The dynamic between Rust and Marty is so elite because Marty thinks he's the normal one and Rust is a freak (he is), then he'll do some shit like pull a gun on the guy the girl he's cheating on his wife with is sleeping with
After sex he's usually pretty wiped. If he doesn't go right off to sleep, or if he has somewhere to be, usually stays with you for a little while (pillow talk/pillow debate, cleans you up, etc) then once he can walk again heads to the shower. The invitation to join him is always open.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Marty’s just a regular type dude…with a big ass dick. Likes that part of himself, as well as his hands. He's got big hands and likes the way they look around his partner's wrists, thighs, in their hair… He likes his hair too, thank goodness it's not going anywhere…
He's an ass man at heart (at Hart, haha), it doesn't matter how much ass his partner is packing, he's obsessed. Loves hips, especially hip dips. He also likes your neck and shoulders, and may bite them during sex.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
He enjoys finishing on your chest and especially your back. Has a bit of a breeding kink and likes the feeling of finishing inside you, with or without a condom, and staying there.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Secretly enjoys a more submissive role in the bedroom. Likes the idea of giving up all control. Wouldn’t mind bottoming for someone he trusted well and could be vulnerable with.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
The man pulls, for some reason. Coupled with his 17-year-long sometimes-happy marriage, he knows his way around the bedroom. However, it might take him a while to adjust to a new partner's needs; he can get stuck in old patterns and unless he's told otherwise may not know what to do.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Loves when you ride him. Any position where he can have both hands firmly planted on your hips and ass he's into it. If you're fucking doggystyle or if your back is toward him he's resting his head on your shoulder while he fucks into you. In his more vulnerable moments he enjoys intense missionary, your foreheads pressed together.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He doesn't tend to stay super serious. During foreplay he'll crack a few crude jokes or engage in some banter, but as things heat up he gets more serious, focusing on his and your pleasure.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Surprisingly well groomed, not very hairy anyway and either trims or shaves. Hair down there is a little bit darker, slightly curly.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
After initial foreplay, Marty doesn't tend to kiss during sex (since he's probably running his mouth). However, he makes up for it with words and other actions. If you've just come off an argument, his adoration still shines through, even with the words and quips he spits at you here's an edge of tenderness that he can't hide. During more intimate sex, he makes sure that every part of your body feels loved and cared for. Kisses a lot afterwards while you talk, little absent-minded ones all over your neck and chest.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
1995! Marty jerks off a lot. Will get off in the showers at the station while thinking of you, not even realising he's touching himself.
Later on he gets comfortable with you watching him get himself off. Especially likes when you tell him what to do and praise him while doing it.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Likes being tied up/handcuffed, 1995! Marty has a law enforcement kink and likes butt stuff, all canon. Hate sex/bratting is a turn on for him.
He might bite.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Bedroom is always preferred, especially as he gets on in years, but he's not opposed to messing up the evidence locker or a romp in the squad car every once in a while. 1995! Marty is big on wall sex as well.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Loves a good argument. Fighting as foreplay for sure. During sex he likes being told how to please you. He might not get something exactly right the first time, direct him on what to do and he will put in the work. He thrives off praise, likes to know when he's doing good.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Knifeplay is a big no, iffy on being choked. Would date younger but would not do any sort of ageplay/daddy kink. Might bring it up during sex but nothing in front of other people/a crowd.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Prefers getting head but he will not complain (much) about giving it. Knows how to eat someone out (very well) from experience with Maggie but hesitant towards other forms of giving head.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Depends on his mood, and what gets him going. If an argument is what sets the mood, or if he's fired up about something and wants to feel powerful, he's fast and rough, crashing his lips against yours, pinning you to the wall and taking what's his. However, if he's had a rough day at work or hasn't seen you in a while, he likes to take his time with you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Loves them. Loves the thrill, the feeling of desperate, raw fast needyounow that spurs them on. You two might fuck like this before work, or after a heated argument where you just need to get your hands on each other. He'll ask for a quickie any chance he gets.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
He wouldn't be the most adventurous, still needing some rules to his riskiness, but, as stated earlier, he's down for a bit of semi-public sex. As long as no eyes are directly on you two he's game. An empty room at the station, the back of his squad car or, on his braver nights, even the bathroom of a bar is fine by him.
He would not be the most keen to experiment at first, especially not 1995! Marty. Toxic masculinity did a number on him so at first he might be a bit opposed to anything that he deems "deviant" from whatever bullshit societal norms he's operating under. But once he trusts you he would be willing to experiment a bit more in the bedroom.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
1995! and 2002! Marty can go for around 3-4 rounds, tops. Prefers going for two rounds, with a break in between. Lasts quite a while each time, 20-30 minute refractory period.
2012! Marty still prefers a couple rounds but will need a loooong break between them. Might take dick pills, honestly. Still lasts a pretty long time, you two just get to talk for longer between rounds.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
It's canon that he owns handcuffs. 1995! Marty is probably a pretty “traditional” guy, and most likely has some hang ups about using toys (“what, am I not enough for you?”), but comes around on using a vibrator and other toys on you when he both feels more secure and sees how good it makes you feel. Later on a buttplug or a small dildo/strap or two are added to his personal collection, if they're not already there.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
If he's in control, he can be a little shit. If you were fucking after an argument, he'd be soooo petty, bringing up past talking points while you squirmed. “Oh what’s that? Couldn’t quite hear you,” and “use your words, sweetheart” are some of his favourite things to say to get you riled up.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Starts out pretty quiet, a few low whimpers escape him here and there, but once he starts to really feel good he can't hold it in anymore and the floodgates open. Sighs, deep groans of appreciation, and all sorts of praise and other things (“that's it honey,” “so good for me baby,” “ngh- fuck, keepgoinjustlikethat”) come spilling out of that man’s mouth. Not the greatest at dirty talk, he just says whatever’s on his mind. Comes with a high whine and your name on his lips.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
The story he tells about that girl and her roommate DID NOT HAPPEN. That was just a long-running fantasy of his that he thought would make a good self-deprecating story to tell to his buddies during his early days on the force. However, he may or may not have been pegged before.
Also, he liked Crash's jacket a lot. Like, a lot a lot. In a way he didn't think he would. Might have a slight leather kink.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
As he has stated, he’s got a big ass dick, and he's surprisingly not bluffing. Grower. 3 inches when soft. 8 inches and thick when hard, 5 inch girth, not very veiny, pretty straight, dark pink tip. Shaft #D4A593, tip #BA7882.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
1995! Marty is ready to go, whenever and wherever. Would never decline sex and although he is ashamed to admit it, anything you say or do is enough to get him hot and bothered.
2002! and 2012! Marty are still as DTF in theory, but, to varying degrees, will need a bit more time to be fully ready for sex.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
If he's in a completely safe environment, there's nothing Marty loves more than dozing off in your arms after sex, often in the middle of a conversation. As he gets older he falls asleep faster, but I imagine post-Carcosa! Marty would be more alert and would want to stay up and talk longer.
Fucking is a lot like fighting—the pain and the pleasure, the satisfaction in the physical. Maybe that’s why they’re so suited for it—he’s never had a full-on fight with the man, not the rolling in the streets sort, but he’s never full-on fucked him either, not the rolling in the sheets sort.
---
Maggie chooses the man from the bar. Consequently, Marty chooses Rust.
OR
now kith
---
Wordcount: ~2.8k
Rust barely manages to yank the door open before Marty breaks it down—the leftover momentum sends him flinging forwards, into the dark room, past Rust’s easy sidestep. The man’s been drinking—if that wasn’t evident from how he barely manages to right himself, from the stink of sour liquor, then Rust simply knows him. He gets angry when he drinks and he drinks when he’s angry and he’s a bull seeing red, just needs a china shop to be pointed at.
That which seems to currently be Rust’s living room. Marty stumbles over to the counter, practically falling onto his forearms, forehead nearly kissing the marble.
Slowly, Rust shuts the door.
When Marty looks up, he still does not talk—simply cranes his neck around, getting a good look at the space, though there’s a bleary unfocus to it all.
“The hell is this?” He asks, staring directly at one of the photographs taped to the wall. Savannah Thompson. Vanished 1991, age 17. Presumed runaway, presumed dead. Slumped in a meadow, crown of antlers upon her head, in some distant, cold reality.
“The job,” Rust replies. “The one I’m off of. Why’re you here?”
There are context clues here, ones that fill in while Marty chews over his answer. At the station, earlier, he’d had far more pressing things than his partner’s state of upkeep to worry about, but now—that untucked collar, that fingerran hair—speaks volumes. Why is he here, at Rust’s, and not with his family, so late in the twilight hours of the night? When else has he seen him so crumpled in on himself?
“She threw you out,” he says slowly. “You did it again.”
Something like pity, something like revulsion. The two emotions are intertwined, just like everything else in this rotting southern caldera—families and girls and bodies, wrapped around the mangrove roots, copulating in the muddy shallows.
“She was younger,” he ticks off, pacing towards Marty. The images on the walls flash by with every step, a zoetrope molded by his forward movement. So many women, so many children, dark eyes and narrow cheeks, frozen before they had a chance to grow the armor the world demands. “Unburdened. Free. You didn’t mean to do it, but you did. It made you feel powerful.”
None of this requires any sort of special guesswork. He has been examining twisted men for so long that it’s easy to see what little of their psyches are reflected in those around him, bent and refractured.
“She’s not coming back,” he says, bumping into the counter. The hard edge against his hipbone, grounding. The nail through the hand through the wood, the crown digging into the skin. “That’s why you’re here?”
Marty’s breaths are heavy, as if each word has been piling upon his back, he can hardly bear to hold them up anymore. Silence is confirmation.
“If that’s sorted,” Rust says slowly, leaning forwards on bent elbows, “then I fail to see why I oughta care.”
Switch, flicked. The only warning Rust gets is a half-snarl, before a forearm is bracing into his chest. The crush of the counter is the only thing keeping him from being torn to the ground, toppled by Marty’s weight. The man’s fast, he has to give him credit. His strength, though, leaves some to be desired. Especially as it is, tempered by the drink and by the ebbing emotion, it’s trivial to reassert control.
“She fucked,” Marty snarls, “another man.”
A fleck of spittle lands out Rust’s cheek. He would wipe it off, but one hand is steadying himself upon the counter and the other is braced upon Marty’s shoulder, and neither is worth the effort of extricating.
“Shouldn’t you be at his house, then?”
“Wouldn’t tell me his name. Some motherfucker from the bar. Knew I’d…”
Good on her for that. Poor man, whoever he was, doesn’t deserve two-hundred-something pounds of idiot racketing through his walls. Apt word, idiot—there are so many bigger problems in this world, and Marty’s here, in this shithole house in this shithole town pressing him against faux marble because he did it again, he couldn’t bear to resist his base instincts, he’s a dog unchained and a reed in heavy winds, bowing to whatever greater powers rule this world. All of them are—Rust subservient to the sheriff’s whims and woes, the sheriff slavering at the feet of Edwin Tuttle, Edwin Tuttle kneeling before his Yellow King, the walls of Carcosa as high as the heavens and as low as the hells.
There is no way to voice that, at least not in terms that Marty would understand—fruitful as teaching chess to a dog—so he doesn’t.
“Knew you’d kill him?”
Marty’s hand, pressed up against the rough fabric of the wifebeater, clenches. Takes some of the fabric with it, pulls it free from Rust’s chest, from his beating heart. The fingers tremble, whether with aggression or with grief.
“That why you came here, like this? To kill me instead?”
He yanks. The fabric of the shirt stretches. Would tear, but Rust moves with it, allowing the stained cloth to corral him forward, further into Marty’s chest. His hand slips off his shoulder, so he repositions it on his waist. Soft, but solid, a man who used to take highest pride in his body, but has let it slip somewhat down his list of priorities, as the years wink by. He’s seen him shirtless before, on various stings and operations.
Rust remembers 1999. That shitty motel, the blare of the TV, something old—still in black-and-white, long-dead actors with buzzy, telephone-tone voices. Him, on the bed, reading through his notes. Marty, emerging from the shower, towel around his waist, asking if Rust’d used his razor. No, he’d left it in the last motel, the idiot. Then can I use yours, asshole? Fine, it’s in the front pocket.
Him, crossing the room, leaving wet footsteps in the carpet, digging through the backpack at the foot of the bed. When he bends over, the light catches on the fine hairs of his back, each one strung through with beads of water. Straightens back up, and the towel’s slipped somewhat—only enough to hint at the inguinal lines of his pelvis, a tuft of ashwheat hair. Marty doesn’t notice, retreats back to the shower. Rust swallows as he returns to his notebook, and the words blur between blinks.
He never did get that razor back. Figured the five bucks to buy a new one was worth less than revisiting the memory. He looks up, into Marty’s eyes, blue like the bayou sky, and wonders if he remembers it too.
“I dunno. I…” Marty’s grip loosens, tightens again. “I went to the bar. Think I was lookin’ for him, like I’d know him on sight. Didn’t. Drove around. Thought you’d, I dunno, you’d fucking do something.”
Rust laughs—laughs! The feeling is unfamiliar. He, himself didn’t expect it, which makes it funnier. The heave of his chest moves Marty’s hand, too.
“I sit down with every man in the town, yeah, I could tell you who fucked your wife. But there’re better things to use my time on, and better ways for you to lie to yourself. I’m sure she’s waiting, that girl, for you. Princess in her tower.”
“I don’t want her,” Marty hisses, “never fucking wanted her. If… ‘f I did, wouldn’t’ve come here.”
Part of that is a lie. Part of it is the truth. As is common with all his partner—former—says, he probably doesn’t even know which is which himself.
“So what,” Rust says, “that mean you wanted me?”
The words are a spark to a gas leak, a gunshot in a sunlit field. He knows it before he says them, and he says them anyway—because Rust has never been one to let consequences deter him from speaking his mind—and because there is no rightful reason for any of this in the first place. No reason for him to still be pushed up, near chest-to-chest, no reason for Marty to have thought of him, in times like this. Reasonable response would’ve been to drink his sorrows with the rest of the good ol’ boys at the station, or fuck his anger down the line of paper-doll-girls, or at the very least, kill himself and the rest of his family as any self-respecting scorned husband does.
Rust shifts, dragging his hip across the counter’s beveled edge, adjusting the way he sits against Marty—until his thigh brushes between his legs, until he gets the last confirmation he needs that this is what it is. The moment is an echo of something else, an evolution. 1995, the lockers, corrugated metal against his spine, something else pressing into his front. Adrenaline has that effect in men, sometimes, which is what Rust told himself then—seven years younger, less willing to devote thought to anything but Dora Lange. Less willing to acknowledge this silent trespass, as a man with more to lose, though he would have scoffed at the notion back then.
Now, he knows. Now, he is no longer on the precipice of that tall, black cliff. He is falling into the City, into the skyline lights that dot vast Carcosa. Into the stars.
Before he can move any further, Marty is upon him. The man is fast, he has to give him credit. His lips linger for only a moment upon Rust’s, before his mouth slides to the cheek, to the jaw, wet and teeth and frenetic pressure. 2000. One of the rare times he allowed Marty to drag him out with the rest of the force. Watching condensation slip down the bottleglass while Marty tells some raucous story from his college days—that’s how I learned, boys, can’t blow it all at the starting line. Chicks like it slow. And they get pissed when you bite!
The noise he makes, when Marty sinks his teeth into his neck, is involuntary. An exhale, given high, breathy body. He’s not into men, in a different way than he’s not into women. The latter is a life choice, ascetic in some ways. Same as he’s not into furniture—objectively nice, objectively adds to the space, but too easy to trip over, takes up too much of his mind if he allows it to.
The former, he’s got no good comparison. He remembers a fisherman’s son, in Alaska, long conversations upon the pier. Small gifts, exchanged at dusk—a dogeared paperback, a gleaming hook. Friendship, tagged with some niggling other, a wire twisting underneath the skin. Remembers his time undercover, Iron Crusaders. Get hopped up on enough, then any body becomes warm, welcoming—if you’ve sipped and smoked and snorted and shot, then there’s leeway to do things you won’t remember in the morning, to lay your hands upon a thigh, a chest.
This makes him wonder if Marty’s not into men in the same way. In a different way, given the diverging courses of their life, but there’s something to be said about boys’ locker rooms, about quiet nights alone in a vast bed. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters, as Rust’s hand moves down the heaving edge of Marty’s body, down the v-line he saw in that Motel 6.
Easy enough to undo the belt, fumble down the unwilling zipper. Dropping his trousers all the way down is too much, far too much for him, so he simply lets them droop down the hips, until they’re caught in the press of their bodies, the intertwining of their legs. When Rust finally encircles Marty’s cock with his hand, the attrition upon his neck stills. For a moment, the room is nothing but wet breathing. Slowly, he moves his fingers, tracing the ridges, all the way to the tip. Swipes his thumb over it, spreading the bead of moisture across the head. Marty groans not-quite-a-name. Not in the same way he would have said Maggie’s, said Lisa’s. Just the curve of a syllable, an R without an ending, which melts into a wordless tide of air.
Only another second, before he resumes. This time, not on the clavicle, nor the jaw—back to Rust’s lips, a brief kiss, then a longer one, like he needed to build up the courage. 2001. A double date—that’s the sign that times were briefly good, weren’t they, that mid-town Italian restaurant and the incense and the candles, tinny music blaring over the speakers.
Marty kisses Maggie, and Rust knows Lori is expecting him to do the same, but he finds himself caught in voyeurism. The peck is a touch too long for polite company—the tease of tongue, the tilt of the heads—but clearly, they were expecting the other couple to be occupied too, not one watching the other and the other watching them. One of Marty’s hands is intertwined with Maggie’s, and the other remains on the table, a bit of marinara sauce on the collar. He wants to reach over and grab it, hold it as he wipes the sauce off, linger on the fingers for only a second. His hand clenches in his lap. Lori frowns at him, and he dreads the ride home.
Maybe the times weren’t so good—maybe, only in the way that laudanum dreams are.
Marty rearing back is how Rust knows he’s close. He quickens the movement of his hand, relishing in the way he cants his hips towards the touch, the deepening of his breath. Fucking is a lot like fighting—the pain and the pleasure, the satisfaction in the physical. Maybe that’s why they’re so suited for it—he’s never had a full-on fight with the man, not the rolling in the streets sort, but he’s never full-on fucked him either, not the rolling in the sheets sort.
Warmth, pooling in his hand, Marty’s head falling upon his, forehead-kissing-nose. Rust’s stomach is uncomfortably tight. Desire, dread. Cousins. Over Marty’s shoulder, he can see the far wall, see the posters tacked crookedly across it. He makes eye contact with Franklin Reeves, twelve, found dead in May ‘93, forgotten by June, just in time for what would have been his thirteenth birthday.
He does not need to shove Marty off him, though the motion no doubt helps as the other man leaps back, nearly tripping over his own heels. Both of them in various stages of undress—Rust’s shirt hiked up around his stomach, one strap pulled down to the bicep, Marty’s pants pooling around his thighs. The world blurs at the edges, as reality reasserts itself—none of this makes sense. As if his soul has been suspended on a rubber band, and only now, it’s snapping back into his body.
“What the fuck,” Marty says, eloquent as ever. James Joyce he is not, but the words capture emotion well enough. They are no longer pressed against each other, but still, they are too close.
“Why did you come here?” Rust asks, placing a hand to his forehead. His lips are sore, and his neck smarts. The question has been answered many times over, but still, he wants to find something else, some other angle to approach this, line it out in red thread upon his corkboard and cut up Marty’s picture.
“I…”
“Get out.”
Marty obliges, though it’s unclear if he even heard the words correctly. More likely, his own instinct, backing up until he hits the door. “What am I doing? Why…. I didn’t mean…”
“Get out,” Rust repeats. He doesn’t turn, instead fumbling along the edge of the doorway until his hand hits the handle, drags it down.
“I’m sorry,” Marty slurs, finally breaking into the outside air. He still hasn’t pulled his pants up. The scene must look absurd to the neighbors, if they deign to peer out their windows at this hour. It looks absurd to him.
“I’m quitting tomorrow,” he replies. Adds, after a moment, “not because of you,” because Marty’s the right sort of arrogant to think so. He stares at him for a long moment, from his spot upon the concrete porch, saying nothing.
After a moment, he shuts the door. Rust stays where he is, waiting for the revving of an engine through the hollow walls. But no, nothing—the world remains at a silent stasis. Eventually, he cannot help himself. Pushes off the counter, striding over to the wall, where the basswood blinds shield him from the night. Slowly, he pries two apart, peering through the gap. Outside, one lone streetlight illuminates the street. Below it, stands a broad figure. The light plays off his hair, gives him a corona ringing around his head.
This will be the last time he sees Marty, he knows. Not forever, but soon, these halcyon years of recollection will fade, yellow, lose themselves as he’s lost his childhood, as he’s lost Texas, as he’s lost the exact shade of Sophia’s tricycle, lost the shape of Dora Lange’s spine through her skin.
2002. Today, now, brought shatteringly back to the present.
turnnoffyourmind
gamechangershow
prguitarman
pixelskylines
izzy806
germansingergirl
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
ellievsbear
