Midnighter's voice is all gasps, lit by his own pleasure. Somehow, Marcus' hesitance makes it hotter. Probably because it's Marcus, it's such a him thing to do, to rise up to the occasion full of stop-starts, but ultimately succeed. He always does it. Midnighter's proud, deeply, though he knows expressing that will only sound condescending.

Marcus gets two pictures: the first, of Midnighter's head and shoulders, throat bared, lip bitten, eyes closed. Thank fuckall he's good at multitasking. (Marcus may note that the headboard behind him is not only fixed, but completely different, and the wall is another color.)

The second photo is of his hips, half covered by a blanket, his hand disappearing beneath the sheets in an unsubtle bulge.

And then- "Fuck, I- I want that. When I'm healed, shit, yeah, let's make a day of it. I want- I want you. All of you. Do whatever you want with me. F-fucking trust you. Do whatever you w-want-"