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godlywh0re · 6 months ago

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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.

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