Jonathan Sims

Martin meets John's initial show of indignation with a little smirk. It's not often this kind of teasing is mutual. He usually endeavors to be well-behaved, or at least good-natured. He's generally too mindful of how much John is indulging him to want to make even playful trouble. But given all that led them here, it feels more appropriate to test those waters just a little.

Any self-satisfaction is short-lived, however, replaced once again by mute surprise as John fists his hands into Martin's shirt, wiping the smirk right off his face. Martin blinks, suddenly attentive, his lips slightly parted and his muscles tensing in anticipation. It's remarkably effective even as a mere threat, but John does nothing by halves, and when he actually makes good on it, pulling Martin's shirt open sharply enough that a button pops off somewhere, it takes Martin out at the proverbial knees. He gasps again, his nerves jolting and a hot rush of adrenaline coursing through him, arousal very suddenly no longer an imminent suggestion but an active development. He has no time to react properly before John seizes him by the hair, tugging his head back by small, controlled degrees. Christ, he never thought John would actually do something like this, as if it were directly wrenched from some of his oldest daydreams.

He can't manage an answer at first, his throat too dry, his breath too short. He whimpers, first, his hands returning to their obediently idle positions at John's chest, not daring to grip, to do anything but wait. He's trembling a little, all but radiating desperation and desire, his earlier hesitancy and doubt entirely forgotten.

He meets John's eyes after sucking in a somewhat steadying breath, swallowing thickly, finding his voice. "O-of course," he says, soft and faltering. "Please."