Work Text:
Gregor is someone who’s used to pain. Heathcliff’s known that from the very start. In their first mission, he didn’t even flinch when his stomach was ripped open. Didn’t even cry when his guts were strewn apart. And after a year of dying together, it’s all but confirmed. Heathcliff’s never heard him scream except during corrosion.
Nothing can prepare him for how loud he is in bed.
Heathcliff is barely doing anything to him. His cock is just sitting inside, a hand stroking his claw. More foreplay than anything; nothing that should garner more than a moan or maybe even a please. But already, he’s loud, he’s so fucking loud. Even when he’s trying to muffle the brunt of it behind his good hand. Like Heathcliff’s dick is somehow tearing through his throat, or his fingers are single-handily pulling it from his lips.
How the hell was he supposed to know the old man would be this loud in bed? It’s such a difference between the Gregor he knows and the Gregor before him now. A guilty wet dream, except it’s real, dangerously real. Heathcliff can’t stop staring. He’s lucky that Gregor’s eyes are closed. Too shy with embarrassment or too consumed by pleasure. Either way, it's cute.
...And ridiculously hot.
And you call me loud, Heathcliff thinks with a self-satisfied smirk. He can’t find it in himself to be annoyed by it now. Not when Gregor’s face is flushed a beautiful sheen of red. Not when his glasses are fogging up from the sheer heat of their skin.
Not when he sounds out of breath with each steady thrust, as Heathcliff fucks him slowly, lovingly. Another moan breaks from Gregor when he rubs the sensitive parts of his arm, high and strangled like it’s begging to be heard. God, it’s too much. He feels like a fucking pervert just hearing him. Surely, Gregor must be pretending. There’s no way Heathcliff’s that good at giving dick.
Except maybe he is, because when he slams back in, he sees Gregor bite into the meat of his palm, wetness spilling down his cheeks. Not even a second later, Heathcliff’s groaning at the tight squeeze around his cock. Whatever Gregor’s doing is shit at quieting his moans, but it’s a wonder for Heathcliff’s lust-addled mind. Each noise out of his mouth feels like it’s hot-wired to his dick. Filthy. Obscene.
And god, does he want more.
Every time Heathcliff pushes himself in, it sounds like he’s fucking Gregor’s brains out. It doesn’t help that he acts like it too, legs locked around his waist, back arching high off the bed. Every time he shoves all the way in, every time he teases his twitching entrance. Every time he strokes his arm, places a kiss, sucks on a hard, dusky nipple—every time he does anything, really. He’s not the only one who’s greedy, which is great for Heathcliff’s ego. Less so for his dick. It’s taking all he has to not give in.
His mind is brimming with rapid-fire thoughts. What the fuck quickly melts into holy shit as Gregor explodes in a string of incoherent moans. He still has a hand clamped over his mouth, but there’s drool leaking through, running heavily down his stubble. He looks fuck-drunk: head thrown back, eyes wet and foggy with pleasure. Hair damp with sweat, sticking to the hot expanse of his skin. It’s frighteningly similar to the look he has when corroding, as if he finally doesn’t need to be in control anymore.
Bloody hell. Heathcliff can’t take it any longer. His dick is gonna burst if Gregor keeps tempting him like this. A part of him—okay, all of him—doesn’t even want to. He’ll take a punch for his family any time of the day, but he can be a right selfish bastard, too.
Like right now.
“Lemme hear ya,” he murmurs, nipping the trembling curve of his jaw. The walls aren’t soundproof, but fuck if he cares right now. He put up with Ishmael when Rodya was fucking her brains out. Fair’s fair, he thinks. She owns him for this.
Gregor shakes his head. When he speaks, he sounds ruined. ”They’ll hear,” he barely gasps out, and then comes a groan that nearly has Heathcliff spilling.
“Let them,” Heathcliff says. He’s peppering kisses all over his neck. Gregor is trembling, writhing, gasping desperately as he tries not to sob. “You sound so good right now. Don’t you know how lucky I feel? When I see you like this? Hear you moan like this?”
Gregor’s eyes are watery with tears. He looks shy and embarrassed and horribly turned on. That’s another thing Heathcliff is pleasantly surprised by: the old man’s got a praise kink the size of the fucking City.
Lucky for him, he’s nothing but generous.
“Gorgeous,” he says. “Fucking gorgeous is what you are. I’m the luckiest man in the world. I feel like I’m goin’ mad when I look at ya.”
“Verdammt,” Gregor groans, but his voice is breaking. Heathcliff picks up the pace, and that’s when Gregor starts begging.
”Heathcliff,” he moans. Loud, desperate, perfect. “Heathcliff, Heathcliff, please, I—“
Heathcliff kisses him on the lips, holding him tight, tight, tight, and swallows his scream as they both come together.