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[ Comparative to the down, the Up's been a fucking utopia; Marcus could see the thinly lacquered veil of civilian distraction with better clarity than anyone, but that didn't stop him from spending the last couple of weeks getting high, blacking out at concerts and waking up a sloppy, slovenly mess on either Tate's couch or Billy's. That's where he is now; downstairs, draped over the sofa, eyes red from weed and critical levels of sleep deprivation. When Tate finally joins him, says hey, Marcus looks up at him with glassy eyes. Been a while. ]

Hey.

[ He sits up, runs his hands down his face, tries to wake up a little more. His shirt's messy, hasn't been ironed in weeks - it's the white button up from his school uniform, two of the buttons threaded into mismatched holes. Marcus runs his hand back through his hair and watches Tate drift around the loft, face expressionless despite the underlying excitement of seeing his friend again. Gotta act cool.

Tate drifts towards the pizza box and Marcus feels a twinge of something in his chest - satisfaction, but he won't explain why. His hand hesitates at his thigh - he wants to offer Tate a seat, but last time he did that, Tate didn't want to join him, so. He keeps his hand curled. ]

That's gotta be cold by now. I can get you something else.

[ The pizza can't be that cold - Marcus ordered it the second he got news people were filtering back out of the down. Thus the satisfaction when Tate beelined straight towards it. ]

I'll eat dirt right now, it doesn't matter.

[And it's not stone cold, really, so it's still palatable to him as he crams it in his face and chews with a renewed sense of vigor. Having not eaten much for the entirety of being trapped underground he fell into a more ghost-like existence, and now that there's something actually on his tongue again it's bringing him back to his humanity. Figures it'd be double cheese. He grabs another piece despite it possibly having already had a bite taken from it and stumbles back toward the couch - sitting down next to Marcus while cupping one hand under the food he's still feeding into his face.

A few seconds later he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and while still chewing he looks at Marcus, focusing on him more solidly for the first time since coming in to the treehouse. He missed him. It hits him like a pang in the chest, now that he's in front of him, and Tate wets his upper lip before scratching at the side of his neck.]

You hung out here?

[There's something pleasing about that, even though it's... obvious that he would've. He's his sub, where else would he have gone? But still. Tate's lips twitch a bit, half-smiling, before he looks away. Debates another slice of cold pizza before deciding he shouldn't push his luck. No sense puking it all back up like a hungry dog eating all you can eat kibble.]

Glad you've been safe.

Yeah, sometimes. They put my friend from the Down up in temporary housing when he couldn't get back home, so I crashed on his floor a lot, too.

[ Marcus is trying to make it clear in his typical distant, arms-length kind of way that he had somewhere else to stay, but he still chose to come back here whenever he could. He shifts aside to let Tate on the couch, pleasantly surprised that he actually chose to close the distance, though he's still doing his best to keep his expression soft and disengaged. He watches Tate finish up his pizza before he speaks up again - Tate's not looking at him, but Marcus's eyes are still trained on him, zoning out a little as he follows the tendon of his neck up to the soft cut of his jawline. ]

I really missed you. Sorry if that's weird to say. I know I act like I don't give a shit about you, sometimes, but that's just - I'm just screwed up like that. I don't mean it. I never do.

[ His voice is weak and bordering on apologetic. This whole week has run him down, and he feels tired in a way he hasn't really felt since Vegas. It's this deep, lethargic exhaustion that exists beyond his bones. Marcus draws his leg up, hangs his arm over his knee and rests his cheek against it like it's a pillow. He's glad that Tate's safe, too. ]

You were never here when I woke up. It sucked.

[Tate meant to ask Marcus before about his friend and he's reminded to do so right now, but it doesn't feel like the moment to ask - if only because he doesn't want anyone else brought up right now. He wants to focus on the two of them instead. Especially when Marcus is saying things like 'I really missed you', to which Tate's heart skips a nearly non-existent beat. He looks to Marcus sidelong and it might not seem all that expressive, the way his eyes on him but his face barely changes, but he's just processing. It's surprising somehow, to be greeted with that, and it's a good surprise but a surprise nonetheless. He leaps at his opportunity here though, lips parting and then closing as he tries to say:]

I missed you too.

[It's a genuine statement, just as real as the impulse that courses through Tate soon after. He leans, reaching to grab Marcus by the shirt collar and to pull him back to an upright sitting position- his other hand reaching out to cup the side of his cheek and in one swift motion to pull him near. It's a risky move, considering their no homo history of explicit homo but Tate doesn't care. He likes being missed, likes being cared for and - likes being liked. This is like.

He kisses Marcus soundly, a little more aggressive than he might have needed to be but he's tired and on a good day it's hard to decide how to manage his emotions. This is just an unfiltered, uncut way of expression for Tate. Tate who is now more and more obsessed with Marcus than before. He doesn't fight to keep the kiss going if Marcus shows any sign of discomfort, and will peel away soon after to wet his lips again and shrug as if he's not sure why he did that. But he's pretty sure why.]

[ These last couple of weeks have been a blur of music, drugs and sex at levels Marcus thought had died back in the 70s, but none of it got him as high as Tate telling him he missed him. Marcus smiles without smiling, lips pressed together and emoting with body language alone. It's a nice feeling. He feels the same kind of warmth he used to get from Maria, who lit him up by making him feel wanted and loved and cared for, only - things with Tate are a little different. Maria was the one who complicated their relationship, through lying, through Chico. Any hang-ups between him and Tate are entirely on Marcus's shoulders; Marcus's inability to own up to his sexuality, his constant, desperate attempts to look unaffected. Things would be easier if Marcus was just... honest.

When Tate grabs his collar, Marcus is taken off guard, eyebrows shooting up. The surprise doesn't last, though - when he sees Tate's expression his heart beats in his throat, the realization of what's coming next lighting him up from the inside and making his mouth run dry. He's got all the time in the world to pull away or to tell Tate to back off, but he feels a little like he's being swept off his feet here, and he surrenders himself to the moment, blaming what happens on Tate, rather than owning up and taking responsibility for it. Tate taking action like this just makes him feel wanted, and Marcus doesn't want to fuck with that.

The kiss isn't gentle, but it isn't harsh, either. Marcus isn't helpful for the first couple of seconds, entirely impassive and non-responsive, and when he senses that Tate's about to pull away, he doesn't have the guts to chase after him. He looks stunned and kind of stupid when Tate breaks away, Tate's lazy shrug barely registering through the buzzing in his head, and when he tries to think of something to say - anything - nothing comes.

So he does the only thing he can think of. He doesn't let himself hesitate - Marcus chases after Tate and kisses him back, closing his eyes and parting his lips, darting his tongue forward as he makes a quiet, breathless sound from the back of his throat, a pushy little half-moan that begs Tate to keep this going. His hand drops to Tate's waist and holds him like he's leading him in a dance, squeezing his side with his palm, soft, tender strokes of his thumb against his skin through his shirt, and when Marcus gets overwhelmed enough to pull back, he's red in a way he never is with anyone else. There's a visible, boyish blush all over his cheeks, sweet and youthful in a way he doesn't know how to hide. There's very little innocence left in Marcus, but whatever shreds of it he has left are rising to the surface in the form of the stupid schoolboy face of someone with a stupid schoolboy crush.

Marcus wipes his lips on the back of his hand and tries to shield himself behind his fist as much as he can, eyes pointed at the floor, too embarrassed and sober to look anything other than shy around someone who always makes him feel like he's vibrating out of his skin. He clears his throat, laughs even though there's nothing funny, then quietly thinks that he needs more weed. ]

[Tate likes that. He wasn't sure what to expect when he put himself forward and on the line, but Marcus rewards him and it only stokes the fire in his chest. They kiss that second time and Tate really gets a taste of him on his tongue, hesitating after the split before he's putting his hands more solidly on Marcus to say he doesn't want it to stop either. He's exhausted, still a bit hungry, but he wants nothing more than to curl up with someone who'll just... be there for him. Who wants to be there for him.

He leans in again, not quite kissing Marcus but stopping a half inch from his face, exhaling gently before kissing the corner of his mouth. He works his way along the cut line of his jaw, right down to where his neck meets it and slides his hands up under Marcus' shirt. He pries those crookedly done buttons apart to better slide his fingers against the small of his back, pivoting his weight to lean on him.]

I like this.

[He missed this. He nudges Marcus' nose with his own, kissing him softly again on his lips - sucking on the lower one and just squeezing his grip of his hip. He wants to sleep but he also just wants to feel the heat of his body over him, too. He wants to lose himself in that feeling and clear his head of everything but safety. He breathes in deep.]

I like you.

[ Marcus's heart is beating faster than it ever has, a constant, jackrabbit drum against Tate's fingertips as he grazes his hand over his chest. He's a little scared to progress things further than they already have - the fear of being seen, being caught, as anything other than straight and closed-off and hard to reach is scaring him more than anything else - but he can't really help himself, either.

Tate kisses the corner of his lips and Marcus greedily follows it with a more direct kiss of his own. Tate touches the small of his back, and Marcus rolls his spine away from the couch, leaning up to silently ask for more contact. When Tate kisses him for real, again, Marcus holds his hand on the back of Tate's neck to prevent him from moving far away when he breaks it off again. They're still nose to nose when Tate tells him he likes him, Marcus still overheating, his red, glassy eyes sharper and more focused than they were when Tate came home. ]

I like you, too.

[ He swallows, rearranging his grip on Tate's neck to anchor him closer. He closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together, losing himself in the intimacy he's always wanted and never had. This is his first real, reciprocated crush, and he's coming into this as someone who always believed guys and girls can't just be friends - the fact that he was friends with Tate before he spent all week missing him makes him feel like Tate's something special, whether that's true or not. ]

I only like you. There's nobody else I think about the way I think about you.

Good. I want this - us - to be special.

[Tate thinks about a lot of other people in special ways, unique to the situation he's in with them. He likes Harley like a puppy dog, walking around in her shadow in the most pathetically deprived of ways. He follows Derek around pining for his attention, ever jealous of his relationship with Stiles but trying to rely on being family or pack as not to feel shut out. He knows Derek loves him and what he has with him is unique, and special. But Tate's a selfish kid who can talk himself into believing anything if it helps him get others to do the same, so this feels justified. After all, he's never had something with anyone here that feels quite like this. Like... a real relationship, even just a hint of it.

After the hiccup with contracts, Tate's felt more vulnerable than he ever wanted to let on. Getting Marcus to sign with him was relieving, for two reasons: one, he wasn't facing the constant pressure to find someone else - a new person, but the second reason was the bigger one. It showed Derek he was capable of finding someone else on his own, which Tate now feels is a pressure on his shoulders to keep Marcus around. A secondary point to that pressure is the fact he wants to keep Marcus around, desperately. He doesn't want to be perceived as a failure again, doesn't want to lose what he's now got. He's more obsessed than ever about it and flavoring it with a genuine crush is just making it beyond dangerous for him. He's never, ever going to let go now.

He kisses Marcus softly once more, letting their foreheads stay resting together before he leans back. He starts to lay back, pulling Marcus with him, just wanting to stretch out on the couch with someone's weight holding him down. That way he won't blow away in an errant wind and ruin it all. He's persistent, tugging at Marcus and shifting accordingly to get him to lay slotted over him against the lumpy cushions of the sofa.]

I want us to be something.

[ Maria kissed Marcus to shut him up after he called her out for sending him to his death through some manipulative, fucked up effort to sic him on Chico. Saya kissed Marcus to keep him from flinging himself off of a belltower and Barbara Salinger-ing himself all over the pavement, all for the sake of her grade. Both times, Marcus knew he was being desperate, knew he was being needy, to react as he did with hopeful, saccharine fantasies of romance and togetherness and being fixed; but his knees buckled, his heart swelled, and when Tate tells him he wants to be something with him - with him, of all fucking people - Marcus feels the same way. Doesn't matter if he's straight or not. Doesn't matter if Tate's a pill-pushing, blood-soaked psychopath, riddled with all the same issues as he is. He wants him. Marcus could cry. ]

I want that too.

[ His voice is a soft, whining whisper, like his heart hurts too much for his vocal chords to work at full strength. He doesn't need to be pulled into Tate when he moves - he follows him willingly, leaning over him with his hand on the arm of the sofa for balance, his legs tangled up in Tate's and their chests inches away from touching. There's something about this position that secures what Marcus wants. Any brief flirtation he and Tate have had with being physical feels more real, now, sharpened and in higher focus. Marcus leaning over him like this triggers something masculine and heteronormative in him, and with how soft Tate's hair is, his lips are, he doesn't feel like he's straying too far from what he thinks romance is supposed to be.

A lot has happened this week. Things he won't tell Tate about. When he holds Tate's chin between his fingers and looks down at him like he could just take him, he's not thinking about all of that. ]

Do you want to be my first?

[Tate's happy to feel the subtle weight of Marcus settle over him. He's in a mood where that feels safe and secure, where he doesn't have to be the guardian so to speak and is able to be taken care of like the childish romantic he is at heart. He likes both roles, swapping through them, but he likes to know that with Marcus he can be either. And knowing what he knows about their relationship thus far, he has no qualms of falling to one side for Marcus' benefit either. And that's exactly what he's doing now, stretched out on his back and looking up at Marcus with wide, dark and attentive eyes.

'Do you want to be my first?'

The words spark that tightness in his chest to momentarily squeeze tighter still, a delightful sense of joy and excitement budding under the surface. He's tired and worn out and even still, he pivots in toward that with a sudden inhale and a hard swallow of anticipation. He nods his head to start, lifting his hand to thread it back through Marcus' hair affectionately. His other hand rests against his side, one leg sliding up to rub thigh to thigh with him.]

Yeah.

[He speaks ever so softly.]

Here or upstairs? Whichever you want.

[ Marcus doesn't have it in him to be smooth the way a lot of other people in this city are. He can parrot lines he's read in comics, or say the shit he's overheard from movies and shows playing on analog TVs inside houses adjacent to the gutters he used to sleep in, but Marcus just speaks from the heart, either clumsy and honest or inspired by the image he wants to maintain for himself. Right now, he's speaking from a bit of both. ]

Upstairs. I want to do this right, you know? Make you feel special.

[ There's as much affection and romance in that as there is a deeply hidden jealousy; Tate was casual and practiced when he blew Marcus in the park, and that was fine, that was hot, but Marcus still felt bitter and begrudging, frustrated that he couldn't give Tate anything he hadn't already gotten from someone else. If Tate wants him, Marcus wants to play to that. He wants to find what he can do for Tate that nobody else can, and if this can mean something, then - that's gotta be a start.

Marcus peels back from Tate, slowly, at first, like he doesn't want to leave, but once he's on his feet he holds his hand out to Tate to help him up. He takes the lead as best as he can, heading up to the loft first, sitting down on the bed when he gets there, arm out again for Tate's hand. ]

Come here.

Mmm.

[Tate smiles to that, looking a bit more lively in the face now that someone's thinking of him - how he wants things to be, putting care into this budding relationship in a way Tate's always yearned to receive. He wets his lips after Marcus has shifted away, reaching to take his hand and stand back up on two not so solid feet. He's tired still, but he'd rather die than admit it - he wants to enjoy this moment with Marcus and have it be something solidified. He follows him up to the loft, feeling half in a daze, but his grin splits into a wider smile full of teeth.

He falls to rest next to Marcus, fingers tracing up the outer edge of his outstretched forearm before he sinks into the crook of it and leans up against Marcus to re-invade his personal space. He puts his lips to his again, kissing him warm and sound, more fire behind it now that they've set out the groundplan for what they're aiming to do and where they want to do it. He opens the front of Marcus' shirt with blind, fumbling fingers and works it off his shoulders with little tugs without breaking liplock.]

[ There's still novelty for Marcus in kissing Tate; every press of their lips together feels electric, shocks of nerves and energy lighting him up and making him smile in stupid, goofy ways. He's still not used to this - used to anyone, let alone a guy, let alone a guy who likes him back - and there's still a lot of fumbling, teenage awkwardness in how he kisses Tate in return. He trembles, sometimes, like he is now. He takes sharp, quick breaths, still not used to relaxing enough to breathe through each kiss. He's burning up from the inside because of Tate, and when Tate gets his shirt open, Marcus feels dizzy, too focused on touching Tate to care about shrugging his shirt off. ]

Do we need - uh -

[ He pulls back before Tate does, lips as pink as his cheeks, his fingers curled in Tate's collar just to brush his knuckles against his neck. He tugs on Tate's shirt, laughing at himself for even asking this, seeing as he's pretty sure he knows the answer already. Where they are - Tate being dead - there's enough for Marcus to know that this is a fucking stupid question, and it feels like a weird thing to ask as he tugs on Tate's shirt and starts pulling it up over his arms. ]

I mean - protection? Or...

No, I mean - unless you want it.

[Tate's words are muttered between a string of kisses, planted on Marcus' mouth and along his jaw and neck, distracted sucks of skin as he helps him out of his shirt and discards it next to the mattress they're on. His fingers skim over Marcus' warm skin, touching over his chest and ribs before he's taking another breath and a break away from giving him a hickey to elaborate. He doesn't need or worry about condoms - doesn't think he has once here which is probably not the greatest thing but he's never caught anything or cared about being messy. But maybe Marcus does?

He leans back a bit, using his thumbs to pull up his own t-shirt overhead. With it still threaded on his arms he looks at Marcus, and nods toward the side of the bed. A short bedside table (a milk crate repurposed,) holds a battery lantern on it's upturned side while inside the crate itself is a scattering of other objects. Lube is among them.]

I'd like you to come in me, though. If that's - what you want. Lube's there too.

[ No - Marcus doesn't care about being messy, either, and if he'd been getting laid back home, even back before he'd gotten into King's, he would have been as careless as he is now. Would have fucked anyone if it meant fifteen minutes of warmth, inside and out. He just wants to do this right, needy as he is to make himself something special to Tate. He shakes his head, telling Tate that he doesn't want protection when Tate asks if he does, and swivels to an almost comical stop when Tate asks him to come in him. His jaw drops and a shiver runs down his spine, and there's an added urgency in him when he starts pulling Tate's shirt off the rest of the way, pushing him onto his back against the mattress. ]

I bet you talk to all the guys like that.

[ He's trying to capture some of his normal wry, above-it-all attitude with a joke, smiling lopsided in an attempt to look more controlled than all his pre-fuck jitters have made him. It's partly an honest question, partly an attempt to fish for Tate to convince him that he's special, and party just a dumb, ironic contribution, making fun of guys who say things like that while being one himself. He leans down and kisses Tate on the neck before reaching over him for the lube, sitting up on his knees after leaving it beside the mattress so he can unthread his belt. He feels like he should be slower, or - sexier, or something, but he just rushes to get down to his boxers, then tugs on Tate's waistband to urge him to keep stripping, too. ]

It's not the same.

[What he says to other people and how he acts - he can talk slutty to Derek but it's more for fun rather than the blatant actual need the way he wants to let Marcus know it is now. He likes being something for someone else, likes being able to give the people he loves a fantasy they want - to scratch their itches. But this is something he wants. Yes, in part because he wants Marcus to like, adore and need him just as much but in this moment he's able to tell himself that it's also a need he has too. He wants to feel Marcus' first as physically as possible.

He writhes out of his pants, pushing them down and stripping to naked with another nudge of his boxers; it's a bit hard to get them down past his knees but it's a work in progress, interrupted by the way he puts his hands on and off Marcus again. He rests his hand against Marcus' knee when finally kicking his jeans away, leaving a pile of strewn clothes around the loft - and lounging against his worn down mattress fully naked, other hand stroking his own cock while his eyes follow Marcus' hands.]

I've never dated... a guy before. We're - that's what we're doing, right?

[ Marcus watches Tate, hawk-like and desperate, hanging on every syllable, every pause. He briefly feels a little overwhelmed by the responsibility and the commitment that comes from what Tate is asking, some small, minimal shot of gay panic mixing with his general inability to comfortably tie himself down, but if he didn't want this, he wouldn't be here. If he didn't like the look of Tate like this - spread out underneath him, naked and vulnerable and wrapped up in bed like he's a gift to Marcus - then... ]

You haven't officially asked me to be your boyfriend yet.

[ Marcus spreads his hand flat against Tate's chest, pushing him flat on his back and leaning on him while he strips down the rest of his clothes, barely thigh to thigh as he peels his boxers down his ankles. He's just in his shirt, still hanging on him unbuttoned, as he straddles Tate's waist and curls his hand around his cock. He squeezes the base, strokes himself in long, slow pulls, and swallows the nerves in his throat that might have prevented him from saying what he wants to say next. ]

But I wouldn't say no if you did.

[Marcus' hand against his sternum makes him feel hornier still, settling back without a hint of protest and keeping his eyes on every little movement Marcus makes. He watches him handle his cock with a soft inhale, tilting his chin upward a bit as his own hips lift to the subtle pressure of Marcus' weight on top of him. He murmurs a pleasured noise and his cock grows harder, and it's pretty fucking funny to have his head full of awkward romance while his body is screaming for some filthy physicality.

Tate plants both hands on Marcus' hips, sliding down his thighs and stroking his skin gently while the word boyfriend bounces around inside his skull. He feels that same stupid shameful pull inside his chest, a closeted boy's nervousness something he knows is stupid in the wake of two years fucking anyone and everyone without any of that hesitance. But he's always avoided labels and this feels like a label - one he would never have been able to accept if he hadn't felt normalized to it, hadn't met people like Derek who made it seem like nothing at all to be afraid of.]

So I have to say it, huh.

[He smiles a bit, tongue caught between his teeth.]

Be, ah... be my boyfriend then. Or whatever.

[ Marcus's laughter always seems a little mean, even on the few occasions when it isn't intended to be. His smile is sharp and pointed, his voice immature but razor-sharp and perpetually cynical. When Tate smiles up at him, Marcus laughs in response, instinctive and casual, and it could sound kind of mocking, if he wasn't so clearly enamored. If his face wasn't still flushed, hair matted down to his forehead with sweat, his dick rock-hard in his hand. Beneath all the devilish good looks, Marcus is still just an adoring teenage boy who values the company of someone he likes over anything else. ]

Yeah, alright. "Or whatever".

[ He's doing his best to sound casual, but the thrill of what he's saying, what they're committing to, is undeniable. Marcus drags his fingertips down the center of Tate's chest, following a straight line down to his cock, dragging the base of his palm against the tip in one brief, teasing touch. He curls his fingers around the head of Tate's dick and laughs again, in a more nervous, exploratory way, still innocently unused to touching another guy like this, even this far in. He pulls his lips in and searches out eye contact, taking a breath to steady himself. ]

... You get very many chances to get off when you were stuck in the down?

Jerked off to pass the time once or twice. Spent the rest of the time missing home.

[And the implication being that Marcus is included in that, with Tate's words punctured with a sigh as even the slightest touch has him rolling his hips. Eventually he might realize he answers this with subtle manipulation through what he avoids saying, or what he hints at, but it's not as intentionally manipulative as it could be. He just doesn't see a reason to tell Marcus about any drug induced or boredom afflicted hook ups that happened while he was trying to clear his mind and not see shadows creep in from his peripherals.

He reaches to touch his hand against Marcus' wrist, feather soft caresses despite his wish to just pull his palm toward the base of his cock and to forcefully get him to just start jerking him off. He's leaking a small bit of pre from the anticipation, and gestures to the lube bottle - he might as well be proactive here, in whatever ways he can. His fingers crook to ask for it silently.]

Did you... ?

Yeah. The city... made sure we all distracted each other.

[ Marcus is being just as manipulative as Tate, only a little more intentional. He doesn't necessarily think of himself as malicious, for trying to make Tate question what Marcus has been up to without him, but truthfully, he does want to give Tate a reason to be jealous or insecure. That is, after all, how Marcus feels about him; needy and small, an unfillable vacuum of self-doubt. If he can't get to sleep without getting anxious thinking about Tate with other people, he wants Tate to feel the same about him.

He gets the lube, as requested, sitting up with straight posture for the added height, holding the bottle by the cap between two fingers. He leans back when Tate takes it, swallowing slowly as he drops both hands to Tate's thighs, quietly adding pressure in a silent request for him to part his legs a little. He shrugs with one shoulder, acts like he's still being casual. ]

But I just kept wishing I was with you.

[The one thing that keeps Tate from being too upset with this subtle game of back and forth is that Marcus did just say this would be his first - something he hasn't shared with anyone else, something that Tate can covet as his own. He can't control if Marcus chooses to fuck other people later but he thinks they'll fall into an easy way of avoiding the topic if need be, just like they're skirting around things now. Tate meets his gaze for a moment and then nods, approving of what he said as he opens the cap of the lube and spreads his legs.

He doesn't know how to make this particularly provocative so he just focuses on what needs to be done - he takes the lead in getting his fingers slick, and reaching down to coat himself just enough to take the bite away from what they'll do next. It's strange being the more experienced one and receiving. He would've done better to loosen himself up or to lead Marcus into trying it, but he can bear whatever'll come from avoiding it and instead reaches to start sliding lube up the side of Marcus' cock as he jerks him off slowly, swiveling to properly coat him.]

Well now you have me. And I want to feel you in me - stretching me open.

[His voice is thick, coming from the back of his throat before he swallows hard and encourages Marcus to make the next move. He wants him to feel in control, even though a part of his brain tells him this would've been better if he'd been on top - riding him, letting him lay back and just enjoy this like he had the blowjobs. But Tate's got faith in him.]

I want to feel you fuck me nice and hard.

[ Considering how brand new this is to Marcus, Tate could do anything and it would be provocative for him. His eyes widen the second Tate coats his fingertips with lube, and when he sees his fingers disappear between his legs to get himself ready, Marcus's dick twitches, a heavy flow of pre running a river down his shaft. He's red again, looking stunned stupid when Tate tells him what he wants. This all comes easy to Tate, but Marcus feels like he's gonna choke on his own heart. ]

Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I-- fuck, yeah.

[ Marcus's confidence crumbles in the wake of Tate's ease, and he stumbles over whatever slick response he wanted to make. This close to what they're doing, he's back to feeling desperate and too out of his own head to do anything but what he needs to do. He shuffles forward on his knees and holds his breath, the feeling of Tate's fingers around his dick bringing him closer to his climax already. Marcus reaches out and gingerly grabs Tate's wrist to stop him from moving too fast, the lube heightening his already heightened sensitivity to insane degrees. If they're not careful, this'll stop before it even starts.

He clears his throat, taking his hand from Tate's wrist when he's sure he's calmed down enough, and drops his still trembling hand down to Tate's hole, lungs burning. He's not looking at Tate's face, when he tentatively circles the edge of Tate's entrance with careful, curious fingers, focused instead on watching what he's doing. He's uncharacteristically shy, when he adds that first bit of pressure, not enough to push inside but just enough to tease. Marcus looks up, seeking reassurance. ]

Is this going to be... I mean, I don't want to hurt you.

[Tate lets out a little noise when Marcus' fingers skim over his hole, the tight muscle flexing in response - the subtlest of touches feeling just as heightened to him as they do to Marcus. It's strange, he's had his ass pummeled before and yet these feather soft first touches have him breathing shaky and feeling like his knees are weak. It's the romanticization, the... fact that it's a first. Their first. He can put more stock into it like that and it hypes it up in his head, making it feel ridiculously good.

He lolls back his head again, lifting his hips in little rocks, waiting for more touch to come - and stroking his own dick while he waits, slow and steady after taking his hand away from Marcus'. He's got a mix of their pre and lube on his palm and a jumpy, jittery feeling in his chest. Shit, why does he feel like a total fucking virgin right now?]

I'm... I'll be tight, but it's fine. I like it, and you won't hurt me. I'll tell you to stop if I need you to.

[He will not.]

Otherwise I'm good.

[ That's all the reassurance Marcus needs. He nods, knowing that Tate has a far better grasp on this shit than he does - truth be told, he's more worried about doing something stupid or embarrassing and killing the mood than he is about hurting Tate, but guidance is guidance. Marcus takes a soft, steadying breath, then slowly presses forward, stretching Tate open around one finger, sinking into the warm, tight heat of his body. Marcus swallows and shifts his weight to his other knee, slowly fucking Tate with a slender, tentative touch, so much more gentle, appreciative and full of clumsy, human need than anything the city normally throws at Tate. ]

You... fuck, you really are.

[ Marcus laughs again, nervous, yes, but - excited. Tate's fucking tight, and Marcus's cock is achingly hard, knowing he'll be able to feel him soon. As his initial nerves start to even themselves out, Marcus gets more eager, more thrilled. He adds another finger, shuffling forward until his knees are at the back of Tate's thighs, and he leans down, his other hand beside Tate's shoulder. He brings his nose close to Tate's, fingers probing deeper, like a part of Marcus wants to see if he can get Tate off with his hand alone. ]

Hold onto me? I want...

[ He wants to feel close. Connected. Wants to feel Tate's arm around his neck, keeping him tethered. ]

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