#rust cohle

Louisiana’s heat was a relentless mess of sweat and humidity, and all you could do was sit inside.

On the couch you sat, a few oscillating fans in the stuffy room, and Rust sat beside you, chain-smoking since he woke up, and sipping on beer the minute the clock hit twelve–that was his own personal rule he set up: drinking started at noon, and you accepted that.

You were the one who headed down to the gas station, wide eyes gazing at the man behind the counter, and he didn’t even bother IDing a young thing like you; soft hair and bare thighs, gentle hands handling the cans for Rust, and he didn’t approve of the suggestive eyes and the bats of your lashes. Still, he knew that people did what they had to. And maybe that was his girlfriend flirting with the worker to get a couple free cans of beer for her ‘old man’.

Now it’s been hours, and you’ve been watching television, your body curled to the side of Rust, all soft muscle and sharp edges, and his arm is around your shoulders, rough fingertips grazing the bare skin of your tanktop. 

He’s working through his twelve-pack and a pack of cigarettes, and you’ve been glancing up at him for the past thirty minutes, attempting to suggest something that would be more than just eyeing a screen, and mumbling soft things to each other when you want to fill in the gaps. He seems disinterested, but you know he wouldn’t be if you used your voice as he tells you to.

It wasn’t a problem to him, your inability to speak up and say what you want, but it’s the way you’d just stare, and stare, and Rust would look down into the eyes of a girl who wants nothing more than for him just to ravage her. And he'd look away and take a pull of his cigarette, patiently waiting to hear that soft sound, maybe a ‘please’, or something more than silence.

Your hand is draped over his stomach, and you turn your body towards him a bit more, and he adjusts his hips to the movement. You glance up at him again; all light wrinkles and a moustache you’ve been offering to trim, and faint strands of his hair falling out of the ponytail your nimble fingers pulled it into, even when he’d shake his head, but quietly bask in the innocent touches he wasn’t used to. For once, hands against him weren't picking for a fight, or picking at him.

Your thumb lightly hooks into his belt, and his eyes lower at the action. He swallows back the sip of beer and places it against the table beside the couch, carefully sliding the same hand down and resting it overtop of yours. You lightly bat it away, and he furrows his eyebrows.

“What?” Rust asks in the quiet living room, his eyes looking down at you.

“Nothing,” you shake your head, looking up at him now, and you can see the stitch in his brow.

“Want somethin’?” he questions, pulling his burning cigarette to his lips.

“No,” you reply, and shake your head again.

The two of you relax into the cushions again, and you sigh quietly, your thumb lightly toying with this belt now, loosely tugging on it, and he clicks his tongue, glancing down at the action.

“You want somethin’,” he states, placing his hand on top of yours again, squeezing it so you can't bat it away. “What is it?”

“I’m bored,” you tell him quietly, leaning over a bit, resting your chin on his shoulder. 

Rust breathes out. “I know, baby.”

The pet name was enough to make you groan in frustration, your head tipping back on the sofa, and he’s watching the dramatic movement, all while tagging a drag of his cigarette. He taps it on the ashtray, letting his arm dip from your shoulder and down to wrap around your waist.

“We should do something,” you prompt, turning your head to look at him.

“You ain’t have any ideas, do ya’?” Rust asks, his tired eyes narrowing.

“No,” you reply, looking down into your lap. “Do you?”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, and then he shakes his head, sniffling and looking back at the television. He listens to you groan again.

Rust wasn’t a hard man to get along with–no, not at all. He could sweet-talk your ear off if he wanted to, could ramble about nonsense at dinner, or tell you some bullshit that went in your ear and out the other when he took you on drives, or a light scolding when you walked into Domain late at night, wanting him to come home. But some days he was like this; quiet and to himself, but still sliding his hand up your shirt for some intimacy. 

His hand is warm, a soft, grounding touch on your bare skin, and his thumb rubs in slow circles. You lean closer to him, almost whining, and he closes his eyes for a brief moment at that light sound from you. It killed him.

“Rust,” you whisper to him, licking your lips, your hand sliding down from his belt, and you lightly cup him. He’s half-hard.

“C’mon, girl,” he drawls out,  adjusting his hips awkwardly, looking away from you and at the window. “Can’t keep y’er paws off me.”

“I can’t help it,” you tell him, and you’re palming him gently, his eyes flickering down.

Rust groans softly, a tired plea for you to stop, but you don’t, and you know he doesn’t want you to either. So, you continue, and keep the slow motion through his jeans, and he’s licking his lips, still holding his cigarette, letting it burn.

“What did I tell ya’?” He asks quietly, his hand sliding to your lower back, gently rubbing it when you turn towards him a bit more.

“To ask,” you mumble, your eyes finding his, looking through and past that cynical gaze people had warned you about.

Rust nods. “Uh-huh… you ask.”

You bite your lip gently and stop moving your hand, letting it rest against his thigh.

“Can I please?” You ask softly, blinking slowly and up at Rust.

“Please what?” He repeats back to you, taking a drag of his cigarettes as he waits for your answer.

“Can… I please… please suck you off?” You mumble shyly, looking down and away from Rust.

Rust liked watching you squirm; he liked the way you’d look away and get shy, how you’d crumble under his gaze, and take back the words you would say. He nods slowly, sliding his hand up your spine.

You go back to gently palming him through his jeans, and you flick up to his face; it’s neutral, but his lips twitch beneath his moustache, his jaw clenching when you notice him getting a bit harder. His dull nails glide up and down your back.

“Does… does it feel good?” You ask shyly, biting your lip, and those innocent eyes strip him of his sanity.

“Yeah,” he nods slowly, his smoke exhaling through the short sides. “Feels real nice, baby.”

The praise makes your lip curl at the corners, and you start to press your hand against Rust more, watching the way he watches you; narrowed, heavy eyes, a calculated gaze that watches your moves. He inhales his cigarette.

Your hand slides back up, and you start to undo his belt, the quiet clasp clinking in the living room, just the air conditioning humming, and you swallow hard, popping open his button and then tugging the zipper down next. 

“What’re ya’ gonna ask me?” Rust speaks up, his Texan drawl almost as thick as the air, and he finds your eyes.

“If… if I can… can take your pants off,” you tell him, and he almost smiles around the cigarette between his lips.

“Uh-huh,” he agrees, lightly tapping your back. “Then ask me.”

You swallow. “Can… I please take your pants off?”

Rust gives you a slow, solid nod, gently patting your back in agreement, and you sigh in relief. Your fingers hook into his waistband, carefully tugging them down, and he assists you, lifting his hips a bit, and they sag just below his thighs.

He’s all soft muscle, worn out from years in the job, broken down during the periods where he barely ate and only smoked and drank, but firm enough for your eyes to flicker down and get aroused. He was old, it was obvious, and you loved it. 

Your hand slides down into his boxers, and you feel him; hard and heavy, throbbing in your hand the minute you touch him, and your thumb brushes over the veins. Your eyes flick to Rust’s face, and it’s still neutral, but a soft groan betrays any ounce of resistance.

“Can… can I please?” You speak up, and Rust’s eyes flick down to find you staring up at him, eager lips parted, waiting for him to give you the go-ahead.

“Please what?” He asks, rubbing your back, and he notices the soft look of distress stitching into your brows, settling on your lips where you begin to pout.

“Rust,” you almost whine, hating this silly routine he always made you do; asking for permission each step, but it wasn’t the permission he liked; it was how flustered you get.

“Please what?” Rust asks again, his voice slightly more firm.

“Can… can I please take… out your cock?” You mumble shyly, the words bitter on your tongue, and you hear him breathe out a plume of smoke through an almost chuckle.

“Yeah, baby,” he says calmly and nods, and your hand moves quickly.

You slowly free him from the stress of his boxers holding back, and your eyes gaze down; his cock lightly tips back against his stomach, and he’s just watching you, analyzing your face; the tick in your brows, your tongue poking into your cheek, and he takes a drag of his cigarette.

“Mmm… watcha’ thinkin’ about?” Rust asks quietly, lifting his hand from your back and running it down through your hair. 

“Nothing,” you say quietly and shake your head, moving your body swiftly and quickly.

All bruised, soft limbs hit the floor, and he almost grins again when you settle between his parted legs. He adjusts his hips once more, and his hand that was once through your hair now holds the base of his cock, tapping it on your cheek when you get close enough. 

You grin and try to chase the tip with your mouth, and he pulls back, watching your eyes follow.

“Brat,” he mumbles, sliding his hand to the top of your head, guiding you closer, further between his legs. “What do ya’ ask now?”

“Can… can I please suck your cock?” You ask Rust softly, and he nods, long fingers curling into your strands.

Rust’s eyes drift to the television before him, and he grits his teeth the minute a long stripe is licked up his shaft, and his fingers twitch around the cigarette he’s still smoking. He treats it quite casually, and it makes you try harder, wanting to watch him break down finally.

Your nose nudges him, and you slide your mouth upwards, focusing on the tip. He was the most sensitive there, and you’d notice his jaw twitch when you focused on there, the low groan when your tongue would slip over it. 

Rust’s eyes find yours again, watching you gently suck, your cheeks sinking in when you purposely do it a bit harder, and his eyes squint slightly, his lips pursing.

“Atta girl,” he mumbles lowly, exhaling a breath of smoke through a groan. “Keep goin’.”

The words of encouragement go through you, right down to between your thighs, nuzzling into a space where you really wish he was deep inside of right now, but the only thing you could do is go deeper, and take him deeper. 

Your mouth goes over Rust’s cock, and you’re carefully taking him more and more. He’s watching you, his hand guiding your head gently, carefully, keeping a calculated pace with your lips.

Rust’s head tips back, and he exhales smoke through his lips, an unfamiliar thing he barely does—he usually holds it in, lets it settle deep in his lungs, but the way your nose nuzzles against his base makes it a bit difficult to keep that stoic composure.

“Doin’ good, baby,” he lightly praises, fingers twisting in your strands again, and your hand rests on his thigh. “Good f’me.”

He’s heavy on your tongue, and hitting the back of your throat, soft gags leaving your mouth that make his eyes close. He swipes his tongue over his lips briefly, lifting his head again to gaze down at you; eyes closed and fluttering, soft chokes from the back of your throat, accompanied by the television humming.

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and he slides his hand a bit further down, brushing strands from out of your face, wanting to see the stitch in your brow from how focused you are. He taps his cigarette on the ashtray, so casually.

“There ya’ go,” Rust nods, feeling that familiar burning deep in his stomach, a knot only you tighten. “My girl… y’er doin’ real good.”

Your eyes close once again as you focus on taking him deeper, and he groans, that low sound settling in the back of his throat, and he tightens his grip on his hair. He purses his lips and takes a drag of his cigarette, groaning once again, exhaling.

“Cummin’ on y’er face,” he mumbles, a soft warning as you pull back and away from him, but your mouth hangs open, your tongue on display.

Rust cums with a grunt, a few spurts across your face; on your nose and cheeks, trickling down and finding its way to your chin, and finishes the rest on your tongue. He gently taps his cock on your tongue, letting you lap up the last remnants, and you pull back.

He brushes your hair out of your face again, staring at your cum-covered face, and your soft, heavy eyes, the way you’re panting and breathing heavily. The cigarette burns to the end, and he discards it in the ashtray, and carefully works his hand into the pocket of his button-down.

You sit on your knees, watching like a puppy, patiently waiting for him. He has a new cigarette already between his teeth, and Rust is lighting it again, his Zippo flicked open, hand cupped around the edge. He takes an inhale and looks at you.

You’re smooth beneath his palm. Alive and breathing, untouched by the things that haunt him.

You smell like fresh laundry and cheap soap, something ordinary and domestic, something that belongs in a world where people wake up, drink coffee, go to work, and don’t spend their nights staring at crime scene photos until they can’t remember what normal looks like.

It gets to him. You get to him.

You’re like a balm to his spirit, smoothing out the cracked edges broken off by Dora Lang, by his daughter, by his divorce. You’re something he never intended but desperately wants to keep. His a bear coming up from hibernation, looking for his first meal. He’s found that in you, the ability to be satiated.

He rolls his eyes at his own thought. A bear, who is he kidding? He can barely keep it together on a good day, and yet he’s comparing himself to a bear. It’s so illogical it’s funny. Would you laugh at that? Maybe, he’ll see. He’ll tell you when you wake up.

Rust likes when you laugh.

He likes seeing your smile lines, the shape the shape of them. They show your age sure but he’s no spring chicken himself. The way you wrinkle your nose when something amuses you spreads to your mouth, an infection of joy. He wants to memorize it all, like he’s studying a case file he refuses to close.

Give him a test, ask him anything. He’ll know the answer, he swears he will.

You shift in your sleep, your hand moving lazily until it lands against his chest. Rust freezes, because he isn’t used to sharing a bed yet. He can’t exactly call this ‘sharing a bed’ it’s your bed, where he spends half his nights, but still, it’s uncharted territory for him.

He takes your hand and holds it. Your fingers fit between his like they were made for it, and that thought is ridiculous, the kind of thing he’d normally dismiss as human beings creating patterns where there aren’t any.

He doesn’t let go. He thinks he could stay like this forever. If he had any say in it, you’d be the first thing he saw every morning and the last thing he saw every night.

You sigh, pressing yourself closer to him, ankle hooking around his. “Hmm… Rust?”

“Shh,” he murmurs quickly, hoping you’ll listen. He likes watching you sleep. “Go back to sleep. You’re dreaming.”

You blink up at him, rubbing your cheek with the back of your hand. “Do you have to go?”

“No.”

You don’t respond verbally, just sigh and settle back down, draping yourself over him again, then you kiss him. Rust forgets every theory he’s ever had about existence.

You’re soft against the roughness of his stubble, and when you turn your head away because it scratches, he follows. He leans forward until you’re pushed flat onto your back, laughing despite yourself.

He nuzzles against your skin, using the stubble to annoy you just enough to hear that sound again, his favorite sound.

“Rust,” you complain, trying to shove him away. He ignores you, his mouth moves along your cheek, your jaw, anywhere he can reach. “Rust!”

You laugh louder, legs wrapping around his hips as your hand finds his shoulder.

He finally gives you mercy, pressing one last kiss to your mouth before pulling away.

The sight of you, messy hair, flushed cheeks, annoyed expression, does something dangerous to him. It makes him happy.

“You need to brush your teeth,” you whisper, completely breathless.

Rust raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes.”

His hands skate down your sides, and you unknowingly lift your hips, letting him drag your shorts and underwear down. He pulls them off, discarding them behind him as you stare at him.

“I can do that,” he murmurs, but your hands are pulling at his waistband. “Or I can do this.”

Your heel nudges against his back, fingers moving up to his neck as he pulls down his boxers. “I think I prefer this.”

“Good.” He shakes his head, catching your jaw between his fingers and pressing a quick kiss there.

He’s met with no resistance when he pushes in. You sigh before his arm slips under you, angling himself deeper and kissing along your shoulder. His thrusts are slow, a little lazy, but the sounds you make work shivers down his spine.

Your fingers fist in the back of his wife beater, legs locking around his waist even though his isn’t going anywhere. He likes the closeness, likes feeling how deep he can feel within you and the best part is you like it too. He nips at your jaw and you twist your face, capturing his lips with yours.

The red light of your clock blinks and he’s going to be late for work. Marty will understand, will see the flush pink of Rusts cheeks and grin without a word. Rust is grateful for that, because you’re a secret. He’d claim you properly but this is all still new to him, to you, and it’s dangerous enough, letting his heart get opened like this. He doesn’t want to risk it all just yet, and considering his job, he doesn’t want to risk you.

If he stays here long enough, maybe if he lets you keep touching him, keep laughing at him, keep pulling him back into the world, it won’t hurt to live sometimes. Eventually, maybe he’ll be able to sleep properly. Maybe even dream a little.

That could be nice.

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