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There is a satisfying tension to it, arresting like the fears of wary passersby or a statement’s black, bleeding ink before it takes hold. An apéritif, vibrant and glistening, and Jon is so very hungry.
“Are you ready, Martin?”
Martin kneels on the bed. He is naked. Leather cuffs at his wrists, a matching set bisecting his thighs, secured to one another by short, fine chain. His legs are spread, and settled between is an unassuming thing, a flat, silicone toy raised at the front, snugly fit between Martin’s body and the mattress. Martin doesn’t press his cock against it, not yet, doesn’t grind or squirm like Jon knows he soon will. The remote is in Jon’s hands. The power is in Jon’s hands.
“Martin?”
Sometimes he wonders if Martin doesn’t respond just so he can hear Jon say his name again. He always reacts, his eyes going just a little softer, his lips slipping into the faintest smile. Martin’s hands are curled into loose fists upon his thighs. Not quite nervousness, perhaps closer to jittery anticipation. Martin is so good to him. Martin, who had been lonely, who had been lost, but who is so loyal, so fiercely kind. He offers, and Jon takes like a man starved. The only thing that saves Jon from guilt is the look in Martin’s eyes. Jon doesn’t need to Know to see their hunger, the need a perfect match to his own.
“Y-yes. I’m ready.”
“Good,” Jon says softly, like the last syllable of a prayer.
He turns the toy on its lowest setting. It purrs, soft and constant, like the whirring of tapes. If Jon looked, he’d most likely find one now, tucked away into some hidden corner. Listening. Watching. What would it taste like? Would it do little more than drive him back into Martin’s arms, its ghost enough to stir his appetites but not satisfy?
Fear is complex. Fear is subjective. Fear is the heart of so many things.
Martin flexes his thighs and sucks his lower lip between his teeth, but he stays still. He waits for Jon’s words, pupils large and dark beneath the fringe of his hair.
“Will you tell me what you want, Martin?”
There is no force behind it, only Jon’s voice, soft and slow. He studies Martin so carefully. The twitch of his brow, the blush spreading to the rounded curves of his shoulders and the tips of his ears, the shallow bob of his throat swallowing as he finds his words.
“I-I…”
There is fear in this, small, fragile pinpricks that resonate with one another. Rejection, exposure, shame, uncertainty. Not knowing if this will be too much. Not knowing if this will be enough. Wanting and never wanting to stop, battling into eternity.
Jon traces Martin’s jaw, texture pleasant and slightly scratchy with stubble. Martin leans into his touch, and it warms Jon through.
“Do you want me to ask?”
Martin’s eyes half-close, nodding against Jon’s hand.
“Yes.”
“What do you want, Martin?” Jon’s voice echoes in eerie polyphony. The hum of power sets the air on edge, the whisps of Jon’s hair licking against his skin. Scores of chartreuse Eyes open around them, ghostly and diaphanous, pupils snapping to Martin.
Martin’s mouth falls open on a sweet, shaking sigh. There is no resistance, and the sinuous whispers of surrender gleams in his eyes. He would be in Martin’s dreams now, but hadn’t he always been?
“I want you, Jon. I want you to use me. Mess me up until I can’t speak.”
Martin’s eyes widen, face coloring swiftly as soon as the words leave his mouth.
His words are not the soul deep fear that sates the Eye, but they are delicious, like ripe cherries, bright with dew, crisp, heady sweetness that fills Jon’s belly and coats his lips with satisfaction. Morsels of shame, vulnerability, desperation: all connected. Jon captures his own rumbling groan behind his teeth.
Jon turns the toy up, holds Martin’s chin in his hand as his lover struggles to stay quiet. He is so warm, so full of life, vibrant and beautiful and his. Jon could watch him forever, the subtle shifts in expression, his bitten lower lip and the scar beneath, the freckles along his nose, all while his hips jerk and muscles twitch, straining to not lose himself so quickly.
Jon reaches down, draws his fingers along Martin’s cock, feeling the slickness beneath, forcing his hand between skin and silicone and withdrawing hot and wet.
“You’re like this, but I’ve hardly touched you.” A smile in his words, a sharp, uneven quirk to his lips.
Jon presses his damp fingers to Martin’s mouth, and a weak moan reverberates against Jon’s skin. Martin angles forward, sucks them so eagerly, face bright with excited, needy embarrassment. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of such a look, hazy-eyed and singularly focused.
“Do you want me to ask another?”
Martin nods around his fingers, the faintest drag of teeth making Jon shiver.
He licks his lips, considers his options carefully. There are so many things he could ask, so many things he wants to Know. So many things he wants to experience in Martin’s adoring, wavering voice.
“What was the first sexual fantasy you had about me?”
Pretentious, perhaps. Jon feels a bit embarrassed when he asks. Such a request could be awkward, even in the best of relationships, but Jon is, if anything, stubbornly curious. He wants to Know things about Martin, but he would not steal them, not on purpose. The compulsion is as gentle as a suggestion, easily rejected. A plea rather than a command.
Martin blinks up at him, licks his lips, stumbles. A facsimile of struggle, that sharpness in Martin’s eyes that speaks of mischief.
“Tell me your fantasy, Martin,” Jon murmurs, rising to Martin’s challenge.
“I’ve always wanted to—” Jon cranks the toy up. Martin gasps, chains clinking as his hands flex and tug against his restraints. “T-to be cornered by you in your office.” His voice trembles, but he doesn’t stop. He gives Martin more, another level of vibration, watches the toy grow shiny beneath Martin’s quaking thighs. “We’re working late on a follow up. I would bring you tea. Y-you’d thank me for always making it just how you like, f-for always thinking of you. You’d put your hand on mine before I could draw away. Our...our eyes would meet.” Martin hums, high and close-mouthed, as Jon touches his chest, tracing beneath one hardened nipple. “Y-you kiss me. It’s cute because you have to stand on your toes to reach...my lips. I-’ve always liked that about you, s-smaller than me, b-but so much more commanding.” Telltale prickling heats Jon’s face. He gently thumbs Martin’s nipple, hanging on each word, each stutter, each groan. “We kiss, and it’s...gentle, at first. We know it’s w-wrong, but we’ve been dancing around it for months. You’d grab my shirt, hold me in place. Kiss me harder, like you’d been so hungry for me, l-like you couldn’t wait a second longer. We’d have sex right there in your office.”
Jon releases a breath, the sound nearly lost beneath Martin’s voice breaking, peeling into soft, shivery swears. His hips are moving in earnest now, falling into pace with the vibrations. His cock, swollen and wet, sliding over that raised hump with startling urgency.
“Y-you’d kiss down my neck. You would be careful not to mark me, though you’d want to. You want people to know...I’m—mm—yours. You’d bite just beneath my collar, w-where it’s safe, where I would feel it against my clothes. Y-y-you’d drop to your knees…”
Martin’s brows pinch together, his mouth working around words that can’t quite escape. Speak. Cry out. Jon tastes the conflict as much as he experiences it, a new flavor of fear. The ghostly glow of his Eyes opening around his shoulders, watching, waiting. What would Martin do?
The compulsion snaps like a fraying thread. Jon reels, tastes the loss as keenly as the connection.
“J-jon…!”
But that is so much less important than his name on Martin’s lips. Martin’s lashes fluttering as he chases his pleasure against the humming, slippery toy, each twist and slide punctuated by a small, swallowed sound.
“J-jon, Jon, p-please, I-I’m…!”
He kisses Martin, nearly chaste as he swallows his pleas. His hand rests beneath the soft curve of Martin’s jaw, squeezing, fingers idly drawing back and forth over heated skin, Martin’s pulse jumping against his scarred palm. He watches an inch from Martin’s face as the man comes, letting the toy work through a mix of vibrations that have Martin all but screaming. The chains snap taut but hold, Martin reaching for him, but Jon only kisses his lips, his forehead, tastes salt and soft skin and Martin at the precipice of too much-too soon and moaning wordless against his cheek.
“So good, Martin…” Jon kisses him, deep, hungry, desperate like the fantasy ringing in his mind. Only this is real, this has Martin whining into his mouth and kissing back just as eagerly, even as he tries to shy away from the toy, oversensitive and spent.
“It...it’s too much…” He groans against Jon’s lips.
“Is it?”
Jon slips his palm against Martin’s cock, drawing it between his fingers. Martin’s head falls onto Jon’s chest, mouth parting on a silent cry. He jerks lazily into Jon’s touch, again balanced on that precipice. Too much. Not Enough.
“Do you want another, Martin?”
And slowly, with a voice bordering on a whisper, Martin asks for another.