The burgeoning smile slips from Martin's face before John even speaks, already recognizing that he isn't dropping character. He's still going? He still wants to go? Holy shit, Martin thinks, holy shit?
He snaps accordingly back into his own role, returning to sheepishness and performative shame, and quickly looks back down, nodding along with John's cool suggestion. "O-of course," he says, his voice a little unsteady, his legs even unsteadier as he climbs to his feet. He tucks himself gingerly away and clears his throat before turning around, wobbling his way to the still open (Christ) door. He's not about to touch anything until he gets washed up, and he rightly assumes John will at least grant him this passage without the new ritual of shutting the door behind him.
As soon as he's reached the relative privacy of the washroom he pitches forward until his forehead is pressed to the mirror, breathing heavily and losing himself for a moment in the sensation of warm water flowing over his hands.
"Jesus Christ," he pants. "Hoooly bloody shit."
That was so good, and John isn't done with him. It shouldn't even necessarily surprise him — John never does anything by halves, and this is even more effort then they normally put in, it makes sense John would want to make the most of it — but still. They've never gone multiple rounds. Martin isn't even sure he can get hard again in the next twenty minutes, but, he thinks in the next moment, that hardly matters.
He takes a few moments to pull himself together before thoroughly washing his hands, then fetches some cleaning fluid from under the sink and wipes up the smudge he left on the mirror for good measure. He needs to ground himself, and he wants to give John time to... whatever he's doing.
Finally, still very red-faced and overheated, he returns to John's office to find the door now shut. He swallows thickly and knocks, timid once again.
no subject
He snaps accordingly back into his own role, returning to sheepishness and performative shame, and quickly looks back down, nodding along with John's cool suggestion. "O-of course," he says, his voice a little unsteady, his legs even unsteadier as he climbs to his feet. He tucks himself gingerly away and clears his throat before turning around, wobbling his way to the still open (Christ) door. He's not about to touch anything until he gets washed up, and he rightly assumes John will at least grant him this passage without the new ritual of shutting the door behind him.
As soon as he's reached the relative privacy of the washroom he pitches forward until his forehead is pressed to the mirror, breathing heavily and losing himself for a moment in the sensation of warm water flowing over his hands.
"Jesus Christ," he pants. "Hoooly bloody shit."
That was so good, and John isn't done with him. It shouldn't even necessarily surprise him — John never does anything by halves, and this is even more effort then they normally put in, it makes sense John would want to make the most of it — but still. They've never gone multiple rounds. Martin isn't even sure he can get hard again in the next twenty minutes, but, he thinks in the next moment, that hardly matters.
He takes a few moments to pull himself together before thoroughly washing his hands, then fetches some cleaning fluid from under the sink and wipes up the smudge he left on the mirror for good measure. He needs to ground himself, and he wants to give John time to... whatever he's doing.
Finally, still very red-faced and overheated, he returns to John's office to find the door now shut. He swallows thickly and knocks, timid once again.