He's so caught up in his disappointment that he doesn't hear when things start up again, but this time there's no shouting, no crashing, just the rustle of clothes, the smack of lips and the wounded little noises the devil keeps making, probably without meaning to. Like can't even believe this is happening to him. He probably can't, Mac muses: everyone's first time is a gaping, terrifying disappointment, everyone prays for intervention and breaks a little when they figure out it's not going to come. Some get used to it. Some don't.
There's a slurping noise. Maybe Fisk is sucking on his own fingers, but he likes to think he's making the lawyer do it for him, putting that mouth to some good use. Mac jerks back into motion, working his hand down into his clothes and seizing his half-hard cock, licking his lips and straining to hear. Fisk should be taking the devil from behind, bracing his knees on the floor and letting his chest rest on the bed, palm up under his chin to hold it aloft while his middle and ring fingers push past those pretty lips and into his mouth, press down against his tongue until saliva pools there. The devil won't bite, because he's too afraid of that grip turning hard, of Fisk curling his fist and cracking his jaw out of place, maybe twisting his head so sharply that his neck snaps like in the movies. He's probably resigned himself to being compliant, but Mac hopes those eyes are still going nuts, wide and unseeing, tears gathering in the corners of them - yeah, tears, good. Yard stories are always better with a few tears, a bit of begging. All the boys he ever put in here will enjoy the idea that he broke down and wept when he realized his new place in the world.
He jerks in place a few times, Mac's mind supplies when he hears the sharp movements and grunts, trying to get away without allowing himself to move - they're definitely on the bunk, at least partially, Mac can make out the sound of rusted springs now. The next rustle of cloth is more final than the others had been, and Mac can hear the devil's breathing pick up into wet gasps - one after the other, after the other, after the other. When he hears a forceful "uh!" like all the air has been punched out of him, Mac can almost see the devil bucking as a spit-wet finger prods at his asshole. Undignified, uncontrolled. He probably bites down on the sheets just to keep himself from yelling his throat raw in fear.
"Relax, Matthew. I assure you the only one you're making this more difficult for is yourself." Fisk's voice is darkly amused, but not crass or, even, entirely unkind. Mac has to hand it to him, the man clearly knows how to put on a show. Maybe he didn't bribe anybody, maybe he just whispered to them in the dark until they were willing to do every little thing he asked. "That's better. This doesn't have to be your punishment."
There's more silence, broken only by the sharp staccato of labored breathing, and the occasional noise that the devil is clearly trying to keep to himself. It goes on for what feels like forever, and just when Mac's wrist is starting to tire, mind wandering inward from the lack of new, satisfying input, Fisk's voice breaks the silence. "Spit."
Oh, yes. The main event. Mac sits up, closing his eyes and leaning his head so he can press his ear against the bars nearest the wall, the one his shares with Fisk's cell. He can hear his cellie unzip, doesn't know how he kept it in his pants up until now. The pause is tangible, but the devil does just as he's told, and Mac can nearly feel the warm glob of saliva on his palm when the sound of it bounces off the walls and spills out into the hall. He does it twice more without prompting, and guy as big as Fisk, Mac figures that's probably wise.
Then, suddenly and out of the blue, Daredevil speaks again. "No, no-" Oh, Mac thought they were past this part, but there's a real panic settling into that raspy voice. It's strange, because the desperation and pleading usually comes before the fingers. At least, when there even are any. "God, it's too-- that's too big, no," yes, he'd forgotten in that moment, the devil is blind. He's had no idea what he's really in for until now, clearly. He's been expecting something more average, and oh. Scratch that, this is better than practically pornographic. So much better. Nobody's touching Mac's dick but himself, and he's still going to need a cigarette when this is done. "You can't, Fisk, Fisk!"
Apparently he can. Fisk shushes him, but the timbre of the devil's wordless noises doesn't taper away, they build. He sounds like he's being gutted, and it's good, it's so good to hear. It's going to stay with him long after he leaves, long after he finds some woman to bend over for a handful of cash on the outside, like he's been dreaming of for the months since Daredevil got him locked up. Those are the noises that dreams are made of, and Mac fists his cock violently, trying to recreate the crushing tightness that Fisk must be feeling. "You'll survive," Fisk grunts, but even his quiet voice gives away the smugness that must be painted all over his face. Even he's starting to get a little breathy with effort, now. "I said relax."
When they eventually go still again, Mac pictures Fisk bottomed out against the bruising roundness of the devil's ass. He can't imagine why Fisk is taking it so easy on him, prepping him, giving him some time to adjust, but Mac never was very good at the long game. Maybe he wants to save completely breaking the devil for later, on some rainy day. And hey, if he can find a way to bring those noises back someday, Mac is all for it.
They start moving, and in that moment Mac would trade any hope of ever getting his freedom back for the ability to see through walls. The devil isn't silent, but he's doing better about keeping it down, which is awfully disappointing. Disappointing, that is, until a few minutes into the act itself, something... shifts. The devil managed to control himself for a little while, but then began building back up, his voice raw and cresting up on the opposite side of the spectrum. He's moaning, panting and breathless in one go, but moaning around all that. When he muffles himself into what must be a fist, it only takes Fisk a few slow strokes to yank the offending arm back and open him up to Mac's ears again. He already knows no one in the yard is going to believe him, but he can hear it for himself, the raw desperation and low self-loathing packed like bricks into the burbled sounds tumbling through the cell bars. It's fascinating, in its own way: Mac can't tell which way he sounds better, in pain or in pleasure.
He's still mulling it over when the devil makes a pronounced choking noise, cutting off mid-keen. Mac thinks Fisk must have closed one of those huge hands around his throat and squeezed-- the sound of fabric rustling gets so frantic that Mac can only imagine the devil's hands are scrabbling in the sheets, trying to find purchase, trying to make sense of everything and then the entire cell goes still and there's a distinct, muffled shout fluttering out beneath all that pressure. Did he just...
"Already?" Fisk sounds so pleased, and why not? He came. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the devil came with a mammoth cock in his ass and a hand on his throat and the man he put in prison growling into his ear, "Impatient boy. I'm not done."
The rhythmic slapping and sliding actually resumes beneath the sound of a dry, overstimulated sob, and in two, three more borderline brutal jerks Mac comes so hard into the fabric of his pants that he almost bites off his own tongue.
2/2 i have never hit character capacity on a dw comment before omg
There's a slurping noise. Maybe Fisk is sucking on his own fingers, but he likes to think he's making the lawyer do it for him, putting that mouth to some good use. Mac jerks back into motion, working his hand down into his clothes and seizing his half-hard cock, licking his lips and straining to hear. Fisk should be taking the devil from behind, bracing his knees on the floor and letting his chest rest on the bed, palm up under his chin to hold it aloft while his middle and ring fingers push past those pretty lips and into his mouth, press down against his tongue until saliva pools there. The devil won't bite, because he's too afraid of that grip turning hard, of Fisk curling his fist and cracking his jaw out of place, maybe twisting his head so sharply that his neck snaps like in the movies. He's probably resigned himself to being compliant, but Mac hopes those eyes are still going nuts, wide and unseeing, tears gathering in the corners of them - yeah, tears, good. Yard stories are always better with a few tears, a bit of begging. All the boys he ever put in here will enjoy the idea that he broke down and wept when he realized his new place in the world.
He jerks in place a few times, Mac's mind supplies when he hears the sharp movements and grunts, trying to get away without allowing himself to move - they're definitely on the bunk, at least partially, Mac can make out the sound of rusted springs now. The next rustle of cloth is more final than the others had been, and Mac can hear the devil's breathing pick up into wet gasps - one after the other, after the other, after the other. When he hears a forceful "uh!" like all the air has been punched out of him, Mac can almost see the devil bucking as a spit-wet finger prods at his asshole. Undignified, uncontrolled. He probably bites down on the sheets just to keep himself from yelling his throat raw in fear.
"Relax, Matthew. I assure you the only one you're making this more difficult for is yourself." Fisk's voice is darkly amused, but not crass or, even, entirely unkind. Mac has to hand it to him, the man clearly knows how to put on a show. Maybe he didn't bribe anybody, maybe he just whispered to them in the dark until they were willing to do every little thing he asked. "That's better. This doesn't have to be your punishment."
There's more silence, broken only by the sharp staccato of labored breathing, and the occasional noise that the devil is clearly trying to keep to himself. It goes on for what feels like forever, and just when Mac's wrist is starting to tire, mind wandering inward from the lack of new, satisfying input, Fisk's voice breaks the silence. "Spit."
Oh, yes. The main event. Mac sits up, closing his eyes and leaning his head so he can press his ear against the bars nearest the wall, the one his shares with Fisk's cell. He can hear his cellie unzip, doesn't know how he kept it in his pants up until now. The pause is tangible, but the devil does just as he's told, and Mac can nearly feel the warm glob of saliva on his palm when the sound of it bounces off the walls and spills out into the hall. He does it twice more without prompting, and guy as big as Fisk, Mac figures that's probably wise.
Then, suddenly and out of the blue, Daredevil speaks again. "No, no-" Oh, Mac thought they were past this part, but there's a real panic settling into that raspy voice. It's strange, because the desperation and pleading usually comes before the fingers. At least, when there even are any. "God, it's too-- that's too big, no," yes, he'd forgotten in that moment, the devil is blind. He's had no idea what he's really in for until now, clearly. He's been expecting something more average, and oh. Scratch that, this is better than practically pornographic. So much better. Nobody's touching Mac's dick but himself, and he's still going to need a cigarette when this is done. "You can't, Fisk, Fisk!"
Apparently he can. Fisk shushes him, but the timbre of the devil's wordless noises doesn't taper away, they build. He sounds like he's being gutted, and it's good, it's so good to hear. It's going to stay with him long after he leaves, long after he finds some woman to bend over for a handful of cash on the outside, like he's been dreaming of for the months since Daredevil got him locked up. Those are the noises that dreams are made of, and Mac fists his cock violently, trying to recreate the crushing tightness that Fisk must be feeling. "You'll survive," Fisk grunts, but even his quiet voice gives away the smugness that must be painted all over his face. Even he's starting to get a little breathy with effort, now. "I said relax."
When they eventually go still again, Mac pictures Fisk bottomed out against the bruising roundness of the devil's ass. He can't imagine why Fisk is taking it so easy on him, prepping him, giving him some time to adjust, but Mac never was very good at the long game. Maybe he wants to save completely breaking the devil for later, on some rainy day. And hey, if he can find a way to bring those noises back someday, Mac is all for it.
They start moving, and in that moment Mac would trade any hope of ever getting his freedom back for the ability to see through walls. The devil isn't silent, but he's doing better about keeping it down, which is awfully disappointing. Disappointing, that is, until a few minutes into the act itself, something... shifts. The devil managed to control himself for a little while, but then began building back up, his voice raw and cresting up on the opposite side of the spectrum. He's moaning, panting and breathless in one go, but moaning around all that. When he muffles himself into what must be a fist, it only takes Fisk a few slow strokes to yank the offending arm back and open him up to Mac's ears again. He already knows no one in the yard is going to believe him, but he can hear it for himself, the raw desperation and low self-loathing packed like bricks into the burbled sounds tumbling through the cell bars. It's fascinating, in its own way: Mac can't tell which way he sounds better, in pain or in pleasure.
He's still mulling it over when the devil makes a pronounced choking noise, cutting off mid-keen. Mac thinks Fisk must have closed one of those huge hands around his throat and squeezed-- the sound of fabric rustling gets so frantic that Mac can only imagine the devil's hands are scrabbling in the sheets, trying to find purchase, trying to make sense of everything and then the entire cell goes still and there's a distinct, muffled shout fluttering out beneath all that pressure. Did he just...
"Already?" Fisk sounds so pleased, and why not? He came. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the devil came with a mammoth cock in his ass and a hand on his throat and the man he put in prison growling into his ear, "Impatient boy. I'm not done."
The rhythmic slapping and sliding actually resumes beneath the sound of a dry, overstimulated sob, and in two, three more borderline brutal jerks Mac comes so hard into the fabric of his pants that he almost bites off his own tongue.