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verushka70I'm hopelessly addicted to True Detective, and it's almost over *sob*. I guessed early around 1x01-1x02 (it wasn't difficult) the cause of the rift between Marty and Rust. But when it happened last night in 1x06 (NO SPOILERS) it was still ouch. Hot and fucked up, but, ouch. Been wanting to write Marty/Rust slash ever since their locker room confrontation in 1x02. Two angsty, messed up cops, each a man's man, one pretending he has his shit together (but doesn't), the other pretending he's above it all (but isn't), both always rubbing each other the wrong way and getting under each other's skin? What's not to slash?
But I've tried, and the slash won't come. Don't know what's wrong (apart from RL, RSIs acting up, and no time, until recently.) So I gave up trying to write Marty/Rust slash. Between last night and this afternoon, I wrote this Rust POV Rust/Maggie fic, instead.
Comments welcome, and anyone who wants to beta, that would be lovely, as RL keeps me too busy to be a regular on any sites, except as an occasional reader.
Animus Engaged
True Detective, Rust/Maggie, NC-17 (very explicit, but not PWP), spoilers through 1x06
“Let me explain,” she says through the door.
“Why are you here, Maggie?” Rust replies without opening, though he knows why.
He presses his forehead against the door. He doesn't need her explanation. He is drunk, again – still? – still on suspension, still unable to pursue the investigation, can't get to his files. Can't go through Marty. Rust sets his jaw.
“Rust,” she pleads again through the door. “Please. I can explain.”
He doesn't need it, but he'd rather she not say it on his doorstep outside. He opens the door, lets her in, and shuts it behind her. He grabs the vodka bottle and moves to the other side of the room.
She crosses the room to him. Stands too close.
Rust backs up, away from her, takes a swig of the vodka. Looks everywhere but at her. After a moment she moves closer to him.
She looks in his face. He looks away, backs away again.
They do this dance, again and again, until he is literally backed into a corner.
He raises his hands, the vodka still in one hand. He knows the body language he's using: non-action, non-threatening, non-sexual, non-intentional. He's pathologically incapable of small talk, especially with the few people in his life that matter.
Maggie tried to help him, before – encouraged him, drew him out of himself, offered warmth to his cold, fixed him up with women until one finally worked. For a time. Not her fault that reality inevitably wins.
Maggie reaches for the vodka and takes it from him. Rust lets her. She walks to the kitchen counter and sets it down. But he doesn't move.
She comes back across the room and stands too close to him again. He should have moved, put more space between them.
“You don't have to explain.” His words are slightly slurred. He shakes his head.
He turns his face away from her, hands still raised. He should get away from her. Should never have let her in. Even if he is a moron dick-swinger, Maggie is Marty's, as much as any woman is possessed by a man.
Maggie touches his chest through his shirt. Now that she has touched him, Rust is rooted to the spot and can't move away. Marty's words echo in his ears, then. Should have held onto your woman. Getting laid was good for you.
Even if he had, Rust's not sure his flesh would be any less weak. A steady diet of vodka, take-out and missing person's reports, bourbon, crime scene photos and autopsies means that Maggie standing next to him – thin blouse and skirt – hits his boozed up senses like a dog smells meat.
“I do,” Maggie whispers. “You don't understand, Rust. Seventeen years. I couldn't be with–”
“Don't,” Rust says flatly, hoping words will do what his body can't. “I get it. He did it first, more than once. Now you have too.”
Her hands pause on his chest; her touch becomes tentative. He continues, hands still in the air, away from her, from them, from this.
“A stranger's too risky for you, and won't hurt Marty near enough. That's where you're wrong, see. You fucking anyone would hurt Marty, doesn't have to be someone he knows. The idea that you think you could get away with doing what he does, alone, would kill him, 'cause guys like Marty always have double standards.
“But for you,” Rust continues, “someone you know is safe. Someone Marty's close to has maximum impact. Partner is perfect for your purposes.”
He shrugs, trying to inhabit the detachment of his words, and doesn't say inflammatory words like revenge. “I get it. Could've easily been any other guy he was partnered up with. Just so happens it's me. I don't take it personal.”
That last is meant to hurt her, a bit, to send her away.
Rust smells her vanilla scented shampoo. Smells her warmth, her skin, the faint tang of her sweat. Scents bypass the cortex, Rust knows: from vomeronasal organ to the secondary – the original – olfactory system, straight to the amygdala. The reptile brain.
It recognizes what it was designed to recognize: female, still viable, in heat.
“My purposes?” she mutters, her hands still on his chest. “That's what you think?”
He avoids her gaze, turns his face away. But her insistent fingers find his chin, and turn him to face her. Rust doesn't resist. Can't.
Her eyes are wet. He tries to be like he is with perps: an empty vessel for them fill with confessions, a blank screen for their projections, the sympathetic stranger they can pour everything out to.
It doesn't work. Her pain comes through, shot through with need, laced with desire. He closes his eyes to escape.
“I don't mean nothing by it, Maggie. But it's true,” Rust says softly. “Your purpose was to break things with Marty – a full, clean break. Best way to do that? Fuckin' his partner. Women,” he falls back on police experience, “always want their cheating men to know when they've finally cheated, too.”
Rust doesn't add, that's what often gets them killed.
“You think I'm gonna tell him,” Maggie says, mercifully stepping back.
Rust opens his eyes, and sees that her eyes are like holes in her head, pupils dilated.
“I know you will,” he replies simply. “Women with something on the side for years, got different reasons than yours. They never tell.”
Maggie has done nothing wrong, really. Nothing but put her foolish faith in an ancient institution that has never worked since time immemorial. If it ever did, it was only because lifespans were shorter, because of patriarchy, because of social coercion. Because people lied to each other and to themselves.
“We hardly–” She cuts herself off, turning away. “Not very often, anymore.”
Her shoulders shake briefly. Her pain is not the pain of a perp, of a bad man. Rust's heart clenches for her, though he doesn't want it to.
It's possible he doesn't understand everything.
“That happens,” he agrees softly. “He sees to his own needs – yours, not so much. So see to your own needs.”
Rust wants to add (plead), but not with me.
Maggie turns abruptly back to him, face flushed.
“You got it all figured out,” she says angrily.
Rust nods. “Needs can be ignored. That's the reptile brain. We can resist it. Most people don't.” He takes a breath. “Point is, we can.”
It's all about the reptile brain, everything bad that everybody does – however they justify and rationalize it with the white matter. The crack they had to smoke. The dope they had to shoot. The unfaithful lover they stabbed.
The booze he has to drink–
“ 'See to my own needs'?” Maggie looks up at him accusingly. “That's what you do? Jerk off in the shower?”
Rust is caught off guard. No one can lie like him – undercover for four years, you live nothing but lies. But you always know the lies from the truth; you have to.
He can't lie to Maggie – not here, not now. He nods helplessly.
“What else would I do?” His voice is rough. “Men do that whether they got a woman or not, Maggie. You're a nurse, you know that.”
“Yes. But you don't. Have a woman.” She sighs, looking down briefly, and then back up at him. “Trust. I needed someone I could trust. Not just someone safe.
“The reptile brain,” she repeats, sad now instead of angry. “You know what, Rust?” Her expression is lost. “It may be ancient and animal. It may not think. But it's the most honest organ.”
She lays a hand on his chest again.
“Won't let us fool ourselves,” he agrees, his throat thick, heart starting to pound.
“Yes,” she sighs and lays her cheek against his neck. “It knows what it needs.”
She slides one arm up around his neck. Her other hand settles on his belt buckle.
Rust's arms still aren't around her. He doesn't touch her. But she is close, so close, so warm and female, and he smells her...
He can't make things any worse than they already are, Rust thinks. There it goes, of course: white matter, justifying the reptile brain.
They are nothing more than animals with extra white matter, most of which they'll never use. Not that they were ever meant to. Cortex, consciousness, sentience: cosmic mistakes, the appendix of the brain.
Idle hands.
But there is bliss to be had in the body, oblivion in orgasm, animal comfort in the warmth of another body next to one's own. He feels a twinge in his chest as his cock slowly throbs to life.
Maggie's right: it is honest. It needs what it wants, and it wants what it needs.
And Rust is stupid to be alone so long, and so often.
He is a bad man, keeping other bad men from the door.
His arms come down around her. He tucks his chin down as she turns her face up. Their lips slide together. Rust's tongue is in her mouth and Maggie opens to him. The kiss with Maggie deepens. He slides one hand into her hair, the other under her skirt. She unbuckles his belt.
Animus engaged, it takes over now.
He turns them, Maggie against the wall now. His mouth slides down her neck, to her collarbone. They both open his pants. His hands lift her legs; her skirt rides up with them; her shoes fall off and clatter on the floor as her legs climb his arms. Rust pins her to the wall, hard cock against her hot center, thin cotton between them both. Her kisses are feverish. Her fingers dig into his shoulders.
Rust cups her ass and leans away from the wall. She clings to him, her tongue in his mouth now. He backs carefully towards his mattress on the floor, his pants falling down around his knees. He turns and lays her down roughly. He rips her skirt down and off, and pauses to pull his shirt off over his head. She does the same beneath him, now only in bra and panties.
Rust wants to smell her, taste her, immerse himself in Maggie. She is one women, all women, every woman he's ever loved.
He squeezes her breasts through her bra, then pulls the satin aside. He sucks each nipple, going back and forth between them. He strokes her stomach, below her navel. Her skin is pale under his hand. He knows males are usually darker than females of the same race, but marvels at the milky color.
He palms her mound through her panties, then moves his hand to her inner thigh.
She closes her legs over his forearm and holds it hard against her heat. He pulls his forearm back through her legs with heavy friction, settling the heel of his hand just above her mound.
He rubs her while sucking her nipples, moving the heel of his hand back and forth over her mound, over and over. She pushes up against it. The crotch of her panties becomes damp and fragrant.
Rust slides her panties off, moving his mouth from her breasts to her stomach, then further down. He inhales deeply when her short, curly hair is in his nostrils. He pushes her thighs wide and slips one over his left shoulder. Her outer lips don't part as he spreads her legs.
She is just beginning to leak wetness. He gently thrusts his tongue in where her juices leak out, and licks one long, slow lick all the way up, parting her lips completely. Maggie gasps sharply when he settles his mouth on her clit. His tongue is quickly thrumming back and forth over it, hard and fast with heavy suction. She opens her legs wider.
Rust slips one fingertip inside her as he licks. She is hot and wet. Maggie moans and twitches under his tongue. He pulls his fingertip out and then shoves two fingers deep inside her as he sucks and licks her clit. She clenches around his fingers, panting. She's incredibly tight and slick inside.
“Rust,” Maggie gasps. “Jesus–”
Rust wants to dive into her, to taste and smell and feel her – inside – to wipe out all thought. He understands this is how kingdoms fell, how thrones were lost. New every time, its pull is ancient.
He stops licking, pulls his fingers out, moves his face down. He thrusts his tongue deep inside to taste the perfect tang, to feel her slippery wetness on his tongue, between his lips. Rust knows this does nothing for a woman, but he can't help himself. He thrusts mindlessly against the mattress, the friction not enough, not enough. His face is wet to the cheeks with her. Maggie is all he can taste, smell, hear, feel. His fingers are slick with her, up to the webbing between them.
Rust slides his tongue slowly back up to her nub. Licking it slow and heavy, he slides his index finger back where it was, but slowly and gently works his middle finger into her ass. Maggie inhales sharply and tightens reflexively around his fingers. Her nails rake through his hair. Rust licks and probes her, his fingers moving in and out slow and gentle, until she relaxes.
He licks faster and speeds up his fingers. Her hands, sweaty, slip on his hair, but she doesn't push him away. She twitches under his tongue and on his fingers, squirming and moaning. His tongue is tired and his jaw aches, but he can't stop. He wants it, now. Wants her to give it up (to him) (to him).
He moves tongue and fingers feverishly until he feels her clit finally throb and swell. Maggie clamps down on his fingers; her legs shake. Pleasure racks her body and Rust's lips and tongue feel the vibrations of her deep moans.
Finally Maggie shoves his mouth off her. She holds his face a short distance away from her sex. Rust pulls his fingers out slowly, feeling her aftershocks as he does. He slides up her body, settles his cock between her legs, and moves his mouth to suck her nipples again. Sprawled heavily on her, he presses his hard cock against her shocking heat and wetness.
But his briefs are still on. As his mouth reaches hers again, he shoves them down.
He invades her mouth, makes her taste herself on his tongue, and sinks his cock deep inside her. Post-orgasm, she is tight, hot velvet – unbearably wet, molded perfectly to him. Maggie moans under him, clutching him, urging him, hands on his ass. Rust begins to thrust, slowly at first, every nerve painfully aware of how he needed – needs – this.
(Who was he kidding? Only himself.)
It pulls at Rust like an undertow beckoning him to drown. He thrusts harder, rougher. The wet velvet heat grips him with unbearable sweetness; the sensation and pleasure are irresistible madness. He sinks hard, to the hilt, on every thrust, fervently trying to go deeper each time. But this conflicts with the need for faster friction; he skins his knees and elbows trying to do both.
The need for release builds relentlessly – no time to savor the inevitable – and the rush overtakes him like falling off a cliff. He explodes, every nerve on fire, pumping hard. As the last spurts are wrenched from him, and Maggie moans, Rust realizes dimly he had forgotten he was moving in someone separate from himself.
He collapses on her, oblivion hovering at the edges of his drunk, exhausted consciousness.
They lay like that for a while; Rust falls into a doze. It breaks when Maggie stirs under him. He awakens enough to roll off her onto his back.
“Sorry.”
He stares up at the blank, white ceiling, realizing his pants and briefs are tangled around his shins. It is too much effort. His eyelids fall shut, but not from sleep.
“It's all right.” Her voice is quiet and serious. Once he is off her, she doesn't get up. She wriggles out of her bra next to him, tosses it to the side of the bed.
She is still for a moment, then sits up. She pulls Rust's shoes off, then his pants and briefs.
Absurd that they are only fully naked now. But Rust says nothing.
Maggies lies back down, tucks herself tight against him, pulls the sheet up over them.
After a moment Rust sighs deeply.
He rolls on his side and drapes an arm and leg over Maggie.
They fall asleep.
But I've tried, and the slash won't come. Don't know what's wrong (apart from RL, RSIs acting up, and no time, until recently.) So I gave up trying to write Marty/Rust slash. Between last night and this afternoon, I wrote this Rust POV Rust/Maggie fic, instead.
Comments welcome, and anyone who wants to beta, that would be lovely, as RL keeps me too busy to be a regular on any sites, except as an occasional reader.
Animus Engaged
True Detective, Rust/Maggie, NC-17 (very explicit, but not PWP), spoilers through 1x06
“Let me explain,” she says through the door.
“Why are you here, Maggie?” Rust replies without opening, though he knows why.
He presses his forehead against the door. He doesn't need her explanation. He is drunk, again – still? – still on suspension, still unable to pursue the investigation, can't get to his files. Can't go through Marty. Rust sets his jaw.
“Rust,” she pleads again through the door. “Please. I can explain.”
He doesn't need it, but he'd rather she not say it on his doorstep outside. He opens the door, lets her in, and shuts it behind her. He grabs the vodka bottle and moves to the other side of the room.
She crosses the room to him. Stands too close.
Rust backs up, away from her, takes a swig of the vodka. Looks everywhere but at her. After a moment she moves closer to him.
She looks in his face. He looks away, backs away again.
They do this dance, again and again, until he is literally backed into a corner.
He raises his hands, the vodka still in one hand. He knows the body language he's using: non-action, non-threatening, non-sexual, non-intentional. He's pathologically incapable of small talk, especially with the few people in his life that matter.
Maggie tried to help him, before – encouraged him, drew him out of himself, offered warmth to his cold, fixed him up with women until one finally worked. For a time. Not her fault that reality inevitably wins.
Maggie reaches for the vodka and takes it from him. Rust lets her. She walks to the kitchen counter and sets it down. But he doesn't move.
She comes back across the room and stands too close to him again. He should have moved, put more space between them.
“You don't have to explain.” His words are slightly slurred. He shakes his head.
He turns his face away from her, hands still raised. He should get away from her. Should never have let her in. Even if he is a moron dick-swinger, Maggie is Marty's, as much as any woman is possessed by a man.
Maggie touches his chest through his shirt. Now that she has touched him, Rust is rooted to the spot and can't move away. Marty's words echo in his ears, then. Should have held onto your woman. Getting laid was good for you.
Even if he had, Rust's not sure his flesh would be any less weak. A steady diet of vodka, take-out and missing person's reports, bourbon, crime scene photos and autopsies means that Maggie standing next to him – thin blouse and skirt – hits his boozed up senses like a dog smells meat.
“I do,” Maggie whispers. “You don't understand, Rust. Seventeen years. I couldn't be with–”
“Don't,” Rust says flatly, hoping words will do what his body can't. “I get it. He did it first, more than once. Now you have too.”
Her hands pause on his chest; her touch becomes tentative. He continues, hands still in the air, away from her, from them, from this.
“A stranger's too risky for you, and won't hurt Marty near enough. That's where you're wrong, see. You fucking anyone would hurt Marty, doesn't have to be someone he knows. The idea that you think you could get away with doing what he does, alone, would kill him, 'cause guys like Marty always have double standards.
“But for you,” Rust continues, “someone you know is safe. Someone Marty's close to has maximum impact. Partner is perfect for your purposes.”
He shrugs, trying to inhabit the detachment of his words, and doesn't say inflammatory words like revenge. “I get it. Could've easily been any other guy he was partnered up with. Just so happens it's me. I don't take it personal.”
That last is meant to hurt her, a bit, to send her away.
Rust smells her vanilla scented shampoo. Smells her warmth, her skin, the faint tang of her sweat. Scents bypass the cortex, Rust knows: from vomeronasal organ to the secondary – the original – olfactory system, straight to the amygdala. The reptile brain.
It recognizes what it was designed to recognize: female, still viable, in heat.
“My purposes?” she mutters, her hands still on his chest. “That's what you think?”
He avoids her gaze, turns his face away. But her insistent fingers find his chin, and turn him to face her. Rust doesn't resist. Can't.
Her eyes are wet. He tries to be like he is with perps: an empty vessel for them fill with confessions, a blank screen for their projections, the sympathetic stranger they can pour everything out to.
It doesn't work. Her pain comes through, shot through with need, laced with desire. He closes his eyes to escape.
“I don't mean nothing by it, Maggie. But it's true,” Rust says softly. “Your purpose was to break things with Marty – a full, clean break. Best way to do that? Fuckin' his partner. Women,” he falls back on police experience, “always want their cheating men to know when they've finally cheated, too.”
Rust doesn't add, that's what often gets them killed.
“You think I'm gonna tell him,” Maggie says, mercifully stepping back.
Rust opens his eyes, and sees that her eyes are like holes in her head, pupils dilated.
“I know you will,” he replies simply. “Women with something on the side for years, got different reasons than yours. They never tell.”
Maggie has done nothing wrong, really. Nothing but put her foolish faith in an ancient institution that has never worked since time immemorial. If it ever did, it was only because lifespans were shorter, because of patriarchy, because of social coercion. Because people lied to each other and to themselves.
“We hardly–” She cuts herself off, turning away. “Not very often, anymore.”
Her shoulders shake briefly. Her pain is not the pain of a perp, of a bad man. Rust's heart clenches for her, though he doesn't want it to.
It's possible he doesn't understand everything.
“That happens,” he agrees softly. “He sees to his own needs – yours, not so much. So see to your own needs.”
Rust wants to add (plead), but not with me.
Maggie turns abruptly back to him, face flushed.
“You got it all figured out,” she says angrily.
Rust nods. “Needs can be ignored. That's the reptile brain. We can resist it. Most people don't.” He takes a breath. “Point is, we can.”
It's all about the reptile brain, everything bad that everybody does – however they justify and rationalize it with the white matter. The crack they had to smoke. The dope they had to shoot. The unfaithful lover they stabbed.
The booze he has to drink–
“ 'See to my own needs'?” Maggie looks up at him accusingly. “That's what you do? Jerk off in the shower?”
Rust is caught off guard. No one can lie like him – undercover for four years, you live nothing but lies. But you always know the lies from the truth; you have to.
He can't lie to Maggie – not here, not now. He nods helplessly.
“What else would I do?” His voice is rough. “Men do that whether they got a woman or not, Maggie. You're a nurse, you know that.”
“Yes. But you don't. Have a woman.” She sighs, looking down briefly, and then back up at him. “Trust. I needed someone I could trust. Not just someone safe.
“The reptile brain,” she repeats, sad now instead of angry. “You know what, Rust?” Her expression is lost. “It may be ancient and animal. It may not think. But it's the most honest organ.”
She lays a hand on his chest again.
“Won't let us fool ourselves,” he agrees, his throat thick, heart starting to pound.
“Yes,” she sighs and lays her cheek against his neck. “It knows what it needs.”
She slides one arm up around his neck. Her other hand settles on his belt buckle.
Rust's arms still aren't around her. He doesn't touch her. But she is close, so close, so warm and female, and he smells her...
He can't make things any worse than they already are, Rust thinks. There it goes, of course: white matter, justifying the reptile brain.
They are nothing more than animals with extra white matter, most of which they'll never use. Not that they were ever meant to. Cortex, consciousness, sentience: cosmic mistakes, the appendix of the brain.
Idle hands.
But there is bliss to be had in the body, oblivion in orgasm, animal comfort in the warmth of another body next to one's own. He feels a twinge in his chest as his cock slowly throbs to life.
Maggie's right: it is honest. It needs what it wants, and it wants what it needs.
And Rust is stupid to be alone so long, and so often.
He is a bad man, keeping other bad men from the door.
His arms come down around her. He tucks his chin down as she turns her face up. Their lips slide together. Rust's tongue is in her mouth and Maggie opens to him. The kiss with Maggie deepens. He slides one hand into her hair, the other under her skirt. She unbuckles his belt.
Animus engaged, it takes over now.
He turns them, Maggie against the wall now. His mouth slides down her neck, to her collarbone. They both open his pants. His hands lift her legs; her skirt rides up with them; her shoes fall off and clatter on the floor as her legs climb his arms. Rust pins her to the wall, hard cock against her hot center, thin cotton between them both. Her kisses are feverish. Her fingers dig into his shoulders.
Rust cups her ass and leans away from the wall. She clings to him, her tongue in his mouth now. He backs carefully towards his mattress on the floor, his pants falling down around his knees. He turns and lays her down roughly. He rips her skirt down and off, and pauses to pull his shirt off over his head. She does the same beneath him, now only in bra and panties.
Rust wants to smell her, taste her, immerse himself in Maggie. She is one women, all women, every woman he's ever loved.
He squeezes her breasts through her bra, then pulls the satin aside. He sucks each nipple, going back and forth between them. He strokes her stomach, below her navel. Her skin is pale under his hand. He knows males are usually darker than females of the same race, but marvels at the milky color.
He palms her mound through her panties, then moves his hand to her inner thigh.
She closes her legs over his forearm and holds it hard against her heat. He pulls his forearm back through her legs with heavy friction, settling the heel of his hand just above her mound.
He rubs her while sucking her nipples, moving the heel of his hand back and forth over her mound, over and over. She pushes up against it. The crotch of her panties becomes damp and fragrant.
Rust slides her panties off, moving his mouth from her breasts to her stomach, then further down. He inhales deeply when her short, curly hair is in his nostrils. He pushes her thighs wide and slips one over his left shoulder. Her outer lips don't part as he spreads her legs.
She is just beginning to leak wetness. He gently thrusts his tongue in where her juices leak out, and licks one long, slow lick all the way up, parting her lips completely. Maggie gasps sharply when he settles his mouth on her clit. His tongue is quickly thrumming back and forth over it, hard and fast with heavy suction. She opens her legs wider.
Rust slips one fingertip inside her as he licks. She is hot and wet. Maggie moans and twitches under his tongue. He pulls his fingertip out and then shoves two fingers deep inside her as he sucks and licks her clit. She clenches around his fingers, panting. She's incredibly tight and slick inside.
“Rust,” Maggie gasps. “Jesus–”
Rust wants to dive into her, to taste and smell and feel her – inside – to wipe out all thought. He understands this is how kingdoms fell, how thrones were lost. New every time, its pull is ancient.
He stops licking, pulls his fingers out, moves his face down. He thrusts his tongue deep inside to taste the perfect tang, to feel her slippery wetness on his tongue, between his lips. Rust knows this does nothing for a woman, but he can't help himself. He thrusts mindlessly against the mattress, the friction not enough, not enough. His face is wet to the cheeks with her. Maggie is all he can taste, smell, hear, feel. His fingers are slick with her, up to the webbing between them.
Rust slides his tongue slowly back up to her nub. Licking it slow and heavy, he slides his index finger back where it was, but slowly and gently works his middle finger into her ass. Maggie inhales sharply and tightens reflexively around his fingers. Her nails rake through his hair. Rust licks and probes her, his fingers moving in and out slow and gentle, until she relaxes.
He licks faster and speeds up his fingers. Her hands, sweaty, slip on his hair, but she doesn't push him away. She twitches under his tongue and on his fingers, squirming and moaning. His tongue is tired and his jaw aches, but he can't stop. He wants it, now. Wants her to give it up (to him) (to him).
He moves tongue and fingers feverishly until he feels her clit finally throb and swell. Maggie clamps down on his fingers; her legs shake. Pleasure racks her body and Rust's lips and tongue feel the vibrations of her deep moans.
Finally Maggie shoves his mouth off her. She holds his face a short distance away from her sex. Rust pulls his fingers out slowly, feeling her aftershocks as he does. He slides up her body, settles his cock between her legs, and moves his mouth to suck her nipples again. Sprawled heavily on her, he presses his hard cock against her shocking heat and wetness.
But his briefs are still on. As his mouth reaches hers again, he shoves them down.
He invades her mouth, makes her taste herself on his tongue, and sinks his cock deep inside her. Post-orgasm, she is tight, hot velvet – unbearably wet, molded perfectly to him. Maggie moans under him, clutching him, urging him, hands on his ass. Rust begins to thrust, slowly at first, every nerve painfully aware of how he needed – needs – this.
(Who was he kidding? Only himself.)
It pulls at Rust like an undertow beckoning him to drown. He thrusts harder, rougher. The wet velvet heat grips him with unbearable sweetness; the sensation and pleasure are irresistible madness. He sinks hard, to the hilt, on every thrust, fervently trying to go deeper each time. But this conflicts with the need for faster friction; he skins his knees and elbows trying to do both.
The need for release builds relentlessly – no time to savor the inevitable – and the rush overtakes him like falling off a cliff. He explodes, every nerve on fire, pumping hard. As the last spurts are wrenched from him, and Maggie moans, Rust realizes dimly he had forgotten he was moving in someone separate from himself.
He collapses on her, oblivion hovering at the edges of his drunk, exhausted consciousness.
They lay like that for a while; Rust falls into a doze. It breaks when Maggie stirs under him. He awakens enough to roll off her onto his back.
“Sorry.”
He stares up at the blank, white ceiling, realizing his pants and briefs are tangled around his shins. It is too much effort. His eyelids fall shut, but not from sleep.
“It's all right.” Her voice is quiet and serious. Once he is off her, she doesn't get up. She wriggles out of her bra next to him, tosses it to the side of the bed.
She is still for a moment, then sits up. She pulls Rust's shoes off, then his pants and briefs.
Absurd that they are only fully naked now. But Rust says nothing.
Maggies lies back down, tucks herself tight against him, pulls the sheet up over them.
After a moment Rust sighs deeply.
He rolls on his side and drapes an arm and leg over Maggie.
They fall asleep.