#august nash

[cowboy-coyote]

commission from the wonderful lovely @batcastle_ over on twitter dot com 🧡💛💚 mat belongs to @cosmiq

we love our silly little guys

[krillissue]

beautiful wonderful commission from the lovely @karmacat107 i have no words for how much i love this and i love auggie 🥺 please appreciate my skrungly little cowboy 💛🧡💚 and go show some love to my friend! she deserves it!!

[cowboy-coyote]

thank you so much miq i love him ♥

[krillissue]

look at my auggie boy!!!!! ❤️🧡💛💚(screaming, crying, twirling my hair, kicking my feet he’s so pretty good god)

i commissioned the amazing @altades to draw him and he’s so gsjjdkfjjdbbdkskab

[krillissue]

i know very few people like my auggie boy but i care him 🥺

he has all white hair but i thought what if he had kept some his natural color. so take this messy doodle of him with half and half!!

[krillissue]

Came Back Wrong - August Nash Part 1

hello, am i fighting my writer’s block with more trisona nonsense? yes, absolutely. i love this funky little cowboy so much and i want you to love him too!! this is part 1 of some drabbles i’m gonna do for him.

this is 2k words and tw: violence, blood, death, undeath, fire

A corpse once crawled its way out of a grave one night with no memory of how it got there or who it was. Their hands grasping through sand, fingertips bloody and sore. He dug his way out without his lungs gasping for air, heedless of the sunless sky above him. Lucky for him it was a shallow grave, one among hundreds in a field marked with makeshift crosses. His, if he could consider it so, could hardly be made out in the lights of the moons. 

BORN ■■ ■■■■ AUGUST■ ■■■■

L■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■■ NASH■■■■■ 

“August L. Nash” seemed to be as close to a name as he would ever recall. His memories were a blank slate, as empty as his grave now. Another man approached him, lantern in hand. He was large and haggard, a lifetime of the harsh desert planet wrinkling his skin and seeping into his aching joints. 

“What’cha doin’ there, boy? No use in robbin’ these graves.” He didn’t sound angry about catching a thief but as the light washed over him, the man’s face fell into a look of horror. August looked down at himself for the first time, trying to see what the man saw. A tattered shirt stained a dark rusty brown, pants caked in dirt and sand. He was filthy and thin and it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was the body that crawled out of this grave, not a robber. 

“...Where am I?” August inquired, his voice as cracked and dry as the desert around him. 

“Just outside May City,” The man answered as he crossed himself, his eyes unmoving from August’s own. “How did you crawl outta that grave? I put you in there myself. I saw... You were dead, boy.” August assessed himself, no air needed to fill his lungs other than to speak. He felt no hunger or thirst, his only fatigue in his limbs. Hesitantly, he felt the side of his neck for a pulse. A faint heartbeat thrummed against his bloody fingertips. Could he be considered a living thing? He didn’t know. 

“Why do you keep calling me ‘boy?’” He found his voice easier as he used it, spitting the sand from his mouth. “Do I not have a name?” 

“What makes you think you’re the same boy that went into that grave?” The gravedigger sighed, clearly still shaken up by August’s presence but nonetheless unthreatened. “C’mon along to the house. I’ll get you something proper to wear. And a good washin’. You smell like death.” 

.✾. .✾. .✾. 

The gravedigger made August his apprentice. Not that it was technically difficult work, digging graves. He’d given him clothes to wear but they were all too big, even his boots. He could have whatever the bodies wore but it felt wrong to take anything from the dead. Preparing the dead was simple, easy, he felt so very little. It never bothered him to put them to rest. But the more he did, the more whispers he heard at the edges of his senses. Late at night, while he dug instead of sleeping, he swore he could see ghosts. The gravedigger said it was his eye. 

August hated looking at himself in the mirror. Whenever his hair grew too troublesome, he’d cut it. The choppy strands were white as bone, something often commented on for its strangeness in one so seemingly young. But it was meeting his own eyes in the tarnished aluminum that left his skin crawling. His left iris was a deep warm brown but his right was a ghostly shade of gray, the entire eye foggy. He could see out of it fine but it disturbed anyone who met his gaze. The gravedigger said he was one foot in the grave, able to see both worlds. August didn’t know if he believed in ghosts. 

His eyes weren’t the only parts of his body he avoided, however. His tawny skin was almost sickly though unscared, his hands were the only calloused places on him. It was bathing that he truly despised. The longer he looked at himself, the more disconnected from his body he felt, a sensation of coming untethered from its boundaries. Was this his body? Why did he feel wrong in his skin? Was he even a man? What did that mean? Bodies were not foreign to him, he had seen plenty as he prepared them for their final resting place. But his was an alien thing, never fitting right. August only knew “he” was a “boy” by the words others used for “him.” It was convenient, nothing more. The body called August knew it was a dead thing first and foremost. 

August started his days when the gravedigger rose, close to dawn. He helped the old man make his breakfast, occasionally eating something himself. He liked spicy foods, he found. Anything that went into his mouth had hot sauce on it. He spent his long nights learning little hobbies to keep himself occupied, like whittling and the harmonica. It kept his hands busy and his mind quiet. The old man even taught him how to play his prized guitar, the instrument a comfortable weight in his arms. 

He didn’t venture often into May City if he could avoid it. Usually folks brought their dead loved ones to them for burial and the old gravedigger went to buy their supplies. But as he grew older and weaker, August had to start stepping up. The people didn’t like him much, put off by his eye and standoffish disposition. August started wearing a large brimmed hat and bandana to hide most of his face. He had a share of payment for his work he occasionally spent on little things in the city, a drink here, a pretty set of beads for his hair there. He’d even gotten his ears pierced on a whim, something to make him feel more like this was his body. 

His biggest expense had been his six-shooter revolver. In a place like No Man’s Land it just made sense to carry a weapon and May City loved its guns. They hosted regular shooting contests that drew crowds from all the Seven Cities. The old man taught him how to shoot but he didn’t have much of a knack for it. Every time the gun was in his hands, the floaty untethered feeling overcame him, scattering whatever concentration he could have on his target. It would haunt him late at night, the cold metal in his hand. Sometimes he saw glowing red pinpricks in  his foggy memory, the ghastly eyes of his last moments. It didn’t take a leap of faith to put it together. Someone had shot August dead, most likely through his ghostly eye, and somehow he’d come back. It should have been impossible but it was far from a miracle. 

.✾. .✾. .✾. 

A morning finally came when the old gravedigger didn’t rise with the suns. August buried him all the same and assumed his responsibilities. The townsfolk were resistant to trust him but eventually accepted his strange mannerisms and found him mostly harmless. But then a slimy snake oil salesman came to town. Elias Holoday was his name, his words smoother than butter to disguise the daggers beneath. He whipped the town into a frenzy with his claims to have “miracle” cures, so-called folk remedies and cure-alls. It was all a load of shit but no one seemed to care for the word of a shady gravedigger. 

How did August know he was a liar? It was a gut feeling but one he trusted to a fault. Elias Holoday was bad news. It wasn’t long after his arrival that things started to go amiss in the graveyard. Graves were disturbed, tools left places they shouldn’t. And all the while, Holoday’s tales grew taller and his pockets deeper. It was one thing to earn an honest living, but to lie and steal from hard-working people who had little else? It awakened an anger in August he hadn’t realized he was capable of. He found himself more and more wanting to bloody that pretty face of his. 

That was the worst part of it. Elias Holoday had delicate, sharp features, his pale skin free of blemishes aside from a beauty mark by his right eye. His pale skin contrasted with his black hair and eyes, the color of his sins. He dressed finely, thin glasses resting on his nose. August wanted to shatter them against his face, he wanted to break his nose and revel in the blood. It wasn’t just that Holoday was a liar, he actively turned suspicions August’s way. He casted doubt in the people of May City’s minds that August was trustworthy. He slandered him in the public square, even going so far as to accuse him of desecrating the graves. Holoday’s fanatic following ate it up from his palm. 

“The Eye of Michael’s a cult,” He muttered into his drink, aggravated by yet another well-meaning but deceived follower of Holoday’s. He’d heard of the “two angels” and their wackjob theology, their mockery of the cross branded across each of their “priests.” Elias bore the mark of the beast just like all the others, peddling lies. The old man had always given him a funny look when he’d spoken out against The Eye. He never learned why. 

August reached his limit once Elias Holoday claimed he could raise the dead. A little girl had died, her parents a wreck. He watched as they sobbed in the square, her fragile body cradled in their arms. It filled him with a chill that shouldn’t have been possible under the twin suns. No one had wept for him, no one had cradled him in their arms. He felt the truth of it down to his bones. But Elias promised he could bring her back, for a price of course. August watched them hand over their last double-dollar, rage boiling in his veins. 

Whatever Holoday brought back was not their little girl. It reached for them, a gasping ragged breath in its fragile lungs, eyes blind. That wasn’t a little girl anymore. August pushed through the gathered crowd and without preamble smacked Elias Holoday across his smug face with his shovel. He bloodied that nose and shattered those glasses like he’d always wanted to. It gave him a sick satisfaction to stand over him as he writhed, his porcelain skin stained crimson with his own blood. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Holoday cried, his black irises empty pools of malice. 

“You’re a liar!” He tried to crush Elias’s sternum beneath his boot but the townsfolk grabbed him. They wrestled him to the ground and beat him for his trouble, all the while the grieving parents weeping for their little girl, limp in their arms. 

.✾. .✾. .✾. 

August Nash wasn’t welcome back in town for a long while after that. He wanted to shake the dirt from his boots of this whole city but he couldn’t rest until Elias Holoday was left to rot. He didn’t even deserve a grave. But he needed wood for caskets. August took the cart to town, intending only to buy what he needed and be on his way but Elias was preaching in the town square. His injury had healed but his glasses were missing. August felt proud at that, too. They’d been yet another lie but no one cared for the word of a strange gravedigger. 

He needed evidence. 

Now August Nash wasn’t much of an inconspicuous fellow but with the townsfolk preoccupied he could sneak easily into the room at the inn Elias had set up his residence in. It was full of journals and tech he didn’t recognize, vials of strange liquid and bones. Nothing here was exactly a smoking gun but there had to be something he could use to expose him for the snake he was. 

“Looking for something?” Nash froze, a chill entering him once more. “Absolution, perhaps?” He’d been found by none other than Elias Holoday himself. 

“Don’t want your forgiveness, you deserved it.” He spat at his feet, turning to face the man that had haunted his nights. His fingertips tingled with the desire to wrap them around his throat. 

“Then what is it you seek, August?” He seemed remarkably calm for a man in a small room with the person who’d tried to kill him. His voice was smooth and sweet as honey but his eyes were sharp blades. “That is your name now, isn’t it?” Now August knew it was better to keep your mouth and look a fool than to open it and prove it but he couldn’t help his question. 

“...’Now?’” The foggy memories didn’t stretch further back than that last moment, the red eyes staring into his soul. If he even had one, that is. The ghosts whispered in his ears of danger, they buzzed at the edges of his vision. 

“Why of course, young August.” Holoday smiled his liar’s grin, far too many teeth. “You had so much promise. It was a shame you turned into a disappointment like all the others.” He really did sound disappointed as he grabbed August’s chin and cheeks in his hand, his delicate grip pressing against his teeth painfully. August felt that untethering, Elias’s face wavering in his vision like a mirage. “Curious, how you have returned to us. A prodigal son? La—” 

The venom in his veins filled his mouth, an indescribable rage boiling him from the inside out. He wanted this man dead. That was all he could think. He took the revolver from its holster at his hip, hidden by the poncho he wore. 

August shot him in his stomach before he could finish his little speech, the grip on his face falling as Elias clutched at his gut. Blood poured from his mouth as he collapsed, a broken doll in a pool of blood. An icy calm filled him as he gazed down at the body of Elias Holoday. His death had been too quick but that mattered little. 

He set fire to the room and all its contents before he fled. August Nash would never set foot in May City again. He’d paid his penance. 

[krillissue]

3. a kiss where it no longer hurts - lazmat

TWO mwahrch requests in one day? yeah babyyyy LazMat is the nickname for Lazarus (August, my oc) and Matheus (@cosmiq's oc) before August lost his memories. Miq requested this so many thanks, my lovely friend!! This takes place when they're working for the Eye of Michael. Lazarus/August uses he/they pronouns, Mat is he/him.

Lazarus was pissed, simple as that. They were always getting hurt because of Matheus’s bullshit recklessness. It was always the same story, Mat did something stupid and left him to clean up the mess. Things had only gotten worse since they added...a more intimate edge to their relationship. They’d been partners for years, contentious and pining, but just friends. Now, they were something else. It was confusing and when Laz got confused he got angry. Mat was usually the target of that anger but tonight it was the shooting range. 

He fired his long rifle with deadly precision, unsurprising for an assassin trained by the Eye of Michael, but they were distracted. He just kept seeing Matheus’s face at the end of his scope, the crosshairs lined up between his eyes. Lazarus would never actually hurt him, not that he really could. Mat could just about dodge almost anything by dissolving into worms. That part still confused him, too. Matheus was solid and real beneath his hands. He’d been certain of it that night when they-- 

Anyway. No use in his thoughts going down that route. They were angry and trying to drown out their thoughts, they didn’t need the distraction of daydreaming about spending quality time with their friend. Their partner. Matheus was an annoyance more than anything. 

But large hands wrapped around his waist. He would have flinched and missed his shot if it wasn’t for his training, but these hands were just as familiar as his own. They knew exactly who it was behind them, nosing against the nape of their neck. 

“You always come here when you’re thinking too much. What’s on your mind, Rusty?” Mat’s cocky tone told him he thought it was thoughts of him. Which wasn’t wrong but still pissed him off. August fired again, puffing on his forgotten cigarette between his lips. The smell made Mat sick but it didn’t seem to deter him. 

“Your stupidity,” He answered. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Matheus’s flippant attitude to their safety did occupy his mind. They found themselves thinking more and more about Matheus in the recent days, though. Speaking of him, Mat’s hands were creeping up his shirt, his lips joining his nose at the back of his neck. 

Matheus was kissing his tattoo, he realized. The cross symbol of the Eye was inked on the back of his neck so he didn’t have to see it. They hated this cult and everyone in it but there wasn’t much choice in obeying the order from on high. It had hurt like a bitch when he got it, even with all his pain tolerance training. But it had been worth it, to never see it marring his skin. Mat’s kisses were soft until they weren’t, his teeth coming into play quickly. He pushed them against the counter, taking Lazarus’s gun from his hand. 

“I know that’s not really how you feel,” He said, all cocky and self-assured. Lazarus wanted to hit him, he wanted to turn around and kiss him. Mat licked a long stripe along the cross, making him shiver. The kiss won out in the end, Lazarus caged in the shooting range, locked in with the man who would be his end. 

[krillissue]

Shower - Lazarus "Coyote" Nashville Pt 1 (Prequel)

parts 1 and 2 of my trisona stuff is here but this is a prequel that takes place before August was August. Lazarus and Matheus (@cosmiq) both work for the Eye of Michael and were Hopeland kids. Sorry for only writing stuff about my ocs but these tragic gay men have consumed by every waking thought. ~700 words

It was a quiet and mild evening. Lazarus sat in the open window, blowing his cigarette smoke out. It was a concession to his insufferable roommate, Matheus. He had a certain affinity for worms Lazarus didn’t understand and the scent of the smoke irritated him. 

Good. Matheus was irritating. Lazarus didn’t know if he’d ever met someone that could get under his skin like that. He’d done something stupid on their job again, reckless and dangerous. He swore the guy had a death wish. It wouldn’t normally be a concern of his, they were both disposable members of the Eye of Michael, but Matheus was going to get them both killed at this rate.  

Sharing a hotel room wasn’t his ideal situation either. Even though there were two beds and it was cheaper than two rooms, he didn’t like sharing his space. Lazarus had spent years in the orphanage sharing his room, he thought now that he was an adult that part of his life was over. But no, there was Matheus. He was aggravating, alway leaving his things around and asking him asinine questions. He disturbed him late at night with his glowing eyes and sleep talking. Honestly he couldn’t have been stuck with anyone worse. 

“Hey, Rusty,” Matheus called from the open bathroom door, dragging his attention out of his thoughts. “Shower’s free.” He always had that smirk on his face that made Lazarus want to punch him. But his smirk wasn’t what caught his eye. Matheus was naked save for a towel wrapped low on his hips, his skin still damp from the shower. Lazarus had sucked in a breath at the sight but luckily the cigarette between his lips provided him cover. 

The immediate heat that flooded him mixed with shame. He’d never felt like this about anyone, not really, and of course it had to be Matheus of all people. He had to stop staring. It didn’t matter that his partner had nice broad shoulders and distracting arms. Lazarus shouldn’t follow the bead of water that dripped its way between his bare pecs. He shouldn’t be wondering about what was beneath that towel. It wasn't his business, none of his concern. 

“You hear me?” Matheus snapped in front of his face, startling him. 

“Yes, I heard you,” He snapped back, smacking his hand away. “Can’t you see I’m still smokin’ here?” Matheus opened his mouth to make some flirty comment or crack a joke but Lazarus wasn’t in the mood. His face still felt too hot for Matheus to be this close to him. ”Just shut up.” 

“What’s up your ass tonight?” Matheus just kept leaning on the sill next to him, completely obvious to his burning face. He thanked the stars and angels above for his darker complexion. But Matheus could tell he was riling him up anyway and there was no escaping him once you gave him even the smallest hint of attention. 

“You,” He tried to spit but Matheus snorted and he realized his mistake. “Just— Shut up and leave me be. Haven’t you started enough shit today?” 

“What did I do?” He asked with false innocence, his eyes flicking down to the cigarette still between his lips. It was burning out faster than he’d like stuck between the window and his roommate. He contemplated briefly jumping out but it would just encourage Matheus further. 

“Y’know exactly what you did, bug boy. I’m tired of covering for your ass.” He stood and shoved Matheus back, getting in his face. Lazarus was just a bit shorter and it pissed him off, too. Matheus just smiled, crossing his arms. He wanted to hit him, he wanted to kiss him. He did neither. 

“Do somethin’ about it then,” Matheus challenged, that light sparkling in his eyes for violence. He liked getting Lazarus angry enough to hit him but he didn’t take the bait this time. Not while he was naked. The last thing Lazarus needed was that embarrassment. 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Lazarus blew the last of his smoke directly in his face before brushing past him to the bathroom. He felt shaky and hot but he’d done it, he could calm himself down in the shower and when he was done, hopefully Matheus would be asleep. 

If he was lucky. 

Lazarus wasn’t a lucky man.