With one hand, Marcus pulls down the brim of his hat; with the other he holds his side like he has a stitch. He’s not limping, exactly, but there’s a definite arrythmic stutter to his gait. It doesn’t slow him down. He curls his lip, tucks his chin into his chest, and keeps on going. Until, paused on a corner, he makes the mistake of looking. His black shirt hides the stain but when he peels his hand away it’s red.
It’s not the blood that makes his head swim; he’s familiar enough with that. It’s the sudden incontrovertible proof that he should be in serious pain. He sees it and then all the adrenalin abandons him and he is. It’s a nasty, gnawing, spreading pain, makes him weak at the knees and tight in the chest. “Oh, come on,” he pants, teeth gritted as he sags back.
“Nice digs,” Marcus says. He’s looking at the person who’s just walked in, but he’s holding one of their books. It’s open. His fingernails are grimy and he’s leaving faint graphite smudges on the pages. “Bad lock.” He smiles all crooked and disarming and a little bit knowing; other than that slight challenge on his face, he seems fairly set on acting like he hasn’t just been caught breaking and entering. He snaps the book closed and waves it. “Great reading. Need to have a chat, you and me.”
She's coming in from school, still carrying her bookbag, when she realizes what's happened. Not that her door is normally locked; she must have done it accidentally on her way out. Though, maybe it was never locked, and Marcus is playing her. Effy scoffs, lips curling in disgust. Does he honestly think he can waltz in, no problem, and get his sticky fingers on her things? Yes, obviously. That's one of her favorite books, too, not that she's touched it recently.
"Great. Trying to play father figure? It's not going to work," she says, beelining for the kitchen, past the living room (and him), to drop her bag onto one of the chairs. She doesn't have time for this, she would rather be somewhere else right now. She had only come home to drop things off, but apparently, that plan is completely out the door, along with her locks. She'll have to call someone about that, but she won't for a long time.
She opens the refrigerator to pull out some mango juice and grabs a glass from the dish rack, waiting for Marcus to, predictably, follow her.
"Trying? Now, I resent that. I've been a father for forty years, give or take. Got some good practice in." Capital-F Father. Avoiding the question. Hands in his pockets, he follows her, just like she expects him to, after putting down the book in question.
The mango juice is severely depleted. "Good stuff, that. You planning on looking me in the eye at some point?"
She rolls her eyes in an exaggerated manner as she sits down at the table, pouring herself a glass. She doesn't bother getting Marcus a glass, he's a big boy, he can get one himself. She's not pressing on the father subject anymore, she doesn't want to know what his parenting skills are like honestly.
With a sigh, she meets his eyes defiantly. She's given her mother this exact-same look, on more than one occasion. She's too smart for her mother, as far as she knows, anyway. Her mum knows more about her than she lets on. "What do you want?" she asks, bringing the cup to her lips for a sip.
Will teaches. That makes — some sense? Marcus can imagine him lecturing, definitely. Pastoral support, maybe less so. Mind you, most of his mental image of Will involves him shivering and wrapped in a borrowed duvet. Marcus is really fairly pleased that he has a life outside of looking at crime scenes and turning up blue with cold on strangers' doorsteps.
He prowls around the desk, noses through files. None of them are pleasant to look at. One in particular makes him wince and put the file away. It's harder, much harder, to look at what humans do to each other than to see the carnage a demon can leave. He can do something about the latter. The former — that makes him feel helpless.
He's in Will's chair when Will comes in, face hidden behind the file on this case — the one Marcus has decided to be involved in. The one God has decided to get Marcus involved in. Same difference. "So," he says. "You've got a suspect. Laura Ventrelli, 54, disappeared along with her five dogs three weeks ago. Says here that fur found at her house matches fur at the scene." He drops the file. "That's weird, though, innit? Three weeks, just gone, dogs and all?"
Which is an important thing to note. Not all cases bring a lot of work. Some bring dead ends; no witnesses to talk to, no friends of the deceased, no surviving family members. Madelyn Rush, 29, had had plenty of commentary from neighbors, coworkers, and friends to sift through - and that was aside from what the crime scene screamed.
And what visitors to the crime scene had whispered.
Will's working on four hours of sleep and three cups of coffee by the time he's heading back into his office after his last class. He's coming to pick up his jacket and his case files, everything else already in his laptop bag.
So he startles right back into his own now-closed office door when a voice speaks. His elbow is a tea kettle-shriek of protest at the contact, and Will absolutely would've dropped his bag if it wasn't over his shoulder and not relying on his hand, which is now on the point of his hip that's noticeably bare of a firearm. Because he's at school, and not in the field.
"It is weird." Will agrees, slowly unfolding from what he would deny was panic. "That might be why the FBI is working on it." Fear, rude. It just goes together.
Will approaches the desk quickly, stops just barely short of Marcus sitting in his chair. "Looking for new career options?" Will doesn't snatch the file back, seeing as Marcus has already dropped the thing, but he does pull it back towards himself, glance at it without opening it again. The images are burned into his eyes by now - he doesn't have to flip through it to remember what it is Marcus must have just seen.
Edited (i changed my mind about pacing, and this is why i shouldn't reply to things past 11:30p) 2018-02-21 16:28 (UTC)
Marcus gives Will a big, no-holds-barred grin that says I saw all of that and leans back in his chair. Will snapping at him doesn't rile him at all. In fact, he snickers appreciatively.
"In the FBI, or as a murderer? Cos neither appeal, frankly." He leans on the desk, settles his elbows there. Chin on his hands, he surveys Will with a kind of thoughtful stare. He's trying to work out when the best time to drop the exorcist bombshell might be. If there's a best time at all. If he should say it at all. He's tempted to, and he's suspicion of his own temptation. "Thought I'd check in. See if you'd gotten anywhere. Make sure you're not down with the flu."
He was hoping, in fact, to be proven wrong. Was hoping to find something in the case files that would satisfy him that this has no demonic significance whatsoever. His hopes, however, have come to nothing.
A rattler. Will's dealt with plenty of those. He sighs and half-sits at the edge of his desk while Marcus speaks, crosses his arms tight and takes stock of the actual room. Nothing is horrendously out of place, but now that he knows to look, Will can see markers of the search that went on prior to this. A drawer fully closed when he'd carelessly left it half-open earlier, his pens shifted to the side because they'd shuddered over with the motion of the desk drawer getting dragged out.
He'd been poking around for those files. Will cares less about the law-breaking and more about the missing motive. He can see it - that human desire to know what happened - but there's a step missing in between, and the wind gasping up from that gap keeps distracting him.
Will stares at him and now, with that face reminding him of a night spent staring at pictures of Jesus and a scribbled-in Bible, Will thinks of the mysterious fibers that had appeared the second day of the crime scene mapping, thinks of the way the door hadn't been forced when that happened, either.
"You. You were-- you contaminated the crime scene." Will's face twists with the realization but then smooths with blank, expectant dread, this next question more important than the accusation of a felony: "What were you looking for?”
Will shifts forward again now, coming back off his desk, standing very close to Marcus sitting in his chair. His voice lowers. “What are you hoping you’ll find?”
i can’t add much to that except to agree that we were probably both being more assholeish than usual
[ It feels like bad form to say Marcus didn’t deserve it, when they both know they were probably each a little glad for the excuse for deeper anger to well over, but over text the silence on it feels damning instead of relieving. ]
did anyone actually ask what happened, or just give you a wide berth and a disappointed stare?
[The sheer relief of not getting into an 'I deserved it'-'no you didn't' tug of war actually makes Marcus laugh a little bit. He relaxes, just a little. Fine, good. That feels like enough processing and an invitation to move on.]
latter, sort of. priest asked if I wanted to make confession. I told him it was a mugging. he looked horrified. I had to clarify I meant /I got mugged/
ain't going back there for sure. judgemental bastard. not to mention his homily was too bloody long
[It's been a few weeks. Marcus gets busy sometimes, and Midnighter knows he needs a break. People need breaks. You can't just stick your nose in their business all the time and expect good to come of it. And they both have very active professional lives, so Midnighter waits.]
[He can be patient.]
[He can be patient to a point. After a month and a little bit (during which he communicates a little, but it's rarely meaningful), he sends a picture.]
[It's... a selfie, in a sense. It's certainly Midnighter's naked torso, and a little of his face, just enough to catch a sharp, confident grin. The picture starts there, and ends on Midnighter's free hand (his occupied hand is obviously taking the picture while he lays back in bed) wrapped around his cock, hard and flushed and leaking precum over his stomach.]
[Distantly before he sends it, he hopes Marcus doesn't get it at an awkward moment. Eh, no victory for the cautious, or... however that saying goes.] thinking of u
[Marcus is waiting on a black coffee from a busy kiosk when his phone pings, and he smiles to see the number flash up (he never saves names, but those digits make him happy).
Probably it’s sappy and obvious, he thinks with a mix of irritation and delight, probably anyone looking at him could see he just got a text from someone he cares about. He opens the message:
“Black filter,” snaps the barista, shoving the coffee onto the counter. “Next please, hello. Sir, your coffee. That’s yours.”
Marcus swallows, his throat suddenly scratchy and his face extremely hot, and grabs the too -hot coffee cup as quick as he can.
Even with the picture frantically closed (oh sweet God there were other people in line) his phone feels like it’s burning in his pocket. And his heart is staccato against his sternum.
Can you die from being turned on too much too quickly? Probably. Feels like vertigo, like he has no idea which way’s up, feels actually a little painful. Jesus Christ, he always thought it was going to be demons that would get him, not an over-eager, super-human, inexplicably gentle, absolutely gorgeous man who for some unknowable reason is interested in him.
It’s a good few minutes before Marcus realises he’s set off in a random direction and is now stamping around lost. He retraces his steps. He also realises then that he hasn’t responded. That if that picture was taken just now, then Midnighter might be waiting on a response as he strokes himself, thick, flushed cock leaking as — ]
Midnighter has, in the midst of this, gotten off, gotten a distress call, and is now in the middle of suiting up for some intergalactic bullshit. He hears his phone ping, and almost ignores it, except he remembers with a flash what he was just doing and-
Marcus is staying in a convent. This is fine, and preferable to a motel because the nuns give him bed and board for free, but there’s nothing quite like accidentally making eye contact with the Virgin Mary on the wall while you try and get your jeans unzipped.
His phone beeps again and he grabs it anxiously, toes curling in hot, heady anticipation. Which immediately flickers out. He exhales in frustration and lobs the phone to the end of the bed.
After a moment, he snaps, “Oh, shut it,” at Mary on the wall, and reclaims it.
fine be careful
There. That’s not childish or frustrated or needy. Right?
Mary’s still staring at him. She looks disappointed. He glares at her and rolls over onto his stomach so he doesn’t have to see.
As advertised, three days later, Midnighter sends another photo. He knows they left things on bad terms last time, he knows it's mostly his fault, but he doesn't really know how to apologize. He just knows he misses Marcus like a palpable ache, and he wants to reach out to him somehow. And they agreed on this. It's got to be okay, right?
So Midnighter sends another picture. It's more focused on his dick this time, because that's the major organ he's thinking with at the moment. Flushed and hard, it's ignored in favor of his hand sliding back behind his thighs, hidden at the angle he's taken the photo. Essentially, it's clear he's fingering himself.
Marcus' phone is crap, an secondhand off-brand attempt at a smartphone that cost him very little but can at least take and view pictures. The text comes through first, however, buzzing at his hip, and he starts a little and smiles, fondness and sadness and relief unfurling in his chest.
It hasn't felt right, not talking to Midnighter. Not that he's been intentionally silent, he just hasn't known what to say. He upset him last time, was stupid and reckless, and then they'd been snappy with each other and then he'd had to work, the dull, sick, sad certainty that he'd fucked up sitting heavy and familiar in his chest. Like a rock behind his ribcage.
The text is awkward, and sweet. Marcus gets ready to say I missed you.
And then the picture loads, and lots of things happen at once in Marcus' brain and body: his breath hitches, he actually looks away. Angry embarrassment makes a flush darken down his neck. Of course Midnighter was just talking about sex. But the immediate flare of arousal, so sudden and sharp it almost hurts, doesn't know anything about the sting of disappointment.
He has to leave the phone on the motel bed for a few seconds. He's packing away his stuff, getting ready to check out. He makes an aborted move to the bathroom, thinking he'll splash his face with water, but then he stops, and goes back to the phone, and the picture, and looks at it properly. Looks at the angle of Midnighter's hand, the line of — Jesus Christ, the line of his cock. Looking feels indecent, but Midnighter wants him to look.
He doesn't know what to say back. He remembers last time, how he couldn't get a chance to respond properly before Midnighter had to go. He should say something. Something that isn't as pathetic as I miss you, can't we just talk or as speechless as oh my God or as absolutely unthinkable as turn over and let me see you finger yourself properly. All of which are things he wants to say.
what would you do if I was
There. Cautious. Clever. Doesn't put him in the vulnerable position of having to admit his own desires.
He's such a coward, Marcus thinks, dropping back on the bed and biting down on his lip, staring at the ceiling.
Oh, cute. When did Marcus learn to be cute about this shit? Midnighter, still naked in bed, rolls over and groans. He was hoping for more of last time. He was hoping, he realizes, for a reset. A second chance.
Rolling over hurts. His wound is still healing, a dark, ugly, scarred bruise on both sides of his chest. No more gauze or bandaging needed, just the upscale nature of his body taking its course. He won't die, he'll get better, he just has to be annoyingly careful for a while.
Rolling over hurts, but he stays rolled over. Most things hurt. He knows what he's capable of.
Honesty. Sometimes he's capable of that.
cute
id love to say i want you to get over here and fuck me because i do i really fucking do but im still a little torn up for that
For a moment, Marcus thinks Midnighter means that he wants Marcus to come over, and Marcus hesitates: he needs to be on his way soon enough, if he goes over he'll want to stay the night, and...
And that's not what Midnighter is asking for, is it. He blinks, and then, aloud, he says, "Jesus Christ," and throws his arm over his eyes. Jesus Christ, he's an idiot. Of course Midnighter wants some quid-pro-quo, there's an element of exchange here he hadn't anticipated purely because — hell, who'd want pictures of him?
He's half hard in his jeans from the pictures, from the idea of fucking Midnighter, from the idea of taking pictures of himself. And there's still a complicated, messy feeling in his chest: he wants more than this, trading pictures like teenagers, but also isn't it nice, shouldn't he be grateful for it even when it's not perfect?
I don't know what you want
True enough, in all regards. But another coward's response. Marcus huffs and gnaws his lip and — fine. He'll at least try. His fingers are trembling a little on the phone as he flicks to the camera, and he...tries. Grips himself through his jeans, tries not to think about what he's doing as he takes a few pictures of the shape of his cock through the denim and then...doesn't send them.
Defeated, he decides to just throw down the phone and wait.
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It’s not the blood that makes his head swim; he’s familiar enough with that. It’s the sudden incontrovertible proof that he should be in serious pain. He sees it and then all the adrenalin abandons him and he is. It’s a nasty, gnawing, spreading pain, makes him weak at the knees and tight in the chest. “Oh, come on,” he pants, teeth gritted as he sags back.
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c: hope this is works for you bb
"Great. Trying to play father figure? It's not going to work," she says, beelining for the kitchen, past the living room (and him), to drop her bag onto one of the chairs. She doesn't have time for this, she would rather be somewhere else right now. She had only come home to drop things off, but apparently, that plan is completely out the door, along with her locks. She'll have to call someone about that, but she won't for a long time.
She opens the refrigerator to pull out some mango juice and grabs a glass from the dish rack, waiting for Marcus to, predictably, follow her.
ahhh perfection
The mango juice is severely depleted. "Good stuff, that. You planning on looking me in the eye at some point?"
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With a sigh, she meets his eyes defiantly. She's given her mother this exact-same look, on more than one occasion. She's too smart for her mother, as far as she knows, anyway. Her mum knows more about her than she lets on. "What do you want?" she asks, bringing the cup to her lips for a sip.
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He prowls around the desk, noses through files. None of them are pleasant to look at. One in particular makes him wince and put the file away. It's harder, much harder, to look at what humans do to each other than to see the carnage a demon can leave. He can do something about the latter. The former — that makes him feel helpless.
He's in Will's chair when Will comes in, face hidden behind the file on this case — the one Marcus has decided to be involved in. The one God has decided to get Marcus involved in. Same difference. "So," he says. "You've got a suspect. Laura Ventrelli, 54, disappeared along with her five dogs three weeks ago. Says here that fur found at her house matches fur at the scene." He drops the file. "That's weird, though, innit? Three weeks, just gone, dogs and all?"
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Which is an important thing to note. Not all cases bring a lot of work. Some bring dead ends; no witnesses to talk to, no friends of the deceased, no surviving family members. Madelyn Rush, 29, had had plenty of commentary from neighbors, coworkers, and friends to sift through - and that was aside from what the crime scene screamed.
And what visitors to the crime scene had whispered.
Will's working on four hours of sleep and three cups of coffee by the time he's heading back into his office after his last class. He's coming to pick up his jacket and his case files, everything else already in his laptop bag.
So he startles right back into his own now-closed office door when a voice speaks. His elbow is a tea kettle-shriek of protest at the contact, and Will absolutely would've dropped his bag if it wasn't over his shoulder and not relying on his hand, which is now on the point of his hip that's noticeably bare of a firearm. Because he's at school, and not in the field.
"It is weird." Will agrees, slowly unfolding from what he would deny was panic. "That might be why the FBI is working on it." Fear, rude. It just goes together.
Will approaches the desk quickly, stops just barely short of Marcus sitting in his chair. "Looking for new career options?" Will doesn't snatch the file back, seeing as Marcus has already dropped the thing, but he does pull it back towards himself, glance at it without opening it again. The images are burned into his eyes by now - he doesn't have to flip through it to remember what it is Marcus must have just seen.
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"In the FBI, or as a murderer? Cos neither appeal, frankly." He leans on the desk, settles his elbows there. Chin on his hands, he surveys Will with a kind of thoughtful stare. He's trying to work out when the best time to drop the exorcist bombshell might be. If there's a best time at all. If he should say it at all. He's tempted to, and he's suspicion of his own temptation. "Thought I'd check in. See if you'd gotten anywhere. Make sure you're not down with the flu."
He was hoping, in fact, to be proven wrong. Was hoping to find something in the case files that would satisfy him that this has no demonic significance whatsoever. His hopes, however, have come to nothing.
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He'd been poking around for those files. Will cares less about the law-breaking and more about the missing motive. He can see it - that human desire to know what happened - but there's a step missing in between, and the wind gasping up from that gap keeps distracting him.
Will stares at him and now, with that face reminding him of a night spent staring at pictures of Jesus and a scribbled-in Bible, Will thinks of the mysterious fibers that had appeared the second day of the crime scene mapping, thinks of the way the door hadn't been forced when that happened, either.
"You. You were-- you contaminated the crime scene." Will's face twists with the realization but then smooths with blank, expectant dread, this next question more important than the accusation of a felony: "What were you looking for?”
Will shifts forward again now, coming back off his desk, standing very close to Marcus sitting in his chair. His voice lowers. “What are you hoping you’ll find?”
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OH MY GOD I thought all this time I'd tagged back
tfln overspill / will graham
it's fine. eye & morals, both fine. honestly I don't remember much of what I said but I know I was pressing your buttons. not accidentally either. so
probably deserved
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[ It feels like bad form to say Marcus didn’t deserve it, when they both know they were probably each a little glad for the excuse for deeper anger to well over, but over text the silence on it feels damning instead of relieving. ]
did anyone actually ask what happened, or just give you a wide berth and a disappointed stare?
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latter, sort of. priest asked if I wanted to make confession. I told him it was a mugging. he looked horrified. I had to clarify I meant /I got mugged/
ain't going back there for sure. judgemental bastard. not to mention his homily was too bloody long
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i guess it’s out of the question to say ‘hi’ to him after mass next Sunday, maybe around 10pm in a dark alley?
i think everything in church feels too long, but then i’ve never really gone for the right reasons
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hi i missed them.
https://thumbs.gfycat.com/UnitedZestyBergerpicard-max-1mb.gif
https://tinyurl.com/ybdfdwvo
asdlkj
what's wrong with it?
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do u wanna continue to non-text? or we could skip forward to travelling together
lets skip to traveling ive exhausted my car knowledge for 2day
i can't fucken drive so you could say absolutely whatever tbh
fingerguns, signs blood pact, etc.
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good morning (its morning in england right).
[He can be patient.]
[He can be patient to a point. After a month and a little bit (during which he communicates a little, but it's rarely meaningful), he sends a picture.]
[It's... a selfie, in a sense. It's certainly Midnighter's naked torso, and a little of his face, just enough to catch a sharp, confident grin. The picture starts there, and ends on Midnighter's free hand (his occupied hand is obviously taking the picture while he lays back in bed) wrapped around his cock, hard and flushed and leaking precum over his stomach.]
[Distantly before he sends it, he hopes Marcus doesn't get it at an awkward moment. Eh, no victory for the cautious, or... however that saying goes.]
thinking of u
sure is!! also: lmfao
Probably it’s sappy and obvious, he thinks with a mix of irritation and delight, probably anyone looking at him could see he just got a text from someone he cares about. He opens the message:
“Black filter,” snaps the barista, shoving the coffee onto the counter. “Next please, hello. Sir, your coffee. That’s yours.”
Marcus swallows, his throat suddenly scratchy and his face extremely hot, and grabs the too -hot coffee cup as quick as he can.
Even with the picture frantically closed (oh sweet God there were other people in line) his phone feels like it’s burning in his pocket. And his heart is staccato against his sternum.
Can you die from being turned on too much too quickly? Probably. Feels like vertigo, like he has no idea which way’s up, feels actually a little painful. Jesus Christ, he always thought it was going to be demons that would get him, not an over-eager, super-human, inexplicably gentle, absolutely gorgeous man who for some unknowable reason is interested in him.
It’s a good few minutes before Marcus realises he’s set off in a random direction and is now stamping around lost. He retraces his steps. He also realises then that he hasn’t responded. That if that picture was taken just now, then Midnighter might be waiting on a response as he strokes himself, thick, flushed cock leaking as — ]
in public give me 10 mns jesus your beautiful
also u asked for h/c and im here 2 deliver.
fuck sorry i gotta go
be back in like a week
omg what a treat
His phone beeps again and he grabs it anxiously, toes curling in hot, heady anticipation. Which immediately flickers out. He exhales in frustration and lobs the phone to the end of the bed.
After a moment, he snaps, “Oh, shut it,” at Mary on the wall, and reclaims it.
fine be careful
There. That’s not childish or frustrated or needy. Right?
Mary’s still staring at him. She looks disappointed. He glares at her and rolls over onto his stomach so he doesn’t have to see.
that tag made me crack tf up omfg.
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uh also warning for gore but ive watched ur exorcist show so i hope this is ok???
ahaha YEAH it's all good I love a body horror
laughs ok ur in good company.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQo1HIcSVtg
thx for that earworm.
its always playing in my head
Re: its always playing in my head
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So Midnighter sends another picture. It's more focused on his dick this time, because that's the major organ he's thinking with at the moment. Flushed and hard, it's ignored in favor of his hand sliding back behind his thighs, hidden at the angle he's taken the photo. Essentially, it's clear he's fingering himself.
He's a fucking artist, thanks.
wish u were here
i wrote you a short story about dick pics
It hasn't felt right, not talking to Midnighter. Not that he's been intentionally silent, he just hasn't known what to say. He upset him last time, was stupid and reckless, and then they'd been snappy with each other and then he'd had to work, the dull, sick, sad certainty that he'd fucked up sitting heavy and familiar in his chest. Like a rock behind his ribcage.
The text is awkward, and sweet. Marcus gets ready to say I missed you.
And then the picture loads, and lots of things happen at once in Marcus' brain and body: his breath hitches, he actually looks away. Angry embarrassment makes a flush darken down his neck. Of course Midnighter was just talking about sex. But the immediate flare of arousal, so sudden and sharp it almost hurts, doesn't know anything about the sting of disappointment.
He has to leave the phone on the motel bed for a few seconds. He's packing away his stuff, getting ready to check out. He makes an aborted move to the bathroom, thinking he'll splash his face with water, but then he stops, and goes back to the phone, and the picture, and looks at it properly. Looks at the angle of Midnighter's hand, the line of — Jesus Christ, the line of his cock. Looking feels indecent, but Midnighter wants him to look.
He doesn't know what to say back. He remembers last time, how he couldn't get a chance to respond properly before Midnighter had to go. He should say something. Something that isn't as pathetic as I miss you, can't we just talk or as speechless as oh my God or as absolutely unthinkable as turn over and let me see you finger yourself properly. All of which are things he wants to say.
what would you do if I was
There. Cautious. Clever. Doesn't put him in the vulnerable position of having to admit his own desires.
He's such a coward, Marcus thinks, dropping back on the bed and biting down on his lip, staring at the ceiling.
truly #blessed
Rolling over hurts. His wound is still healing, a dark, ugly, scarred bruise on both sides of his chest. No more gauze or bandaging needed, just the upscale nature of his body taking its course. He won't die, he'll get better, he just has to be annoyingly careful for a while.
Rolling over hurts, but he stays rolled over. Most things hurt. He knows what he's capable of.
Honesty. Sometimes he's capable of that.
cute
id love to say i want you to get over here and fuck me
because i do
i really fucking do
but im still a little torn up for that
i wanna see you
let me see you?
please
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And that's not what Midnighter is asking for, is it. He blinks, and then, aloud, he says, "Jesus Christ," and throws his arm over his eyes. Jesus Christ, he's an idiot. Of course Midnighter wants some quid-pro-quo, there's an element of exchange here he hadn't anticipated purely because — hell, who'd want pictures of him?
He's half hard in his jeans from the pictures, from the idea of fucking Midnighter, from the idea of taking pictures of himself. And there's still a complicated, messy feeling in his chest: he wants more than this, trading pictures like teenagers, but also isn't it nice, shouldn't he be grateful for it even when it's not perfect?
I don't know what you want
True enough, in all regards. But another coward's response. Marcus huffs and gnaws his lip and — fine. He'll at least try. His fingers are trembling a little on the phone as he flicks to the camera, and he...tries. Grips himself through his jeans, tries not to think about what he's doing as he takes a few pictures of the shape of his cock through the denim and then...doesn't send them.
Defeated, he decides to just throw down the phone and wait.
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