John's eyes are heavily lidded, but he keeps them open, unable to resist the pull to watch as Martin lifts his hand and begins to favor it with kisses. It isn't anxiety that compels him, though he can distantly imagine why it might, under different circumstances. They've never done anything quite like this before, with Martin assuming such complete control. John first took up the proverbial reins out of caution and simple practicality, and has largely kept them out of habit: a habit that conveniently tended to align with Martin's own preferences. Deviations from the norm aren't unheard of, but they're usually approached with more preamble and careful discussion. It's rare for them to just do something new when too much novelty has the potential to backfire.
But is this too much? Should he be worrying about the intentions of someone who so plainly just wants to blanket him in the kind of affection that he has already happily received in more modest doses? No; this might be uncharted territory, but they've come too far for him to distrust not just Martin's intentions, but his ability to execute them. He has held the reins because it made sense, or because Martin preferred not to; he hasn't withheld them out of fear of Martin steering them straight into a proverbial ditch. And now, he relinquishes them as easily as breathing.
And Christ, the rewards are both immediate and considerable. Martin guides him to settle more comfortably on his back — the better to both enjoy Martin's ministrations and resume petting the cat — and begins to trace his fingers over John's skin, the journey interspersed with familiar, inquiring taps. John hums his acquiescence, warmed by every implicit is this okay? even and especially because Martin knows him so well, by now, that none of the spots he chooses give John a moment's pause.
An irrepressible smile has made itself at home on John's lips by the time Martin returns to them, and it stays there even as John parts them, letting the kiss deepen, eager to oblige. The hand that isn't absently petting the cat lifts off the bedspread to gently clasp Martin's arm, his thumb tracing a slow arc over the fabric of his shirt. Presumptuous, maybe, but he can't quite help himself, and he hums again, soft and satisfied.
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But is this too much? Should he be worrying about the intentions of someone who so plainly just wants to blanket him in the kind of affection that he has already happily received in more modest doses? No; this might be uncharted territory, but they've come too far for him to distrust not just Martin's intentions, but his ability to execute them. He has held the reins because it made sense, or because Martin preferred not to; he hasn't withheld them out of fear of Martin steering them straight into a proverbial ditch. And now, he relinquishes them as easily as breathing.
And Christ, the rewards are both immediate and considerable. Martin guides him to settle more comfortably on his back — the better to both enjoy Martin's ministrations and resume petting the cat — and begins to trace his fingers over John's skin, the journey interspersed with familiar, inquiring taps. John hums his acquiescence, warmed by every implicit is this okay? even and especially because Martin knows him so well, by now, that none of the spots he chooses give John a moment's pause.
An irrepressible smile has made itself at home on John's lips by the time Martin returns to them, and it stays there even as John parts them, letting the kiss deepen, eager to oblige. The hand that isn't absently petting the cat lifts off the bedspread to gently clasp Martin's arm, his thumb tracing a slow arc over the fabric of his shirt. Presumptuous, maybe, but he can't quite help himself, and he hums again, soft and satisfied.