#rustin cohle x reader

[qesii]

LOST DOGS series, rated M + E, 42k words total—

[fallenprophets]

televangelism

Rust Cohle x reader

» can be read as in the same timeline or whatever as midnight, lose my mind but nothing vital will be missed

summary : lying in bed with rust, you allow yourself some good ol' self-indulgent staring. featuring some very (un)scandalous physical contact

no use of y/n, gender neutral reader, 1.3K words (she's short but hopefully sweet)

warnings : n/a

A/N : she's not proofread, she's short, she's so self-indulgent, but that's kind of on brand for me at this point. listened to ethel cain while writing this (obviously). title is just a song that fits, has nothing to do with anything LMFAO. if insanely ooc, blame it on the boogey i had nothing to do with it

⭐︎

Rust Cohle doesn’t sleep. 

At least, that’s what I’ve been lead to believe- through Marty’s rants in the car on the way to crime scenes, through the whispers of coworkers in the precinct; hell, Rust himself has said it more than once, eyes glazed over, the words mumbled around the cigarette trapped between his teeth. Those words- Rust don’t sleep- had become, over time, something I knew rather than thought- words whispered in my mind every time I looked at him, took in how tired he looked. 

At this point, though, I’ve seen him asleep enough to know that that’s bullshit. Hell, I’ve seen him asleep enough to know when he’s pretendin’, eyes shut but aware of everything around him. He did it a lot, when I started staying over at his or he at mine; I’d close my eyes and feel him shift, and I just knew he was watchin’ me, thinking all his lonely thoughts. I remember wishing I could reach through his eyes, sift through his mind. 

He started trusting to me, I like to think. Took time; months of me watching him pretend, him watching me doze. Finally, though, he slept, and now, we’re at a point where I know when it’s real, when it’s faking. 

He doesn’t exactly look at peace, when he’s really asleep. That’s what you expect from people (although, at this point, I should know not to compare Rust Cohle to the others I’ve known); the lines of their face soften, the hardness of their eyes hidden. I remember watching my daddy sleep; was the only time I saw him lookin’ relatively normal. 

But no, Rust doesn’t sleep like that. 

His brow is furrowed, as when he is awake, as if he’s in perpetual thought. His mouth is pressed into a thin line; even the tic in his jaw is still there, appearing occasionally. He has a hand pressed to my leg, fingers curled around the inside of my knee. It is the only part of him touching me; I don’t blame him for wanting a little space in this heat. 

When he’s asleep, he looks like he’s fighting. Like he’s gripping onto something, and it’s slipping; like he’s Sisyphus pushing that damn rock in the underworld, always returning to the beginning. Or Orpheus, walking blind towards the light, watching his Eurydice slip away from him at the last moment when he succumbs to his love for her, turns to see her one last time. 

When I was a kid, we had a dog; my ma always told us to stay away from him if he was in a deep sleep, ‘cause we’d startle him and bite our noses off. 

Now, I feel the same longing mixed with caution swirl in my stomach. My fingers twitch where they’re curled against my stomach, aching to reach out and touch his face. I shuffle a little closer; his grip on my leg shifts, thumb dragging against my skin softly. He doesn’t seem to have been woken. I swallow. I’m close enough to feel his warm breath fan across my face, my neck; close enough to see every minute detail of his face, even in the semi-darkness of my room. 

This is one of the rare moments where I’m just able to look. To trace the line of his nose, his eyelids, the way his eyelashes look when his eyes are shut. The curve of his mouth, the tired, slightly haunted look that follows him into sleep. His hair is shorter; he let me cut it, suggested it out of nowhere the other day. I hardly said a word as I did it; he told me about whatever his latest thought was, the words thick as he smoked. I listened, threaded my fingers through his hair; kissed him when I was done, tasted the smoke on his tongue. 

I give in to the want choking me and raise my hand, reaching out to touch his cheekbone with my fingertips. I’m careful not to wake him; keep my touch light as I brush down, stopping at his mouth. It makes me feel almost physically sick; the thought that I’ve kissed him, that he’s asleep in my bed, after so much time spent haunting the precinct, trying to catch glimpses of him at his desk, ducking away when his eyes met mine. I was always too ashamed to look; and now, here I am, and here he is. 

I rest my hand where his jawline meets his ear, his pulse against my palm, fingers in his hair. The sun has almost set completely outside, but I know he’s still there, skin hot against mine. I close my eyes and still see him, burned into my eyelids; reminds me of staring at the sun too long when I was a kid, eyes stinging. Only this don’t hurt as much. 

I think he wakes while I doze. He doesn’t move, doesn’t pull my hand away from where it rests against his pulse. He watches me, like he always does; I can picture him, his gaze unfiltered and thick through his eyelashes. I wait, not wanting to break the spell of silence.

But the waiting, as always, becomes unbearable, and I open my eyes. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him, despite how I have grown so used to being near him. I shift my hand to trace my fingertips down, dragging them across his collarbone, pressing my palm over his heart. His eyes stay fixed on my face, assessing, admiring, examining. 

He pulls his hand from my leg, and my skin tingles, aching for the warmth of it. Wordlessly, he nudges the hem of my too-big t-shirt up, to settle his hand again on my bare skin, fingers curling at my back. It’s so strangely intimate; the way he touches me without breaking eye contact, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches as he does so. I wonder if he feels guilty, for allowing himself this pleasure (and I am assuming that’s what this is- not just a thoughtless stunt of his, but something he wants to do, just as much as I do)- wonder if later, when he sits in his truck with a cigarette clamped between his teeth, he’ll let the regret wash over him, and never look me in the eyes again. Does he regret this? It’s hard to tell, with the way he watches me, heavy-lidded, his thumb tracing circles on my waist. 

I think of the way he kisses me. The first time, he was taught, every muscle alert, like an animal ready to bolt. But when I smoothed a hand over the tick in his jaw, he seemed to let go, to give in all at once. Now, when we kiss, he’s always almost greedy, brow furrowed, cursing himself and yet, and yet, and yet. I almost smile at the thought. 

I don’t think he regrets this, because he’s lying in my bed in his wifebeater and an old pair of my sweats, and the smell of his cigarettes linger on my skin and in my walls, and because of the things he whispers to himself when he thinks I’m asleep. I don’t think he regrets this, because although he never outright says I love you the way most people might, he shows it in other ways, in his strange, Rust Cohle way. 

And that’s enough for me. 

I shuffle closer, press my forehead to his, and he closes his eyes. I watch the furrow in his brow fade, his jaw clenching and unclenching still, the palm of his hand on my bare waist, his fingers rough and warm against my skin. He lets out a long breath, a release of something that I don’t understand. 

I suppose I must love him- not the way I’ve loved past boyfriends; certainly not the way I loved my fiancé, before he ran off with someone from California. But his heart beats against the palm of my hand, and I know he'll be right here in the morning.

[heartshapedbabydolls]

But I can‘t fix him

can‘t make him better

[southernsadie]

"The world needs bad men. We keep the other bad men from the door."

[covventry]

Are you scared, Detective?

Inspired by @aglassprincess 's demonologist bot :)

[godlywh0re]

Angels with Filthy Souls

Rust Cohle x Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Notes: No use of (y/n) because i hate it :)

The night is hot, and your hair clings to your face as you swipe it away. Sweat covering you in a light sheen, sticky as it holds to you like a second skin. The weak air conditioning of the small local store does nothing to help, but neither does the ecstasy you popped in the bathroom on your break. What else were you supposed to do in a town that was too small to do anything? Where luckily everybody but their mamas minded their own business. So long as your work got done, the sleazy old man who owned the place didn’t care. 

Your fingers tremble rearranging the lighter display. Your muscles itching for any sort of stimulation as the drug courses through your veins. You think your boss likes it better when you’re high on your shift, the drugs making you too hyperactive to stand in one place. The old man usually watches you in slight astonishment when you get into a cleaning spree, scrubbing down the walls and floors like your life depends on it, creating new displays for products that keeps customers happy. But tonight, he stays tucked away in his office. He muttered something about ordering a product, but it was lost on you now.

The bell that hangs beside the entrance door rings, signaling a customer had come in. You don’t notice him at first—too caught up in the rush, your heart beating too fast, skin buzzing with a warmth that has nothing to do with the heat outside. But out of curiosity and obligation, you look up. Breath almost catches in your throat as you size him up unapologetically. 

He’s tall, lean, an air of exhaustion hanging around him as he walks. His hair is pulled back low and his eyes— Jesus, they’re dark, as if he’s seen too much. He moves steady, purposefully, like he doesn’t have time for the world, but it still owes him something. He walks right up to the counter, tosses a case of beer down, Lone Star, before he settles his eyes on you. Really settled, peeling away layers you didn’t even know you had. His eyes narrow as he takes in your appearance. You know how you look, pupils blown wide, messy hair falling all over the place. But he doesn’t look at you like others do. There isn’t any judgment, no pity. He just looks.

“They let you be all doped up on the job?” His voice is rough, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, just a hint of it. The low southern drawl of his words isn’t lost on you as heat shoots through your body.

His words hang in the air. It could’ve been a jab, but the slight amusement in his eyes made it feel like a joke only the two of you were in on. You feel a grin tug at your lips, slow and lazy, your mind still swimming in a haze. “He doesn’t care as long as my job gets done,” Your tone soft and syrupy as you shrugged half heartedly. Your fingers move to trace your collarbone nonchalantly. His eyes follow, not in the way you want them to, but more like he was just curious. “Pretty young thing like me is good for business anyways.” 

He doesn’t react much, doesn't give you that look most men do when they see an easy target, just nods like he’s seen it all before. You can’t tell if that makes you want to impress him or piss him off. Instead, he looks as though he’s trying to figure you out, a puzzle he isn’t sure he wants to solve. You should’ve felt insulted, but all it did was make your heart pound faster.

"You know a place to get downers?" His voice drops low as he leans in slightly, almost like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear, though you two are the only ones on the sales floor. 

A shiver runs up your spine at his closer proximity, the smell of him coming over to you in wafts. Deep and earthy, the smell of a forest mixed with the scent of cigarette smoke that clings to him. “You a cop?” You ask low, a playfulness in your tone edging its way towards reckless. Hell, you couldn’t care less if he was. Whatever game that had been started was too captivating. 

He shakes his head, and for the first time, you see the hint of a smirk on his lips. "Nah," he murmurs, his voice low, gravelly. He says it without even trying to convince you. But you believe him anyway. 

"Stronger than alcohol? Not much round here like that. Whatcha sad for anyhow, Mister?" You tease, raising an eyebrow. There was something funny about it—him asking you for downers, like he was looking for something to drag him down even further. But the way he looks at you, you can tell he’s not in the mood to answer that question. Men like him don’t talk about what haunts them, not to girls like you. 

You don’t push. You lean in a little, closer now than before, letting your voice drop to a whisper. "I have some Nembutal, if you want that. Give me a ride home tonight." It was stupid, all your self-preservation draining away as you stare into his worn eyes.

There’s a pause, long, heavy silence where you think he might just walk away. He stares at you, weighing some kind of decision in his thoughts. But then he nods, real slow, like he’d already made up his mind.

 “Get your stuff.” His voice is detached, almost mechanical, but there was something in his eyes—something that said he knew exactly what he was walking into. 

You feel a rush of adrenaline run through you, or maybe it’s just the drugs. His hand digs in his pocket before pulling out a twenty for the beer. You take the crumpled bill from his hand, your fingers brushing his just for a second. It lingers, sending a jolt through you before sliding the bill into the register. The metallic clink of coins feels distant, like background noise compared to the thudding of your heart. Your palms are still sweaty, but you can’t tell if it’s from the ecstasy or him. Probably both.

His eyes stay on you as you punch in the numbers and drop his change into the tray. You could feel them—sharp, unrelenting—like he was waiting for something. You hand him the receipt without a word, the tension in the air hangs heavy, thick enough to choke on. You watch him tuck the case of beer under one arm, a cigarette already dangling from his lips as he turns and heads for the door. 

Jittery and buzzing with a thrill, you turn and head quickly to the door of the back office. You find your manager slouched in his chair, flipping through some old magazine like the world didn’t exist outside his little office. The smell of stale coffee filled the room, and the hum of the mini-fridge by his desk made everything feel even more claustrophobic.

"Hey," you say, leaning against the doorframe, "you mind if I head out early tonight? It’s dead out there, and I already closed up the till."

He barely glances up, his eyes heavy with the same indifference you’d come to expect. "Yeah, whatever," he grumbles, waving you off. "Just make sure you lock the back door before you go."

His words barely register. You’re already halfway out the door, pulse pounding in your ears. Each step toward the front of the store pushes you closer to something you can’t quite understand yet. 

After grabbing your stuff and locking the doors you head outside to the parking lot. His pickup truck rumbles low, waiting. He watches in his side mirror, cigarette pressed to his lips tight. Your heart races again—half nerves, half thrill—as you make your way to the passenger side. You notice the smashed tail light, but it feels distant, unimportant in the heat of the moment.

Sliding into the seat with a quiet shut of the door, the truck groans as it starts to take off. The Louisiana air is warm, heavy with the smell of dirt and pine, the windows are down just enough to let in a bit of a breeze. It’s quiet between you and him—this stranger whose name you don’t even know yet—but you feel the weight of his presence next to you and it’s sinking into your bones.

You glance over at him, sneaking looks when you think he isn’t paying attention. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his lap, cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curls lazily into the air, mixing with the dusty haze outside. He’s older, definitely older than you, with lines on his face that time put there. His eyes are sharp, though, always looking for something, even when there’s nothing to see.

Your heart is still racing from the ecstasy, even though the high’s starting to fade. The tingling in your limbs is going, but the nervous energy, the buzz of the moment, clings to you. You’ve never felt this way before—this strange pull toward someone you’ve barely exchanged two words with. It’s like you’re waiting for something to happen, something you can’t quite name.

You shift in your seat, the leather hot and sticky against your skin, and finally, you break the silence. "You don’t talk much, do you?" It’s more of an observation than a question, but you can’t help yourself. You’re trying to figure him out, this man who walked into the store and made you feel like you were floating.

He doesn’t look at you, just takes a drag from his cigarette. "Not much to say." His voice is low, harsh, like he’s been chewing on the words before spitting them out.

You smirk, trying to play it cool, but the way his voice rumbles makes you shiver. "Could’ve fooled me. Seems like you got a lot goin' on up there."

That gets him to glance your way, just for a second. His eyes flick over you, sharp and assessing, trying to decide whether you’re worth his time. "What makes you say that?"

You shrug, turning your head to look out the window. The trees blur by, dark and thick, like they’re swallowing the road whole. "People don’t ask for downers ‘less they got something to quiet down," you murmur, your fingers tracing idle circles on your thigh, still feeling that lingering edge of the high.

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even going to. The silence stretches between you like a rubber band about to snap. Finally, he lets out a slow breath, and you can feel his eyes on you again. "What about you? What are you trying to quiet?"

You turn toward him, a little surprised he even bothered to ask. Most people don’t. Most people are happy to let you burn yourself out without asking why, so long as you showed up to church Sunday mornings. But there’s something in his tone that makes you think he already knows you’re not going to answer, that maybe he’s not even expecting you to.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. “Same as anyone else, I guess,” you say, deflecting, eyes flicking back to the road. “Ain’t none of it worth talkin’ about.”

He hums, like he understands, like he’s been there before. “Fair enough,” he mutters, eyes back on the road.

“Names Rust.” He grumbles out, but the way he says it, could have made you think he was talking to himself. The silence that follows isn’t as tense, but it’s still there, lingering between you. The only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional crack of gravel under the tires. His presence next to you feels almost suffocating, but at the same time, it keeps you anchored, like you need him there even if you don’t know why.

As you near the turn to your place, you nod ahead. “Just down that dirt road,” you say, pointing. He flicks the turn signal, even though there’s no one else around to see it. The truck bumps along the narrow path, branches scraping the sides, making the whole thing feel like you’re descending into another world, away from everything and everyone.

When the small house you call home comes into view, you suddenly feel exposed. This is it. This is your life—a rundown little place surrounded by trees, no one else for miles. And here he is, this stranger with too many shadows behind his eyes, pulling into it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

He kills the engine, and for a moment, you both just sit there in the growing dark. The air feels thick, like there’s something unsaid hanging between you, waiting to be acknowledged

“You wanna come in?” you ask, your voice softer now, unsure.

He exhales, tapping out his cigarette before glancing at you. His eyes hold yours for a long moment, searching. “Not tonight.” There’s something final in the way he says it, but it’s not cold. Just… resolute.

You nod, pretending like that doesn’t sting a little. “Suit yourself. I’ll go get those for you.” You push the door open and hop out, the cool night air hitting you like a wall after the stuffy heat of the truck. You don’t look back as you walk up to your door, but you can feel his eyes on you the whole way.

With a quick unlock of your door, you hurry off to your bathroom. It’s small, the sink not large enough to hold all the leftover medications you have. The bottles rattle as you rummage, the Nembutal is half empty as you pick it up. You think about giving him the whole bottle but you decide against it. The slight chance of him seeing you again, even if it’s just for pills, is enough to make you hold off. 

You step back outside, the Nembutal rattling lightly in your hand as you walk toward the truck. The night air feels cooler now, the weight of it settling on your skin, but it doesn’t do much to calm the nervous energy swirling inside you. The ecstasy almost completely worn off, leaving you with that familiar edge of anxiety, the dull ache of reality creeping back in.

He’s still sitting there, his truck idling low, the faint glow of another cigarette lighting up his face. You hesitate for a moment, just long enough to wonder what the hell you’re doing, before handing him the pills through the open window.

“Here,” you say quietly, your voice a little steadier than you feel. “That should do it.”

He takes them without a word, his fingers brushing yours just briefly, but it’s enough to send another jolt through you. You pull back, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you try to play it cool.

“Thanks,” he mutters, slipping the small bag into the pocket of his jacket. His eyes meet yours again, and for a second, it feels like he’s about to say something more, like there’s a moment hanging there, fragile and uncertain.

But he doesn’t. He just nods once, almost like a silent goodbye, and shifts the truck into gear. You stand there for a while, watching the dark swallow him up, the buzzing from the ecstasy completely gone now, leaving you with just the weight of everything. You’re not sure if you’ll see him again, but something about the way he looked at you tonight makes you think you will.

[inknopewetrust]

Are you still writing a rust fiction can you give us a spoiler

bestie anon, am i? AM I? yes of course it just takes me 8,000 years to publish anything. but i'll give a little sneaky peak of the opening "frames" of the fic. it's called 'a house in nebraska' after the ethel cain masterpiece.

In the reward of death, you often wondered if those women had ever found peace. Were their horrors laid to bed or their sadness lifted from their shoulders heavy with burden?

Fixed vacant on the ceiling in the darkness of your bedroom in a house littered with holes and creaky staircases, you saw them when you closed your eyes.

Mistakes of unremarkable grief and insurmountable spite, the faces of memories that had become ghosts sprung to life with a rejuvenated mission to find answers.

Carcosa called home in the eclipse.

And away in another world, a camera blinked red to hear a tale come alive.

The smoke from the cigarette twisted in the air; trailing along the chemtrails of the small, musty room with wooden panels and leaky wallpaper.

Blink, blink, blink.

“We talk plenty ‘bout Marty, but you two ain’t the only ones that worked this case,” Detective Maynard Gilbough pulled a newspaper clipping from a file that had been scattered about before them. “Tell us ‘bout her. She ain't live in these parts anymore and the folks up in Gering give us an inch for every mile we take... So y’all will be fillin’ in those gaps for us.”

The detective tossed the yellowing paper across the table.

It was faded along the edges. A worn, bleeding ink recalled the stories of old that replayed on the film reel within his mind whenever he let his thoughts wander just far enough. The picture was in black and white—a fragmented, distant past that lied with a stoutness that lingered in the fruitless victory in Vermilion Parish near twenty years prior.

The cigarette was bitingly bitter against his tongue. Its fumes littered his sights of you.

And for the first time since he sat down for the interview, Rust Cohle pondered his words before they tumbled out. He had been so calculated with the two detectives before him yet the flowery, sermon-esq verbiage that leaked like sieve from his mouth could not grasp the weight of the missing. Rust simply took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped its end along the side of the coffee mug.

And he paused.

The detectives had found a crack in the pavement.

[sequoiathinker]

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 🤪

[issdisgrace]

“Says here you’ve been married twice.” The detective said. 

“Yeah, the first time was to a woman named Claire. Had a daughter with her, but she died. Marriage fell apart shortly after her death, blamed each other for what happened, wished each other dead, you know. After that I went into Narco that where I was paired with Y/n. Guess they thought putting the two fucked up guys together was a good idea. It was at times, but we butted heads more often than not. But you know shit happens, you fall in love, all that shit. After our 4 years undercover, they pulled us out. Took a couple of shots each but one of the dumb fucks shot Y/n in the leg. It left him with a limp. Never fully recovered, decided after that to give up the badge and take up his other dream of being a writer. At that point, we were friends with benefits. Didn’t put a label on what we had a couple of years ago. Anyway, I called in my favor and got my job here in homicide. I asked him to move with me, telling him I would need someone to come bail me out if shit hit the fan. He agreed, and we moved here. While I worked, he started writing. Wrote some romance, mystery, horror, fantasy. He did good, still is doing good. A lot of people like his stuff. He’s working on another book right now. It’s another horror book. It’s pretty good. It’s about a sheriff slowly uncovering that the mayor and a small group of the upper class have been feeding people to an ancient eldritch god. He got a real talent, truly. Anyway, we got married in Massachusetts a last year. It was a little ceremony with Y/n’s parents and his brother. It was nice, spent a couple days in Salem for our honeymoon.”

“None of your family showed up?” The detective asks 

“Ain't got one aside for Y/n. Maybe got a mother out there I don’t know. She left a long time ago. Don’t have any memories of her. But I’m fine with that.”

[qesii]

this might sounds like a weird question, but I've always loved the way you title your works and got curious, what is the usual thought process for them? I write on ao3 and so far springsteen and hozier lyrics do wonders but I'm also working on some novel-length original fiction and I really don't want to use other people's work for that. Sorry if I'm bothering you, cheers!

not a bother at all! I love this question!

Recognizable lyrics have such a Vibe, i’m very drawn to them but I do appreciate the work that goes into a choosing a title.

Maybe some of y’all have noticed this but I am a very lazy writer who loves circular plots. I will craft symbols in objects or animals or setting etc and not stray from them and it helps me stay focused in the story, but that is where I can build a title while researching, build off what I find. I guess if I was trying to give advice, I’d say strip your story down, look at the meaning your characters apply to things, play. I really only feel ready to commit/finish something if I like the title— I just found the name for my novel right on the home stretch. I usually don’t care all that much for pwps, they fuck, they come, yeehaw.

Dog Days of a Blind Cottonmouth (part two)— came from a Southern phrase of warning, ‘All snakes are blind in the dog days of summer’ which means during the height of summer snakes are shedding their skin, temporarily blind, and much more aggressive until their sight returns. I wanted a hazy effect (idyllic road trip) with a lurking sense of danger without differentiating if the cottonmouth is Lucy or John. Each section also has it’s own title, my favorite is Bluebeard’s Eight Wife (1938), its the movie that originated the phrase ‘meet cute’ which I thought oh that’s so fucked up and added it immediately. Ignorance is Gliss is the noise that a harp makes when you strum your fingers across all the strings, the way someone might go across the keys of a piano, I learned that in a youtube video called what hollywood gets wrong about harps or something. I also made up signs that you might see on the side of a highway you’re not really sure why you’re on + commons sayings/household objects. Finding the right order was fun.

First Hard Frost— my husband actually suggested this title, I wanted something baked into the earth, a reoccuring disaster like flash floods or tornadoes, this is subtler and tests the hardiness of plants, especially hot house flowers like Eve.

Lost Dogs— well no brainer, I stole that line right from the show, but That Dog Will Hunt was originally Bird Dog for a bit until I was watching the last season of Letterkenny and was reminded of the phrase ‘that dog WILL hunt’ (I love katy kat). Sleep Like A Dog was originally Out of Time Man (a song by Mick Harvey), at this point their lowkey long term and panicking like oh my god i’m wasting your time what are you doing here you deserve more than this— before I stuck to dog idioms. I was trying to think about how they might comfort each other though that discomfort of commitment, it means ‘to sleep soundly’ which our boy Rust was not doing before Sugar. Hound Dog Mile is my favorite :)

Pica Hudsonia— scientific name of magpies (I’ve also been informed pica means cock in Portuguese so I will never change it now). I wrote that while on an island in Alaska with no service/reception, so I didn’t have my typical research phase. I snagged it out of a book in the mess hall. I like how Latin rolls in the mouth, one summer I was bored at my grandpa’s in Alaska and tried to learn (I ended up filling a notebook about constellations instead). Plus I like how genus, species holds a type of possession but also semi-detached feeling to it, I feel Rust holds himself back to observe rather than feel an experience, a protective buffer against attachment or some shit, like get over urself boy you’re full of love!

Cowboy Up— pinterest gave me a freebie (Shut Up, Sugar is a song by the Buttertones! Butter, meet Hot Knife was a play on the lyrics of ‘Hot Knife’ by Fiona Apple!)

Riders in the Sky— song by Peggy Lee with spooky, atmospheric lyrics. I linked a post explaining the phrase High Speed, Low Drag on the back of Crash’s riding jacket which got me into writing Crash era in the first place. 10-73 is Houston Police code for ‘are you okay?’ which is basically what Rust and Sig are constantly asking each other, checking in, looking out for one another etc etc. Come Hell or High Water means ‘something will definitely happen or be done even though other events or situations might make it difficult’ like c’mon I couldn’t pass that up, it was enviable, they have no choice and still choose one another.

You Might Feel A Pinch— (I’m not committing to a Sugt’stun word of pinch yet because I fucked up by using the more recorded Kodiak dialect instead of my Chugach dialect) I know I haven’t really worked on this yet, but I’ve already mulled it over, it was set since I read about an Inupiaq healer named Puyuk— ‘pinch’ and called ‘Little Pinch’, who treated anyone in need, a well known midwife and could cure cataracts. She extensively recorded her culture, stories, and collected Inupiaq artifacts, ‘she tried to record what would soon be lost forever.’ jokes on this late 80’s book, today there are 3,000 fluent speakers who average 40 years old and many more continuing Little Pinch’s work :)

I like when my titles have more than one meaning, so back to the fic— this is what you hear from a nurse when you get inoculated, because I must inject Rust with emotions as he unknowingly works through the worlds of the Sugpiaq universe (five sea worlds, five sky worlds), but it’s also a play on the animal transfiguration at work alongside Rust’s shapeshifting as he’s guided/influenced by different animals (who all carry the same scent).

I’ve decided a long time ago he’s a big cat, mountain lion, and a grumpy park ranger or some equivalent, if I haven’t mentioned that yet. the one scene I have clear in my mind is Rust visiting his childhood home/Travis’ cabin, and more or less completely dissociates (I’m going to tie Sofia into this and weep like a lil baby) until a “bird” creeps close enough to pull at his tail, bit like pinching yourself to make sure you’re awake.

A Good and Holy Father— rigid and formulaic, John’s purpose, then each piece followed M. Flanagan’s ‘books’ he used to title episodes with biblical phrases used in the show; Be Not Afraid, Bless Me Father (for I am going to sin), His Hunger Endures Forever (actually the phase is ‘His Love Endures Forever’ but creative license). They’re all fashioned into the format of St. Augustine’s Confessions, so I have quotes from that or the Bible at the beginning of each chapter, too.

Finders, Keepers— Elijah meets his new ward, Willa, after she steals his wife’s locket. I’d say they’re well matched and equally possessive of one another. The original title was Fancy Filly of a Widower and I thought geez that’s a lot of work for a bad joke lmao

SINHOUND— :) just old American slang for priest because playing into Monsignor John Pruitt’s old ass age is a must. Bible verses separate each section that get more and more unsettlingly bc I had so much leftover notes from A Good and Holy Father.

[fallenprophets]

midnight, lose my mind

rust cohle x reader

» can be read as a prequel or sequel to televangelism but doesn't have to be

» summary: although you and rust have been "together" for a while now, you've never kissed- and you're perfectly fine with this fact. only now, he seems to want to try.

» warnings: mentions of sex but that's it

» a/n: soooo self indulgent. literally don't know what came over me when i wrote this. listened to lorde and sydney ross mitchell on LOOP. yk. like a normal person

»»»»

I’m not sure how or when our relationship evolved into what it is now. It feels like only yesterday that the most intimate contact with him that I had was the moment our eyes met for a split second across the room; I was lucky if he held my gaze long enough to blink that slow blink of his. And yet here he is, all pretty and domestic, almost, sitting on my bed, shirt buttons undone, hair messy. He’s watching me where I sit on the windowsill, occasionally taking those deep drags of his from a cigarette before passing it to me. I can’t really remember when he first came over; first stayed the night. It just happened, so natural. I just know that now he’s almost always here; and when he’s not, I’m usually at his, borrowing his shirts, smoking his cigarettes. 

He hasn’t kissed me yet, though. That’s something that I think I would remember; I’ve looked at his mouth so much, ached for it. I don’t push it, though. Like him- maybe love him- too much to lose him over something so trivial. He’s done other things for me- after a few weeks, I noticed that I never ran out of cigarettes. When he came over, the dishes crowding my sink would miraculously disappear; dust stopped settling on the piles of books scattered around the living room. I found the other day that the empty first-aid kit I still keep in my bathroom had been filled. He’s even stopped smoking his usual brand of cigarettes, replaced them with the ones I said I liked. 

I don’t say anything; I don’t know if he wants me to notice, if he wants me to point it out, to thank him. For now, I enjoy it. If I’m honest with myself, I still worry that it could end at any minute; that he’ll leave before I wake up, and I’ll only see him at work, when we exchange files. 

It’s hard to believe that, though; because when I come into work, at exactly the same time every day, I find my favourite mug on my desk, filled with coffee- coffee the way I like it, with no sugar but just a little cocoa powder that I buy myself (although that has also magically stopped emptying). It’s real nice, actually. To have someone care for me in that way- to know that when I say something, like how I like my coffee or what my favourite brand of cigarettes is, he’ll file it away into a corner of his brain. 

He told me about his wife, too, the other day. I hadn’t asked; we’d been sitting in his truck, his hand on my thigh, and he’d just mentioned it, told me about his baby girl. 

I’ve never been a particularly optimistic person, but something in me knows that he won’t leave.

I shift, readjust the collar of my top. He’s still watching me in that strange way of his; like he’s trying to read my mind, to learn everything about me through the way I breathe. Not for the first time, I find myself wishing that I could reach through those murky eyes and into his mind, take out his thoughts and wrap myself in them. 

He extends an arm, and I pluck the cigarette- the packet, my favourite brand, sits next to him on the bed- from between his fingers, taking a long drag. My stomach feels strange at the feeling; it’s the closest I’ve come so far to kissing him. 

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” I ask, handing his cigarette back. A routine question, at this point in our relationship. He usually answers with something vague, sometimes that would make Marty flip, and I listen, silent, fascinated. Sometimes, I don’t even register what he’s saying; too busy watching the way his mouth moves, his throat, the slope of his shoulders; dissecting him in my mind. 

“You,” he answers after a brief pause. His gaze has fastened itself to my collarbone. 

My heart hops and skitters like a rabbit. As a teenager, I was convinced the whole butterflies-in-your-belly thing was bullshit, but I think I understand it now. 

I swallow and tilt my head at him, try to read the lines of his face in the soft light. I don’t ask him to elaborate; I like the idea of him thinking about me, of what he’s thinking exactly being his secret. Like a little piece of me, always with him. 

It’s early spring; everything is greener outside, the sun a softer shade of gold. A light breeze blows in through the open windows, stirring the curtains, his hair. I tuck my knee up, rest my chin on him as I keep staring. I’m not hiding it anymore; not the way I used to. Back when we hardly knew each other, when all we had was brief flashes of charged eye contact across the precinct and a whole lotta wantin’, Now, he’s sitting on my bed, and he’s staring at me, so I may as well return the favour. 

I don’t know how long we sit there, just looking. We’ve done it before; often, in fact, we sit in silence, taking each other in. It makes me feel the way I used to feel when I kissed someone, only much heavier, bone-deep. I joked, once, as he drove me home- windows open, cigarette between his teeth, one hand resting on my thigh- that it was our way of having sex. He’d exhaled, almost a laugh. 

Now, he puts the cigarette out in the ashtray sitting on my bed and stands. I move to do the same, swinging my legs down from the windowsill, reaching for the handle to shut the windows. Already, I assume he’s going to leave, go back to his place to beat himself up, maybe. But instead, he motions for me to stop. I do; pull my knees back up to my chest again, push the window open further. 

He sits, and automatically I stretch my legs out, rest one across his lap, the other around his waist. Automatically, he puts a hand on my thigh, rubs it with his thumb. He shifts, and his eyes meet mine, dark and murky yet so, so clear; windows into his soul, I think. 

I open my mouth to say his name, but he shakes his head. He reaches out, his hand cupping my face. His fingers find my pulse, like a reflex. He does it when we’re alone; when we’re sitting in his truck, sometimes, he’ll reach out to press his hand to my neck, feel my pulse. 

His other hand leaves my leg and goes to my throat, resting at the nape of my neck. His skin is warm, and he smells like cigarettes and my sheets. I have a lingering suspicion that the shirt he’s wearing is mine. My downstairs neighbour turns on the radio; a song starts playing, too quiet to hear the words. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. 

I stay completely silent, try to control my breathing as he manoeuvres us closer to each other, until our foreheads touch. I’m painfully aware of every inch of my body that’s in contact with his; of the fact that he can feel how fast my heart is beating under his calloused fingers, that his breathing is really just as shallow as mine. His presence is warm, comforting. I give in to him immediately, even nudge closer so that our noses bump. I want to close my eyes, so I do; I wonder if he feels my eyelashes against his cheekbone, if it makes him feel a certain way. I think he closes his eyes too, at some point. 

After a few moments of this, I lift my hands from where they are in my lap. Half-open my eyes to find the collar of his shirt. I reach up, trace his chest through the few open buttons. Then I begin to undo them, tug the shirt (my shirt, I’m sure of it now- there’s a pale stain on the cuff from when I broke my nose a few years ago, where a bit of blood dripped) off his shoulders. He lets go of my face just for a moment to take it off fully, never really opening his eyes. I let my fingers trace his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. Feel the way they rise and fall almost imperceptibly as he breathes, the way his heart beats as I press my hand flat against his chest. 

We’ve never slept together. I don’t mind it, and neither does he, I think- we have other ways of being intimate. It’s the first time he’s ever done something like this, though. Initiated this kind of physical contact.

It’s better than any kiss I’ve ever had; from anyone. It’s personal, it’s intimate, it’s for us only. 

Finally, after what feels like hours of just breathing each other in (at some point, his thumb has started to trace circles on my cheekbone; I shudder when it does, and his breath catches almost unnoticeably for a moment) he shifts, his forehead leaving mine. I’m taken aback by the way it makes me feel; the ache deep in my chest, the way my throat tightens. 

His gaze drops, for the first time ever, to my mouth. 

Somehow, I know that he’s going to kiss me, now. 

I open my mouth, to tell him that he doesn’t have to, that I don’t need him to; but the words die on my tongue as he breaks the small gap between us, pressing his mouth to mine. 

I’m not sure exactly why, but I’d always thought he would kiss harshly, hungrily, maybe a little desperate. I’d pictured him bruising my lips, tugging at my clothes. But no- the way he kisses me is unlike anything I’d pictured. It’s soft, slow, and yes, maybe a little hungry- but not the way I had predicted. He kisses the same way he talks- slow, soft- and it makes me a little breathless. 

I press my hands to the flat of his back, pulling him closer. He pulls away for a moment, just long enough to say my name almost reverently, his thumb dragging across my cheekbone before pulling his away to trace the lines of my mouth. I smile, take his hand in mine to kiss his fingertips. He cups my face again, and I lean into the palm of his hand, suddenly hungry for his warmth, for his touch. He kisses the corner of my mouth, then moves down; slow, methodical, featherlight touches of his lips across my jaw, down my throat. He stops at the center of my collarbone, kisses it. I press my nose into his hair, breathe him in, smile despite myself. 

He comes back up, kisses me on the mouth again. Then he pulls away for good, untangles himself from my legs, stands, takes a few steps away. I stay where I am, wrapping my arms around myself. The absence of his touch, so sudden, is almost painful in a pathetic way. I watch him; I can tell he’s sifting through a thousand different thoughts. My mouth, my neck, my collarbone; all still tingle from the warm, almost feverish touch of his lips. 

He sits down on the bed again, runs a hand through his hair. Finally, I stand too, walk over, sit next to him. I shift to rest my head on his shoulder; his arm finds its place around my waist. I feel him rest his cheek on my head, take a deep breath. 

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” I ask again, still breathless. 

“You.” The answer comes quickly; he doesn’t hesitate this time. And he shifts, his eyes meeting mine. He holds my gaze. 

“You stayin’ the night?” I don't feel stupid saying it, like I did the first time I asked to stay over at his. I feel comfortable, because I already know what his answer is.

“Yes.” Again, he says it quickly, like he was hoping I’d ask. I reach over to thread my fingers through his. His skin is warm. I wonder if he can feel my pulse where our hands touch. 

[yearningforsolitude]

[heartshapedbabydolls]

Let me show you how bad girls do 💌

[covventry]

Loving Rustin Cohle

[godlywh0re]

On the day I was born, God was sick, gravely..

[r11nareborn]

rust in a white shirt is so professor coded