Sorry, is what Marcus wants to say. It's only when Midnighter touches his face and says what he says that he realises why — that he's guilty about looking, about enjoying looking, feels like it's unfair or lecherous or wrong. Which is stupid, they're sleeping together. Hell, Midnighter's still in him up to the hilt, the after-echoes of Marcus' orgasm are still pulsing through him, making his breath hitch and his cock jerk. It's okay. He can look, it's fine. He can like the view.

So he presses against Midnighter's fingers, bumps his cheek into his hand for more of the touch, and nods shakily. "Yeah. Yeah." He's closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opens them he makes himself look at Midnighter like he wants to, really takes him in. "O-oh my God, you're gorgeous, I — I don't even know what to do with you, God." His fingers find Midnighter's, twist together; he kisses his palm. He's trembling, all the strength gone out of him.