Rust Cohle - Tumblr Posts - Page 2

If requests are still open anything rust cohle pls!!

finally free from the shackles of online college courses… failed my polisci class but its okay bc x readers exist LOL!!! i’m so so so obsessed with beat-up old dog rust and lounging around an apartment with him and smoking a cigarette and being ethel cain core lol!!! this is all heavily inspired by ethel cain’s look in crush lol also i imagined rust’s apartment to look pretty close to his '95 one

౨ৎ daily click to help palestine 🍉

You originally found Rust in Alaska. You were waitressing at a shitty diner, and he caught your eye after he ordered a beer at 10 in the morning. He came back that night, and you found yourself in the backseat of his car, moaning his name you had only learned an hour before. 

Rust.  

After that, you couldn’t help but form a relationship. He had expected quick fun, but he didn’t mind that he couldn’t shake you loose. That’s how you ended up going with him back to Louisiana, ditching your thick socks for tiny shorts to lounge around Rust’s apartment in. 

It was small, rustic, and hotter than hell. Rust was prone on having little to no decoration or furniture, but you had added your own personal touch here and there. You didn’t need silver and gold, but a shared space that reflected you and Rust added a sense of domesticity you had searched for for years. 

You had the window open, a cigarette between your lips as you took languid, slow drags. In a pair of tiny, denim shorts and a bikini top, you rested your forearms against the windowsill, watching the dry and bright horizon as you waited for Rust to come home. He had a bad habit of sleeping in his storage unit, and you often wondered just what was in there, but you knew better than to bug him too much. 

You were putting out your cigarette in the ashtray when you heard the familiar jingle of keys in the doorway. The door opened, and you heard Rust before you saw him. A quiet groan, the heavy shuffle of boots, the door closing with a notable slam behind him. You turned, smiling with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth as you approached Rust. 

“Hey, you old dog.” You smiled, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. He lazily grabs your waist, his large hands kneading your soft, exposed skin. 

“Where’s the rest of your clothes, baby?” He asks with his gruff, drawled voice, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He was tired, his body aching from sleeping in a twin-sized cot in a cement room, his head throbbing with the endless papers and images of the case that haunted him every day. 

You smiled, a faux innocent shrug pulling up one of your shoulders. “S’not like Alaska here. It’s too hot for too many clothes.” 

He huffed at your response, giving a playful pinch to your waist with a half-done grin. “I’m gonna shower,” He grunted, a small sigh slipping past his lips, “then how about we go for some drinks?” 

You knew what that meant. He had work, and he was inviting you to sit in that dark dive with him as faceless customers shifted in and out. You didn’t mind, it was nice quality time to talk his ear off and learn little cryptic things about him as he responded. It was just as nice to watch him roll up his sleeves and groan as he cracked his neck and watch as the occasional liquid dripped from his lips as he drank, slowly rolling down his neck. You nodded, placing a kiss on his lips, feeling the familiar tickle of his mustache against your upper lip. 

As he showered, the bedroom filled with the constant rush of the running water and the croon of a singer playing from your radio. The cross that represented the death of sins hung above your shared bed, watching as you replaced your bikini top for a blouse. You had brushed through your hair and lit a cigarette as Rust came out from the bathroom, a towel hanging low from his lips. 

You watched with a coquettish gaze as he put on his briefs and a pair of blue jeans, an angelic haze effecting your vision of him as your cigarette burned between your lips. He groaned as he sat on the edge of the bed, craning his head from side to side in an attempt to soothe the tension that formed. With a smile, you grabbed your hairbrush and a loose hairtie, moving to sit behind him on your bed. You placed down the brush, grabbing his towel to begin drying his hair. 

You were a bit careless with it, rubbing the towel against his head in an attempt to dry his brown hair that turned shades darker with its wetness. He chuckled, grabbing the towel from your hands and swatting your side with it. 

“Gonna yank me baldheaded if you keep that up, baby.” He chuckled, watching as you squeaked with the wet fabric smacking against your skin. He tossed it on the bed, and you replaced it with your hairbrush. You removed the cigarette from your lips, leaning down to place it between Rust’s, which he accepted with no complaints. With a noticeable gentleness, you began to brush through his hair, smoothing any forming knots and scratching against his scalp in a relieving way. He couldn’t help but let his eyes flutter shut, a small groan slipping past his lips. You tied his hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck and tucked loose strands of hair behind his ears, and his left hand reached up, taking your wrist in a gentle hold. 

“You’re the only good thing in this fucked up world,” He grunted, taking your hand and placing kisses on your fingertips. His right hand held the cigarette, the smoke dancing beside the two of you. 

You smiled, your fingers moving to cup his jaw, letting him place kisses onto your palm as you began to place your own gentle kisses onto his broad shoulder. Your free hand abandoned the hairbrush, your fingertips dancing along the intricate ink of the tattoo on his forearm. Another groan slipped past his lips with the smoke of the cigarette as your kisses slowly traveled up the curve of his neck. 

“Keep kissing me like that, pretty girl,” He drawled out, his right hand traveling behind to knead at the soft of your thighs, “‘n’ I might have to call in sick to work.” 

You smiled, placing one last kiss on his neck before answering, “I charmed my way into free drinks, you old dog. I’d like to get them.” You left a playful, light bite on his shoulder before crawling off the bed and walking out of the bedroom. 

“Brat.” He huffed, shaking his head with a smile as he stood to finish getting ready. He’d make you pay later, and you both knew it.

obsessed with ur rust domestic blurb we need more of that vibe

another blurb for old dog rust :3 | cw: implied age gap (reader 18+), smoking cigarettes, literally all about cigarettes, very short :( and not proofread ... living life on the edge

Rust hated that you smoked. It was a social habit you formed back in high school from sneaking out during lunch, wanting to be cool with the other kids that dreamed of leaving Alaska right out of graduation. However, once you got into a relationship with Rust, smoking became almost a constant thing. 

It started off with sharing cigarettes. You’d go out with him for dinner, finding yourself outside and leaning against the brick wall with the Louisiana air murkily settling over you. You’d look up at Rust as he lit his cigarette, watching with a doe-eyed look as if he had put the moon in the sky. He took a deep puff, exhaling with a quiet groan and pushing the plume of smoke out into the muggy air. 

“Can I have some?” You softly ask, your smaller hand reaching out for it. With a chuckle and a small shrug, he hands you the cigarette. 

You take a drag like how your friends taught you in high school, but the accidental tolerance break made the tickle of the strong nicotine too much to handle. You coughed out, your eyes scrunching shut with the unfamiliar tickle in the back of your throat. 

You hear Rust chuckle, his hand moving to rub a circle onto your back. “Not too much now, baby.” You cough, still holding the cigarette as your other hand moves to push at his chest to wordlessly tell him not to laugh. 

Then, you started smoking by yourself. Rust had forgotten his cigarettes at home during one of his shifts at the bar, and your curiosity got the best of you. You coughed again but slowly worked past it, thinking of seventeen-year-old you who could smoke two without even coughing. As it finished, a strange sense of accomplishment came over you, and you didn’t mind it too bad. 

He noticed you’d started to smoke more often, and he felt like he had corrupted you in some way. That guilt had always been a small manifestation deep within him, starting just as your older boyfriend in Alaska. Now he had taken you all the way to Louisiana and got you fixed on cigarettes. 

“You should quit.” He grunts one night, watching as you roll over in bed. The covers hid your exposed body as you grabbed your pack from your nightstand. 

“You first.” You answer, lighting the cigarette with his own that dangled between his own lips. He could admit he hated that he got you to start smoking, but nothing sparked fire in his loins like when you’d lean in, kissing the tips of your cigarettes together to light them. 

After your own budding addiction, Rust became notorious for stealing your cigarettes. The pack in your purse would disappear, and you’d see Rust with a new pack despite never taking the time to stop by the store. Even if you tied your ribbons around them or hid them in your nightstand drawer, you’d find them in the pockets of Rust’s jeans. 

What frustrated you the most, however, was the one’s he’d steal straight from your lips. 

You’d be lounging at home, slowly and carefully applying a bold red to your fingernails. You were taking drags with the cigarette that sat between your lips, the TV playing an old sitcom as background noise. Suddenly, long fingers would appear in your eyesight, snatching the cigarette from between your lips.

“Hey!” You whine, turning to look at him as he stands behind the couch. With a smirk, he looks down at you, taking a long drag of the cigarette he thieved from your own mouth. 

“That has my lipstick on it.” You pout, pointing at the ring of red on the cigarette where Rust’s lips pursed. 

“Baby, I’ve had your lipstick on more parts of me than I can tell.” He drawled back with a raise of his brow. He took a drag of the cigarette, chuckling as he caught the pillow you threw at him.

Louisiana with Rust

Heavily inspired by @madsmilfelsen Lost Dogs series💓

calm day in with rust

omg i love it thank you so much 🤗

omg im obsessed with your rust domestic blurbs pls anything with rust braiding reader's hair

not even going to lie... i took a month because i was stuck on a different ask just for it to barely click yesterday... i could answer asks out of order. i wish i was joking i'm very embarrassed ( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) anyway more old dog rust !!! <333

Often, you felt like the Louisiana heat got to you like no other. It took a long while to get used to the sheen of sweat that seemed to linger on your skin like an unmoveable force. Hot and humid summers were foreign to you, and it was only then that you missed your cooler Alaskan summer. 

Swimming in the lake was an option, so was standing under the garden hose or the sprinklers. Any and all options led to a reasonable conclusion, a nice shower. The soap and water were like a baptism, washing away any stickiness from your overheated skin, leaving you feeling anew and smelling like lavender (or cedarwood, if you decided to use Rust’s soap). 

But more often than not, the best conclusion was being fresh out of the shower and walking to the living room, finding Rust nursing his usual beer, sitting with his legs in a dominating spread as a black and white movie played on your small TV. His hair was down, a rare sight only you were gifted. His dirty golden locks going a little ways past his shoulders, and it was only a matter of time before he asked you to give him a little trim. His hair tie sat on the wrist of his hand holding the beer, the other holding the back of the couch. He seemed so relaxed, and you hesitated moving to him in hopes of giving him a moment more of the relaxation he deserved but often rejected. 

The creak of the floor gave you away, making Rust turn his head to you. You stood in the doorway to the living room, only in in a pair of panties and an oversized t-shirt that was stretched out at the collar, your hair still wet with a few droplets falling onto the shirt. He smirked at the sight, looking at you from over his left shoulder. 

“C’mere, baby,” He croons, his voice raspy from the cigarettes and dark liquor. He places his beer on the neighboring side table as you walk over, perching yourself in his lap. With your legs thrown across his, your arm moving around his back and his holding onto your hip, both of you fell into the familiar embrace. A weary smile pulled at his lips, and his hand moved off of the back of the couch to run through your damp hair, exposing the expanse of your neck. He took advantage of that, leaning in and placing a few soft kisses on the exposed skin. You couldn’t help but let out a small, airy giggle as the kisses traveled down to your collarbones the stretched shirt left bare. 

“Tsk, what’s so funny?” He asked, pulling away to look up at you. It might’ve been the fact that he was in a good mood, or it was the lighting of the room, or the ambiance of the old romantic movie on the TV, but you couldn’t help but admire Rust for a moment. His strong nose. How the warm light of the lamp turned his blue eyes the shade of an unnameable, alluring blue. His cheekbones, his lips, the loose strands of hair that fell in front of his face. 

“Your mustache’s tickly,” You smile, looking down at Rust. You run your own fingers through his hair to push it back, abandoning it at the nape of his neck to brush your pointer finger against his mustache, smoothing it out against the top of his lip. “Gonna need a trim soon, hm?” 

“We’ll worry about that later,” He answered, holding your wrist to give your fingertip a playful nip with his teeth. His hands move to hold your waist, lowly speaking, “C’mon, baby.” You moved with his gentle lead, him scooting back and letting you sit between his spread legs on the sparse space on the couch, your back facing his chest. You felt a smile pull at your lips again, already feeling his fingers moving through your hair. He gently pulled your hair back, forming it all it a small ponytail before his fingers spread it carefully into three parts. 

You remembered the first time he braided your hair, the surprise that you felt that a man so rugged and masculine as he could give you a nice, neat braid. He first gave an excuse of working on the fishing docs in Alaska and something about ropes. It was a few times later that he spoke of his daughter, about how he used to braid her hair. It struck a cord within you, an aching, twinging reminder in your chest of his life far, far before you. The man you loved was an enigma, his heart and mind a labyrinth you wanted to spend years inside of just to truly know him. 

“You’re awful quiet tonight,” Rust spoke up, his fingers moving languidly through your hair to dance it into a nice braid. “You’re normally chirpin’ my ear off, pretty girl.” 

“Just thinking,” You softly answer, adjusting the loose shirt on your shoulders as your eyes rise to the TV. The black and white movie showed a couple embracing at a train station, kissing the way they did in old movies. 

“Careful with that, now,” He playfully cautioned, reaching the end of your hair and carefully looping his dark hair tie around the ends to hold your braid in place. “Don’t get lost up there.” 

“I want to get lost up there,” You answer, turning on his lap again to sit sideways and placing a light tap on his forehead. 

“No, you don’t, pretty girl.” He answered, his voice losing it’s playful edge. He gently holds your wrist, carefully holding you on his lap. “I’ll give you a few peeks now and then, but I don’t want you to travel too far.” 

You couldn’t help but smile, wrapping your arms around his neck and placing a soft peck on his lips, his mustache tickling your upper lip again. “I’ll take those. Maybe I can convince you to give me a few more peeks.” 

“I know a way you can convince me,” He grinned, scooping you up in his arms. You can’t help but laugh, feeling his mustache tickle your jawline as he carried you through your small house, your arms holding into him just as tight as he held you.