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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"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..."