John relaxes as Martin's reassurances sink in, humming in quiet acknowledgment while leaning into the gentle press of Martin's forehead against his own. He'd gathered that it felt good; he just hadn't known if that was enough to counterbalance carrying a visible mark around for however long (and if it behaves anything like a bruise does, it might linger for weeks before fading properly).
But Martin assures him that it is. More than that, really: that he likes the idea of having a—a reminder, as he puts it. John blinks slowly, taking in Martin's flushed cheeks and averted gaze. Leave it to Martin to come up with an absurdly touching spin to put on the whole situation, and John leans forward without any conscious thought to kiss him, the hand that had been on Martin's neck sliding up to cup his cheek. He lingers against Martin's lips, his own curling into a faint smile over his earlier anxieties — it's fine, Martin said so, and if the mark takes a few days to fade, then...
... Wait.
John stills midway through coercing Martin's mouth open, then pulls back, blinking. "It's Sunday," he blurts, the implications crashing into his mind like monumental dominoes: they're meant to be going into the office tomorrow; the hickey is in a spot that none of Martin's shirt collars would hide; Kat and Eliot will see it; oh god, they'll never hear the end of it, oh god.
no subject
But Martin assures him that it is. More than that, really: that he likes the idea of having a—a reminder, as he puts it. John blinks slowly, taking in Martin's flushed cheeks and averted gaze. Leave it to Martin to come up with an absurdly touching spin to put on the whole situation, and John leans forward without any conscious thought to kiss him, the hand that had been on Martin's neck sliding up to cup his cheek. He lingers against Martin's lips, his own curling into a faint smile over his earlier anxieties — it's fine, Martin said so, and if the mark takes a few days to fade, then...
... Wait.
John stills midway through coercing Martin's mouth open, then pulls back, blinking. "It's Sunday," he blurts, the implications crashing into his mind like monumental dominoes: they're meant to be going into the office tomorrow; the hickey is in a spot that none of Martin's shirt collars would hide; Kat and Eliot will see it; oh god, they'll never hear the end of it, oh god.