thingpuncher | OPEN / OVERFLOW.

And Marcus doesn't judge, doesn't laugh or do so much as kiss and thank him. Midnighter isn't sure what that means, but he supposed they'd passed the point of stories, and perhaps he was dragging them back. He's always a little unsure of the flow of conversation, and maybe- maybe, idiot, Marcus just wants to get off. Not everyone is accustomed to waiting and holding back as he is.

Maybe he's just fucking overthinking it. Andrew would always give him shit for that, sometimes kindly, sometimes not. Computer in the brain made everything overcomplicated. Pattern recognition on steroids. Always searching for a secret answer.

Fuck, he's stalling.

"You trust me," he says, less a question, more a statement. Who the fuck ever says that to him? He dips in for another kiss, his own thanks, before moving away. He's going to see Marcus come undone atop him, so he might as well get a good view of the other side. He lets Marcus roll onto his front, snakes one arm around his waist to hold him close, and with the other, slowly inserts a finger into him, cautious and slow.

"And, you know, if you like any of the shit I do," he says, pouring humor and heat back into his voice, "you should definitely tell me. Like that accent of yours." He doesn't actually feel one way or the other about Marcus' voice, but it's always good to compliment people, and it gets them back on track. He slowly curls his finger. "Like hearing you talk." Now, that's more true.

"If I like it." Marcus' breath hitches as Midnighter rearranges them, pillows his head on one arm, forehead pressing into the crook of his own elbow. "If I — ha. I like it. Like all of it. C'mon, darling, ain't that obvious?" His hips pick up a little as Midnighter starts to finger him open, enough to make space so that he can slide his hand down between the sheets and his stomach, grip his cock.

"Like your fingers in me. Thought about that — a lot." Rehearsing flashes of memory to himself. "You've got nice hands, big, I like — fuck, I like the way you touch me." A treacherous part of his brain reminds him: Midnighter's hands are just as dangerous as they are gentle now. It's not fear, though, that makes him shiver.

"Just checking," Midnighter says, jocular, as though he never wasn't sure. He presses his face into Marcus' bony side, "I can keep touching you for a long time. Long as you want."

He sucks a kiss into Marcus' shoulder as he presses in with another finger. "Like touching you," he says, softly, "like how excited you get."

Marcus huffs and pushes his forehead down, eyes screwing tight closed. He feels a defensive stab of embarrassment, but Midnighter isn't mocking him, he's not lying. He wants to make Marcus feel good. When's he had that before? "Yeah. You — oh." His voice slides up-register a little as Midnighter's fingers move in him, his breath roughening slightly and his hips twitching forwards.

"It's all you, gorgeous. Get excited over you. You can — deeper." He has to haul in his breath hard. "You can push deeper."

Midnighter repeats the motion that made Marcus lose it for just a half second there, wanting more, wanting to see more. Everything Marcus is doing goes straight to his cock, and it'll be fucking amazing when he's finally on top of him; the anticipation, far from bringing impatience, makes everything sharper, hotter, more real. Midnighter adds another finger, and the grip at Marcus' waist gets a little tighter.

"That good?" A breathy whisper, but he's sure Marcus can hear it, "Wanna be good for you, babe. Know you're gonna be good for me."

"Yeah, yeah, you're so goddamn good to me, that's — good, that feels fucking good — " He's working his cock a little faster now, hips stuttering more erratically between pushing into his own hand and pushing back against Midnighter's fingers. He's tentative at first, getting used to being stretched out about Midnighter's knuckles, feeling how the movement works, where he needs to bear down, what feels right. But when he relaxes enough to find the right angle he chases it, bites down on a whine and tries to press back to get more.

"Keep doing — ah, do that again, c'mon," his voice getting hissed and urgent as he squirms.

"Oh, you're impatient, now?" Midnighter's voice is light with excitement. God, fuck, this is gonna be good. Marcus is so eager, he's never been with someone this excited to just be. He repeats the twist and turn of his fingers, curling them lightly and slowly.

"Gorgeous and impatient, shit. My fucking favorite combo. Can't wait to fuck you, babe, tell me when you're good and ready for me." He twists his fingers again, trying to match the rhythm of Marcus' hands.

Impatient, something about that hits Marcus with a spike of guilt: what if he's asking too much, what if this is too good, what if he's too greedy. He gasps, needs a moment to settle himself — it's fine. It's fine, he's fine. Midnighter's smiling, he can hear it in his voice. He's smiling, and his grip on Marcus' waist is secure, and his voice is practically vibrating with eagerness and impatience of his own. Marcus cranes his neck and props up on one elbow to look at him, gets him just barely in view — but it helps, seeing the look on his face. No, more than helps. The idea that Marcus is the cause of that expression sends a jolt right through him. He shivers and swallows and manages, "Just gimme — oh my God, darling. Bit more, just wanna — wanna feel you open me up, just — "

And as his head drops down again his voice breaks up, turning low and ragged while his hips cant up to answer how Midnighter fucks him. He murmurs a few more things like that, just keep going, just a little, and then — he doesn't know how long it takes him, really, he loses track of that, but he lets go of his own cock, looks around again, reaches behind to grab Midnighter's wrist and slow him. "Alright," he gasps, "alright, I can — c'mon. I want you."

Midnighter ends up having to jerk himself a little just to take the edge off. Watching it unfold is fucking gorgeous, as Marcus works himself through every layer of pleasure like he can't quite believe it's happening. And, selfish or selfless, Midnighter loves being the one to provide that.

When Marcus says he's ready, Midnighter rolls away, removing his fingers. He crawls over to where the condoms were left on the bed, noting that they're unopened and not really caring. Marcus said as much, so it's not a surprise or a clue. Condom out, slipped on, and he lies back, hands out, welcoming Marcus over.

"C'mon, babe, need you over here. Be begging soon, if you're not careful."

"Yeah?" Keep talking, everything's fine as long as he keeps talking. His grin is lopsided and a little wild, his eyes dark and wide, as he settles his knees either side of Midnighter's hips. There's a fine tremor in his thighs already, just from the thudding pulse of arousal moving through him. One hand steadies himself, spread out on Midnighter's stomach: the other goes down, slides over Midnighter's cock once, twice, before he swallows and lines them up. "Might like to hear that sometime. Might — have to be less carefu — uh — "

He sinks down slow, eyes flickering closed as Midnighter slides in. Different from his fingers, thicker, hotter, pushing deeper already. Marcus makes a few more effortful, gasping noises, and then Midnighter's inside him to the hilt. Marcus whines, drops his head down, takes a moment just to feel. Feels like his brain is short-circuiting, pleasure flashing through unexpected nerves, his whole body humming with it. His cock is glistening and flushed between them, untouched for the minute.

Talking worked last time. He tries it again. Gentle hands on Marcus' hips, steadying him, letting him feel it out and take it in. "There you go, babe, you're gorgeous, look at you. Better than I imagined. Doing so good for me."

One hand goes to feel up Marcus' side, over ribs and to his shoulder, soft and, he hopes, reassuring.

His hips roll once, experimentally, slowly. "How's that feel, huh, babe?" His hand trails down Marcus' chest, circling around his cock.

The insistent murmur of reassurance that Midnighter keeps up makes Marcus tremble, teetering on the edge of being overwhelmed. He's babbling, he reminds himself, he's just saying whatever, he's not thinking straight either. That has to be it, because there's no way that low tenderness is really meant for him. He doesn't have that kind of luck.

That doesn't stop an unhelpful and increasingly noisy part of him thrilling at the words. Yes, yes, let me make you feel good, let me do this for you.

When Midnighter's hips roll a noise gets stuck in Marcus' throat, only comes free when he tries to push back, shifts, finds the angle to rock down against him — "Oh my God," he says, in answer to Midnighter's question, and actually laughs a bit, just a quiet breath of disbelieving pleasure. His eyes flutter open, show hazy. "That's a lot." He means everything but he knows where Midnighter's going to take that the moment it's out of his mouth. So with another half laugh, half gasp, he steals the double-entendre first, voice dropping low and sly, "You're a lot, ain't you. God." He remembers last time, Midnighter pressing him: say my name. Slowly, he lifts up — slowly comes back down again with a ragged sigh, and, "M. Midnighter."

Midnighter, being a genetically engineered freak of nature, is in what he considers a severe minority, not worrying much about the size of his cock. But he grins because he knows he's supposed to. He thinks he sees it, now, what Marcus wants, how to give it to him. Be nice. This poor fucking bastard, who ended up in Midnighter's hands seeking kindness.

He'll do his best. He always does.

Marcus moving on his cock, all tight fucking heat, now that's- Midnighter groans, back arching just slightly. He rolls his hips again, instinct tempered by the dire desire to be gentle. "Holy fuck," he whines. "That's good, that's- goddamn, you're gonna give it to me, huh? I'll be screaming your name, tonight."

"Yeah? That sounds fucking nice. I thought — " His breath hitches, a few shocky gasps of laughter tumbling out of his mouth. Not because anything's particularly funny, just because he's overwhelmed and feeling good, because it's an automatic reaction when he's struggling for words. "Jesus. I was thinking about that. I mean, about making you feel — feel good. That's what I want."

He's fighting to be careful with his words, proud of himself for managing sort-of full sentences, but then he shifts as he sinks down and the head of Midnighter's prick pushes just so inside him, enough to make him jerk and shudder. "Fuck, fuck — " His hand flies to his mouth on instinct to shut himself up, but he's not quite quick enough.

He wants to make Midnighter feel good? So he focuses on the pleasure he usually ignores or puts off. It doesn't lead anywhere, so why get caught up in it? But Marcus wants him to, so he does, eyes rolling back, spine arching, hips shifting. He lets out a bit of a mean.

"I mean- fuck, you- you're tight as hell," He read an article once on how this is the sort of pillowtalk people want to hear, "If I were normal I'd be worried about lasting." Probably. He has no idea, really, and no basis for comparison. But it seems like a nice thing to say.

His hands drift to Marcus' beautiful cock, giving it a nice little stroke, tentative. "Aw, baby, don't try to shut up on my account. Like the sounds you make." He shifts his hips a bit, teasing, and hoping to elicit more sounds.

"What," laughing, colour darkening in his cheeks, "Jesus, Jesus Christ, the stuff you come out with — can't just say stuff like that, darling, oh my God," by which he means that he can't imagine ever saying anything like that, and hearing it — he doesn't know how to react. It's embarrassing, it's good, he likes it, he doesn't know why he likes it. He's flushed right down to his chest, overwhelmed and only too happy about it, sweat beginning to glisten on his forehead and his shoulders. With Midnighter's hand on his cock and his hips shifting beneath him, he finds that angle again and swears and this time he doesn't try to muffle himself.

He drops his hand from his mouth, wraps it instead over Midnighter's fingers around his cock, guides him quicker and less tentative. "Like — like that, God, you feel — uhm — "

"Hey, if it gets you looking like this, I'll say whatever I gotta," but he's grinning, wide and sharp and entirely too pleased with himself. He's never seen someone who could blush in their shoulders before, it's amazing, he wants to kiss it, to touch it, but he'll get to do that later. He wonders how far he can make that redness spread, how far he can go until Marcus is a shivering mess of pleasure, how good that would feel for him.

So he's very suggestible and eager to please, moving his hand as Marcus directs, keeping him in place with the other.

"Fuck, you look so good, too," Computer means muscle memory, excellent pattern recognition; he angles himself the way he was when Marcus nearly lost it last time, and hits the spot with a few thrusts-- still slow and gentle, but maybe a little less so. His hand works Marcus' cock as instructed, waiting eagerly to see the reaction. "Wish I could kiss you. Fuck, next time, different angle. Treat you right."

Every thrust gets a gasp out of Marcus, each sharper and harsher than the last. He lets go, lets Midnighter stroke his cock, grabs for the rickety headboard instead for a bit of balance, because his thighs are trembling with the effort of keeping himself up and the way Midnighter moves in him isn't helping. It's a deep, core-shaking kind of pleasure, enough to leave him struggling with words. "F-fuck, next time — whatever you want, but." He's moving quicker now, the bed rattling and whining under their combined weight.

"Already treating me right, you treat me so damn good, that's — " His words stumble into little more than a whine, and he bites down hard on his lower lip. It doesn't quiet the noise, only twists it a little.

Midnighter slowly ramps up the pressure, if only because Marcus seems to be enjoying it. "C'mon, babe, c'mon, let's bug your neighbors." He isn't being sarcastic. He thought that only happened in films, but with the way Marcus is moving and the sounds the bed's making, it might really, really happen. And... that'd be pretty cool.

"Shit, you haven't seen anything yet. Gotta fucking spoil you, if you lemme see you like this. Shit, you're beautiful. Goddamn."

At beautiful Marcus gasps and shakes his head fervently, one hand wringing the headboard and the other splayed on Midnighter’s chest. He doesn’t need that, can’t trust that. Doesn’t want to think about it. It’s too nice, too tender, Midnighter’s nonsense assertions about spoiling him far too tempting even though he knows it’s just talk. Not only does he not deserve the way Midnighter treats him, he can’t afford to pretend that he does. Just —

He needs to not think about it. Suddenly, he needs very badly to not think about anything at all. So he bears down and screws his eyes shut and mutters, “Harder, then, harder, make me — ”

There's some sort of disconnect going on, here. Midnighter can sense it, but now isn't the time to stop everything and untangle the problem. He has to trust Marcus, and he'll take care of him if he gets hurt. Midnighter's distantly glad he's here, instead of someone else who wouldn't watch out for him. Do all ex-priests end up like this? Gasping and... lonely?

No time for that bullshit. Midnighter fucks him a little harder, tempo increasing with the rhythm of his hand on Marcus' cock, whispering his name sweetly as he goes. "You can do it, c'mon, you're so close, fuckin' lovely, look at you, look at you-"

Let's bug the neighbours, Midnighter has said, but Marcus loses his nerve for it, can't quite let himself cry out. He ends up bringing his hand to his mouth again, mostly unthinking, biting down hard on his knuckles to muffle the noise he makes as he starts to come. And keeps coming, climax stretching long, twitching tight about Midnighter's dick as he offers filthy encouragement.

He feels like he doesn't breathe for a few seconds after. Then he's gasping, gripping the headboard and flattening his hand out over his mouth for a moment before reaching up, running his fingers through his own air. "Christ," he mutters, faint, half-ashamed, eyes widening at the sight of the streaks of come across Midnighter's stomach.

Midnighter suspects he fucked up somewhere, but he can't go back for it now. All he can do is keep going, watch as Marcus unwinds. It's not as great as he hoped-- he'd been hoping for a more complete unraveling of the ball of nerves he's beginning to suspect Marcus is-- but he'll do better next time. Get them at his place so he won't be so self-conscious. Spend more time getting him riled up.

But that's for later. For now, Marcus gets even tighter and Midnighter makes up for the noise Marcus is keeping back, letting out one long, throaty string of cursing as his eyes roll back and his toes curl. He bites his lip and bears his throat and the computer screams about death and vulnerability and destruction. For half a second, he thinks he's close, too, but then a severed head, blood pouring out of opened veins, and he loses the thread.

Shuddering a little (allowing himself to shudder) he looks up at Marcus with eyes half-lidded. He reaches up to draw his fingers over Marcus' cheek. "Like the view?"

Sorry, is what Marcus wants to say. It's only when Midnighter touches his face and says what he says that he realises why — that he's guilty about looking, about enjoying looking, feels like it's unfair or lecherous or wrong. Which is stupid, they're sleeping together. Hell, Midnighter's still in him up to the hilt, the after-echoes of Marcus' orgasm are still pulsing through him, making his breath hitch and his cock jerk. It's okay. He can look, it's fine. He can like the view.

So he presses against Midnighter's fingers, bumps his cheek into his hand for more of the touch, and nods shakily. "Yeah. Yeah." He's closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opens them he makes himself look at Midnighter like he wants to, really takes him in. "O-oh my God, you're gorgeous, I — I don't even know what to do with you, God." His fingers find Midnighter's, twist together; he kisses his palm. He's trembling, all the strength gone out of him.

It's a kindness that Midnighter doesn't have the words for. He smiles instead, the private smile kept for lovers, the one that isn't sharp and angry and raring for blood, and he hopes its kind. "Yeah. Kinda know the feeling." He shifts a little, depositing Marcus on the bed next to him, and cleans himself off, and turns back to Marcus with that same smile, drawing him in close.

"Gorgeous like this. Love the look of you. C'mere." He draws him in, one hand at the base of Marcus' skull for a deep kiss, the other moving over his own erection, still annoyingly hard. He wishes he could be more in sync with his partners, more often than not, wishes he could match their reaction and feel their relief when they do. Nothing to be done for it, though, but moving forward. He screws his eyes shut and focuses on anything, anything but blood and bruising, cracked bones and- Marcus' face, his lovely watery eyes, his unsure smile, how he'd tried to work himself up to dirty talk and failed, the way he bites his lip all the fucking time-

Midnighter gasps, his head on Marcus' shoulder. It feels more like release than pleasure, but he'll take it anyway. He sighs, panting a little. "C'mere, babe," He holds him close. "Call me 'darling' again." He's no longer pretending not to mean it.

OPEN / OVERFLOW.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)