Martin's breath bursts out in a tense huff when John runs a finger along his collarbone, his eyes falling shut as if to guard against being overwhelmed far too soon. Christ, it's good, just that little possessive touch is enough to leave him trembling, and when John tugs him gently to the side, breathes his magnanimous taunts against his neck, a helpless little noise twists out of the back of Martin's throat, a soft but absurdly high-pitched squeak.

"I—I'll do my b—" he starts, a half-considered attempt to reply, but the word evaporates into a moan and a sharp hiss of breath when John starts sucking slow and careful at his throat, and Martin's fingers curl tight against the wall as he struggles to stay where he's been told. He wasn't expecting it to be so difficult to keep still without being explicitly held down, when he so commonly releases this kind of tension with desperate writhing, but in some ways that only enhances the feeling of being trapped. His eyes flicker open again, though he has trouble keeping them that way and he can't really look properly with John bent down close and himself held at this angle. That doesn't matter; he wants to see John, whatever he can, like even after so much he still needs to confirm this is real.