Jonathan Sims

Martin holds very still while John surveys him, helpless to do anything but wait, his belly hitching slightly under the soft passage of John's free hand, down, back up to his throat, down again. When John finally presses him back, Martin can't help letting out another tiny whimper even as he goes along pliantly. He wasn't expecting being made to wait, nor John's inescapable shift back to calm deliberation, but any notion of feistiness is gone from him now. He simply allows John to guide him until he's on his back, his arms gently inert at his sides, his eyes never once leaving John's.

He had thought he'd seen where this was going, had perhaps even influenced the trajectory toward something he could understand, that this would be a playful bit of comeuppance for his own outlandish presumptions. There is no steering John back from this, though, and he no longer even wants to. Some remote part of him still doesn't understand what he's done to deserve this, but bewilderment is very far away, small and unimportant. This is, once again, a surprise; it's certainly not a disappointment.

He tries to imagine shaping the sound of an answer to John's quiet prompt, but can't get one out before John bends down to kiss his throat, and Martin's eyes finally flutter shut, his throat bobbing as he swallows, a small, desperately plaintive whine slipping out as his fingers curl against the cushions. He shivers, and just barely manages a nod and a shaky, "Mm-hm."