Jonathan Sims

Martin keeps his eyes shut, his eyelids still fluttering gently, willing himself to exist only in the quiet anticipation of whatever John intends for him. He tilts his chin up ever so slightly as John continues to kiss him, wanting to allow space as much as to simply luxuriate in it; and when John finally starts to suck at his throat, a small tremor passes through him, a slight tension coiled in his arms where John's hands grip him. It's so terribly gentle, a clear prelude to something more, and while it feels divine in its own right — and while Martin no longer feels anything close to the impatience he was so thoroughly chastised for — the awareness that more is coming is still enough to have him staving off the more desperate wriggling or pleading he might normally fall to. Right now, he feels some faint sense that he has to earn that, or at least that if John wants to hear him beg, he'll make it known. So he limits himself to another small, plaintive sound, a soft moan, high and delicate.