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cosmiq · 2 months

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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.

#oc #trigun oc #writing

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cosmiq · 2 months

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Taste of Blood - August Nash Part 2

part 1 is here!! i'm still fighting my writer's block by working on trisona nonsense so please forgive me for catering to the three people who care about auggie!! he's my special little cowboy and he gets in a fight in this one (and makes some new friends)

thank you so very much to my lovely friends who lent me their trisonas as well!! @dastardlydandy created viper and @cosmiq created matheus ❤️ love you guys!!

rated M for mature, there is nsfw content in here! there's also violence and lots of talk about august's weird body. 3.8k words

August found himself at a bar, the heat of the day slowly baking off now that the suns had set. He had a beer in front of him but he wasn’t really drinking it. He just bought it so he could get off his feet for a bit. It was hard work, digging graves. There were too many lately, especially around this small town. It didn’t look like much until nightfall. The shadier folks came out to drink and smoke and gamble and August loved to people-watch in seedy bars like this one.

He sat in the corner, his burgundy hat pulled low over his eyes. It wasn’t to hide his face, he wasn’t wanted, but to send a message to leave him be. He was content enough to wait for the main event, no need to get into a fight just yet. He planned to just stay out of all the bustling chaotic activity but an impromptu band started up with a few patrons, the folksy guitars supplemented with stomps and claps. A smile spread across his lips before he could really stop it, a rarity for him. August joined in with his harmonica, trying his best to keep the focus mostly off himself.

August Nash didn’t have much fun and this was one of the few things that got his blood pumping that didn’t involve getting his hands dirty. But unfortunately for him, his little improvisation got him too many pats on the back and offers for more drinks. He politely declined them all and went back to the little round table he’d claimed as his own. Except there was someone waiting for him, ruining his plans.

The stranger had a black and red biker jacket and messy black hair, his grin sharp but friendly. August took his seat with some reluctance, eyeing him warily under the brim of his hat. The ghosts whispered in his ears, indistinct and buzzing.

“You sure know how to play, Gravedigger. Can I buy you a drink?” His smirk had a flirtatious quirk to it. It wasn’t the first time he’d been hit on but it confused him every time. How the guy knew he was a gravedigger also rubbed him the wrong way. Sure, he had his shovel with him and his clothes were dusty with sand and dirt but the name still sounded too familiar in his mouth.

“Gotta drink.” August gestured to his flat beer dismissively.

“You don’t drink? Figured a guy like you’s gotta have a vice, right?” The stranger had a rocks glass, the amber liquid inside already watered down by the ice. Even though the suns had set, it was still stuffy in here. Too many bodies packed together tended to do that.

“I like whiskey,” August muttered low, scrunching further down in his seat. “What’s your business, stranger?” The guy had an almost frantic energy to him, his fingers drumming on the table, his leg jittering beneath.

“‘Stranger?’” He looked positively hurt by his unfamiliarity. August squinted at him, trying to remember if they’d met before but his memories didn’t stretch back any further than his so-called death. He supposed they might have met before that. But neither his pale blue eyes nor the two moles on his cheek rang any bells. “What’s a stranger but a friend you haven’t met yet?”

“Have we met?”

“Name’s Matheus, but you can call me Mat for short.” Matheus held out his hand and August took it, his own callused from digging.

“August Nash, you can call me either.”

“Auggie, then?” The way he grinned at August’s sour face told him he’d never shake that nickname now that he had it. “Do you wanna drink?” If he was stuck with this overly-friendly stranger then he supposed he needed one. Matheus threaded his way through the crowd easily, seeming to meld into the rowdiness like it came naturally to him. He certainly was a strange guy but August felt at ease around him. There didn’t seem to be any of the ill-intent that he was so used to, especially in places like this.

Matheus brought two whiskeys back to the table, his old one presumably downed on his way back up to the bar.

“Whiskey for the cowboy in the corner.” They clinked their glasses and August let out the softest snort he could. “Cowboy” wasn’t something he got called often but he liked it. Matheus seemed to pounce on the minor reaction, a grin spreading across his face. “Like that? You ever think about a career change?”

“Wrangling thomases isn’t really how I’d like to spend my time. Can’t even ride one,” He said with a shrug. August was better suited for the dead than the living.

“So...what do you like to do, then?” Matheus had a spark in his eye that gave August pause. There was that flirty turn to his grin again, the slight suggestion in his tone. He’d seen this routine plenty in his people-watching but it was rarely directed his way.

“I like to dig. There’s peace six-feet-deep. I don’t like thinkin’ too much.” It was good anger management. The rage that had kindled in his gut by Elias Holoday hadn’t gone away once he was dead. His fingers itched towards his pistol too often for his liking. So August stuck to digging holes.

“Is that all? You play the harmonica, don’t you?” He pointed with the glass in his hand, the ice melting in the cooling air now that the cheap liquor was gone.

“Well, yeah, gotta pass the time somehow. I don’t really sleep much.” August swore this was the most he’d talked to anyone, maybe ever. The old gravedigger hadn’t been much for conversation and everyone in May City tended to steer clear. Since he’d left, he kept to himself all the more. But this Matheus guy got him talking. Maybe he was lonely. Is that what this feeling was? He wanted to keep talking to him, which was rare.

They chatted, swapping stories and quips all up until the bell was struck. The bartender held it up, most of the patrons quieting down to listen. It was time. Several people stood and shuffled to the basement, the rowdy energy only increasing now that they could all taste the promise of violence in the air.

“What’s happening?” Matheus watched him stand and grab his shovel. August jerked his head towards the open door.

“There’s a fight. Wanna get your hands dirty?” The light in Matheus’s eyes only brightened at the prospect.

In the basement of this particular bar in this particular town laid a fighting ring. The winner of each match got paid a portion of the bets made and the only rule was no killing. There were usually a few medics nearby to patch anyone up who got wounded. August loved it. When digging didn’t quiet the buzzing under his skin, he came here. There was little a good fight couldn’t fix for him. Bloodying his knuckles was a fine price to pay.

They watched a few fights, nothing more interesting than a few drunken brawls with bare knuckles. It was dangerous to shoot a gun, even with the ring down in the ground, and far too lethal. But other weapons were allowed, like August’s shovel. He didn’t use it often, though. It gave him a reach on his opponent that kept him from getting hit too much but he liked getting hit. He wanted it. Matheus seemed to vibrate with his excitement, that feral sharp grin turned his way through the fights.

The two of them decided to face off against each other. You could choose your opponent if you wanted to, provided they hadn’t fought already that night, or get randomly matched up. August thought he’d be nice and go easy on the guy since it was his first fight. He didn’t always. Sometimes people in the ring took it too far, sometimes August was out for blood. Something snaps inside him and it feels good, it feels like what he was made for. He wants to wrap his hands around their neck and squeeze until the lights go out.

But he doesn’t. He could be a feral thing but he held himself back. Elias Holoday was the only life he’d taken and he wanted to keep it that way.

“Why don’t we make this a little more interesting?” Matheus smirked at him in that flirty way again, getting close to his ear. It was loud in the crowd and August felt a shiver at his closeness but he kept his face as impassive as ever.

“Like a bet?”

“Sure, whoever wins gets a favor. Sound fair?”

“S’pose so.”

August removed his poncho and hat before he got into the ring. His fingerless leather gloves should protect his hands for the most part but sometimes his knuckles still got split. He liked it, the pain helped ground him. Matheus took off his leather jacket before hopping down, giving August the first look at his build. He looked strong and lean. Sizing up his opponent before the fight began was usually his goal but he found himself distracted, studying him not as a threat but just...something. He shook his head to get it back on task. Matheus made him angry in a different way than Elias’s pretty lying face had. He still wanted to bloody it but only because Matheus seemed genuinely excited by the idea.

He knew the feeling.

The bell rang and August dodged, Matheus throwing a punch for his face almost too quick for him to see. He’d tried for August’s blind side but his foggy eye wasn’t blind. His speed was a surprise but he’d been ready to dodge. He knew Matheus would come out swinging, he had too much pent-up energy not to. August tried to be calm and calculated but Matheus just kept coming at him and his punches didn’t land. Before too long, his rationality gave way to the anger.

Matheus drew first blood, the crowd of jeering drunkards ramping up at the sight. He’d split his lip with a well-placed right hook. August spat and got back to it, that feral buzzing under his skin wanting more, more, more. Matheus was fast and strong but so was August. They could keep up with each other, up until August grabbed a hold of his neck and kneed upward into his gut. At least that’s what he’d meant to do. Matheus exploded into a swarm of worms, their fluttering wings tickling his overheated skin until he reformed, laughing his head off.

August had never seen someone do that before. The crowd went quiet, waiting for his next move. There certainly were some strange things in No Man’s Land and August was one of them too. Matheus used his moment of recalculating to wrap his arm around his throat. It should have choked him but August didn’t need air. He waited for the moment he assumed Matheus’s guard would be down and elbowed him in his ribs. Matheus grunted and released him, snickering in his ear.

“Nice one, Auggie boy. Can ya hit me again?” He taunted with a grin. August spat the blood from his mouth and kept coming, managing to land some good hits but mostly they were dancing. Matheus ultimately won but August didn’t mind.

He felt alive.

They both left the ring bloody and bruised but smiling. August hadn’t felt so alive after a fight, Matheus a welcome surprise. He was strange and that piqued August’s interest in him all the more. But the ghosts whispered in his ears, something frantic and hurried. There was something about Matheus he felt like he should know but couldn’t recall.

The medic who set up shop by the ring was a scrawny fellow with wily black hair. He had a huge grin at the sight of them but his eyes were hidden by large motorcycle shades. He had a whole “mad scientist” look about him with his wild hair and patched lab coat but it didn’t make him angry like the Eye’s scientists had.

“Hey there, Jangles!” August blinked and pointed to himself, assuming he was “Jangles.” “Yeah, you! Long time so see!” His voice was squeaky with a bit of a southern drawl and his high laugh reminded him of a bird’s caw. But try as he might, this friendly medic wasn’t familiar to him either. It was possible he’d patched him up before.

“Nice to see ya again, doc.” He offered quietly, holding his hand out. His knuckles had been split even with his gloves, something Matheus seemed pleased with.

“How’s your buddy over there? Squirms, you doin’ alright?” He gestured towards Matheus, presumably “Squirms” for the whole “worm” of it all. So what was “Jangles” about? As far as August knew, he didn’t jangle.

“Sure am, Sparky.” They both grinned at their names for each other. August had to admit the medic’s hair did look like he’d been given a nasty shock at some point. August let Matheus and the medic talk to each other, getting a bit lost in his own thoughts as he got patched up. They both seemed to have a mutual love of motorcycles that flew right over August’s head so he pensively let them talk. He couldn’t ride a bike any better than a thomas so he didn't know much.

In listening, he learned the medic was called “Viper,” after the model of his bike. He liked to give nicknames and tell jokes, jabbering on the whole time he cleaned and bandaged their wounds. Luckily everything was superficial, he was spared the offer of a cybernetic enhancement. Rarely anyone got hurt enough to lose a limb but he had seen an eye and some teeth lost before. August also learned Matheus ran deliveries. They both had some pretty tall tales to share so it was difficult to sort out what was truth and what was exaggeration.

“Man, this really brings me back, Chuckle Dog. Don’t remember you bein’ so serious though. Where’s your smile?” August just started blankly at Viper, his tongue running over the cut on his lip. Now he was certain the medic was thinking of someone else. August rarely smiled, had since he’d crawled his way out of his grave. He’d gotten two smiles this evening, two more than he’d had in months. The old man used to tell him it was why people didn’t like him much.

“Must have left it in the ring,” Was all he offered, shrugging. Matheus snorted as he stood, checking the tightness of his own bandages. “Thanks—”

“You want a drink?” Matheus interrupted, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. His pale eyes flicked between the medic and gravedigger, an offer for them both. They agreed and headed up to the bar once more. Viper only stayed for one, needing to get back to his job, but it felt a fair tip for his services.

Once alone with Matheus, he caged him against the bar, the scent of cheap whiskey on his breath.

“You still owe me a favor,” He spoke low, his sharp eyes lidded and suggestive. August froze in place, his thoughts skittering all about. What could Matheus want from him? He knew he was a sour-faced freak of nature and he had nothing of substance to offer. The only thing he was good for was digging holes and putting people inside them.

“What d’you want?” His mouth felt sluggish with his surprise and the alcohol in his system. He was only a little warm and floaty, pleasantly drifty instead of the agony he usually felt when his body was a foreign thing to him.

“Let’s go outside,” Matheus offered, waiting for only a moment before he started walking out. August followed, his overheated skin uncomfortable, his stomach flipping in his gut. What was this? Why was his heart beating so fast?

Why was this so exciting?

The cool air outside was welcome, the silence almost deafening. He stood in a dim alleyway with this familiar stranger, his ghosts swarming and insistent. His skin still sang with adrenaline and he wanted. But what, he couldn’t say. He licks the cut on his lip and Matheus grabs his chin in one hand. He isn’t gentle and August doesn’t mind.

“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” He’s backed against the wall, his hat tumbling from his head. August isn’t afraid, far from it. But his heart was pounding, his skin tingling.

“Am I?” His eyes flicked down to Matheus’s lips, licking his own. He’d never done anything like this, not that he could remember. Matheus kissed him, pinning him against the wall easily. August had never kissed anyone, he wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be like. There seemed to be an awful lot of teeth. He’d seen stolen kisses between lovers in dark alleyways in passing, soft and gentle things. This wasn’t like that, this made him feel solid. They kiss like they fight, it's not a pretty thing. Not like he said he was. Matheus called him "pretty" and he didn't know what it meant.

“You’ve never done this before.” It’s a statement, not a question. August doesn’t mind shaking his head, his fists balled in Matheus’s precious biker jacket. The soft leather smells good. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but he wants to. He wants to keep feeling like this, whatever this is. “Don’t worry, it’s easy. You don’t need to breathe, right?” Mat smirked at him, his kisses on his neck. August lost but he doesn’t mind. He owes something now.

It feels familiar.

There’s a glimmer in Mat’s eyes that wasn’t there before as he leans in to kiss him again. His hands aren’t any more gentle on him, his kisses still full of teeth. August simply held on and let him lead, his own kisses sloppy and unpracticed.

“I like your eyes,” He whispered in his ear, sending shivers through him. August didn’t know what was happening to him, his body responded to Mat’s hands on his hips, his lips on his throat, his teeth on his pulse, in ways it never had. He wanted more. The feeling clawing out of his skin wanted out.

“No one likes my eyes,” He found himself protesting, his voice weak. He sucked in the air he’d been neglecting, his mind clearing just slightly.

“I’m not ‘no one,’ am I?” He sounded cocky and certain. It made August want to bite back but he didn’t, distracted by the blood in his mouth. Matheus had opened up the cut on his lip again and August had bitten his cheek at some point. “I want you on your knees.”

August had to be told what to do but he happily complied, the adrenaline lightning in his veins. It almost hurts to be touched like this, like a lover. Mat isn’t gentle with him, his rough hand on his chin and in his hair. He likes it so much more than he thought he should. The bottomless grave in his chest doesn’t feel so empty. He’s on his knees in a dark alley with a handsome stranger and he’d never felt more alive.

He doesn’t need to breathe. Not that he could, if he wanted to. Not on his knees, his aching fists wrapped around Mat’s belt, keeping his trousers from the sandy ground between his feet. His hands are in his hair and they aren't gentle, not when he’s fucking into his throat. He doesn't need to breathe, and he doesn't want to. Not when he has to keep his jaw just so, not when he's told to keep looking up, keep looking right at him.

There's blood in his mouth but that's nothing. Sure, it stings, his throat was raw and aching, Mat’s nails were digging into his scalp, but that's fine, it's good. He wants more. August clawed at his thighs like the dirt he dragged himself out of and there's something burning in his gut but it's not for air.

Matheus watches him, his pale blue eyes hard to see in the dark. He rarely closes them, instead just smiling down at the man on his knees for him. He spat when it was done. On his shoes, a mix of blood and saliva and who knows what else. He wanted to bite, he wanted to be held between sharp jaws. He doesn't want to be let go, not when the hand in his hair grounds him. He doesn't want to get to his feet when his legs are clumsy as a foul’s. He refused the offer made by Matheus’s hand on his belt. He doesn’t know what to do with that anymore than he knew what to do on his knees. He's crashing from something, he thinks. It's not like the fogginess of too much alcohol or the buzz of nicotine.

Matheus kissed him again and he bites. He doesn’t seem to mind, a groan leaving him as August shoves him back and sets his teeth against his throat. He seems almost surprised that August bit him, his slit pupils wide. August finally noticed them, a little inhuman detail. They're almost cute.

He feels like a feral thing, too wild for anything soft. Maybe it's just skittish, he muses. Like trying to lure a coyote closer with a scrap of meat. It's not a dog, it's not a gentle thing. He doesn't know what a coyote is, just that's what his bones whisper to him. The ghosts in his periphery remember such things, they tell him stories of the old world before this endless sand. They whisper Matheus’s name.

"Sharp teeth for such a pretty thing," Matheus mocked, sounding almost fond. August cringed back from the praise. He's something wrong, and he knows it. The only memory from before, red embers of eyes and a gun aimed straight for him, are dredged up like always. The sensation of his skin not fitting right, his body not the right shape, finds him again. How could he be so cold on a desert planet with two suns? He doesn't want the soothing hand on his face and he bites it, shoving him back against the wall. He spits the taste of him from his lips.

“I’m not a pretty thing,” August growls as he steps away, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He wants to be hit again but he isn't, they're done fighting. Matheus offered another drink and he declined, his body already shifting from its boundaries enough without another whiskey added to the mix. He's a dead thing, he remembers.

They part ways there, August hardly able to make it to his room at the inn. He can still feel Matheus’s hands on his skin. He put his face in his hands, trying to scrub the sensation away. He was still buzzing, still shifting. Something was at the edge of his mind, tantalizingly close. Something he knew once but forgot. His brain hurts with the effort and he gives up, flopping onto the bed. It would be another long sleepless night.

#oc #trigun oc #nsfw #writing #!!!!!!!!!!

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