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.

At beautiful Marcus gasps and shakes his head fervently, one hand wringing the headboard and the other splayed on Midnighter’s chest. He doesn’t need that, can’t trust that. Doesn’t want to think about it. It’s too nice, too tender, Midnighter’s nonsense assertions about spoiling him far too tempting even though he knows it’s just talk. Not only does he not deserve the way Midnighter treats him, he can’t afford to pretend that he does. Just —

He needs to not think about it. Suddenly, he needs very badly to not think about anything at all. So he bears down and screws his eyes shut and mutters, “Harder, then, harder, make me — ”

Let's bug the neighbours, Midnighter has said, but Marcus loses his nerve for it, can't quite let himself cry out. He ends up bringing his hand to his mouth again, mostly unthinking, biting down hard on his knuckles to muffle the noise he makes as he starts to come. And keeps coming, climax stretching long, twitching tight about Midnighter's dick as he offers filthy encouragement.

He feels like he doesn't breathe for a few seconds after. Then he's gasping, gripping the headboard and flattening his hand out over his mouth for a moment before reaching up, running his fingers through his own air. "Christ," he mutters, faint, half-ashamed, eyes widening at the sight of the streaks of come across Midnighter's stomach.

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.

Loose and warm and conflicted all the same, still nagged at by a little stubborn guilt, a sense that he's doing too much and not enough, Marcus wraps tight about him, strokes through his hair. Midnighter scowls when he comes, it's pretty, but he looks like he's working hard, concentrating so intensely it hurts. Marcus wants to talk him through it but he doesn't know if it'd be welcome, is too much of a bloody coward to —

He catches that thought, reprimands himself. Stop it. No self-pity spirals, not when Midnighter's all tangled up with him, not when he gasps and Marcus gasps too, tender and pleased to see him pleased. He smears a kiss across Midnighter's brow, and he murmurs, "Darling, darling, darling," a little bit sing-song, cupping his jaw. "Don't have to ask. Made it a habit now." He swallows, wonders if Midnighter saw him getting distracted, getting too in his head. Probably. He's nothing if not observant. "I like that you like that. Darling."

Who wouldn’t like being called darling? The other men Marcus has slept with, for one. Too straight-acting or too wannabe-tough. Too allergic to any indication of feeling that might last more than a night. So he’s pleased, especially by how Midnighter wears toughness and softness at the same time. He smiles and doesn’t push it, but there’s a tender look in his eyes. He keeps the thought private, too precious to say right now, something to cherish when Midnighter’s not here.

“Nothing to keep me here, but I don’t have my marching orders yet. Dunno where my next job is.” He sighs happily at the tickle of Midnighter’s mouth on his jaw, tilts his head happily to give him more room. “Thought I...mm. Thought I might drive. Pick a direction, see where it takes me.” His tone is a little tentative, though, pricked with a question: you got a better idea, or...?

Midnighter's a furnace: Marcus is only too happy about it, humming contentedly as he gets wrapped up in him. "That's the first time anyone's ever actively wanted to stay in this place," he tells him, knowing Midnighter will pick up on how his heart ticks a little faster with pleasure at the idea of him spending the night.

"You can stay. If you want. Course you can stay." He is surprised Midnighter wants to, though. Not even really because of the intimacy — he's starting to understand that Midnighter craves closeness just like he does. No, it just seems like a small, boring place to stay, especially for someone who doesn't sleep, who just came in through a glowing portal covering in alien blood. Who saves hundreds of people in one fell swoop, where Marcus will work for months on end to save one.

It doesn't work like that, he reminds himself. That's theologically bullshit, there are whole parables about that. It still doesn't stop him from feeling — a little slow, a little tedious by Midnighter's standards.

He exhales, breath pooling hot in the hollow of Midnighter's shoulder and clavicle. "Why?" he ends up saying, a bit subdued. "Not... I know you wanna stay with me." That feels presumptuous even though Midnighter's just said as much. "So why is that, hm? I'm doing something right. Just not sure what. Help me out."