Work Text:
New York. 1950. It’s 11pm.
Open on a dinky gas station in Lower Manhattan, the lights over the pumps dim with their age. Rust swirls around the metal of the nozzles. This gas station was loved, at a point. Not anymore. Not now.
When one lowers their gaze from the stars spattering over the expanse of the purple-blue night sky above, they may be able to see a shiny, sleek bumblebee colored taxi cab parked right beside pump number 05.
The smell of freshly cut fries, starchy and rich, mingles with the scent of bittersweet brioche burger buns – wafts from a half-open car window.
Peering inside, Marty Mauser is absolutely macking his way through a bag of fries. Like, absolutely fucking that shit up. Thick grease from kosher oil stains his thin, calloused fingers, spit catching on his trim nails as he moves to grab about three more fries and shove them in his mouth with a quickness.
Wally, however, is sipping on the sweetest strawberry milkshake in all of New York (maybe. He likes the strawberry chunks that particular chain put in their shakes.) — and wondering what’s up with the little dude.
He’s usually so bouncy and zippy, but ever since Marty sat his bitch ass in the car he had been acting like a fucking weirdo. Even when they had ordered food:
( Wally pulled up to the drive-in, recited his order to the waitress, then turned to Marty, only to be met with a mumble of “mhnmfrenchfr..” with the other man’s back facing him.
The silence was loud as all hell, which prompted Marty to repeat himself, louder, but still lacking in boisterous energy “Could I get a fuckin’ medium.. Fry?”
Marty looks at Wally. Wally looks at Marty.
“What’s the magic word?” Wally smirks. Marty gives him a confused look, before swatting him in the shoulder. “Fuck you, man, just order the fucking shit!” Marty huffs out a laugh, with Wally cackling like someone’s fifty year old mama in the passenger side seat. )
His unibrow is straight, set above these dead looking eyes.
“Stop sitting in my car looking weird. Fuck is wrong with you?” Wally sips from his shake. Marty rolls his eyes, shoving some more fries in his gullet. Bless his metabolism.
“Mmhh w’f.”
“Bitch, swallow.”
Marty obeys, the fries going down his throat in a lump. He repeats himself through an empty mouth this time, “Rachel got married to Ira.” The words sound like they hurt coming out of his mouth.
“..So? You weren’t trying to settle down, my boy! Didn’t you tell her that?” A beat. Wally looks over to him, “You did, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I fucking told her.” Marty sighs, hands raking over his face, “I can’t fuck her anymore, man. We had to sneak it while they got set up by her fuckin’ Orthodox parents, but she told me off this morning. No more quickies or anything anymore. I can’t even eat her pussy, Wally.”
Marty huffs, rubbing his temple with damp fingers. “I went to play with the amateurs this morning and guess what, man? I fucked up every play I made. I lost five dollars at 1 in the afternoon, I had to run down the block to go BACK to work at 1:30 and I couldn’t fuckin’ focus there either! Spaced out my entire shift-I’m going through pussy withdrawal!”
“Hey, you shouldn’t talk about your girl like that, Mouse.” Wally says, deadpan.
“She’s not my girl, Walls’.” Marty stiffens.
“And that’s a problem for you?”
“I don’t know, man.” He sighs.
“Look,” Wally sips from his shake again, setting it down in a cup holder after he sucks and nothing comes out. “Mouse, you’ve got the PP. You’re married to the PP.”
“Don’t call ping pong the PP, Wally. That’s fucking disgusting.” Marty grumbles, “And I’m not married to ping pong, I’m married to table tennis.”
“Semantics.” Wally nabs a fry from Marty’s bag while he's distracted.
“It's actually an important distinction, Wally,” Marty starts.
“I guess, little bro.” Wally chews and the other man gestures to him. “..TT.”
“Shut the fuck up. Look- See, you're a ping pong player, right? You do it, and you're /great/, but your main area of focus is being a taxi cab driver.” Wally chuckles. Marty points to himself, “But me? Table Tennis is my purpose. I’ve done it forever and I’ll never stop.”
“I’ve seen you sell shoes, though. You could sell your way out of a zip tie and a ball gag.” Wally finishes Marty’s fries, and starts to fold the paper bag down into squares.
“—Because I don't want to be at the corner of 78th and 79th street living in a box and shitting in my bare hands. Those people? They hate my guts, they don't believe in my dreams!” He looks up toward Wally, gesticulating. He's got this wild affection in his eyes, coupled with mania. “Rachel didn't believe in me. You believe in me. You always have.”
“It’s cool, mouse- Don't be weird. You know I got a wife ‘n shit..” Wally teases with a wide, gap-toothed smirk, earning an eye roll from Marty.
“Doesn't she have a boyfriend, too?” Marty asks, obviously trying to stab Wally between the ribs to get at him.
“Yeah, but she loves me — and our kids. I don't really give a fuck what bullshit she do, as long as she gets home safe.” He sets the folded bag in the middle console. “Now, if you want to talk about boyfriends, lil’ boy-”
“Oh, c’mon, Wally—”
“I’m SAYING you shouldn't be mad if Rachel’s got Ira’s dick in her mouth. That's her husband.”
Marty scoffs, “Well, for all I know, you could be suckin’ and fuckin’ your wife’s boyfriend too, Wally. What the fuck do I know about anything, right?”
Wally stills, like he's been caught, and slumps back in the driver's seat. An overwhelming silence fills the taxi cab.
Marty buffers in real time. He clearly had done something. But.. Wally couldn't have- Wally wasn't.. Well, from what he had seen, Wally wasn't..
If two plus two is four..
He claps his hands together, “Wally.”
“I’m driving you home, mouse.” Wally rubs over his face with a large hand, digging in his pockets for his car keys.
Panic fills Marty’s expression. “You're drivin’- Wally, hey, no! It was just a little fuckin’ around! I don't think you're a faggot, okay?”
Wally’s head snaps to Marty, “Motherfuck- I don't care about being a faggot! You disrespected me, you disrespected my wife-”
“But was I wrong?” Marty bats his eyelashes.
“I’m gonna hop over this console and twist you into knots, man, I swear to fuck-” Brown hands pad over corduroy pockets. “The fuck are my keys?!”
“I mean you’d like me in a couple different positions, seeing as you're.. you know?”
Wally blinks. Marty’s still smirking.
A beat.
“..Marty, that's really gay.”
“It's a joke. Satire.”
“Asking me to fuck you is satire?”
Marty shrugs. “Sounds like you don't want it to be.”
Where are they right now? In hell? Is this hell? The grand frontier?
Marty slaps a hand on Wally’s shoulder, watching the other man’s thick brows furrow in disbelief, watching invisible equations – probabilities — fly past his dome. Wally could only think one thing: “This motherfucker ain’t serious.”
Thin lips twist into a triangle, Marty’s other hand moves in erratic bursts when he fires off at the mouth, “I mean, you could fuck me. Just to see.”
“Bitch-” Wally starts.
“I’m straight and you’re straight, apparently, so it’s not weird. I fingered my ass in the shower sometimes – to keep it clean. Like, I have a bidet at my.. my place, and I don't understand how people are able to live without one. Used mine before I got here, actually.”
The sound of a zipper unzipping is how Marty knows he's got it in the bag. He can feel his mouth get wetter at the sight of the sizable tent in Wally’s khaki pants, straining and aching against the thin fabric.
He's not gay but he can only imagine how it must look out in the open, Wally’s cock. Marty’s gaze trails up from the dick, up to the other man’s slack jaw and widened brown eyes.
“Well?” Marty tilts his head, hands clasped in his lap.
___
After making Wally come once with his mouth, he's hypnotized. Dickmatized, if you will.
Marty loves being good at things, obviously, but.. holy fucking shit.
12am. The sound of gurgling fills the backseat of the taxi cab. The car rocks lightly with the weight of the two moving like how they were.
“Breathe out your nose, c’mon.. Make me come again, bitchass-” Wally’s grunting in sporadic spurts as he shoves Marty down by the hair to take more of his throbbing dick between the lips, the shorter man’s eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. “Fuck, Marty- You- You suck dick before this? Holy fuck-” The taller man whimpers, but Marty’s too caught up to snark back now. It all feels so.. reinvigorating.
It felt like training at 5 in the morning, rushing to plow pussy next to a thousand different shoe boxes, winning all of his junior competitions in high school and choosing not to go to college because he's so- fucking good- at table tennis... Hitting those- ping pong balls- fuck, he can smell them-
Nope. Fuck that. Can't keep that up anymore. Fuck, he's so fucking good for Wally.. He’s gotta be.
Marty’s overcome with a strong sense of tranquility. The smell of raw dick had to be equivalent to Nirvana for some people, right?
Marty loved it, at least.. Marty loved.. Oh, fuck, what did he love?
He’s too fucked out to think about it, tongue sliding up and down the sharp veins of Wally’s girth. When the taller man let the grip on his hair go, he took it upon himself to lick up what precome he could: Something he picked up from Rachel when they first began hooking up. This was so he could blow a few filthy, pale white cum bubbles against Wally’s brown-red colored tip.
At the sound of a deep, raspy groan, Marty giggles, inhaling all the musk he could manage before he’s back to bobbing his head on that good- Amazing dick.
Fuck, he's a faggot- He doesn't care anymore- He just needs it.
Popping his head off of Wally, he wraps a hand around him and strokes with the speed of a top tier racehorse. “Come on- Come on my- My tongue-” Marty slaps his cock against it, pressing a kiss to the tip, “Come on my tongue and I’ll- I’ll fuckin’ let you pound my ass. I don't care, Wally. I want you to pump me full of- full of your kids-”
His strokes get faster when Wally slaps a hand over his mouth, barely muffling his guttural groans, “I just want you to come. Please let me have it. I- I can't- I’ve worked so hard for it, please just fuckin’ come-”
But Wally’s still not giving, so Marty opts for the easy thing: Taking the man all the way to the hilt. His balls smelled so sweet, mingling dangerously with the fading scent of fast food in the car’s air.
His eyes roll back without him meaning for them to. Hot air puffs out from his nose like a bull. He can feel it. Wally's gonna burst, by the sound of his moans
When he feels Wally’s warm spend pool down his throat in droves, he takes no time to lift his head up and sputter out a cough. He swallows, of course, but he has to make it look like he isn't into it at all. Marty rasps out a weak: “See? Not gay. I didn’t even cum.”
“Okay, bro.” Wally scoffs, tugging Marty up by the hair. “You wanna make good on your promise, mouse?”
That he did.
The car rocks with the urgency of Marty’s bouncing, his spit marked thighs jiggling with the urgency of Wally’s thrusts upwards. He’s mumbling something sweet into that white boy’s ear, but he can’t concentrate because the stretch of his ass is too good.
Marty feels like he’s falling apart at the seams, holding onto the backside of the driver’s seat like a vice.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” He squeaks when Wally kisses a line of slobber up his acne-filled bumpy neck. The tip of the taller man’s dick kisses a certain spot inside him so well that he sees stars.
His spindly, thin hips move like they’re automatic, rolling in a set of quick motions. It won’t be long until he comes, he can tell, “Wally- Wally-”
Wally nods into his skin, guiding him down onto his length. “I know- I got you, mouse- You’re doing so well-”
It’s that phrase that makes Marty shoot thick ropes between his and Wally’s stomachs, huffing hot air against the car window. Wally catches Marty’s lips in a searing kiss, their tongues briefly making contact, before a line of spit is the only thing connecting their lips.
Marty breathes against his mouth, “Straight as a line.”
Wally pats Marty’s soft, perky asscheek, smiling when Marty loosens on his dick. “As long as you know it, mouse.”