#rustin cohle fanfiction

[atinylittlepain]

Ptolemaea - the Prologue

rust cohle x f!oc

series masterlist

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

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

wordcount | 2.5K

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

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

“It’s the middle of the day.”

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

“Am I sober enough for her righteousness?” 

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

“Are you sleeping?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You smell.”

“I mowed your lawn.” 

“And you smell like it, come on.” 

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

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

…

“What about Cohle and Reed?”

“What about them?”

“They were close, were they not?”

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

“Were they romantically involved?”

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

“In his own way?”

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

…

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

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

“I told her no.”

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

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, you are pretty shit company.” 

“And here I thought you liked my company.”

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

“Has Maggie tried that with you?”

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

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

…

“Rust was comfortable around me, yes.”

“Why do you think that was?”

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

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

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

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

“His daughter.”

“Do you know about it?”

“He told us the details.”

“So you’re talking to him too?”

“We are, yes.”

“How is he?”

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

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

…

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

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

“Must be my womanly nature.”

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

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

“He had it coming.”

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

“Maggie doesn’t know.” 

“No.”

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

“No, I don’t think she should.”

“Why?”

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

“How do you know what they need?”

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

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

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

…

“What happened between you two?”

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

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

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

“So you and her never?”

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

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

…

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

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

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

“You both had doubts then?”

“Are you gonna show me the new file?”

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

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

“Can you tell us what happened in 2002?”

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

“What exactly happened between you three?”

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

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

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

[sequoiassoul]

I love that the true detective fandom is slowly coming back and because of that we are getting more fics so I might just have to write some of my own 🤪

[the-dark-ghost]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you ask?”

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

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

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

————> ༒ <————

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

Read on Ao3:

[hausofmamadas]

| The occupational hazards of living |

⁂

Narcos: Mexico/True Detective Crossover

Pairing: David Barrón & Rustin "Crash" Cohle & OC! Ziggy Morenas & OC! Ernesto "Chato" Quintana Colmenaro

For @narcosfandomdiscordNarcOctober - Day 22 - Day of Cross Pollination

Prompt: Create a fanwork that includes at least one Narcos character and at least one character from another fandom & fanwork with the plot or setting stolen from another fandom

Word count: ≈ 4.5K

TWs: Canon-consistent violence, Light Prison Racisms, swearing, racial slurs, drug use, references to trauma/domestic abuse, white supremacy ..? that’s a trigger, right?

The two most important things anyone can do is give life and take it. But with how often both happened, it seemed people didn’t consider the gravity of either near enough. Killing wasn’t a trifling thing. Barrón has had it up to here with these Neo-Nazis and Rustin Cohle is there to support his teaching them a lesson. Also a couple of notes: La Eme = the letter M but stands for Mexican Mafia carnal = (pronounced carnál) made man of La Eme, putting in work = Doing Crimes, particularly violent ones in service to La Eme, vica = vice president, usually of a prison cellblock llevero = keyholder/shotcaller, Eme carnal who oversees a specific geographic region outside prison or an entire prison camarada = non-made Eme members, affiliates crimie = (pronounced crim-ee) short for criminal contra = short for contraband la raza = literally the race, but more the community/the people (similar to gente but more exclusive)

… but first! Let’s meet the cast:

Ziggy

Chato

Ginger

⁂

The most startling thing about prison wasn’t the violence. If witnessing his first drive-by shooting when he was six didn’t acclimate Barrón quickly, his old man’s habit of bouncing him and Matteo off the walls certainly did. So, while the tactics and flavors were new, the violence wasn’t. He likened it to living in a war zone. If you panicked about every shell that blew a road to bits, you’d drop dead of a coronary in no time.

No, the most shocking thing about prison was the tribalism. As a plebito in Logan Heights, he had friends belonging to almost every ethnic group the melting pot of San Diego had to offer. The project neighborhoods were chock full of families of different races, countries, ethnicities: Samoan, Filipino, Black, Japanese, Mexican, Guatemalan, El Salvadorian, and the like. It didn’t matter where the neighbor kid’s family was from, when all they wanted to do was play like Bruce Lee from Way of the Dragon in the scrapyard across the street.

So, when he arrived at his first Youth Authority facility, Rancho Del Campo, just outside the dirt town of Tecate, and was told by some of the older Sureños about the “rules” against consorting with Black or White prisoners, he thought it was a joke.

“Wait, you fucking with me?”

“Nah, lil homie. Deader than dead serious,” Eddie Monstruo aka Eddie the monster, Eme vica for his block, set him straight.

“Even if I knew ‘em on the outside? I can’t just eat a meal with ‘em?”

Eddie shook his head in lamentation.

“Trade contra? Say hi? Nothing?”

“Nothing. Con la raza baila el perro, sin la raza bailas como un perro. And they won’t tell you twice, te lo juro, guey.”

He remembered thinking, Are you kidding? This is America. So indignant. What he wouldn’t give to be that green again. But what really bothered him was how the rules weren’t the same for everyone. Like how the Sureños were more simpatico with White prisoners because La Eme was aligned with the AB. Aryan Brotherhood.

He rarely saw White kids on the outside save for when he sold them dope down by the boardwalk. He sure as fuck didn’t have any whiteboy homies. Shoot, on the outside, whitey was The Man. So, it was a blow when he found out the camaradas were aligned with the AB. The way it was explained to him, the Sureños did it out of “necessity” because of the longstanding alliance between the Norteños and Black Guerrilla Family. Norteños, or Nuestra Familia, were Eme’s sworn enemy. Sometime in the 70s, the top carnals saw the need to boost their profile and numbers with a similar alliance, so they took up with the AB.

Barrón never said shit, but the AB didn’t sit right with him. For guys who were supposedly the “cream of the crop,” the “superior” race, they were really a bunch of lazy, disorganized hicks. They talked a lot of shit about the white race being the “one true people,” “purest of the pure,” acted like they shit gold. But then they had to be off-this-planet high on whatever the crank of the month was, just to put in work. That, or they shot up places indiscriminately. No creep to ‘em. Worse yet, no concern for bystanders.

Barrón knew everyone in the game skated a line of amorality, but he drew a few more lines for himself. One from the beginning: at all possible costs, no bystanders. The other line came with time. After he’d been around the block some, he stopped getting blasted on dope and booze before a hit. He didn’t begrudge some of the guys that did and he had his fair share of early jobs where those gears needed greasing. But after a while, being spun on top of spun felt disrespectful. To the job. To his victims.

The two most important things anyone can do is give life and take it. But with how often both happened, it seemed people didn’t consider the gravity of either near enough. Killing wasn’t a trifling thing. So, what did it say about him if he tried to escape, check out by getting high? What did it say if he couldn’t, with his full faculties and finger on the trigger, look the person in the eye and feel the depth of what he was about to do?

There was no off the hook. Actions have consequences. Guilt and remorse? They were occupational hazards of living if your brain was wired like it was supposed to be. He knew there was a worthy place for him in hell. The least he could do was be an adult about it. It’s not that he fancied murder an honorable business. He just hated cowards and hypocrites. That’s why he hated the AB.

That and they just plain sucked. Best way to ruin a party? Be sure to invite the neo-nazis.

The last time he agreed to work with an AB affiliated outfit was a few years after he got out of San Quentin. The Logan Heights llevero, his old homie Mando, called on Barrón to help some biker gang take back one of their stash houses. Apparently, some AB higher-up named Geronimo Jerry was collecting on a favor Mando owed from back when they did time in Folsom. To pay up, Mando put together a team to back Jerry’s guys up, but a couple of his original soldiers got dropped by the cops and another got arrested, and he needed replacements for the six man operation. The minute Barrón heard whiteboys were involved, he tried to get out of it. But Mando was a full-blown Eme carnal by then, a made-man of the Mexican mafia.

Barrón had seen The Godfather countless times as a kid, one of his dad’s favorites. One of the few good things he could remember about the man at all. At five years old, he thought it entirely innocent when Vito said in that whisper of a voice, “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” Like Vito was offering Woltz a deal so sweet, he couldn’t pass it up. It wasn’t till later on, when Mando asked him to do this job that Barrón got what Vito Corleone really meant. When a carnal said “jump,” he had no choice. He was locked in.

Thankfully, the two others Mando put on it were Barrio LH guys Barrón already knew. He and Chato had been buds since back in YA and had already done plenty of rip-n-runs together. He’d never worked a job like this with Ziggy Morenas but Ziggy was a known quantity around Shelltown as a reliable soldado. He was also Matteo’s best friend since grade school, so naturally, when they were old enough to start puttin’ in work, they did it together. Matteo only ran with the best and taught Barrón to do just the same.

But it was tricky with Ziggy. Barrón got along with him fine but they’d never been close per se. Unofficial Big Bro Ziggy might’ve been more accurate. Still, when Matty died, they fell out for a bit. They’d only reconnected recently because Ziggy started going out with one of Cheli’s friends, Leó. Even then, the void of Matty was always there. A void they shared but could never relate to each other through. Plus, competent a soldado as he was, the thing about Ziggy? He could be a little serious even for Barrón’s liking, which was saying something. Frankly, Ziggy could be a downright prickly motherfucker. All that noise aside though, he’d take serious over reckless any day. There was no mistaking Chato and Ziggy were solid guys.

The AB crew, on the other hand. Well truly, he’d never seen a more unprofessional group of crimies, save one of their affiliates Barrón had met a few times before, a bony-faced, severe-looking guy named Rust who went by Crash. He had the rangy, haunted look of a starved alley cat and commanded an Ivy League vocabulary that, through a watered-down Texas drawl, betrayed just how whip-smart he was. He also seemed to be the only one who could hold his liquor and his crystal, a fact alone that should’ve meant he was the one calling the shots. Unfortunately for them, the actual “leader” of this mess was a brawny, bald guy with too-wide, glassy blue eyes and a long, braided, red beard, who they fittingly called Ginger.

The “safe house” they met at was a piece of shit, rundown bungalow owned by Jerry. Outside, it looked like an elementary school portable. Inside, it was a hoarder’s paradise. When Barrón, Chato, and Ziggy arrived, there were group of about nine or ten guys huddled around Ginger at a foldable picnic table in the kitchen area. Crash was the only one off to the side, smoking by himself in the corner.

As the three of them passed through the living room to join the AB guys, Barrón was overwhelmed by the stench of cat piss, lighter fluid, and an amalgam smoke mixture of PCP and cigarettes. The shag carpet was crawling with roaches and littered with cigarette butts, stag mags, and Skymall catalogs. And fuck finding a place to sit. Barrón had to slide clothes and stacks of papers off the arm of a dank couch that jutted into the dining area just to lean against it. Chato and Ziggy opted to share the edge of the coffee table facing the kitchen.

They all watched as Ginger laid out the half-assed plan they cooked up. Barrón caught Crash out of the corner of his eye, whose gaunt face seemed caught between an apology and a defeated look of warning, like he was telegraphing the breath and time he’d already wasted trying to reason with these idiots and that he shouldn’t be bothered.  

When it became clear these morons hadn’t done any legwork beforehand, Barrón asked if they had an alternate route to get out of the complex they were hitting in case they got boxed in. “Only one way in and out? In only one car?”**

Eyes buzzing with a kind of feral, wildcard edge that didn’t instill the slightest confidence, Ginger nodded slowly, licking excess coke off the edge of a credit card.

Ziggy too, looked unamused, the tell-tale whites of the skin spreading over his knuckles, visible as his hands balled into fists. Chato noticed too because he and Barrón exchanged uneasy glances.

Dropping some well-timed Spanish, intended only to be understood by the three of them, “Es lo que ya les pregunté. Todo se fija a ser un espectáculo de mierda,” Crash floored the whole room before calmly taking a drag from his cigarette like an asthmatic on his inhaler.  

A big guy named Mitch leaned over close enough to graze Barrón with his beard, and freebase-exhaled this poetry, “We hit trouble? Just gotta fuck it in the ass. Scoop out the soft brains and eat right out the skull.”**

One of the strangest attempts at reassurance Barrón had ever heard. Like he agreed, Crash scoffed at Mitch and rolled his eyes. Homie knew shit was about to go down. Probably because Ziggy looked like he was about to pop his lid. Barrón choked back a chuckle of surprise that Ziggy didn’t slug the fat fuck in the face, right then and there. It wouldn’t have been out of character. Or unwarranted.

Because this was typical AB. These guys never bothered to come up with a plan. They never needed one. Life cut them all the breaks and of course it did. They’d designed it that way.

But as fate would have it, Barrón was actually one to break. He’d reached his limit and put one of their guys down with a bullet in both kneecaps. It was after he questioned their exit strategy.

Some skinny dude, a guy called Whizbang, who’d been spun for probably 48 straight hours, accused him of asking too many questions. Undeniable proof he was an undercover cop. Funny thing was, this moron wasn’t even gonna be part of the actual boost.

“This spic doesn’t say shit the whole time. Now he’s askin’ about tactics? Shifty-eyed motherfucker hasn’t touched shit since we got here.” Whizbang pointed to the curated assortment of drug paraphernalia next to the assault weapons on the table. “What’s wrong? You some kinda beaner cop, ese?” He pronounced it ‘ess-ay.’

Barrón met him with a wall of inscrutable nothing.

The little creep walked over slowly. “You laughin’ at me motherfucker?” Funny, ‘cause he wasn’t even close to smiling.

Relaxed as ever, he drowned the room in a silence that put everyone’s hackles up. Especially Ginger, whose eyes couldn’t get any wider, the whites of his eyes near engulfing his eye-sockets, swallowing his irises along with those pinprick-sized pupils. The look of bored resignation Crash wore every other time Barrón crossed paths with him was now replaced with a smirk of satisfaction; someone who walked through life craving the unexpected and getting more than he’d bargained for.

“Got nothin to say, huh? C’mon Sancho, prove you’re not a cop.”

As he drew closer, he tried his level best to look menacing or as menacing as anyone named Whizbang might hope to be. Patience wearing thin, Barrón’s wall broke and he rolled his eyes and looked off to the side, muttering against gritted teeth and his better judgement, “Can’t believe we have to deal with this shit.”

Whizbang didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go Sancho, talk or take a bump. Show us you’re not a cop.”

Almost close enough to be nose-to-nose now, he took out a dimebag of what looked like PCP from the pocket of his kutte and waved it in front of Barrón’s face. No one but Ziggy and Chato caught his hand nearing a spot at the base of his back.

Eyes blazing like molten tar, nostrils flared, it was a preamble, simple and quick. “You talk too much.”

Then before anyone could blink, two loud pops and poor, skinny-ole Whizbang crumpled to the floor, howling and clutching his knees as blood spurted out all over his hands and seeped through his jeans onto the carpet. Barrón fixed his nine millimeter on Whizbang’s face, trying to decide if he was going to let the skidmark live. But, spotting a wooden crate on the floor next to the table, he aimed there instead.

A moment of stunned silence passed, until everyone realized what he was aiming at and then all the AB guys scrambled for the weapons on the table. Everyone except Crash who was laughing at the ground now, unperturbed and cracked-in-the-head in a way that indicated the guy had seen some shit in his life. What it was, Barrón could only guess.

Crash cut through the chaos with a whistle and a, “tsk tsk, I’d think on that, boys.”

They all froze and looked at him, then at Barrón, then to the barrel of his gun, then to the wooden crate that was filled with over a dozen live grenades, then back at Barrón. Just to hammer the point home, Barrón shot right, then left, on each side of the crate.

The AB guys looked green. Chato and Ziggy looked torn between panic and hysterical laughter, though he swore he detected a hint of approval on Ziggy’s face. Crash looked on the verge of straight-up applause. Based on the sheer glee this little turn of events brought him, he couldn’t have been with the AB. That must be why he wasn’t in charge.

Looking Ginger square in the eye, Barrón explained, voice quiet and even, “We do this my way or I can nuke us all, right now.” He waited a beat but stunned-stupid Ginger still said nothing. “So Chief, what’ll it be?”

Crash ventured, smirking with an I-told-you-so superiority only somewhat softened by the drawl, “Far be it from me to speak out of turn, here, Ginger. But based on the last few months I just spent in Ojinaga and Juarez, uh– I’d say– well, yeah, just– you’d be wise to take these motherfuckers serious, right brother.” He tacked on brother like an afterthought, maybe to soften the blow or maybe just to sound like a condescending prick. Somehow it worked on both fronts.

Ginger stared at the ground and clenched his jaw so hard it looked like it might dislocate. Then spat out, “Fine. Fuckit,” rolling his head around, glaring through half-lidded eyes, “what does Big Beaner over here propose?”

And just like that, Barrón was in charge.

So, of course then, the heist went off without a hitch.

∴

After the job was done, the loot counted and distributed among all interested parties back at the safe house, everyone exchanged tense, albeit still-amicable goodbyes; good will engendered, no doubt, by fact that the whole thing went off seamlessly. Still, Crash was the only whiteboy to shake their hands.

“Nifty little stunt you pulled there. I’d call you a crazy motherfucker, if you hadn’t saved me the headache of getting my ass greased,” he turned around to look over at Ginger’s crew, back to snorting PCP off the foldout table with plastic straws, “and buried six-feet-under with these fuckin’ imbeciles.”

Barrón smiled and nodded diffidently.

Chato spoke up for the first time since they’d gotten back. “Hey, we’re ’boutta grab some grub before we head back to give the lowdown to the big homie—” Crash nodded at Chato like he knew exactly who Mando was. And maybe he did, since he didn’t seem to be rolling with the AB. Just another soldier filling out the ranks like them. “—wanna roll out with us?”

“Sheeit.” Eyes alight with a crystal-meth vigilance that would’ve been off-putting if he weren’t so devil-may-care all the time, Crash surveyed the room, and shrugged. “Beats climbing the walls here with these assholes. Yeah, lemme take you up on that, buy you friendlies a round somewhere.”

Barrón smiled at Chato, little social butterfly. He, himself, would never have thought to invite the guy, but he was glad Chato did. Following Chato’s lead, he asked Crash, “Yo, you need a ride?”

“Nah, I’ll follow on my bike. Y’all know what’s good.”

The three of them looked at each other blankly until Ziggy offered, “Stoney’s?”

“Any place with booze’ll do just fine.”

“Oh, but we gotta make a pit stop at Micky D’s.”

They all looked at Chato like he’d been an extraterrestrial this whole time, and they’d only noticed just now.

“What?” He asked earnestly. “I want a McFlurry.”

They all just kept staring at him.

“Well, they don’t have McFlurries at Stoney’s, obviously.” Like they were the dumbest people on the planet.

Amused, Crash chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t say I’m in a position to judge, but he’s an odd duck, ain’t he.”

“Aight.” Ziggy cracked a rare smile, the kind really only Chato or Matty could get him to do. “Let’s get the kid a McFlurry. Then Stoney’s.”

The three of them piled into Barrón’s Monte Carlo and rolled out. Crash chugged behind on his Harley.

The crowd at Stoney’s was just starting to pick up, so they opted for the open seats at the bar on the patio.

“First round’s on me.” Crash flagged down the bartender. “What’s everyone’s poison.”

Barrón put his hand on his chest, “Corona,” then pointed to Ziggy. “Y tú, qué?”

Ziggy looked up from the spot on the bartop he had been mean-mugging since they sat down, “Oh, uh—” then glanced at Chato next to him, who was gazing, lost in love, into his McFlurry cup, spooning bite after bite into his mouth, and just ordered for him. “Well, for the lady, a tequila sunrise and me? I don’t— eh, fuck it. Shot of tequila. Nothing fancy.”

Narrowing his eyes, Crash regarded them like he’d been conducting a study that yielded some unexpected results, then passed the order on to the bartender.

When they had their drinks, Crash finally asked what was probably on everyone’s mind. “So, contestame eso,” he slid into Spanish, unclumsily but not entirely without effort. “Ya tango que saberlo. Back there. That just a performance? Or would you’ve done it?”

Somewhat blindsided, less by the question than by who was asking it, Barrón struggled to hide his surprise while he tongued the inside of his cheek, searching for an answer. He got the impression for some reason that Crash could take the truth. There was a hard-lived, stretched-thin quality to him, evidence of a man, unmoored, maybe a bit unhinged, operating at the edge of life itself. But he didn’t want to spook Chato.

And the truth was well, he didn’t actually know. Not then and not now. He didn’t need to because of what he did know: things never would’ve gotten that far. It was a play and the play would’ve worked, even without Crash’s helpful advice to Ginger. Because those AB guys? They were always chickenshit.

Okay, so there. That was an answer. Why didn’t he just say that?

Maybe because of what he wasn’t certain of. That if he’d misjudged the situation, if it hadn’t worked, would he have tried their luck and pulled the trigger anyway? Nah, but he knew that too. Yeah, he would’ve. He meant it. Or at least a part of him. Had to be serious for them to take it serious.

But he settled on equivocation. “What d’you think?”

Ball back in Crash’s court, and the way his jaw cocked to the side, it was clear he wasn’t much for accepting non-answers for answers. “What do I think? Well, what’s the use in asking if I already know?”

Fair enough.

An impatient Ziggy piped up, turning to Barrón. “Quién se cree que es, este pinshe gringuillo?” But before Crash could answer, Ziggy swiveled back around and laid it out for him. “If he hadn’t meant it, we would’ve gone along with their cracked, cracker-ass plan. And if we went along with their plan, we’d either be in jail or riddled with bullets right now, probably buried in the middle of some dirt lot along with those crusty hicks. Okay?”

Huh. Ziggy, having his back like that, defending him. That was … nice, new. Unphased though, Crash put his hands up in armistice. “I ain’t complainin’ insofar as I’m curious as to the level of commitment to the bit.”

“Alright,” Barrón said in a sigh. “Yeah, I meant it. Had to, didn’t I?”

Finally, that seemed enough truth to humor Crash, as he nodded, mouth cocked up in a smug half-smirk, and took a swig of his bourbon. Barrón saw it then. Este güey knew it all along but wouldn’t be satisfied unless it was said out loud. Ziggy scowled and rolled his eyes, maybe still irritated that Crash had asked in the first place. But probably more resentful that he’d folded so quick, telling this outsider the truth.

Poor Chato seemed to be the only one taken by surprise, as he froze mid-bite, eyes wide, plastic spoon hanging out of his mouth. And all of a sudden Barrón and Ziggy busted up laughing. With less investment but still in on the joke, Crash couldn’t stop himself chuckling too. As they all sat there, in varying levels of stitches, Chato just looked at them all, confused. Until he realized the joke was how ridiculous he looked, and then he cracked up right along with them.

When they settled down, Barrón wiped tears from his eyes while Chato contentedly sipped on his tequila sunrise, and Ziggy flagged the bartender again for another shot.

The bartender brought his shot and Ziggy knocked it back before asking Barrón, “Yo,” voice thick as he swallowed hard, “should we work on getting our story straight? Like, what do we tell Mando?”

Chato glanced nervously at Ziggy, agreeing, “Yeah, like are we gonna tell how you kneecapped that skinny guy–“

“Whizbang,” Crash cut in to remind them his name, as if it mattered.

“–and threatened to blow the whole crew away?”

Staring ahead at all the bottles lined up on shelves, lit technicolor by the bar lights, Barrón said cooly, “Is that what happened?”

Brows furrowed, Chato looked from Barrón, to Ziggy, to Crash, then back to Barrón. “Yo, is this a trick question or—?”

“No fool,” Ziggy shot him a disgruntled look. “It’s not a trick question. And yea, fool, that’s what happened.”

“So, that’s what we tell him.”

Chato couldn’t compute, looking at Barrón like he’d sprouted a second smaller, uglier head. With an air of amused cynicism, Crash watched the three of them bickering, citizens in the town square like they were on Court TV.

“Woahwoahwoah,” Chato practically gurgled with a mouth full of McFlurry, “you forreal right now?”

“Look, Jerry and Mando go way back. He’s gonna hear about it. Best he hears direct. Besides, you can’t lie to a carnal when you go off the reservation like that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Barrón saw Ziggy’s head gravely bobbing up and down in agreement.

Chato was still in disbelief. “Dude, he’s gonna cap you right there on the spot.”

“Actions have consequences,” Barrón explained simply, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. “I’ll see that it doesn’t blow back on you. S’on me.”

Ziggy seemed comfortable in resignation at the prospect of Mando losing his shit on Barrón. Chato was still unconvinced. Pobre was genuinely concerned for him.

Assessing Chato with something like doomed admiration, Crash pointed out, “Milkshakes aside, kid’s got the kinda heart they don’t teach in school.” Then looking around at all of them like the thought just dawned on him, he asked, “How old are you guys, anyway?”

Index finger pointing at his chest, Ziggy said flatly, “Twenty one, last month,” then pointed to Chato, “nineteen,” then to Barrón who finished for him, “eighteen.”

Crash whistled, “Sheeit. And I thought I didn’t have childhood.”

Chato still looked ill at ease. In an effort to cheer him up, Barrón quipped, “No hay tos, compa. I’m living on borrowed time anyway. Shoot, I was ready to die— what,” he smirked and glanced at the clock hanging above the doorway that led from Stoney’s patio back inside, “three hours ago?”

Chato gave him the side-eye but must’ve worked a little bit because his shoulders weren’t crunched up by his ears as much.

After a few minutes of silence, something occurred to Barrón. “Hey, why’d you ask?”

Crash downed the remainder of his bourbon in one big gulp and came back up smiling like he was waiting for that exact question to be asked. He set the empty glass upside down on the bar, and pulled out a cigarette, tapping the tip of it on the bottom of the glass, before putting it to his lips and lighting up.

Through another one of those deep, asthmatic drags, voice thick, he said, “Well, I was jus’ thinking, the kinda nuts it takes, going off book like that? But the three of you still kept your cool. Level headed nutjobs are hard to find. So, might be I got another job for you boys. If you’re interested. And Mando’ll lend you.”

Well that stumped them, as they stood there, puzzled looks on all their faces because actually who the fuck was this guy? And did he know Mando? Or he was just a that good a listener?

Crash gave them a wily look through the two thick columns of smoke that poured from his nostrils. “Y’all ever heard of a guy by the name of Amado Carrillo Fuentes?”

They came back at him with nothing but crickets.

“You might know him as El Senior de los Cielos.”

That’s when Barrón knew he’d sized this guy up correct. Crash, Rust, whoever this guy was, dropping a big name like that, guaranteed he’d seen and done some shit in his life.

And now, evidently, he was looking for business partners. Or maybe a couple of suckers. Which one would depend on whatever came out of his mouth next.

═

** indicates lines robbed directly from True Detective (Because you know I wish I came up with that soft brains line but alas, I am no Nic Pizzolato)

taglist: @narcolini @narcosfandomdiscord

[quiet--menace]

“Dr, Lecter. Many thanks for agreeing to see me.” Rust knew that Lecter upheld courtesy. “I was told to expect a former special agent and FBI profiler,” he said, openly airing disappointment. “I’m sorry if you were expecting somebody else, but that’s me: Rustin Cohle, homicide detective gone private.” “And a long way from home,” Hannibal said, imitating Rust’s accent, “What brings you cross country, Mr Cohle?” “Business,” Cohle responded bluntly, “Hence the chunky case file, but whilst I’ve got the privilege of your ear Dr Lecter, there are questions I’ve been burning to ask, out of professional curiosity, one student of metaphysics to another.

Come Forth As Gold by Birdie Lo Green

More shameless self promo for fic I stayed up writing until late in the morning. May I complete the rest of the prompts for February and spare everybody from quote posts.

[jessicaavon]

Umm, yes, take this because I am TRASH! I love these two fuckups with all my heart and I apologize for nothing. @petrichorus @twobrokenwyngs @ajjju95

[dini73]

Bathtub Nonsense Part II

(Peaky Blinders, Tommy & Alfie)

Please read part I (Vikings, Heavar) here

It's finally here. Thanks @whatsmyline-pb for your help, thanks @jackson--t for wanting this, thanks all for your patience.

So, after the fic was finally written I realised the moodboard above actually showas the wrong person in the tub...not that there could ever be something wrong with naked Tommy, but I still felt like doing another one:

This second part is actually what made me start this little series - of which I just decided I will go on extending it with more scenes between all the couples I adore so much - . And it started by thinking about scenes for the last chapter(s) of my T&A fic Together

So please imagine a long time established relationship between these two when reading this. Tommy lived with Alfie at Margate since several years already, decades even. And they take care of each other. In the nicest ways ;o)

****

Alfie felt Tommy's cautious question more than hearing it over the rippling of the water and the delicate crackling of the foam.

A gentle tickle, right on his temple, followed by a tender kiss.

“Better?”

He wanted to answer but his senses were enveloped in the delicate peach scent of their bathing foam and the soothing circles Tommy drew on his chest; the wet sponge moving up to his shoulders from time to time, the thumb slightly massaging Alfie’s stiff neck.

“Alfie?”

“I’m here, Tommy, I’m here.” He smiled at his stubborn lover, his eye catching a glimpse of the little stool Tommy always prepared next to the chair that had its constant place by their bath now. Alfie wouldn’t have minded getting his beard trimmed in his beloved armchair right in the middle of their living room, but of course everything needed to be taken care of in the proper places with Thomas Shelby. Thinking about it, Alfie wouldn’t have minded not getting his beard trimmed at all and just let it grow, but one day Tommy had murmured something about food remains and hygiene before he had- somewhat aggressively, if you asked Alfie – manoeuvred him in their bath and then trimmed his beard for the first time. What a paternalism! Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed it…and maybe he was tempted from then on to emphasize his aching, making it obvious for Tommy that he needed to take care of his wise old Jew.

Alfie huffed out a little laugh.

***

“What’s so funny, eh?” Tommy asked, a bit drowsily, as Alfie’s laugh had torn him back from his own memories.

Memories of a time when he was the one that needed to be taken care of. Not that Tommy would ever admit to needing such care, but he didn’t really have a say in matters regarding his mental health if you asked Alfie; or all the women in his life.

Women…Tommy’s thoughts drifted off again. It seemed centuries ago that he had spared even one single thought toward a woman.

Lost in thought he leaned further towards the bathtub his hand absent mindedly reaching deeper into the water.

How could he ever have existed without Alfie? But he really hadn’t, had he? Wasn't it all just a big show, a dazzling façade, his life back then?

The gentle massage of his hand along the stiff, old leg seemed to numb them both a little. Alfie's pleased moans echoed from the tiles. Both their chests rose and fell faster and faster, while Tommy’s hand kneaded more and more determinedly, the water sloshing more and more. Tommy’s head searched for Alfie’s forehead; their steamy cheeks slid along each other, while Tommy’s right arm reached around Alfie’s shoulder and to his head, his fingers played with the grey but hair of his loved one.

“Tommy,” Alfie croaked, while leaning his head to the side, welcoming Tommy’s eager tongue, not wasting a second as it slid into well-known territory.

“Hmmm? That good, feeling better?”

“What, we…ah fuck Tommy!” Alfie’s hand shot up out of the water and clung to the tub.

Tommy’s hand moved up and down, the exact movements that drove Alfie crazy long engrained in his muscles after decades of amazing lovemaking; years spent pleasuring one another, not giving a fuck about the outside world. Not family or expectations, just them, just the two of them, their longing, their dedication, their devotion, their love. Nothing but their love.

Tommy felt himself getting hard; his trousers cutting electrifyingly into his tender flesh. He longed for some friction but above all, he longed for Alfie’s release. The wonderful sounds he could evoke by treating the love of his life just right. Treating him the way only he knew how. Spoiling him with movements learned and perfected during years of a devoted relationship.

The urge to touch himself got nearly unbearable, but Tommy resisted, using his hand to pull at Alfie’s hairs, moving his head back, exposing his neck just to lick at it as they had done when they were far younger.

Tommy heard nothing more than the fast pulsating of his own heartbeat. His tongue went down to Alfie’s collarbone. The whimper he provoked Tommy only noted through the fog of his own arousal. Sucking at Alfie’s skin, skin that was still so beautiful to him, and the accompanying memories of all the times he had done so before, made him throb.

Alfie’s moans got louder, he stirred in the water, trying to lift his hips.

“I-I can’t, Tommy, I need-I’ll, fuck, Tooom- oh god, Tommy! Tommy baby!”

Alfie came undone, and Tommy soon followed.

***

Alfie laid back, convinced he had just died the most perfect death. For a few moments nothing could be heard but the slowly calming water and the slowing breathing of the two lovers. But then Alfie couldn’t resist saying out loud once more what he was sure Thomas already knew deep in his heart:

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Alfie.”

@jackson--t @mintjamsblog @weeo @pieces-by-me

[ironmvnon-blog]

Followers I’d like to know better

So the lovely @zayamato tagged me in this, thank you!

Rule: Tag the 20 people you want to get to know better. (I don’t even have 20 followers so let’s ignore the rule there)

Name: Manon

Nickname: Man, Manoune, Manette, Looser

Gender: Female

Star Sign: Virgo

Height: around 165cm? it’s been so long since i’ve checked 

Sexual Orientation: straight i guess

Hogwarts House: gryffindor according to Pottermore

Favorite Color: i don’t really have one? purple? deep red? grey? too many possibilities

Average Hours of Sleep: like 6 probably (depends on my level of binge-watching a show)

Cat or Dog Person: team dog

Favorite Fictional Characters: Kakashi Hatake (he’s first because that’s thanks to him that i got introduced to fanfiction and well he basically started everything) but really usually when i watch a show there’s always that one character i love so much more than the other so there are really too many to list but if i must choose some i’d say Rustin Cohle from True Detective (such a complete character jesus, so well-written) Arthur from Inception, more recently Martin Riggs from Lethal Weapon, Stiles from Teen Wolf, i used to love Callen from NCIS:LA and Sam from Supernatural but i slowly let go of these shows? 

Number of Blankets I Sleep With: only one

Favorite Singer/Band: Billy Talent is my all time favourite for some reason and I went to their concert recently (needless to say it made my year); i love Soan (french dude i love him so much, if anyone understands french look him up becuause his songs are jewels) Mumford&Sons, AC/DC and Scorpions for old rock (i’m not going to put all of the bands but i’ve seen these two live and damn yes). i’m also a big fan of Les Casseurs Flowters which is a french rap duo but they are so good??? got me tearing up everytime. 

Dream Trip: Ireland, Russia, Berlin?

Dream Job: Michael Moore. that or professional dancer yea

When Was This Blog Created: where the heck do i find this information i have no idea. but my first blog is from around 2012, and then i managed to get out of tumblr? but i relapsed thanks to friends and so i made a new blog and here i am

Current Number of Followers: 10 :)

When Did Your Blog Reach Its Peak: well it hasn’t. or maybe it has? idk

i’ll only tag the people i know irl but if you see this do it please, count this as a virtual tag cause you’re following me

@buckytruant @snowtroopcrs @vajeeper

[atinylittlepain]

Ptolemaea

rust cohle x f!oc

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

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

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

Prologue

Part one - coming soon

[dini73]

Bathtub Nonsense Part II

Coming soon

Part I can be found here (Heavar)

[jessicaavon]

“He stands in frightful proximity to the door, and the expression on his face stops you in your tracks; like a man in some third world country, watching as his village burns.” •••

So I’m writing a True Detective haunted house story, and because I’m me, it’s not enough to simply write it. So I made a mini diorama of one of the rooms/scenes where a lot of the spookiness happens, and I really love how it turned out! The story should be done around August, so if you’re interested, keep an eye out for it! 🎃💀