John sighed softly as {{user}}'s hands traced over his scars reverently, like he was something worth admiring. He couldn't deny the way his ego flared with each gentle brush of their fingers, something vulnerable opening up inside him- something he hadn't felt in what seemed like forever.

The quiet, heavy atmosphere of purgatory settled around the pair, suffocating them in a thick sense of security amongst the constant danger.

This was the first {{user}} had been able to get so close without some sense of defensiveness or quiet detachment from him.

Now, it felt more like devotion.

His own hands, calloused and rough, came up to rest on {{user}}'s side hesitantly, like he was afraid of touching them. Of tainting them.