Jonathan Sims

It is John's turn to simply acquiesce, his hands curling loose and almost demure against Martin's chest as Martin settles himself alongside him, a parallel sprawl. Fitting, a distant part of him thinks, that he should also have the opportunity to give himself over, to place himself in Martin's hands because there is nowhere else he would rather be, and because that is where Martin wants him. Less dramatic than what happened on the couch, perhaps, but no less necessary to complete the larger picture. John wants him, but also wants to be his — to surrender himself to Martin's keeping, to extend a measure of trust that no one else's fond feelings could or would ever wring from him. Christ, what could anyone else hope to offer him that would even begin to compare with this?

So he meets each kiss readily, open and pliant beneath Martin's hands and lips. His pleasure is telegraphed through quiet sighs, as if anything louder might constitute an interruption. It isn't until after Martin's whispered pronouncement that he feels compelled to speak, his nose brushing against Martin's in a small, gentle nuzzle as he whispers back, "I'm yours."

This is where things tend to wind down, the two of them breathing softly together until sleep takes them (and never mind that it's getting on towards dinner time; a nap would take precedence). So it's a slight surprise when Martin's hand returns to his shoulder. A surprise, but not an unwelcome one. John's not about to say no to more back rubs, and he gives Martin a small, bright smile before rolling back onto his front. The smile lingers as he resettles himself, feeling very pampered indeed.