a butch from the south turned city kid who writes sometimes. a lover of angst, horror, and really bad garage bands. prob a werewolf. send me an ask, i don't bite. :-)
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
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requests welcome; minors dni
accounts without age in bio will be blocked !! harsh, i know, but this is for my own comfort, respect my boundaries
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fandoms:
➤ DC universe (Superman, Batman, Justice League)
➤ Hannibal
➤ House MD
➤ Marvel Universe (X-Men!!!!)
➤ Saw Franchise (Chainshipping <3)
➤ Stardew Valley
➤ True Detective (Season One)
➤ The X-Files
people who say they think female characters are fundamentally uninteresting are genuinely the weakest links to me like if you cant even make yourself care about a FICTIONAL woman u kind of need to die slow
my favorite detail in true detective s1 is that neither of them wear seatbelts. i assume this is because rust has a death wish and marty feels emasculated by safety regulations
a/n: hi! i have a tumblr now, so that's rlly cool. a fic i wrote a while ago that I'm cataloging here :-)
Fandom: True Detective
Pairing: Marty x Rust
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: ~4k
Warnings: Suicidal Ideation, Substance Abuse, Dubious Consent
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In a way, Marty had always wanted it.
So many hours riding side-by-side in that damned car, so many shared drinks, blood stains, alibis — these are the things that starve a man. Brushed hands, passing glances, flashes of skin in a locker room — these are the things that feed him.
Rust Cohle had fucked his wife. Worse still, he hadn't fucked him.
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“You and Cohle had a falling out, though, that July.”
They are on the third hour of the interview. Hart, tie undone, is on his fourth cup of coffee. Clock ticking steadily. Black fly caught in the windowsill. The air conditioning growling, fighting a losing battle with the Louisiana heat. Everyone is sweating, itching, wanting to go home. Hart most of all.
He clears his throat. “We did.” He likes to think he’s got a good poker face, but there are tells: a twitch in his jaw, a flush at his collar. “Personal differences.”
“Personal differences,” Papania echoes with a dog-like cock of his head. Marty doesn’t like his eyes. He has eyes like a coonhound, eyes that chase. “Tell us about that.”
(Late night, the tangle of a hand in his hair, the press of his lips against Rust’s exposed throat…)
Hart sucks his teeth. “Hardly relevant,” he huffs, tapping a finger idly on the rim of his coffee cup.
“Hardly relevant?”
(The taste of blood and sweat on another man’s lips…)
Marty shifts in his seat. “Hm.”
There is a long silence. Papania waits expectantly, letting him writhe in it. The fly in the windowsill rises again and beats its small body against the glass. It’s a terrible sound, the buzzing. This combined with the wheezing of the air conditioner and the sound of Papania palms rubbing against his pants and the whining of the digital recorder and the heat and the remembering of those panting, hurting sounds — all of this makes Marty feel very nauseous, and very warm, and very dirty.
The fly gives up. Marty watches it fall, twitch once, and then go still. It almost makes him gag, seeing this small crumbled body on its back, legs pointed skyward, and he wants very desperately to take a very long and very cold shower.
The recorder continues to whine. It is an old thing, still running tape. He hates it viciously.
“A guy like Rust, batshit as he was, he could rub you the wrong way,” Marty says finally, defeated, loosening his tie. “And one day, well fuck, you get tired of it. One day he rubbed me raw, that’s all.”
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Sea Glass (And the surf's rough tongue): a fic by ooh_barracuda
a/n: helloo ! have tumblr now ! yay! cataloging all my fics here. an ongoing longfic that has become a bit of a comfort project :-)
Fandom: Stardew Valley
Pairing: Dr. Harvey X Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: ~20k (chp 6/?)
Warnings: Suicidal Ideation, Substance Abuse, War, PTSD
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They had been friends, once. Attached at the hip.
Harvey Elwood, the doctor's son with the stutter and the soft heart.
Ellis Bell, the aspiring poet, all snaggle teeth and spite.
War tore them apart. Ellis was drafted the summer he turned 17. Harvey, disqualified from service, was forced to stay in Pelican Town. So he took up his father's trade and busied himself. He worked. He grew up. He made himself a life, a simple one, and he forgot all about that dark-haired boy and their days on the beach.
But Ellis Bell has come home.
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Harvey sits at the reception desk of the clinic, sipping at a coffee with too much creamer, wishing someone, anyone, would die. The clinic clock above the door ticks dutifully away towards noon, and no one arrives — maimed, sick, dying, dead, or otherwise. This is not exceptional. The most dramatic of injuries were the skinned knees of children, the drunk trip-ups of Shane, swollen tonsils, and the administering of flu vaccines… He loves his job, he truly does, but it grew repetitive: Here, sport, don’t cry! Here’s a lollipop, a bandaid, a pat on the back!
Pelican Town is a small, incestuous sort of place, everyone a second-cousin, a childhood friend, or a brother a half-lifetime removed. Harvey referred to all of his patients by their first names; anything else would be an insult to some dull, generational pact. He had served them, just as his father had served their fathers, just as his grandfather had served their grandfathers, on and on forever. Doctor Elwood, the latest of a dozen identical Doctor Elwoods, was sitting at the latest of a dozen identical reception desks on an unexceptional Tuesday in July.
His only company is Maru, who eats a salad in the lobby, watching some oversaturated dating show on the overhead television. The two do not talk. Eight hours of daily polite conversation was too much to maintain; they had grown into comfortable ghosts haunting one another, a word here, a word there.
(And your mother, how is she? The weather…yes…the rain…)
Quiet, mostly. What more was there to say?
On the television, a man professes his love melodramatically, soaked with likely-staged rain. Harvey watches as the victim of his monologue interrupts him with a fierce kiss and a swell of violin music. He sighs. Maru skewers a crouton with her fork. The clock ticks. A milky film gradually forms over the surface of his coffee.
Harvey stares at the door, willing someone to walk through. Someone miserable, someone beaten, someone shot! Anyone, anything, bleeding, so he could shrug on his coat and rush over savior-like, angel-like, and do something, Lord, anything! Just one sucker, maimed and messed up, just for him. Anything, really, anything, but another case of the flu.
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Will our doctor get his beaten, miserable man?
Read More to find out!
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