Martin gasps, sucking in a sharp, startled breath when John's fingers tighten in his hair, the sudden application of even mild force sending a shockwave of arousal through his body. He tips his head back a little further, breath coming in quick and shallow, face flushed and lips parted, utterly helpless under John's wonderfully calm stare. A soft, pleading murmur escapes him, but he doesn't think to answer, because there isn't any answer to give. He squirms a bit, but only a bit, because he's unable to stop himself; he certainly doesn't try to wriggle free. He's in John's hands, which is precisely where he wants to be, and he can only wait, desperately obedient, for John to decide where, indeed, he wants to begin.

John's ridiculously good at this, really; beautifully adept at playing this part, taking control, rendering Martin so completely helpless. Martin could get lost thinking about how lucky he is, if John left any room for thought; as it is, the gentle tug on his hair, the haughty look in his eyes, the smug tone of his voice, it all combines to immobilize him, and it's all he can do to breathe and to meet John's eyes, waiting eagerly for whatever's next.