Jonathan Sims

John meets his eyes as easily as if he was waiting for it, and Martin's breath stutters in his chest, utterly arrested by both the steadiness of the gaze and the quick-blooming grin that accompanies it. He looks so happy; he looks so delighted to have Martin here, to be doing this to and for him, and even though this is not, by the strictest definitions, new, Martin cannot simply notice it without feeling its full weight, fresh and profound. John does not simply love him, John wants him, and Martin is not sure he'll ever be able to take that knowledge at simple face value. It is important; it is the most important thing. It's why his jealousy was unfair and ridiculous. And instead of just pointing that out, John is all but forcing him to come to the conclusion himself.

He barely has any time for these thoughts to coalesce before John's grin grows a little more intent and he shifts slightly, only slightly, keeping Martin pinned with persistent eye contact. Martin twitches, startling as John takes him in his mouth, between his teeth, pinching the flesh there in a loose, suggestive bite; he stares, astonished and wholly trapped by John's impossibly steady gaze, which does not falter even as he presses further, licking him, slow and almost lazy, like a smug, playful afterthought. Another moan erupts out of Martin so suddenly that it startles him even more; his head falls back against the couch, his eyes shut once again and his mouth open, gasping as he trembles, his fingers curling tighter against the cushions as if seeking something to grasp.

"Oh, fuck," he says, barely audible between frantically drawn breaths. Christ, that's good, he wouldn't even have imagined it would be so good. "John—"