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It was a close game. Apollo keeps telling himself that as he strips down to his compression pants, casting his pads into his stall.
If a decade of hockey has taught him anything, it's that you have to keep moving forward. Dwelling on mistakes of the past is a surefire way to tank any future games. What's done is done. Soon enough, Apollo will be able to put this loss behind them, and focus on their next play. They just have a winner's room to move past, and then Apollo can close the book on this loss.
There's a delay in them sending over their agent and Apollo assumes they're selecting their first star, waiting on him to make his choice. Really, he wants nothing more than to dismiss the dejected team milling about the locker room, let his boys gather themselves, and get ready for a fresh game tomorrow. Instead, he’s left stalling while they wait for the decision to be made, which is enough to leave Apollo fidgeting in his stall, impatient.
The Tanks’ agent arrives without much fanfare, consulting his clipboard once before he announces to the packed room, “Lucas Trent?”
Halfway to getting his shin guards off, Midnighter freezes. It's not often a goalie gets called up to the room, notwithstanding how many rivals would love a turn at Mid. The room goes oddly silent, as though they’re all holding their breath, waiting to see what happens.
“Who's the first star?” Apollo asks, before Midnighter can identify himself.
The agent tosses back his coiffed fringe, stowing his clipboard under one arm. “Matt Dell.”
Apollo feels a stone sink into his gut, and doesn't have to turn to know the trepidation bleeding into Midnighter's expression at the sound of his old teammate's name.
“Captain's veto,” Apollo growls, without bothering to ask Midnighter. He sees him glance over from his stall and doesn't wait to hear Mid make a protest Apollo has no intentions of entertaining.
Apollo tugs a branded Wildstorm shirt over his head, crossing the room to the agent's side. “Let's go.”
It's been a while since Apollo's gone to a winner's room as the loser. The Wildstorms are on fire. They were on a winning streak before losing Slade and even with Slade gone, they managed to keep it unbroken until now. Owed in no small part to how readily their rookie forward has stepped up. Even Apollo is awed by how incredibly well Jason fits . The kid’s such a workhorse.
Still, no winning streak lasts forever. It just sucks that it was to the Midway City Tanks. They haven't lost a game to them in—Apollo squints—over three years.
Midnighter defends the net like a mother bear with threatened cubs whenever the Tanks are on the other side of the rink. Fucking Dell. Apollo remembers how out of it Mid had been three years ago, when he came back from the winner's room after Dell called on him. Hehadn't wanted to talk about it and Apollo had respected that, even though it lasted weeks and went far beyond the ice. He'd sworn to himself he'd never let it happen again.
He stops before the door, takes a deep breath, and centers himself. This is just another winner's room, another post-game fuck. He's been on both ends of those hundreds of times. This is nothing.
He opens the door.
"Dell," is his only greeting.
The man blinks. There's a flash of surprise on his face, before a small leering smirk stretches his lips as his gaze roams over Apollo. "Not who I asked for. Did M beg to be spared? Man, goalies are such divas."
Apollo fights the desire to defend Mid, but there’s no point in giving this idiot the satisfaction. "Captain's veto," he says, his tone flat, neutral, giving nothing away.
Dell snorts. "I hope you'll take it out on his ass later. Can't let your goalies walk all over you, man, or they get uppity. You start taking the bullet for one and next thing you know, everyone is asking for you to do it. Or,” his gaze flicks over Apollo again, "maybe you like that." His voice oozes cheap innuendo as he continues, "Is that why you're here?"
Apollo suppresses the urge to snort. As though he'd need to wait for a winner's room to get sex. "How do you want to do this?" he asks, ignoring Dell's bullshit. No wonder the Tanks are such a clusterfuck of constant trade-offs with this asshole as their Captain.
Dell's face darkens. His voice is like a dagger when he says, "Strip."
If this is Dell's idea of a power trip, he's gonna have to work harder. Apollo's been stripping in front of people for as long as he can remember. Hockey's all about communal showers and open locker rooms. Body shame isn't something that plagues many of them this far into the game.
"Put this on." He throws a City Tanks' uniform at Apollo. It has a 98 on it with the name TRENT written in capital letters at the back.
It angers Apollo to even hold it, though he can't say why. Dell's narcissistic arrogance maybe? Is this what he had intended for Midnighter? To remind Mid of a past he's long left behind.
Apollo puts on the jersey silently and raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Dell. "If you wanted Mid on the Tanks so badly, you guys should've treated him better." He regrets the words as soon as they're out. He just passed the puck to Dell.
Dell's grin is lascivious. "M is just a high maintenance diva, that's all. Fucking goalies, man. You can never do right by them. Tell me, have you figured out his little kink yet? Or is he still too shy to ask for it?"
Apollo would call Midnighter many things, but shy would never be one of them. Dell knows nothing about Midnighter that Apollo hasn't found out yet.
Dell laughs. "You're wondering if he's keeping secrets from you, aren't you?"
"There aren't secrets between us," Apollo states with absolute confidence. God, how he wants this miserable day to be over. "Are you gonna get on with this or not? The clock is ticking."
"Hungry for it, are you?"
"Desperate." Apollo rolls his eyes, stretching the word with derision.
It gets to Dell. His expression darkens and his eyes narrow. Point to Apollo.
"Turn around! Against the wall," Dell barks. "Spread those asscheeks for me as wide as you can, Captai n . Use both hands to show me your pretty cunt-hole."
What a pathetic loser. As though Apollo hasn't had dozens of encounters just like this: a wannabe middling player wanting to feel superior by fucking one of the top NHL stars for the five minutes his hard-on will last. As if mediocrity on the ice and off it is all they’ll ever aspire to.
"Yeah, just like that," Dell says, moving closer, brushing his fingers over Apollo's ass.
"Use lube," Apollo tells him. There are rules to this. Dell tries to injure him and it's over before it begins.
Dell snorts. "Who's the winner? I call the shots. Get yourself all wet for me, pretty."
Could Dell be any more predictable? Apollo's glad that he won't have to look at his face for the next part. It's just gonna be one more disappointing fuck among many.
Even Dell’s cock is lackluster, unimpressive. It slides inside him with ease despite Apollo's completely perfunctory stretching. He’s certainly had bigger challenges in his career. All he can think is it’s no wonder Mid broke up with this idiot. He has to bite his lip not to snort, if only because he doesn't want to antagonize Dell further. The sooner they're done, the better.
Apollo’s mind slips away, to a place where he’s thinking about taking Mid and Jason and whoever else wants to join them for dinner tonight. Maybe they’ll make a team event out of it. It's their first loss in a while and he wants to make sure everyone moves past it, especially Jason. It's the kid's first loss since he was moved up to the first line, which has to be hitting him pretty hard.
Dell's hand on his throat snaps him out of his reverie. "Not quite as sensitive as M. The little slut loves to be choked, man. Put an arm around his neck and he'll tighten up like a fucking virgin. Have you figured that out yet? I bet he hasn't told you," Dell sneers against Apollo's ear. "You choke him a little and he gets so fucking hard he passes out from it; makes him all lose and pliant, too. None of that goalie attitude."
Midnighter loathes when people touch his neck. The first time Apollo kissed his throat, he'd recoiled, jumping back, eyes wide and fearful. Neck touching is one of Mid's few hard lim its .
It hits him like a hammer, the realization that Matt Fucking Dell is the reason for that.
"You should do it to him, man," Dell says and laughs. "Next time we win, you can volunteer again to be my fuck-toy and thank me for teaching you how to treat your goalie slut right."
"I don't need you to teach me anything, " Apollo growls.
"That's what she said," Dell mocks.
The hot, moist breath on the back of Apollo’s neck makes his skin crawl and all of a sudden, the cock fucking into him is as unwelcome as Dell’s voice in his ear.
“There, you're tightening up for me, too, and I didn't even have to squeeze at all. You're easier than M. Deny it all you want, but you were made for this,” he sneers. “That’s why you volunteered, right? You cock-hungry little bitch.”
Apollo wishes Dell would squeeze. It'd give him the excuse he needs to slam his head back and break Dell's nose, and then turn and keep breaking more things. Each and every bone in Dell's body. Until someone comes and rips Apollo away from Dell's mangled corpse. Until the anger boiling in his veins is satisfied he’s paid Dell back for the untold things he must have done to Mid.
He wonders, idly, if it would be enough. He's never wanted to murder someone before. Didn't know he had the ability or the stomach for it. But right now it seems like the easiest thing in the world. He'd wash his hands afterwards, smile and go on with his life as though nothing had happened. Just one less asshole in the world, nothing to lose sleep over. Quite the contrary.
Apollo grits his teeth to keep from snapping. He drops his head down to his chest and immediately recoils at the sight of Midnighter's old uniform, the reminder that there was a time in which Midnighter had to put up with this. His thoughts spiral. How often did it happen? Was it always like this? Worse? Apollo’s always known that there’s bad blood between Mid and his old team, with the small exception of one lingering friend, but he's never expected this to be part of the reason.
The itchy, ugly sight of the jersey makes Apollo tense with the desire to snarl and growl and rip it off his body.
Dell moans obnoxiously. “That’s it, milk my cock, Captain ,” he jeers.
Something tightens behind Apollo’s ribs, something rock hard and dense as a black hole. He focuses on that feeling, ignoring the slap of skin against skin, the ghost of Dell's fingers over his throat, the sweaty hands on his hips.
“Fuck, your ass is even better than M's.”
The reminder of why he’s here manages to reign in some fraction of Apollo’s rage. He breathes through his teeth and takes it. All of it. Words aren't enough to justify punching Dell, let alone murdering him. He just needs to get through this. There's comfort in knowing that he made the right decision in vetoing Dell's selection. He's going through this so Mid doesn't have to. Dell’s never touching Midnighter ever again.
If he does, Apollo will destroy him.
Apollo is barely half-hard when Dell spills inside him. He squeezes down on the front of Apollo's neck as he comes, reflex more than anything. But it still spurs Apollo to grab his wrist and rip his grip away.
Dell just laughs when Apollo lets go, slipping free and tucking himself away. “You're a testy one, huh?”
Apollo’s still reeling, head full of fury, when Dell’s hand slips down and gropes at Apollo's cock. He shoves Dell away immediately, skin crawling, adrenaline geared for a fight, but Dell steps away with both hands raised.
“Easy, Captain. Just trying to return the favor.” He grins a little crookedly, knowingly, and the false familiarity makes Apollo want to run. “I understand you wanting to save yourself for M, though. Can't beat a hole like that. I honestly can't say how I prefer him more; tight and gasping, or high and loose. You're a lucky man.”
“We’re done here,” Apollo snaps, and wrestles Mid’s old jersey over his head, dropping it to the floor without fanfare. He shoulders past Dell on his way to fetch his own discarded shirt, tugging his pants up as he goes.
“I'm just trying to offer an olive branch, Pulaski,” Dell protests, but doesn't move to stop him. “I figured you'd want to know how M likes his men.”
Apollo draws to a halt, turning to fix Dell with the full force of his glare. “We're nothing alike. And you don't know anything about him.”
“Sure,” Dell drawls, unruffled by all of Apollo crowding his space. He reaches out, broadcasting the move so Apollo can pull back as he rests his fingertips on Apollo's pulse. “If you want to find out for yourself though, just give him a little squeeze here—”
Apollo bats his hand away, clamping down hard on the urge to do more than that. He turns on his heel, bare-chested with his shirt fisted at his side, and bails from the room. Dell's laughter echoes down the corridor behind him, clinging to Apollo's skin like a stain he’ll never be able to fully scrub away.
By the time Apollo makes it back to the lockers, half of the team is still bustling about, back from the showers, putting on fresh clothes. Midnighter's eyes automatically dart to Apollo's bare neck and all Apollo can think is that he’s checking for marks. When his gaze flicks up, their eyes catch for the barest second and then Midnighter is looking away, recoiling from whatever it is he sees there.
Apollo's already sour mood tanks further.
"One of those, huh? Fucker." Hawksey claps Apollo's shoulder once, firmly, and then lets go, giving Apollo space.
The brief show of support soothes some of Apollo's jagged edges, proof that his linemate, his team, knows Apollo well enough to sense the things he’s trying to keep from his face. There's no hiding the mood, not really, but everyone gets it. Winner's rooms can be fun and, more often than not, they are. But everyone has a memory or two, of WRs not unfolding as they should despite the ever expanding number of safeguards the NHL is putting in place around the tradition.
"Yeah," he says, proud that his voice sounds even and unbothered. At least he has that going for him. "One of those." He forces himself to snort, and some of the tension eases from his shoulders. It helps to put it in perspective like that. Nothing bad actually happened. Not to Apollo, anyway. Dell was just another annoying WR. That's all.
Only… that's not all. It's clear in the way Midnighter is avoiding his gaze, pretending to be busy putting on his sneakers. It angers Apollo that he doesn't know if that empty space around Mid on the bench, if his insistence that no one is ever near him when he's taking off his gear or putting his clothes back on, is a goalie quirk or the result of whatever fucked up things Dell did to Midnighter without Apollo ever knowing it.
"Hey, Spica, can you take the guys out for a drink? First round on me." The words are out before he can second guess them.
"Aye, aye Captain!" Spica cheers, and everyone hurries to follow along at the prospect of free alcohol after such a shitty game. Apollo tells himself Spica's a good choice. He genuinely loves going out, but is responsible enough to keep an eye on things and avoid any unwanted shenanigans. It's not the plan Apollo originally had, but it'll work. A night out without the Captain or Alternate overseeing will give everyone a larger sense of freedom. Home alone without Mom and Dad.
"The house better be still standing tomorrow," he warns, aiming for levity, and everyone laughs. Everyone except Jason, who’s watching him with what Apollo can only call uncertainty. Still, it helps to have an excuse to give Mid a bit longer by talking to the kid. He moves to stand by Jason. "Go with them. Have fun."
"Are you okay?" Jason asks, his voice almost in a whisper.
A soft smile grazes Apollo's lips. It's easy to forget sometimes how very young Jason is. "Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry about it. Don't overdo it with the alcohol. I probably should tell you not to drink at all, but if Spica doesn't smuggle you at least one beer before the night is over, I'll change my fucking name."
Jason grins. "I trained in Europe. Drinking age is 16 over there. And some places I visited didn't even have an official drinking age." He shrugs. "Being able to drink whenever you want blunts the edge of must-drink-alcohol-until-I-pass-out-to-prove-I'm-the-shit," he slurs the last words like a drunken frat boy.
Apollo laughs, genuinely amused at Jason's over-the-top acting. "Good! Have fun. A 14-game winning streak might not be a record, but it's close and you helped make that happen. It was bound to snap sooner or later. So, go celebrate with the team. You've earned it. Tomorrow is a new day and a new game. I'm proud of you kid, keep it up."
Jason's grin is like a sunrise, taking over his whole face. "Thank you, Captain," he says. "I will."
That one is settled then, Apollo thinks with satisfaction as he watches Jason practically skipping to his stall to finish dressing.
Apollo goes to Midnighter and stops close enough to him to make it clear he wants Mid's attention while still maintaining the safety bubble of space Mid likes around his bench.
"What?" Midnighter snaps, not looking up. You'd think he's never tied shoelaces in his life, with how meticulous he's being about it.
"Would you be okay with a quiet evening?" Apollo asks. "I'm gonna take a shower." Fuck if he's gonna keep the ghost of Dell's touch and smell on himself longer than he has to. "But I'm heading home immediately afterwards. If you want to join the team, though—"
"Nah, I'm fine with quiet," Mid says. "I'll wait for you."
"Thank you," Apollo answers and means it. They will have to talk, but Midnighter knows that already or he wouldn't be so cagey. There's no point in saying the words out loud. "I'll be quick."
Mid shrugs. "Take your time." He meets Apollo's gaze at last. "I'll wait. However long it takes."
Apollo bites down the burning need to reach out a hand and pull Midnighter in for a kiss, to tell him everything will be alright. It will; Apollo has no doubts about that. Just how long is another question. "It won't take long," he promises.
Midnigher's expression softens, mirroring Apollo's. They'll get through this, just like so many other things.
Apollo’s barely dropped his keys into the bowl in their foyer before he’s pulling Midnighter in for a kiss that feels ravenous. Mid must sense his desperation, because he opens for Apollo, curving into the line of his body when Apollo bears down over him.
He feels a little hysterical, wanting to feel Midnighter under his skin, closer than close. Isn’t sure if he should be yelling or apologizing. Isn’t sure what Mid needs right now.
When he pulls back, Midnighter’s eyes fix on his lips. They feel safe, a no man's land between them and the elephant in the room. “I wanted to ask since you got back from the room—are you alright?”
Apollo lets his eyelids slip closed, tilting his forehead to rest against Midnighter’s. The intimacy is a balm, already working to settle his agitated heart. Mid has always had that sort of effect on him. “I am now. I’m still… angry.” He feels Midnighter tense against him, and squeezes Mid’s hip, softing his tone. “I just want a quiet night with you.”
The guilt is plain in Midnighter’s tone when he mumbles, “You shouldn’t have vetoed that room. I could have— I should have—”
“No.” Apollo’s refusal is blunt, and unwavering. “Absolutely not. Never again. Not after hearing that fucker talk about you.”
Midnighter swallows, looking a little nauseous. “What did he say?” His words sound fragile, and he’s tense all over, like he’s bracing for a storm that Apollo’s about to unleash.
The vulnerability makes Apollo ache all over again and his grip’s possessive where he clings to his partner. “Nothing fucking true,” Apollo bites out, vicious.
Midnighter’s eyes flick up, clouded with distrust. “He didn’t tell you I—”
“He bragged about what he did to you.” Apollo’s words are cold, his disapproval self-evident. “And if it wasn’t a winner's room, I would have torn him limb from limb for you.” He lifts his hand to press his fingertips to Midnighter’s jaw, his touch far gentler than his words. “The next time I see him on the ice, I’m going to end him. I’ll take the penalty.”
Midnighter snorts, looking a little teary-eyed. “He’s not worth a penalty.”
Apollo smirks, pecking a quick kiss to Mid’s bitten lips. “You’re right. You usually are.”
Mid looks a bit more settled when he meets Apollo’s gaze this time. Sure of himself, and of where he belongs, in Apollo’s arms. “You still want a quiet evening?”
It's been so long, since they had a night just to themselves. Apollo loves Slade and Jason as much as he does Midnighter. He can't picture living without them, can't imagine feeling whole without them.
Slade is a rush of adrenaline in their bloodstream. He makes Apollo feel victorious, makes him earn every success with him. Slade's a challenge, gives Midnighter the competition he craves, rises to every challenge they set.
And Jason… Jason fits. On the ice. In their bed. In their lives. The missing puzzle piece they hadn't known existed. Jason is that first cold breath of clarity when they step out on the ice, the last little jagged piece making them whole. Apollo knows Midnighter's fondness for the kid goes deeper than he lets on.
He remembers the look on Midnighter's face on Jason's rookie night, that dark gaze fixed on the red of Jason's cheeks as he'd taken Apollo's cock down his throat. The way those pretty lashes had fluttered, gagging, needing to breathe, but not wanting to pull off just yet.
Apollo had mistaken Midnighter's look for hunger. The intensity had been easy to misconstrue in the moment, his own arousal clouding his perception. But he sees it for what it was now: envy. Not for Apollo, emptying down Jason's throat with a low, satisfied groan… but for Jason. Midnighter's throat shifting around the urge to take Apollo deep, to feel his lungs burn, and that light-headed high take him over.
It comes to Apollo, all at once; and he knows what he wants to give Midnighter. “I want to try something,” Apollo hedges, “if you'll let me.”
A spark of interest lights Midnighter's eyes. “Of course, anything.” The unfettered trust behind his words makes Apollo fall in love with him all over again.
He nips at Midnighter’s lips, chastising. “No, this is… This is something you might not be comfortable with. I trust you to tell me if it's beyond what you're willing to do.” At Mid’s frown, he continues, “It's something I want to do for you, with you. But only if you want to try.”
Midnighter’s gaze is searching, but his tone is firm. “I trust you. I want to do it with you. I'll tell you if that changes.”
“You don't even know what it is yet,” Apollo protests, but Midnighter threads his fingers through Apollo's, stoppering his words.
“Then show me. Take it slow. We've got all night.”
Apollo could spend the whole night looking into those eyes, taking his fill of that beautiful mouth, and be wholly satisfied. But if he can give Mid this…. He tightens his grip on Midnighter's fingers, tugging him towards the lounge. “Come here.”
Apollo drags a cushion to the carpeted floor in front of the couch. A firm hand on his shoulder folds Mid down to his knees, and Apollo takes his seat, bracketing him in with his legs.
"I want to give you my cock," Apollo says in a low voice, knowing full well what that does to Mid. Apollo is, and will always be, an offensive player. He doesn't wait for a play to open; he orchestrates the plays that will win the game. "I want to feel your hot mouth all around me."
Midnighter wets his lips, eyes darkening. "You know I'm all for that."
"Keep your hands on top of your thighs the whole time," Apollo adds, tone deceptively casual. "You bring them up and I stop, and we start again. Until you can swallow me down completely. Are you all for that, too?"
Midnighter swallows. A flash of desire, achingly familiar, washes over his face, only to be chased away by uncertainty. "I'm not… I don't know how to deepthroat."
"I’ll guide you through it. Teach you how," Apollo murmurs, rubbing his thumb over Mid's lower lip, before dipping it inside. Midnighter's mouth is hot and wet and his cock twitches with interest, just imagining how it'd feel to be inside. Apollo presses this thumb against Mid's tongue, playing with it, giving Midnighter the briefest taste of Apollo's skin. After a moment he takes his hand away, loving the way Mid's head unconsciously follows it, hungry for more. "You will choke a bit…" He pauses, waits, adds, "Maybe a lot."
Midnighter lowers his eyes. "He never did that." It's clear who he is. "If you want to do what he did, you'll have to use your hands or your arm around my throat."
"I don't want to do what he did," Apollo clarifies, and it takes all of his self-control for the words to come out soft and even, instead of in a rush of heated emotion.
"Oh," Midnighter sounds surprised, perhaps a little shocked. "He probably told you I liked it. It's not… he wasn't lying about that. I always came. He made sure I did."
'And yet you flinch whenever someone touches your neck.' Apollo doesn't say that. Midnighter won't appreciate it. "Do you want him to do it again?"
"No!" The answer is visceral. Immediate. The air crackles with the charge of the single desperate word.
"Then it doesn't matter if he made you come, Mid. It doesn't matter at all," Apollo says with conviction.
Midnighter doesn't comment on that. He rubs his fingers back and forth over the cloth of his slacks, playing with the seams. Apollo waits him out patiently. He's not rushing Mid on this. It needs to be his choice.
"I want to try," Midnighter says at last. "But I don't know if I'll… I don't want to…" his words fade away, the look in his eyes almost distant.
"Then we don't do it," Apollo says easily. "There are other things we can do, or we might do nothing at all. Just you being here is more than enough."
"That's not it," Midnighter says, his words a rush. "I do want to try it, I just… I don't want to disappoint you."
"Oh, Mid, love," Apollo whispers and leans down to kiss his forehead, fingertips gentle against his chin. "That's never gonna happen." Their breaths mingle, they're so close, and then Apollo's pulling Midnighter into a long, deep kiss, desperate to convey just how much Mid means to him. Claiming him as his own with each swipe of his tongue, each caress of their lips against one another.
When he draws away, it takes effort to keep his voice even, his breath steady. "How about we try it once and if you raise your hands, we stop. That's it. We won't try it again tonight if that happens. Instead, you come off your knees, straddle my lap, and use that gorgeous ass of yours to show my cock how much you love me."
"But I might want to try again," Midnighter protests.
"And we will… another night. You know how much I like watching you ride me, love. If you take your hands off your thighs, it won't be a disappointment. It'll be an opportunity to give me something else I adore." He kisses the tip of Midnighter's nose and leans back up to rest against the back of the couch.
He spreads his legs invitingly. "You might want to do that anyway," Apollo lets his smile sharpen, grow into something more dangerous. "Because if you don't, if you keep your hands on your thighs the whole time, while I teach you how to swallow my cock to the root... you'll choke on it, and you'll cry for me, but you won't get to come at all. I'm not going to touch that pretty cock of yours and neither are you. Not even afterwards. It's gonna stay hard and aching the whole night until I wake up tomorrow and take proper care of it."
Midnighter freezes, his expression shifting into awe and then wonder and then, unsurprisingly, anger. "That's not even a little fair," he protests.
Apollo grins. "I know." Oh, yeah, those are his best plays, the ones in which he knows that no matter what his opponents do, how fast or slow they skate, the puck is still going in. One way or the other, Apollo is winning this one.
Mid narrows his eyes, stubbornness settling in. "Fine, we try it then." He slaps his hands against his thighs dramatically and raises his chin up in defiance. "You'll have to open your slacks," he says haughtily, "my hands ain't moving."
Hunger pools in Apollo's belly, traveling lower. His cock starts to harden in anticipation. "Good thing you have a mouth then, love. Use it."
Midnighter isn't bashful about it. Despite his words, he leans right in, brazen when he snags Apollo's metal zipper between his teeth and tugs, eyes locked on his Captain's. The intensity of that gaze, seeing his arousal reflected back at him, makes Apollo lick his dry lips.
His slacks fall open, Midnighter lifting up slightly to delve into them, snagging the elastic waistband in his teeth to pull Apollo's briefs down. His cock springs free, and Apollo reaches down to free his balls, tucking his underwear beneath them so that Midnighter has free access. Any other night, he might have made him work harder for it; but right now Apollo is focused on Mid's pleasure.
Giving his cock a quick stroke, he watches the reddened tip dip dangerously close to those teeth, that talented tongue, and those tantalizing lips. Apollo feels a thrill travel up his spine, his skin buzzing like a live wire.
Apollo traces Midnighter's bottom lip with his cock, smearing spit as he considers his words carefully. “I want you to give me an honest answer when I ask you a question. Can you do that, love?”
Midnighter’s eyes are on his cock, but they snap up to fix on Apollo's gaze at his words. Mid’s lips part, welcoming Apollo in, and he dips inside, groaning at the heat that awaits him before he pulls back out.
“You like breath play,” Apollo says, and is expecting the way Midnighter tenses. “The feeling: being dizzy, the light-headedness. It turns you on. Be honest with me.”
Midnighter licks his lips, tongue brushing Apollo's crown as it passes. “Yeah,” he croaks, and then swallows. “Yeah, it does. I do like it.”
“But you don't like people touching you,” Apollo deduces, thinking back to Dell’s sick smirk. “You don't like people putting their hands on your throat.”
Midnighter’s jaw flexes when he presses his lips shut, like he's trying to find a diplomatic way not to disappoint Apollo. Finally, he replies, “No. I don't.”
“Good boy,” Apollo says immediately, and knows he's caught Midnighter off-guard by the surprise on his face when he looks up at Apollo. “Thank you for being honest with me, love. That's what I wanted to know.”
He touches Midnighter's chin, grips his cock to drag it across Mid's plush lower lip, holding back the urge to thrust forward and fuck into Mid's waiting mouth. That's not the goal here.
“I want you to put your mouth on me,” Apollo tells him, and hooks a thumb into the corner of Midnighter's mouth to stop him when the man rocks forward eagerly, lips parting to swallow him down. “But not just that. I want you to take me, all of me, all the way down. Until I'm in your throat.” Apollo makes sure Midnighter is looking at him for his last request. “I want you unable to breathe because I'm so deep inside you. I want you to stay down on me, until you can't tell if you're more desperate for my cock or for air.”
Midnighter's eyes widen at that, and Apollo strokes his thumb over his lover's cheek, breath held.
“Do you understand what I'm asking of you, love?”
"Yeah," Midnighter breathes, and the word sounds almost like a moan. Then, more firmly, "Yes."
"Good." Apollo thumbs the edge of Mid's jaw, as close as he dares to get to his neck without Midnighter getting defensive, shutting down on him before this begins. Then he takes hold of his cock and guides the crown to Midnighter's parted lips. "Show me then, love."
Mid doesn't hesitate. There's a glint of determination in his eyes, almost defiant, as he takes Apollo's cock in his mouth and starts to swallow it while watching Apollo's face.
Apollo lets his eyelids flutter shut and groans loudly. "You feel amazing, hot and wet and tight. Better than a cunt ever could."
Midnighter shudders and moans, going deeper. Apollo peers down at him from between slitted eyelids, wanting to see the look of concentration on his lover’s face, the way his fingers are clasping the top of his thighs, holding onto them.
"Yeah, just like that," Apollo groans, placing his hands over Midnighter's head without applying any pressure. This is Mid's show. Apollo isn't going to force him down. "You were made for this. Look how pretty you are with a cock in your mouth."
Midnighter’s tongue presses upward and he swallows, hips shifting up slightly. A small smile graces Apollo's lips. Mid so likes it when his partners are vocal. He likes it even more when he's told he's doing well. It's easy enough to give him that, to tell him exactly what a gorgeous picture he makes kneeling between Apollo's thighs, stuffed with Apollo's cock.
It spurs him further. Usually, Midnighter would have his hand at the base of Apollo's cock, controlling how deep he goes. This time he doesn't. He sucks Apollo, head bobbing up and down, taking him deeper and deeper every time. Eager. Hungry. The tip of Apollo's cock hits the back of his throat and Midnighter gags, spluttering, pulling out, gasping.
His hands, though, they claw at his trousers, fingertips digging cruelly into the muscle of his thighs, refusing to let go.
"Good boy," Apollo says, "that felt amazing. Nothing hotter than a boy so eager for cock, he's willing to choke on it just to get it."
"Fuck, Apollo. Stop talking like that. It's not fair," Mid complains, voice cock-rough and sexy.
Apollo can't wait to wreck it further, to hear the memory of this night every time Midnighter speaks. "All is fair in sex and hockey," he lies. "Stop stalling, love. Try again or come up from your knees and ride me. My cock is getting cold."
Midnighter groans at that, the sound cut off as he swallows Apollo's cock down once again. Apollo feels the hum of it travel through his cock, pleasure sparking in the base of his spine. He watches Midnighter's nostrils flare when he pulls in a sharp breath, smiles at the determined little crease that mars his lover’s brow before he forces himself down on Apollo.
He can feel the resistance in Mid's throat, the give when he slips in further than he’s ever gone. It's so tight. Apollo can't imagine anything better than this feeling, so deep in Midnighter that he can feel every flex of his stoppered breath, every flutter of his body’s desire to breathe.
Words fail him, but he makes sure to moan nice and loud for Mid’s benefit. It's taking most of Apollo's concentration to hold still, to not grip the back of Midnighter's head and fuck into that tight heat.
Apollo nearly loses the battle of wills when he opens his eyes and sees Midnighter's face, slowly coloring with blood. His eyelids are heavy, eyes slightly dazed as he weathers the pressure. His hands are fists on his thighs, gripping tight enough to lift the fabric clean off his legs.
His self-control is an amazing thing. Apollo is dumbstruck by it, awed and thrilled all at once.
He brings his hand down slowly to thumb at the tears beginning to water Midnighter's eyes. “Look at you. A perfect pink, just for me. Throat thick with my cock. Are you going to pass out just like that? On my cock?” Apollo watches the way Mid's eyes roll back slightly, and the way he claws back control, overwhelmed by Apollo's devious praise. “Think how loose you'll be for me, all fuck-drunk and cock-hungry. I could just—”
Midnighter pulls off his cock violently, gasping and then hacking up saliva, coughing loudly. Apollo feels a spark of fear pierce his chest, worries he's gone too far, missed some crucial signal, but it dissipates at the look Mid gives him.
“You've gotta stop, Captain,” he whispers hoarsely, and thumbs at the string of spit that’s clinging to his plush lips. He looks a mess. Looks like Apollo's been skullfucking him, and Apollo hasn't even lifted a finger. His cock aches, rueing the loss of that perfect mouth, that tight throat. “I’m not gonna make it if you keep talking like that.”
Apollo gives him a wicked grin, touching two fingers to Midnighter’s lip just to feel how hot the plump flesh is. “Better make me come quickly then, love.”
That delicious heat sparks in Midnighter's eyes again. He shifts his weight, waking up his numb legs where they're folded under him, shuffling forward for a better angle. Then he opens his mouth and swallows him down with a fluency that nearly has Apollo coming.
Apollo moans loud and obnoxious as that wet heat engulfs him, letting Midnighter have all the noises he's working so hard to earn. He doesn't bother to stall his orgasm, wants Mid to have that, too. His fingers are still on Midnighter's face, feather soft, feeling the way Mid's cheeks hollow as he sucks Apollo's cock deeper.
"God, that mouth of yours," he groans.
Midnighter's eyes seek out Apollo's and their gazes lock before he shifts forward and down. His throat spasms around the crown of Apollo's cock as he shudders and gags. Fresh tears well in his eyes, but he doesn't pull up. Eyes still fixed on Apollo, he forces himself to take it deeper still. The tight ring of his throat contracts around Apollo, squeezing his cock, dragging him impossibly further down.
"Fuck, Mid," Apollo gasps, balls growing tighter. He loses the will battle against himself and thrusts forward, unable to stop himself.
Suddenly, he's all the way down Midnighter's throat, deeper than he's ever been before, and Midnighter swallows and swallows, instinct or intent, Apollo can't tell. He doesn't care.
His last coherent action before his orgasm slams into him like a freight train is to check Midnighter's hands, still clutching at the cloth of his trousers, fingers gone white with the pressure of holding on. He allows himself to let go then, unable to stop his hands from going to the back of Midngither's head, holding him there as Apollo comes and comes and comes. Wave after wave of pleasure rolls over him with every contraction of Midnighter's throat, every aborted gag, every desperate bid for breath that doesn’t come.
By the time Apollo finally pulls back, Midnighter's face is red with lack of air and streaked with the trails of his tears. Midnighter gasps, gulping down air, making little desperate choked noises that drive Apollo wild. He’s just come, but he feels like he could go again if Mid puts his mouth back around him once more.
He pushes through the haze of his orgasm and reaches for Midnighter. "So good for me, love," Apollo pants, short of breath himself, before he drags Midnighter's hands away from Mid's thighs and entwines their fingers, holding them tight. "So perfect," he whispers as he slips from the couch and pushes Mid down onto the carpet, crawling on top of him, desperate for the closeness.
Mid’s still gasping for air, but Apollo kisses him anyway, stealing even more of his breath away, needing to taste himself in the depths of Midnighter's mouth.
Instead of pulling away, Midnighter surges forward, as desperate for Apollo's kisses as Apollo is for Midnighter's mouth. He humps against Apollo's thigh, the hard edge of his trapped erection impossible to ignore. Apollo allows him the friction while the kiss lasts, letting Midnighter have brief, shallow breaths in between kisses, before he steals it right back, his lips firm, desperate against Mid’s own.
He reluctantly draws back. "Look at you, love, just look at you." He keeps Midnighter trapped between his legs, powerful thighs caging him in.
"Apollo, Apollo, please." Midnighter chases after him, hips lifting up, desperately seeking more of that delicious friction, but his cock has nothing to push against now that Apollo's not right there. "Come on. Please," he begs.
Apollo's own orgasm is still dancing in his veins, making him lazy with satiated pleasure. "I don't think so," he says, relishing the control he has over Mid, the knowledge that in that moment, he owns Midnighter.
Mid could reach down, could touch himself, could bring himself off. Instead his hands are on the floor, still above his head, right where Apollo put them while Midnighter begs Apollo for something that should be his by right.
"I said I wouldn't touch you." Something wicked, almost cruel, curls in Apollo's belly. The power makes him feel heady, alive. "Though… you've been a very good boy for me."
Midnighter's hips shift up under Apollo's weight at the praise and he moans, eyes glassing over for a moment before his gaze sharpens, seeking Apollo’s again, hungrier than before. Hopeful.
Poor, poor Mid. "Maybe you've earned a little touch." Apollo dangles the offer like a treat, even though he has no intention to deliver it. Not tonight, anyway. "Here." He reaches down and traces one finger over the tent of Mid's slacks, over the wet spot forming there, right where his cock is trapped, desperate for release. Caged.
It's not enough. Apollo knows that.
Midnighter knows it too. "Please, Captain. Please." He keeps shifting his hips upward, little hiccups of useless movement in an attempt to increase the pressure, give himself just enough to get what he needs.
"That's all you get tonight, love." Apollo says, tracing 33 lazily over the bulge in Mid's pants, teasing him with the contact. "If you can come from that, you may, but I'm not giving you more. That was the deal after all… wasn't it?"
Mid shakes his head from side to side, opening and closing his fists, still not moving them. Fuck, Apollo loves him so much. He's so fucking perfect.
"Wasn't that the deal, love?" Apollo prompts him, wanting to hear the words spoken aloud. The agreement. The self-condemnation.
"Yeah… , yes," Midnighter moans. "It’s just… I'm so close, Apollo. C’mon, I'm so close. Please. Just a bit more. A tiny bit. Fuck! Let me come for you. Please!"
Apollo snorts. "Wouldn't be for me now, would it?" It’s a lie. It would be. It’s always for him when his lover comes, when he gets to watch him writhing in ecstasy beneath him. "You already gave me what I wanted tonight. Your mouth," he traces his finger over Midnighter's lips. "Your tears." He trails the damp remnants up over Midnighter's cheeks, until he reaches his wet lashes. "Your breath." He continues his feather-light touches, caressing the bridge of Mid's nose until he reaches its tip and the soft puff of Mid's breath tickles his hand.
Ever so slowly he keeps tracing an invisible line down the center of Mid's lips, down his chin, watching the way Mid's eyes darken even as he tenses when Apollo's finger slithers further down his chin, one millimeter at a time, closer and closer to the dangerous invisible line that’s been drawn along his skin.
"Your throat," Apollo finishes, the smile gone from his face, replaced by possessiveness, as his finger stays perfectly still over that perilous border, without breaching it.
Midnighter doesn't tell him to stop. Apollo watches, mesmerized, the nervous flutter of Midnighter's jugular growing faster. Midnighter frozen beneath him. Waiting. Anxious. Wanting. Apollo could so easily continue his journey down and Midnighter probably wouldn't stop him. He'd bear it for Apollo. He’d bear anything for Apollo.
The memory of Dell’s twisted voice surges forward, the amused lilt in the depths of his confessions. All the things he did to Midnighter. The assumption that Apollo wasn't any different from him.
It stops him and Apollo pulls his hand away, sickened by the memory of it.
Midnighter relaxes, tension draining from his body. It makes Apollo angry with himself that he’s given Mid a reason to doubt him.
Midnighter's throat is still there, beckoning to him. Bare. Exposed. And that coiled anger at Dell roars up inside him, a seething angry snake gripping his insides. He loathes that Dell was the last person to touch Mid there, that Apollo can't undo what Dell did, that in a way that part of Midnighter is still Dell's. His gaze seeks Midnighter's as he struggles against the dark thoughts squeezing his insides tighter and tighter.
"Your throat is mine now, love. You gave it to me. I marked it from the inside with my come." The words help. Not enough, but some.
"Yes," Midnighter agrees. "It's yours. I'm yours. All of me."
An idea wells up inside him, grips him tight. Something that might satiate Apollo's possessiveness without betraying Mid's trust. He digs in his front pocket for the gold Sharpie he carries with him to games in case a fan asks for an autograph and pulls it out.
He shows the Sharpie to Midnighter. "I wanna mark your throat from the outside, too. My hands won't touch your neck," he reassures Mid. Or maybe it’s himself he’s speaking to now. "But I don't have to, do I, love? It's mine anyway. I just want the world to know it. If you let me."
"Please." A wellspring of timeless desperation oozes from that single word. Mid's gaze is fixed on the Sharpie, as though he's never seen one before. "Please, Apollo. Please. Yes," he beseeches. "Mark my neck. Make it yours. Show me it's yours." Apollo feels the unspoken words like breath on his skin. ‘Make it yours, instead of his.’
He uncaps the Sharpie and lets the lid roll away, abandoned, forgotten, as Mid bares his neck further, arching his throat into an invitation Apollo can't refuse.
He leans forward, placing the tip against Mid's jugular. A tentative dot forms, dark and golden, glittering against Midnighter's neck.
Midnighter moans out loud. His throat bobs as his words wrench free. "Fuck! Apollo!"
It's all the encouragement Apollo needs. His hand dances over Mid's neck, a motion so well practiced he doesn't have to think about it. The Sharpie pushes against Mid's skin, forming the familiar curling pattern of Apollo's signature.
Underneath him, Midnighter shivers and moans, thrusting up against empty air, a wild stallion bucking under Apollo's legs, only Apollo’s hand on his chest keeping him from creating a smudge of ink against his skin. Apollo knows those noises, though, he’s heard them countless times before. This isn’t Midnighter trying to break free. This is pure, unadulterated desperation.
The last long strokes of Apollo’s name curves against Midnighter’s skin, and it’s like that, with only the Sharpie against his neck, Apollo’s claim written for the world to see, that Midnighter comes, his breath a shout of Apollo's name.
In the moments after, Apollo cups his lover’s face, breathes in his every breath, and declares, “All mine,” the barest hint of ferocity swelling around the love in his voice.
“Yours,” Mid promises, breathless.
