"Ha, uh — gimme a second." His hand doesn't stop working him over, stuttering a little as Midnighter pulls him down to kiss him but not ceasing to move. "Gimme a moment, it's — "

He's so reluctant to move away. Midnighter's so responsive it's addictive: all that twisting and whining, it's lovely, it's just lovely, and Marcus wants to take his time with it. He smears kisses across his mouth and cheek and jaw and neck, loose and cherishing, and only after he's dotted most of the space between Midnighter's lips and his right shoulder with kisses and nips that he lets up. He releases his grip, shakes out his wrist as he moves back — not without a slightly wide-eyed moment of taking him in. "God you're gorgeous." He doesn't actually mean to say it, it just spills over; he sounds vaguely incredulous, like he doesn't know how he ended up here. "Hold — just hold on."

He has lube. That's a relatively new thing, a purchase made along with condoms and without any eye contact with anybody else in the pharmacy. The box of condoms is unopened; the bottle of lube, however, has been cracked open, thanks to a few solitary experiments. He tries not to think about how obvious that makes him as he rescues both from his bag. The condoms he leaves on the bed, the bottle he grips — looks to Midnighter slyly, half-uncertain. "Do you want — ?" And then he stops, amused at himself, at his own diffidence, as he realises he knows the answer to that one. He wants. He can ask. So he does, moving back up Midnighter's body as he says, "Uh. Liked your — mm. Liked your fingers in me. That was good. Wanna try that again?"

"Sap," Marcus says all too fondly, in what has to be the most hypocritical assertion he's ever made. He shifts on his knees, settles his elbows either side of Midnighter's face and kisses him hungrily.

"Ain't done this much before," he admits, gliding smoothly over the details. Once. He's had someone fuck him all of once before, and they were both the wrong side of sober. It had been clumsy and exciting and too rushed and too intense and not intense enough. That said, it's not like his experience of being on the other side of things, or sleeping with anyone in any way, is really so much more impressive. "So you just take your time. Let you know when I can take you, yeah?"

As Midnighter shifts, Marcus shifts with him, hands sliding over his shoulders. He doesn't laugh, and he doesn't look afraid, just thoughtful. And then he's touched. Midnighter, he's fairly sure, doesn't usually make a habit of making himself vulnerable. He smiles at him, thumbs his lower lip, kisses him.

If Midnighter didn't know that Catholic priests don't have sex, he probably also doesn't know why, Marcus realises. He should explain it. Midnighter seems like he wants to understand. So he should take him through the labyrinths of self-recrimination and shame and...yes, the very loving and deeply felt attachments of a long spiritual marriage that came to a difficult end. He should try to explain the links: this is why I do that, that is responsible for this. Maybe it would even help him unravel some of the more complicated knots. But that doesn't have to happen right now. Right now, it's enough to know that they understand each other. And that this isn't too much of a test of Midnighter's patience.

"Thanks," he murmurs, which feels strange to say in bed with someone, but he means it. "I know. I know, I trust you. That's why I'm here, innit." He palms Midnighter's jaw, kisses him again. "C'mon. 'S okay. I know what I want."

"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.

Marcus huffs and pushes his forehead down, eyes screwing tight closed. He feels a defensive stab of embarrassment, but Midnighter isn't mocking him, he's not lying. He wants to make Marcus feel good. When's he had that before? "Yeah. You — oh." His voice slides up-register a little as Midnighter's fingers move in him, his breath roughening slightly and his hips twitching forwards.

"It's all you, gorgeous. Get excited over you. You can — deeper." He has to haul in his breath hard. "You can push deeper."

"Yeah, yeah, you're so goddamn good to me, that's — good, that feels fucking good — " He's working his cock a little faster now, hips stuttering more erratically between pushing into his own hand and pushing back against Midnighter's fingers. He's tentative at first, getting used to being stretched out about Midnighter's knuckles, feeling how the movement works, where he needs to bear down, what feels right. But when he relaxes enough to find the right angle he chases it, bites down on a whine and tries to press back to get more.

"Keep doing — ah, do that again, c'mon," his voice getting hissed and urgent as he squirms.

Impatient, something about that hits Marcus with a spike of guilt: what if he's asking too much, what if this is too good, what if he's too greedy. He gasps, needs a moment to settle himself — it's fine. It's fine, he's fine. Midnighter's smiling, he can hear it in his voice. He's smiling, and his grip on Marcus' waist is secure, and his voice is practically vibrating with eagerness and impatience of his own. Marcus cranes his neck and props up on one elbow to look at him, gets him just barely in view — but it helps, seeing the look on his face. No, more than helps. The idea that Marcus is the cause of that expression sends a jolt right through him. He shivers and swallows and manages, "Just gimme — oh my God, darling. Bit more, just wanna — wanna feel you open me up, just — "

And as his head drops down again his voice breaks up, turning low and ragged while his hips cant up to answer how Midnighter fucks him. He murmurs a few more things like that, just keep going, just a little, and then — he doesn't know how long it takes him, really, he loses track of that, but he lets go of his own cock, looks around again, reaches behind to grab Midnighter's wrist and slow him. "Alright," he gasps, "alright, I can — c'mon. I want you."

"Yeah?" Keep talking, everything's fine as long as he keeps talking. His grin is lopsided and a little wild, his eyes dark and wide, as he settles his knees either side of Midnighter's hips. There's a fine tremor in his thighs already, just from the thudding pulse of arousal moving through him. One hand steadies himself, spread out on Midnighter's stomach: the other goes down, slides over Midnighter's cock once, twice, before he swallows and lines them up. "Might like to hear that sometime. Might — have to be less carefu — uh — "

He sinks down slow, eyes flickering closed as Midnighter slides in. Different from his fingers, thicker, hotter, pushing deeper already. Marcus makes a few more effortful, gasping noises, and then Midnighter's inside him to the hilt. Marcus whines, drops his head down, takes a moment just to feel. Feels like his brain is short-circuiting, pleasure flashing through unexpected nerves, his whole body humming with it. His cock is glistening and flushed between them, untouched for the minute.

The insistent murmur of reassurance that Midnighter keeps up makes Marcus tremble, teetering on the edge of being overwhelmed. He's babbling, he reminds himself, he's just saying whatever, he's not thinking straight either. That has to be it, because there's no way that low tenderness is really meant for him. He doesn't have that kind of luck.

That doesn't stop an unhelpful and increasingly noisy part of him thrilling at the words. Yes, yes, let me make you feel good, let me do this for you.

When Midnighter's hips roll a noise gets stuck in Marcus' throat, only comes free when he tries to push back, shifts, finds the angle to rock down against him — "Oh my God," he says, in answer to Midnighter's question, and actually laughs a bit, just a quiet breath of disbelieving pleasure. His eyes flutter open, show hazy. "That's a lot." He means everything but he knows where Midnighter's going to take that the moment it's out of his mouth. So with another half laugh, half gasp, he steals the double-entendre first, voice dropping low and sly, "You're a lot, ain't you. God." He remembers last time, Midnighter pressing him: say my name. Slowly, he lifts up — slowly comes back down again with a ragged sigh, and, "M. Midnighter."

"Yeah? That sounds fucking nice. I thought — " His breath hitches, a few shocky gasps of laughter tumbling out of his mouth. Not because anything's particularly funny, just because he's overwhelmed and feeling good, because it's an automatic reaction when he's struggling for words. "Jesus. I was thinking about that. I mean, about making you feel — feel good. That's what I want."

He's fighting to be careful with his words, proud of himself for managing sort-of full sentences, but then he shifts as he sinks down and the head of Midnighter's prick pushes just so inside him, enough to make him jerk and shudder. "Fuck, fuck — " His hand flies to his mouth on instinct to shut himself up, but he's not quite quick enough.

"What," laughing, colour darkening in his cheeks, "Jesus, Jesus Christ, the stuff you come out with — can't just say stuff like that, darling, oh my God," by which he means that he can't imagine ever saying anything like that, and hearing it — he doesn't know how to react. It's embarrassing, it's good, he likes it, he doesn't know why he likes it. He's flushed right down to his chest, overwhelmed and only too happy about it, sweat beginning to glisten on his forehead and his shoulders. With Midnighter's hand on his cock and his hips shifting beneath him, he finds that angle again and swears and this time he doesn't try to muffle himself.

He drops his hand from his mouth, wraps it instead over Midnighter's fingers around his cock, guides him quicker and less tentative. "Like — like that, God, you feel — uhm — "

Every thrust gets a gasp out of Marcus, each sharper and harsher than the last. He lets go, lets Midnighter stroke his cock, grabs for the rickety headboard instead for a bit of balance, because his thighs are trembling with the effort of keeping himself up and the way Midnighter moves in him isn't helping. It's a deep, core-shaking kind of pleasure, enough to leave him struggling with words. "F-fuck, next time — whatever you want, but." He's moving quicker now, the bed rattling and whining under their combined weight.

"Already treating me right, you treat me so damn good, that's — " His words stumble into little more than a whine, and he bites down hard on his lower lip. It doesn't quiet the noise, only twists it a little.