"Yeah..." Midnighter scratches his head, a gesture he wouldn't normally allow himself, but no one's there to see it. "Yeah, I was worried about that, too. But, hey, looks like we are?"
Now, that was just sad. Midnighter sighs. "I interrupting something?"
"No," Marcus says, which is the truth, but he says it so embarrassingly urgently — don't go — that it sounds almost frantic. He grimaces, rubs his face. "No, you really ain't. Uh — "
And then he laughs. More of that tension unwinding. "Jesus — wait. Sorry. We both thought we were avoiding each other? So we both decided to avoid each other back?" That's stupid. That's incredible, bad movie stupid. The corners of his mouth tremble into a broad, fondly exasperated smile. It comes across in his voice. "I was — I had to work, but I was...thinking about you."
"I didn't wanna bother-" he starts defensively, curled up in bed alone with an extremely lonely hardon, before he hears the warmth in Marcus' voice. He can imagine his smile, the way his face crinkles up in pleasure, before immediately trying to hide his happiness. He misses that. It's been three fucking days, and he misses that.
Midnighter's tone is fond in answer, "I usually hibernate this shit out, the healing thing, but I-" He sighs. "Haven't been able to sleep. Thinking about you the whole fucking time."
And this is stupidly needy, but- "sure I can't have a picture?"
“Sweetheart,” Marcus murmurs, closing his eyes: a bit chiding, a bit overcome. Midnighter was losing sleep over him? The idea is as worrying as it is flattering.
Just like the idea of taking pictures. “Never said you couldn’t,” Marcus says, slow and a little tentative. “Just...never done that.”
His mouth is dry. He has to wait for a moment before he gets out, “Tell me what you wanna see.”
"Yeah, that's... my stupid mistake." He sighs. "Keep forgetting. Look, don't do anything you don't wanna. I just realized I don't got any pictures of you. At all." He sighs, deflating a little.
He wants to explain that he gets lonely easily, but every way he can think to phrase it makes him sound like the overbearing creature he's trying desperately not to be. He wants to explain that most people find it more acceptable to reach out for sex than companionship, so he's switched modes more than once.
Instead, he says, "you're smiling. I can hear it."
"...Yeah, guess I am." Voice curled at the edge with his smile. What do you need pictures of me for, he wants to ask — but can he talk? He's put sketches from memory of Midnighter in the margins of every piece of paper he's come across recently. He'd put away the idea while they weren't speaking, but now he can revisit it: he wants to draw him, properly, from life, take his time and enjoy it.
He opens his mouth to explain, it's mortifying to take a picture of himself like he thinks he's worth it, but — Midnighter sounds a little sad. Quick, before he can think better of it, he lets that faint, fond smile cross his face again and takes a picture. Not of his whole face: that feels easier, no need to worry about feigning eye contact. He angles it so it's the bottom of his face, his smile, his neck and shoulders, the triangle of bare skin exposed by his undone top buttons. And he sends it before he can look at it too long. And says, "Don't laugh, alright."
Midnighter gets the grainy, low res photo, and somehow that makes it even more exciting. It's fucking stupid that this goes straight to his cock, but he's already got himself worked up, and, well, fuck. He doesn't laugh, but a whine escapes his throat, and the pacing and tenor of his voice makes it increasingly obvious he's pleasuring himself as he speaks. "Tease," he says, all to fond. "Love how you always-" a muffled groan- "leave that little bit of shirt open. I was there, I'd, hah, I'd kiss it. All the way down. Show you- show you how I missed you."
That little whine makes Marcus' breath catch, and he swallows hard. He did that. Midnighter's groaning and gasping because of him. It makes him feel possessive, fond, hot all over. His teeth catch in his lower lip.
"Show me — I guessed how much you missed me from that picture you sent." He's surprised to hear how rough his own voice sounds. Can't quite believe that he's hearing Midnighter touch himself. It seems almost frighteningly intimate, even though they're in different cities, different states. His hand slides down, pauses at the waistband of his jeans. His chest rises and falls a little quick. Soft, fast, so he can get the words out without having to think about them too much, he murmurs, "I wanna do that for you, you know. Wanna — open you up with my fingers." He can feel the flush rising in his cheeks, sudden and sharp enough to sting.
Midnighter's voice is all gasps, lit by his own pleasure. Somehow, Marcus' hesitance makes it hotter. Probably because it's Marcus, it's such a him thing to do, to rise up to the occasion full of stop-starts, but ultimately succeed. He always does it. Midnighter's proud, deeply, though he knows expressing that will only sound condescending.
Marcus gets two pictures: the first, of Midnighter's head and shoulders, throat bared, lip bitten, eyes closed. Thank fuckall he's good at multitasking. (Marcus may note that the headboard behind him is not only fixed, but completely different, and the wall is another color.)
The second photo is of his hips, half covered by a blanket, his hand disappearing beneath the sheets in an unsubtle bulge.
And then- "Fuck, I- I want that. When I'm healed, shit, yeah, let's make a day of it. I want- I want you. All of you. Do whatever you want with me. F-fucking trust you. Do whatever you w-want-"
"God, ain't you pretty." Hushed, reverent. There's the purr of a zip slowly being undone, a rustle of fabric. Marcus is stuck on the column of Midnighter's throat, all bare and arched, his head tipped back so the tendons are taut. He knows Midnighter's always thinking of vulnerabilities and advantages. He knows what he's trying to say.
"Whole day in bed, huh." Now isn't the time to tut and gently remind Midnighter of his decidedly un-superhuman stamina. Not when he wants to think about Midnighter all flushed and whining under him. Emboldened by the distance and the paradoxical closeness, Marcus rasps, "Move, move the sheets, sweetheart, when did you — ohfuck — when did you start getting coy?"
"When you did," Midnighter says, a little smug. He realizes belatedly that he's trying to coax Marcus into a proper picture, but maybe moving him into it slow is better? It doesn't feel manipulative, at least, not very much. "Tell me what you're doing- tell me and I'll move 'em."
He moves his hand over his cock and tries to imagine it's Marcus'. "Please-"
Marcus laughs, and it feels good, punctures some of his anxiety. "Bastard," he mutters, affectionate. The moment of laughter means he's a little more relaxed when Midnighter says tell me what you're doing, means he doesn't flinch from it quite so much. His breath pours out of him a sigh. The please helps, not least because it goes straight to his cock. For a second, he imagines what Midnighter might sound like or say if Marcus were inside him now, if the pitch of his voice would be harsher, if his gasps would come quicker.
He can do this. It's fine, he can close his eyes and just push the words out of his mouth, he wants to. "God," Marcus says, "uh. I'm — I've got a hand on my dick." Saying it makes him go even more scarlet, makes his hand work faster, sliding up his shaft. "I — gimme a second." There's lube in his bag, but he doesn't reach for it. Too far away. Instead, he spits on his hand to slick up his palm, takes himself in hand again. "I...I'm thinking — about you, about how much I like the noises you make when you're — yeah."
Another warm puff of affectionate laughter, like rocks being ground together. "Fuck," he says, his tone turning impressed. "And people usually say I'm too noisy. I can- I can make more noises for you, babe. Your cock is-" another whine- "three fingers at least. You- you wanna see that, baby?"
Edited (i am literally tutoring a small child in grammar.) 2018-10-10 16:55 (UTC)
Too noisy? Who the hell has told him that? Marcus can’t get enough of hearing him and he’s about to say as much but the words melt away like snow on his tongue. He groans softly instead, closes his eyes.
So Midnighter sends a picture, the camera tilted at the proper angle this time. He also provides the soundtrack, which is largely his own gasps and moans, followed by a throaty, "Fuck, I wanna feel you. When're you free? I fucking- I need you, babe, please..."
There's a delay, of course, and then Marcus receiving the picture is signalled by a quiet, dizzy, "Oh," his hand quickening on his dick as he takes in the sight greedily. He can't think for a moment, definitely can't think about scheduling. He just ends up saying:
"Soon, I. God — mn — soon, love, once you're all fixed up, I'll come take care of you. Like you said, make a day of it," the words are tumbling out of his mouth now, some dam broken, as he drops the phone to slide his other hand down to cradle his balls, his back arching up a little, "take you nice and slow, get you ready for me, Christ, and — fuck you til you're yelling darling, God, I want that..."
Midnighter's breath is coming out quick and ragged as he works himself over. Curled in, whining and gasping as he fucks himself the way he imagines Marcus would. The way he wants him to. "Please," he doesn't like begging as a general rule, but this feels more like securing a promise. "Please, fuck, that's how I- hnn- how I like it, just like- like that-"
The SmartMark network was made to carry orders from generals to soldiers across galaxies. Instead, it carries the sound of Midnighter's incoherent climax straight to Marcus' ears. A moment later he'll get a picture of Midnighter lying back in bed, grinning and relaxed, one arm thrown up over his eyes, his own come shot up over his torso.
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Now, that was just sad. Midnighter sighs. "I interrupting something?"
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And then he laughs. More of that tension unwinding. "Jesus — wait. Sorry. We both thought we were avoiding each other? So we both decided to avoid each other back?" That's stupid. That's incredible, bad movie stupid. The corners of his mouth tremble into a broad, fondly exasperated smile. It comes across in his voice. "I was — I had to work, but I was...thinking about you."
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Midnighter's tone is fond in answer, "I usually hibernate this shit out, the healing thing, but I-" He sighs. "Haven't been able to sleep. Thinking about you the whole fucking time."
And this is stupidly needy, but- "sure I can't have a picture?"
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Just like the idea of taking pictures. “Never said you couldn’t,” Marcus says, slow and a little tentative. “Just...never done that.”
His mouth is dry. He has to wait for a moment before he gets out, “Tell me what you wanna see.”
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He wants to explain that he gets lonely easily, but every way he can think to phrase it makes him sound like the overbearing creature he's trying desperately not to be. He wants to explain that most people find it more acceptable to reach out for sex than companionship, so he's switched modes more than once.
Instead, he says, "you're smiling. I can hear it."
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He opens his mouth to explain, it's mortifying to take a picture of himself like he thinks he's worth it, but — Midnighter sounds a little sad. Quick, before he can think better of it, he lets that faint, fond smile cross his face again and takes a picture. Not of his whole face: that feels easier, no need to worry about feigning eye contact. He angles it so it's the bottom of his face, his smile, his neck and shoulders, the triangle of bare skin exposed by his undone top buttons. And he sends it before he can look at it too long. And says, "Don't laugh, alright."
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"Show me — I guessed how much you missed me from that picture you sent." He's surprised to hear how rough his own voice sounds. Can't quite believe that he's hearing Midnighter touch himself. It seems almost frighteningly intimate, even though they're in different cities, different states. His hand slides down, pauses at the waistband of his jeans. His chest rises and falls a little quick. Soft, fast, so he can get the words out without having to think about them too much, he murmurs, "I wanna do that for you, you know. Wanna — open you up with my fingers." He can feel the flush rising in his cheeks, sudden and sharp enough to sting.
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Marcus gets two pictures: the first, of Midnighter's head and shoulders, throat bared, lip bitten, eyes closed. Thank fuckall he's good at multitasking. (Marcus may note that the headboard behind him is not only fixed, but completely different, and the wall is another color.)
The second photo is of his hips, half covered by a blanket, his hand disappearing beneath the sheets in an unsubtle bulge.
And then- "Fuck, I- I want that. When I'm healed, shit, yeah, let's make a day of it. I want- I want you. All of you. Do whatever you want with me. F-fucking trust you. Do whatever you w-want-"
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"Whole day in bed, huh." Now isn't the time to tut and gently remind Midnighter of his decidedly un-superhuman stamina. Not when he wants to think about Midnighter all flushed and whining under him. Emboldened by the distance and the paradoxical closeness, Marcus rasps, "Move, move the sheets, sweetheart, when did you — ohfuck — when did you start getting coy?"
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He moves his hand over his cock and tries to imagine it's Marcus'. "Please-"
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He can do this. It's fine, he can close his eyes and just push the words out of his mouth, he wants to. "God," Marcus says, "uh. I'm — I've got a hand on my dick." Saying it makes him go even more scarlet, makes his hand work faster, sliding up his shaft. "I — gimme a second." There's lube in his bag, but he doesn't reach for it. Too far away. Instead, he spits on his hand to slick up his palm, takes himself in hand again. "I...I'm thinking — about you, about how much I like the noises you make when you're — yeah."
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“I. God, Midnighter. Yes, please, lemme see.”
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"Soon, I. God — mn — soon, love, once you're all fixed up, I'll come take care of you. Like you said, make a day of it," the words are tumbling out of his mouth now, some dam broken, as he drops the phone to slide his other hand down to cradle his balls, his back arching up a little, "take you nice and slow, get you ready for me, Christ, and — fuck you til you're yelling darling, God, I want that..."
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The SmartMark network was made to carry orders from generals to soldiers across galaxies. Instead, it carries the sound of Midnighter's incoherent climax straight to Marcus' ears. A moment later he'll get a picture of Midnighter lying back in bed, grinning and relaxed, one arm thrown up over his eyes, his own come shot up over his torso.
"Fuck, you're good to me..."