John catches on, of course, and Martin can't quite refrain from wincing a little at that soft sigh. But John lets it pass just as easily as he wanted, quick to answer with more comfort and reassurance, and any trace of melancholy slips easily away. He hums, quiet and fond, as those long fingers continue to sift through his hair, gentle tender as ever, and he lets his head tip back up a little, his eyes fluttering open to find John's.
The thought that occurs to him then, after a comfortable moment of silence has passed between them, is not an entirely new one. He has considered it before, numerous times in fact, as part of the roster of things he knows he likes and likes to imagine. He has never asked for it because he enjoys this well enough on its own, and making direct requests still doesn't come naturally. But he's getting better at it, and John likes knowing those things, knowing what all he has at his disposal, whether he'll use it or not. Easier to let it slip casually with half a bottle of wine in him, with no real expectations, with a light, relaxed smirk to accompany it.
"You know," he says, "you don't have to be so gentle." Latent, reflexive anxiety is quick to rush in, even dulled by the haze of alcohol and pleasurable sensation; his smile fades, his gaze flicks away, and he stammers a bit, clarifying, "I—I mean you could... pull on it a bit. I-if you wanted. I'd... like that." He draws a breath, grasping for more to say, some explanation that is slow to form on top of being questionably necessary; an instinct he still has difficulty quelling.
no subject
The thought that occurs to him then, after a comfortable moment of silence has passed between them, is not an entirely new one. He has considered it before, numerous times in fact, as part of the roster of things he knows he likes and likes to imagine. He has never asked for it because he enjoys this well enough on its own, and making direct requests still doesn't come naturally. But he's getting better at it, and John likes knowing those things, knowing what all he has at his disposal, whether he'll use it or not. Easier to let it slip casually with half a bottle of wine in him, with no real expectations, with a light, relaxed smirk to accompany it.
"You know," he says, "you don't have to be so gentle." Latent, reflexive anxiety is quick to rush in, even dulled by the haze of alcohol and pleasurable sensation; his smile fades, his gaze flicks away, and he stammers a bit, clarifying, "I—I mean you could... pull on it a bit. I-if you wanted. I'd... like that." He draws a breath, grasping for more to say, some explanation that is slow to form on top of being questionably necessary; an instinct he still has difficulty quelling.