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.
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.