Work Text:
Jon, for all of his incomprehension and confusion regarding the romantic and sexual world, is absolutely amazing at kissing.
It goes unnoticed, Martin thinks. Jon likes to pride himself on his knowledge a bit. That’s the Archivist in him. But he never really seems to notice that he is great at snogging, even if he’s not necessarily even trying. Or maybe he is, but, to Martin, it feels so effortless.
Their first kiss had been awkward, so pathetically awkward, but so, so good, and, well, it’s only been uphill from there. But Jon doesn’t notice, because, for every ten things he does notice, nuances of their relationship aren’t any of them. But that’s okay, because Jon likes to ask and Martin likes to give the feedback, anyway– even if he doesn’t necessarily mean to.
It’s the tiny noises that get him. The way there’s a tiny moan escaping his mouth before he realizes; he only really notices when he feels Jon almost smile against his lips and the resigned embarrassment prickles the back of his neck again. Warm, and good, encompassing him like a soft blanket on a cold night, and he wants to pull it closer and sink further into the warmth if only it means Jon keeps kissing him like this.
He gets so embarrassingly worked up over something as simple as making out, right up until the point where he has to break apart from Jon’s lips with a small noise just so he’s able to catch his breath.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, before Jon can even start thinking it. “I’m still easy.”
Jon chuckles. It’s a breath of warm air against Martin’s cheek, and Jon’s lax and compliant against his side. “You’re receptive,” he says, and presses a kiss to Martin’s jaw. “God knows I need the hints.”
He breathes in slowly. He doesn’t know how Jon isn’t overwhelmed. Well, no, he does; things are different between them, but comfortable. “I need the oxygen,” Martin grumbles, and then exhales in a sharp burst when Jon kisses his neck. “Oh God, Jon– that tickles.”
“Right.” He starts to suck a hickey instead, and Martin’s voice goes embarrassingly high.
“Jon. I’m–” He’s not protesting. Jon’s mouth is heavenly, and he’s surprisingly good with his teeth these days, too? He knows how to leave a mark. “If you hadn’t noticed. I’m a little, er, worked up. Like, up up.”
Jon stifles a noise against his neck, and then pulls away with a drag of his teeth that makes Martin shudder. “Sorry.” He leans against Martin’s shoulder. “Although you know I don’t mind if you’re worked up.”
“I mind,” Martin mutters. So they’re good at kissing. But figuring out their footing between Martin’s, well, sexual desire and Jon’s lack of that, that’s more difficult? Because he knows Jon would completely disregard his own well-being to give Martin what he wanted. (To give him what he thought he wanted.) But all Martin really wants is attention, it’s all he’s ever wanted, really, and… so just holding Jon’s hand would be nice. The kissing is really nice. So that’s good.
It’d be even better if Martin didn’t get it up every time Jon started kissing him a little more intently. Jon never even seemed to realize he was causing it until Martin warned him off… and that was only because he didn’t want Jon to feel obligated to go further if he noticed. And because Martin could not afford to do laundry so frequently, he really couldn’t. And anyway, if he had one more orgasm while Jon sat, bemused, next to him, he thought he might cry from… something. Frustration. Humiliation.
So yeah, he’s receptive alright. That’s a word.
“I like, er– making you come.” Jon says the words like they’re foreign on his tongue. They are. And they’re still. hot. Goddammit.
“Jon,” he warns.
“What if I want to get you off?”
“Jon.”
“I’m not being crass.” Jon pulls back. “I’m serious. I’m…” Martin can see the cogs turning, can watch the thoughts physically form on Jon’s face. He doesn’t know if that’s exciting or terrifying, really. It probably doesn’t mean much good for the state of his laundry. “Curious. And not sex-averse, we’ve discussed this.”
“But you don’t–”
“I’m not propositioning penetrative sex here, Martin.”
His face flares up with heat. “I– God.” It’s encouraging Jon’s putting that out there, anyway. He’s not just using Martin’s dick as inspiration for his way of thinking. “Okay, so… hypothetically.” He doesn’t want to force Jon to do things, but he doesn’t want to force Jon to not do things. Although he probably would have drawn the line if they had been talking about… penetrative sex. God, but they’re not. Martin clears his throat. “What… how, then?”
“How do you want me, I suppose?”
The words skitter across his skin. First, he thinks, it’s a remnant of Jon’s teeth on his neck. Familiar and all encompassing, like the damp still drying at his skin. It’s warm, and encouraging. He answers. “Any way,” he breathes. “Any way imaginable, really. I think about your mouth a lot. Your voice is great, and your lips… God, why do you think I love kissing you? Asides the obvious,” he adds quickly. Something in him falters. His eyes bounce back to Jon and he’s looking a little wide-eyed and uncomfy and Martin realizes he’s been compelled. “Oh, Christ, I didn’t mean–”
“Sorry,” Jon interrupts. He clears his throat. “I was a bit in the moment, didn’t realize I was doing it–”
“I didn’t mean to imply I wanted you to give me head–”
Jon raises an eyebrow, so perfectly that it almost dispels the earlier momentary discomfort. Almost. “Compulsion gives a bit more than an implication.”
Martin makes some kind of garbled noise– because, okay, yeah, he’s definitely thought about Jon’s mouth on his cock but that’s beside the point. Fantasies are for that kind of thing. Engaging in things you can’t or shouldn’t have in reality, right? “I’m not asking for a blow job,” he finally says with finality, and Jon just nods. Martin can’t really tell if he looks relieved or not.
“Alright. No oral. But I’m still interested in hearing your thoughts. Though I don’t think I’m going to ask again.”
Martin laughs. It’s a nervous sound. He can’t shake the feel of the compulsion, just like he can’t shake the arousal settled low into his gut. He’s more than a little half hard and Jon’s still asking him for fantasies and permission, so that erection isn’t going anywhere. “I mean… even just your hands, Jon.” It’s a lot harder to be honest when Jon isn’t helping him. “You’ve talked about pulling before, like, after long days? So I think about that, but… you doing me. Instead of yourself.” Although he’s thought about that, too. Imagining Jon coming apart after a long day… the way he must look while he’s having himself off…
Martin’s hand moves to his lap more out of preserving his modesty than anything, he swears, but Jon’s eyes track the movement and he thinks he blushes all the way down his chest.
“Sorry–”
“What for? It’s interesting.” Jon reaches out his hand. “May I?”
Martin thinks the words set his soul aflame. He nods, and manages to stutter “y–yeah, you– only if you want–”
Jon takes Martin’s hand to shift it aside, and then settles his own over the tent in Martin's trousers. He thinks he makes a noise, a little strangled, maybe; Jon’s had his hand on his thigh before, but he’s never actually palmed his dick in any setting… it’s… oh, even like this, it’s really a lot.
“This is okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, r–really okay, um.” Martin chews his lip, for a second, but then that’s a bad habit so he just blurts out what he’s thinking to begin with. “Can you maybe kiss me? Again. Now?”
“Easily,” Jon agrees, and tilts his head up to catch Martin’s mouth.
It’s a little easier, with Jon kissing him. It’s a little easier to lose himself, at least until Jon fully gets his fingers along the outline of his cock and squeezes, and Martin whines into his mouth. Keens, really, probably, as his hips jerk to chase the pressure, and he squeezes his eyes shut to try and find some semblance of sense hidden in the depths of his mind. It’s pretty much all taken over by his cock right now, though, and Jon’s hand, and his own pulse and the feeling of moving too fast and too slow all at once.
Jon has one hundred percent made him come before without groping obscenely between his legs, so this… “You’re doing my laundry, Jonathan Sims,” he laments. He doesn’t really care.
“I’d…” Jon falters, and leans back, and Martin opens his eyes to see him tilting his head in question. Confusion. Like a puppy, and it’s cute, except Martin can’t quite keep still now and he’s not in any position to level Jon’s inquiries with rational thought. “You didn’t orgasm already.”
Martin can’t quite glare, although he'd like to. “No.” When have I ever had a subtle orgasm, he doesn’t say. “But I assure you, like, ten seconds of that and I’ll be done. I’m not even good at teasing myself.” The last part is sotto voce, although he doesn’t necessarily intend it to be. Slow’s not really been his thing, not since he started having it off to the thought of Jon. Who can blame him.
“Good. My intention was to actually have you in hand.”
“Oh,” Martin squeaks, and then puffs a breath of shock into Jon’s mouth when he resumes kissing him, matter of fact, and starts to undo the button on his jeans. He can’t stop him. He doesn't stop him. For a second, he’s just floundering, overwhelmed in sensation as Jon kisses him, and unbuttons and unzips. Then he’s taking an active approach in helping to wriggle his pants down just enough to expose his cock, because he really, really doesn’t want to do laundry, and Jon is really, really hot when he’s taking the lead.
Jon is warm, when he takes him in hand. Martin’s breath stutters and he squirms even before Jon gets a thumb over the tip, and then he thinks he’s biting at Jon’s lip instead of his own. “Oh my God, sorry–”
“Breathe, Martin.”
He does. He tries to, at least. “You’re not giving me a lotta time to do that, you know,” he mutters halfheartedly. It’s a subtle pout, but he smiles when Jon catches his eye. “M–Me being… enthusiastic aside, er… you’re still okay, right? This isn’t… uncomfortable? For you. I know I keep asking, but I don’t want you to do this stuff just because you think you have to–”
“It’s interesting,” Jon repeats. “I’m not… hard, if that’s what you’re asking, but I still like pulling the reactions from you.”
“Thanks,” he replies witlessly. A little dry. But it’s okay. It feels good to hear Jon say. That Martin can do something for him, even if that doesn’t involve getting him hard. He’d told him before that didn’t matter, and it still didn’t, but knowing he can make Jon happy? That’s good. Better than the impending orgasm. Yes, he does mean that.
Jon’s voice is nothing but honest, so that’s good. He’s never been a good liar. So it’s very open when he gives an experimental shift of his hand and says, “you look good.”
“I… thank you,” Martin murmurs, embarrassed and strained, and slides his hand into Jon’s hair. He wants to kiss him until he shakes apart, desperate and messy. But he also wants to look at him, catch his reactions while he falls… he isn’t managing either very well, pressed up close and breathing hard.
It doesn’t seem to matter much. Or maybe Jon just likes that, which is good. His hand keeps moving on Martin’s cock, a steady up and down motion with a twist of his palm on the upwards stroke, which is also good, God–
“Jon–” he starts, and then gasps, and the words tumble out all at once: “caniaskyouapersonalquestion?”
“Martin, my hand’s on your cock.” Fuck, Jon’s voice is sinful when he says things like that. Cock. Martin plays that on repeat in his head, in time with the movement of Jon’s hand and the press of his fingers. “I’m not sure there’s many other ways to be more personal.”
“Not my cock I’m asking about…” he mutters.
“Yes?”
He. God. He can’t. The words get caught between his mouth and his brain, trapped near the precipice that he’s getting far too close to. Martin groans, dropping his face to bury into the crook of Jon’s neck. “Ask.” He’s not begging. He’s not, okay?
“Ask you to tell me what you wanted to ask me,” Jon mutters, and then raises his voice, “what did you want to know, Martin?”
He shudders under the compulsion. “Do you think about me when you touch yourself?” he gasps, and grips at Jon’s shoulders. He doesn’t need the validation. He doesn’t. But he likes it, the same way he likes the praise, the kind he’s chased from Jon from the very start.
Jon’s rhythm is precise if not a little clumsy, but it falters, just a little, when Martin asks. He’s coming off the tingling under his skin when it hits him again he shouldn’t have asked, but then Jon’s continuing like it’s a normal question.
“I have,” he says.
Martin whines into his neck, and fucks a little bit more into Jon’s hand.
“Honestly, I’m not usually thinking of much,” Jon admits, and sounds just a touch awkward. “It’s… stress relief. An automatic reaction to your body when you pay it enough attention. If you squeeze just right…” The same reaction to match the words, and Martin nearly sobs. “You know the result. So most of the time, I’m not thinking of anything. But I have thought about you. We are dating. It’s hard to not think about you in some regard.”
“Y–Yeah?” Martin won’t ask for details. He doesn’t think he wants them, doesn’t want to put Jon in that position, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if Jon thinks about kissing him or touching him or just sitting on the couch and watching telly with him. He thinks about him. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters. “U–Uh. God, Jon.” His thoughts are literally scrambled, reduced to a few, breathy syllables. “I–”
“Can I watch you?” Jesus, the questions. Even the ones without compulsion shake up his insides, give him all kinds of giddy butterflies even as he’s tense and aching. “Assuming you are about to orgasm.”
He thinks he breathes out a laugh, and tightens his grip on Jon’s shoulder. A slight chastisement, maybe– of course I'm about to goddamn orgasm, Jon– but then, because Jon’s asked so candidly, he slumps back into the couch cushions and just looks at him.
Jon looks back at him. He’s a little flush along his neck himself, but Martin figures that’s probably a bit more embarrassment than it is arousal, and that’s okay. It’s still hot. Jon looks good with that pink splashed along his skin. What’s better is the intrigue in his eyes, alight behind glasses that he pushes up the bridge of his nose even as Martin watches. His attention’s fully on him, even as his hand keeps moving over Martin’s cock. The weight of it catches him on the edge, and Martin writhes and sinks his teeth into his lip.
“… please,” he whispers, and now he’s begging, he’s definitely, absolutely begging, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because Jon’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, and he’s so beautiful that Martin thinks his own lips tremble from the sheer emotional magnitude of it all before he finally, finally feels himself pitch over the edge.
That’s okay, too. Jon’s there to catch him.
It takes a second to get his bearings back. Jon’s already tucked him back into his pants and more or less fixed his trousers, and is looking around a bit helplessly… probably for something to clean up with, considering Martin’s cum is still all over his hand.
Martin chokes off a tiny laugh, and Jon looks so lost when he looks up to meet Martin’s eye that Martin’s tiny laugh turns into a proper, breathless one.
“Where’s the tissues?”
“In my bedroom,” Martin laughs, unclenching his hands from his knees. He flexes his fingers and reaches forward to smooth Jon’s hair from his forehead. “I wank in bed, Jon, not in front of the tv.”
Jon makes a tiny, disgruntled noise.
“Just use my shirt.”
“Martin. That’s appalling.”
“Fine.” Martin doesn’t know where it comes from, but he takes Jon’s hand– the dirty one– and lifts his fingers to his mouth. He sees the recognition– stunned and mildly horrified– cross Jon’s face a split second before Martin licks those fingers. The dirty ones, still damp with his own release.
“Martin––” Jon’s voice is positively choked, the flush spreading to the tips of his ears even as Martin watches in tired, amused fascination. “That’s–” His nose pulls up, but he’s still gentle when he pulls his hand back. “– so…”
“C’mon, like you never tasted your own spunk.”
“I– have not!” He’s still holding his hand half aloft, not touching his clothes or the sofa or Martin, but he still manages to sound affronted, and that makes Martin giggle. Actually giggle, despite being… raunchy. Which isn’t his usual modus operandi, but Jon looks so flustered. It’s a rare look.
But Martin’s not a monster. He can take pity. “I’m kidding. I mean, I have, uh, tasted, a bit, before this, but…” He shrugs. It just was, really. He thinks he’d like it better if it was someone else’s, probably. It would be hotter if it was Jon's cum he was licking off his hand, but that’s nothing he expects. (Fantasies.) He catches his hand to kiss the part of it that isn't drying sticky, and then nudges him away slightly so he can stand. “Just a sec.”
Jon readily takes the damp paper towel Martin offers when he trudges back from the kitchen, still a little shaky on his feet. “Ah, I’m meant to be cleaning you up, aren’t I? Aftercare, or something…” he says, wiping between his fingers.
Martin prides himself that he only rolls his eyes a little bit as he folds back in next to Jon. “I’m not a mess now. But…”
Jon bins the towelette in one, calculated swoop, and looks at Martin. “But?”
“But if you wanna kinda put your arm around me or something…? That’d be nice. If you want."
"Right."
Martin settles as Jon pulls him in, resting his head on his shoulder. "Thank you, Jon…"
"Hm. You as well."
“Like I did anything.”
“You know how much I value practical research.”
Martin laughs, once, and reaches for Jon’s hand. Tangles their fingers together to hold and thinks he could fall asleep like this, like either of them have so many times after a long day of work. “You know me, always happy to help.”
“It was satisfactory, right? It is a bit different than masturbation, and my technique–”
“– was flawless,” Martin interrupts, squeezing his fingers. “It was a job well done, Jon. Trust me. I wouldn’t lie. I couldn’t lie. You could always compel me, anyway.”
“I’m not quite that desperate for answers.” Jon rests his head against Martin’s. “I trust you.”
That sounded nice. Warm like the words from earlier, but different. Well, it all came down to trust, didn’t it? But it still stole his breath away that Jon was saying it. After everything they’d been through to get here…
He presses in closer to Jon’s physical presence, nuzzling at his jaw. Martin hopes he can be as encompassing as Jon is, one day, because it’s really a magnificent thing. Another thing Jon doesn’t seem to notice. “Trust you, too,” Martin says, and pecks a kiss to his cheek.
With my life, he doesn’t say, because Jon’ll fuss and flounce like he always does if Martin brings up the state of their lives outside of these moments. All the nervous anxiety that comes with being The Archivist, the cycle of self-loathing and terror and the world on his shoulders. But Martin does. Of course he does.
“Thank you,” Jon repeats, like he’s relieved, like it was ever in question; Martin doesn’t pull him up on it, just squirms in impossibly closer and goes back to basking in the afterglow with Jon’s arm still around his shoulders.
“I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace.
In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart;
I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)