It is so natural, the way John shifts his attention, eases him gently through it, holds him as he comes down. Martin feels, as he sometimes does in the aftermath, like he might cry; how fortunate he is, how happy, how loved. He tried to gingerly mend a bad memory and it led not to discomfort and disaster but to this — to John holding him, patient and untroubled, kissing his hair.
Martin desperately needs to attend to himself in a less enjoyable sense, now; every time this happens he thinks they've really got to get better about prepping, but then that never feels worth it in the moment. He's not sorry at all it happened this way, but he does feel a touch sheepish now, and he wants to get cleaned up before anything else happens. He's still a bit shaky, though, so he doesn't rush with this, either; he groans softly as he pulls himself upright, lifts his head to meet John's eyes and holds his gaze for a moment. He smiles, faint and fond and without a trace of self-consciousness, and leans in to kiss him properly, brief but every bit as tender as he deserves.
"I love you," he murmurs with gentle finality before pulling back. Then he sighs, coming out of his warm haze enough to extricate himself a bit awkwardly and cut directly for the WC.
"I'll just be a moment," he says, waving John vaguely toward the bedroom. "Go and get comfortable."
It isn't meant to imply anything — he has some vague notions of what might come next, perhaps giving John a little massage or just kissing him a whole hell of a lot. It's getting easier not to worry about it so much, when he knows John still has trouble answering the question of what he might want. So there need not be anything specific. Comfortable is just what it means: Martin wants to have a bloody lie-in, and he expects John is on more or less the same page.
He doesn't even bother getting a change of clothes, just leaves his things in the hamper and steps into the shower only long enough to clean himself up. What with the jaunt through a bloody corn field, he probably could stand to have a proper wash, but he's not interested in getting his hair wet now, or being away from John for longer than is absolutely necessary. So he dries himself off briskly and wanders back into the bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist.
He finds John waiting for him on the bed and offers him another smile, this one a bit shy for no good reason, before turning away to get changed. He pulls on his pajama bottoms and lets the towel drop, and then he pauses in front of the mirror before putting on his shirt.
Martin very rarely stops in front of the mirror; he doesn't like to look at himself most days. His relationship to his own reflection is utilitarian and almost non-existent when he isn't dressed. But he stops now, no thought to spare all the parts of himself he doesn't like; all he can see are the marks John left standing bright against his skin. Two of them, perfect little red bruises just below his collarbone and off to the side, one just on the edge of where his collar might rest. A slight touch of danger there, so to speak, but only enough to make it exciting; they'll stay hidden so long as he's careful. A little secret between them, a sign of something special, something John did for him, because he wanted to.
It is an old refrain, but never a tired one, as far as Martin is concerned — that no one else has ever done this for him, ever loved him this much, taken such care with and of him. He has never before been given hickeys he could admire, and this is still new enough that it feels momentous every time. Martin finds himself grinning outright, still scarcely aware of himself even as he reaches up to brush a finger delicately along one of the marks.
no subject
Martin desperately needs to attend to himself in a less enjoyable sense, now; every time this happens he thinks they've really got to get better about prepping, but then that never feels worth it in the moment. He's not sorry at all it happened this way, but he does feel a touch sheepish now, and he wants to get cleaned up before anything else happens. He's still a bit shaky, though, so he doesn't rush with this, either; he groans softly as he pulls himself upright, lifts his head to meet John's eyes and holds his gaze for a moment. He smiles, faint and fond and without a trace of self-consciousness, and leans in to kiss him properly, brief but every bit as tender as he deserves.
"I love you," he murmurs with gentle finality before pulling back. Then he sighs, coming out of his warm haze enough to extricate himself a bit awkwardly and cut directly for the WC.
"I'll just be a moment," he says, waving John vaguely toward the bedroom. "Go and get comfortable."
It isn't meant to imply anything — he has some vague notions of what might come next, perhaps giving John a little massage or just kissing him a whole hell of a lot. It's getting easier not to worry about it so much, when he knows John still has trouble answering the question of what he might want. So there need not be anything specific. Comfortable is just what it means: Martin wants to have a bloody lie-in, and he expects John is on more or less the same page.
He doesn't even bother getting a change of clothes, just leaves his things in the hamper and steps into the shower only long enough to clean himself up. What with the jaunt through a bloody corn field, he probably could stand to have a proper wash, but he's not interested in getting his hair wet now, or being away from John for longer than is absolutely necessary. So he dries himself off briskly and wanders back into the bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist.
He finds John waiting for him on the bed and offers him another smile, this one a bit shy for no good reason, before turning away to get changed. He pulls on his pajama bottoms and lets the towel drop, and then he pauses in front of the mirror before putting on his shirt.
Martin very rarely stops in front of the mirror; he doesn't like to look at himself most days. His relationship to his own reflection is utilitarian and almost non-existent when he isn't dressed. But he stops now, no thought to spare all the parts of himself he doesn't like; all he can see are the marks John left standing bright against his skin. Two of them, perfect little red bruises just below his collarbone and off to the side, one just on the edge of where his collar might rest. A slight touch of danger there, so to speak, but only enough to make it exciting; they'll stay hidden so long as he's careful. A little secret between them, a sign of something special, something John did for him, because he wanted to.
It is an old refrain, but never a tired one, as far as Martin is concerned — that no one else has ever done this for him, ever loved him this much, taken such care with and of him. He has never before been given hickeys he could admire, and this is still new enough that it feels momentous every time. Martin finds himself grinning outright, still scarcely aware of himself even as he reaches up to brush a finger delicately along one of the marks.