Martin's little squeak is darling, and the way he loosely grips his shirt is enough to leave John smiling against his lips. This is all he wants: to demonstrate just how little Martin ever need worry about the possibility of losing him to a romantic rival, of all things, and for Martin to let him demonstrate as much without sinking into the familiar rut of self-recrimination, or insisting he doesn't deserve it. As if it would really be better if John had found some way to punish him for being so head-over-heels in love with him that he can't help fretting that other people might be, too. John can't imagine that, and he doesn't want to. Not when he has this: Martin warm and pliant in his arms, against his lips, Martin's hands lighting so gently against his cheeks.

John slides his hand to Martin's side in lieu of leaving it pinned between him and the cushion, and he responds to that whispered plea with a low hum and another slow, ponderous kiss. He could easily escalate, guiding Martin down onto his back, but there are a few things he'd rather do, first. He allows himself another kiss, soft and brief, then draws back enough to look Martin in the eye. The hand that was in his hair drifts down, fingers still curled, the backs of his knuckles cresting over the curve of Martin's neck and the small swell of his collarbone. Then he hooks a finger over the top button of Martin's shirt, giving the garment a light, illustrative tug. "May I?"