midnight, lose my mind
rust cohle x reader
can be read as a prequel or sequel to televangelism but doesn't have to be :]. Others in the "timeline" are heaven has cigarettes !
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.
