"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.