Archive of Our Own ^beta

A few weeks into their stay at Daisy’s safehouse, Jon realizes they haven’t finished unpacking their clothes.

The night he and Martin had gotten there was a complete whirlwind- that is, if a whirlwind was utterly slow and despondent- and the two spent much more time trying to figure out the logistics of how the hell to relax around each other well enough to find a good night's sleep after everything they had been through than unpacking their clothes.

That particular discussion ended up working out remarkably in both of their favors and allowed them security in each other’s arms, but this newfound security was more of an incentive to ignore their responsibilities than anything that had come before it. Jon had been mostly unpacked by day three.

To his chagrin, however, he finds a second backpack of colorful jumpers stuffed into the back of the closet almost a fortnight after the fact. None of them are recognizable and so he only comes to the natural conclusion that they belong to Martin.

Jon would call Martin up to take care of his things, but, well- he’s working very hard on dinner right now. Jon has a sneaking suspicion it’s not going to be great regardless of how hard Martin works, but Martin had been hyping up the return of his cooking “hobby” for a long time now and just made the trip to the store down in the village for the necessary ingredients. And by hobby, Jon means that Martin mentioned once he liked to cook for himself perhaps once every two months back when he worked in the library and proceeded to stop following the stress of being an archival assistant. Not a very promising history. But who is Jon to take away Martin’s fun? Absolutely no one, that’s who. And besides, Jon would sit through a thousand mushy pastas in store bought marinara if it meant he got to look at that quietly determined cooking furrow in Martin’s brow a bit longer.

Jon heaves the bag out of the closet and begins rifling through it. All dusty jumpers. Come to think of it, Martin might’ve mentioned losing the majority of his jumpers a few days after they arrived? He drags the thing, heavier than it has any right to be, over to the tiny antique dresser in the corner of the room. It acts as one of the only furnitures in the space along with the meager bed and nightstand.

Jon opens one of Martin’s drawers at random, intending to search for his jumper drawer and stuff them all in there. The top drawer scrapes open with a yelp and has nothing in it with the exception of a small open notebook.

Jon recognizes it almost immediately as Martin’s poetry notebook. It was usually on display next to him when he’d be slacking off on a case, he recalls fondly. And yes, he stands by the fact that Martin was slacking off sometimes when Jon left his office. He can appreciate the quality of Martin’s work more now following the fact that he knows intimately just how little experience he had writing a report, but the fact of the matter remains that Jon caught him on numerous origami wikihow tutorials when he’d leave his office a little too abruptly on a slow day.

His focus returns to the notebook. The paper is facing up and there’s writing scrawled on the page in Martin’s endearingly loopy handwriting.

Now.

Jon knows he’s not supposed to look. It’s advised against to look at any of your loved ones’ creatives endeavors without their express permission, and Jon knows Martin is a private person in general, but- to his horror, he catches a few intriguing choice words at first sight and entirely without his permission, and, well-

He just has to read the entire page now. He has to. The choice words are, well. They’re very intriguing.

Jon makes it about halfway through before he takes register of the heat waves emanating from his every pore and decides that going on any longer would put him at serious risk of a minor cardiac event. Wow. How, erm, graphic.

What interesting poetry, he muses to himself, stuffing Martin’s elusive jumpers into the drawer without a second thought about it and staring off into space like a shell-shocked soldier.

…It’s quite mediocre.

Objectively. Oh, God, he’s a horrible partner- boyfriend? But still, he can’t stop the critic in him from taking stock of its objective points and giving it a solid six out of ten. Of course, he loves the poem with every fiber of his being and would gladly read thousands more of them for sheer virtue of the fact that it was penned by Martin, but some clinical and detached part of his hindbrain tries to distance itself from the scenario at hand by pointing out to Jon that, well, his technique could use some work.

The poem is quite clearly about him. It is- erotic, let’s say, and describes sharp angles and dark eyes, and Jon likes to think Martin may have a bit of a muse these days, but wow. For some reason Jon is completely blindsided by the fact that his partner experiences some breadth of sexual attraction to him.

Or, actually, judging by the… detail, in the poem, a whole breadth would be a better suited term.

Jon doesn’t get it. He is not aroused, intrigued sexually, any other term you’d typically use for the thought of having sexual relations with the person one is in love with, he’s really just… quite embarrassed. And a bit flattered. And also kind of confused. He knows abstractly that most people think like this and yet is somehow surprised every time it’s confirmed for him.

Jon smiles fondly at the wall and thinks of Martin. What a ridiculous man, writing erotica about him. He deserves to be kissed for it, Jon thinks.

He makes his way downstairs after taking care of the rest of the jumpers and is greeted by the pungent smell of sheer tomato. Martin is setting the table with two humble plates and brightens when Jon walks into the room.

“Hey,” Martin chirps. “How’d cleaning go?”

Jon fumbles immediately in the face of those soft syllables. “I- um- well, yes, ah, it was, good.”

His boyfriend’s entire face drops like someone cut its strings. He raises a single eyebrow, the question evident.

“It’s nothing,” Jon says way too quickly to be believable.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“Can we just- dinner,” Jon mumbles, pulling out the scuffed wooden chair and sitting himself down neatly. The pasta looks predictably overcooked and the marinara sauce is indeed chunky and store bought. He already wasn’t really raring to eat, well, human food, but-

Martin sits opposite from him, a stern but kind and open expression on his face. It’s the kind of face that says, I’m here for you. We have to talk. “Jon. Tell me what’s wrong.” Jon almost feels terrible knowing the true source of this discussion is really not as serious as Martin’s making it out to be.

Jon hesitates. Should he tell Martin? It was technically a breach of trust, and he’d feel much better getting it off his chest, and Martin probably wouldn’t be very mad at him, but-

Well. Those are all pretty good points. Jon sighs, defeated.

“Alright, alright. You win. But I warn you, it’s- not as serious as you probably think it is.”

Martin grins, visibly relieved. “Right I do.” He then stuffs a bite into his face and leans back in his chair with curiosity. Jon’s pasta remains untouched as he fiddles with his hands in his lap.

“I was putting away some of the jumpers you brought back that we couldn’t find-“

“- what? Where were they? I was agonizing over those!”

“You just took them in a separate bag and stuffed them into the back of the closet. Y-You know, the little bench with the-“

Martin sighs thinly, though it would be better described as an annoyed hiss. “Christ, I really forgot everything about that first night, didn’t I?”

Jon smiles. One of the coils on Martin’s forehead has sauce on it. “In your defense, you WERE fresh out of The Lonely.”

“Right. Well, carry on.”

“Yes. So, I opened your top drawer and-“

Jon’s mouth snaps shut, finding itself actually quite reluctant to divulge the information that it was originally planned to at the beginning of this conversation. Across the table and under the warm light, Martin’s brow does its little furrow that Jon loves so.

“…Riiight?”

Clearly Martin doesn’t remember where he last put his poetry notebook. Jon gulps. “Your poetry notebook was in there. And open. And I… may have accidentally caught a few lines. Of one of the poems.”

Jon watches the realization crash over Martin in slow waves. First comes the confusion, the brain-wracking, the what-could-he-be-talking-about-oh-God. Then comes the palpable dread. His face goes what is essentially a shade of neon red in record time after his eyes widen. Jon knows it really isn’t the time, but the expression is golden and he’d quite like a picture of it for safekeeping.

“Sorry,” he says lamely, poorly hiding his amusement.

“The- the- you read it?!” Martin screeches with inhuman mortification.

“Only about half of it, and- I tried not to, I really did, I just-“

“That’s- why?!”

“I didn’t want to, I did it without thinking!”

“Clearly!” Martin all but shouts, less in anger and more in what appears to be pure and utter embarrassment. Then comes the abrupt 180 as he hides his face in his hands with an audible moan of agony and slumps wildly down in his chair, presumably almost sliding off of it. His words float out muffled from behind the cracks in his fingers. “Oh my God, I- I did not want you to see that.”

“I know,” Jon says, genuinely apologetic and almost not enjoying this anymore. Key word, almost. “I am really sorry, I just… it was a breach of privacy and I wanted you to know.”

“I mean,” Martin says quietly, now peeking out from behind his fingers. “It could’ve been worse. I just- Christ. You should’ve let me live in blissful ignorance.”

Jon snorts. It’s an ugly noise. “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll read your erotica and keep it to myself, weighing on my guilty conscience.”

“Christ, Jon, erotica? ”

“Was that not what it was?”

“I mean-“ Martin looks around wildly, like he might find the answer to this insane situation in one of the cupboards or behind the walls. “I-I guess? But, you didn’t have to, say it.”

“Martin.” Jon murmurs with a smug cadence, placing a hand down on the table. It’s an offer of peace. And then he says lowly, “you know you have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m really quite flattered.”

Martin makes hesitant eye contact with him over the spanning miles of the table and takes the offering almost immediately, placing his hand on top of Jon’s. Their fingers interlock and Jon is never bored of it- though that may have something to do with the delicate electricity of the situation at hand now. “Y-You are?”

“Yes,” Jon says with complete sincerity. He finds- or, well, learned once with Georgie- that the way to navigate these situations is to tell the unabashed truth. It is overwhelmingly difficult for him, and he finds himself struggling to put the complicated recesses of the love he feels to words, but it’s worth the effort for the shine in Martin’s eyes. He begins rubbing his thumb over Martin’s soothingly and with the intention to comfort. “I’d love it if you read me some more of your poetry. If you’d be amenable.”

Martin, for lack of a better term, gapes at him like he’s speaking another language, mouth slack in what looks like disbelief. “Are you coming on to me?”

Jon blinks. “What?”

Martin pulls back immediately, face aflame. “You- I mean- oh my God forget I said anything I’m literally going to-“

“Coming on to you?”

“I-I mean,” Martin has begun doing that thing where he’s nervous and trying to play it off and he gestures wildly with his hands, and Jon thinks he’s never been this amused and baffled and in love in his entire life. “Your voice kind of dropped to that lower register and you began stroking my thumb and asked me to read you more poetry after we were just referencing my erotica and I- I forgot you don’t do that sort of thing, I’m really sorry, can we please just forget about it?”

Jon was trying to do no such thing, but… well. This is as good an opportunity as any to explain himself in terms of sexual intentions. It’s never a conversation he likes and his partner always seems to misinterpret something, but if he trusts anyone to listen to him it’s Martin. Besides, he’s in a good mood from this whole debacle, and if it doesn’t happen now it will never happen again. With as light a heart as he can manage, Jon smiles. “I wasn’t coming on to you, but… I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to it.”

Jon didn’t think it was possible for Martin to look any more flabbergasted than he already has during this conversation, but by God, he manages it somehow. “Wh- what is happening right now?”

“I’m trying to explain to you the intricacies of my… sexual willingness,” Jon says with mirth, “and if you don’t mind I’d really rather continue while I can still say all of this without keeling over.”

“Right, go ahead, sure,” is the half coherent answer he receives. “Uhh. Listening mode on. Heh.” 

Agony briefly crosses Martin’s face at this misstep, but Jon has continued on before they can dwell on it. “I don’t like doing anything sexual… physically. It makes me uncomfortable. That is to say, I don’t like… touching. Or being touched.”

Martin nods, looking entirely unsurprised. “Right, yeah, I wasn’t- expecting you to do any of that.”

“However,” Jon stresses and fixes Martin with a look that spells any more interruptions and you’re sleeping in the dog pen (to which Martin zips his lips shut), “I can… enjoy my partner’s arousal, and… enjoy watching from time to time.” Martin’s mouth opens at the word watching, but a withering look from Jon stops him in his tracks. “I enjoy the intimacy of it, but do not derive sexual pleasure from it. And…”

He steels himself up. This next bit isn’t a lie- in fact, it’s a very enthusiastic truth- but Jon is also not particularly well equipped in this area and is hesitant to say he’s willing to do it without first some sort of disclaimer that it won’t be terrible. He throws all caution to the wind and blurts out, “I also can enjoy helping verbally. And- the lead up, if that makes sense.”

By the end of his explanation, Martin is blinking inconsistently and looks to be contemplating what alien planet he’s woken up on where Jonathan Sims says these words. Jon rolls his eyes, now feeling a bit self conscious. “Yes, yes, you can stop gawking now.”

“I wasn’t gawking. No gawking here.”

“Right, clearly.” Jon clears his throat, now feeling his cheeks heating up, and thanks God once again that blush is not visible on his skin. He stands to clear the table when he realizes he hasn’t taken a single bite of pasta. “Oh.”

Martin’s eyes dart rapidly between Jon and the plate. “You, uh, wanna eat some of that? And then we can… uh…”

“Yes.”

Dinner is a quiet affair. Not uncomfortable, but a little strained with embarrassed tension. The two make their way to the sofa afterwards and sit down with very little distance between them.

“So,” Martin says.

“So,” Jon says with a less genuine cadence.

“…You up for some… ‘verbal help’ now? Because-“

Jon briefly panics. Like he said, it wasn’t a lie, he WOULD like to talk Martin through it as it were- the thought makes him giddy with excitement. What doesn’t make him giddy with excitement is that he has no idea how he’d… go about it?

“-you know, the thought of you- I mean, I’m already kind of in the mood for it-“

Something about knowing that he’s the one who drove Martin to such debauched lengths without even having to get his hands dirty is both satisfying on a level of affection and intimacy and on a level of comfort, but he’s not very experienced in terms of what words people find attractive.

“-and if you’re not up for it, that’s also totally fine, there’s like no pressure to do anything right this second-“

Actually, Jon muses to himself, now might be the perfect time. It’s not like this scenario will ever segue from natural conversation again in the future. It’s now or never. Why not give it a try?

Jon cuts off Martin’s wild-eyed rambling with a deep kiss.

He places both hands on Martin’s shoulders, feels the weight of them with some satisfaction, and drags Martin’s lips down with him as he pulls away slowly and… what might be sensually? He’s not a huge fan of making out. It doesn’t do much for someone like him and gets a bit boring after a minute. Martin, on the other hand, is looking at him like he’s been thoroughly debauched already.

Jon lets out a small chuckle that he hates but can’t do anything about at this expression and says, “well. Go on, then.”

Martin blinks at him owlishly and with bright pink cheeks. “Oh, Christ. Uh. Are you sure?”

“Martin.” Oh God, okay, here goes nothing. Rubbing small circles into Martin’s shoulders, Jon leans up and over his ear and imbues as much gravel into his voice as possible- “would I be directing you if I wasn’t sure?”

Shit. That- okay, the sentence comes out with a not insignificant amount of scorn and annoyance and Jon immediately feels bad for it. Memories return of him using a similar tone with a well meaning Martin just a few years ago, and- what if he’s already ruined things by being absolutely shit at… what’s the term? Dirty talk? 

Martin shivers. The poor thing. Jon begins to recoil in shame, but Martin swings an arm around his waist and keeps him half in his lap where he receives a generous view of Martin’s temple against the back of the couch, mouth roughly at ear level.

Hair almost makes it into his face, but Jon has the genius idea to take one of his hands and stroke Martin’s hair with it so that he has more control over the directions it flies in while they’re doing this.

Okay. Wow. This. It’s happening. Apparently they can still salvage it. Jon involuntarily smiles with amusement, having already forgotten about his misstep seeing as Martin has as well if the fumbling below him is any indication.

Jon does like watching, but he’s not one for an eyeful of genitals. They’re fine, like most things are, but Jon prefers watching every other physiological reaction he can get his hands on, so he’s content to stay at eye level with Martin where he can maintain a small distance and still have a powerful influence on the proceedings.

Trying to remember the kinds of things Martin has liked so far in terms of intimacy, he begins with a few light kisses to Martin’s general nape and shifts around on his lap a bit for good measure. Sometimes they will be having, say, a moment, and Jon’s teeth will meet Martin’s nape and Martin will jerk like he’s been electrocuted. The situation is no different here. If anything Martin’s reactions are even more pronounced with the added context. The word sensitive comes to mind and Jon can’t stop himself from smiling at the thought.

In terms of what’s actually happening, Martin will still be primarily taking care of the situation down there, but by God will Jon not let him forget he’s here. Each deep kiss seems to make Martin less and less steady in his movements if the way the arm slung around his waist is shaking is anything to go by. In the meantime, his other hand finds purchase on really any surface it can find purchase on and he uses it to squeeze lightly.

Martin’s breathing picks up as Jon whispers intermittent “you’ve got it”s into his ear. It’s very pink. Jon toys with it between his fingers for a few seconds.

“That’s it,” Jon says slowly, rubbing the side of his face against Martin’s temple in as soft a manner as he can and utterly aware of the fact that he hasn't shaved in a very long time. Hopefully Martin doesn't mind. He even gets his mouth on the area around Martin’s ear at one point, and if the noise Martin makes is any indication, well. He must be doing something right.

An arm covered in the soft wool of a jumper moves against the side of Jon’s body, indicating movement.

“Can-“ Martin manages, audibly strained. Jon grins with teeth.

“Can you what?”

Oh, God. It comes out sharp and mean again. Something about this situation has Jon’s tone all off. He’s about to apologize with sincerity when Martin gasps lightly and continues with his sentence. “Can you- uhm- keep, doing that?”

Jon assumes (perhaps dangerously) that Martin is referring to the fact he’s been teasing his entire neck area for the past two minutes or so and keeps going with reckless abandon, leaving small bites and nips among the salty expanse of pale skin. Each time he does so Martin sort of writhes underneath him. It’s fun.

Jon pulls back after a moment, catches a glimpse of Martin’s face. The corners of his eyes are scrunched up and his mouth is set in a firm line, but the pink around every major pressure point betrays him. There’s a slick sheen on his brow.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?” Jon murmurs after making heavy eye contact, and somebody stop him, because it comes out REMARKABLY flat and unimpressed.

Some combination of distraction and nerves, it has to be- or maybe he’s finally gone off the deep end. He’d be lucky if Martin would ever want to talk to him again after he’s screwed up this badly. To his shock, however, Martin lets out an honest to God whimper at the question, face entirely visible for it. The corners of his eyes crinkle endearingly.

Oh. Wow. Jon blinks in surprise at the… everything.

“Sh hhut up,” Martin breathes through his teeth, the word dragging. “Oh, God, Christ.”

“I actually go by Jon now.”

Martin groans in what is either sincere annoyance or heavy arousal but is most like both as his sweaty forehead lands on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon drags his nails through the shorter hairs closer to the base of Martin’s neck. He gives it a few more strokes, whispers a, “there you go, come on, you’ve got it,” into Martin’s ear lovingly, and-

They’re done. Wow. Must’ve only been a few minutes.

Jon smiles into Martin’s skin as Martin picks his head up one deep breath at a time. He’s lovely. Absolutely ridiculous, incredible. Wonderful man. Remarkably fine experience, though his… ‘dirty talk’ could clearly use a bit of work. His tone is way off.

In terms of cleaning, well. Jon did not actually think this far ahead. If you’d have told the Jonathan Sims from a few years ago that one day he would have a spontaneous sexual experience- well. He would help his partner through a spontaneous sexual experience with willing joy, he’d have had a conniption fit.

Jon slowly peels himself back from Martin’s lap after a few moments and gives him a warm kiss on the cheek.

“I’ll find something to clean up with,” he says quietly and with a smile. Martin bites his lip. An inordinate amount of love appears to radiate from his every orifice.

“I’m gonna develop a Pavlovian response to you whispering if this keeps happening.”

He thinks manually about what he could say in response to this sentence and it comes out awkward. “Is… that a threat or a promise?”

“Oh my God. Go get a paper towel.”

Jon swipes away the bit of marinara sauce still clinging to the hair on Martin's forehead as he leaves.

Heading off for cleaning supplies with a wondrous sense of fulfillment, Jon resolves to himself that he should probably apologize to Martin later for how terrible he clearly was at that. For now, though, he remembers the way Martin chuckled in his ear and said “ wow ” directly after finishing, and appreciates the seeming victory for what it is.