd bits of debris scattering across the lanes.

Most of the souls that traversed the island avoided the highways. The ones that still stood would crumble eventually, the steel rusting and cement structures dusting and who wanted to be on one, when it finally gave way? The courier had images of small children watching from their mother's skirts as the great behemoths collapsed, the continued death of a world they had never experienced. And would probably never experience, if they never strayed from the island's shores; poisoned veins spiraled out from the heart of the world, but some chose to stay.

It had been all the courier knew.

He knew the dangers of using the highways. The danger of being seen by the wrong sort. The danger of being injured somewhere no one could find you. An endless list of things, it had felt like, when he was young and thought himself invincible. As he grew so too did his caution, but the allure remained. When he took to repairing old junker vehicles with leather faced mechanics, his parents seemed to have known their boy would be wild in a way they couldn't smooth down, couldn't tame. They had only given him small, solemn smiles -- the kind tainted with pride and worry and all those other feelings that parents had for their children -- when he had set off to be a courier for the small roaming bands of people trying to make lives for themselves.

The simple truth was that highways were the quickest ways around. Those before knew that, and those now did, only now the knowledge was wrapped around in a healthy dose of fear. The reward outweighed the risks, the courier had decided at some point, when he was mapping the arteries of the island onto his soul. They still had a few years left, and his luck had held out this long.

The courier adjusted his grip, easing his ride around a curve in the road, taking on a dangerous tilt. He swore as he righted himself, slowing a few notches. And he noticed it then, a bit of detritus that refused to fall into the backdrop of the landscape like every other piece of scrap metal and reminders of those who had lived here lifetimes ago.

The frame of a car, pulled into what had once been a breakdown lane. It looked intact, save for where the vultures were beginning to pick at its meat. The tires were missing and one headlight was missing, while the other decorated what remained of the grill and bumper. It was a dusty beige, almost white. Whatever decal had been on its hood was long missing, nothing left to glint in the light of day.

A chill ran up the courier's spine, tingling along nerve endings to settle in his fingers. His ride slowed as he approached. Stopped. The engine churned, huffing in wait for him to go again, all while he watched the husk of a machine. Prey animal instincts whispered at him to move on, to leave the damn thing be, but curiosity spoke louder. It nipped at his brain, the thing may be gone by the time he passed next, and it was just an abandoned car. Those were a dime a dozen in the abandoned garages or driveways of abandoned towns, he'd just never seen one on a highway before; people weren't stupid enough to try. With a puff of breath he killed the engine and kicked the stand down, flicking the visor of his helmet out of the way so he could get a better look.

Cracks spider webbed across the windows where they hadn't blown out, so pebbled that it was hard to tell where they'd been struck. One door hung from its hinge, with the tubal insulation having been hacked away from the lining of frame. Parts of the car's innards scrapped against the ground from its undercarriage, cables and tubes hanging from where they'd been hacked away by crude hands. The pavement was stained with the remnants of leaking fluids, coolants and maybe even gas that hadn't been siphoned properly. The memory of its smell lingered in the air, or maybe he just imagined it.

The courier prowled around the car, the thought entering his mind that there may be something within its interior worth scavenging himself. No parts, too heavy to carry when it wasn't strictly necessary. Maybe a trinket, maybe a memory of a life he would never know that he could carry with him. He squinted, peering into the interior at the dark vinyl of the seats. They were stained, mold taking hold where rain had soaked into the padding, but across the headrest there was an odd pattern to it. Dashes, splatters of paint.

He leaned in closer, bracing a gloved hand on the exterior beginning to rust, legs tensing to sprint. A rust red spat across the dashboard, across the steering wheel, sharp against the silver of buttons and dials and stitching. The courier stumbled back, heart kicking up to thrum in the fragile confines of his chest.

There were no signs of a struggle that were readily apparent, but he wasn't going to stick around to look for any. He made a jogging way back to his motorcycle, never once sparing a second glance over his shoulder. He flicked his visor down, adjusted a knuckle white grip, and kicked off towards the next exit.

#31doh2024 #31 days of horror #bat writes #horror

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knutcraaka · 1 month ago

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the entire karasuno team was absolutely convinced that kosuke lived in a different world.

they thought their hometown of karumai was already rural enough compared to the rest of miyagi—but stepping onto the matsukito homestead felt like walking into a different century altogether.

kosuke had invited the team over to his family's homestead to escape the scalding summer heat. july was brutal, sparing nobody from rosy, flushed cheeks and irritating sunburns, (constantly having to do up-hill runs at their training camp after losing 50 practice matches definitely didn't help.)

his family’s home sat beside a stream, tucked deep in the hills, and after their trip to tokyo, he figured they could all use a break to wind down.

week after week of grueling training and sticky city heat made the idea of cooling off in an ice-cold stream under a canopy of tall trees sounded heavenly to everyone. there was no need for convincing.

("what's a homestead?" kageyama asked daichi as they walked towards sakanoshita. karasuno finally came back from tokyo and finished their daily practice. kosuke had suggested the idea as the group made their way down the low-lit path. tanaka and nishinoya cheered loudly, excited by the idea of going to kosuke's house for the very first time. "i have no idea, honestly.")

the team knew kosuke lived a bit from karasuno, around a thirty minute bike ride or an hour and a half walk. he mentioned briefly about having to go up a small hill and twisty path surrounded by trees before reaching the gate to the homestead—which barely poked out through all of the foliage.

kosuke's friend came in small groups—the third-years arrived at the gate first. daichi pulled his car alongside the road, gasping slightly at how the car bounced onto the unpaved terrain. he gave a suspicious glance towards the old, rusted gate before turning to kiyoko, who sat in the passenger seat.

"this is the right place, isn't it, shimizu?"

kiyoko glanced at her phone, skimming the directions kosuke had sent the team, then swiped the screen with a quick flick of her finger.

"turn left after the bridge toward the rice fields, then right onto hazashi road. go up the hill and past the yellow marker on the guardrail—you should see a rusted gate on the left. there’s a wooden board with ‘matsukito’ carved into it."

the third-years peeked over Kiyoko’s shoulder, their attention shifting back to the old, rusty gate. sure enough, the name 'matsukito' was carved into a worn out piece of plywood.

"i guess so..."

it took ten more minutes before the second-years arrived. "daichi!" tanaka yelled, sticking his head out of the small car. his sister sat in the front seat, offering a small wave to the group.

ennoshita and noya tumbled out of the back, both looking pale and miserable, wearing identical sickly expressions.

"i tried to call you guys, but none of you answered! we got a little lost." daichi raised a brow, pulling out his phone from his back pocket. its screen flickered on, revealing a photo of him, asahi, sugawara, and kiyoko all squished together—awkward, giddy smiles on all of their faces.

he tilted his head slightly, swiping up on his phone to pull up the notification tab. "i didn't get anything," he said.

"neither did i."

"well, i don't have any service." asahi noted, a surprised hum slipping out as he checked his phone.

"i forgot to mention that to you guys. i'm glad you found the place!" kosuke laughed, walking down the dirt path. He gave a casual wave before flopping over the gate, his arms dangling awkwardly in the air. "you can't really catch service here, so if you need to call home, we have a landline."

"kosuke! it was so hard to find this place!" tanaka whined, strolling over tiredly. "that drive was gnarly! especially with saeko driving." the mention of tanaka's sister sent a shiver down nishinoya and ennoshita's spine.

"blegh! don't mention her driving! it makes my stomach all sore." ennoshita mumbled, a hand over his mouth.

kosuke laughed, shaking his head. "sorry 'bout that." he then turned to the third-years, who had settled onto the hood of daichi's car. kiyoko stood not too far away from the group, a cute bag in her hands.

"were you guys waiting for long?"

"not really... it's nice and cool up here, so we didn't mind," asahi said with a smile, giving a thumbs-up. "hell yeah! you didn't tell us you lived in the woods like a bear!" sugawara laughed as he walked over and gave kosuke a couple of friendly slaps on the shoulder. kosuke rolled his eyes and leaned on one arm, giving sugawara a look.

"uh, yeah i did, suga."

not long after the group of first-years came peaking around the corner, the group split up in two different cars. a van came first with tsukishima and a person the group didn't recognize in the front. yamaguchi's head peeked in between the two, his mouth wide in awe.

a much smaller car followed close behind, its tiny frame rattling slightly as it pulled up. In the front seat, yachi sat stiffly, her face pale as she clutched the dashboard like it might save her. meanwhile, hinata was practically plastered against the rear window, his wide-eyed face smushed comically against the glass.

kosuke squinted at the scene, amused. he could only assume kageyama was in the backseat with hinata.

"welcome!" he shouted to the group, tsukishima being the first to get out of the car. he nodded slightly at the group before turning back to the driver to mumble something.

"good morning, guys!" yamaguchi smiled, waving excitedly as he stumbled out of the car. he clutched his bag tight to his chest as if it would stabilize him.

hinata helped yachi out of the car, an arm around her shoulder as he muttered a loud, "thank you", to the driver. kosuke could hear the driver speak worriedly. "are you going to be alright, hitoka?" she asked, and all yachi could do is give her a weak thumbs-up.

kageyama came out of the backseat sluggishly, sleep evident in his eyes. he let out a loud yawn before nodding. "mornin,'" he mumbled, his backpack slung over his shoulder sloppily. he stretched his back out like a cat, a calmness in his face that made yachi jealous.

"i'm glad you all could make it!"

the team walked down a red dirt path, the ground slightly wet by the morning dew. forest completely surrounding them. yachi jumped at every rustle, prepared to start running if a wild boar popped out of the bushes.

the sun peaked past the leaves and the morning began to heat up fast. most them were already sweating, the mountain's humidity hitting them almost immediately.

"it smells like moss..." tsukishima couldn't help but mumble, a hand scratching his arm after another mosquito bit him. he was not having fun.

"you get use to it!" kosuke laughed, ahead of the entire group. tanaka and nishinoya jumped beside him, pointing at random plants. "this is so cool! i've never been up in the mountains before!" tanaka smiled, completely in awe.

eventually, they made it through the driveway, their slippers covered in dirt. a few open arches of land stretched out behind the trees that had completely hidden the path.

they could hear the steady rush of a stream to their right, the scent of fresh grass and damp earth mingling in the air. a quiet calm seemed to drift with the water, slipping past every mossy rock and tumbling current.

the driveway led up to an old wooden house—the porch of which was covered in clay pots and long sticks covered in mud alongside a bunch of children's toys that was also stained a muddy red.

to the left of the house was a large field. patches of taro sat nestled slightly lower than the surrounding land, the earth gently sloping down into a shallow, rectangular pond of water that shimmered under the sunlight.

there were about 10 different patches, the surface floor barely separated each patch, just enough for someone to walk on.

the patches were marked by a small layer of mud, just noticeable enough for you to know not to take a closer step. lush, green plants grew along the water’s edge, their large, heart-shaped leaves reaching toward the sun, casting a soft, shadowy pattern over the ground. the scent of fresh earth and growing vegetation filled the air, mingling with the cool, damp fragrance of the water.

random pvc pipe popped out of the driveway towards the taro field, halfway under the ground. the end poked out at the nearest field, a rush of fresh water spewed out. the flow of water washed past the field before slipping into the next through a small opening that connected them.

It was a place of quiet abundance, where the land and water seemed to work in harmony, cultivating life in a way that felt timeless and soothing. The rush of the water and the vibrant green around it created a sense of peace, as if this hidden patch of earth had been carefully nurtured for generations.

hinata clung to kageyama, wide-eyed. “Did we time-travel?” he whispered.

"what the hell is this?" sugawara couldn't help but spout out, his jaw completely ajar. kosuke laughed before waving them off. "just my home. c'mon, you guys can drop your stuff off at the house!"

the group followed after kosuke, still in awe. they were careful to step over the pipe that stuck out of the road. kosuke pointed out to the field like a tour guide, explaining that their family grows taro because of how easy it was to take care of it compared to other plants. their family was most familiar with it compared to anything else.

the team had no idea what he was talking about.

the group dropped their bags onto the porch, happy to shelter themselves under the small cover. "well, when you guys are ready, we can head towards the stream. y'guys are goin' to love it!" kosuke shouted from inside the house, rummaging through the kitchen. daichi and kiyoko could seem him through the screen door.

he came waddling out with two large watermelon under his arm. "the neighbors dropped off some watermelon the other day but ma' siblings don't really like watermelon so we have plenty!"

daichi opened the door for kosuke, and he just nodded with a small 'thank you.'

"what neighbors?" nishinoya huffed with amusement, turning his head side-to-side. "yeah! the nearest house to us is like 10 minutes down the road!" tanaka laughed, not before grabbing one of the watermelons from kosuke.

"they still dropped some off!"

eventually the team followed kosuke into the bushes, but kept a small distance, (kosuke was holding a machete in one hand, a watermelon in the other, and a pink backpack that was too small for him. "it's my sister's." he shrugged when tsukishima made a comment about it. he looked like a jacked version of dora.)

kosuke cleared a small path and the team followed in a single-file line. asahi stood the closest to kosuke, completely freaking out. "you sure there isn't wild boars?" he asked in a hush tone, careful with every step.

kosuke could only hum. "well, i haven't seen any recently..." his said in a thoughtful tone. it didn't ease asahi's nerves. yachi held onto asahi's back, hoping he would protect her if something popped out.

he was the worst person to seek protection from, in all honesty.

after what felt like an entirety of walking through bushes, the steam became more visible to the group. kosuke smiled, picking up his pace. "were here!" he smiled, jumping out of the tall bushes to a small patch of grass and gravel alongside the stream.

"wow!" hinata was the first one to react, ripping off his shirt before he made it out of the bushes. he jumped around excitedly, laughing as he ran past the group. he scattered his shirt and phone to the side before jumping into the stream with a large splash.

kageyama automatically yelled after him, not before ripping off his own shirt and following after hinata. tanaka and nishinoya couldn't help but follow suit, discarding everything they brought on a nearby rock before jumping in.

tanaka breached his head out of the air, a loud, sharp gasp spilling past his lips. "cold!" he stuttered out. kosuke laughed before pulling off his own shirt.

at this point, the sun was blazing down on the group, but none of them noticed as they splashed in the stream. most of them played, kageyama and yamaguchi tossing a volleyball back and forth, while hinata and nishinoya swam below them, chasing after a group of small fishes.

yachi sat near the shore with a large blow-up tub around her. she looked nervous, contemplating whether she should jump in. most of the third-years sat above the group, laying on their back and letting the current push them down before sitting backup and doggy paddling towards the top again.

sugawara would pop up randomly next to people, trying his best to scare anyone. everyone could see him through the glassy water, so it never worked.

kiyoko smiled from the shore, her pants pulled up high enough to not get it wet. she stood in the water, wiggling her toes happily as tanaka stared up at her with a dopey smile. he'd been convincing her to jump in the water for the last 30 minutes. "i'd save you if anything happens!" he declared confidently but only seemed to melt every time she laughed.

tsukishima stood on the dry gravel, phone in hand, pointed steadily towards yamaguchi. a few feet away, yamaguchi flailed hopelessly in the deep end of the water, barely able to touch the bottom. he jumped as much as he could to send the ball back to kageyama with an overhead throw, but it slipped through his fingers, landing square of this face with a loud plop.

tsukishima snorted, zooming in mercilessly on yamaguchi's betrayed, sour face. "shut up, tsuki!" he shouted from the water.

"shouldn't you be in the water, tsukishima? you're sweating like a pig!" kosuke laughed from beside him, squinting at the sun overhead. tsukishima gave him a lazy glance, before turning back to his phone. "i'm good. this is more fun." he replied, camera still trained on kageyama and yamaguchi.

kosuke rolled his eyes, then smoothly snatched the phone out of his hand and, in one motion, reached up to remove tsukishima's glasses. "wait, what are you doing?" he stuttered out, going stiff as Kosuke placed the glasses carefully on his shirt that sat on the floor behind them.

kosuke’s grin curled into something mischievous, teeth flashing. It sent a visible shiver down tsukishima’s spine. "no. stop it, kosuke." he warned, already taking a step back.

kosuke only grew wider.

"i'm serious!" he scrambled.

the others turned at the sound of tsukishima yelping—kosuke had lunged forward, scooping him up effortlessly with an arm hooked under his legs. "put me down!" he barked, but kosuke just adjusted his grip and hoisted him higher over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"you're much heavier than you look," was his only response.

kosuke held his breath as tsukishima’s weight settled onto him, then took off at a clumsy jog toward the water, his feet crunching on gravel as the chaos unfolded. tsukishima held onto his bareback, grabbing onto anything to hold himself up.

"i'm begging you!" he cried out, squirming over kosuke's shoulder like a cat headed for a bath. kosuke had already made up his mind.

he launched himself off the edge of the gravel into the water between kageyama and yamaguchi with a resounding splash, dragging tsukishima down with him. the two bystanders went under with all the force, grasping for a small gasp of air before being fully submerged by cold water.

the water exploded around them in a foamy burst, soaking the nearby group and sending ripples across the entire pool. there was a beat of silence—just the sound of dripping water and tsukishima's muffled underwater shriek—before he broke the surface with a gasp, blond hair plastered to his face and his white shirt sticking to his skin.

"you are the worst." was all he could sputter, flailing as he tried to push his soggy bangs from his eyes. "the worst."

kosuke popped up beside him, a belly laugh leaving his mouth the moment he gasped for air. his long hair was covering his face, but he made no effort to move it. he was laughing so hard he nearly went under again.

"you love me, don'tcha, tsukishima?"

"no."

kosuke snorted, splashing water into tsukishima's face. his toes just barely brushed the bottom, the smooth, algae-slick rocks slippery beneath him. still, it was just enough for him to hold himself up.

without thinking, tsukishima retaliated, flinging a splash back. a smirk of satisfaction curled on his lips when he saw kosuke's smile faltered—though it came back much faster than he wanted it to.

kosuke went lunging towards tsukishima with zero hesitation, tackling him with a triumphant shout.

tsukishima let out an ack! before going under. the water bubbled around them as they wrestled, tsukishima shoving back against kosuke beneath the surface.

kosuke lifted tsukishima up and out of the water, holding him overhead with ease. tsukishima let out a mangled, breathless laugh before kosuke dropped him with a splash.

still cackling, kosuke pointed a finger at him as he popped his head out. "oh really? yamaguchi! c'mere!" tsukishima chortled, waving the boy over.

the surprise on yamaguchi (and everyone else's) was evident, but he didn't hesitate to swim over to tsukishima. they gave each other a wordless glance before swimming toward shallower water. kosuke and the others watch before yamaguchi ducked underwater.

hinata, who floated on his stomach near the chaos, squeeked as he saw tsukishima's form rising, now perched on yamaguchi's shoulder like some looming deity. hinata felt like he was being attacked by godzilla. "huge!" he yelped.

kosuke’s grin widened into something far more devious.

he scanned over the group, eyes flicking from person to person before locking eyes with daichi.

his smile immediately dropped when kosuke waved him over. "cap'n, please!" kosuke begged, his hands holding each other tightly. "no. no way." daichi was quick to answer, sinking his head deeper into the water.

tsukishima smirked, feeling like the king of the world. yamaguchi stumbled a bit when tsukishima laughed, trembling under the uneven weight, but he still managed a wicked little grin of his own. "awh, looks the little captain's too scared," tsukishima taunted, squinting slightly smugly at daichi.

kosuke rolled his eyes at him. if he didn't announce daichi's name out loud, tsukishima probably wouldn't have known who he was talking to. he was as blind as a bat from his high horse, everybody looking like little blurry blobs.

the word 'little' seemed to trigger something in daichi, because he stood to his full height, puffing his chest out to make it big before paddling over to kosuke. before kosuke could even cheer, daichi dove under, swimming between his legs and rising up beneath him with a mighty shove.

kosuke clung to daichi's head to steady himself, now fully visible above the water except for his dangling legs. "you better destroy them," was all daichi said.

"look what you did, tsuki!"

"shut up, yamaguchi!"

the two approached, kosuke and tsukishima's hands instantly clashing midair. they pushed against each other with all their might, trying to gain leverage as water splashed up around them.

kosuke couldn’t stop laughing at tsukishima’s expression—squinted eyes, furrowed brows—it was the most animated he’d ever seen him. It would’ve been unsettling if tsukishima wasn't actively attacking him

kosuke was quick to lean forward, one hand pushing firmly against tsukishima's forehead. yamaguchi tried to stabilize, shouting half-coherent instructions and wheezing through their laughter.

"incoming!"

hinata, riding high on kageyama’s shoulders, wild-eyed and grinning like a maniac, surged toward them with a warrior cry.

"puh-lease, you guys are going down!" an evil cackle followed as sugawara appeared, perched triumphantly on tanaka's shoulders. "attack!" he howled, charging towards tsukishima and kosuke.

four towering human stacks now faced off in the middle of the water, wobbling and lunging at each other in chaotic bursts of splash and laughter. spectators howled from the shallows—nishinoya nearly fell over from laughing, kiyoko held her phone steady for photos, and even yachi couldn’t help a shaky giggle into her hands as tsukishima reached over to grab kosuke’s shoulders with both hands.

"you think you still all that, kosuke?" he asked between his teeth, a snarky smile on his lips and he pushed with all his might. "i do!" kosuke barked, pushing back just as hard. but when his hands left tsukishima, the force of the push rocked him backward.

"shit!"

kosuke flailed, trying to pull himself forward again, legs slipping as he lost balance. daichi grunted beneath him, gripping tighter and stepping backward to try and stabilize them.

just as daichi prepared to lift up again, his foot slid on a steep, rocky slope beneath the water—and the two of them went crashing backward with a great, echoing splash.

the three stacks froze, watching slowly as both kosuke and daichi emerged from the water. daichi was laughing harder than anyone had ever seen, while kosuke looked significantly less thrilled.

"ha! we win!" tsukishima grinned unnervingly, thrusting a fist in the air. "you didn't win jack shit! nature and my own awesome strength defeated us!" kosuke shouted, splashing water furiously at tsukishima and yamaguchi.

before tsukishima and yamaguchi could rub in their faces, they suddenly toppled over—sugawara snapped out of his stunned daze and charged forward mercilessly at tsukishima with both hands.

"i own this water! rah!" he howled, immediately turning his wrath on Hinata and Kageyama without a second thought.

in the end, sugawara won the fight—an evil glint in his eyes. he crossed his arms like an all-powerful god. "bow to the new king of the ocean!" he laughed in a royal tone, voice echoing with laughter.

"we're in the mountains!" asahi called from the shore, his knees pulled up to his chest with a large piece of watermelon in hand. "quiet, peasant! bring thou king a piece of watermelon—sugamelon!" he demanded, cutting himself off mid-sentence rename of the fruit in his honor.

tanaka burst into laughter, paddling through the water toward the shore, likely on a mission to fulfill the absurd decree.

the rest of the team couldn't help but burst into laughter, falling back into the water like it was a soft bed.

from the riverbank, yachi stood beside kiyoko with a handful of watermelon. she couldn't help but let out a relieved sigh as all the boys settled down. some went back to playing and splashing in the water. kosuke apologized to tsukishima, but he didn't look mad. they both sat in the water, talking about something animatedly, (well kosuke was talking about something animatedly, tsukishima just smiled, an unfamiliar look of calm and willingness on his face.)

she was glad tsukishima hadn't drowned.

as kosuke's heart slowed, and blood flowed like the calm stream he sat in, he couldn't help but smile. he flopped backward into the stream, floating on his back as sunlight flickered through the tree canopy above. The air buzzed with cicadas, laughter echoing through the forest like something ancient and soft.

"thanks for, uh, bringing us." tsukishima mumbled, settling beside him. he had long discarded his poor white t-shirt, sitting on a random rock that poked out of the water. "this was... fun." he smiled, soft and barely noticeable.

kosuke gave a sideward glance before splashing some water into his face. "don't go all soft on me, tsukishima. besides, i've been want'a bring you guys down."

kageyama floated by on his back, his head facing the two. he looked oddly serene. "is this what it's like for you all the time, kosuke?" he asked, hooking a hand around tsukishima's ankle to keep from floating away.

it took everything in tsukishima to not pull away from him. he was in a good mood, and he didn't want kageyama tobio to ruin it.

"i guess you could say that. for the most part i grew up here." he smiled, tossing a random rock into the water. it plopped into the stream, a soft splash following close behind.

"i'm jealous." kageyama yawned, looking around. he was about to spew something about volleyball—how this would be the perfect place to train, but kosuke was quick to cut him off. "you guys are always welcome. my home is your home."

the two first-years hummed, taking a glance at kosuke.

he looked right in his element. they were sure they'd never seen kosuke so perfectly in place. it was an odd feeling to say the least, to think he just belonged here. the sun was drawing closer and closer to the horizon, and the sun fell perfectly between the trees.

the golden light filtered its way through the leaves, casting a shadow on kosuke's face. most of the team was filing out of the water, but the three stayed put.

"i really like it here." kageyama mumbled out, staring at the slowly setting sun. it's ray bounced out the stream, causing their surroundings to look much more orange. "you're telling me." tsukishima hummed, leaning onto his elbows.

kosuke turned back to the two, whose eyes were still trained on the glorious sun.

it was just them, the sun, water, and the strange, wonderful world kosuke called home.

and maybe, just maybe—kageyama would finally learn what a homestead was.

#haikyuu #haikyuu oc #daichi sawamura #tsukishima kei #kosuke matsukito #haikyuu oc imagine #summer fun #little hawaiian boy in japan #kalo&streams #tsukishima actually having fun #does anyone even do oc anymore?#kosuke.m ff #suga the menace

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dead-set-goat · 9 months ago

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I had three strange dreams last night, but one in particular stuck out to me.

I came into consciousness at the top of a giant skyscraper alongside two women, we were sightseeing I supposed. One of them looked like an angel, with neat hair tied in a ponytail, but the other was unremarkable. Her hair was messy and dark, partially covering both her eyes, and her dress was the color of dried blood on cloth.

On top of the skyscraper there was a beautiful, sprawling garden, with hills, peaks and valleys. I wouldn’t have known this was at the top of a building if my first glimpse of this dream was the opening of elevator doors. Anyway.

In this garden there grew flowers of all kinds, but mostly red and white flowers. The trees and bushes were trimmed neatly and were all of the same healthy green, little variance in hue. There were also great fountains the size of swimming pools and also rivers, winding alongside a multitude of red brick paths that cut through mowed grass. Golden ornaments, lamps, guardrails peppered the scenery. There were also a lot of birds flying around and singing, and the air was so fresh, like that of the mountain countryside...

As I got closer to the edge of the roof, I felt a strong sea breeze, and as I looked over the edge I saw before me a thousand more buildings with immense roofs covered in bot only gardens, but forests, and villages, and cities. I could spot highways on some. On the roofs with the small cities, red cars were moving at fast speeds as the length of the streets allowed. Some of these buildings before me were much bigger than the one I was on. I was in awe. The angelic lady leaned over the guardrail and looked at me and said, “Isn’t it beautiful? Remember this.” or something of that sort. I took a photo and I thought, “I ought to show this to my parents”. Then the messy lady said, opposite of the angelic lady, “I want to show you something too”. And I followed her back through the garden, as did the white lady.

We reached the elevator I got off, but instead of taking it, we went through the door next to it, we took the stairs. As we climbed down, it started to get darker and darker and the breeze of the sea and the fresh air got fainter and fainter until they turned to a moldy, sharp smell.

I was trailing behind the two, who seemed to pick up speed the more we descended. Sometimes it felt as if we went up, not down, but then up again, like a perpetual sine. The neat walls of the building became distorted, wet and slippery. The clean metal stairs seemed to rust. The space around us compressed until it looked as if we were in a calcareous cavern or some kind of sunken ship at the bottom of an abyss. We kept descending.

I front of me, the two seemed to move more erratically as time passed by. Sometimes I could catch glimpses of their hands and arms twisting around each other, like tentacles, but then I’d blink at they’d walk alongside each other like any human being. And sometimes one or the other would look behind, to see if I’m still following. Both their faces seemed to be stretched in an uncanny, playful grin.

At some point I started to smell a deep rot, and not soon after, on the next floor, I a bunch of cadavers, the sources, twisted inside the walls and floor, covered in chalk and clouds of mould could be seen… We pressed on. The next floor was the same. And the next. And the next. But gradually more bones and less flesh appeared to fill the rooms.

At some point, I tire and fall, I couldn’t keep up with them, who were jumping up to 4 stairs at once. I lay on my knees on the slippery stone to catch my breath. Right next to me there lay remnants of a skeleton and I feel a sudden urge to pick up it’s ribcage and hold it up. Conveniently, a bright yellow beam of light strikes through the room, revealing billions of spores and specs of dust. As if commanded by me it falls on the ribcage revealing it’s grime. It looked so old and eroded, algae and mold seeping through it’s cracks, might’ve fallen apart in my hands.

As I mean to lay it back down, I see the lady in the dirty-looking dress appear in front of me out of nowhere. The beam of light stroke her right in the eyes, yet they stayed dark. Like the dark spots on a sun.

She was looking straight at me as she slowly spread her arms to embrace the room. After a short pause (long enough to feel the the shiver rolling down my spine, tip-to-tip) she opened her mouth and said with the same uncanny smile she wore through this descent:

“This is what beauty is made of.”

[And I wake up]

#dream journal #dream #long post #🦞chat

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mincedoaths · 2 years ago

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last update: 11/16/23

sacha dhawan. 40. agender. he/they.┊┊ AMAR KAPOOR, better known as agent PHOENIX has been with cerberus corp as an eo since 2014 and is LEVEL II. FALLING INTO THE HUDSON RIVER IN THE WINTER has gifted them REGENERATIVE HEALING FACTOR / SELF-RESURRECTION, though HE STILL FEELS EVERY INJURY AND DEATH / HEALING IS PAINFUL has also been noted. when they aren’t protecting the tri-state area, they are fond of SUDOKU and are never seen without A VINTAGE ITALIAN STILETTO SWITCHBLADE. civilians think they are AMBITIOUS & COURAGEOUS, but some of the other agents see them as PARANOID & VOLATILE. cerberus corp should consider the fact that their last mission status was SUCCESSFUL BUT A PR NIGHTMARE when giving out the next one. ┊┊

001. GENERAL

distinguishing features shaved head, a nevus in his right eye near his iris positive traits ambitious, loyal, adaptable, proactive, courageous negative traits abrasive, insecure, suspicious, workaholic labels / tropes: hero with bad publicity, always someone better, jade colored glasses, heroic fatigue, fights like normal character inspiration: Marc Specter (Moon Knight), Miguel O'hara (Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse) likes animals, dogs, kids, dislikes the status quo, egomaniacs, the press fears his life not amounting to anything hobbies jogging, sudoku, computer games habits languishing, moping, lurking

002. EXTRA ORDINARY

near death experience…

[ tw suicidal ideation, panic attack, drowning ]

Amar stared down into the frigid depths of the Hudson river from the safety of the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge, hands gripped on to the railing as he watched the current swirling beneath him. It’s not like he actually wanted to die—well, not really. He was just tired of everything; of working himself to the bone for years with nothing to show for it.

If he jumped right now maybe a miracle would happen and he’d become an EO and everything would instantly change.

The icy air stung his nose and the warm puffs of his quickening breath blinded him as his heart pounded in his chest. Did he even have the determination to pull this off or would he just end up dying after living pathetically for twenty three years? A joyless, manic chortle escaped from behind his clattering teeth. ‘This is so stupid,’ He thought, as he took a step away from the edge.

Too bad for him that his worn out work boots had no traction on the iced over metal of the bridge. His arms flew forward to the guardrail in front of him as he slipped, but the frantic motion of his legs as he tried to regain balance only added to his momentum. The old, rusted rail never stood a chance as he barreled into it with the full force of his entire weight.

He didn’t even get a chance to scream before he hit the water.

Days later, after he had been reported missing by his parents and the search team had pulled him out of the water, he had woken up confused and disoriented in the morgue. They had called it a miracle of science, a case of accidental cryopreservation that had ripped him out deaths grasp.

[ /end of tw ]

power… [ tw references to/mentions of bodily harm, body horror, gore, mutilation ]

Amar has a regenerative healing factor that allows for reattachment/regrowth of injured/severed body parts as well as enhanced healing and self-resurrection. As long as there is a piece of him in existence that still contains an unchanged/undamaged portion of his DNA he can (eventually) come back to life.

drawbacks / vulnerabilities… His power does not give him any enhanced strength, however, it may not appear that way to others. Think of him as abiding by zombie strength rules i.e. while he is only as physically strong as any other non-EO, the knowledge that he can heal his injuries allows him to push past the mental block of self preservation that would stop anyone else.

His healing is not instantaneous and the more severe the injury the longer it will take him to regenerate. Healing is also painful as his nerve endings are grown in tandem with whatever he lost. His ability will also prioritize what gets healed first based on the severity of the injury. In other words, if he were to get a paper cut but is otherwise uninjured, the wound would heal almost immediately but if he had a paper cut + a head wound the paper cut would not heal until the head injury was finished healing.

The portion of his body has the most mass is the 'core' and all healing is done from that central point. Anything that was severed and is away from the 'core' will rot naturally though he is able to reattached pieces if they can be located before his healing factor can regrow it.

He experiences phantom pains of old, long healed injuries and nightmares about previous deaths.

[ /end of tw ]

(if applicable) cerberus corp… Amar was a vigilante prior to the inception of Cerberus Corp and was ecstatic when he found out that there was a coalition of heroic EO's. Because of the nature of his powers, he was recruited on his first try.

codename… He was torn between the name 'Ouroboros' and 'Phoenix' for a long time but ultimately decided that a bird is more marketable than a snake. Some of the people that have seen him in action have started calling him 'Agent Zombie' but you shouldn't say that to his face if you're not trying to start a fight. 😤😠

003. EXTRA

Phoenix was demoted from a Level I agent to Level II after multiple videos of him being mauled by a monster went viral on the internet. This event caused a media storm that brought Cerberus Corp's concern for the safety of their agents into question.

There are vials of blood and tissue samples of Amar in various quantities at Cerberus Corp HQ, just in case.

He is only the face of the company during Halloween (which he hates).

Amar was a USPS driver prior to his NDE.

He is the middle child of a family of 5. His older brother is a Cardiologist and his younger sister is a lawyer.

#cc.intro #cc.task #(if you see any typos in this no you didn't)#(will be adding more info later etc etc)

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tenebraevesper · 1 year ago

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Five Nights at Freddy's: Nothing Remains, Night 21: Defects

''I saw your bloody mouth, into your lifeless eyes. Your bright party suit won't hide the death inside. You feel that you're lonely, well maybe there's a reason. You monsters have to realize, that it just ain't your season. You're defective! I'm trying to correct! But underneath the sheet metal, turns out there's nothing left! Your joints have rusted, the wires have splayed. You're a lifeless machine, your song's already played.''

– Defects by HalaCG (Five Nights at Freddy's: Sister Location)

xXxXxXx

Springtrap breathed a sigh of relief as he and Sam had finally arrived back home. She was looking incredibly tired, swaying like a zombie, and he already thought that he would have to carry her back. While Sam refused the offer, he was still afraid that she might fall over from exhaustion.

''Nothing happened…'' she muttered as they walked up the porch. ''Perhaps, tomorrow…'' She suddenly did a double-take when she saw a red ribbon tied around the guardrail. ''What the-?!''

''What's wrong?'' Springtrap asked as Sam untied the ribbon.

''This!'' She held up the ribbon. ''I did tell you how I used to play in the woods behind the house when I was younger and that I had tied dozens of those ribbons so I would know my way out. Granted, that wasn't necessary, since the woods aren't that big, but I've been reading about Aokigahara at the time and got inspired…''

''What?''

''You have read the scrap book I gave you, right?'' Sam asked.

''Only the Bunny Man legend,'' Springtrap admitted.

''Well, Aokigahara is a haunted forest in Japan, and is also known as the Suicide Forest, with those who go inside rarely coming back,'' Sam explained, a grim look on her expression. ''I watched several videos on YouTube about explorers going there, some of which used tapes or ribbons as markers so they wouldn't get lost. I was quite fascinated by it and decided that I would act as if the woods behind my house were haunted as well.''

''I see,'' Springtrap muttered, figuring that he should read through Sam's scrap book again. ''So, who would put this ribbon here?''

Sam stared at him for a moment, only to take out her smartphone and turn the flashlight on. She then ran over to the woods, starting to search for any sign that someone had been there. She heard Springtrap calling out for her, but she was too busy searching. Chills crawled down her spine when she noticed claw marks on the ground and scrapping marks on a nearby tree. While it may have been an animal, there were four different markings surrounding the spot she stood at, none of which reminded her of any animal she knew about.

''Sam?''

''They have found us,'' she told Springtrap, pointing at the marks. Springtrap's eyes widened in surprise, only for him to frown, looking around as if expecting the Drawkills to suddenly appear and attack them. However, they were alone.

''So, now what?'' he asked, with Sam just sighing, rubbing her temple.

''Let's go inside. Honestly, I need a bit to process this.''

Springtrap just nodded, following her into the house, where they found Emma already waiting for them in the living room. Springtrap noticed that Emma had that curious look on her expression, as if she already knew what had happened, but would still attempt to question them.

''You're back,'' she said. ''Took you long enough.''

''Yeah, we kind of got held back,'' Sam replied. ''Is something wrong?''

''No, I just thought that I had heard you earlier,'' Emma replied, glancing at the front door. ''It might've been an animal, though.''

''I guess,'' Sam replied, noticing the look of concern on Emma's expression. Despite knowing that things were far worse than they seemed to be, she smiled, trying to change the topic. ''Anyways, Mum, I had a lot of fun today.''

''I'm glad to hear that,'' Emma told her, sounding relieved. However, her expression quickly changed. ''Anyways, I almost forgot to tell you that I'll be leaving tomorrow afternoon, so you two are going to be alone for a couple of days.''

''Okay,'' Sam replied, shrugging. She wasn't in a mood to argue with her mother. Emma tilted her head, rising an eyebrow.

''Are you sure that you are going to be fine?'' she asked.

''Yeah, I am-'' Sam yawned, barely able to stand on her feet. She winced as she suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder, slowly glancing back, realizing that it was Springtrap who was supporting her.

''I'll bring her to bed before she collapses,'' he told Emma. ''It's been a long day.''

''Okay, but I need to talk to you, Afton,'' Emma replied. Springtrap nodded, following Sam upstairs, but he had to wonder whether he and Sam were in trouble again. As they entered Sam's room, she sat on her bed, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

''Hey, Will, could you do me a favour?'' she asked, looking up at him.

''Sure,'' Springtrap replied.

''Could you please stay in my room tonight? Honestly, I don't want to be alone, especially not after what had happened,'' Sam told him.

''Don't worry,'' Springtrap said in a comforting tone, exiting the room and going downstairs. He knew that, even though she hadn't mentioned it, Sam wasn't only worried about the Drawkills hunting them down. There was a lot more on her mind, but that conversation would have to wait. As he arrived downstairs, he saw Emma peeking through the window and then pulling the shutters down. ''You don't think that whatever you had heard outside were animals, right?''

''No,'' Emma replied curtly as she walked over to the back door at the kitchen, making sure that it was locked. She then glanced at Springtrap, who had a look of concern on his expression. ''You and Sam are already aware of what was lurking outside the house, aren't you?''

Springtrap just nodded quietly, with Emma sighing, shaking her head.

''So, what do you think it was?'' she asked.

''Do you remember what Sam and I told you about what happened at the Machinations Factory?'' Springtrap asked her. Emma nodded. ''Sam and I had speculated that the guy I murdered, Connor, is still around, along with the animatronics he had created, the Drawkills, and that they're searching for us.''

''To make things worse, they have found you,'' Emma muttered in a grave tone. She sat down on the couch, burying her face into her hands, groaning. ''God, the only reason they probably even knew that you're here was because I went out and called for you, thinking you and Sam were playing a prank on me.''

''We wouldn't do that,'' Springtrap told her, with Emma giving him an exasperated look.

''Yeah, I know now,'' she replied, feeling slightly irritated. ''This is a disaster.''

''Emma, listen, I won't let Sam or you get hurt,'' Springtrap told her in an adamant tone, his eyes flaring up purple. ''If the Drawkills appear again, I will take them apart.''

Emma kept quiet, observing Springtrap. As much as she disliked him, she knew that he was serious about protecting them. For all his faults, he cared about Sam and was completely devoted to her.

''Okay,'' Emma muttered as she stood up, walking over to the front door and making sure that it was locked. She saw the puzzled look Springtrap gave her, probably not expecting her to trust him. ''I don't really have much of a choice, do I? At least you seem to know what you're doing this time.''

''Of course I- Wait, what do you mean, this time?'' Springtrap glared at Emma, who just gave him a mischievous grin. She then walked past him, going upstairs. Springtrap frowned, feeling annoyed. Why can't any of our conversations end without her taking a jab at me?

A moment later, he too went upstairs, going into his room in order to pick up the book he was reading. He was nearing the end of Harry Potter & The Half-Blood Prince, having reached a chapter titled Horcuxes and was curious what it was about. He went to Sam's room, having planned to read the book while keeping her company. To his surprise, she was still awake, lying on her bed while checking her phone.

''Sam, you should go to sleep,'' Springtrap told her as he sat down next to her bed. Sam put her smartphone on the table next to her bed and lied back down, turning to him.

''I just wanted to talk…'' she said, yawning. She blinked a few times, trying to stay awake for a little bit longer. She knew that they wouldn't have much of a conversation, but there was still something she wanted to ask him. ''Will?''

''What is it?'' Springtrap asked her.

''I was just wondering whether you're okay,'' Sam replied. ''It's been a rough day.''

''I don't think that it's over yet,'' Springtrap told her. ''Also, I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me.''

''I doubt that,'' Sam replied, yawning.

''We can talk about this tomorrow,'' Springtrap said. ''You should go to sleep now, okay?''

''Mmm-kay,'' Sam muttered as she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. ''You'll be staying here, right?''

''Of course,'' Springtrap told her softly. ''There's no way I'm going to leave you alone, unless you want me to.''

Sam didn't respond, the exhaustion having caught up to her. A moment later, all Springtrap could hear was her rhythmical breathing as she finally fell asleep.

Sweet dreams, Sam. Springtrap smiled, turning back to the book he was reading. He felt a little tense, though, trying to focus on the chapter, but there was no denial that he was just as exhausted as Sam. Being an animatronic, he technically didn't have the need to sleep, but he tried to relax a little. He knew that he needed to calm down and clear his mind, else he might just go insane again and start to hallucinate.

Losing my mind is the last thing I need now.

Reflecting on what had happened, he wasn't sure how to feel about the current situation. He was still angry at the spirit for what they had done to Sam, albeit also frustrated with himself for his reaction. He hated to admit it, but he was glad to see the spirit shiver in fear once they realized why exactly pissing off their murderer was a bad idea. Frankly, he wouldn't have acted this aggressive if they hadn't hurt Sam, as he didn't care about the spirit harming him.

Not to mention, there was also the situation with the Drawkills. Sure, while anyone could've left those ribbons, he and Sam were certain that those scratch marks they had found in the woods belonged to the Drawkills. There was no doubt that they would eventually return and he knew that he and Sam would have to prepare for the upcoming confrontation. Rest assured, he would turn the Drawkills into scrap metal.

Then, there is also Connor… Springtrap frowned, figuring that he would talk about it with Sam tomorrow. There has to be a way to end this nightmare.

He then leaned back, taking a deep breath. Despite what had happened, the day wasn't a complete disaster. He was quite glad that Sam had enjoyed herself during her birthday and he even managed to have a somewhat pleasant conversation with Emma and Aaron, even though he was a bit unnerved by what Aaron had told him. Still, he knew that this could've been much worse, shuddering at the memory of seeing Sammy having his head crushed and finding Elizabeth's body inside Circus Baby. Those images were quickly replaced by a memory of Sam bleeding, with Springtrap's eyes flaring up purple.

Hadn't I managed to break free, the kid may have actually murdered Sam, be it accidentally or intentionally.

He wasn't completely sure whether that was even possible, considering how her physical body didn't have any injuries, but he didn't want to put his theory to a test, as what happened to her was already disturbing enough. He hoped that she wouldn't have any nightmares due to her experience, but it wouldn't surprise him if she did.

Aside from Sam, he was also worried about Michael, Elizabeth and Sammy. While thankful that they decided to give him another chance, he was aware that he was on thin ice. If he made a mistake, he would lose his family again. He closed his eyes, being sick and tired of everything at this point.

What should I do?

xXx

There was an eerie scraping noise, with the figure tilting his head as he stared at the thin and jagged scratch-like marks on the wall. Somehow, the sound of carving the wall with a sharp switchblade kept Connor quite calm, even though he desired a different target. His eyes were glowing as he imagined blood gushing out of the jagged marks, despite knowing that his intended victim had no blood flowing through their body. He reached for his neck, feeling only rotten strips of skin and flesh interwoven with metal and wires.

Too bad. I would've loved to tear pieces of flesh out of him, but I guess that I will have to settle down for pieces of machinery.

He then suddenly turned around and jammed the switchblade into a bloody, disembodied hand. He snorted in amusement, glancing down at his own robotic hand, still holding the switchblade. It certainly was better than his old, rotten one. He the grabbed the hand, taking the switchblade out and threw it into an old box, which held other parts of his body, all of them replaced with scrapped animatronic parts.

I wonder what Bran would say about my new body. He probably wouldn't approve of the way I got it, considering how he had ended up in a similar situation. Nevertheless, I'm in control here.

He walked over to the room where Raven was, finding the black bird animatronic still pinned to the wall. Raven had lifted his head up, his eyes glowing as he glared at Connor and rage surging through his body. Had he been free, he would've torn Connor apart.

''What do you want?'' Raven asked. Connor didn't answer, tilting his head and playing with the switchblade. Despite his seemingly calm demeanor, Raven still noticed the predatory look on Connor's expression.

''Bran…'' he said. Raven was puzzled.

''What do you mean?'' he asked.

''You said that you were here to avenge Bran's death, didn't you?'' Connor asked.

''Yes, and trust me, I will,'' Raven growled. Connor, however, ignored his threat.

''Considering what you had told me, I assume that I'm correct that you also have all of Bran's memories,'' Connor continued.

''You're right, and none of them are pleasant, thanks to you,'' Raven told him.

''Had I figured earlier how attaching souls to animatronics worked, I would've made sure that the experience wouldn't be as painful as it was,'' Connor replied, glancing down at his hand. Patches of fur were missing, revealing the metal beneath it. It was certainly agonizing to have his hand and other parts of his body replaced, but he was above the pain. He had ensured that he would be able to live on and, if his plan worked, become virtually indestructible.

''Bran resented you for what you had done to him,'' Raven said. ''He was disappointed that he supported you, not seeing the monster you actually were.''

''Don't worry, I would've changed his mind easily,'' Connor replied nonchalantly.

''Really?'' Raven snorted, continuing in a spiteful tone, ''I doubt that. Nothing you would've done would earn you Bran's trust. The moment you threw away that mask and revealed who you really were, you lost the only person who actually cared about you.''

''I don't think that you understand,'' Connor growled, suddenly walking up to Raven and grabbing the metal spike that was stuck in his chest and moving it slightly. Raven groaned as brief static covered his vision. ''I have my way of handling people and I would give Bran an offer he couldn't refuse.''

''What? Are you going to paralyze him so he wouldn't escape-AAAGHHRR!'' Raven yelled in agony as Connor jammed his switchblade into the endoskeleton.

''What a waste,'' he muttered as Raven trashed, unable to see or hear Connor. His vision was covered in static and there was painful noise filling his ears, driving him crazy. Grinning, Connor took the blade out and re-connected the wires that had been disturbed. ''Do you now understand?''

''All that I understand… is that you're a freaking psycho,'' Raven growled, breathing heavily. His eyes flickered towards the door and back to Connor. ''So, who is next on your victim list? Don't think that I didn't hear the screaming.''

''Don't worry, they deserved it,'' Connor replied as he stepped back. ''They're just defective, that's all.''

''You made them like this,'' Raven told him, his eyes flaring up.

''I can fix them,'' Connor said confidently. Raven shook his head, causing Connor to frown. ''You-''

''I'm not questioning your skills as a technician, but you as a person,'' Raven continued. ''You have made a grave mistake and you are going to pay for it, mark my words.''

''You know, you may not be Bran anymore, but you're just as annoying as him,'' Connor replied.

Raven just glared at Connor as walked over to the door, opening it and leaving the room. He left the door open, with Raven tilting his head, trying to get a better view of the hallway. However, he could only see Drawkill Chica lying unconsciously on the floor.

Raven leaned his head back, wincing as he accidentally moved the metal spike, and sighed. Earlier, he had heard Connor yelling at the Drawkills for failing once again to locate Afton and Sam, submitting them to horrifying torture. Raven felt chills crawling down his endoskeleton as he heard the Drawkills screams of agony. Even though he hated them, he still didn't wish this kind of torture upon them. He was sure that they were still alive, that Connor wouldn't destroy them just like that, but nevertheless, the situation didn't look well for them. In a way, they were Connor's victims just as much as he was.

xXx

Drawkill Freddy groaned, but remained still as he noticed Connor walking past him. He didn't want to give the latter another reason to continue punishing him or his companions. He had hoped that they would get away with it, as Connor had been focused on his upcoming ''hunt'', as he called it. He showed no reaction when they told him that they hadn't found anything and they were about to leave, only for Drawkill Bonnie to suddenly scream and fall over. Drawkill Foxy and Drawkill Chica followed him, clutching their heads in agony. A moment later, Drawkill Freddy too felt like his head was about to explode.

''I had told you to find them…'' Connor muttered, his eyes flaring up. ''I had told you to find Afton!''

Drawkill Freddy couldn't hear nor see anymore, but he knew that Connor was screaming at them for failing him. He wished that he could burn that bastard, but he couldn't even think straight let alone aim his flamethrower at Connor due to the pain he experienced. He had no idea how long it lasted, but eventually, it stopped and he heard Connor leaving.

It took him a few minutes to actually recover enough to lift his head. He saw the other Drawkills, all lying on the floor lifelessly. He could see them twitching, sighing in relief as he realized that they were still alive. He tried to look around, only to see Connor standing at the end of the hallway, glaring at them. Drawkill Freddy frowned.

You'll pay for this.

xXx

Springtrap opened his eyes slowly as he heard steps from outside the room. He noticed the sun shining through the curtains and glanced at Sam, who was still asleep. He had already figured that Emma was awake, preparing for work, but he was a little surprised that she didn't check on Sam or him, since he didn't hear the door next to Sam's room open. Considering what had happened the previous night, he thought that she would sleep with one eye open.

On the other hand, she knows that her paranoia was what caused us to get into this situation. Springtrap had to admit that he felt sorry for Emma, understanding how worried she was. He did hope, however, that she would trust him and Sam enough to let them deal with the Drawkills. Aside from Connor, Sam and I are the only ones who know how to take them apart.

A while later, he heard the door downstairs close and the car leaving the driveway. He glanced at Sam, who was still fast asleep, and leaned back, wondering whether he should stay here and wait for her to wake up, or go downstairs and make her breakfast, as she probably wouldn't wake up until noon. He decided to wait a while, looking around Sam's room, a bit bored as he had finished reading Harry Potter & The Half-Blood Prince. He was actually surprised when he read the part about Dumbledore dying, but otherwise, he thought that the book was quite interesting, especially the idea of Horcruxes.

Murdering someone in order to split your soul and put it into an object to make yourself immortal… Springtrap glanced at the still asleep Sam, giving her a weird look. I'm pretty sure that Sam didn't give me those books just because they're her favorites.

He then stood up, placing the book on the desk and checking Sam's smartphone for the time. It was about 09:30 AM, with him figuring that he should just go downstairs and make Sam breakfast, waiting for her to wake up.

Something that kept his spirits up was that the night had been relatively peaceful. There were no intruders, no hallucinations, no nightmares,… nothing. Even Henry didn't appear, despite Springtrap being sure that he would. Nevertheless, he was thankful that he didn't appear, as he felt that another conversation with him would just amount to more unnecessary stress for both him and Sam.

It's not as if we don't have enough of it.

If anything, he had managed to recover from the previous night's ordeal and was ready to deal with the current situation at hand. For now, he felt that getting rid off the Drawkills was his top priority and he already had several ideas about what to do in case the Drawkills suddenly appeared in front of the Blackburn residence. However, he would need Sam's help for that, as they involved that black device Connor had created to distort the senses of every animatronic who found themselves nearby it. He could tolerate it to some extent, being a spirit tied to an animatronic, but even then, the pain would eventually overwhelm him.

Another of his ideas involved including the Nightmare Animatronics, as he knew that they would be capable of putting up a fight against the Drawkills. Despite his plans, Springtrap didn't want to use them as fodder for the Drawkills, planning on repairing them in case the Drawkills managed to break them down. However, he immediately noticed a flaw in his plan, that being that Emma wouldn't be happy if the Nightmare Animatronics suddenly showed up at her house.

Nevertheless, that doesn't mean that this fight would happen here, Springtrap thought as he waited for the frying pan to warm up and occasionally stirring the batter for the pancakes. We would have to lure them away from this house, ideally to some abandoned place, maybe even Circus Baby's if necessary. Once we're done with them, this leaves only Connor.

He frowned. There was no doubt that he and Sam would have to cause another fire to finally take Connor out while also making sure that there is no way that Connor would be able to escape it. He already had an idea on how to do this, but it would take a while to prepare for it and, most importantly, actually find Connor. Nevertheless, he was certain that he would go through with his plan and that nothing would stop him from sending Connor to Hell.

I'm already starting to sound like Henry, he thought bitterly. A few minutes later, he heard Sam coming downstairs. She still looked sleepy, only to perk up when Springtrap placed a plate with the pancakes he made in front of her.

''Thank you!'' she told him, smiling.

''There is more where that's coming from,'' Springtrap replied, turning back to the stove. ''Have you slept well tonight?''

''Yeah, I did,'' Sam replied as she walked over to the fridge, taking out the strawberry jam. ''What about you? I mean, I know you don't sleep, but…''

''I'm fine,'' Springtrap told her confidently. ''I've been thinking about what we should do about the Drawkills and, while I have a plan, we would still have to wait for the Drawkills to make their first move. Nevertheless, I think that we can prepare ourselves for that.''

''That's good to hear,'' Sam told him, leaning against the kitchen counter. ''There is something to consider, though. We both know that the Drawkills are probably roaming through Hurricane only at night, so we have time until tonight. Mum is also leaving today and I have the afternoon shift, meaning the house will be empty until late evening. We could stay a bit longer at Freddy's, therefore avoiding the Drawkills, but we would have to take into account the idea that they would be waiting for us here.''

''In short, we should try to avoid confrontation, at least until we get a better opportunity,'' Springtrap said, lifting the pan and trying to turn the pancake over. ''I agree, but if they indeed decide to wait for us here, it would be unwise to return home.''

''Maybe we don't have to,'' Sam replied. ''We could spend the night at Circus Baby's instead. After all, I doubt that the Drawkills or Connor are aware that the location is even accessible, let alone where exactly it is. I don't believe that they would even think to search for us there.''

''That's actually a smart idea,'' Springtrap said, with Sam grinning.

''As a matter of fact, I had thought about trying to find the old GoPro camera Dad had bought me a few years ago and set it up so it points towards the front yard. We spend the night at Circus Baby's and return home in the morning, where we can check the footage to see if the Drawkills decided to come back,'' she explained, walking over to the table and sitting down.

''They won't be happy to learn that they had waited at the house for no reason,'' Springtrap said, feeling slightly amused.

''It doesn't matter,'' Sam told him. ''I'm sure that they had tied that ribbon just to mess with us, to let us know that they had found us. Well, two can play that game.'' She reached for the pancakes, placing the strawberry jam on the top. ''I'm just glad that they didn't decide to attack Mum.''

''I think that even if they thought of that, they would quickly regret it,'' Springtrap replied. ''We both know how intimidating Emma can be.''

''Yeah…'' Sam chuckled, taking out her smartphone. ''Also, before I forget about it, you won't mind if I take a photo of you?''

''…I guess I won't,'' Springtrap said uneasily, giving her a puzzled look. ''Why?''

''You'll see,'' Sam replied, pointing at the living room. ''Could you please stand there against the wall?''

Springtrap shrugged, but did what she had told him. He wasn't really sure what this was about, but he had figured that, if it made Sam happy, that he should just go along with it. Sam took a few quick snapshots of the animatronic, being quite satisfied, and even showed Springtrap the photos.

''To be honest, I had actually planned to use the photos for something else, but I've been also working on a digital scrap book about everything that happened since I had met you,'' Sam added, with Springtrap being stunned.

''Really?'' he said, tilting his head. ''May I see what you've written so far?''

''Sure, but not now,'' Sam replied. ''However, there is something I want to show you eventually and I think that you're going to like it.''

xXx

After breakfast, Sam and Springtrap went outside and into the woods, deciding to take a better look at the scratch marks the Drawkills had left. A soft breeze was flowing, stirring the red ribbons that were tied around the branches, with Sam managing to find the tree that was lacking a ribbon. She noticed more scratch marks on the ground and on the bark, as if someone tried to climb it up to get as close to the ribbon as possible, as well as a few broken branches.

''Honestly, I sincerely doubt that an animal or a human did this,'' she said. ''Another human wouldn't leave scratch marks like these and an animal wouldn't leave the ribbon on the porch.''

''You're right,'' Springtrap said. ''I guess that, if we had returned home earlier, we would've ran into them.''

Sam nodded, only to suddenly cry out in agony, feeling a searing pain spreading through her body. She clutched her chest, sobbing, as she fell on her knees.

''Sam!'' Springtrap rushed over, crouching down and trying to help her. Static briefly covered his vision and once it cleared, he noticed his surroundings becoming darker, but he didn't care. He was focused on Sam, noticing the blood soaking her T-shirt. She was shaking, her fingers covered in her own blood. She tried to get up, only to almost fall over hadn't he caught her. ''Sam, what-''

''Will-'' Sam coughed, her vision blurring. ''Look around…''

William lifted his head, not only realizing that he wasn't an animatronic anymore, but that they were at a replica of Fredbear's Family Diner. He looked back at Sam, who took a deep breath, seemingly calming down. There was still blood, but she didn't look like she was in pain. Nevertheless, he knew now where these injuries came from. He felt a mix of rage and frustration, wishing that he could somehow help her, but it was obvious that there wasn't anything that he could do.

''Damn it,'' he muttered. Suddenly, he heard steps behind him and turned his head, noticing someone staring at them. He frowned.

Henry.

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