Something

“Y-no, wait I—”

It's endearing, watching someone get flustered. With a roll of his hips, Mal eases the discomfort of the tightness in his pants, half lidded eyes lazily glancing up just long enough to watch this lovely version of himself tip his head back in frustration. The hand pinning his hips down eases up, and Rue—names have to be moved around a bit, it's complicated when you share the same one—tries to do the same. Rolling his hips, Mal's teeth find the piercing on his clit and allows his long haired counterpart to make the mistake of easing his hips back. The pull hurts, just right, just enough that the moan that's pulled from his throat is squeaky and high pitched.

“Oh, fuck fuck fuck please—fuck what do I...I’m,” Broken sentences like that make him chuckle, come smeared over his lips left to trail on inner thighs, the gloved hand keeping the man of money and fame knees apart suddenly using bruising force. They're too nice to him. But Mal? If there's anyone he can be mean to, it's himself. He just got here, armor still not completely removed in the drunken greed of his counterpart.

“What was that, what you said? You'd get me on my knees?” Mal pushes back stray strands escaping from his ponytail, tongue flat against the mess of slick and heat before him. He likes this, knowing someone's exact tells, feeling a muscle jump in his grip. His counterpart seems to turn shy, trying to close his legs as a hiss is sucked in between clenched teeth. It's not the edging that gets them, oh no, Mal knows that, and he finally takes off his damn gloves when the other stops trying to push himself away, knees let go.

“Easy, Cariño.”

A whimper, digits cold against Malcolm’s entrance, middle and ring finger circling his clit before they dip lower and the smoker of the two leans up from where he kneels, watchful eyes taking in how tightly shut the other's are. It's cute, especially when he bites his lip as he curls them, thumb playing with that piercing of his. If the dancer of the two didn't have his arms tied by hemp rope that dug bruises into his wrist with every pull, he'd do more than roll his hips into it, moan soft and shaky. His counterpart’s hands are scarred, calloused. Rough and touches nearly careless, it's not at all like how he touches himself. He would've at least preferred a bed and not the couch, but he's in no position to complain. Even his eyes are different, the Sigil resident lacking a luster and shine to his eyes Malcolm always has. Tired, and a deep set darkness that nobody can look too long into without feeling their heart dip.

At least now, it only makes him shudder again, heat curling in his stomach at the downright filthy sounds of his pussy getting toyed with. He can't look, he feels dizzy. He already came without permission once and he's not sure he can handle being told to lick the floor clean again. Hips gently rocking, he finally speaks.

“We—I...fuck,” It makes the man fucking him with his fingers snicker, and it only makes him more frustrated. He wants to think clearly, be eloquent and charming but the buzz in his bones and the way the other’s jaw tightens when he groans as he dares to buck his hips make it impossible. They're getting off to themselves. Somehow, that makes sense, all things considering.

“K..kiss me? Please? Please.” That's all he's been asking for the last thirty minutes, but every time he's only gotten a no. Mal hums, eyes dropping to his fingers slowing as they end up knuckle deep inside of the other. He eases them free, and his counterpart’s shoulders relax as he watches. Without a word, his free hand reaches up to the dancer’s neck, and when he opens to say something Mal's fingers curl into the base of the braid. Red hair in an unforgiving grip, he pulls him to lean in as two fingers turn to three and half lidded eyes watch the other's close with a sharp inhale, a moan rumbling in his throat. He adjusts, he always does, but the broken gasps take a while to stop as teary eyes gaze down to the fingers deep in his pussy, hand unusually slow.

“Gods, gods p-please,” What's he asking for? What does he even want? He isn't sure, but when he tries looking away all he gets is a click of a tongue from the man kneeling in front of him and a tug to his hair, grip aching. “Mal—” He turns rough, lips pulled back in a snarl that lasts only a moment before he's finger fucking the version of himself that has it fucking made, right here on his couch in the house of heaven he wasn't allowed to have. Neither have to state the obvious, he's angry, genuinely angry as broken moans and needy gasps leave a dancer’s slack jaw and bewildered teary eyes gently close.

With a grunt, the one that smells like ash hiss a warning in their mother's tongue, eyes falling to the glossed lips of the mess he's toying with. His jaw tightens, and his thumb starts playing with his clit again, his tied up counterpart tensing as his hips moved to meet the digits making tears fall freely. He's so close, and when a sob wracked his body just as a moan does, he's suddenly empty, untouched as Mal completely pulls away. Hands placed on either side of the couch, he groans, hips stuttering into nothing as the other let out the most pornographic noise of need possible. That's not what he wanted, what he needs, god damn it you heartless jackass just—

“G-god, fuck, fuck you're so...m-mean, you're mean…” Dizzy, overstimulated but not quite there, he's conflicted as his hips finally stop moving. It's like having a fever, air cold against his skin and face but he's burning from the inside out.

“You’re too turned on, sweetheart.” Those pet names are just pissing him off now, a weak glare being all he receives when Mal looks up, pushing his hair back as a hand is gently placed on one of the significantly closed legs. The one who prefers a rapier to a gun, on the other hand, only closes his eyes for a moment, gently pushing against his counterpart’s knee to open up one last time. He doesn't move immediately, and Mal’s touches turn light, gentle. Kisses litter his neck and jaw before both of their lips lock and Malcolm's knee shifts, just a little, just to let him know that's what they both should want. A soft moan falls from the smoker now, met by Malcolm's own when he relaxes again, tongue and teeth desperate enough he forgives those dark sleepy eyes when they look up at him from between his legs.

Here's my apology, he doesn't say, eyelashes fluttering closed as his mouth works up his counterpart into the previous ordeal. Soft tired exhales turn sharp, moans light and begging as spasms roll down his spine and make his hips stutter against the awful mouth sucking on his clit, eyes shut tight enough he sees colors behind his eyelids. It's embarrassing, so much after all they've done and he almost closes up his legs except the hands gripping them apart are drawing comforting shapes on them. Malcolm feels as if he's expected to hold back and when the broken, frustrated sob leaves him again, Mal’s teeth find his clit piercing and tug. Half lidded eyes watch as he instantly comes undone, back arching as dull nails drag over his stomach and follow scars they both know are sensitive after years.

Tired, being licked clean, the dancer’s head falls back against the couch as he attempts to catch his breath. A shudder and ache sets in his hips, and he feels sleepy, worn down emotionally and physically. They'll have to talk about this later, not when he's got this version of himself finally tenting through his sweatpants pulling off his shirt. Wordlessly, he leans over, lips just inches from the ones owned by the long haired man of money and faith. A hand gently brushes over his, until Mal's smile turns wicked and his jaw is being opened, lips smashed together making the tied up counterpart squeak. Pulling away, drool and his own come leaks into his mouth as gravity does it's thing. It's filthy, thumb hooked over his teeth to keep his jaw open, saliva strings keeping them more connected than they've been this entire night.

He hates how his hips buck and his moans turn high pitched, eyes instantly tearing up as heat flares up tenfold in his stomach. He's not done with him, and it shouldn't excite him after what just happened but maybe that's why it does. Pupils dilated, he damn near has heart eyes, and he would if the glare wasn't set back into place. Mal only lazily runs a finger over his lips, smeared lip gloss dragged down off to the side as his other hand rests on his throat.

“Relax, wanted to make sure you tasted how sweet you are.” He's moving him, easing off his waist so Malcolm ends up on his knees, chin rested on a pillow as he pulls at the rope again. He's gonna get fucked into the damn couch by a version of himself that's proving to be a little more than an asshole as he thought, and he hates it in a way that makes him mumble for Mal to hurry up. The shorter haired man whistles, low and amused as a hand sneaks under his shirt that he unfortunately had to keep on, other hand pushing his thighs apart. Balance, it's easier to keep when both hands set on his hips and he hears the sigh of relief Mal gives as his cock is freed, and he pushes his hips back with a huff.

“Someone’s moody—”

“Please,” It's soft, almost a whisper as his eyes gently close and a shiver goes up his spine when the grip on his hips tighten.

“Daddy.”

Christ, okay, he called himself daddy. He's not personally a fan, but it's worth a shot? And when the fingertips dig almost painfully and Mal sucks in a sharp breath, he has to bite his lip to keep from snickering. How unbelievable, but he really has to bite his lip when the tip of Mal's cock hardly lines up with his entrance and he's snapping his hips forward. It nearly hurts, but that's what he likes the most, and Malcolm pushes his hips back with an appreciative moan. He’s sure he's going to get one back, but Mal’s hand finds purchase on the armrest and the other gently placed on Malcolm's neck again. Christ, he's going to get choked too. Mouth opening to say something, words are cut off with a choked gasp as a calloused hand grips his throat. Air is cut just as Mal's hips snap forward, and he sees stars as a gasp turns to a wheeze, words phantoms amongst raspy moans.

“H-hah, Christ you're tight,” It's an insanely liberating thing to simply say to yourself, other version or otherwise. It's awful how electrifying this is to him, able to literally fuck the version of himself that got all he ever wanted into the sofa of his awful mansion. He made the best pretty boy cry, beg and even glare at him, and the thought of the glare again makes him shudder as his hips slow. His hand loosens, pace breaking for a few rough thrusts to keep the man under him breathless. If there's anything he wants, it's this version of himself to get off to this for weeks after. The wheezes and moans bring a satisfied smile to his lips, eyes watching the wrists rubbed raw trying to pull out of the rope again. Casually, the hand slips away from his throat and swipes at a bead of blood over a spot that's had the worst of it, skin splitting. Mal chuckles when the earth resident flinches from the quick touch, and he leans back, pulling out to flip his counterpart onto his back, whistling low.

“Right on the edge, as always.” He doesn't need to explain what he means, easing back into the most wrecked of the pair as he wraps his legs around Mal's waist without a word, moan weak. Hazy eyed and without any protest, he's rocking his hips insistently as Mal's thrusts can't be anything but lazy. He can see why this one's got three damn boyfriends, the sight mesmerizing in a way he's sure he himself can't pull off being anymore. Not begging or even speaking, Malcolm slowly closes his eyes as the other pushes disheveled hair out of his face, trembling over the slightest touch as he leans into it. Another tug to the damn rope, and Mal licks his lips, suddenly slamming his hips into his new toy. The sound he pulls from Malcolm is divine, but all it reminds him is how his throat isn't bruised to hell and back yet. Quick to fix that, a hand tightens around the vibrations of the wrecked moans spilling into the air, and heat curls in his gut. It's startling, how different even the noises they make when they're close to coming is. Breathy and light, low and sharp. It's fitting, they're both sure, but it doesn't matter.

Not a single opinion matters when the world is tipping on its axis and Mal’s expression is impish, nearly cruel as his grip turns vice-like. That's all he needs, legs locking as the hand is removed and instead brought down for balance as Mal fucks him through it, thank-yous spilling from his mouth as he does over the other’s cock. It's too good, too sweet in a way Mal's denied himself of being the entire time, a soft hiss turning into a moan upon exhale. He's about to pull out when Malcolm's legs around him tighten, body still wracked with spasms as he barely cracks open an eye.

“In—In me,” And fuck, fuck fuck fuck if he doesn't get his wish with a hard thrust and a teeth clacking kiss so the smoker’s moans stay muffled. His hips finally slow, gently grinding each other through the afterglow as they both catch their breath. Words aren't exchanged, they don't need to be, jaws and throats lavished in kisses and the gentle warmth of aftercare once the soft eyed of the two has his hands free and rope burns are kissed. A love you could be had, but like everything too emotional and raw that isn't mid fuck, it'd make the tired soul of the pair get up no matter how fatigued.

This time he stays, at the very least.