"Ah-hah—!" Martin gasps as John pulls him into place, gentle but firm, as he starts in just below Martin's collarbone, as he starts marking him properly. His fingers tense and twitch as he presses his hands hard against the wall, bracing himself to stop from moving. Because he can't move — not with John's hand in his hair, John's mouth on him. Christ, it's good, so good he suffers a brief, abrupt moment of self-awareness, normally the worst thing that could happen at a time like this, but now — all he can think is that John is doing this to him and there's still enough remnants of that old long-standing conviction that this would never happen, could never happen, that the still-surprising reality of it is enough to turn him on all the more. He cries out sharply, an uncontrollable shudder running through him, the only disruption of his desperately maintained stillness.

"Oh, God," he moans, wanting, needing to touch himself, and it feels so soon for that but John knows he can't last long like this, and he sucks in a sharp breath before struggling to ask: "C-can I—please, John, I need to—"