Jonathan Sims

It is surprisingly easy to simply surrender to the idea of decadence; to accept — to embrace it, tipping his head back at once as directed, leaning into the supportive cradle of John's palm. Martin's eyes nearly flutter shut, but first he catches sight of John's bared forearms, and he allows himself a little grin. He'd noted John rolling up his sleeves without properly noticing it, a testament to how fuzzy he's feeling, to say nothing of how shy. It's a practical measure more than anything else, but John knows him well, knows how much Martin likes this look on him. Without much thought behind it, Martin allows himself another indulgence, pausing to nuzzle against John's arm, the skin soft and warm and slightly mottled, in places.

This is so indulgent it's nothing short of a miracle he's not drowning in embarrassment over it all. Too sick, too desperate for comfort. But it's more than that — it's how easily John offered this, how he smiled when Martin agreed, and how much care he puts into it now. John cares about him; John loves him, and he likes to show it, and Martin thinks he's getting better at just letting himself be shown. Letting himself be loved.

So again he tips his head back, meets John's gaze briefly, then finally lets his eyes fall shut with a subtle nod to show he's ready.