"Mhm," Martin agrees with a certain amount of pride, and chuckles at the cat's mild histrionics. He curls his fingers around John's, lifting the other hand to brush through his hair. After a moment's indulgence, he says softly, "Let's have you on your front, then."
The Bishop lifts his head to stare at them in vague accusation as they reorient themselves again, but he stays put, mollified once John's settled back down alongside him. Martin is grateful as ever that the cat is so generally tolerant, enough that having him in the bedroom for this was a perfectly feasible idea. And that he's content enough to remain curled up at John's side, leaving Martin to his work.
He relishes this work; cherishes every low, satisfied groan he can draw out, delights in the way John just sort of melts beneath his hands. The implicit trust, the considerable reward of seeing him pampered and comforted. Being allowed to touch him and being able to do some real, tangible good. Even outside the sort of reverent mood he's set for himself, he will never take this for granted. He moves his hands slowly over John, warming him, attending patiently to each point of held tension until he can feel the muscles loosen, moving on to the next. Studying the sharp lines of him, the pattern of scars dotting his back and sides, the way his spine arches when he finds a particularly good spot. Christ, he's beautiful. If Martin were not so focused — if treating John right, spoiling him, weren't such a high priority, he might lose himself in the desire to start kissing him again, the back of his neck, his shoulders, before turning him back onto his side and laying down beside him to kiss him properly until they pass out together. That may be the ultimate destination here, a foregone conclusion from his current ministrations, but this isn't about him or his wants, and he has no intention of taking for himself. Not right now.
no subject
The Bishop lifts his head to stare at them in vague accusation as they reorient themselves again, but he stays put, mollified once John's settled back down alongside him. Martin is grateful as ever that the cat is so generally tolerant, enough that having him in the bedroom for this was a perfectly feasible idea. And that he's content enough to remain curled up at John's side, leaving Martin to his work.
He relishes this work; cherishes every low, satisfied groan he can draw out, delights in the way John just sort of melts beneath his hands. The implicit trust, the considerable reward of seeing him pampered and comforted. Being allowed to touch him and being able to do some real, tangible good. Even outside the sort of reverent mood he's set for himself, he will never take this for granted. He moves his hands slowly over John, warming him, attending patiently to each point of held tension until he can feel the muscles loosen, moving on to the next. Studying the sharp lines of him, the pattern of scars dotting his back and sides, the way his spine arches when he finds a particularly good spot. Christ, he's beautiful. If Martin were not so focused — if treating John right, spoiling him, weren't such a high priority, he might lose himself in the desire to start kissing him again, the back of his neck, his shoulders, before turning him back onto his side and laying down beside him to kiss him properly until they pass out together. That may be the ultimate destination here, a foregone conclusion from his current ministrations, but this isn't about him or his wants, and he has no intention of taking for himself. Not right now.