There is no time for embarrassment, for retraction, certainly not for regret. Martin can feel his pulse in his fingertips as John bestows another kiss upon his chest, his eyes shut tight in that breathless moment before the promised sensation finally comes. And when it does — they haven't done this often enough for Martin to have become remotely accustomed to how overwhelmingly good it feels — it hits him with full force, a shudder ricocheting through him, his back arching as he moans, heavy and desperate and full of want. The timing is too precise, the wind-up too intentional, for him to separate feeling from sentiment. So he is pinned to the moment, caught in frantic, delicious ecstasy and inescapably aware of how much he has, in fact, earned it.

It should make him want to hide himself, to walk into the nearest available peat bog. It doesn't. Somehow, it doesn't. Instead it feels like some distant switch has flipped. There is nothing theatrical, now, about the impulse to beg for more. Not if deserving is on the table.

"Oh god—" Words disappear into a shrill whine as John releases him, the tension cut, his back flattening back against the cushions as he shudders and sucks in short, shallow breaths. His eyes blink open as he looks, impossibly, allows himself to see this, to see John bent over him, to really perceive himself here, vulnerable, wanting, and human. "O-oh god, please, please."