Martin laughs, surprised and delighted over John's teasing little rejoinder, only to be pulled up short in the next instant as John catches his lower lip, as his hand wanders delicately up Martin's neck and along his jaw. A tremor runs through him, a wholly involuntary shiver, punctuated by a soft whimper and a gasp. This was already multiple kinds of uncharted territory, but it keeps striking him over and over again how no one has ever handled him like this, no one has ever thought to or even wanted to. John knows him better than he knows himself, every playful touch and gesture full of so much inherent familiarity and love that it could paralyze him were he not so desperate for it to last.
He doesn't know what he's asking for, apart from more, like he wants to be shown absolutely everything he's missed. Latent anxiety starts to nag at him a little, growing a little stronger the longer this goes on, the more the outright shock value wears off. Accusations of selfishness, or reminders of how little he's earned this. He ought to reciprocate but he doesn't know how. He wants it to be good — he doesn't think it can be as good as whatever John's used to, with a Martin who knows him better and did the work to get here, but Christ, he has to try.
He keeps one hand in John's hair and lets the other wander, down to John's cheek, his jaw. The skin there is not smooth, mottled and scarred and rough to touch, but he finds he doesn't mind. He traces his thumb along the sharp slant of John's jaw as if to mirror John's hand on him, marveling at how he feels, how he's here and this is really happening.
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"Oh god," he breathes again, arching helplessly toward him. "God, yes, please."
He doesn't know what he's asking for, apart from more, like he wants to be shown absolutely everything he's missed. Latent anxiety starts to nag at him a little, growing a little stronger the longer this goes on, the more the outright shock value wears off. Accusations of selfishness, or reminders of how little he's earned this. He ought to reciprocate but he doesn't know how. He wants it to be good — he doesn't think it can be as good as whatever John's used to, with a Martin who knows him better and did the work to get here, but Christ, he has to try.
He keeps one hand in John's hair and lets the other wander, down to John's cheek, his jaw. The skin there is not smooth, mottled and scarred and rough to touch, but he finds he doesn't mind. He traces his thumb along the sharp slant of John's jaw as if to mirror John's hand on him, marveling at how he feels, how he's here and this is really happening.