#rust cohle x ofc

[sadandhornywhore]

Library

The lines of the article in front of her kept blurring, and she was finding it increasingly harder to stop her attention from drifting someplace else. Even though the bar was scarce, there was still a low buzz surrounding her from the few people who did find themselves in this place, seemingly forgotten by everyone and anyone. She knew she didn‘t belong in a place like this; she probably stood out like a sore thumb. She couldn‘t find it in her to care; the libraries were all full, and more importantly, full of people she may know, people that would surely take her prisoner of their small talk about how it‘s going and what is new. Even a place too shitty to be called a dive bar was a better choice than that. And the girl thought the place had its own charm anyway; it may have been dark, old, lonely, and not too clean, but she found it kept her interested. Even though the thing that should have held her focus was on the table in front of her, forgotten. She tried to entertain the thought of trying to read it again, but after only a few words, her eyes were moving towards the bar, or the barkeep; she wasn‘t sure. She didn‘t blame herself for it, couldn‘t, really. Watching water boil would have stolen her attention from her work, and the man behind the bar was far more captivating than that. She was trying to be subtle about her observation, only taking peeks at him when she thought he couldn‘t notice. She thought it would be the most embarrassing thing if he caught her, some little girl, coming into kind of a hole-in-the-wall bar to supposedly study, even though the dim lights made it hard to even make out the words in front of her, and gawking and drooling about the barkeep, who must have had at least twenty years on her instead. But she couldn‘t help herself. She didn‘t know if it was him or if she would have given her attention to any man there at that time (she liked to think she wasn‘t that desperate, and the man‘s enigmatic energy was what drew her in). She debated if she should just leave, go to her car waiting for her in the vacant parking lot out front, get home, and ponder about the man in her shower tonight. She suspected she might do more than just ponder. Subconsciously, the young woman started fixing her hair and dress, and before she knew it, she was standing up and approaching the bar. When his attention turned her way, she realized she didn‘t plan this far ahead and was struggling to come up with something, anything, to say. She kept her eyes on his fingers, pinching a cigarette that was about to burn out, but she still felt his gaze on her face and, simultaneously, felt her cheeks burning up. God, she must have looked like a complete moron. She felt like the bar was turning red, her cheeks overshining whatever lighting there was in the first place. She should have just said she wanted a drink, a whiskey, whatever, but his stare had her throat closing up, and god, she didn‘t expect to react to him in THIS embarrassing of a way. She could see him putting his cigarette out and inching closer. Finally, she was able to lift her gaze up and meet his, and felt the wind being knocked out of her lungs again as she was met by the stare of his blue eyes, so distant but so inviting all at once. She was about to open her mouth, at last, muster whatever it was she was capable of coming up with, and bolt through the door as soon after that as was humanly possible. And then she heard his voice, low, slow, and deep: „It never occurred to me that this place resembles a library to some.“

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: Took me slightly longer than I'd have liked but there's been some pretty intense weather where I am. We are finally starting getting to get to the meat of it with these two.

'93/4 Rust Cohle x OFC

Warnings: sex work, violence, drugs, slight smut, weird semi-roleplaying at the end

The girl performing the strip tease hsd a deep blue bruise on her thigh. She's skinny. Too skinny. Not just because her hip bones threaten to permeate the pale, embryonic stretch of her skin, but because of that look in her eyes. Crazed. Starving. Attempting to seduce the men sat round the stage with practiced sultry glances, promising a good time if they just let her sit on their lap, awkwardly grind onto their hard-ons and then let them slip a couple bills in her padded out bra. Rust isn't even sure he can decipher what that look is after. Attention? he muses, Affection? No, upon further inspection of her, he pushes aside his psychoanalysis and reaches a far more pragmatic, desolating conclusion: food. Poor kid is hungry.

He's slumped in a booth, beer in one hand and rolled up dollar bill in another, the club's music and raucous laughter of his fellow Crusaders throbbing in his head. Ginger turns to him,

'What's that about then, Crash?' a leering smile adorning his tobacco stained teeth. Rust meets his gaze, a glaze a drug induced lethargy over his bloodshot eyes,

'What's what about?' he drawls, taking a pull on his beer. Tastes like warm piss, he thinks.

'Cassandra, right? One that looks like a fuckin' playboy model with those tits and that smile. You got her livin' with you, you lucky son of a bitch. Fuck, I'd give a solid month's cut to take some out on that bitch. She good for you?'

Rust thinks he can taste the bile in his mouth; acrid, slippery stuff coating his tongue as he speaks,

'Hell yeah she's fuckin' good for me. You think I'd let stay with me if she couldn't shut the fuck up and take it when I need her to?'

And he hates himself. God, he fucking hates himself. He wishes that hate could come from the vileness of the words he just spoke but it doesn't. He hates that the idea almost tempts him, seduces him with the promise of Cassandra breathy and sweating, her dark hairs sticking to that delicate neck, slick with sweat. It was like that the other night, when she had taken it upon herself to pay him another way after he had refused her money or 'rent payment.' Smart girl, Cassandra. She knows the price of things. It's never just an offered cigarette, a lent cup of sugar, a benevolent hand. No, not in this theatre of cruelty where the stakes seem to only get fucking higher which each passing year: there's always someone cooking it cheaper and better, a girl willing to do more for less. Self respect erodes fast here, replaced with a voracious need to survive. Cassandra knows that.

It was this way that she'd ended up on his lap, clambering onto him as he'd sat outside the trailer for a smoke. She'd rubbed herself onto him, like she'd done the first time in the club, only now he was far more at the mercy of the sentiments starting to take root in his chest. He'd almost managed to push her off, almost, but when the stiff metal of his jeans' fly rubbed against the lace of her underwear and the friction elicited that breathy moan of hers right in his ear, he would've rather taken a mean left hook than push her off. Come on, baby, she'd exhaled, trying the dulcet stripper routine, before her growing arousal forced her into the more desperate negotiation of Please, Crash. I promise I'll be good for you. Real good. Whatever you want, she'd whimpered, the buck of her hips growing more incessant, beginning to make wet spot on his jeans. He had looked up at her as she'd writhed against,

Not here, Cass, he'd managed to grit out, It ain't the time or the place.

Crash! she'd almost sobbed as he'd finally mustered the self-discipline to gently push her off him. She had crumpled onto the grass, slumped onto a leg of the lawn chair he had been sat on. Out of all of the times he had seen her looking fucked up: a nosebleed smeared halfway across her face from a client punching her in the nose, the gaunt, vacant look she'd worn for the week when her daddy finally mustered the courage to put a gun in his mouth, the humiliation and shame in her eyes when another Crusader was getting a dance and he'd be sat across the table. None of them had made him as furious as as he had felt when he looked down at her like that. Where the fuck that fury came from, he didn't know. Somewhere in the realm of pity.

Get the fuck up, Cassandra. Now. He had all but snarled at her. She had looked up at him and got up; the acquiescence of a woman who knows when a man could and might hurt her. She hadn't observed it for much longer, though.

What the fuck is your problem, Crash? I fucking see how you look at me. Shit, I can see your hard right now. You always looked at me at the club, would only ever accept dances from me, talk to me during them about shit other than how good I feel or smell or whatever-the-fuck. You lent me your fucking books! You asked me what I think your first tattoo should be! You let me live with you when my rent gets raised and I had nowhere to fucking go! But sex is too much, too much of an affront, she had seethed at him

I ain't doing this, you hear? I'm tryin' to protect you from the fuckin' corruption of this place and all you can think to do is be pissed off that I won't fuck you? Grow the fuck up

Well so help me for thinking that. Don't people who are- And Cassandra had caught herself, thank god she had caught herself. Poor baby, time old mistake of confusing sex with a man's love. Cassandra should know better, she does know better.

Who are what, huh? Rust asks, the unfinished question a cruel, callous tactic; he's baiting her, waiting for her to expose that soft underbelly like those Dolly Vardens he and his dad used to fish, slitting them open, a mess entrails and blood slopping out. She'd stared at him,

Don't be cruel

He'd narrowed his eyes at her, before getting up and throwing his cigarette but aside,

Look around you, Cass. You can't afford to be at the mercy of how I treat you

That's how they had left it with her slamming the trailer door and him going to get hammered with some of the other Crusaders. A vicious cycle, he knows, Palingenesis: circular continuity. How Cassandra had defined it one night, trying to aneasthetize his lurid habits with some polished, philosophical definition. He can't be too pissed, she learnt it from him. At first, defining it philosophically makes his suffering feel warranted, needed. He realises now that there is no need for suffering, it's a default setting to the fucking horror of existence. He can just stomach recognising it.

Ginger's now calling Cassandra over and she stalks over, all bone and sinew wearing a matching white lace bra and panties. The same ones she'd been washing in the sink with some random shower gel she'd found in the shower. Fuck, his shower gel.

'Well come on over, baby,' Ginger leers, 'Our Crash treatin' you good?'

Cassandra scans over the semicircle of Iron Crusaders for a mere second, before sitting snugly in Rust's lap. Sharp as a tack, his Cassandra, only way to keep a hunk of meat safe from the dogs is to give it to a bigger, meaner dog. She shuffles herself up his lap to his chest, demurely crossing her legs.

'Oh yeah. Real good,' she looks at Rust over her shoulder. She knows what they want: a good, little girl in her matching lace set at the mercy of their drugs or their prying, calloused hands or the 9mms tucked into the waistband of frayed denim. A little lamb who'll ask them where she's supposed to touch and if it's supposed to hurt like that. Rust knows it too.

'Damn right I do,' Rust agrees, landing a heavy slap on the side of her thigh which makes her jump slightly. The Crusaders errupt at this in either laughter, whistles or comments,

'Seems you ain't trained her that good if she's still that jumpy.'

'Slight little thing, ain't she.'

'Relax, sweetheart. Ain't no-one here gonna hurt you for no good reason.'

Rust wishes he could spare her this; rub the whiskey over her gums and numb it. But he can't, he knows any slip up will end up fatal for him and worse for her.

'You just ain't used to a how a real man treats his woman, yet. Ain't that right, baby?' he drawls, brushing some hair from her face with a cigarette pinched between his fingers.

'I am learning, though. You said I was, last night,' Cassandra replies, playing up the petulant pout.

'That was in a different context, baby,' he says mockingly, giving her a patronising pat on her thigh as the Crusaders whoop. 'She's a good listener, boys. Real good,' Rust says to their spectators. As vulnerable as she might be, Cassandra knows exactly how to work her crowd: male desire for sex and power mixed with a pretty girl's submission. Match, gasoline: boom.

Ginger leans across the table, 'So you do everything ou Crash, says huh?'

'Oh yeah,' she replies, 'Even when it hurts.'

Rust feels nauseous with lust.

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

'93 Rust Cohle x OFC

Warnings: drug and alcohol use, violence, age gap, sex work, smut (it's coming)