loficharm | Progression // for John

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jonathan sims

Progression // for John

August 2nd, 2020

It's ironic, given how much Martin has thought about this — for about two months now, he's been anticipating this date, the date of their one-year anniversary arriving in Darrow — that it only occurs to him at day's end, as he finishes cleaning up after dinner. He glances up, no particular reason, no object in mind — just idly noting John across the room — and his eyes brush over the calendar hung on the fridge, and the sudden awareness hits him like a bus.

"Oh," he blurts, frozen in the act of drying his hands, his eyes fixed on the calendar, on the date. He eventually moves again, slowly, sluggish and awkward, looking back to John. "It's... it's August 2nd. It's been a year."

He's not sure what else to say. They haven't actually talked about it. He suspects John had forgotten just as he had, because it hadn't felt momentous; just another quiet Sunday. But now it's here and he almost bloody missed it, he has no idea how to feel. The question of how to feel had been one he turned over and over in the months leading up to it, never actually answered, as though the answer would be any clearer the day of.

Or perhaps it's something else; perhaps he suspects he knows exactly how he feels, and he isn't sure how to feel about that.

"I, erm..." He finally sets the towel back and stands there a moment, his hands hanging at his sides. "I could do with a lie-down."

It isn't an unusual request for him. Sometimes, when he feels overwhelmed and needs to get his thoughts in order, he retreats to the bedroom, as though lying down makes it easier to process difficult things. It isn't just the position, of course — it's the safety and security implied by the bed, and it's having John beside him.

He starts toward the bedroom, expecting John to follow, not entirely sure what his own face is doing. He isn't distressed, really; there's no sign of anxiety or upset. It's more of a premonition, that this conversation, a conversation he's put off for a very long time now, is going to be... not bad, but, well. A lot.

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... What.

John gawps, straightening in mingled shock and indignation as Martin recounts this—this alleged suggestion. An aborted syllable escapes him at 'spooky,' a word he bloody hates, and when Martin shifts into an outright impersonation to, apparently, quote him directly, he stops breathing for a solid two seconds before spluttering out an exhalation.

The worst of it is that it's so entirely outlandish that he can't imagine Martin making it up. His cheeks flush in mortification, and he accepts the bottle on autopilot, clutching it to him as if it needs protection. "I—th—" John starts, casting his mind back in an attempt to make sense of it. The implications must have escaped him at the time, which, embarrassing as it may be now that said implications are staggeringly apparent, isn't that hard to believe. He sets the bottle on the coffee table so he can bury his face in his hands, and that's when he remembers — not what he'd been thinking, but what he'd generally been up to at the time and what had probably informed such a ludicrous suggestion in the first place.

"I... I—I meant like a crime," he says, his voice strained in hapless protest.

Martin hadn't thought this would ever come up again, and he certainly never gave any thought what to expect in that unimagined hypothetical, but he really should have anticipated John going to mortified pieces. He can't help grinning as John struggles to pull together a response, though he lets out a soft, sympathetic coo when John sets the bottle aside and retreats inward, hiding his face. Whatever satisfaction Martin might derive from finally highlighting the ridiculousness of that moment, he has never been much for prolonged teasing of any kind, and he has no desire to see John even lightly tormented over it.

Still, John's eventual protestation catches him off guard, and Martin deteriorates into helpless giggling before he can offer any kind of reassurance. He ends up pitching against John's shoulder, covering his own face in an effort to stifle himself. The whole thing is just so funny to him now, but he still would prefer to get a hold of himself and coax John out of his embarrassed curl.

"Sorry, m'sorry," he babbles. "I know you did. It was just so—" He flaps a hand, abandoning that thought as both obvious and unnecessary. Still shaking off his own amusement, he looks at John fondly and offers, "You were proper wasted," with a genial little nudge.

Martin pitches against John's shoulder, drawing a muffled, abashed honk out of him. Even as he weathers the giggling, a small, slightly paranoid part of him wonders why Martin would bring it up now — if it's merely that being drunk and ridiculous reminded him, or if there's some other reason that the mutually understood implication should matter — but it's probably the former, and the prospect of even trying to determine if it might be the latter does nothing good for his baseline embarrassment.

John cracks apart his fingers just enough to peek out at Martin with one eye. "'S no excuse," he insists, partly because he can imagine how mortified Martin must have been, but mostly because he still feels too wretchedly embarrassed to let himself off the hook. He lists sideways against the back of the couch, burying his face against the cushions. "Don't look at me," he says dourly. "I'm not fit to be seen."

"Noooo," Martin wails softly as John retreats against the couch, and he follows in an awkward little slump, reaching out to coax him back. "Don't even try that on with me. You're lovely."

He knows he can't very well drag John back up if he doesn't want to be pulled, and he knows what it's like to be so mortified, but he's too far down the garden path for a properly graceful approach. He hovers, momentarily stymied, before shuffling the remaining inches forward and planting the smallest kiss he can manage against John's fingers.

"I wanted to kiss you that night," he murmurs, wanting more than anything to draw them back to the original reason he'd thought of that night at all. "You were so... careful with me. I wanted so badly to kiss you and I was too scared."

There isn't much room for regret in his tone; more like wonder at how things have changed, at how the care John had taken with him carried so much weight, far more than he could have imagined. Maybe he hadn't realized the implications of his ridiculous drunken bit, but it doesn't matter. He already cared about Martin so much more than Martin could've guessed, and he could get lost in the weeds of what a fool he was, or he could just enjoy the retroactive realization. "C'mere," he says, soft and sweet as he nuzzles into John's hair. "Please?"

"'m trying it," John mumbles, soft and stubborn. But his gloomy facade can't withstand the feather-light pressure of the kiss Martin brushes against his fingers, and the corners of his mouth twitch upwards despite himself, even as he lets out a low grumble for what is, at this point, mostly just dramatic effect.

But even that evaporates in response to Martin's startling admission. John drags his hands down just enough to uncover his eyes, the better to blink at Martin. Christ, even then? It's no secret anymore that they'd had feelings for one another before they even arrived here, or that they'd missed plenty of opportunities to sort things out on their circuitous path towards that bloody factory. But things had been so fraught those first few weeks that it's hard to imagine what could have happened, what he would have done if Martin had overcome that fear.

And then Martin nuzzles into his hair, and John lets his hands slide down the rest of the way with a soft, acquiescing sigh. Melted, probably: that's what he would've done. John winds his arms around Martin and tucks his face against his neck, a much more agreeable hiding spot than the couch cushions or the cradle of his own hands. He hums, low and contented, and then sheepishly admits, "Didn't want you to leave. I almost went after you."

He doesn't care to articulate why he didn't: that he lacked the nerve, that he thought it would come across as weird or paranoid or pushy, that one gentle rejection was more than enough and he couldn't bear the thought of another. It doesn't matter. It doesn't even really feel like a missed opportunity; he can't quite imagine pursuing Martin down the sidewalk and earning a kiss for his efforts, like some dubiously plotted romcom.

Just as well. Things have got maudlin enough. He breathes Martin in for a moment or two, soaking in the familiar warmth of him, then burrows in a bit closer so he can press a gentle kiss to his collarbone.

John's return admission manages to startle Martin a bit, though perhaps it shouldn't. It was the first time John had seen how aggressive the Lonely had become; it would only make sense for him to worry, on top of how much he'd already cared. But it also doesn't quite represent the missed opportunity it seems to be. Martin remembers quite well how he'd felt that night. Drifting, confused, that desire for intimacy papered over by the certainty he'd made some sort of mistake. He remembers the next morning, hungover, scrambling to make sense of himself, staggering to Greta's doorstep in search of clarifying wisdom she couldn't quite offer. She'd understood his feelings more than the complex intricacies of why his feelings felt like a problem to him. Her perspective makes a lot more sense now, now that he's broken free of his patron's entangling grasp, now that he sees how truly miserable he'd made himself. But it's a bit horrifying to think that if John had gone after him, he's not sure how he would've responded. Maybe to brush him off. Maybe to push him away.

He doesn't want to think about that, and John doesn't seem interested in pursuing it either as he burrows in against Martin's neck and kisses him just beside his collar. Martin lets out a soft hum, the sludge of older memories easily washed away by such gentleness. He tips his head to press a kiss of his own to John's hair.

"Mostly," he says, his tone growing just the tiniest bit rueful, "I just remember it was the first time you touched my hair." He smiles. He hadn't meant to take them on quite such a tangent, and he's keen to get back to what started the whole thing in the first place. "Never stopped thinking about it," he adds, now slightly coy as he nuzzles against John again, not quite willing to ask for him to continue outright, content to imply it.

John isn't drunk enough to miss that implication, and he hums, playfully intrigued. "That so?" he murmurs, drawing back to trail three small, light kisses along Martin's cheek before reaching his lips and lingering there for a few moments, breathing softly against him. He breaks away gently, then opens his eyes to look at him, his gaze warm and fond.

"I suppose it's lucky for you that I like touching it so much, then." John lifts one hand to sift his fingers through Martin's hair, his smile widening a few degrees. There's something a bit ridiculous about the coyness of Martin's implication — as if any amount of subtle arm-twisting should be necessary for this sort of thing — but he suspects that's rather the point. John's expression takes a turn for the sheepish as he adds, "I, er... thought about it, too. Had to restrain myself back when you had that awful cold."

He'd done so to banish the Lonely, of course, but that had been a necessity. Taking advantage, under those circumstances, would've felt... well, creepy. But in that miserable aftermath, with Martin turned away and curled in on himself, the temptation had been rather more acute than usual.

Now, though, he can do as he likes, and John continues his ministrations with as much focus as his current state of inebriation allows.

Martin has just enough time to feel properly ridiculous before John acquiesces, and any embarrassment over how self-indulgent it all is melts quickly away. John does enjoy it, after all, for his own sake; this isn't just for him, and even if it were, that hasn't exactly stopped John before.

He's letting out a soft murmur that's perilously near a purr when John speaks again, drawing him to another memory he hasn't thought of in a while, catching him rather off guard with it. Martin blinks his eyes open, struggling a bit to focus against the lovely sensation of John's hand.

"I..." he stammers softly. "I remember that, as well." His gaze flits briefly over John's face before settling off center, around the neutral territory of his shoulder. It's a bit of a sad memory for him, and he wasn't prepared to have it called up, and he isn't sure he wants to pitch them down that road now. But he also doesn't want the comment to pass without acknowledgment, so he wavers for a moment.

"I wish you hadn't restrained yourself," he admits softly, not a trace of reproach in it, and he quickly amends: "I mean I—I know why you didn't, and I don't know what I would've done if you had, really, but... I wanted..."

He lets it go with a huff. He doesn't want to just tell John outright that part of the reason he had been so miserable, had wept so pitifully when John had awakened him, was the desire for intimacy that did not feel accessible to either of them then. Perhaps it's enough that John can guess, but he doesn't want to be so caught up when the whole point of tonight has become enjoying, fiercely, what they have now. He leans a little nearer to John, pressing up under his hand as if to comfort them both.

Martin's face doesn't quite fall, but the shift in his expression is enough for it to belatedly occur to John that, all things considered, a definitive list of missed opportunities might not be conducive to the sort of mood lift they were looking for. His own expression softens, and he sighs quietly. It isn't quite regret for how things went — he can't really imagine himself having done things differently, Martin's wishes notwithstanding, without feeling as if he'd taken advantage of someone who was ill and heavily medicated — but he hadn't meant to bring Martin down.

"Here," he murmurs, gathering Martin close to his chest before resettling his hand back in his hair. Now, at least, there's no particular need for restraint, and John tucks in his chin to press a brief kiss to Martin's crown before lifting his head again, giving his fingers more room to work. "You've got it now."

John catches on, of course, and Martin can't quite refrain from wincing a little at that soft sigh. But John lets it pass just as easily as he wanted, quick to answer with more comfort and reassurance, and any trace of melancholy slips easily away. He hums, quiet and fond, as those long fingers continue to sift through his hair, gentle tender as ever, and he lets his head tip back up a little, his eyes fluttering open to find John's.

The thought that occurs to him then, after a comfortable moment of silence has passed between them, is not an entirely new one. He has considered it before, numerous times in fact, as part of the roster of things he knows he likes and likes to imagine. He has never asked for it because he enjoys this well enough on its own, and making direct requests still doesn't come naturally. But he's getting better at it, and John likes knowing those things, knowing what all he has at his disposal, whether he'll use it or not. Easier to let it slip casually with half a bottle of wine in him, with no real expectations, with a light, relaxed smirk to accompany it.

"You know," he says, "you don't have to be so gentle." Latent, reflexive anxiety is quick to rush in, even dulled by the haze of alcohol and pleasurable sensation; his smile fades, his gaze flicks away, and he stammers a bit, clarifying, "I—I mean you could... pull on it a bit. I-if you wanted. I'd... like that." He draws a breath, grasping for more to say, some explanation that is slow to form on top of being questionably necessary; an instinct he still has difficulty quelling.

The satisfied little smile John had settled into doesn't fade at Martin's pronouncement, though one eyebrow does quirk upward in surprise. He supposes it isn't a complete shock — this isn't the first time Martin has asked for less delicate treatment than their usual default — but, much like the first time, it's not the sort of thing that would have independently occurred to John.

Well, plenty of things wouldn't independently occur to him, but that doesn't mean he's necessarily averse. The wine has muted his caution, and Martin's reflexive elaboration lands near enough to back-pedaling, at least tonally, to sound an echoing thrum of faint, boozy indignation in John's chest. He doesn't want Martin to be sorry he asked, whatever the outcome.

At least the solution is obvious. "Oh?" John curls his fingers into a loose fist in the hair at the back of Martin's skull, not pulling outright, but getting a decent enough grip that he could with just a simple flex of his wrist. "Like this, you mean?"

"I—" Martin starts at the precise moment John answers him, not just with a characteristically smart remark but by a loose, indicative curling of his fingers, an approximation near enough what Martin's only just set on the table that it comes as a relative shock. He breaks off with a gasp, the breath catching so sharply in his throat that he narrowly avoids choking on it, and he tips his head back in reflexive, anticipatory obedience. There is little tension in John's grip yet, but the suggestion of it is powerful enough on its own that Martin is caught, stiff and trembling, his breath coming in shallow and with a faint shudder to it.

He shouldn't be surprised. John's inhibitions are just as lowered as his, and Martin is well familiar by now with his propensity toward mischief and playful torments. Absurd to think John could be offered a new trick without immediately trying it out. But Christ, it's been so long since anyone — since this wasn't just an idle fancy, and he'd forgotten how potent it was, how quickly and easily it could send him from a pleasant tipsy haze to such stark alertness and the beginnings of arousal.

When he tries to speak, he can only whimper at first; he swallows thickly and tries again: "Y-yeah," he says, reedy and soft. "Quite like that."

There is a slight tinge of hopeful expectation in his tone, a curiosity about not if but when John will tighten his grip. But he doesn't ask, doesn't want to; he is already helpless, and half the thrill is in waiting.

Christ, that certainly got a reaction. And he hasn't even done anything, not really. John's other eyebrow creeps up to join the first, and he doesn't even try to hide the smirk that follows. If the mere suggestion is enough to earn him all this — the little gasp, Martin tensed and trembling in his arms, that whimper — what will happen when he actually goes for it?

He's quite curious to find out, but he doesn't make any sudden moves. Not yet. He may be an avid collector of ways to effectively render Martin incapable of coherent thought, but that doesn't mean he approaches all this with an eye towards efficiency. Granted, now that he thinks about it, that might be an intriguing avenue of approach at least once... but better to have more tools at his disposal before he attempts anything along those lines. For now, he's well aware of how much value there is in anticipation alone. No harm in exploring that.

So he gazes down at Martin for a moment, his focus shifting from his lidded eyes to the soft arch of his throat, already bared despite the lack of any real pressure on the back of his head. And then he bends down with a thoughtful hum, breathing a deliberately nonchalant, "Wasn't sure I'd go for it?" against Martin's neck. He kisses him once, and then again, leisurely, letting his lips drag against Martin's skin as he traces his way up towards his jaw. It isn't until he reaches the soft spot just below the hinge of it that he experimentally tightens his grip, his fingers curling close and firm against Martin's scalp.

A full-body shiver passes through Martin as John breathes against his neck, teasing him with a question to which he knows the answer full well. Martin can't think of a reply, wouldn't have been able to manage one anyway; instead another, more delicate whimper slips through his parted lips when John kisses him, slow and luxuriant, taking his sweet time with it. Martin lets his eyes fall shut, lets out a soft sigh, relaxing into the moment, letting the intoxicating sensations (and the intoxication itself) carry him along.

And then John answers his patience, closes his fist, the sudden taut pressure drawing a little yelp from Martin even as a warm, euphoric grin spreads across his face. John's fingers are curled so close to his scalp that it mitigates the pain perfectly, just enough to feel electric, exciting, without hurting too much. He laughs softly, a little drunk, mostly delighted, a quietly murmured, "Oh god, yes," escaping on an exhale. The flush that colors his cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment — there is certainly no space for that now. He tips his chin up just a little further. John could pull a bit harder, he thinks, and it would still be all right, but he is quite content to let this play out according to John's whims. He offers no resistance; he has nothing to offer at all, apart from himself.

John notes the yelp with some amusement, but most of his focus is on what follows: the tipsy little laugh and breathy affirmation. Excellent. He'd been proceeding with more caution than his smug facade had suggested — better to err on that side than cause Martin any actual pain, which John wouldn't want to do even if it was what Martin was asking for — but it sounds as if he got it right. It's rather in keeping with Martin's other requests, really: the illusion of captivity, the suggestion of helplessness. Except that this is much easier on the wrists.

He isn't sure he wants to apply any more pressure on Martin's hair than he is already, but he also knows that Martin's awaiting some form of escalation, and he doesn't want to disappoint. Fortunately, their current configuration offers plenty of options — and there's more than one way to interpret the way Martin tips up his chin in implicit offering.

John grins, boozily mischievous, and gives Martin's neck a light nip. A little goes a long way in this regard, as he's already learned, and he keeps things gentle until it occurs to him to wonder just how far a lot would go. There are no conscious calculations; he simply chases an impulse, one that naturally combines things that he knows Martin likes without sliding into any uncomfortable extremes. He doesn't bite down, he just closes his teeth around a portion of Martin's skin and sucks in, harder than usual, his cheeks hollowing. He can only maintain the pressure for a few seconds before he has to ease up, largely because he's fighting back a smirk and he doesn't want to produce any accidental raspberries.

Even as John holds him, nips teasingly at his neck, Martin's most overwhelming impulse is still to laugh, and at some distance, obscured by twin hazes of pleasure and intoxication, that might feel a bit odd. He knows it's not bad or unusual to laugh during sex, or whatever it is he and John do, but it's certainly unusual for him. He has mercifully little interest in wondering over it now, though; he only knows that he's happy, and why shouldn't he show it?

John is enjoying himself too; Martin can feel the grin against his neck, can sort of sense the building air of mischief about him. John's always been so playful, and just thinking about it, how far they've come together, how happy they make one another, how easy it is for them both to slip into this sort of thing, has Martin nearly overwhelmed. His hands slide up to John's shoulders, a reflexive motion to draw himself closer, perhaps pull John into a hug, though he doesn't make it that far.

John doesn't quite bite down, but Martin can feel the press of teeth as John sucks at his neck with far greater force than he usually does, and every impulse or halfway coherent thought Martin may have had is abruptly blasted out of existence. His eyes fly open in outright shock and he arches forward involuntarily, as if he's been physically pulled. His fingers curl tightly into John's shirt and his lips part, letting out a desperate, keening sort of noise, the midpoint between a shrill moan and a sudden gasp for breath. It only lasts a moment but a moment is far more than enough, the sensation so unexpected and overwhelming that adrenaline burns under his skin, his extremities hot and buzzing as he squirms in John's grip. John is — he's — is he really—?

John lets up just at the right moment, and Martin pulls back just enough to see him barely containing his own amusement.

"John—!" he blurts, too flushed and too happy to sound properly affronted, meeting him with an incredulous smile.

Oh, that got a hell of a reaction. John's grin widens, and he has to choke back a guffaw lest Martin think it was at his expense and not just out of smug, boozy pleasure over his own accomplishment. He loosens his grip on Martin's hair, drawing back a little as Martin does. And then he sees the look on Martin's face, and hears the incredulous accusation in his tone, and his tenuous composure crumbles at once.

"I—" is as far as he gets before a laugh bursts out of him, and he lists forward helplessly, his head butting gently against Martin's in fond acknowledgment. He's certainly not about to apologize, nor does he have the requisite self-possession for any smug rejoinders. All he can do is giggle like the drunken fool he very much is, his arms draped loosely around him.

It takes him a few moments to recover himself, his giggles fading until they leave enough room for him to press a brief, self-satisfied kiss against Martin's lips. "All right, then?" he asks with as much gravity as he can muster, a hiccup of amusement escaping him before he can clamp down on it. He's pretty sure 'all right' hardly begins to cover it. He leans back enough to grin at Martin, one hand lifting to finger-comb his hair back into order (though how long that order might last is still rather up in the air).

John's laugh is infectious — Martin can't keep from giggling himself, even as flustered and aroused as he is. With the hand no longer in his hair, he can pitch forward into John's arms in time to meet the kiss, still grinning against his lips.

"You're unbelievable," he accuses with nothing but affection in his tone. "All right—that was—Jesus Christ, John."

As John reaches back into his hair, gentle this time, Martin's eyes flutter shut once again, and he relaxes even further. He's not sure what else John has in mind, if anything at all — he's not even sure what more he wants, already quite happily worked up and easy to please. They may need to relocate if this escalates further, but he doesn't want to think about that just yet. He just tilts his head a bit, giving himself back over, exposing his neck once more. It's still a bit tender where John bit down, but that's no reason John shouldn't be encouraged elsewhere. Between Martin's own drunkenness and desire, he only has room to want more.

John hums, the tone distinctly smug. Surprising Martin to the point of a fond scolding has become a badge of honor, as far as John's concerned, and he logs the move away alongside some of his other more potent options: best used in moderation, but not to be forgotten.

He reconsiders moderation when Martin offers his neck again, the mark John left already stark against his pale skin. But there's nothing wrong with making him wait a bit, so when John leans back in, he contents himself with brushing a series of gentle kisses down Martin's throat. He gives particular attention to the few freckles scattered between Martin's neck and the collar of his shirt, then turns his head to survey the territory and consider his next move.

The mark he left has only grown more visible. Christ, it almost looks like a bruise. John lets his head rest against Martin's shoulder as he peers up at it, eyes narrowed, his wine-addled brain laboriously cross-referencing it against the other marks he's left on Martin before: paler, pinker things that would fade within the hour.

This one doesn't look like it's going anywhere. Not in that time frame, anyway.

"... Huh," he says at length, lifting his head, then lifting his hand to brush his finger over the spot. He isn't a child; he knows exactly what he's looking at. But he hadn't realized it would be that bloody easy to inflict. "I appear," he says slowly, with as much boozy dignity as he can muster, "to have given you... a hickey."

Martin sighs softly as John gives him a bit of gentler treatment, his grin loose and drunk and joyous over every little kiss. So bloody tender, promising such perfectly blended mischief and adoration, slipping so easily from loving torment to this sort of delicate handling. Martin has never been so spoiled in his entire life, a thought which could easily make him anxious and embarrassed, but the wine and the arousal and the overwhelming happiness dispel that tidily.

He doesn't quite realize that John has actually stopped, rather than just taking a moment to build anticipation, until he speaks, his tone more conversational than anything else. Martin blinks and looks at him, hazy and confused, wondering if there's some sort of gradually emerging problem, when John reaches his halting conclusion.

Martin blinks again, this time more rapidly, and stares at John for a solid three seconds before he bursts out laughing, unable to stop himself.

"Y-yes!" he blurts, rather hysterical. "Was that not your intention?!"

It's impossible to not feel a prickle of embarrassment over being the last person to realize what he was actually doing, and John's cheeks flush. "Not... as such," he replies, maintaining a wavering hold on his dignified tone, if nothing else. He's never given anyone a hickey before — something which probably, at this point, goes without saying. Nor had he wanted to; his associations with this particular phenomena are largely adolescent, more in keeping with the behavior of teenagers than grown men, to his thinking (and that's to say nothing of his associations with lasting marks, which are unavoidably worse).

Martin seems undisturbed, at least, but John still pouts as he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over the mark, as if hoping to erase it. "It's really just going to stay there, isn't it," he says, more a pronouncement than a question. "You—you're sure you don't mind?"

Martin softens over John's clear embarrassment, not wanting to laugh at him so much as at the situation, a distinction not always clear. But he keeps on grinning as John prods at the mark he left, his twinned curiosity and mortification hopelessly adorable.

"I'm sure I don't," Martin says gently, and cups his hand around the back of John's head, leaning in to plant a warm kiss on his brow and resting his forehead there the next moment. "It felt good, John, really good. And I... if I'm honest, I..." He feels himself blushing, his cheeks warming as he pulls back to look at John through his own sheepishness. "I quite like having a little, erm... reminder." He can't maintain eye contact, his gaze tipping down as his tone and mannerisms grow increasingly shy. "Of you, and... how much you do for me."

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.

The moment John's hand cups his cheek, Martin turns back to meet him, accepting the kiss readily and matching the smile that presses back against him. His lips part, a delighted hum escaping him, and he's about to shift his position a little when John stops suddenly, pulling back and informing him, for some reason, of the day.

"Wh—" Martin blinks back at him for a moment, flushed and a bit put out over the odd interruption, when the relevance very suddenly connects and his eyes open wide. "Oh, shit," he says, his voice coming out in a hoarse squeak.

All of Martin's prior reassurances crumble away, no match at all for the prospect of Kat and Eliot seeing, knowing what they've been getting up to. John's already had one disastrous exchange with Eliot on the subject; the last thing he wants is a bloody reprise (and while the aforementioned disastrousness might make a reprise far less likely, at least in John's case, that doesn't do Martin any good).

John buries his face in his hands, giving Martin a horrified look from between his fingers. "I'm so sorry," he says helplessly.

Progression // for John

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