Knuckle Velvet Rustin Cohle x Reader
Summary: you finally confess your sins
Word Count: 2.9k
Tags/Trigger Warnings: graphic description of miscarriage. Mentions of blood/bodily fluid. Mentions of childhood SA and abuse. Descriptions of drinking/smoking. Angst. Smut. Rust being slightly submissive for the first time in his life :p
Notes: Folks! It's time for the lore drop.
After this chapter, we will be switching to Rust's POV for awhile. I've been sitting down with my handy-dandy legal pad and taking diligent notes while doing my True Detective re-watch. I also found copies of the scripts online that will hopefully assist me with filling in any gaps. I am very excited to take a crack at getting inside the mind of Rustin Cohle.
As always, thank you for reading & stay tuned!
You stumbled out into the yard, holding your swollen abdomen, cradling the protruding bump like your tenderness could outweigh your father’s cruelty – like you could change the ending. The darkness was cool, low mist hanging above the dewy blades of grass that reached out to caress and nip at your bare feet. You hurried, a terrifying weakness in your knees propelling you forward. The barn was straight ahead. You stifled a groan of pain as the cramping, constricting agony in your lower half made itself known, pounding along with the errant thunder of your heart.
You pushed the creaking door open with all your might, stumbling as your foot caught on the cheapy poured concrete floor, and fell unceremoniously onto the unforgiving ground. You cried out, hands wide and probing as they gripped your heavy middle, the bite of the rough stone tearing at your exposed flesh. Tears fell from your eyes as you crawled, the strength sapped from your bones, to a vacant stall. You hauled yourself onto the scratchy hay, vision blurry with your helplessness and pain, your back firm against the wooden partition. Around you, the soft snuffle of the horses, a curious snort, and the sighs of sleeping sheep could be heard.
You sobbed as you lifted the hem of your torn sundress, eying the crimson streaks left on the old hay, blackened in the moonlight. “No, no,” you whispered, fingers trembling as you reached between your legs to confirm what you already knew – it was too early, you were bleeding too badly. Your body ached, wracked from the contractions and the mottled purple and blue bruises, fresh blows atop old ones. You winced as your mouth peeled back in a grimace, the laceration on your lower lip throbbing painfully.
You breathed, cried, pleaded, and whispered soft prayers to yourself until the first streaks of dawn rose from the hills, glowing like a promise through the slats in the barn walls. The fear you felt kept you from thinking a singular moment into the future. You were a creature of the present, anchored to time in a way that only anguish allows.
Twisting, you gripped a loose board in your hands, white knuckled, and held on for dear life as a cry ripped from your throat. She’s coming, you thought, assigning a gender to your unborn child for the first time. You could not articulate the feeling if you tried, hanging on to the wood, nails digging in, pushing up splinters, your teeth grit with the determination of not dying, not yet, and sweat sliding down your back in thick rivers. Your hair clung to your cheeks, plastered to your face, as you howled and groaned, scaring the animals that were forced to share a space with you.
A feral sound, akin to a scream, tore from your throat as you pushed, bearing down, allowing your basest instincts to take over. The civilized you, the human you, was far away, hiding from the gore. A shrill, warbling sound echoed throughout the barn as you felt her give way in a wave of warmth and wetness. Torn from you, separated too soon.
A stillness fell over the barn, waiting. No cry came. The creature between your legs was small, silent, and blue. Leaning forward, every muscle in your exhausted body vibrating, you pulled her into your arms. Carefully, you ran your thumb down her chest, fueled by the hope borne of desperation. Nothing. No soft hum of her heart, no rattling breath.
You held her for a long time, rocking her softly. She stayed warm, held in the heat of your embrace, as the sun continued its steady ascent outside. You ran your fingers over her nose, her lips, her tiny chin. She was as little as your forearm, too small to survive in such a cruel world. You pressed your cheek to hers, breathing in the heady scent of blood and something else – something sweeter, that lingered. Something that belonged only to her.
You told Rust the tale in a hushed tone, a softness reserved for the departed, a cadence that honored her memory. You wrapped your arms around your knees, the mug of whisky forgotten, the soft light from the singular lamp left on in the corner illuminating the tears that you had no choice but to spill. You could not bring yourself to bury your humanity, to mask the pain under a guise of indifference or the confusion of terror – not about her. Not about your Violet.
“I hid my condition for a long time,” you told him, “I wore baggy dresses, shapewear – anything I could to conceal the bump”.
“But one night, I was standing at the sink, doing the dishes. I was daydreaming again, staring out the window, looking up at the moon. I suppose my dress tucked in tight around my stomach when I leaned into the counter … and I was too preoccupied with my thoughts to notice my father walk in, holding his teacup. He took one look at me and knew”.
You stopped, pressing the heel of your hand into your forehead. Closed your eyes. Despite the time that had passed, the memory felt close, saturated and loud, like you were still there.
“He beat me with his belt,” you whispered, not daring to tilt your chin to look at Rust. You kept your gaze fixed on the door instead. “I fell, and he kept going. I know we woke the whole house up with the commotion, but no one came to help”. You reached up with your other hand, pawing at the moisture gathering in the hollows of your eyes. “I knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. It was more pain than I could handle. I got on my hands and knees and crawled to the porch. He followed after me, cracking me with the belt and quoting scripture all the while”. You swallowed, flinching, like you could still feel every striking blow. “Once I got to the door, I scrambled upright and bolted. Something in me knew it was just a matter of time, and I needed to get somewhere safe. The closest place I could think was the old barn”.
And you know the rest, you thought to yourself.
“Who was the father?” Rust asked, the words low and heavy in his throat, like they were causing him pain to utter. For a moment, you imagined how effective that would be in an interrogation – how quickly the person on the other end of those gravelly syllables would fold and confess. It would feel like reciprocity. It would feel like unburdening. You blinked, clearing the thought.
Ancient shame, endlessly acidic and corrosive, washed over you.
You struggled to form the words. He watched you, mouth opening and closing, floundering. Heat flooded your cheeks, your eyes stinging with a fresh round of tears – not of grief and loss, but of rage. Your chin trembled, your lips turning downward without consent as a sob lodged itself in your windpipe. You were a breath away from losing your composure, and he knew it.
“A bad man,” you whispered, suddenly sixteen again.
Rust exhaled, reaching out. You weren’t sure what you expected, but what happened was a thought that never dared cross your mind. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his palm around yours, fingers intertwining. The pressure was even and warm. You stared, wide eyed, at his knuckles as they snaked against yours, his flesh calloused and dry.
The dam burst. You leaned forward, crying, clinging to the lifeline he threw you. A small measure of comfort in the sea of misery you were drowning in. “A name, Piper,” he insisted softly. You attempted to control yourself, your cheeks thoroughly soaked from the onslaught of emotion, your breathing stuttered and erratic. “He was a preacher at our local congregation,” you confessed, keeping your head bowed. “Pastor Roger Reynolds”.
Rust’s jaw ticked. The grip on your hand tightened fractionally. “How old were you – the first time?”. His thumb worked over the back of your knuckles slightly, timidly, like he wasn’t entirely sure he got the movement right. You sniffed, wanting to lean into his touch, to rest your head on his shoulder. Instead, you bit down on your lower lip. “Fourteen,” you murmured, hating that cleaving sensation in your chest, the tug and give of your heart splitting in two. “He made me stay late after bible study to help clean up”. Stiffly, Rust nodded, his gaze falling to the floor between his boots.
Silence fell like a heavy curtain – a calmness that can only emerge from the taming of a great squall. There was nothing left for you to say. You didn’t need to confess the way you held onto Violet all through the morning, waiting for a breath that never came, and wrapped her in an oil-streaked drop sheet when her body grew cold. You didn’t need to share the way you buried her in the backyard, beneath the cherry trees, digging that hole with your father’s rusted spade, clawing at the black earth with your bare hands when you lost the strength the hold the shovel. How tiny she looked, cradled in the dirt, unblemished and untainted by the caustic world she was spared from living in.
You didn’t need to say another word about it.
That night, once you found your voice again, the two of you talked about the things you never got around to before – the things that mattered. The bits and pieces of the mosaic of your being that you kept buried, afraid of what kind of reception you’d receive if you ever brought them forth for inspection. That was hardly a concern to you, anymore. Not after you’d bared the darkest, bloodiest part of yourself.
Rust spoke of Alaska, and the night sky – the endless dark, punctuated only by brief pinpricks of light, shining stars in the inky cosmos. How he would never forget the cold. He told you about his father, Travis, and the way he taught him to skin a buck, set a snare, and craft his own fishing pole before he was old enough to drive. He talked about the faded memories of his mother, all stretched thin and washed out with time, and the way he clung to the scent of her perfume most of all. You sat, rapt, as he shared the story of how he met Claire, his ex-wife, and how she dared him to dream of living a normal life. How he rejected his father by doing so, only to find out he was his mirror image, a moment too late.
You shared the bottle of whisky, abandoning the pretence offered by the mugs, opting to take wincing swigs, passing it back and forth. Together you smoked half the pack of camels. Without intention, you found your skin buzzing, blood ablaze, as the liquor and nicotine swam through your head, making it hard to think straight. When you started tripping over your words, you went quiet, gaze stuck on the way Rust’s fingers stayed tangled with yours.
He turned, cold blue eyes finding yours, his Adams apple bobbing with a visible swallow.
Carefully, his free hand found the pulse in your neck, thumb brushing over the erratic thump with chilling accuracy. Your skin warmed further at the contact. You exhaled shakily, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, holding him to you.
“I think I’m drunk,” you breathed, knowing with great certainty that you were, in fact, drunk. “I know,” he responded simply, long digits cupping the back of your neck, thumb caressing your pulse point methodically. In a moment of borderline hallucinogenic clarity, you saw yourself from a distance – a doe, wide-eyed and shivering, caught in the crosshairs of a merciful hunter’s rifle. You blinked, banishing the image.
He seemed content just to hold you like that, feeling the blood thrumming beneath your flesh, the beating warmth of a living being against his fingertips.
Instead, you pitched forward, mouth bumping against his clumsily. He tasted like smoke and charred whisky. He kissed you back, more patiently than you deserved, knees turning inward to face you better when your trembling hand skimmed over his chest. “What’re you doin’?” he murmured, words half-slurred with exhaustion and drink. You responded with action, boldly attempting to nip at his lower lip with your teeth. A soft, condescending chuckle rumbled low in his throat. Still – he didn’t stop you.
Bravely, your palms found his shoulders, pushing him down, tailbone flush against the thin, worn mattress. You straddled him, legs swinging quickly and blindly, like one would mount a wild mustang – hanging on for dear life to his neck before he had the chance to buck you off. His flesh twitched beneath you, the veins in his arms prominent and pulsing, the muscles pulled taut as a bow string. A fleeting, fearful glint passed over his glacial irises. For a moment, he looked every bit the undomesticated thing he was.
You settled for a heartbeat or two, letting him get used to the sensation, to the pressure of your weight between his hips. Slowly, carefully, his hands trailed up your sides, his chin tilting to take the sight of you in better. Beneath the thin fabric of your cotton panties, you could feel him stirring. Growing rigid. His breath caught in his throat as you reached down, undoing his simple leather belt in two greedy tugs.
Just as you began to push the button through its hole, his fingers caught your wrist in his iron grip, stilling your movements.
“Why’s it always gotta end like this?” he wondered softly, his eyes half-lidded and hazy with desire and whisky. You didn’t dare dismiss the question by asking for clarification – you knew exactly what he meant.
“Because I don’t wanna feel pain anymore,” you replied, casting your gaze to the side, heating burning in your cheeks. Your hair fell, cascading down your shoulder and concealing most of the blush. He was quiet, waiting for more. “And you’re a safe place,” you swallowed thicky, “for me”.
He exhaled, long and deep, before releasing his grip on your wrist.
“Go ahead,” he murmured, undoing the last of the button himself. “Take what you need”.
You didn’t need to be told twice.
You leaned down, kissing him clumsily, lips half-numb, while reaching beneath the waistband of his pale blue boxers and taking him in your hand. He groaned shakily as you pumped him slowly, finger grazing over the delicate head, collecting the pre-cum that had already gathered there. His teeth nipped at your jaw as you worked him over, his cock growing heavy and flushed in your palm. His fingers hooked around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down roughly, the seams buckling and tearing – leaving you bare beneath your faded jean skirt.
You hovered, biting down on your lower lip and you sank down on his length, an inch at a time. A strangled, breathless moan left your throat as he bottomed out, stretching you, filling you completely. “Christ,” he sighed, thumbs brushing over your ribcage as you lifted yourself slightly and sank back down. You found a rhythm, gentle bunny hops really, that was taking you where you needed to go. He didn’t help at all, watching you with careful eyes as you chased your release, your fingers bunching the thin fabric of his white undershirt. You watched the tattoo on his arm flex as he found his way to your backside, taking a healthy handful into his palms. Your whiney, squeaking sounds seemed to spur him to action, as he started to lift your ass with each thrust to take the pressure of your protesting knees.
“Just like that,” he murmured, head tipping back against the mattress, his voice low and rumbling in his chest. “C’mon now”.
You cried out as he shifted, his legs coming up to push you forward on his cock, his wide hands holding your body, manipulating your movements, propelling you towards euphoria.
“Eyes on me,” he commanded, the muscle in his jaw ticking as you obeyed, your mouth falling open as another silent cry fell from your lips.
At Rust’s words, you spiralled, clamping down on him, slick slipping down your thighs, and rivulets of sweat beading at your throat. He held on to you as you shivered and shook, white stars bursting behind your lids, head thrown back as you pulsed around him. “Fuck,” he groaned as he came, hips snapping up to meet you, his hands pulling your body down, forcing you to feel the violence of his connection.
You collapsed onto his chest, arms curled inwards, your cheek flush against his beating heart. You could feel the thunderous roar of his coursing blood, the lively, wet thump of his lifeforce beneath your ear. It calmed you, lulled you, pulled you deep into the blackness reserved for the dreaming.
“Piper?” he whispered, tapping lightly on the inside of your wrist. You made a small sound, indicating your consciousness. He exhaled, arms caging you, before rolling you carefully onto your back next to him. You were unbothered by his lack of pillow, rooting around in the semi-darkness with just your sense of touch, and finding the forgiving warmth of his chest again.
