John's immediate, unflinching reply is enough to dissolve the faint seed of anxiety that had sprouted up within him, barely identifiable until he feels its dissipation. This is new, uncharted, and he wants to be careful; but John trusts him, has accepted this every step. And he trusts himself to do right by him.
He hums softly and pulls one hand away to meet John's where it's clutching so gingerly at his shirt. Martin takes John's hand and draws it up to his lips, planting little rows of kisses along each finger before turning it palm upward and bestowing another kiss there, long and intensely devotional. He stays there for a long moment, drawing breath against John's palm, drawing in the scent of him, before he finally opens his eyes again, before guiding John's hand down to rest at his side.
He has no words and isn't sure he'd be able to speak them plainly if he did. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cat curled up against John, head tilted up as if wondering where his attention has gone, and Martin smiles softly. He coaxes John onto his back, freeing up his other arm, and The Bishop promptly insinuates himself beneath it, politely demanding, as is his custom. Martin bends down over John and begins to trace his fingers over him in a loving path, by now familiar and well-trod: fingertips tapping lightly at his brow, his cheekbone, the scars that dot his cheek and his jaw, down to his chest, the hollow of his shoulder, tracking up the line of his arm back to his hand. For every acquiescence he plants another kiss, drawing out a map of his affection, a silent litany of devotion. When he is finally finished, he leans over a little more heavily, cradling John's face in both hands, anointing him with a final decisive kiss each to the brow, to the tip of his nose, to his mouth; and there he stays, kissing him properly at last. He parts his lips with gradual, gentle insistence, coaxing John to do the same.
no subject
He hums softly and pulls one hand away to meet John's where it's clutching so gingerly at his shirt. Martin takes John's hand and draws it up to his lips, planting little rows of kisses along each finger before turning it palm upward and bestowing another kiss there, long and intensely devotional. He stays there for a long moment, drawing breath against John's palm, drawing in the scent of him, before he finally opens his eyes again, before guiding John's hand down to rest at his side.
He has no words and isn't sure he'd be able to speak them plainly if he did. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cat curled up against John, head tilted up as if wondering where his attention has gone, and Martin smiles softly. He coaxes John onto his back, freeing up his other arm, and The Bishop promptly insinuates himself beneath it, politely demanding, as is his custom. Martin bends down over John and begins to trace his fingers over him in a loving path, by now familiar and well-trod: fingertips tapping lightly at his brow, his cheekbone, the scars that dot his cheek and his jaw, down to his chest, the hollow of his shoulder, tracking up the line of his arm back to his hand. For every acquiescence he plants another kiss, drawing out a map of his affection, a silent litany of devotion. When he is finally finished, he leans over a little more heavily, cradling John's face in both hands, anointing him with a final decisive kiss each to the brow, to the tip of his nose, to his mouth; and there he stays, kissing him properly at last. He parts his lips with gradual, gentle insistence, coaxing John to do the same.