"...these wonders recede from my view the more I imagine them... Take a second: picture a bladeless knife, with no handle. Where’d it go?" - Kaveh Akbar
warnings : 18+, reader is a freak, Rust is a freak, thinking about cum, psychosexual in nature,
Thinking about Rustin Cohle frequenting the diner where you work. each morning you pour the two detectives coffee as he lights up a marlboro and each morning you look at them from behind the counter.
His partner, Marty, has broad shoulders and a good jaw, and although his blonde hair turns to fog at his temples, his light eyes suggest a prom king once upon a time ago. once upon a time ago when the ashey lines of his face held as tanned wood, when he'd drive fast through the Louisiana summer, and when he'd take home a different girl each night and make them chant his name like a choir did the good book. But before you these mornings, the suburban hew whittles away at his hairline. these mornings you see how each chipping day forces into his skull a passive satisfaction, a hollow acceptance, of his ford, his marriage and his beer belly. yet with the way he spreads his legs and cranes his neck to take long and blatant stares at your ass, you can see beneath that ageing mist the bones of him persist if not protrude, like the hard wood shoulder forms the silk upon it. Still, he is always nice enough. he asks if work is busy and if any boys are giving you trouble, you just smile and top him up.
Rust is harder to read. he never speaks to you beyond a grunt for coffee and never smiles as you set it down. its like he isn't really inside himself, as if he is somewhere far away in pieces. the corrosive veins at the ends of his eyes had placed his soul like a hand in the thorn bush, where he remained intact so long as there was no beating twitch to incur a prick. yet you still could see parts of him in the tactile markers. the click of his zippo, and how he holds his fags, that his tie is wrinkled, and that scars line his knuckles. the fact that he spreads his legs under the table, that he has a tattoo along his veiny forearm, how his jaw is angled, how his bicep bulges, how the crotch of his pants lay, it all told you what he otherwise eludes. your friends all say he is handsome and maybe you think so too, and maybe when business is slow you look over at him and wonder what his cock looks like. and maybe you'd polish the silverware and think about how he'd use it. maybe you wonder if he'd do it in the shower with his forehead against the sticky tiles, fucking his fist in the thick air, maybe letting out stuttering groans, maybe swallowing a deep sob as he came. did he wipe it off the tiles with his own hand?
your insatiable curiosity disgusts you as you empty his ashtray, having to face him when Marty whistles at you for more coffee. but still you stand closer than you should and smell his cologne and think about if he'd kiss you as he'd fuck you slowly, or if he'd slap you across the face and hold your head down as he'd rut into your stomach. you ask them if theres anything else you can do for them and he just looks past you. since you were a little girl you have always wanted what you couldn't have.
so of course you never caught him watching. you never caught how he focuses on you like the coyote sets his eyes on the bunny. the way he looks at you is animal. he watches your hair, your lips, your neck, hungry at the sweet and pulsing flesh. he stares at your legs, your tits, your ass, beating something carnivorous through his veins. he is always looking. when you lean over the counter to wipe its far corner he stares down your apron to the swell of your chest, when you pick up broken glass off the floor he stares at the lace of your panties peaking out from your skirt.
Rust is sick, Rust is perverted. such a pretty young thing, at risk enough in this backwater town, is being sized up and stripped down by not only an officer of the law, but one twice her age. But Rust didn't think himself so disgusting, because he knew deep down that he was really just a dog. and like a dog all he wanted was to bend you over the table like a bitch. in him throbbed that primal need to conquer that which is young and smooth and tight, and every morning when you look at him with your big doe eyes, he would think about those same eyes looking up at him as his cum dripped down your thighs.
he thinks he has you figured out, has girls like you figured out. the virgins, the sweethearts, the girls who only touch themselves over thier panties, the girls who roll thier skirts up well past thier fingertips, the girls who know what theyre doing, the girls who dont know what they want.
he knew you'd tell him that you don't usually do this sort of thing, that you're usually a good christian girl, that you'd try to amend your reputation in his eyes and search them desperately for any morsel of approval. he knew that you'd gasp when he'd put it in, that you'd ask him to slow down, that you'd moan like a porn star. he knew that you'd claw along his back, maybe cry and beg for his come he knew that afterwards you'd tell him that you loved him.
And he knew he would probably leave in the night, that he wouldn't call, that he wouldn't come back, he knew you'd hate yourself for it, and he knew it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. or maybe he knew its been so long since he's had something warm to put his dick into, that having such a wet and desperate young thing in his bed would only corrode the stoic dam he'd spend so long fortifying.
and nothing would happen because neither of you would do anything more than look and looking never got anyone in trouble.
"There are many... normal people... who feel restricted and discontented because they have no symbol which would act as an outlet for their libido." - Carl Jung
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