Jonathan Sims

That's more like it. Well, to a point — John had initially intended to strike more of an adoring tone than a playfully punitive one, and he's not entirely pleased with the turn things have taken. There's some consolation in how effective sterner treatment has turned out to be; it seems a safe bet that Martin no longer intends to gum up the works just because he can. But there's a considerable — and doubtless intentional — difference between accepting John's adoration and accepting a titillating punishment for bad behavior, and allowing his own intentions to be misconstrued for the sake of convenience (or expediency) feels a bit cheap. To say nothing of how badly it misses the point.

John considers Martin for a few lingering beats, his free hand tracing an idle path that begins at the hollow of Martin's throat and drifts down, skating lightly over the thinner fabric of his undershirt, until it reaches the vicinity of his navel and reverses course. He completes the round trip twice before flattening his palm against Martin's sternum. "Lie back," he orders, using both his grip on Martin's hair and the press of his hand against his chest to guide him into a more horizontal configuration, briefly pivoting off the cushions so Martin can draw his legs up without any awkward collisions.

Once Martin seems settled, John perches on the edge of the couch, curled close over him. "Comfortable?" he murmurs, bending to press a kiss against his throat.