Archive of Our Own

Wine, Martin thinks, is actually pretty alright, tannins be damned.

Not the taste, necessarily - though licking it from Jon's lips when they kiss might make Martin come around to that, too - but that loose, buzzing warmth that starts in your belly and spreads to the tips of your ears. It melts away the inhibitions; makes it easy to nose at Jon's cheek until his head tilts and Martin can kiss his butterfly pulse.

Jon sings him cheesy love songs between each brush of their lips, the rich timbre of his voice just as gorgeous when he's tipsy and teetering from side to side in Martin's lap. His fingers sink into Martin's hair, pulling him close so his clumsy mouth can mash a kiss shaped like a smile to his forehead. Martin can't help it; he giggles, arms anchored around Jon's waist as he sways them in time with Jon's voice and the tinny music from his spotify library. 

Jon laughs under his breath. " Reaching out… " His hands slide down to cup the sides of Martin's neck, warm and wonderful. " Touching me… " Martin can't help staring at his mouth; at the shiny pink tongue that peeks out to wet his lips. " Touching you… "

Jon is halfway through the word 'sweet' when Martin decides he's willing to interrupt Jon's performance if he can kiss him senseless instead. He wobbles to his feet with Jon in his arms, encouraged by the way Jon giggles maniacally and hooks his ankles behind the small of Martin's back. Martin kisses Jon as he dips forward, spreading him out on the table like he intends to eat him. 

" Martin ," Jon squeals against his lips, legs still locked around Martin's waist as he looks up at him in equal parts delight and incredulity. His hands are on Martin's shoulders, hair fanned against the scratchy wood of the table in gradients of dark brown to pale gray. His shirt must have ridden up in the shuffle, exposing a sliver of warm brown skin and a happy trail dipping below the waistband of his joggers. He's not gray at all there, Martin notes, and he has just enough time to wonder about lower before Jon yanks him into a kiss and he can't wonder anything at all.

He bows into it, into Jon, reaching blindly for one of his hands. Jon's fingers splay in invitation before squeezing into the gaps between Martin's own, and Martin pins his hand to the table. A sigh pours out of Jon, and Martin swallows it, tongue curling into his mouth, drinking him like wine.

"How are you so good at that?" Jon breathes out before shamelessly sucking Martin's bottom lip. He makes a low, savoring noise that makes Martin's mouth buzz.

He kisses Jon back so hard he almost forgets he's been asked a question. He's catching his breath when he says, "At what?"

"The kissing," Jon says, lashes dipping, the eyes underneath hazy but still focused on Martin's mouth. "The kissing. It's - I can't keep up."

Martin blinks down at him for a moment. It's difficult to see him like this - dazed and all but writhing beneath him - and let himself believe that he's the reason for it. He did that. It seems impossible, but here Jon is, asking him how.

"I dunno," he says, hoping the smile he feels creeping onto his lips doesn't look goofy or weird, "I think you're doing alright."

That seems to break Jon out of his stupor somewhat. He rolls his eyes. "Oh, 'alright,' thank you, Martin," he huffs. "Your praise is overwhelming."

Laughing, Martin raises one of Jon's hands, still laced with his own, and places a teasing kiss to his knuckles. "I dunno what you want me to say!"

Jon wrenches his fingers out of Martin's grip to take his head in his hands and pull him down.

"I don't want you to say anything," he tells him just before their lips touch again.

They kiss like that for a long while, sometimes heated and desperate, sometimes soft and languid. It's impossible to get used to, impossible to settle into a consistent rhythm, and Martin feels just about ready to fall apart, lost in the heat of Jon's body. His spotify library remains on shuffle in the background, a bassline to the sweet sounds spilling from Jon's mouth and into Martin's.

Jon's arms and legs are still looped around him, so tight that it's honestly a little uncomfortable, but it's like Jon is the only thing holding him together.

"I want to wrap around you twice," Jon sighs against the corner of Martin's mouth, a hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, fingernails scraping pleasantly against his scalp. His thighs squeeze Martin's hips.

Martin breathes out a laugh before kissing Jon's scruffy chin. "There's a little too much of me for that."

Jon is shaking his head before Martin's even finished. "Not enough," he insists, pressing his mouth to Martin's again, hand closing into a fist around Martin's hair. Martin shivers. "Never enough of you."

Something unwieldy licks up the inside of Martin's belly, burning. "Jon -- "

"Hush. Don't argue," Jon tells him, pausing to tug Martin's head to the side by the hair so he can leave a trail of light kisses along his jaw. Martin melts, both from the demanding edge to Jon's voice and the fluttery non-pressure of his lips. "Archivist. I know everything, remember?"

Martin chuckles, low and breathy. "No you don't," he says, a thrill shooting down his spine when the cross of Jon's ankles tightens around the base of it. "That's the whole point."

"Rhetorical question," Jon snips, taking Martin's chin in a firm grip to guide him back into a toe-curling kiss, and Martin knows he's won in every way that matters. He cups the side of Jon's face, thumb massaging the ridge of his cheekbone. Jon makes a low noise of approval that Martin feels reverberate where their chests are pressed together, like the purr of a big cat. 

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" he breathes, heart stuttering when he feels Jon's toothy grin brush his lips. 

"Oh, I drive you crazy, do I?" he chuckles, deep voice tinged with dumbfounded delight. 

Martin finds himself grinning back, nodding. Most people wouldn't guess that Jon has an infectious smile, probably because so few ever get to see it. Then again, most people don't get to kiss him dizzy, either. 

"You're gorgeous," Martin says, ducking to kiss Jon's collarbone. Jon tilts his head back with a noise that's not quite a moan, but close. Not close enough. "You're perfect," Martin whispers into his skin. He kisses him there again.

He hears Jon's breath hitch. "Enough," Jon says, voice cracking.

"Never enough," Martin counters, a teasing echo of Jon's earlier words. After lifting his head, he takes one of Jon's hands again and slowly bends it back, watching the tendons under the thin skin of his wrist shift with the movement. He kisses Jon's pulse point, light but lingering. "I really love you. Can't believe I get to be with you."

"Oh, Martin," Jon whispers breathlessly as Martin pushes up the sleeve of his shirt. He trails kisses along Jon's inner forearm, letting go of his hand to cradle his elbow. He kisses the inner crease of it and smiles into the warm skin when he feels Jon squirm. "That tickles."

"Sorry." Martin is not sorry.

After one last kiss to Jon's bicep, Martin lays Jon's arm back on the table with a gentle pat. He straightens, lets his eyes wander, hands framing Jon's narrow waist. It's warm in his palms. He squeezes slowly, somewhat surprised the flesh there has any give to it whatsoever, and at how far his hands manage to span around it. Jon's middle lifts into his touch.

"What are you thinking about?" Jon asks, making that concentrated face that means he's being careful not to thread the needle of compulsion through his words. 

Martin bends over him again, kissing his shoulder through his soft cotton shirt. He feels Jon's head turn; feels his soft little sigh against his temple. He wants to feel it again.

"You," he whispers, pressing another kiss to his shoulder. "This." He tilts his face to Jon's neck, tonguing at his skin. "Always this."

Jon sucks in a quivering breath. A hand cradles the back of Martin's head, fingers curling into his hair. Martin feels Jon's neck arch under his mouth, Jon's chest pressing up into his. His heart beats hard enough to hurt.

"Martin, do you," Jon begins, voice low and rough, "do you want…"

A shiver rolls through Martin. He feels helpless, aimless, a thing made of feelings he doesn't know where to put. He wants. He's never wanted so much in his life. He wants Jon to ask him; wants to ask him back. He presses his teeth to the cords of Jon's neck, squeezing his hips. He feels Jon's moan in the bone of his jaw.

Jon takes his head in his hands, slotting their mouths together again. Martin's lips part for Jon's tongue, liquid smooth and bittersweet from wine. His eyes are still closed when Jon draws back, his mouth numb.

"Do you want to dance with me?"

Martin blinks. 

Jon turns his head, glancing at Martin's phone at the edge of the table. It's playing a slow piano tune now, heavy like lost love. It's an old song that Martin recognizes but can't name, muffled static blanketing the notes. 

"It's just," Jon says quietly, dark eyes glittering, "this is a nice song."

Martin gives himself a moment to recalibrate, then admits, "I don't really know how to dance." He places an apologetic kiss to the center of Jon's chest.

"I'll teach you," Jon assures him, soft, and rubs Martin's shoulder. "If you want."

That word again; that word that takes everything Martin's feeling and condenses it into four tight little letters. It's agony and it's perfect.

"I want," he agrees, and doesn't know he's smiling until Jon traces the upward curve of his lips with his thumb.

He pulls Jon up onto his feet, the swift movement giving him a bit of a headrush. He's coming down from his wine buzz, intoxicated by something else entirely now. 

Jon staggers right into Martin's chest the moment his feet touch the floor. Martin lets out an oof , placing a steadying hand on Jon's waist.

Jon groans, rolling his shoulder. "My back…"

Martin smiles, sheepish, and makes a sympathetic noise. "Sorry, love. Got, um, a bit carried away." 

Jon exhales. "It's fine." He lifts his head, rising to the tips of his feet to peck Martin's cheek. "I...I liked it."

"Oh!" Martin feels a fresh flood of heat pool in his cheeks. "Me too."

"Mm." Jon glances at Martin's phone, then back to Martin. He steps back, only to offer him his hand with a timid little bow and a half-ironic smile. "Shall we?"

Martin grins and lets Jon lead him to the center of the living room. "So how do we…?"

Jon places a warm kiss to the middle of Martin's palm before depositing it on his shoulder. He settles his own hand on Martin's waist, giving it a squeeze with the faintest hint of a smirk that makes Martin's stomach flip. Their free hands meet, and Jon pulls him closer.

"Follow my lead," he says. 

A pinch of anxiety disturbs the comfortable warmth in Martin's chest. "What if I step on your foot by accident?"

Jon hums, drumming his fingers against the back of Martin's hand. "I suppose you'll have to kiss it better." Martin snorts. "It's fine, Martin, really. I don't care."

"You say that now , but…"

"Trust me," Jon murmurs, squeezing Martin's hand. "I want to do this with you."

Martin makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh, nodding.

Jon offers precious little in terms of actual explanations, seeming to prefer teaching by example. Martin struggles to keep up, movements either too slow or too quick, and he comes concerningly close to kneeing Jon in the thigh by accident, but Jon dismisses his apologies with reassuring squeezes to his hand.

He keeps count of their steps under his breath, guiding Martin into languid movements across the living room rug in time with the slow melody pouring from Martin's phone. It gets easier and easier to follow Jon's lead, but Martin keeps his eyes fixed on their shuffling feet regardless, determined not to make a fool of himself.

"Darling, are my socks really so fascinating?" he hears Jon say, his voice rich with amusement. 

Martin feels his whole body blush, his head snapping up so he can meet Jon's warm gaze. He regrets it immediately, his heart still not quite used to the way Jon looks at him these days, and glances off to the side.

"You've never called me that before," he mumbles, voice cracking. He stumbles through the next step in the dance, Jon's hand tightening its hold on his waist to steady him. 

His movements are surprisingly precise, none of the tipsy wobbling from earlier inhibiting his skill. Still, he falters at Martin's words.

"If it bothers you, I'll stop." 

Martin looks back at him, opening his mouth to do everything short of beg him not to stop, but shuts it when he catches the smug grin tugging at the corner of Jon's lips. 

Martin makes a dumbfounded noise, flustered delight bubbling through him. "You're a menace when you've been drinking, you know that?" 

Jon arches a brow. "Please," he says. "I'm a menace sober, too."

"Wow. Can I have that in writing?"

"I'll consider it if you can bear to look at me instead of the floor," is Jon's airy retort. 

Martin pouts, but lifts his chin, meeting Jon's eyes.

Jon brings their linked hands to his lips, kissing Martin's knuckle, and the petulance on Martin's face dissolves like a sugar cube in tea. "That's better."

It is better. As charming as Jon's fuzzy cat socks are, Martin would much rather look at his face. Maybe it's just because Martin is completely smitten, but he doesn't think he's ever met anyone as uniquely beautiful as Jon. Muscle memory starts to take over for Martin now, too, his movements mirroring Jon's almost perfectly. 

He used to fantasize about something like this, he thinks; dancing with Jon in a living room they made their own, Jon's palms on his waist and in his hand, Jon's skin warm with wine and affection. 

This is exactly the kind of thing lovers do. Jon loves him.

"You're doing wonderfully," he says.

"Oh." Martin feels rosy, smiling. "Thank you."

Jon answers with an acknowledging hum, giving him a pensive look. He takes a sweeping step forward; Martin steps back. "Well, I suppose there is one issue."

Martin blinks, pivoting into a turn. "What's that?"

Jon looks primly away for a moment. "I can hardly kiss you and dance with you at the same time."

"Oh." Martin lets out a smitten laugh, heat spreading from his belly to his chest. "No, I guess not."

Jon sweeps his thumb over the back of Martin's hand. "Shame."

Martin's other hand slides from his shoulder to the base of his neck, thumb brushing his collarbone. 

"Damn shame," he agrees. 

He just barely catches Jon's smile before Jon turns his head to hide it. He's always doing that. Martin understands; there's something so vulnerable about happiness, especially for people like them. But they're safe here. They're safe with each other.

Martin smooths his hand up the side of Jon's neck, not stopping until he holds Jon's cheek in his hand. Gently, he makes Jon's head turn to face him, and Jon allows himself to be directed, following Martin's lead now, leaning into his touch with a sigh. It's incredible, Martin thinks, how easily they trade places; a balancing act where they can't possibly fall.

Jon clasps one hand over Martin's own, his other curling around the back of Martin's neck. Their feet have slowed to a stop in the middle of the floor, shifting the weight of their bodies between them in time with the smooth piano. They're close enough now that their bellies brush with every movement.

"Do you want to know," Jon says, rubbing his cheek into Martin's palm as they sway, "when I first started developing feelings for you?"

Martin beams. There is little else in heaven and earth he would like to know more. He travels the ridge of Jon's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, pride and affection swelling his chest. 

"You mean it wasn't love at first sight?" he quips, trying for a dashing grin. "You weren't immediately dazzled by my charm and rugged good looks?" He clicks his tongue, winking. If his hands weren't too busy caressing Jon's cheek and waist, he'd do finger guns.

Jon blinks at him for a moment before the surprise cracks apart on his face, the smile underneath bright and tender as yolk. He tucks it into Martin's hand, shoulders shaking in quiet laughter. Martin can't help but chuckle himself. It's such a precious thing, the ability to make Jon laugh; the privilege of feeling it in the lines of his palm.

"Not as such," Jon says, still nuzzling into Martin's hand. "Though I did notice those things too, of course."

"Of course."

Jon scans Martin's face out of the corner of his eye. "I'm noticing right now, in fact."

Martin inclines his head, grinning. "Go on, then. Tell me."

"Right. Well, it's not particularly romantic, all things considered. Erm." Jon's smile is crooked, awkward, sincere. "It started some time after the Prentiss incident. You kept forcing me to go to lunch with you, remember?" His voice is tinted with humor. "You made quite the nuisance of yourself."

Martin makes a show of pouting. "Jon, that's mean."

"I'm kidding," Jon says, distinctly softer. He holds Martin's fingers, kisses the center of his palm, and all is forgiven. "You were doing me a favor, even if I didn't realize it at the time." He pauses, face growing hotter under Martin's hand. "But I did realize something else."

Martin tries not to smile too widely. "And what was that?"

He can guess. He's not often showered in compliments, but if his past boyfriends are to be believed, his best quality is his kindness; his nurturing instinct. He's a caretaker, always has been. He's good at it. He takes pride in it, even, until he lies awake late into the night, forced to wonder where that instinct came from. 

He imagines all the times he brought tea to Jon's desk, all the gentle chiding about working too late and offers to help, and thinks: that must have been it.

Jon sighs like a romance heroine gazing out of her windowed suite. 

"You knew the woman working the register in the canteen," he says.

Martin's brow scrunches.

"And," Jon continues, "you had a whole conversation with her about sourdough."

Silence stretches between them, snapped like a rubber band when Martin lets out a baffled laugh. He vaguely remembers that happening, but he can't imagine why it's relevant. 

"I'm not sure I follow?"

"I'd never," Jon says, his hand sweaty over Martin's, "I'd never heard you talk at such length about something you liked besides spiders. And -- I don't know. It was nice. It was one more little thing that just seemed to slot perfectly into place with everything else I knew about you. Somewhere between the jigsaws with old ladies and the way you take your tea." 

He smiles a little. Martin feels like he's being unspooled. 

"I thought to myself, of course Martin would befriend her, of course he bakes, and I'd meant to find a way to be annoyed about it. Instead I just felt like I wanted to be the sort of person you could talk about sourdough to." 

The breath he lets out can't quite be called a laugh, but it's close. It's warm. "It only seemed fair, after I went on about emulsifiers on your birthday."

Martin blows out an airy chuckle, lightheaded. "Jon, you hated me," is all he can think to say. "You were so paranoid, I thought you hated everyone."

Jon shrugs, eyes downcast. "I didn't hate any of you. I was...afraid of you, as idiotic as it sounds now. And I suppose," he lets out a delicate little cough, "I suppose I thought my feelings for you were all the more reason to push you away."

Martin blinks, his eyes stinging. He turns the words over in his mind like he's leafing through a book, wondering if he read it right. 

It wasn't the acts of service, then.

He bites the inside of his cheek before managing a wobbly smile, stroking the side of Jon's face. 

"Sourdough, eh?" he says, throat sticky.

Jon shakes his head. "It could have been anything," he says, "as long as it was you."

That does it.

Martin cups Jon's face with both hands like water from a stream, tilting his head back. Jon lets him, lashes fluttering and mouth parting as if on instinct. Martin leans in close enough that they're breathing the same air, then stops. His lips quirk.

"Not spiders, though?"

Jon rolls his eyes, grinning. "You and your bloody -- "

Martin doesn't let him finish, smothering Jon's complaints with a kiss like a fire doused. Jon relaxes under his mouth and hands immediately, like he's been waiting for this; waiting for a reason to shiver apart, throwing his arms around Martin's neck.

Martin pulls out of the kiss, just for a second, to say, "It was the emulsifiers, for me."

Jon snickers, out of breath, thin fingers curling into the hair at the base of Martin's head. "Naturally."

This is another one of those things that Martin used to daydream about: Jon in his arms, stretching to meet him halfway for messy kisses, elegant fingers pulling at his hair. They're even less coordinated than before, pausing to giggle against each other's mouths, and if Martin wasn't so unsteady on his feet already, his toes would wiggle in his socks. 

He loves Jon so much; loves everything about him. He could write poem after poem after poem and never run out of material. One for Jon's heartbreaking kindness; one for the face he makes when he shaves; one for each delicate hand. More, even -- there's a sonnet in every dip between his knuckles, waiting to be written.

Martin feels like a cup running over, warmth spilling in his chest and spreading to his ears, his fingertips, his everything. 

Jon is the one to dial back their pace, heels sinking back onto the creaking living room floor, tongue ebbing back from Martin's mouth. His fingers loosen their grip on his hair, sliding down to thread together at the base of his neck. Martin catches his breath, still-restless hands scurrying over Jon's back. He feels one of Jon's hands cup his cheek and leans into it, smiling faintly when it slides downward and Jon's thumb wipes moisture from the corner of his mouth. He pulls Martin down by the back of the neck to peck his cheek, then tips forward, forehead landing on Martin's chest. They breathe together in each other's arms for a long moment, unwinding like tape.

Martin feels more than hears it when Jon speaks, the sound too muffled for him to make anything out. He gives Jon's shoulder a squeeze.

"Hm?" he prompts, pressing his lips to Jon's crown. He breathes in, mind going hazy with the cedar-like scent of Jon's hair.

Almost hesitantly, Jon leans back, looking up at Martin with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Martin's heart jumps, the dulled edges of his desire sharpening to needle-points in his belly all at once.

"Do you want me?" Jon asks, so quiet Martin might as well be reading his lips. He feels faint static tingling at the base of his skull, but it's not overpowering. Jon probably doesn't even realize he's doing it.

Martin stops swaying. That was the question he was expecting earlier, but somehow that doesn't make responding any easier. 

He swallows, palms going sweaty, and is surprised he succeeds in his deliberate effort not to stutter when he asks, "What do you mean?"

Jon isn't buying it. He clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. 

"We're not children, Martin, you know what I mean." He lets out a huff before pointedly glancing down. His gaze remains fixed there for a moment before bouncing to the ceiling. "I...can also feel, uh -- "

"Oh." Martin looks down, too. Processes. Feels the distinct urge to pull a fire alarm and run, suddenly startlingly sober.

The dawning horror must show on his face, because Jon is quick to add, "It's fine! It's fine!" with a quick wave of his hands, like he's trying to calm a spooked horse. Martin jerks back, hiding his face in his palms.

"I am so sorry," he moans, wanting to sink into the ground, claustrophobia be damned. Anything but this. 

"Martin, please ," Jon says, distress straining his voice. He pries Martin's hands away from his face by the wrists. Martin lets him, and lets out a miserable sigh, too ashamed to make eye contact.

This is the first time he's had anything like this happen in months, maybe longer. Another side-effect of being groomed by the Lonely, maybe. He's been so stuck in his own head that he'd forgotten to consider what his body might have to say about having the man he's been pining for for years in his arms, saying he loves him and kissing him until they're both out of breath.

Jon releases his wrists to cup Martin's burning cheeks. He pulls him down into a kiss, soft and reassuring as always, despite everything. 

"I promise it's okay," he whispers before giving Martin another. "It's nice, even."

Martin relaxes a little, the hardest corners of his anxiety smoothing out between their mouths like a piece of glass at sea. He just barely manages to kiss back.

"But you don't...you don't ," Martin forces out between kisses.

He feels Jon sigh through his nose. He gives Martin one more kiss, then falls back onto his heels. He suddenly looks very tired, and a helpful little voice in Martin's head informs him that if he ever needs to get rid of an erection in the future, he can just remember the look of quiet disappointment on Jon's face right now. 

"I wish people would stop deciding what I do and don't do without actually asking me about it," Jon says.

Martin's heart sinks. "Oh, Jon -- "

"It's fine, Martin," he sighs again. "I understand. If I were in your shoes I'd probably make assumptions, too."

Martin looks down at him helplessly, then reaches for his hands. "Please tell me how you feel," he says. "I want to hear it from you."

Jon's fingers slowly return Martin's hold. "It's complicated," he mutters, brow knitting. "I -- I don't feel the need to be too conclusive about my, err, proclivities. But in my experience, sex is -- " Jon huffs, setting his jaw.

"I've had sex," he tries again, "But I can't guarantee -- " His face twists up, eyes screwing shut. Martin can feel sweat on his palms, though he's not sure if it's Jon's or his own. "God, it never gets easier."

Martin softens, raising Jon's hands and kissing each one. "Jon, we don't have to have sex."

Jon's eyes reopen, slowly.

Martin blushes and looks up at the ceiling, trying to think of how to phrase it delicately. " I like sex," he settles on, "and, to be honest, I've um, thought about you and me, um. Yeah. But we don't have to. Really. I like sex, but I like you more." 

When he looks back down, Jon can't seem to decide on whether his mouth should open or shut.

"I like you, too," he says finally, voice a quiet waver.

Martin beams. "Then we have nothing to worry about."

Jon squeezes Martin's hands, a shy smile on his lips. After a quiet moment, his lashes dip slightly, and he says, "I meant it when I said I think it's nice."

It takes Martin a moment to remember what he means, and when he does, his heart squeezes in his chest. "Oh, um. Thank you?" he stammers. He doesn't think he's ever been complimented on an impromptu erection before. "You're very -- Well, I love you a lot, so - "

Jon rises to the tips of his feet to plant a kiss on Martin's cheek, then another, then another. Martin stops talking; breathes out, shoulders sagging, as Jon's hands slip out of his and cup the sides of his face, finally drawing him into a proper kiss. He lets Jon lick into his mouth, losing himself in the heat of it, arms wrapping around Jon's middle. Jon hums appreciatively, and it feels like they're back on track again. Fondness spreads through Martin's chest like a sunrise, his body warm wherever Jon touches him. 

"You never actually answered," Jon whispers against his mouth, snaking his arms around Martin's neck, "when I asked if you want me."

Martin chokes, only getting more flustered when Jon grins into another kiss. "Isn't it obvious?" 

Jon chuckles. "A little. But I'd still like to hear you say it."

Martin whines, feeling cruel desire curl in his gut again. "You're a bad man," he says, "but I want you anyway. God help me."

That makes Jon laugh, and even with all of Martin's self worth issues, the fondness in Jon's eyes is indisputable. It makes Martin's heart clench. 

"I think we should go to bed," Jon murmurs, stroking Martin's hot cheek, and the look in his eyes suggests he has no intention of sleeping. "I think I want you to show me."

Martin feels dizzy, confusion and arousal spinning in his head like a carnival ride. Distantly, he wonders if this is some kind of test - but no, Jon wouldn't do that. So then what ?

"I thought -- we don't -- I can just, um, take care of myself in the bathroom - "

Jon shakes his head, kissing Martin again, tongue pressing insistently behind Martin's teeth. When he pulls back, Martin watches his flushed, shiny mouth very closely when it says the words, "I want to see you." 

Martin's heartbeat feels like a punch. It's a miracle he hasn't been knocked out. "You -- What?"

Slowly, Jon starts walking them backwards toward the archway that feeds into the hall their bedroom branches off of, fingers linked at the back of Martin's neck. 

"I want to watch you, Martin," he murmurs, eyes hooded but bright as he tugs Martin along. It's darker in the hallway than in the living room, and the change in light makes Jon's eyes glint in a way that could be supernatural and definitely is gorgeous. "I want to see how good I make you feel."

Flustered and confused as he is, Martin still can't help but pitch forward, driving his tongue deep into Jon's mouth as their pace quickens and their elbows knock against the bedroom door frame when they stumble through it. Jon does make him feel good. It's giddy and new, this flurry of desires in his gut, and it's so good he doesn't know what to do with himself. He's lucky Jon seems to have a few ideas.

He pulls out of the kiss reluctantly, the wet smack of their lips disconnecting going right to his cock, and God, okay, he needs to calm down before he does something embarrassing.

"So what -- How d'you want -- Um?" 

Damn.

Jon smiles up at him, fond and just a little smug. "Use your words, darling."

Martin feels an electric pulse shoot down his spine. He swallows. "I'm just confused? I said we don't have to -- " He shakes his head, trying to shake loose a coherent thought. 

"What do you want?" he manages finally. He needs Jon to be in control, both because he doesn't want to inadvertently push him past his limits, and because he likes Jon's gentle assertiveness; wants to encourage it.

He doesn't miss the way Jon's gaze drops below his beltline, but before he gets the chance to think about it too hard, Jon is pulling his head down, hand firm on the back of it. Like this, his breath is hot on Martin's ear, his words quiet and sweet.

"I want to watch you touch yourself," he murmurs, fingers sifting through Martin's hair, "and tell you what a picture you make."

If Martin wasn't hard before, he certainly is now. He can't decide between a defeated chuckle and a desperate moan, and the noise he makes as a result betrays just how much of a mess he is right now, but he can't find it in himself to care, because Jon is pulling Martin's jumper up over his head - Jon is undressing him - and there's no more room in Martin's heart for anything but want .

Except, wait -- "Jon, you're not just drunk, right?"

Jon stills, looking at Martin like the thought hadn't even occurred to him. "No. Are you?"

Static crackles at the base of Martin's skull.

"Not anymore. Not from alcohol," is quite possibly the dumbest thing he has ever said, but Jon makes it worth it when he shakes his head and laughs under his breath.

"Let's get you out of your clothes," Jon says, affection in his eyes as he drops Martin's jumper to tug at his waistband, "and into bed."

It's not an efficient process; they take breaks to kiss hungrily after every article of clothing Martin is gently wrestled out of. Jon may not want to have sex, but when he lays Martin down and sucks bruises into the side of his neck, Martin has no doubt that he is wanted as much as he himself wants. Jon loves him, Jon loves him, Jon loves him , and he proves it again and again with every hushed endearment and word of affirmation he whispers into Martin's skin. 

Martin's fingers hesitate at the waistband of his boxers, eyes glancing up to Jon's in question. 

It's not like Jon never expresses affection verbally, but he usually prefers to touch to communicate his feelings, so Martin is delightfully unprepared when Jon tells him, "I love all of you," point blank with a voice like embers in a hearth. "I'll love everything you show me."

Martin pushes his boxers down his legs and kicks them onto the floor. For a moment, being naked while Jon is dressed embarrasses him, but then again, he doesn't think seeing Jon without clothes would do his composure any favors.

Jon seems wholly unconcerned, warm gaze sweeping over Martin's bare body from collarbone to navel to the erection laying against his hip. Martin's eyes stay fixed on Jon's, his excitement winning out over his insecurity once and for all when Jon darts his tongue out to wet his lips. 

He reaches for Martin's hand, laying it flat on his chest so Martin can feel his heartbeat; how it's just as erratic as Martin's own. Jon leans down to open his mouth against Martin's in a languid kiss, squeezing his hand. 

"Touch yourself," he says, voice no more than a breath against Martin's lips, before drawing back and laying down at Martin's side, propped up on his elbow with his cheek in his hand. There's something almost Caesarean about the way he's lying there; something hedonistic in his eyes. His free hand raises Martin's palm to his lips. He gives it a warm kiss, not breaking eye contact. His scruffy beard tickles Martin's skin. "Slowly."

Martin swallows, the gentle command making his cock throb. He slips his hand out of Jon's grip and wraps it around his shaft, letting out a shuddering breath.

"No need to be nervous," Jon says, petting Martin's chest, nails scraping lightly through the hair there. "I want to be here. I want to watch."

Martin can't help but shiver, then laugh shakily when Jon grins down at him. It's like the more nervous he is, the easier it is for Jon to take charge, and vice versa. He's not complaining. 

He gives himself an experimental stroke. Jon hums in encouragement.

"What exactly, um," he starts slowly, voice straining as he adjusts to the pressure of his hand around his cock, "are you getting out of this?" 

Jon makes a considering noise, circling one of Martin's nipples with a nimble finger. Martin's breath hitches as he struggles to keep the slow pace Jon asked him to set. It's been so long since he's done this, he realizes, and even longer since he's done it with someone else.

"I know I like being with you, and I know you like being with me. It just makes sense, doesn't it?" Jon says simply, and Martin is moved until he adds, "I also have a feeling - and do correct me if I'm wrong - that you find my attention sexually gratifying."

Martin lets out a pained groan, squeezing his eyes shut as his cheeks start to burn, but the pace of his strokes only gets faster.

"I thought so." Jon's smile is audible. 

Martin makes mean eyes at him, but doesn't argue. Jon leans in to give him an apologetic kiss, the hand he has on Martin's chest smoothing down to his navel. He tilts his head to Martin's ear, nibbling at the lobe. 

"Then you're lucky," he whispers, breath hot, "because I quite like giving it to you."

Martin moans low in his throat, his free hand taking Jon by the chin and pulling him into a messy kiss. If Jon is bothered by his lack of coordination, he doesn't show it, accepting Martin's tongue and teeth with an appreciative hum. When they part to breathe, Jon litters kisses across the soft plane of Martin's cheek down to the corner of his jaw, his beard scratching pleasantly against Martin's hot skin.

"You've been awfully quiet," Jon murmurs, and Martin feels more than hears it.

"What would you have me say?" Martin pants. 

"Anything you want." Jon punctuates his sentiment with a light kiss to Martin's lips. 

Martin could get used to hearing that.

"Anything I -- " his fingers curl tighter around his cock as he bites back a whine. The friction is intense now, almost too intense, but he can't find it in him to stop and rifle through his drawer in the bathroom for lotion or anything else that might ease his strokes. Jon leans back to watch, his curiosity an attractive glint in his eye. Without warning, he reaches down and grabs Martin's wrist, pulling his hand away from his cock.

" Jon ," Martin chokes out, ready to ask what he's done wrong, what he can do better, just as Jon presses his tongue to Martin's palm, lathering it with saliva before guiding it back onto his cock.

"That should be better," he whispers, and underneath the aching arousal pulsing through Martin's blood and bones, he's comforted by the little hint of awkwardness Jon reveals to him when he glances away and clears his throat.

"I love you," Martin tells him through a dreamy sigh, hips arching into the now slick warmth of his palm, precum beading at the tip of his cock at how sweet a gesture that was -- and how sexy. He doesn't even think Jon read his mind to know, just observed; just wondered to himself what he could do to make Martin feel good. The thought is intoxicating.

Jon smiles, dark hair, long in the process of slipping out of the little half-bun he ties it in, falling into his eyes, and he's so beautiful. If Martin's a picture, Jon's a work of art, even if he fancies himself the camera.

"That's more like it," he whispers, dropping a kiss to Martin's shoulder, then to the center of his collarbone. His hand travels up Martin's side and over his chest. He presses down on Martin's nipple with his thumb. Martin arches his back, a silent request for more.

Jon hums, triumph in his eyes, like he's just solved a puzzle. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the peak of Martin's nipple gently, too gently, and Martin shivers, wiggling closer to him. 

"Jon, I, mmn…" he hears himself say, not even sure what it is exactly he's trying to express, just that he needs to express it. Jon kisses his temple, nosing at the hair curling there. 

"What is it, Martin? What can I do for you?" He nibbles at the shell of Martin's ear, pawing at his chest with intent. "Tell me, if you'd like."

Martin can feel the fizz of compulsion lacing his words and surrenders to it willingly. 

"Just keep talking to me. I feel so good, Jon, you make me feel so good," he says, words spilling from his mouth with the ease of inevitability. He sags against the mattress, pleasure washing over him. He strokes his cock faster. "Not even just sexually, I -- You make me feel like I'm good."

"Oh, Martin," Jon cooes, tilting his head to kiss Martin with a softness that he wishes he was in any state to reciprocate. His lips are clumsy against Jon's, but he can feel Jon smile, so he doesn't worry too much. "Martin, of course you are. Of course. I-I love you."

Martin's mouth falls open around a sweet moan, eyes fluttering shut. Jon's palm smooths over the curves of his body, scratching through coarse hair and tracing the stretch marks Martin suddenly doesn't hate himself for.

"I knew you'd be lovely like this," Jon sighs, the sound soaked in sincerity. "Look at you. Just look at you. You love it, don't you?"

" Jon , please, please," Martin babbles, grabbing the front of Jon's shirt and trying to pull him impossibly closer.

"I'm right here," Jon tells him, an undercurrent of surprise in his voice, like he can't believe how much Martin wants him. He kisses the corner of his mouth. "You don't have to worry about anything except feeling good. Can you do that for me?"

" Yes ." Martin just about sobs. "How are you so good at this?" His wet eyes blink back open.

Jon nudges his nose against Martin's, gaze hooded. "I know you," he murmurs. "I know what you need."

A fresh beat of urgent arousal makes Martin's toes curl. His hand can't move quick enough.

Jon places a kiss to his temple before directing his gaze between Martin's legs. "How -- I want to know how it feels. I want you to describe it to me."

Martin lets out a wobbly moan, desire coiling tighter in his gut at Jon's interest. Jon's being careful now; careful not to pull the answer out of him like a tooth. There's no need.

"Ask me," Martin breathes out. "I need -- I can't focus."

Jon chuckles, scratching sweetly under Martin's chin. "How do you feel, Martin?"

Martin shudders under Jon's compulsion, at his mercy and loving it. 

"You have no idea how much I've thought about you, about this," he confesses, already out of breath. "I'm hot all over and it - mmn - it's so much it hurts, but it's so good. It's good, it's so much better with you here, being with me." Martin thinks he's probably glowing with how warm his face is, but he doesn't care. He wants Jon to know. He wants to tell him.

"Mmn," Jon grunts his agreement, kissing the shell of Martin's ear, his lips cool by comparison, "Yes, this is certainly the way. I hate the thought of you hiding your feelings from me, sexual or otherwise -- Not because I have to know," he's quick to add, still leaving tender little touches over Martin's body with a loving hand. 

After a moment, he whispers, "I just don't want you to be alone, that's all."

Martin isn't sure why that's what does it, but he can feel himself shoot right up to the edge, his stomach doing a flip. His strokes get more erratic, sloppier, his back arching and legs curling.

"You're close," Jon observes, a note of discovery in his voice. "That... works for you, then? Affirmations like that?"

Martin is too far gone to be embarrassed now, nodding deliriously. "Please, Jon, please," he whines, tugging on Jon's shirt. Jon looks down at him, awe plain on his face, and leans over him, arm curling tight around Martin's body as he buries his face in the side of his neck, tongue and teeth working at the sensitive skin. Martin moans when Jon sucks at his pulse point and leaves behind a sore, pansy-shaped bruise.

"Come on, Martin," he murmurs, muffled by skin and spit, stubble a pleasant scratch against Martin's throat, and Martin's close, he's so close. Jon nibbles his earlobe next, reaching between their bodies to rub and prod at Martin's nipples. "I'm right here with you." He shifts, and Martin's eyes are squeezed shut, but from the angle of Jon's body and the way his breath hitches, he's sure Jon is staring between his legs; at the proof of just how much Martin wants him.

Martin lets out a string of tight little ah-ah-ah 's as the pressure builds. He feels a warm hand cup his cheek as Jon whispers, "So good of you to let me watch."

Martin cries out, strokes once more, twice more, and then he's gone, hips lifting off the mattress as he comes in a long rush over his fingers and on his belly, hand working himself through it. He sees colors and shapes spark behind his eyelids, still screwed shut, and for a moment he's lost in space, but Jon is still here, still a secure warmth at his side, still dropping kisses over his chest and collarbone, hand rubbing soothing circles over his heart. 

It takes a while for Martin to come back to himself, and when he does, it's to Jon tucking Martin's head under his chin and murmuring, "There you are, there's my darling," in a voice so tender Martin wonders whether he's dreaming it.

He tugs Martin onto his side and into his arms, rubbing his back. Martin melts into him, careful not to touch him with the hand he used to get himself off. Jon seems to realize the mess the same time he does and stretches out an arm to pluck a tissue from the box on the nightstand. He sits up with a reluctant grunt and cleans Martin's hand and belly with efficient dabs and swipes before tossing the tissue into the bin in the corner and enveloping Martin in his arms again.

Martin exhales and shuts his eyes, letting Jon fuss with his hair and press kisses to his dewy forehead.

"That was really okay?" he murmurs into Jon's collarbone, throwing a heavy arm over his side. 

Jon answers first by anchoring a leg around Martin's waist to draw him closer, then by saying, "More than okay. Did you enjoy yourself?"

Martin hums, nuzzling Jon's throat. He feels Jon's deep chuckle tickle his nose. 

"I didn't realize," Jon goes on, "that you'd respond quite so enthusiastically to positive reinforcement."

Martin can't help but blush at that, fidgeting slightly. He laughs tiredly under his breath. "Wish you'd known that when we still worked together, eh? Might've improved my job performance." 

"I wish I'd known a lot of things when we still worked together," Jon says, tone gentle. "And your job performance didn't need improvement." He kisses the top of Martin's head, fingers dragging drowsy patterns onto his shoulder blade. Martin's eyes sting a little. He blames it on the endorphins.

"Did you like that?" he wonders after a few quiet moments, voice high and thin. 

"Yes," comes Jon's soft reply, rich as butter. "I liked it. I, uh…" Martin can hear him swallow. "You're lovely."

Martin feels a smile dawn on his lips. "You're lovely too," he sighs, squeezing Jon tight. Jon makes an appreciative noise, nuzzling Martin's crown.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks, petting through the hair on the back of Martin's head. "Water, tea…?"

"No, thank you," Martin whispers, thumb sweeping soft arches over a knob of Jon's spine through his shirt. "I just want you, just like this."

"I should be able to manage that," Jon says, smiling into Martin's hair, "but perhaps you'd be more comfortable under the covers? Don't want you to get cold." He wiggles out of Martin's embrace to sit up, ignoring Martin's noise of protest. He scoots toward the headboard so he can slip his legs under the blanket, gesturing for Martin to do the same. 

He looks so soft like that, somehow, small body curled against the pillows as he beckons Martin over.

Martin gives Jon a lazy grin, crawling under the covers next to him. "You know, I like this side of you," he says as he settles against the pillows.

"And what side is that?" Jon leans over, arranging the duvet around Martin with a concentrated knit in his brow.

"The doting one," Martin says with the intention to tease, but it comes out as something softer; something that betrays his immeasurable affection. He looks up at Jon, at the coy smile he ducks his head to hide, like a plant looks to the light.

"I suppose you just...bring out the best in me," Jon admits, looking at Martin through his dark lashes. Martin reaches up to tuck some of Jon's hair behind his ear before sweeping him into a kiss. 

They sigh against each other, relieved and rosy. Jon wiggles closer, hooking a leg around Martin's hip and rolling on top of him. Martin loves the weight of Jon's body, slight but secure on his.

"Thank you," Jon mumbles, kissing Martin's top lip, then the bottom. "For showing me. It's nice to...to want to watch something good."

Martin hugs him and never wants to let go, pulling him into his chest. 'You're welcome,' seems like the wrong thing to say, so instead he answers, "It's nice to feel like something good."

Jon nuzzles his chest, thin arms curling around him tight. Martin smiles against Jon's crown, sated and happy, until Jon gets restless and flips their positions, pressing Martin's cheek to his chest and nuzzling the top of his head almost aggressively. If Jon is uncomfortable being pinned by Martin's weight, he doesn't show it, securing Martin's arm around his middle like a harness. Martin feels his heart beating against his ear, just this side of too quick and somehow still so soothing.

"I love you, Martin," Jon whispers against his hair, cupping the back of his head. "I do."

Martin smiles so wide his cheeks sting. "You've said that so many times tonight." He runs a hand up Jon's torso, careful of his missing ribs.

"You deserve to hear it." Jon twirls a strand of Martin's hair around his finger. "And I need you to know."

Martin clings to him, shutting his eyes. "I love you so much," he sighs, melting in the warmth of their embrace. He yawns, fatigue a comforting weight in his bones. He could sleep for a thousand years, just like this, lulled by Jon's hands and heart.

Jon kisses the top of his head. "You must be tired."

"Mmn." Martin yawns again, the sound muffled in the front of Jon's shirt. Jon brushes his lips over Martin's hair again, a featherlight finger zig-zagging over his back. Martin wonders if he's making up lines between his freckles.

"Sleep, Martin," Jon murmurs.

Martin cranes his neck, closing his eyes. "Kiss me goodnight."

When Jon tips his head down to kiss him, Martin can feel his smile. 

"Goodnight," Jon whispers against his lips.

Martin breathes out in something like relief, pressing his ear to Jon's chest again and twining their legs under the duvet. Jon puts one hand on Martin's arm where it rests over his narrow waist, the fingers on the other running through Martin's hair. Martin goes back to listening to his heartbeat. He's never felt so safe.

"Thank you for being with me," he mutters, on the verge of sleep.

Jon's chuckle rumbles against his cheek. "Nowhere else worth being," he says.