#rust cohle fanfiction

[atinylittlepain]

Ptolemaea - the Prologue

rust cohle x f!oc

series masterlist

the case was closed and they parted ways. but time has a way of eating itself, and turning back to where they began.

series warnings | 18+ smut, dark themes surrounding crime investigations including murder, child abuse, religious trauma and corruption // marital infidelity, boy-man go to therapy challenge, familial trauma

wordcount | 2.5K

.........................................................................

“We’re not doing this if you’re on something right now.”

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“My point stands.” There’s a heat, a heaviness that passes from skin to skin when he steps closer. Familiarity, and a surprising openness when he widens his eyes and lets her look for the swim and spread of his pupils. She doesn’t find it, only an unwavering stillness, his eyes that won’t leave hers even as she holds the hilt of his jaw in her hand and turns his face this way, that. The slightest curl of her fingers into bone stitching to feel the way he’s grinding his teeth, waiting for her with a thin patience. 

“Am I sober enough for her righteousness?” 

“What have you been taking?” She rubs her thumb over the knot of tension that furls high in his cheek, jaw stilled, and she knows she’s flirting with the thin line of too much, of him flinching and flickering away. But he stays for now, still held in her palm, mutters a low answer to her question, usual stuff, nothing new. 

“Are you sleeping?”

“When I’m not sober, sure.” Half a smile pulls muscle taut, his words cracking and shimmering in that slow, low melt he tends to. It has taken work, practice, for him to be so quiet, so slow, she knows. She’s heard him get loud, get quick, and she thinks that is his more natural state, distilled. He’s a man who’s meant to be a hair, a tooth, a nail out of control, and he muscles all of his effort into avoiding that, when he can.

“Marty said you showed up drunk to his house, again.” And he doesn’t like that, finally too much, shaking his head out of her grip, curled honey hair slipping sweat damp into his face. Livewire man, all shock and simmer.

“He keeps inviting me to dinner. You’d think he’d learn not to do that by now.”

“He’s trying to be nice, Rust.” And he is, she knows that. Marty trying to extend an olive branch, an anything that might get Rust to soften. She had told Marty to forget it after he told her about the last dinner attempt, a worn down and wan Rust showing up with an unfortunate sway in his gait and a thousand-yard stare that turned dinner as silent as a funeral. He seems easy enough around you though, and she had schooled her face at that comment, no chance to respond anyways as Rust sat down at his desk alongside them. 

“Don’t have much use for nice, do we?” That we is everything, she knows. Rust has decided she is like him, and she can’t really argue with that. Something beneath the skin, more animal than human, a shared grief understood, similar but parallel. At the very least, she thinks she understands him. At the very least, she lets him think he understands her. 

“If you want this case to move you’re gonna have to throw him a bone. He doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re weird.”

“Weird.” A little flicker of amusement as he steps back into her orbit. She doesn’t flinch, gives nothing away when his fingers press into the nape of her neck, sticky heat blooming beneath the skin. 

“You smell.”

“I mowed your lawn.” 

“And you smell like it, come on.” 

He would never admit it, but she’s near certain he continues to show up on Sundays because he knows he’ll get this. Care, simple and plain and without expectations of what that care means. They get into the shower, wordless, body knowing body, making space for body. She places index, middle, and ring over the three raised snarls of skin along his ribs, presses in just a little until he grunts, makes it hurt just a little, catch and release, a sigh when she smooths her palm over tan, wet skin. 

She makes him smell like her, soap and shampoo and enough pressure behind her hands to make muscle move, to make his eyes heavy, watching her work with his chin tilted down. It is some of the best silence she gets from him, the gentlest she gets from him when he returns the favor, a particularity in his hands. Something aches inside of her when he curls over himself to soap her ankles, fingers working over bone and ligament, a meticulous accounting of her body that works up and up and up until his fingers are playing the highest vertebra of her spine again. 

…

“What about Cohle and Reed?”

“What about them?”

“They were close, were they not?”

“Well, they worked pretty damn good together. Sometimes I felt like they were in on a joke I didn’t know about, if you get what I mean.” 

“Were they romantically involved?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I don’t think she would’ve gone for that, but I always thought he had a little crush on her, in his own way, I suppose.”

“In his own way?”

“Rust wasn’t exactly a romantic, but he liked her, seemed different around her, more at ease.”

…

“Maggie says she wants to set me up with someone.” 

“Oh yeah?” It’s stifling in the bathroom, the warm afternoon haze mingling and crushing with the remnant steam from the shower, tacky skin and cloistered lungs, a faint breath of relief stepping out into her bedroom, box fan whining and kicking up more hot air. He sits down on the edge of her bed, towel loose around his waist, watching her make nothing out of the movement of opening and closing dresser drawers, turning the fan up another notch. A pretense of disinterest, though there’s a held breath in her chest.

“I told her no.”

“Why? You should go, do a double date with mister and missus normal.” Eventually, when there’s nothing left for her to fret with, she steps between his legs, water drying cool on bare skin. His hand curls at the hilt of her hip, a little bit of hurt behind the pressure that she tries not to give away, though she knows he sees the quick catch of an inhale that holds high in her sternum, his eyes dragging over muscle and matter. 

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, you are pretty shit company.” 

“And here I thought you liked my company.”

“You make up for your faults with your dazzling sense of humor.” Something always softens, his brow settling, mouth drawn in the slightest smile, more muscle twitch than anything else. She runs her hand back through his hair, still damp, and he lets her, leans into the touch, the heavy drop of his lashes over hollow cheeks. He murmurs into the lines of her palm, come here, come here, and she does, hitches one knee up onto the bed, the other, thighs draped over his hips and him leaning back, muscles jumping and folding to make room. She’s already wet, already wanting, but theirs is a game of patience, this she knows, so she settles around him, arms hanging loosely over his shoulders, little tilt of her head. 

“Has Maggie tried that with you?”

“What, playing matchmaker? Mmm, she gave up a while ago after I kept saying no.” They touch each other with an unwavering certainty, her palm at his chest, curling over his shoulder blade, and his finding the line of her thigh, over her ass to the base of her spine, splayed, fingerprints kneading at the skin. 

“Not interested in a double date with mister and missus normal?” Always give and take, faking and feinting in and out, her chin tilted down and the line of her nose brushing his, the graze of her top lip against his before she pulls away, just a little, just enough to make him show his own hand of want with the way he ducks forward, lips parted and eyes wide. She gives him what he wants the next time, no teasing, open mouths, open sighs, licking at each other’s teeth. 

…

“Rust was comfortable around me, yes.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“Well, we had both lost someone. Someone young, you know. I think we understood each other because of it.”

“It was your little sister, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. And anyways, Rust’s was worse than mine.”

“His daughter.”

“Do you know about it?”

“He told us the details.”

“So you’re talking to him too?”

“We are, yes.”

“How is he?”

“It would be imprudent for us to discuss that with you.”

“No, right, right, that was a stupid question.”

…

“Marty told me something else.” Salt on her tongue, open mouth against warm skin, she has him how she likes him, splayed in rumpled sheets, and here, and here, heat pressed across his chest, teeth to clavicle and his sigh hitches, halts high in his throat, making her mouth curl into a grin.

“Marty sure tells you a lot.” She unfurls her spine, sitting back on his thighs, taking in the amused tilt of his head.

“Must be my womanly nature.”

“Right, that’s what it is.” He follows after her, curling up, mouth meeting the dip between her breasts before letting his chin drag up to look at her. Hands wander, ribs expand and contract in an easy choreography, easy synchronicity.

“He said you got a little fresh in the locker room.” She punctuates her point by taking one of his hands in hers, fingers working between his fingers, bending them in a way that she wants to hurt a little, and she thinks it does when she sees him wince, quick to school his face even though he’s been caught. 

“He had it coming.”

“Everyone knows he’s fucking that girl, it’s better to leave it alone.”

“Maggie doesn’t know.” 

“No.”

“She should.” She sighs at that, finally smoothing out the hurt she caused, her palm fitting against his.

“No, I don’t think she should.”

“Why?”

“Because if she did, then they wouldn’t be mister and missus normal any more. And they need that, they both do.”

“How do you know what they need?”

“They aren’t like us, they need simpler things.” Easy like this, ease like this, both of them deciding that they’ve toyed with one another enough, waited enough, she takes him inside her with a sigh, with stillness, both of them settling into each other’s warmth. Curled into and around each other, still seated so deep, shared respiration, where she breathes in, his forehead against the inhale rising in her sternum, and his exhale pulling her closer into him.

“And what do we need?” Breathed out on a sigh, his words starting to syrup and stick together thick, close heat against her skin.

“I don’t think either of us know the answer to that, do you?” He gives her no response, hands coaxing movement, coaxing hips. They pull pleasure taut and strung from between each other’s ribs and hold it between their teeth, aching jaws, soft jaws, each other’s names resounding in their throats. 

…

“What happened between you two?”

“When Marty and I parted ways, we did too, it’s not really a difficult equation to sum up.”

“But you two were close, that’s what Marty said.”

“We were partners, sure. I liked her better than Marty, I’ll tell you that much.”

“So you and her never?”

“No, no, we weren’t the type. Passing ships, wandering souls, whatever it is that people call souls anyways.”

“Was she satisfied with the way that case ended?”

“Think you oughta ask her that question, seeing as you’re talking with her and all.”

…

On Sunday nights he sleeps in her bed. There are no pills, no drugs, no drinks, and yet he sleeps. Bare, on his stomach, face softened like a child’s in sleep, scrunched to one side by how his cheek rests on her pillow. Nothing seems to wake him when he’s like this, even when she slips out from under the heavy weight of his arm draped across her stomach. 

She makes it through half a cigarette before he stirs, surprising her with a questioning sigh of her name. She leaves the window cracked, a still warm breeze and the drone of crickets filtering in, gets back into bed. And in the darkness, in the faint wash of night sounds, they have no need for pretense, for faking anything, being too cool, too cold for anything. Their want, and maybe even their need, is young and unashamed. 

The weight of him settling over her, his face tucked into the stitching of her throat, is a relief, the soft give and press of her ribs against his body with each breath slowing everything down, simple, and just this, and only this. Her palm settles between his shoulder blades, running a circuit over muscle and bone, feeling his own inhales and exhales. 

“You really think I should take Maggie up on it?” At first she isn’t sure what he’s referring to, a beat, a blink of silence within which she remembers. No, feels good threatening in her throat, but she swallows it, her hand curling at the nape of his neck, taking something for herself in some other small way.

“I think it could be a good bone to throw. You only have to do it once. It’d get them off your back, at least.” His fingers are running up and down her side, razing something deep and warm in the nonsense patterns he’s drawing. She wonders how many people have seen him like this. She doesn’t think very many.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Suit yourself then.” Nothing left to say, sleep returns easily to the both of them, pale darkness washing over the tangle of their bodies. They will wake up in the morning and forget this closeness, this care for another week, a sort of cyclical amnesia, and an eventual returning and remembering every Sunday.

…

“I’m not really sure why you’ve called me in when I haven’t touched this case in nearly twenty years.”

“We’re just trying to be thorough, get as much information as we can.”

“I had a feeling, you know, back when we thought we closed it. It felt too easy, too simple. Marty didn’t believe me, but Rust, well, yeah, you’ve talked with him.”

“You both had doubts then?”

“Are you gonna show me the new file?”

“We’d like to hear your accounting of events first.”

“Right, well, there’s not much to tell that you don’t already know. Case was closed in 1995, I worked in Vermilion Parish for seven more years with those two, and I left in 2002.”

“Can you tell us what happened in 2002?”

“There was– a disagreement between myself and my partners, and it became clear we could no longer work together, so we parted ways.”

“What exactly happened between you three?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to this current investigation.”

“So you haven’t had any communication with Rust since you parted ways, as you said?”

“No, I haven’t spoken to Rust since 2002, and I imagine I won’t be speaking to him any time soon.”

[dunbonnets]

Rust: There is no future. There is no past. Do you see? Time is simultaneous, an intricately structured jewel that humans insist on viewing one edge at a time, when the whole design is visible in every facet.

Jean:

Maggie:

Marty: All I asked was if you wanted another beer...

[heartshapedbabydolls]

Let me play with your new shotgun!

[notyourhetloki]

human after all (Rust Cohle x Reader)

Reader: she/her

/NSFW Rust Cohle x Fem!Reader/

A/N: Hellooo how are you guys doing? Look, I decided to write about a more niche character this time: Rust Cohle from True Detective. There ain’t many x reader fics about him so I decided to give it a go! My writing’s not the best, English is not my native language and Rust is a hell of a complex guy… so take it easy on me, ok? His characterization might be ooc. With that being said, it’s good to be back! Requests will be open soon ;)

Warnings: Use of (Y/N), pinning, slow burn, probably ooc, unprotected sex, piv sex

Word Count: 4k

—

As a secretary in your local police station, your days were filled with calls and lots of paperwork. The occasional chit-chat with coworkers made the hours go by quicker, and you were thankful for that.

You always made coffee, offering a mug to whoever agent was closer... and that would usually mean Martin.

"Sugar?" Asking with a grin, you watched as he sat next to his coworker.

"Yes, dear. As sweet as that smile of yours." He flirted playfully. You were used to it by that point, but deep down you wished the advances came from his colleague instead...

You knew Rust Cohle, but mostly through others. Knew that he was an intellectual with a not-so-bright vision of life, that he was particularly unconventional in the field and didn't have many (if any) friends. All that and you still found yourself having a crush on him... how promising.

Not your fault the man's as handsome as can be. Solid, looking like he could have been chiseled from stone aside from his soft honey-colored hair. Strong features, nose, jaw... Astonishingly tall, muscular arms, big hands... Yet his eyes had a frail quality to them, avoident but observing every single little detail everywhere, all at once. His stoic demeanor didn't frighten you, only pulled you closer, closer...

The next day you decided to be brave... dressed in new clothes, put on perfume and went to work looking extra good. He'd have to acknowledge you at some point...

Arriving at the office, you prepared coffee as usual, pouring it into two mugs that time, only one containing sugar.

You walked to their desk and served Rust first. "Black? I assumed..." He looked... surprised. It'd been ages since you served him coffee, mostly because he didn't ask for it and you didn't want to bother him. "Yes, (Y/N). Thank you."

Your heart skipped a beat when you heard your name coming out of his mouth, and smiling like a fool you served Martin his own coffee.

"Thank you, darling. Is that a new skirt? Looks good on you." You smoothed your palms on the fabric over your thighs and noticed Rust looking at them, eyes fixated on your nervous fingers. After a few seconds, his eyes flickered to yours momentarily, sending butterflies to your stomach. "Y-Yes, thank you, Martin."

As you left, you tried your best to suppress a smile. Had he finally noticed you? What did he think? Would you ever be able to decipher any of that man's thoughts?

A few days went by with your routine set like that: You would arrive, make coffee, serve Rust then Martin, go back to work. Rust would occasionally look at you, and Martin would always flirt. You fed from Rust's looks alone but tried your best not to seem eager, always maintaining some distance... you didn't want to harass him.

It had been a long shift at work, Rust had given you a good up-and-down stare that burned at your chore, finally starting to get comfortable with your presence. He even called you 'dear' at some point, gaining a sincere smile from you. The day would've been perfect if it weren't for your car breaking down, leaving you dependent on public transportation.

You sat at the bus stop waiting, when suddenly a red pickup truck pulled over next to you. The last thing you expected was for Cohle to emerge from the vehicle, cigarette in hand while opening the passenger door and signaling for you to come in.

"I'll give you a ride." He demanded nonchalantly, not even looking at you while inhaling the fumes. Shocked and pleasantly surprised, you felt heat rising to your cheeks as you got up and closer to him.

"Oh, Rust! Thank you..." You managed to say while entering the car, not wanting to miss that opportunity. You felt optimistic, but still wondered why on earth did he have that initiative.

He closed your door and went on to sit next to you, he was so close... he smelled like smoke and wood.

The drive to your home was silent, other than the country music on the radio. He pulled over at the front of the apartment complex you lived in, and you had an idea. "Would you like to go inside? I have a couple of beers left in my fridge." You shyly offered, and after a couple of seconds of him seeming to consider it, he slowly nodded yes, getting out of the car and following you to your door.

You couldn't believe what was happening, Rust Cohle was in your home, the both of you alone together. You hoped the alcohol wouldn't make a fool out of you.

As you handed him his beer, you locked eyes for a brief second as his fingers brushed yours, you blushed and hoped he didn't notice.

"So, how’s the case? Any progress?" Rust didn't seem the type to enjoy small talk, but you tried your best to make this less awkward and actually get to know him a bit better.

He seemed pensive, looking down at his beer as he swirled it around.

"We’re workin' on it… as much as it allows us to." His voice a deep monotone tune. Cohle looked almost defeated, tired like he held the weight of the world on his back... maybe he did.

You didn't want to remind him of that weight, so decided to try something a little more bold.

"Alright, enough with the morbid work stuff, huh? What do you like to do for fun?" You asked innocently, always looking at him to see his reactions... he didn't reciprocate.

Rust looked amused enough though, swirling his drink as the corner of his mouth twitched into a millisecond of a smirk. "I drink."

"More of a stay-at-home kind of guy, I see… me too. Other than the occasional out dancing with friends." You confessed, hoping it would get something out of him.

"You like dancing?" He finally looked up but never dared to look at your eyes. Instead, he glanced in the direction of your neck. "Dancing’s a good distraction."

"Distraction?" You found that funny somehow, so you smiled as you hid a strand of hair behind your ear. "From what?"

"Whatever this is." He gestured to the air, wondering about life.

You felt for him, felt for his pain and grief. You wanted to get to know it, get to know the way he thinks and the reasons behind it.

"What’s your distraction? Beer?" You'd say, his striking eyes never leaving the pendant on your neck.

"Pretty much. Although I don’t find myself as distracted as I’d like to be."

Finally, Cohle let out a sigh through his nose and flicked his eyes toward yours. You held the contact for as much as you could, but his piercing eyes had an effect on you, like he was stripping you naked with his pupils.

Hot and bothered it was your time to look away, taking a sip of your beer as you searched for a place for your eyes to set... they settled on his shoes.

"You’re probably wondering why the hell you’re here with me n' not out with your friends dancing." His voice came as a surprise, filling the room with his presence and exposing the fact he cared at least minimally for the situation. He didn't want to bore you, and that weighed on your chest.

"I like your company, Rust." You admitted, soft-spoken. Gathering the courage to look up, you found his eyes hovering on your lips, so you continued.

"It’s… calm. There’s a soothing quality to it, makes it easy for me to trust you."

He blinked once, twice, then closed his eyes to gulp his beer, finishing it. Rust seemed to get lost in thought for a few moments, before realizing you were there again. He slowly came over to you, handing you his empty bottle before almost whispering. "Thanks for the beer."

You smiled, your hands touching again. You shuddered at the contact that lingered one too many seconds that time. His eyes were on you now, and you tried your best to keep it that way.

"Thanks for the ride." You ran your fingers through your own hair, and Rust's gaze followed your hand as you did so. He swallowed before settling for your eyes again, holding eye contact. It looked like it felt difficult, like his life depended on it.

"Anytime..." His voice softer. You drank the last of your beer while maintaining the stare, some deep urge in you waking up with every passing second. You wanted him, God you wanted him.

Moments went by and the silence was interrupted by his voice once again. "I think I should get goin'." Part of you wanted him to stay, the other part didn't want to seem desperate.

You gently nodded, a quiet "Ok." leaving your mouth. "I'm here if you ever need anything, Rust."

He offered a quick and sweet half-smile which you gladly retributed.

Fidgeting with your pendant, you guided him to the door, where he leaned over for a final farewell.

"G'night, (Y/N)." His voice was gentle now, almost caring. But you didn't want to assume he felt anything at that point.

"Goodnight, Rust."

You went to sleep that night thinking about him, remembering how close he was to you, his smell, his voice... his avoidant eyes caught yours just a few times but it was enough, at least for you.

The next day, Cohle looked rugged. His tired expression more evident than usual, even Martin commented on it. "Damn, Rust... do you ever sleep?"

To which he replied. "I don't sleep, I dream." Well, that explained at least half of the reason for his demeanor. Yet you sensed that there was something more to it, something he was keeping secret.

When serving Rust his morning coffee, he didn't look at you. You found that odd, fearing you might have offended him the night before... but in the end, you brushed it off as him just being tired.

Pondering for reasons why Cohle had been so dreadful that day, you finished work and headed home with the man never leaving your thoughts. Something was going on, and you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

At your apartment, you decided to take a shower and change into some shorts and a baggy T-shirt before starting to prepare dinner. As you were finishing, you heard the doorbell ring. What a weird time for a visitor, it was late already.

You opened the door carefully to see a defeated Rust, there was a certain desperation in his face, something urgent you couldn't quite read. "I brought beer." He offered pathetically.

To be surprised was an understatement, you never expected Cohle to show up, much less in that state. It rendered you speechless but in a good way... if something was bothering him, he at least trusted you enough to come over and share a drink.

He was still in his work clothes, but the first three buttons of his shirt were undone, his tie loose around his neck. He had dark circles under his eyes and his hair was not as tightly combed through as usual, he looked like a handsome mess.

Urging him to come in, you grabbed the beers and closed the door. You opened two bottles and handed his to him, not caring as much for the momentary touch. You were worried, wanted to help him release all that baggage, to release something.

"So, what are you trying to distract yourself from today? Besides work, of course." You requested softly, a small considerative smile across your face as you referenced the conversation from the night before.

"My programming." He looked down as if in shame, thumb drawing circles on his beer lip. He was confessing to you, and you needed to make sure you understood him.

"What do you mean by that?" You moved yourself to face him completely now, resting on your kitchen counter next to him.

Rust seemed contemplative, looking up to the ceiling as he fidgeted with his bottle. He breathed in and out, taking his time.

"We are things that labor under the illusion of having a self; an accretion of sensory, experience and feeling, programmed with total assurance that we are each somebody, when in fact everybody is nobody. Better to just deny our basic programming and move on with our meaningless lives until extinction." He kept looking up, and you wondered why he averted your eyes at that point. Was he... nervous? You couldn't come up with a reasonable answer.

Ignoring most of the morbid absurd take, you focused on what related to him, and hoped he went with it.

"Deny what makes us human?" You inquired, purposely looking at him with the intent to catch his gaze.

"Exactly." That answer got to you, he couldn't possibly believe that he was above humanity, right? He certainly seemed to... maybe that was the reason behind his apparent guilt.

"But you are a man, Rust. Programming and whatnot, you have goals, ambitions, desires…" You grew closer, then. Close enough to touch, and how you wanted to touch... to prove to him how alive he was.

"Our desires can become our owners. They paralyze us and dictate the way we go, spoiling our brains." Cohle slowly looked down, eyes meeting your neck once again. He seemed interested in your words, appreciating he had at least someone to talk to.

"Or they can lead us to good fulfilling experiences… you can’t predict the consequences, Cohle. Can’t predict if the bad outweighs the good or not."

You were met with silence. His thumb no longer fretting with the bottle, his eyes no longer on your neck... He looked at your lips, then your nose, your eyes, as if to memorize every detail, as if he was going to lose you.

"They can ruin us." A whisper through his half-open mouth. The low kitchen light reflecting off his angled face... he looked beautiful.

"What’s ruining you, Rust?" You inched even closer, now directly in front of him. You could breathe the same air as him, felt the weight of it. His eyes lingered on yours for the first time that night. "What is it?" The words left your mouth like honey, sweet and smooth.

After a few seconds, his gaze lowered to your lips, to your neck, to your lips again. He was fragile, then, like fine china. He blinked his half-lidded eyes many times before talking lowly, barely a whisper. "You smell good. You... look good."

Your heart had already been racing that whole time, but now seemed like it would stop completely at any second. Rust Cohle wanted you, and it was eating him alive.

To be the reason for his undoing was an honor, but you would never do anything to hurt him. You wanted to make him feel good, wanted to cherish and love him... you wondered if he would ever let himself feel loved.

"I’m not going to ruin you." A gentle reasoning left your lips, making his eyes meet yours once again. Rust then lifted his beer towards you to make his next point.

"You don’t know that. You can't predict the consequences, can you?" Your own words used against you, but it was not going to work so easily.

"There’s only one way to find out. Or would you rather ruminate that thought until it spoils?"

Silence once again, you had rendered him speechless... a small personal victory you could brag about later. You grabbed his bottle from his hand and placed it alongside yours on the counter, making so his full attention was on you.

Rust looked at your eyes longingly, full of raw emotion. That proved your point even further, he was only human after all.

"What does your programming want from me today, Rust?" You cautiously dared to place a gentle hand on the side of his cheek, circling your thumb to caress his warm skin. Afraid of him retrieving, your touch trembled... but he remained still.

Instead, he took his time to savor the touch, blinking slowly and relaxed. You sighed in relief as you realized you could stand like that for hours, loving the way he seemed to actually enjoy it.

But by the time you knew it, he was holding you by the waist. Barely a touch, almost hovering his hands over your body, as if you were going to fade away. He was staring at your mouth then, inching closer until he stopped a few inches from your face, contemplating.

You couldn't hold yourself back, softly closing the distance between you in a chaste kiss on his lips. Slow, careful as to not disturb him.

Your heart drummed in your chest, you could hear it reverberating in your ears. His chapped lips were warm and he tasted like alcohol, but oh how you had dreamed of that moment. You wanted to be surrounded by him, engulfed in his scent and his taste and his skin.

He was still for a few more moments before reciprocating, stiff at first. He seemed nervous.

Wanting to help, you held his face with both hands, anchoring him. Guiding him through as you deepened the kiss, you gradually slid your tongue inside his mouth and waited for his next move.

That made something click within him, like a switch that had been long neglected. Both of his hands grabbed your waist, pulling you even closer tight to his chest. His tongue found a rhythm alongside yours, making you moan in return. God, he was a good kisser... deep and intense like everything else about him.

You parted shortly to breathe and he took the opportunity to plant kisses down your jaw, your neck... hungry and full of need.

Rust then stopped with his lips touching the curve of your neck, like he was hesitant for a second. He breathed deeply through his nose, thinking.

"We won't do anything you don't want to do, Rust." You reminded him, worried that you might have crossed a line. Maybe he needed more time?

That thought fell flat after his hand grabbed yours, guiding your palm as it slid over his torso down his belly... down... down.

His hand led yours to palm his erection through his pants, feeling the heat emanate through the fabric... gosh he was so hard already. You couldn't actually believe you had that effect on him, it felt too good.

"Gosh, Rust... Can- Can I...?" You stuttered while trying to maintain a thought process, his quick response was a muted "Yeah." while still holding his head against your neck.

You slowly undid his belt, then. And even slower reached for his penis inside his pants. Pulling his dick out, you licked your hand before curling around the length of him, stroking him slackly. He looked delicious, the feeling and the vision of his shaft in your hand enough to make you wet.

You could feel him shudder, breathing strongly through his nose. Rust didn't make a sound besides the sharp inhales and shaky exhales. He seemed focused, holding you for dear life.

"I want you, Rust... wanted you for so long." You managed to speak, confessing your deepest secret. His head then lifted to meet your gaze, looking at you deep into your eyes. He saw into you, present like he never had been before.

"How long?" His voice raspy with desire, your hand still working on his cock leisurely as you spoke. "Since you first called my name."

His eyes grew darker, full of need. Eyes on you, your mouth... he had wanted you too, you knew that then.

"Kiss me, Rust..." A tremulous request that he answered immediately, mouths crashing into a deep, desperate kiss. Your hand stroked harder, faster, and he only breathed.

His hands slid down your shorts past your waist to your ass, grabbing soft skin. You hummed in approval, making him tremble. He took your shorts completely off then, along with your panties.

His fingers soon found your aching sex, digits moving in circles on your clit as his other hand continued to grope your ass cheek.

You moaned in Rust's mouth, sensations overwhelmingly good. His fingers working you so well your legs shook in anticipation. It was heavenly, having him in your hand as he kissed and grabbed you like that, nothing could have prepared you for it.

You soon came on his fingers, hard and loud. You shook your orgasm away as Cohle looked at your face, admiring your satisfaction.

"Fuck, (Y/N)..." He said under his breath, taking one then two digits up your pussy, curling them and reaching a sweet spot.

You closed your eyes at the sensation, feeling like you could cry as you rolled your hips to follow his movements... he hummed in approval.

"Rust, please, I need you..." You practically cried out. "Need more..."

His fingers pumped inside you a few more times before he was ready to let go, moving his now soaked digits to your mouth. You sucked on them, tasting yourself. His hungry eyes devouring you.

"Bend over the counter, girl." He ordered quietly, and before you obliged you took off your T-shirt, leaving you bare before him.

Rust admired your form as his breath seemed to catch at the vision. He licked his lips before grabbing one of your breasts with his big hand, massaging the soft delicate tissue of your nipple. You whined before you propped yourself in the position he wanted.

Bending over with your exposed ass up, he moved to stand behind you, caressing the skin of your back.

Rust positioned the tip of his cock at your entrance and slowly made his way in. Easy at first, but quickly building up momentum. His hips slapped into yours, harder with each thrust as you moaned his name out loud. The delicious stretch he gave you drove you crazy, you rolled your hips to meet him halfway and he grunted in response, finally not being able to hold back his noises.

"Wanted you... since I first saw you, (Y/N)... Fuck, I- I needed you."

He needed you. He needed you. You couldn't help repeating those words again and again. Rust Cohle needed you, your presence, your body... and you would gladly give it to him.

He fucked you harsh and good, grabbing at your waist hard enough to leave bruises... you hoped he did. With every thrust you moaned more, mewling his name out loud. His groans dominated the whole room while directly making their way down your aching cunt.

As his pace began to get erratic, you knew he was close. "Cum inside me, Rust... please..." You pleaded.

He suddenly grabbed you by the neck then, inching you even closer. His head rested on the hollow of your shoulder as he made his final moves before cumming, spilling his load inside of you with a growl.

When he finally released his grip, you thanked the counter for supporting your weight. You turned around to face Rust, and he was glowing with sweat, breathing deeply through his nose again.

Feeling cum dripping down your legs, you drew closer to him shyly. You didn't exactly know what to do, so you planted a kiss on his lips and hugged him, expecting him to pull back quickly... he didn't.

Holding you like that for what seemed like ages, Rust's breathing got quieter and slower. He was calm then, and that made your heart swirl with emotion.

When you felt like you could retrieve, you did so looking him in his eyes and holding the sides of his face. He looked so pretty like that, vulnerable... soft, even.

"Would you like to stay over? I made dinner..." You offered, and his gentle smile made you swoon. He held you close still, not ready to let go just yet.

"Dinner sounds nice."

That night, Rust Cohle slept without having any dreams.

—

[sequoiassoul]

I love that the true detective fandom is slowly coming back and because of that we are getting more fics so I might just have to write some of my own 🤪

[inknopewetrust]

going on vacation tomorrow so here’s a list of things I’m working on getting published in the next few months:

1. Rust cohle x fem reader… drama babes, we’re going for Ethel Cain realness here.

2. Eddie munson x fem reader breakfast club au that’s been sitting half brewing in my drafts for 2 years and I freaking love it.

3. Once dune 2 comes on streaming, I’ll wrap up my Duncan Idaho x fem reader fic that’s been unfinished but so generously loved lately.

[darkness-follows]

Nightmare

(Wrote something for Rust from True Detective, I continued it too but I have no idea where it's going atm.)

(TW: Mention of blood, implied child abuse, murder)

Every single raindrop falling down onto the metal roof of his red pickup truck gives Rust a flash of headache. A constant hammering pain behind his eyes, the darkness outside is seeping into every inch of the car. A single streetlight about 5 feet away is the only source of light in his clouded vision. Rust lifts his head up from the wheel, his neck is sore and straining uncomfortably with every movement.

The empty bottle of Jameson next to him on the passenger seat, the taste of whisky still on his breath and in his throat. Two fingers still clutching a burned out cigarette, he didn't feel the burning ash getting closer to his skin. He hasn't felt any of that in a while. Just the headache from his lack of sleep and drinking whisky instead of water.

Where is he?

What did he plan on doing?

No answer to these questions in sight, in fact, no sight at all.

Even after moving his sore neck some more Rust can't figure where he is or what he had planned on doing, the one thing he knows is that he needs to quit drinking and driving. But apparently at some point earlier he had the same thought and stopped the car in what feels to be the middle of nowhere to empty the bottle.

Dropping the old and burned out cigarette Rust reaches into his pocket to grab his Pack of smokes, the flame of the Zippo lighter illuminates the inside of the car.

Blood.

His hands, his pants and shirt seem almost drenched in it.

Rust scrambles out of the car, his Instinct cuts him harshly like a freezing breeze when he leaves the car. He hit someone, he must have, there is no furr in the blood on his hands. It must have been a person. He killed an innocent person because he was drunk driving?

No.

No, that can't be possible. He isn't like that when he drinks, he's still sharp, he's functioning, he's not ever that kind of wasted. His tired cloudy eyes try to look around himself, he can barely see anything but he can see a body. On the street. In the middle of nowhere. Panic rises in his nerves, the sour taste of acid and whisky threatens to push into his throat. There's no possible way on earth that he actually ran someone over.

Looking at the front of his truck his eyes narrow slightly. No marks. Not a scratch on the car or a single drop of blood, he didn't run someone over?

Like a punch in his gut the feeling of having done something awful, something worse rises in his throat. His dry eyes can't possibly produce any tears anymore but if they could now would be the time. Did he kill someone?

He tries to get a distance between himself and the detective that he is, walking towards the body to investigate, stopping in his steps when he hears a noise on the back of his truck. The rain slowly startinf to wash away the sin covering his hands and clothes.

He feels like jumping out of his skin when a head pops up “Is it over?” A small child asks. “He can't hurt me anymore right? It's over?” The child asks again.

Rust nods, staring at the small face drenched in rain, tired small sickly looking eyes stare right back at his own. The child makes a move to jump over the side of the truck and Rust catches them in his arms. Holding the small cold body close against his own warm chest. His steps take him a tiny bit closer to the body on the road, he can't make out the face at first but when he steps even closer his own cold pale face is looking right back at him.

(Might turn this into something idk)

You'll know if this makes it to A03

Update!

It made it onto A03, you can continue reading this story

Here!

[the-dark-ghost]

Surely This Is All For Me

I recently started to think that there are actually very few fanfics for the second season of True Detective. (I know very well that it is not at all similar to the first season and that it is not close to being the same in quality by far, but come on, are there really so few fics?)

It turns out that I have some kind of idea about two of the characters from both seasons.

Rust Cohle and Ray Velcoro

I just think they would make an excellent duo. There isn't a very good explanation, I just think that because of their different personalities, things could work out between the two of them. (Or very bad too, who knows?). Summarizing all this idiocy, I leave you one of the stupidest fanfics I've ever written:

Rust is not a very good talker, in fact, he is far from it. He hasn't bothered to socialize at school since he arrived two and a half months ago from Texas.

Ray is not new at all, he has been at the institute since his first year but in any case his character has not given him a good reputation. He doesn't have a single friend and too many people don't like him, too many people to stop and count.

During a normal day at school, both Rust and Ray end up detention for various reasons. When Professor Hart gives the detention students the task of organizing three school sites as punishment, Rust and Ray end up in the same group and finally meet, while having to clean up the mess in the school library.

•

It's ridiculous, but you might give it a chance and end up liking it, even if just a little :)

By the way, for some reason I also published it on Wattpad xd.

[angelic-hellraiser]

Check out Linger!!

Voldemort Wins / War Times / Nihilistic!Hermione Granger / Sleeping Beauty!Draco Malfoy / Anti-Hero!Theodore Nott / Astrology Junky!Luna Lovegood

 “A cornered and frightened animal acts out of desperation. Would you not then argue, Miss Granger, that a simple gesture of kindness can show them another way?” Albus Dumbledore posed that question to her over eight years ago about Draco Malfoy. If he were alive today to ask her the same question about herself she would answer, unequivocally, no. Life is hard, and choices are unforgiving. War is harder. Draco once quipped that she enjoyed breaking school rules, "but you'll have to break your own before it's over." Haughty prick. He was right, too. She has broken every single rule in her book... and it's still not over. Reflections of herself are strangers these days. She doesn't like mirrors anymore. Then again, everyone avoids them. It's probably easier, she thinks. Killing has gotten easier. Too easy, maybe. Hermione used to argue with herself about it more. It seems silly, now. This war hasn't changed who she is. It's merely shown her the truth about herself. Before her last breath she will find Voldemort and she will make him beg for death. 

[milaisbored]

the temptation to start 15 different fics bc i have writing commitment issues

[atinylittlepain]

Ptolemaea

rust cohle x f!oc

the case was closed and they parted ways. but time has a way of eating itself, and turning back to where they began.

series warnings | 18+ smut, dark themes surrounding crime investigations including murder, child abuse, religious trauma and corruption // marital infidelity, boy-man go to therapy challenge, familial trauma

..............................................

Prologue

Part one - coming soon

[hausofmamadas]

| The occupational hazards of living |

⁂

Narcos: Mexico/True Detective Crossover

Pairing: David Barrón & Rustin "Crash" Cohle & OC! Ziggy Morenas & OC! Ernesto "Chato" Quintana Colmenaro

For @narcosfandomdiscordNarcOctober - Day 22 - Day of Cross Pollination

Prompt: Create a fanwork that includes at least one Narcos character and at least one character from another fandom & fanwork with the plot or setting stolen from another fandom

Word count: ≈ 4.5K

TWs: Canon-consistent violence, Light Prison Racisms, swearing, racial slurs, drug use, references to trauma/domestic abuse, white supremacy ..? that’s a trigger, right?

The two most important things anyone can do is give life and take it. But with how often both happened, it seemed people didn’t consider the gravity of either near enough. Killing wasn’t a trifling thing. Barrón has had it up to here with these Neo-Nazis and Rustin Cohle is there to support his teaching them a lesson. Also a couple of notes: La Eme = the letter M but stands for Mexican Mafia carnal = (pronounced carnál) made man of La Eme, putting in work = Doing Crimes, particularly violent ones in service to La Eme, vica = vice president, usually of a prison cellblock llevero = keyholder/shotcaller, Eme carnal who oversees a specific geographic region outside prison or an entire prison camarada = non-made Eme members, affiliates crimie = (pronounced crim-ee) short for criminal contra = short for contraband la raza = literally the race, but more the community/the people (similar to gente but more exclusive)

… but first! Let’s meet the cast:

Ziggy

Chato

Ginger

⁂

The most startling thing about prison wasn’t the violence. If witnessing his first drive-by shooting when he was six didn’t acclimate Barrón quickly, his old man’s habit of bouncing him and Matteo off the walls certainly did. So, while the tactics and flavors were new, the violence wasn’t. He likened it to living in a war zone. If you panicked about every shell that blew a road to bits, you’d drop dead of a coronary in no time.

No, the most shocking thing about prison was the tribalism. As a plebito in Logan Heights, he had friends belonging to almost every ethnic group the melting pot of San Diego had to offer. The project neighborhoods were chock full of families of different races, countries, ethnicities: Samoan, Filipino, Black, Japanese, Mexican, Guatemalan, El Salvadorian, and the like. It didn’t matter where the neighbor kid’s family was from, when all they wanted to do was play like Bruce Lee from Way of the Dragon in the scrapyard across the street.

So, when he arrived at his first Youth Authority facility, Rancho Del Campo, just outside the dirt town of Tecate, and was told by some of the older Sureños about the “rules” against consorting with Black or White prisoners, he thought it was a joke.

“Wait, you fucking with me?”

“Nah, lil homie. Deader than dead serious,” Eddie Monstruo aka Eddie the monster, Eme vica for his block, set him straight.

“Even if I knew ‘em on the outside? I can’t just eat a meal with ‘em?”

Eddie shook his head in lamentation.

“Trade contra? Say hi? Nothing?”

“Nothing. Con la raza baila el perro, sin la raza bailas como un perro. And they won’t tell you twice, te lo juro, guey.”

He remembered thinking, Are you kidding? This is America. So indignant. What he wouldn’t give to be that green again. But what really bothered him was how the rules weren’t the same for everyone. Like how the Sureños were more simpatico with White prisoners because La Eme was aligned with the AB. Aryan Brotherhood.

He rarely saw White kids on the outside save for when he sold them dope down by the boardwalk. He sure as fuck didn’t have any whiteboy homies. Shoot, on the outside, whitey was The Man. So, it was a blow when he found out the camaradas were aligned with the AB. The way it was explained to him, the Sureños did it out of “necessity” because of the longstanding alliance between the Norteños and Black Guerrilla Family. Norteños, or Nuestra Familia, were Eme’s sworn enemy. Sometime in the 70s, the top carnals saw the need to boost their profile and numbers with a similar alliance, so they took up with the AB.

Barrón never said shit, but the AB didn’t sit right with him. For guys who were supposedly the “cream of the crop,” the “superior” race, they were really a bunch of lazy, disorganized hicks. They talked a lot of shit about the white race being the “one true people,” “purest of the pure,” acted like they shit gold. But then they had to be off-this-planet high on whatever the crank of the month was, just to put in work. That, or they shot up places indiscriminately. No creep to ‘em. Worse yet, no concern for bystanders.

Barrón knew everyone in the game skated a line of amorality, but he drew a few more lines for himself. One from the beginning: at all possible costs, no bystanders. The other line came with time. After he’d been around the block some, he stopped getting blasted on dope and booze before a hit. He didn’t begrudge some of the guys that did and he had his fair share of early jobs where those gears needed greasing. But after a while, being spun on top of spun felt disrespectful. To the job. To his victims.

The two most important things anyone can do is give life and take it. But with how often both happened, it seemed people didn’t consider the gravity of either near enough. Killing wasn’t a trifling thing. So, what did it say about him if he tried to escape, check out by getting high? What did it say if he couldn’t, with his full faculties and finger on the trigger, look the person in the eye and feel the depth of what he was about to do?

There was no off the hook. Actions have consequences. Guilt and remorse? They were occupational hazards of living if your brain was wired like it was supposed to be. He knew there was a worthy place for him in hell. The least he could do was be an adult about it. It’s not that he fancied murder an honorable business. He just hated cowards and hypocrites. That’s why he hated the AB.

That and they just plain sucked. Best way to ruin a party? Be sure to invite the neo-nazis.

The last time he agreed to work with an AB affiliated outfit was a few years after he got out of San Quentin. The Logan Heights llevero, his old homie Mando, called on Barrón to help some biker gang take back one of their stash houses. Apparently, some AB higher-up named Geronimo Jerry was collecting on a favor Mando owed from back when they did time in Folsom. To pay up, Mando put together a team to back Jerry’s guys up, but a couple of his original soldiers got dropped by the cops and another got arrested, and he needed replacements for the six man operation. The minute Barrón heard whiteboys were involved, he tried to get out of it. But Mando was a full-blown Eme carnal by then, a made-man of the Mexican mafia.

Barrón had seen The Godfather countless times as a kid, one of his dad’s favorites. One of the few good things he could remember about the man at all. At five years old, he thought it entirely innocent when Vito said in that whisper of a voice, “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” Like Vito was offering Woltz a deal so sweet, he couldn’t pass it up. It wasn’t till later on, when Mando asked him to do this job that Barrón got what Vito Corleone really meant. When a carnal said “jump,” he had no choice. He was locked in.

Thankfully, the two others Mando put on it were Barrio LH guys Barrón already knew. He and Chato had been buds since back in YA and had already done plenty of rip-n-runs together. He’d never worked a job like this with Ziggy Morenas but Ziggy was a known quantity around Shelltown as a reliable soldado. He was also Matteo’s best friend since grade school, so naturally, when they were old enough to start puttin’ in work, they did it together. Matteo only ran with the best and taught Barrón to do just the same.

But it was tricky with Ziggy. Barrón got along with him fine but they’d never been close per se. Unofficial Big Bro Ziggy might’ve been more accurate. Still, when Matty died, they fell out for a bit. They’d only reconnected recently because Ziggy started going out with one of Cheli’s friends, Leó. Even then, the void of Matty was always there. A void they shared but could never relate to each other through. Plus, competent a soldado as he was, the thing about Ziggy? He could be a little serious even for Barrón’s liking, which was saying something. Frankly, Ziggy could be a downright prickly motherfucker. All that noise aside though, he’d take serious over reckless any day. There was no mistaking Chato and Ziggy were solid guys.

The AB crew, on the other hand. Well truly, he’d never seen a more unprofessional group of crimies, save one of their affiliates Barrón had met a few times before, a bony-faced, severe-looking guy named Rust who went by Crash. He had the rangy, haunted look of a starved alley cat and commanded an Ivy League vocabulary that, through a watered-down Texas drawl, betrayed just how whip-smart he was. He also seemed to be the only one who could hold his liquor and his crystal, a fact alone that should’ve meant he was the one calling the shots. Unfortunately for them, the actual “leader” of this mess was a brawny, bald guy with too-wide, glassy blue eyes and a long, braided, red beard, who they fittingly called Ginger.

The “safe house” they met at was a piece of shit, rundown bungalow owned by Jerry. Outside, it looked like an elementary school portable. Inside, it was a hoarder’s paradise. When Barrón, Chato, and Ziggy arrived, there were group of about nine or ten guys huddled around Ginger at a foldable picnic table in the kitchen area. Crash was the only one off to the side, smoking by himself in the corner.

As the three of them passed through the living room to join the AB guys, Barrón was overwhelmed by the stench of cat piss, lighter fluid, and an amalgam smoke mixture of PCP and cigarettes. The shag carpet was crawling with roaches and littered with cigarette butts, stag mags, and Skymall catalogs. And fuck finding a place to sit. Barrón had to slide clothes and stacks of papers off the arm of a dank couch that jutted into the dining area just to lean against it. Chato and Ziggy opted to share the edge of the coffee table facing the kitchen.

They all watched as Ginger laid out the half-assed plan they cooked up. Barrón caught Crash out of the corner of his eye, whose gaunt face seemed caught between an apology and a defeated look of warning, like he was telegraphing the breath and time he’d already wasted trying to reason with these idiots and that he shouldn’t be bothered.  

When it became clear these morons hadn’t done any legwork beforehand, Barrón asked if they had an alternate route to get out of the complex they were hitting in case they got boxed in. “Only one way in and out? In only one car?”**

Eyes buzzing with a kind of feral, wildcard edge that didn’t instill the slightest confidence, Ginger nodded slowly, licking excess coke off the edge of a credit card.

Ziggy too, looked unamused, the tell-tale whites of the skin spreading over his knuckles, visible as his hands balled into fists. Chato noticed too because he and Barrón exchanged uneasy glances.

Dropping some well-timed Spanish, intended only to be understood by the three of them, “Es lo que ya les pregunté. Todo se fija a ser un espectáculo de mierda,” Crash floored the whole room before calmly taking a drag from his cigarette like an asthmatic on his inhaler.  

A big guy named Mitch leaned over close enough to graze Barrón with his beard, and freebase-exhaled this poetry, “We hit trouble? Just gotta fuck it in the ass. Scoop out the soft brains and eat right out the skull.”**

One of the strangest attempts at reassurance Barrón had ever heard. Like he agreed, Crash scoffed at Mitch and rolled his eyes. Homie knew shit was about to go down. Probably because Ziggy looked like he was about to pop his lid. Barrón choked back a chuckle of surprise that Ziggy didn’t slug the fat fuck in the face, right then and there. It wouldn’t have been out of character. Or unwarranted.

Because this was typical AB. These guys never bothered to come up with a plan. They never needed one. Life cut them all the breaks and of course it did. They’d designed it that way.

But as fate would have it, Barrón was actually one to break. He’d reached his limit and put one of their guys down with a bullet in both kneecaps. It was after he questioned their exit strategy.

Some skinny dude, a guy called Whizbang, who’d been spun for probably 48 straight hours, accused him of asking too many questions. Undeniable proof he was an undercover cop. Funny thing was, this moron wasn’t even gonna be part of the actual boost.

“This spic doesn’t say shit the whole time. Now he’s askin’ about tactics? Shifty-eyed motherfucker hasn’t touched shit since we got here.” Whizbang pointed to the curated assortment of drug paraphernalia next to the assault weapons on the table. “What’s wrong? You some kinda beaner cop, ese?” He pronounced it ‘ess-ay.’

Barrón met him with a wall of inscrutable nothing.

The little creep walked over slowly. “You laughin’ at me motherfucker?” Funny, ‘cause he wasn’t even close to smiling.

Relaxed as ever, he drowned the room in a silence that put everyone’s hackles up. Especially Ginger, whose eyes couldn’t get any wider, the whites of his eyes near engulfing his eye-sockets, swallowing his irises along with those pinprick-sized pupils. The look of bored resignation Crash wore every other time Barrón crossed paths with him was now replaced with a smirk of satisfaction; someone who walked through life craving the unexpected and getting more than he’d bargained for.

“Got nothin to say, huh? C’mon Sancho, prove you’re not a cop.”

As he drew closer, he tried his level best to look menacing or as menacing as anyone named Whizbang might hope to be. Patience wearing thin, Barrón’s wall broke and he rolled his eyes and looked off to the side, muttering against gritted teeth and his better judgement, “Can’t believe we have to deal with this shit.”

Whizbang didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go Sancho, talk or take a bump. Show us you’re not a cop.”

Almost close enough to be nose-to-nose now, he took out a dimebag of what looked like PCP from the pocket of his kutte and waved it in front of Barrón’s face. No one but Ziggy and Chato caught his hand nearing a spot at the base of his back.

Eyes blazing like molten tar, nostrils flared, it was a preamble, simple and quick. “You talk too much.”

Then before anyone could blink, two loud pops and poor, skinny-ole Whizbang crumpled to the floor, howling and clutching his knees as blood spurted out all over his hands and seeped through his jeans onto the carpet. Barrón fixed his nine millimeter on Whizbang’s face, trying to decide if he was going to let the skidmark live. But, spotting a wooden crate on the floor next to the table, he aimed there instead.

A moment of stunned silence passed, until everyone realized what he was aiming at and then all the AB guys scrambled for the weapons on the table. Everyone except Crash who was laughing at the ground now, unperturbed and cracked-in-the-head in a way that indicated the guy had seen some shit in his life. What it was, Barrón could only guess.

Crash cut through the chaos with a whistle and a, “tsk tsk, I’d think on that, boys.”

They all froze and looked at him, then at Barrón, then to the barrel of his gun, then to the wooden crate that was filled with over a dozen live grenades, then back at Barrón. Just to hammer the point home, Barrón shot right, then left, on each side of the crate.

The AB guys looked green. Chato and Ziggy looked torn between panic and hysterical laughter, though he swore he detected a hint of approval on Ziggy’s face. Crash looked on the verge of straight-up applause. Based on the sheer glee this little turn of events brought him, he couldn’t have been with the AB. That must be why he wasn’t in charge.

Looking Ginger square in the eye, Barrón explained, voice quiet and even, “We do this my way or I can nuke us all, right now.” He waited a beat but stunned-stupid Ginger still said nothing. “So Chief, what’ll it be?”

Crash ventured, smirking with an I-told-you-so superiority only somewhat softened by the drawl, “Far be it from me to speak out of turn, here, Ginger. But based on the last few months I just spent in Ojinaga and Juarez, uh– I’d say– well, yeah, just– you’d be wise to take these motherfuckers serious, right brother.” He tacked on brother like an afterthought, maybe to soften the blow or maybe just to sound like a condescending prick. Somehow it worked on both fronts.

Ginger stared at the ground and clenched his jaw so hard it looked like it might dislocate. Then spat out, “Fine. Fuckit,” rolling his head around, glaring through half-lidded eyes, “what does Big Beaner over here propose?”

And just like that, Barrón was in charge.

So, of course then, the heist went off without a hitch.

∴

After the job was done, the loot counted and distributed among all interested parties back at the safe house, everyone exchanged tense, albeit still-amicable goodbyes; good will engendered, no doubt, by fact that the whole thing went off seamlessly. Still, Crash was the only whiteboy to shake their hands.

“Nifty little stunt you pulled there. I’d call you a crazy motherfucker, if you hadn’t saved me the headache of getting my ass greased,” he turned around to look over at Ginger’s crew, back to snorting PCP off the foldout table with plastic straws, “and buried six-feet-under with these fuckin’ imbeciles.”

Barrón smiled and nodded diffidently.

Chato spoke up for the first time since they’d gotten back. “Hey, we’re ’boutta grab some grub before we head back to give the lowdown to the big homie—” Crash nodded at Chato like he knew exactly who Mando was. And maybe he did, since he didn’t seem to be rolling with the AB. Just another soldier filling out the ranks like them. “—wanna roll out with us?”

“Sheeit.” Eyes alight with a crystal-meth vigilance that would’ve been off-putting if he weren’t so devil-may-care all the time, Crash surveyed the room, and shrugged. “Beats climbing the walls here with these assholes. Yeah, lemme take you up on that, buy you friendlies a round somewhere.”

Barrón smiled at Chato, little social butterfly. He, himself, would never have thought to invite the guy, but he was glad Chato did. Following Chato’s lead, he asked Crash, “Yo, you need a ride?”

“Nah, I’ll follow on my bike. Y’all know what’s good.”

The three of them looked at each other blankly until Ziggy offered, “Stoney’s?”

“Any place with booze’ll do just fine.”

“Oh, but we gotta make a pit stop at Micky D’s.”

They all looked at Chato like he’d been an extraterrestrial this whole time, and they’d only noticed just now.

“What?” He asked earnestly. “I want a McFlurry.”

They all just kept staring at him.

“Well, they don’t have McFlurries at Stoney’s, obviously.” Like they were the dumbest people on the planet.

Amused, Crash chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t say I’m in a position to judge, but he’s an odd duck, ain’t he.”

“Aight.” Ziggy cracked a rare smile, the kind really only Chato or Matty could get him to do. “Let’s get the kid a McFlurry. Then Stoney’s.”

The three of them piled into Barrón’s Monte Carlo and rolled out. Crash chugged behind on his Harley.

The crowd at Stoney’s was just starting to pick up, so they opted for the open seats at the bar on the patio.

“First round’s on me.” Crash flagged down the bartender. “What’s everyone’s poison.”

Barrón put his hand on his chest, “Corona,” then pointed to Ziggy. “Y tú, qué?”

Ziggy looked up from the spot on the bartop he had been mean-mugging since they sat down, “Oh, uh—” then glanced at Chato next to him, who was gazing, lost in love, into his McFlurry cup, spooning bite after bite into his mouth, and just ordered for him. “Well, for the lady, a tequila sunrise and me? I don’t— eh, fuck it. Shot of tequila. Nothing fancy.”

Narrowing his eyes, Crash regarded them like he’d been conducting a study that yielded some unexpected results, then passed the order on to the bartender.

When they had their drinks, Crash finally asked what was probably on everyone’s mind. “So, contestame eso,” he slid into Spanish, unclumsily but not entirely without effort. “Ya tango que saberlo. Back there. That just a performance? Or would you’ve done it?”

Somewhat blindsided, less by the question than by who was asking it, Barrón struggled to hide his surprise while he tongued the inside of his cheek, searching for an answer. He got the impression for some reason that Crash could take the truth. There was a hard-lived, stretched-thin quality to him, evidence of a man, unmoored, maybe a bit unhinged, operating at the edge of life itself. But he didn’t want to spook Chato.

And the truth was well, he didn’t actually know. Not then and not now. He didn’t need to because of what he did know: things never would’ve gotten that far. It was a play and the play would’ve worked, even without Crash’s helpful advice to Ginger. Because those AB guys? They were always chickenshit.

Okay, so there. That was an answer. Why didn’t he just say that?

Maybe because of what he wasn’t certain of. That if he’d misjudged the situation, if it hadn’t worked, would he have tried their luck and pulled the trigger anyway? Nah, but he knew that too. Yeah, he would’ve. He meant it. Or at least a part of him. Had to be serious for them to take it serious.

But he settled on equivocation. “What d’you think?”

Ball back in Crash’s court, and the way his jaw cocked to the side, it was clear he wasn’t much for accepting non-answers for answers. “What do I think? Well, what’s the use in asking if I already know?”

Fair enough.

An impatient Ziggy piped up, turning to Barrón. “Quién se cree que es, este pinshe gringuillo?” But before Crash could answer, Ziggy swiveled back around and laid it out for him. “If he hadn’t meant it, we would’ve gone along with their cracked, cracker-ass plan. And if we went along with their plan, we’d either be in jail or riddled with bullets right now, probably buried in the middle of some dirt lot along with those crusty hicks. Okay?”

Huh. Ziggy, having his back like that, defending him. That was … nice, new. Unphased though, Crash put his hands up in armistice. “I ain’t complainin’ insofar as I’m curious as to the level of commitment to the bit.”

“Alright,” Barrón said in a sigh. “Yeah, I meant it. Had to, didn’t I?”

Finally, that seemed enough truth to humor Crash, as he nodded, mouth cocked up in a smug half-smirk, and took a swig of his bourbon. Barrón saw it then. Este güey knew it all along but wouldn’t be satisfied unless it was said out loud. Ziggy scowled and rolled his eyes, maybe still irritated that Crash had asked in the first place. But probably more resentful that he’d folded so quick, telling this outsider the truth.

Poor Chato seemed to be the only one taken by surprise, as he froze mid-bite, eyes wide, plastic spoon hanging out of his mouth. And all of a sudden Barrón and Ziggy busted up laughing. With less investment but still in on the joke, Crash couldn’t stop himself chuckling too. As they all sat there, in varying levels of stitches, Chato just looked at them all, confused. Until he realized the joke was how ridiculous he looked, and then he cracked up right along with them.

When they settled down, Barrón wiped tears from his eyes while Chato contentedly sipped on his tequila sunrise, and Ziggy flagged the bartender again for another shot.

The bartender brought his shot and Ziggy knocked it back before asking Barrón, “Yo,” voice thick as he swallowed hard, “should we work on getting our story straight? Like, what do we tell Mando?”

Chato glanced nervously at Ziggy, agreeing, “Yeah, like are we gonna tell how you kneecapped that skinny guy–“

“Whizbang,” Crash cut in to remind them his name, as if it mattered.

“–and threatened to blow the whole crew away?”

Staring ahead at all the bottles lined up on shelves, lit technicolor by the bar lights, Barrón said cooly, “Is that what happened?”

Brows furrowed, Chato looked from Barrón, to Ziggy, to Crash, then back to Barrón. “Yo, is this a trick question or—?”

“No fool,” Ziggy shot him a disgruntled look. “It’s not a trick question. And yea, fool, that’s what happened.”

“So, that’s what we tell him.”

Chato couldn’t compute, looking at Barrón like he’d sprouted a second smaller, uglier head. With an air of amused cynicism, Crash watched the three of them bickering, citizens in the town square like they were on Court TV.

“Woahwoahwoah,” Chato practically gurgled with a mouth full of McFlurry, “you forreal right now?”

“Look, Jerry and Mando go way back. He’s gonna hear about it. Best he hears direct. Besides, you can’t lie to a carnal when you go off the reservation like that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Barrón saw Ziggy’s head gravely bobbing up and down in agreement.

Chato was still in disbelief. “Dude, he’s gonna cap you right there on the spot.”

“Actions have consequences,” Barrón explained simply, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. “I’ll see that it doesn’t blow back on you. S’on me.”

Ziggy seemed comfortable in resignation at the prospect of Mando losing his shit on Barrón. Chato was still unconvinced. Pobre was genuinely concerned for him.

Assessing Chato with something like doomed admiration, Crash pointed out, “Milkshakes aside, kid’s got the kinda heart they don’t teach in school.” Then looking around at all of them like the thought just dawned on him, he asked, “How old are you guys, anyway?”

Index finger pointing at his chest, Ziggy said flatly, “Twenty one, last month,” then pointed to Chato, “nineteen,” then to Barrón who finished for him, “eighteen.”

Crash whistled, “Sheeit. And I thought I didn’t have childhood.”

Chato still looked ill at ease. In an effort to cheer him up, Barrón quipped, “No hay tos, compa. I’m living on borrowed time anyway. Shoot, I was ready to die— what,” he smirked and glanced at the clock hanging above the doorway that led from Stoney’s patio back inside, “three hours ago?”

Chato gave him the side-eye but must’ve worked a little bit because his shoulders weren’t crunched up by his ears as much.

After a few minutes of silence, something occurred to Barrón. “Hey, why’d you ask?”

Crash downed the remainder of his bourbon in one big gulp and came back up smiling like he was waiting for that exact question to be asked. He set the empty glass upside down on the bar, and pulled out a cigarette, tapping the tip of it on the bottom of the glass, before putting it to his lips and lighting up.

Through another one of those deep, asthmatic drags, voice thick, he said, “Well, I was jus’ thinking, the kinda nuts it takes, going off book like that? But the three of you still kept your cool. Level headed nutjobs are hard to find. So, might be I got another job for you boys. If you’re interested. And Mando’ll lend you.”

Well that stumped them, as they stood there, puzzled looks on all their faces because actually who the fuck was this guy? And did he know Mando? Or he was just a that good a listener?

Crash gave them a wily look through the two thick columns of smoke that poured from his nostrils. “Y’all ever heard of a guy by the name of Amado Carrillo Fuentes?”

They came back at him with nothing but crickets.

“You might know him as El Senior de los Cielos.”

That’s when Barrón knew he’d sized this guy up correct. Crash, Rust, whoever this guy was, dropping a big name like that, guaranteed he’d seen and done some shit in his life.

And now, evidently, he was looking for business partners. Or maybe a couple of suckers. Which one would depend on whatever came out of his mouth next.

═

** indicates lines robbed directly from True Detective (Because you know I wish I came up with that soft brains line but alas, I am no Nic Pizzolato)

taglist: @narcolini @narcosfandomdiscord

[heartshapedbabydolls]

The way your hair comes down and makes you look older

[myqueenalicent]

It’s becoming a serious problem. Men might be ruined for me at this point

Also im working on a rec list since I’ve received some asks about it. I’m currently writing my finals and I just don’t have the time so it’s gonna be a little bit before I get it out.

[willowhaired]

Curses [True Detective]

Rust Cohle × Leannah Williams

Rustin Cohle is still entangled in the mystery of the Yellow King when a pink-haired young girl appears in his life. Might she help him in the investigation or distract him in his research? Are there happy little accidents or all things happen by design? Is time a flat circle, and if so, do we only repeat our mistakes or do we inherit some of them?

Current chapter: Chapter 6 - Fights of demise Word count: 16,049 Last updated: Nov 1, 2022 Platforms: fanfiction.net I ao3

[reallydelicatezombie]

1995 Rust Cohle NSFW Alphabet

Alright, fellow fanfiction SLUTS. *cracks knuckles in preparation for typing all this shit out* Let’s do this. P.S. I hope you all like this because our Sad Boi is very hard to write for. 

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A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

There are shades of aftercare with Rust, and it all depends on where you’re at in your relationship. If you’ve just started seeing each other and having sex, I think aftercare won’t come naturally to him. It’s not necessarily that he means to be cold or anything; he’ll still offer to help clean you up and ask if you’re okay, but he won’t immediately go to pull you to him. He’ll be hesitant to initiate it, though if you curl yourself up to him, he’ll cautiously put his arm around you. He’s a bit stiff, and not sure what to say; honestly, he’s a little shellshocked at having you turn up in his life, and it surprises him the way he starts to feel something again.  Affection never came easy to him, and he hasn’t been this close to anyone, physically or emotionally, in years, yet he still secretly craves your nearness. As your relationship progresses and grows past the shoot out with Reggie and Dewall Ledoux, Rust starts to hold you tighter, to pull you closer after. The event kind of wakes him up; makes him aware of just how much you mean to him. He also begins to stroke your hair gently as he holds you, which is a surprisingly tender act from him. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Rust *needs* to feel your ass, hips, and waist. He’s a hard man whose life hasn’t been filled with much of anything soft, and he always marvels at the suppleness of your ass, the curve of your hips under his hands, no matter how many times he touches you. He grips your waist so hard sometimes he leaves bruises, but it’s never meant to hurt you. He just finds gripping these parts of you grounding when you have sex; his synesthesia can be pretty overwhelming then. He sees/feels a deep, pulsating rose color when he hears you moaning or when he cums, so something so tangible helps him refocus. He also loves your hair. It might seem like an innocuous thing to some, but to him it’s just another layer of softness to you; you offer him the comfort of your body so freely, and he can’t help but take it. Yes, pulling your hair during sex satisfies some animalistic need deep inside him, but he also loves the color and texture of it. When he starts to stroke it after sex, he realizes it’s not just a way to comfort you, but also himself.

As for his body, Rust would say he doesn’t care about anything so trivial, but that’s because he’s a fucking liar when it comes to his feelings sometimes. We all know that he cares about his hair. I submit for your consideration: his different hairstyles during the three different eras. 1995 Cohle does not just wake up with his dirty blonde hair effortlessly wavy; no, he spends at least 10 minutes putting product in it and then scrunching it, you can’t change my mind. In 2002, we see all that gel put in his hair in an effort to make it kinda spikey. That takes time. That takes effort. Let us also note that Rust, eschewer of all things material, is also spending his money on these products. Finally, 2012 Rust grew out his hair for a reason. Think about it: why did he take the time to wash it and put it in a little ponytail? He could've just shaved it all off or not bothered with putting it back, but he didn't.

You love his hair because he lets you touch it and run your fingers through it, which he finds comforting (although he pretends like he doesn’t need any comfort initially, but you can tell he loves it, so you keep doing it, even if he teases you about it). Over time he eases up about this, and even lets you hold his head in your lap. You also love his pensive blue eyes and long, elegant fingers especially when they’re pumping in and out of you. He gruffly says something like, “They’re just fingers, Y/N. Nothin’ special about them.” But again, he’s full of shit because he will purposefully do something fiddly with them just to get you riled up. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Even though Rust totally unloaded one unprotected into Maggie, and he would absolutely do the same with you the first time, I think he would be a bit horrified and panicked after the fact. In the heat of the moment, it felt amazing to cum inside you, but after that, when he realizes the sex is gonna be regular, he always makes sure to have a condom, or to pull out if not and you’re also on the pill. He is deeply afraid of getting you pregnant and has no desire to be a father again.

As mentioned in “B”, cumming for him can be pretty overwhelming; he sees and feels that deep, thrumming rose color, and sometimes when he cums really hard he sees a marine blue flooding it and mixing with it to make a sort of purple, maroon color. To be honest, he feels very vulnerable when he cums, so if at the start of your relationship you don’t have condom for some reason, he’ll flip you over and cum all over your ass. This way, he can grip you and ground himself (and he also thinks your ass looks lovely covered in his cum, but this is all going to be internal dialogue at this point). Once he’s gotten more secure in himself and actually opens up a bit more with you, he feels like it’s okay to face you eye-to-eye while he cums. Those sky-blue eyes boring into yours while he finds his release is a bit unnerving, but in a deliciously intimate way. In this position, if he doesn’t have a condom, he’ll pull out and cum on your pussy or breasts. He’ll start to tell you how beautiful he finds you like this. Since it’s a compliment coming from him, it makes you feel electric and powerful.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Okay, so hear me out: Rust wants to fuck you senseless in his biker jacket, either with him fully clothed as Crash wearing the jacket, or with you in nothing but the jacket. Either way, it’s a win for him. It’s not that it’s the filthiest fantasy a person could have, but he obviously struggles with verbalizing even his most basic emotional and physical needs. When he first met you, he couldn’t help but fantasize about it. He told himself it was just because it had been a long time and you were so pretty; it’s a basic human need to fuck, so he told himself that it wasn’t anything more than that. But if the frequency of how many times he dreamt this scenario is anything to go by, he was down bad for you. 

If he were to be dressed as Crash (let’s face it, it’s a persona for him), he would use either his belt or tie to bind your hands above you to the headboard and do whatever he wanted with you. He would not be gentle, and there would be bruises, but chasing his need, just using you like that, seems unbelievably satisfying to him. His mind would turn off for however long it took to get the urge out, and that sounds like a glorious thing to a mind that is continuously turning over. In the scenario where you would be wearing nothing but the jacket, he’d have you ride him like he was a bronco at a rodeo. He’d love to run his hands all over you as you just take your pleasure from him, and again, the peace of having his mind turn off and his body just be on sounds heavenly, if he believed in such a thing as heaven. 

(Spoiler alert: both these scenarios go down, and even though the world is shit and life is meaningless and men and women aren’t supposed to work and all that jazz, Rustin Cohle has a very, very good time.)

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

More than people like Marty or the other cops would think, but still not a ton. Rust really strikes me as demisexual, so he's not getting into bed at the drop of a hat. He did have to take pills to help him stay erect when he was undercover as Crash, since that whole scene was violent machismo and sexual conquest was a big part of that, and he hated every second of it, tried to get those encounters over as quickly as possible.

With the experiences he did want, however, Rust was always a very observant partner, and it won't be any different with you. Even though he might be afraid of intimacy, he doesn't strike me as the type to not pay attention to the sounds you make, to the way your fingers tighten on his shoulders and how your back arches when he hits a certain spot. He'll take his time to learn all of you and make sure to do those things that elicit the strongest reaction from you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

There are a few, and like everything else with Rust, it's very dependent on what point in the relationship you're at. Initially, because of how vulnerable he feels and how much that both excites and makes him nervous, doggy style and both of you lying down on your sides with your back to him are his go to moves. He'll still try to connect with you, though, because he really does need intimacy even if he can't ask for it. He'll reach around and play with your clit, suck on your neck, or whisper "Good girl" when you cum.

Later on, he really wants to look in your eyes and watch your face as you fall apart, so he'll prefer missionary or you both lying down on your sides, face-to-face. This feels much more intimate for the both of you, and he tends to hike your legs up over his waist to get deeper in these positions. He'll also cradle your head and thread his fingers through your hair.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Lol, it's Rust Cohle, so NO. He's very focused on what's going on during sex and all the sensations he's feeling, and trying to be funny during the moment will pull him out of that state. Plus, he's not one to crack many jokes in nonsexual moments, though he does have a unique sense of humor that comes out sometimes. We see that when he has the conversation with Marty at the banh mi place and Marty tells him that he can't admit to having doubts. Rust replies, "I doubt that," with a cocky little attitude. And then when they reunite and interview the Childress' former maid, he makes the quip about hoping that she was wrong about death not being the end. 😸

Anyway, back to the matter at hand: he does get to a point where he can make a few cocky remarks and smirks during sex, but you wouldn't exactly call them jokes or him being goofy. Everything he does is with an intense seriousness.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Rust doesn't have much hair down there to trim anyway, but it is a bit darker than the rest of his hair. He really doesn't spend any time grooming it.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

We've established that while Rust can't verbalize his desires and emotions easily, especially when your relationship is new, he does deeply crave intimacy. That's because he doesn't actually want to completely disappear from humanity, no matter how much he says he does. We see it in the show in little ways, like when he decides to stay for dinner with Marty's family, when he tries to go on the double date, when he asks Marty how he's been after they finally start speaking again. He's someone who wants something meaningful, not superficial, because he's hurting so much from all of the loss he's suffered. So when he starts a relationship with you, he does make an effort, however unsure of how to do this he may be.

Intimacy with Rust isn't rose petals on the bed, or date nights at fancy restaurants, or even sweet words. He's a doer, not a talker. It's him pulling you tighter to him when he lets his guard down. It's him cradling your head softly while he's buried deep inside you and gazing into your eyes. It's him coming up behind you while you finish putting away the dishes together and turning you to him, kissing you deeply, and leading you by the hand to your shared bedroom where he makes you shake with passion around him.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He’s never been one for masturbation, mostly because he’s very disconnected from his body; he spends so much of his time turning things over in his mind, sorting out his personal philosophy. BUT, when he first meets you and starts to have the fantasies involving Crash’s jacket, he does jerk off a few times to relieve the tension he feels around you. He thinks nothing physical will ever happen with you, and he hopes that by relieving the ache he feels when his pants tighten at the thought of you he might just get it out of his system and move on. He finds these feelings more frustrating than pleasurable at first, so he tries to get it over with as quickly as possible. (Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.) Instead, he finds himself craving you more and more. Once you finally hook up, he doesn’t feel the need to do it as much since he can just be with you if he feels the need. He’s very pro you masturbating, though, and thinks it’s sexy that you touch yourself to thoughts of him. He asks to watch you do it, which you gladly oblige. You get folded like a lawn chair after. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

*rubs hands together gleefully* Ooh, goody! Rust has a few kinks, one of them being the desire to tie you up and just take you (consensually, of course). The need to be in control and let go of all of the stress and tension he feels is very present, especially before the shoot out. He only wants to use his belt, his tie, or some other piece of fabric and not handcuffs, however, because that feels too much like his job and that doesn’t really turn him on. 

EDGING: he loves bringing you right up to the brink, and then pulling back. He does this during your longer sessions, as it makes more sense to do it then. Hearing you whimper at the loss of force or a slowed down pace when you were so close makes him even harder; and the sweet, desperate way you beg makes working you up all over again worth it. 

SHOTGUNNING: This is more of a pre- or post-sex kink, if that can be a thing. He just likes sharing the smoke with you and hearing you inhale it. He thinks it’s sexy. If you’re sitting on his lap facing him while you do it, it’s safe to assume he’ll get so turned on that you’ll get fucked hard. If it’s post-sex, then he’ll lazily watch you exhale the smoke, and it looks like a weird kind of halo around you.

STOCKINGS AND GARTERS: Rust doesn’t need you to have fancy lingerie, he’s a simple man. However, he finds stockings and garters very classy and very sensual, and if you wear a skirt that shows just a little bit of the garters when you move or bend over, he won’t be able to keep his hands off of you. He is secretly always hoping you will wear them because he just wants to run his hands up and down your thighs and over your hips and ass. If the stockings are crotchless, even better because he will definitely ask you to wear them during sex. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Rust doesn’t care very much about where you two have sex, so long as it’s safe and private. For instance, he would never have sex at the police station because one of his coworkers might walk in or overhear, and he would literally die if that happened. You’ve had sex in the backseat of his truck when the two of you went for a drive in the country at night; you were the only car on the road for over an hour, so it seemed private enough. The place he feels the most comfortable, though, is your place because everything there smells like you, and your bed is soft and warm. You have a lot of blankets and pillows, which he definitely does not have at his apartment, and he secretly likes being all cozied up to you after sex.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

We’ve mentioned the shotgunning and the garters and stockings, but there are other things that get him going. You showing any depth of knowledge about anything, whatever area you have a lot of skill or knowledge in, that really turns this brainy fucker on. He values knowledge, thoughtfulness, intelligence, intellect. He craves it in the shithole that is Louisiana*, and you’re like a breath of fresh air to him. It really excites him to be with someone who is as smart and caring as you. Speaking of which, showing any level of care towards him gets his blood pumping. Did you make a homecooked meal just for him? Fuck. Did you wash and iron his work shirt because you noticed he hadn’t had time to? Girl. Did you put a book back that had fallen off his bookshelf and he hadn’t bothered to pick up? OH BABY. He just appreciates the little things, because they show him how much you care about him, and that turns him on immensely. 

*As someone from Louisiana, I can confirm that Louisiana is a 100%, Grade A, USDA-certified intellectual shithole. It’s not a stereotype, it’s true. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

The thought of any sort of necrophilia, or anything where you’d pretend you were a corpse or something like somnophilia turns his stomach. Even though he might like to tie you up and have your movement limited, part of what’s so enjoyable about that is your response to his ministrations. You are very much alive, and he needs that feedback. Also, spending all day looking at DBs pretty much guarantees he wouldn’t want to see that when he gets off, even if it’s just pretend. 

Also: absolutely no daddy and mommy kink, for obvious reasons. I don’t think he’d want to be called “Daddy” in any context, and definitely not a sexual one. 

The thought of actually hurting you also makes him physically ill: light spanking and hair pulling is one thing, but choking you or slapping you across the face reminds him too much of his time undercover with the Iron Crusaders, and he has no desire to revisit that. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He has no preference, and likes giving as much as he likes receiving. Very good at giving because he is so detail-oriented and pays attention to exactly how you respond with each flick of his tongue or drag of his teeth. He enjoys the way you taste, and will take his time eating you out, really working you up until you need him to finish you. 

For receiving, seeing you in nothing but his leather jacket, knelt down in front of him really does something to him. He could honestly spend all afternoon watching you trying to take all of his length in. He loses it when you kitten-lick the tip and then suddenly deep-throat him. Bonus points will be given if you swallow every last drop, because fuck, he thinks that shit is so hot. “Are you trying to kill me, Y/N?” “No, but what a fun way to go.” ;)

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It’s either hard and fast, or slow and sensual. There is no in-between. At the beginning, it will mostly be hard and fast because he’s getting it all out of his system; it’s been so long for him, and he needs some time to get in touch with the side of himself that can be sensual. When it is hard and fast, it’s overwhelming because you have to basically brace yourself for the ride (not that you mind; you understand Rust probably better than he understands himself when it comes to his emotional and physical needs). 

Once he’s opened up enough to consistently use a slow and sensual pace, he goes deep. This is when you’ll be face-to-face, looking into each other’s eyes, with your legs wrapped tight around his waist or raised over his shoulders. This pace is overwhelming in a different type of way. Someone like Rust being so connected with you is special and not to be taken lightly because you know he wouldn’t do this with just anybody. It means he trusts you and thinks highly enough of you to be vulnerable and take his time with you. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are very rare for you two because he greatly prefers taking his time. Since it’s already difficult for him to be physically and emotionally open, he doesn’t really have the ability to quickly get it up, get with you, and then go on with his day. Plus, he doesn’t really like to have sex in a location where you two can be interrupted or discovered, and those locations are usually where quickies happen. That said, the few times you have had them, like the locked bathroom at a bar or dance hall (he won’t go to the clubs unless it’s for an investigation, sorry), have been very lustful and intense. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Absolutely. Freakin’. Not. No way. While he grows more open to trying new positions, toys, etc., with you as the relationship grows, Rust will never, at any point in your relationship, do anything that would physically hurt you (He’s also extremely afraid that he’s going to fuck this up and hurt you emotionally, and that honestly scares him more than he cares to admit). Again, being a little rough is not what this means: it means he’s not going to put you in any danger. He’s not taking you undercover as Crash; he’s not carelessly bringing you to places where you might be in any danger. He’s also very afraid before the shootout that whoever is behind the murders and disappearances will find you and hurt you because of his investigation. He’s very protective of you in this way. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He has a surprising amount of stamina. He can switch it up; either one long session, so long as you are able to, or several faster sessions. It depends on where he’s at mentally. If he’s in his head more, it will probably two faster, shorter sessions, though he always makes sure you’re satisfied before he finishes. If he’s more relaxed, he’ll take his time with you, and this is usually when he sets a slower, more sensual pace.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

None, unless you count the belt and tie. He counts those as accessories, not toys. He’s not opposed to you having them, however, and definitely enjoys watching you use your vibrator  or clit sucker on yourself (or him using them on you). Other than that, he really doesn’t have any experience or knowledge of what other toys are out there, so if you like to use more, you’ll have to show him. He’d be a bit out of his element at first, but since he’s so intelligent, would get the hang of them quickly. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Rust Cohle, while he doesn’t have what you would call “game”, can be a motherfucking tease when he wants to be. Generally, he doesn’t play games and if he wants you, he’ll let you know, BUT he thinks it can be entertaining to see you riled up over him, to the point where you’re clenching your thighs and nearly begging for him to take you. He’ll use his hands to slowly rub your thighs if you’re out for a drive, going higher a little bit each time, but never as high as you want/need him to go. Or he’ll take his time kissing down your torso or up your legs, but never making his way to your center. He has his cocky smirk on at that point. He will eventually give you what you want, because it’s actually what he wants to. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Rust doesn’t make much sound in terms of moaning, but he does breathe very heavily and grunt when he cums. He absolutely lives for your moans, though, and there’s just something about the way you shakily scream out his name in the heat of the moment that snaps something inside of him. He has an excellent auditory memory, and can recall each note and sound you make. When he’s home alone and it’s late at night and he can’t sleep, he remembers every sound you make.

He has an unsurprisingly filthy mouth, and once he’s truly comfortable in the relationship, he’ll say things to you that make you blush furiously (he loves this response). “Fuck, Y/N. That pretty pussy all for me?” and “You gonna be a good girl and cum for me, huh? Cum all over my dick.” And you are a good girl, so of course you do. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Rust wants to take pictures of you wearing only the leather jacket so he can have them with him when he misses you (we don’t have sexting at this point in time), but he has no idea how to ask. He knows you would do it in a heartbeat, but it just seems so personal for some reason. Little does he know, you have plans to surprise him on his birthday with some pictures you’ve taken yourself in the jacket WITH garters and stockings WITH a cigarette in your hands. Even though he hates birthdays and doesn’t see the point in celebrating a day when he was ripped out of nonexistence against his will into this violence, he’s going to stop complaining when he sees the pictures. You actually render him speechless. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Not very thick, but very long: a shower, not a grower. Since he’s on the thinner side, it makes sense that it wouldn’t be too thick. It has a slight curve to it, which he uses to angle into you just right. Surprisingly pink when he’s aroused.  

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pre-shootout, it would not be very high (though for him it comes cums as quite a shock since he was not expecting to be horny at all), maybe twice a week. Once the shootout happens, he feels like he can relax a bit more, and that’s when it ramps up for you two. At least 3 times a week, though it is usually more if his case load isn’t too busy. His sex drive is absolutely tied to what else is going on his life, and to his mental state. When it does pick up, he craves you. He’ll never pressure you if you’re not in the mood, though. Forcing himself on you is something that Rust wouldn’t even think about doing.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Rust has terrible insomnia, but every once in a while, after you’re both sated, he finds himself actually sleeping. Not every time, but often enough that it gives his body some of the rest he desperately needs (please just let this Sad Boi sleep. Please.) If he has trouble sleeping for a long period of time, you can bet you’re going to get it rough soon, because he’s figured out that there’s a connection between how hard he goes and how deeply he sleeps. You’re honestly glad that you can help him rest. For the times when he still can’t sleep, he’ll just lie there, quietly watching you sleeping peacefully and his heart aches a little bit at the sight. He might shut his eyes and dream, the dreams being softer than what he used to dream about before he met you.