Martin has never kissed John quite like this before, never initiated it with such vigor and no preamble, but where he normally might crash back down in a heap of uneasy apologies and self-recrimination, this time he trusts instead. He trusts that John will accept it; he trusts that it is acceptable, that he is acceptable, that his wants are not burdens as John has so consistently tried to impress upon him. And this has less to do with his wants than it might seem. It's an answer and an instinct; he is desperate and he is elated, because John is alive and has with only a few significant words given him something he never even knew to need.
John is startled, of course, but he doesn't resist or object, and when he kisses back, one hand delving into his hair and the other brushing over his neck and jaw and cheek, Martin's lips twitch into a momentary smile, relieved and grateful and overwhelmed all at once. Every drawn breath and every subtle adjustment he makes is accompanied by a soft whine, as though he's trying to speak through it, only there are no words to it at all.
Once this may have had a short lifespan, the intensity like a sudden summer storm that is quick to pass, but now John answers in kind, his mouth wandering over Martin's tear-streaked skin, and when Martin tilts his head to allow him access, not sure if it's an expectation or a request, John presses in against his throat. Martin tips his head back further with a heavy, breathless cry, and the rest of his weight follows, seeking something solid to brace against. They've scarcely even moved since he locked the door, and now his back thumps softly against it, his hands sliding up around John's back to nudge him along. He is gentle; even amid his own urgency, he is gentle, still very much aware of the hole in John's shirt and the fresh scar on his chest. But Christ, he needs this, just a little while longer at least — he needs this outlet for the bloody flood of emotion in him, something that isn't that awful, miserable downpour, and he needs John close and safe and his.
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John is startled, of course, but he doesn't resist or object, and when he kisses back, one hand delving into his hair and the other brushing over his neck and jaw and cheek, Martin's lips twitch into a momentary smile, relieved and grateful and overwhelmed all at once. Every drawn breath and every subtle adjustment he makes is accompanied by a soft whine, as though he's trying to speak through it, only there are no words to it at all.
Once this may have had a short lifespan, the intensity like a sudden summer storm that is quick to pass, but now John answers in kind, his mouth wandering over Martin's tear-streaked skin, and when Martin tilts his head to allow him access, not sure if it's an expectation or a request, John presses in against his throat. Martin tips his head back further with a heavy, breathless cry, and the rest of his weight follows, seeking something solid to brace against. They've scarcely even moved since he locked the door, and now his back thumps softly against it, his hands sliding up around John's back to nudge him along. He is gentle; even amid his own urgency, he is gentle, still very much aware of the hole in John's shirt and the fresh scar on his chest. But Christ, he needs this, just a little while longer at least — he needs this outlet for the bloody flood of emotion in him, something that isn't that awful, miserable downpour, and he needs John close and safe and his.