#True Detective

Aftershave: a fic by ooh_barracuda 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 ★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★ 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. ★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★ “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.” … … Read More!