jules

dbf rust cohle x reader

“𝙞 𝙤𝙬𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙚𝙮𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨.”

warnings: slight obsession, age gap, alcohol use, smoking.

the cookout came around fast. you sat on the back of the couch, gazing blankly out the window as your dad served up barbecued food to his friends from the police department.

meanwhile you were looking for rust. you’d invited him, with no clue of if he would show up— but here you were.. staring and staring and staring and— a faded red truck pulls up on the pothole covered driveway.

you’d recognise that truck anywhere, the back break light stayed unworking, the colour had been sun bleached and there was always a sheen of mud along the bottom of the doors.

you practically jumped up, running to let him in, you opened the door with a soft smile, to which he gave a curt nod, you didn’t expect anything more, but it still hurt a little.

“hey… my dads in the yard. he’s already served most of it.” you say, and he nods, you could tell he was a little uncomfortable being here, mostly because of the fact you had invited him, not your dad.

outside was loud. dad rock playing from a crappy radio someone had brought, the sound of middle aged cops conversing about their kids, wives, cases etc.

meanwhile the wives of said cops were nursing young children, all fake smiles and boredom.

then marty saw rust, and his eyebrows furrowed, “rust? didn’t know i’d invited you.” he mumbled a bit, he wasn’t mad, more confused and a little burdened by the fact he’d arrived unannounced.

“you didn’t, yer’ daughter did at dinner last week.” he hummed, flicking open a pack of camels, placing one between his lips and lighting it in the blink of an eye, his hands worn and shaky as he cupped the end of it from the wind.

your dad shot you a look, to which you shot him one back. he was always so.. conservative in his ways. you hated it. you were only here for rust.

the night goes on, and on as you converse with rust in the back corner of the back yard, on two old deck chairs, their threading fraying at the ends, the kind of chair that doesn’t really feel.. sit-able.

“so.. how’s- i dunno, work?” you hum, a little drunk from the bottle of whiskey that you and him were secretly sharing.

“you want the truth or the lie?” he says, his voice a little playful and slurred— so unusual for him.

“truth. why would i want a lie?” you laugh a bit, your chin resting on your soft palm, your eyes a little bleary— pupils dilated as you gaze at him like he’s the most special thing in the world, he sighs, “alright, the truth. just for you. it’s awful at the minute.”

you nod, feeling the urge to pry, but you don’t. he was a quiet man. never really expressing his feelings, even when pried. “i’d expect as much. i don’t think i’d like to be a detective.”

“no. yer’ to sweet for all that bull. way too sweet.” he murmured, his gaze meeting yours, those empty, tired eyes. god— it aroused you. just the sheer sight of him acknowledging you. sad, you know.

“i ain’t that sweet.” you hum, staying humble, but he shakes his head, “mhm. sure thing.” he challenges softly, and you tilt your head a bit, suddenly the proximity was all too much. your chin resting on your palm, him hunched over, his face close to yours.

“you’re teasing me.” you whisper, moving in ever so slightly, to which he moves in a bit, “n yer’ my partners daughter.” he whispers back, cigarette smoke and whiskey on his breath, the vague smell of old spice mingling around him too, “i know that, im not completely oblivious.”

he moves in even more, his lips just barely brushing yours in the most distant kiss. it was just sheer teasing. you could’ve groaned in annoyance, but you didn’t. atleast you’d felt his lips (barely) on yours.

you stare at him, shock and an appeased look on your face, “you-“ you begin, but he cuts you off.

“i know what i did. shit.” he stands up, and with that, you don’t see him for the rest of the night.

my roman empire :(

my parasocial (totally non) fictional husband.

dbf rust cohle x reader

“ᴄᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ? ɪ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ.”

warnings: age gap (reader is 19, rust is 34), mentions of child loss, mention of dead bodies (typical detective stuff)

i kinda switched the ages around coz it’s never really disclosed in TD how old rust n marty are, i’m putting rust at 34 and marty and maggie at 37/38ish.

Marty and Maggie had you early, like when they were still in college early. you had been a mistake, it sounds grim but it was the truth.

your dad and rust were partners at the LSP, damn did they hate each other, but they were begrudgingly friends at the hands of your mother.

she felt sorry for rust, most women did. years of undercover narcotics work, the loss of his daughter and the divorce that followed. it was hard not to feel bad.

you on the other hand had seen him come over for family dinners, only for the last maybe six months. you weren’t there a lot of the time, but when you were his cold eyes were on you.. you, you, you.

marty would tell him about how you were in college, most of the time not present, staying on campus as opposed to being around your annoying little sisters. rust could relate to that; not the sisters part, but the fact you wanted out.

“so what about you, rust? anything exciting going on?” your mother smiled, taking a heaped spoonful of pasta salad onto her plate. “nope. mostly jus’ workin’.” he would reply, blunt as always, eyes on his plate.

“what he means is we’re workin’ on an important case, ain’t that right rust?” your father bites passive aggressively, to which you roll your eyes.

“i’d rather not hear about this shit at the dinner table.” you hum. you constantly heard about the never ending flow of cadavers being investigated by them. it turned your stomach.

rusts eyes flick over briefly, and he clears his throat, ignoring your words, “yeah, it’s a pretty important case. me n’ marty’s been given the heads up to take the lead.” he says gruffly, placing a spoonful of the food into his mouth.

you glance over at rust, something seemed off about him today. maybe it was the slight sway of his shoulders, the redness in his eyes, the way your father kept leaving to take “important” phone calls.

the meal comes to a close, and rust excuses himself to the yard for a smoke, you follow him out sneakily as your mother gets dessert ready, you clear your throat as you slide the glass door shut.

rust doesn’t jump, he just turns his head over his shoulder to meet eyes with you, “y’alright?” he asks, southern drawl thick with smoke, “mhm.. can i have one?” you gesture to the pack of camels he was sliding back into his back pocket, “would yer mother allow that?” he says sarcastically, but hands you one anyways, “she don’t gotta know.” he lights the cigarette for you, shading it from the muggy breeze. his hands were worn and smelt of cigarettes.

“why’d y’ follow me out?” he asks, glancing out over the garden. discarded toys and sunbleached plastic playhouses, once bright pink, now faded to a dull salmon.

“you seem off, i dunno. didn’t feel like my dad cared, moms oblivious.” you say, taking a drag of the cigarette he had supplied you with, “none of your concern, sweetheart.” he says back, clearly brushing it off. the nickname lingered in the air like the smoke from the cigarettes.

“is it work?” you ask, nosey as ever, he gives in. he couldn’t say no to those eyes, gazing up at him. poking, prodding into his soul. “partly, yes.” he mumbled vaguely.

you keep looking up at him, and his wall comes crumbling down, “s’ a tough case. dosent help that it’s my daughters anniversary today. couldn’t lay off the drink.”

“wedding?” you ask. maggie was the only one who knew about sarah, “death.” he sniffs, but he dosent cry; just looks down at his beaten up leather shoes.

“oh. i’m sorry.” you say, slightly taken aback, you felt guilty for even asking now, “don’t be. wasn’t you who did it.” he hums.

there’s a slightly tense silence as you watch the bird tattoo on his forearm flex, clearly clenching his fists, not in anger, just to feel. “how’s college?” he asks, changing the morbid subject.

“it’s fine. it’s nice to have some independence.” you murmur, stubbing out the half smoked cigarette, bored of its grim aftertaste. “yeah. how old are you now anyways?” he asks, “nineteen.” you reply, and he lets out a low exhale, “jesus, i’d have guessed atleast drinkin’ age.” he chuckles dryly. there was a certain tension, a dull one but it was there, maybe it was your childish crush on him, or maybe it was the lingering conversation of his past.

he stubs out his cigarette, “best we go back in.” he grumbles. you feel disappointment flood your body, you were just cracking the cold facade he put on, now he had his guard back up.

“rust?” you hum as he starts to slide open the door, he looks at you expectantly, “my dads having a cook out next weekend with some of the guys from work, he invite you?” you ask, somewhat shy. you were never shy, why now? “nah. probably doesn’t want me there.” he says, sarcasm evident. “come. i want you there.” you reply.