Jonathan Sims

Martin doesn't know what he was pleading for; he frequently doesn't, when often enough the plea itself is all that matters. John doesn't always need direction, and he never disappoints. Martin shivers as John's hands drift over him, the light passage of his knuckles down Martin's throat and the ridge of his collarbone. He tips his chin up again, a little further, equal parts impulse and invitation.

It's no surprise when John settles at the top button of his shirt, though Martin's breath still hitches over that suggestive little tug. It's easy enough to assume John plans to mark him, and will need to pull his collar aside for it; the question is both courteous and coy, and Martin is quick to answer it with a soft whine and an eager little nod.