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Martin doesn’t want to push.
For one thing, he’s still recovering, and Jon’s urgent, almost feverish attention has no clearer source than the fact that the Lonely still clings to the inside of Martin’s lungs, puffing out in his exhales. When Jon straddles his lap on Daisy’s uncomfortable safehouse couch and bends to press shy kisses to his lips, Martin kisses him back, but he keeps his hands safely at his sides, his eyes closed against Jon’s tender affection. It doesn’t seem right, to just accept what he’s been given. Martin has never been given a gift like this and, perhaps, is still waiting for it lto be taken away.
Jon keeps kissing him.
They sleep together the first night out of sheer exhaustion, and then get back into bed with each other the next night with no discussion. Jon is a tiny, restless ball of energy, but he does sleep; Martin holds him to his chest and listens to his breathing even out and only then, with the scent of Jon’s leave-in conditioner in his nose, does he allow himself to fall into nothingness alongside him. Martin can’t dream anymore, but he hopes - Jon hopes too - that it will come back, just like the skin sensation that began coming back after the third day.
Jon wears the same clothes every day, and soft joggers and a tee to bed. He had packed an efficient suitcase, wanting to spend more time getting Martin everything that he needed. Martin had put things into his own case blindly, uncaring. Jon had been the one to walk around Martin’s apartment collecting socks, toothbrush, pillows.
Martin knows Jon is trans. Jon had told him on the drive up to Scotland, a halting, hesitant confession that Martin listened to in nodding silence. It was if Jon expected to be thrown out of the vehicle for having kept this part of his life private. Martin hates whoever made him expect that sort of reaction. Still, it brings all sorts of complications into Martin’s slowly reawakening physical interests. Should he be more careful, fantasizing about his - boyfriend? Partner? Should he be acting more normal over the fact that his lover has a different body type than what Martin is used to being attracted to? Is Martin a bad person because he can’t stop staring at the panties folded modestly over the clothesline, imagining how they would look on Jon’s body?
They’re pink. There’s nothing lacy or risque about them, but they’re a beautiful dusty pink that Martin can envision perfectly against Jon’s skin tone. He has never seen Jon wear them. Jon wears boxers to bed underneath his joggers, and Martin knows this because the joggers fall down ever so slightly around his skinny hips when he stands.
He wants to see Jon put the panties on, and pull them off. Martin wants to pull them off. Had he always had a thing for underwear? Or was it just Jon?
He shakes himself and walks away from the clothesline, back into the safehouse to hide himself in a book of poetry, on Daisy’s shitty couch.
–
Jon Knows a lot of things. More than ever before. Without his conscious will or intent going into the Knowing, today he is suddenly faced with the knowledge that Martin had been standing next to the clothesline staring at Jon’s underwear for the past three minutes and forty-five seconds.
Slowly, bit by bit, the other noises and bits of information clear Jon’s head. The hunger remains, but it sharpens, narrows. It becomes interest. Martin is awake. He, too, is hungry.
Jon puts down his book. It had been dry and tasteless.
Martin stumbles inside, and he is a vision - harried, eyes unfocused. He is sweating from the exertion of lifting heavy bedding onto their clothesline. Already Jon thinks of this place as theirs, the services of which they use and maintain jointly and work together, keeping it alive. In a way, the work of keeping this house has been anchoring Jon to reality almost as well as the tapes had anchored him as he fought his way back from the Buried. His desire for a statement is endless, and it gnaws at his mind like hunger used to gnaw at his stomach, but just as before, he can distract the needy feeling with work.
A project, anyway.
Martin sits down next to him, book in hand. He opens it and leans back against the couch, eyes still unfocused. Jon blinks slowly at him, sensing how much Martin wants to turn to stare, wondering what exactly about his body Martin seems to be finding so fascinating. The underwear had been a special focus. Was Martin thinking again about Jon not being a cis man, about how a cis man could not have fit comfortably into that underwear? Was he disgusted? No - no, he wasn’t, Jon couldn’t make himself believe that for a moment. But was he - well, disappointed? He had wanted Jon for some time. He had told Jon that. But he hadn’t known about Jon’s bodily differences, about the testosterone he had to take to maintain the mustache he took such pride in. Now that Martin knows, was it worming its way into his brain, how Jon was not a true man after all?
Stop, Jon scolds himself. Martin’s desire made itself evident against the back of Jon’s thighs some mornings before they both awoke, had poked him once as they knelt kissing together on the couch and had been swiftly handled by Martin in the bathroom. Martin still felt attraction to him. But they had only kissed. Jon had caressed every inch of Martin’s body that he could reach, willing away the touch of the Lonely. They had only kissed, and Martin had to be encouraged to lift his hands and hold Jon as Jon tried to hold him.
It comforts Jon, to know Martin will not push. That he doesn’t want sex if Jon doesn’t want it. Yet suddenly, his curiosity is unbearable. He wants, needs to understand Martin’s feelings towards Jon’s body, towards the fact that he wears feminine underwear, all of it. He needs to parse simple interest from serious captivation. What had Martin been thinking in those four minutes?
Jon stands up and goes to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water from the sink, letting the tap run until it’s cold. He drains it and fills another, which he brings back to the couch for Martin.
“Thank you,” Martin murmurs, and sips.
Jon nods. “Hot today, hm?”
“So muggy.” Martin wipes his face slowly. “There’ll be a storm tonight, or in the early morning. We need to get all this bedding back inside before we go to sleep.”
“Yes,” Jon says, barely listening. “I’ll go take down what’s dry enough out there. You’ve done enough.”
“Jon,” Martin protests. “You can’t lift all that by yourself -”
“Just the small items,” Jon promises, hiding his smile. “I’ll be back, you just rest, Martin. Go on.”
Martin sighs, beleaguered by the request to do less work, but obliges. Jon hurries out the door. He wonders if he would have pulled this stunt with Georgie, if she had expressed similar interest. He wonders if his eagerness to pull this stunt has anything to do with the sudden comfort he feels within Martin and his new relationship, how at home he can still manage to feel within Martin’s arms. Most of all, he wonders what Martin will think - if Jon has misjudged his fascination, this will be awkward. But they have only kissed, and Jon feels, more so than ever, that if anyone is going to push, it will have to be him. And he wants to push. He wants to know, obviously, but there’s a giddy itch fueling him that he’s entirely unused to.
He strides to the clothesline and picks up his underwear. Then, silently thanking Daisy for her discretion in remote safehouse locations, he begins to strip.
-
Martin brought two books of poetry with him - or rather, Jon had stood him in front of his bookshelf and moved his hand gently along the spines until Martin nodded at his choices. He’d picked a book of romantic poems that he was used to crying over, and a small Wordsworth collection that was easy to put in his pocket for hikes. Today, he has the romance poems. They’re a good distraction from the all-too-real romance that Martin is sure to fuck up, somehow, sooner or later. Of course, he doesn’t want to be distracted from Jon forever. But it hurts sometimes, fresh out of the Lonely, and being faced with the crushing wave of desire.
He needs to talk to Jon about -
God, what? Jon, I have feelings for you. No, not those ones, you know about those. I actually was wondering what your dick looks like!
“Stop it,” Martin whispers aloud, irritated at the mental spiral he was letting himself go down. He and Jon should talk about sex, sure, but - if Jon doesn't want it, Martin doesn’t want it, and Jon hasn’t brought it up so - he probably doesn’t want it. That seems like a safe conclusion. Besides, how selfish could Martin be, wanting to put Jon in a sexual situation when he has enough to worry about, running out of statements and actively in hiding? He will talk about sex if Jon wants him to talk about it. Otherwise, Martin is going to behave himself.
Jon opens the front door. Martin keeps his eyes respectfully in his poetry, wondering how much of the laundry Jon managed to carry inside. He hopes Jon did not attempt anything like the couch cover, which had fought Martin to and from the manual washbasket and onto the clothesline. Stamina-wise, Martin had been able to fight back, but Jon hasn’t been given any supernatural strength abilities from the Eye, as far as Martin can tell.
He looks up guiltily after a moment and Jon is standing in front of him, waiting for their eyes to meet. He’s - he’s -
“You’re -” Martin chokes.
“It is hot today,” Jon murmurs, and sets the joggers and tee he had been wearing - he had been wearing! - onto the arm of the couch. He sits down demurely next to Martin, smoothing his hands under his legs as he goes as if he was wearing a skirt - which, to be clear, he was not.
Martin feels his eyes drag inexorably downwards, face heating in something too torrid to be shame, too shocked to be lust. Jon was wearing - he was only wearing -
“Martin,” Jon says sweetly, faux-curiously. “Are you looking at my underwear?”
Martin holds his tongue furiously against what was not compulsion, but might as well have been. Mutely, he reaches out a shaking hand, draws it back as if burned. He can’t think, can’t breathe. Was this Jon? Had something followed them up to Scotland and stolen his face, just to come onto Martin?
“I am propositioning you, to be clear,” Jon tells him seriously, after a few moments pass in silence. “I have enjoyed our, our prior entanglements of the m-more concupiscent nature, and as such I thought - I thought that - I thought -”
Martin short circuits a bit, and then an inane laugh bubbles out of his throat, beyond his control. He blindly reaches for Jon, his Jon, pulls him to Martin’s chest where he belongs, kissing the top of his head in bursts of incoherent love. Jon relaxes a bit once he seems to understand Martin is not crying or distressed, and puts his bare arms around Martin’s neck, embracing him back.
“So you -” Martin is overcome with the need to giggle again, and represses it firmly. “You’re - all right with - you want to have sex with me?” He needs Jon to say it, to make sure that this isn’t all some deep misunderstanding. God, how he would love to entangle himself with Jon, as he had put it. But he needs to hear it, needs to understand a little more.
“I - yes. I want you to, to do what you want to me.”
Martin flushes. He pulls Jon back so that they can look at each other. Jon reaches to frame Martin’s face with his hands, shifting on his knees and acting for all the world like he wasn’t almost completely nude.
“I just want to - to touch you,” Martin admits huskily. “Everywhere. I want to know every inch of you. I don’t have to - I - I’m not, not saying any of this right. I’m sorry. But I want to do - what you want me to do?”
“Start by kissing me,” Jon says. “Please.”
Martin kisses him. How could he not? He’s only now coming to terms with the fact that he’s allowed to kiss Jon any time he wants to, and now Jon is offering him more. How does Martin deserve any of this?
How could he have wanted to trade any of this for a little quiet?
“What do you definitely not want?” he asks, after he pulls away. Jon frowns thoughtfully, so Martin takes the time to categorise what he himself would and would not want out of their first time. He wants to know Jon from head to toe; he wants to worship him.
“I don’t like having anything in my arse,” Jon tells him after a moment. Martin chokes. Then when he's nearly recovered, Jon adds, “Maybe a finger, but not tonight,” and Martin chokes again.
“I heard that you didn’t have sex,” he admits shamefully, after a beat. He needs to get this out of the way, confessing to the unfair eavesdropping when he’d been trying to catch even the slightest hint he had a chance with Jon. “Melanie said it on a tape.”
“Melanie doesn’t know anything about my personal relationship to sex,” Jon says dryly. “I’m giving you a chance to know a little about it, though.”
Martin flushes down to the root, feels like. He manages to stammer out a “Rea - Really?” after a moment of shocked silence. Charming.
But Jon just leans toward him, bare and lithe and alluring, his pastel underwear striking against the skin of his legs and arse, and he says, “Really.”
Martin doesn’t know which part of him ultimately decides that he should take Jon at his word. But it happens nonetheless. Breathing slowly, he sits back against the arm of the couch, propping a pillow beneath him. He reaches out to Jon with one hand, and waits.
Jon reaches for him, takes his hand and crawls into his open lap with a satisfied grin that Martin finds more than a little appealing. He makes himself comfortable in Martin’s arms, and leans in to kiss him. When their lips meet, Martin makes a little noise almost against his will, at the subconscious shock of confirming once again that this was real. Jon is warm from the sun still and he smiles against Martin’s mouth. It’s dizzying, how Martin yearns to drink all that he can from the endless well of what Jon has to offer. Today, Jon places his hands over Martin’s and leads them to trace along his thigh, the planes of his stomach, his neck, the old, old scars across his chest.
When Jon pulls his hands away from Martin’s, Martin forces himself to keep holding onto Jon and not take the movement as rejection. Jon reaches for him and starts fumbling Martin’s shirt up and over his belly, and Martin understands that it had been, in fact, the opposite.
“Are - you sure?” he asks timidly, even as he moves to allow Jon to take his shirt off all the way. He closes his eyes briefly, breathes slowly, centers himself and opens his eyes again, and Jon is watching him, having set the shirt down on the coffee table.
“I’m sure,” Jon says. “Please, Martin, take me to bed, I don’t want to do this here.”
Martin’s eyes widen. “Okay,” he says.
“Will you carry me?” Jon purrs, and wraps his arms around Martin’s neck.
“You’re trouble,” Martin grumbles, but he stands regardless, scooping Jon’s bare legs into the crook of one arm and cradling his shoulders with the other. Jon kisses him as he walks them to the room, and doesn’t let go of his neck even when Martin puts him down on the bed.
-
Jon feels another long, heavy groan come up his throat from somewhere deep in his chest, hands clutched hard in Martin’s hair, head thrown back onto the sweat-dampened pillow. Martin had taken his time undressing when he’d gotten into the room, but now he is finally nude and Jon can see and appreciate every lovely inch of him, his strong round thighs and his broad shoulders and thick arms that held Jon so easily. He’d been so careful with Jon as they lay down together on the bed, kissing him all over until Jon felt as if he would go mad, gently redirecting Jon’s hands when he tried to slip the underwear off. Jon left the garment alone after the first try, realizing how Martin’s fascination must be driving his desire to let this experience stretch out as long as possible. His theory was only given more proof when Martin made his way down between Jon’s trembling legs and pressed his lips to Jon's stomach, looking up at Jon adoringly.
“Can I eat you out?” he’d asked softly, as if Jon wasn’t soaking with arousal in front of him, as if he wasn’t certainly able to smell the evidence that Jon wanted nothing more than for Martin to eat him out. Jon had nodded frantically, pleaded without reason in his voice. Martin had smiled, a beatific, wondrous thing. Then he’d leant down and placed a long, lingering kiss onto the moist fabric that still stretched tortuously across Jon’s aching cunt.
Jon had moaned wretchedly, squirming in a desperate play to bump his hips up against Martin’s face. Martin just placed one large hand each on Jon’s thighs and held him still, licking up the center of the underwear’s core strip that protected Jon’s most vulnerable parts. The heat of his tongue was so, so far removed from where Jon needed it most. But the contradictory pleasure of being so easily denied, teased even, was such that Jon could do nothing but writhe and pant out his feelings into the bedroom air as Martin continued to kiss and lick against the slowly dampening panties.
This has been going on for some time now, and Jon is no closer to finding the words to beg Martin to get on with it. There is no it to get on with - Jon put himself in this position, and now he will find out what Martin truly wants. Apparently, what he wants is long, tender minutes of pressing his lips and nose and tongue into every corner of Jon’s lower half, exploring him, smelling him, tasting him, admiring him. Martin has the dreamy look of a man who could keep this up for ages. Jon has found himself quite a lover, it appears, but - oh God - he needs attention to his pulsing cock, the need growing more visceral with each slow, affectionate hickey Martin sucks into the inside of Jon’s legs. He gasps as his lover’s tongue sweeps a long, exploratory line underneath the inside seam of his panties, and when Martin moans in obvious pleasure at the taste Jon whimpers and feels another hot shimmer go through him and -
“Please, take them off,” he manages hoarsely, stricken with a sudden need to start rutting his hips up against Martin’s face like an animal. “Mmh - please. . .”
“Of course, love,” Martin says softly, and that, of all things, makes Jon shudder and bite his lip through another gush of hot, wet arousal. Martin hooks his thumbs under the bands and gently slides the underwear off of his hips, taking the time to stare openly at Jon’s dripping sex as it appears. Jon feels the customary burst of humiliated doubt - he’s not trimmed down there in months, he’s making a mess of the safehouse sheets, he made a fool of himself with this stunt in the first place - before he angrily shakes it off. This moment, this precious connection was too important to waste on selfish personal hang ups.
Then Martin speaks, sounding rough and different, near ruined, and Jon’s mind narrows only to him.
“Do you like the taste of yourself?” Martin asks. When Jon nods shakily, he adds, “Can I kiss you after I make you come?”
“Martin,” Jon splutters, and chokes on a gasp as Martin trails his fingers through the mess between Jon's legs. He only just manages to grit out, “Martin - oh, god - yes, you can, please just get to it!”
Of all things, that makes Martin laugh.
“Please,” Jon moans softly, thumping his head back down on the pillow. He is prepared to beg if that's what Martin wants out of this encounter. He's honestly not yet sure what Martin wants out of this encounter, and he's already well into it - Martin is erect, adorably so, his cock not long enough to curve and standing proud at attention instead. But he doesn't seem to mind it. He hasn't tried to get himself off at all.
Jon files the information away and takes in another breath, preparing to repeat himself - only to finally feel a firm, broad lick of Martin’s tongue. His thighs contract reflexively as he shudders in shock, but they don't move - Martin is holding him again. His head is bent between Jon's legs, and as Jon can see when he pulls his head up to look, he has his eyes closed.
He's also cradling his face in Jon's underwear, still tangled around his thighs. That's - cute, Jon thinks, and then gasps louder and feels his stomach quiver in delighted bliss as Martin begins to really find his pace, drawing his tongue up through the mess of Jon's labia and hole, then swirling it teasingly at his cock.
“Mh- Martin,” Jon pleads, and groans heavily as Martin’s clever tongue finds his pulsing cock once more, pressing firm for just one tantalizing moment before retreating and licking broadly over the rest of his weeping cunt. Martin is enjoying himself, if the regular motion and occasional muffled sighs of delight are anything to go by. Jon wriggles helplessly against him, shaking apart from the utter rush of sensation of an eager tongue and lips against sensitive, fragile skin. It’s so overwhelming that he feels he could eventually come only from this; the teasing, irregular attention to his cock while Martin focuses most of his attention on Jon’s hole, his soaked, messy labia, now engorged from the rush of blood to the area. He’s so damn sensitive , and Martin somehow seems to know it, the bastard.
The skin of Jon’s chest starts to feel hot, a flush running up his stomach to the back of his neck. He’s surprised to hear a loud whine come from his own throat as he trembles and tries uselessly to shut his legs again, reveling in the burn he feels in his thighs as they push against Martin’s insistent strength. The noise seems to invigorate Martin, who finally begins to focus more of his attention at Jon’s needy cock, licking rapidly and attentively at it as Jon begins to lose control of his voice entirely, panting out long, desperate grunts that punctuate in even more desperate cries. Then Martin gives him one lingering, careful stroke with his tongue and kisses his cock gently before drawing away entirely to lap up the leaking mess of Jon’s hole. Jon screams in frustration, stomach shuddering as he comes down from what could have been the beginning of an orgasm.
“You said you wanted me to do what I want to you,” Martin was saying teasingly, and letting go of his thighs. Jon pulls his head up furiously, ready to bite back, and Martin is kissing him, tasting of Jon. Jon’s retort dies in his mouth between the hungry collision of their lips.
Then Martin pulls back. He smiles at Jon. “Will you turn over? On your hands and knees, and I’ll make you come like that?”
Overwhelmed, Jon can only nod shakily and obey, his entire body beating like one enormous heart. It feels incredibly vulnerable to bend over like this, to raise his arse in the air like a present and spread his legs for Martin. But he does it regardless, shuddering as air rushes in to cool the wet mess Martin had left of his core.
He feels big hands slide the panties down his trembling legs until they're down around his knees. Then Martin, presumably, just stares for a long few moments.
Martin really doesn’t mean to leave Jon waiting, he doesn’t. He wants to give Jon everything he wants as quickly and as well as possible. He’s always wanted that. It’s just that now, what Jon wants, what he’s begging for - Martin can give it to him so much better if he takes his time doing so. Martin knows he can make Jon happy he asked, knows he can make it worth Jon’s time to entertain Martin’s silly fantasies and desires. It was so beyond anything he could have imagined asking Jon for, and Jon is so beautiful, responding so vocally, letting Martin play with him as he wanted - Martin is dizzy with the possibilities in front of him.
Now, as Jon bends forward onto his elbows and whines in one long, despairing breath, Martin reaches with steady hands to stroke reassuringly down his lover’s shaking sides. “It’s okay, love,” he murmurs. “Can I kiss you, bite you?”
“Please,” Jon gasps out. He, perhaps subconsciously, pushes his trim little arse out towards Martin at the word, and Martin takes it as an offering. He leans forward and seals his mouth around the crease between soft buttock and tender inner thigh, and Jon jerks and manages to keep a high-pitched yelp from escaping his tightly closed mouth. His gasps continue to border into rough, sobbing breaths as Martin keeps working the flesh between his teeth in a gentle rhythm. He can smell Jon from here, can remember his taste and longs to taste him again, so he licks again through wet hair until he finds Jon’s hole, tightening his hands on Jon’s shaking legs to keep him upright on his knees.
Martin finds himself on his back, his nose brushing the quivering flesh of Jon’s lower belly. When he closes his mouth around Jon’s cock, rolling the length of it over his tongue while Jon’s weeping sex presses against his chin, Jon jolts even harder than before, whimpering loudly as Martin begins to suck. He stays where Martin needs him, though, which gives Martin confidence enough to take a hand from his lover’s legs and slide it up to pet inquisitively at Jon’s entrance with one finger.
“Yes, yes, ple- ease,” Jon moans, and Martin slides his forefinger into the soft heat of him like a knife through butter. Jon makes an unholy sound, something that makes Martin burn with stifled desire. He can feel how easy it would be to reach down now and grasp his own leaking cock, but he pushes the urge aside and tightens his hand around Jon’s thigh instead. His searching finger finds a spongy, firm bump inside Jon’s cunt, around the size of two fingertips. Martin presses it curiously with a bend of his finger, crooking downwards towards his mouth.
Jon gives a garbled shout and gushes wetly around Martin's probing finger. Martin sucks hard around Jon's pulsing cock and slides another finger inside him against the first, massaging that sensitive little spot as Jon writhes and sobs above him, legs going tense and stomach clenching. Martin keeps working his cock with long, worshipful pulls as he listens to the noises. Jon starts babbling, repeated groans of Martin's name. He sounds thoroughly wrecked by the time Martin begins to relieve the pressure on his cock and pulls his fingers free from Jon's tight, soaked hole.
Martin lets his tongue slide from Jon’s cock to the sloppy, soft mess of his cunt, resting the flat of it against him as he wordlessly encourages Jon to relax his knees further and straddle his face. For a moment, he’s allowed to just luxuriate in the salty, musk-sweet taste and smell of Jon, his tongue twitching minutely as he appreciates it.
Then Jon is tensing slightly against him, and mumbling in that wrecked voice: “Darling, I. . . I, don’t you want. . .?”
That’s the first time he’s called Martin that, darling. Martin would do anything to hear it again. He brings his lips together in a kiss, savoring the shudder that goes through Jon’s sensitive body. He pulls away enough to speak, but the moment he takes to gather his breath Jon takes as a chance to pull away, murmuring apologies. Martin catches him with one hand, fingers digging into the soft skin of his buttock.
“Let me eat you out again?” he asks, voice rough.
“Oh my god,” Jon laughs, disbelieving for a moment. “Really? You’ve been. . . for so long. . . I should think you’d like your own turn by now. . .” Despite his words, he makes no move to pull away from Martin’s grip. Martin smiles and settles him down onto his face again, moaning in appreciation as Jon surrenders and presses against his searching mouth. He pokes his tongue into Jon’s hole, delighting in the sweet press of suffocation as Jon stiffens and rocks down onto his nose. When Jon pulls away, he gathers his breath and tells him:
“Come on my face again and I’ll take my turn, love.”
To Jon’s credit, he takes the instructions well. The gush of slick that leaks onto Martin’s searching tongue is evidence enough of that as Jon begins to rock back and forth, obediently chasing another orgasm. He’s apparently decided that the bridge of Martin’s nose is a more appealing spot to rub off on, his thighs clenched hard around Martin’s ears. He shudders happily when Martin squeezes both hands to his arse and presses him closer. He's started moaning in shy, cute little bursts that trail into embarrassed whines, and they're addictive. Martin needs more noises from him immediately.
He lifts one hand and delivers a gentle, exploratory smack to the soft flesh of Jon’s arse. Jon gasps, and the moan that had been interrupted by the strike comes out high-pitched and needy as he somehow becomes wetter around Martin’s tongue. He demands, “Again,” his self-consciousness momentarily dissipated. Obligingly, Martin hits him more firmly, and Jon’s arms seemingly give out as the weight on Martin’s face increases.
Martin’s third spank lands with a grope and another whine from Jon, and the skin he feels is warm, sensitive surely. He raises his hand again, and slaps Jon lower, closer to where they connect, closer to an even more sensitive place. Jon’s voice breaks in agonized, wordless ecstasy. Maybe he’s trying to ask for more, but the rapid increased movement of his hips against Martin’s mouth say it for him. Martin luxuriates in the soft, velvety-sticky texture of Jon’s cunt against his tongue, the heat when the tip of his tongue slips into Jon’s entrance. When he hits Jon again, Jon shakes apart on his face, crying out and coming in sharp, sudden bursts. Martin holds him through it, lifting his own legs and spreading them wide so that he doesn’t accidentally stimulate his cock. The need to come was nearly torture by now, but he bears it, enjoying pushing himself to prioritize Jon.
He was going to need to pay attention to himself soon, though, if he didn’t want to pass out from sheer lack of blood to the brain. He feels himself throb with intense, pulsing need at the thought of relieving the aching urge to touch his cock, and accidentally lets out a soft, desperate moan.
Jon, who had been slowly recovering his composure and lifting himself to hands and knees so that he is more straddling Martin’s chest than sitting on his face, cocks his head and looks down at him, catching his eye. He’s lovely, eyes blown and face flushed. Martin just stares up at him. Jon smiles as he leans down to catch Martin’s mouth in a kiss, clearly savoring the taste of himself as they share a long, deep embrace.
“Martin, will you let me help you come now?” Jon whispers into his ear after a sweet kiss to the side of his neck. Martin swallows hard and tries not to fall apart just from hearing those words from Jon - he won’t last long at all, he knows that, and he feels almost dizzy from thinking about how much he wants to come. He squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers a shaky, “Mm-hmm,” to Jon’s request.
He receives a chaste peck to his lips, and then Jon is lifting himself to stand on his knees and shuffle backwards carefully until he’s positioned himself directly above Martin’s straining cock. Martin gapes at him, and then hisses and clenches the sheets tightly with both fists as Jon reaches down to take him in hand. Jon’s delicate fingers might as well be hot brands. Despite this, Martin strains to keep Jon in view as his lover takes him inside, leant backwards slightly to make the angle easier, hair travelling in damp whorls down from his belly button to the tantalizing forest between his legs that Martin had gotten to know so well.
Jon grunts in satisfaction as he accepts the stretch that the head of Martin’s cock offers, then starts to rock back and forth as it slides all the way in, sinking down until his own cock is brushing against Martin’s broad belly.
“That’s lovely,” he breathes, grinding his hips forward as Martin’s hands flutter helplessly, trying to touch every part of him at once. “You’re so good, Martin.”
He must have meant You feel so good, Martin, but Martin instinctively reacts as if he were truly being so genuinely praised, and Jon makes a small, pleased murmur as Martin’s cock jumps inside him. He bends forward and takes Martin’s hands, lifting them to settle on his waist. Martin whines deep in his throat, squeezing Jon firmly, almost mindlessly. Jon reaches for his face, cupping his cheek tenderly.
Then he lifts himself up, makes eye contact with Martin, and slams back down.
Martin strangles a scream in his ground teeth, shuts his eyes, and comes harder than he ever remembers coming in his life. He feels his hands around Jon’s hips, holding him down, feels Jon’s hands on his face. Everything else is white noise, lost in the relief of orgasming, of the hot, wet heaven of Jon around him. For a second, he worries that he might actually black out, the euphoria almost too much to stand.
Then he’s past it, and he’s in his body again - gasping on his back, with Jon on top of him.
“There you are,” Jon says softly, stroking his face. “My lovely Martin. Come on, you’re so good for me, my love. . .”
He said it again. Martin is too blissed out to feel the conflict he’d battled before, and he accepts the words with a small sigh and a smile. Jon smiles back at him, wide and bright. He lifts his hips up and lets Martin’s softening cock slip from him, turns on his back and puts his legs up on a pillow to avoid - right.
Martin stares at his own come sliding from Jon’s cunt, pearly white against the dark curls. Jon laughs, beckons him over with both hands and holding his head for a kiss.
“Thank you,” he murmurs against Martin’s lips. “You’re perfect, Martin. . .”
Martin blinks dampness from his eyes, and kisses Jon again, firmly enough to make himself believe what Jon was telling him. He holds him tightly, trying to prepare for the sweeping self-hatred and shame that usually floods him after he brings himself off, but it makes no appearance. Martin continues to feel safe, euphoric, and comfortable in the bed with Jon as they trade slow kisses. Jon seems to be dedicating attention to Martin’s tongue, as if aware of how tired it must be, sucking on it in playful, sensual bursts.
“You’re so. . .” Martin sighs, unable to find the words. He settles on returning Jon’s thank you, darting his head down to hide against Jon’s chest.
Jon holds him, wrapping his arms around Martin’s head and shoulders, sighing firmly as he makes himself comfortable. Martin’s hands end up spread across Jon’s bare, damp back, the sensation coaxing him back to cognizance with each drag of his palms across the length of Jon’s spine. He hadn’t pushed, he had been hardworking and good, and Jon was pleased with him. Jon would, perhaps, want to have sex with him again.
Martin waits for the instinctual, familiar burst of shame to flood him for daring to have that thought, but once again, with Jon in his arms, it makes no appearance. He thinks about this for a moment, then decides to stop thinking and buries his head further into Jon’s chest.
“We’ll have to get up eventually to shower, darling,” Jon murmurs, but he pulls the sheet up above their naked bodies nevertheless, wrapping his legs around Martin’s waist as he does so. Martin’s cock informs him weakly that the wet sensation of Jon’s crotch against his skin comes partially from his own seed, leaking from Jon despite his best efforts. They will need to shower eventually, and maybe Martin will have enough left in him to do something about that memory of pearly white against wiry curls.
For now, he curls into Jon’s embrace and indulges in the rare peace he’s found here between them, against all odds.