When John had whispered that word, Martin hadn't hesitated to give him what he wanted. It would be rude not to return the courtesy — and really, they've passed the point where John might've kept drawing things out just for the sake of it. So the moment John relents that teasing pressure against Martin's neck, he tightens his grip on Martin's hair, his fingers snarled close against his scalp. His wrist flexes, the tug not sharp, but still insistent, tipping Martin's head a little to one side, as if to give himself as broad a canvas as possible.

Not that he strictly needs one. He's already chosen the perfect place to begin. John dips his head lower and seals his lips around a spot just below Martin's collarbone and a bit left of his sternum, this time sucking with deliberate force and purpose. The other little marks he's made will be gone within the hour; he intends for this one to last.