Martin lets out a soft, contented sigh, smiling faint but warm as John leans again him and makes his playful accusation. He blinks his eyes open as if coming out of a dream, looks up just in time for his breath to catch gently in his throat, John's fingers a curling suggestion in his hair. Martin complies immediately, pressing his hands back and tipping his head up, a small murmur shuddering out of him. The mood hasn't entirely left him, and it returns easily enough and in full force, floodwaters around that lovely oasis of tenderness; his fingers flex against the wall and his eyes dart between John's, full of anticipation.

He could be more playful; he could pretend at resistance, request some escalation by some sort of innocuous mischief. But that doesn't always hold appeal. John is good at inhabiting that role; but he's good at lots of things, and right now he clearly has a direction in mind, and Martin has no desire to delay that or draw it out. John will take care of him, and he wants that at John's pace; he wants to be good.