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Martin's breath hitches with steadily increasing frequency as John starts to pull up the hem of his undershirt, making his intentions inescapably clear. With John's hands no longer pinning him down, he has to put extra effort into keeping still, though he can't quite stop himself from twitching with building desperation as John slowly, slowly exposes his belly and his chest. He takes his time, agonizingly patient, as if in direct reply to that earlier burst of aggression Martin had teased out of him. When one hand finally comes to rest on his chest, achingly close to one nipple, and even more so when John starts kissing him on a clear path to the other, Martin can't resist a frantic little whimper, as near to pleading as he can get.

And then John stops, waiting, letting the tension build to where it might as well be an actual crackle of static electricity. Then he asks his question, and Martin freezes, his eyes snapping back open to stare at the ceiling.

He almost thinks he should've seen this coming. Christ, it's too obvious. He might as well have set it up himself. He feels, for a moment, completely stuck, mired in indecision and astonishment and... and frustration.

Because he doesn't think he deserves this; or rather, the idea of claiming he does is anathema to him. He's always hated thinking about it in those terms. The appeal of being submissive is broad and complicated, but a not-insignificant part of it is being able to pretend that he has no choice in the matter. That John is the arbiter of what he deserves, what he's earned, what he receives. That John is choosing to do this, to take control of him, to reward or punish him accordingly, and that Martin is... simply along for the ride. He knows that's not the true core of it, but the theatrics grant him the freedom not to get bogged down in the messy reality that he... that he wants things, and that he is, in fact, entitled to have them. At least not in the bloody moment, when he's at his most vulnerable.

He hates acknowledging this; that he's human, that he has desires. He's only just had to confront the fact that he's jealous and petty and insecure, and now John wants him to admit that he still, after all that, deserves this?

Worst, most potent of all, he can't answer it simply because he wants John to make good on this implicit offer, no matter how badly he does want that. He has to mean it. John wants him to mean it.

Christ, John loves him so much. Martin wants to cling to his frustration over being cornered this way, but as the moment stretches on, all he can feel is loved. Which is frustrating on its own, really.

Because this is part of the jealousy, too. Not just that John might appeal to others, but that he surely can't be John's best option. After all this time there is still a little seed of bitter, lonely doubt in him, that John ought not love him as much as he does. And that is so horrid, so self-centered, and so pathetic, it makes Martin want to turn inward and deny himself this whole thing. How can he possibly deserve all this?

"I—" He swallows thickly, letting his eyes fall shut again as he struggles to compose himself. He tries not to think about how badly he wants, or how small a person he feels. Instead he tries to think about John, and what John deserves, and whether he truly believes anyone else would meet his own high standards in terms of giving John the world. How hard they've both fought to get here, and how he truly would do anything to keep it. How angry he's become when others don't see John for who he is, and how lucky he knows he is. And how much John loves him, and how committed he is to showing it, to force Martin to see it.

And that... well, if he doesn't deserve it, then what the hell is he doing here at all?

So. "I do," he says quietly, his voice cracking a little around the syllable. His fingers flex and then relax subtly. "I— I do."