Of course it isn't as easy as just being good. It rarely is; John seems to delight the challenge as much as Martin does, and the quiet placidity of his gaze as he toys lightly with Martin's collar feels like the surface of a lake about to be breached. Martin holds his breath, waiting, though he's not sure what implied sensation will happen first — a sharper tug on his collar, a closed fist in his hair, lips and teeth against his throat. He can't quite stop himself exhaling eventually, thin and slow, carrying the faintest hint of a whimper, and then, as if precisely timed—

Martin sucks in a gasp when John pulls his collar aside and leans in, meandering a line of soft kisses down his neck and sucking softly before he's even reached his target. Martin lets out a sharp, plaintive cry, his fingers curling against the wall as if in search of something to grip onto. Christ, this is difficult, holding still without being held. He can't quite stop himself from wriggling ever so slightly, more a subtle shifting of his hips and a desperate little quiver than anything, as he whispers on a stuttering breath, "Please—"