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“You’re quite sure this is what you want?”
“Yes,” Martin whispers fervently. He honestly can’t believe they’ve got this far, to Martin’s cramped flat in one of the less fashionable parts of London. He wishes he’d tidied up a bit more. Perhaps if he’d had more guests over lately. Or if he’s to be honest with himself, any guests at all.
Jon looks out of place perched in Martin’s worn desk chair, legs crossed primly. He doesn’t seem to notice the empty cans of Red Bull on the desk, nor the sock Martin had forgotten to shove under the bed. Something tells him there would be nothing under Jon’s bed but clear space, or perhaps a box of neatly stacked of statements, alphabetized by subject. Jon certainly doesn’t keep empty packets of crisps on his desk. Bugger.
“I want to hear you say it,” Jon says, and heat floods Martin’s cheeks. It’s not a question, or even a command. Martin will answer of his own free will, or not at all.
“I-I want you to do it,” he stammers. “To ask me.”
“What do you want me to ask you, Martin?”
Martin bites his lip, feeling the answer rise in him and fighting it down anyway. The answer beats against the cage of his ribs, surges against his lips and teeth, before he lets it out:
“Anything. Please, anything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Martin’s already breathing hard, the pleasure of obedience snaking into him, and he doesn’t know whether it’s the geas or his own kinks. Neither would surprise him.
Jon’s eyes search his face, traveling down his neck and over his body. Martin wonders what he sees, whether it’s his freckled skin, his faded Smiths t-shirt and jeans, or his body with its pudge around the middle. There’s no arousal in Jon’s expression, but his eyes are sharp with interest.
“How long have you wanted this?” Jon asks.
Martin licks his lips. “Wanted—you, or this in particular?”
“Both.”
Martin rakes a hand through his hair, worrying his lip between his teeth. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”
“Why?”
Jon seems genuinely confused, as if half the women at the Institute didn’t giggle when he walked past. Even Tim had once composed a drunken ode to the shape of his arse, though thankfully Jon hadn’t been present for that one.
“How do you not know?” Martin blurts out, then claps a hand to his mouth. “Er. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Jon says, his face still curious.
“It’s just... everything about you. Your eyes. The shape of your mouth. The grey in your hair—god, it does things to me, do you know that? It’s never quite the same, the sheen of it, and you’ve got new grey strands every day, just taunting me. Sometimes you forget to shave, and it’s in your beard, too.”
Martin feels his ears go hot, knows they’re turning pink at the tips, and that Jon won’t miss it.
“Is that it?”
Martin shoves his knuckles against his mouth, trying to keep the words in, but they pour out anyway. “N-no, not even close. There’s your voice, god, your voice. The way you enunciate, the tone, the timbre—I nearly got hard the first time you said hello. Had to think of, of spiders and things.”
He can feel Jon’s eyes on him as he worries at the bedspread with his fingers. “But that’s not the worst of it,” he confesses. “The worst is when you read a statement. You get this single-minded concentration as you read, and you get this little line between your eyes. But there’s power in the words when you read them, power that isn’t there when I do it. I could listen to you for hours.”
“Is that what you wanted from me? To listen?”
Martin shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “Not just that, no.”
Amusement creeps into Jon’s voice. “You’re going to make me ask.”
“I’d do anything you wanted,” Martin says. “If you asked.”
Martin risks a glance upward, finds Jon’s eyes alight with something he can’t place. Curiosity, he thinks. Confidence. The first inklings of power.
“You’ve thought about this, before. What did you think about?”
Martin bites his lip, hard. “I, I think about kissing you,” he blurts out. “I think about the way your mouth would feel against mine. Sometimes I look at your lips and wonder what they would feel like, against my mouth, my jaw, my neck. Maybe you’d be gentle. Or maybe you’d bite down, hard, where my neck meets my shoulder.
“You’d like that, would you?”
“Very much,” Martin confesses.
Before he can react, Jon leans in close. For a moment, Martin panics, but then Jon’s mouth is brushing against his, and his thoughts dissolve, overcome by sensation. He’s acutely aware of each gentle movement, the tip of Jon’s tongue coaxing him to part his lips. Martin’s hands fist at his sides as he holds still, letting Jon take his time exploring him, whimpering at the graze of teeth against his lip.
“What else do you think about?” Jon murmurs against his lips.
“Oh, god,” Martin whispers.
“I doubt God has much to do with it.”
Martin giggles despite himself. Jon’s eyes crinkle at the corners a bit, the closest to a smile Martin’s seen from him in what seems like ages. But he can feel the words being pulled out of him.
“I think about you sliding your hands under my shirt, pushing it out of your way. You could be soft, or you could use your nails, and—I wouldn’t have any control over it, I wouldn’t know what was coming.”
“Do it,” Jon orders.
Martin’s hands find themselves under his shirt before he can think about it. He feels the familiar soft skin, warm and a bit fuzzy. Would Jon even like hair? Or would he—
“Keep moving.”
The command snaps him out of his thoughts, and he runs his hands up his belly, pushing the shirt up as he goes. Jon’s eyes follow the trail all the way up to his chest. Martin pulls the shirt over his head.
“Are they sensitive?” Jon asks, eyes fixed on his chest.
“Very,” Martin admits.
“Touch them.”
Martin reaches lightly with the tip of one finger, circling around his pec until he brushes the nipple. It hardens almost instantly, and he teases it with the edge of a fingernail.
“Harder,” Jon orders, not taking his eyes off Martin’s chest.
Martin pinches it between his fingers, letting a soft sigh escape. He repeats the motion on the other side, feeling a thrill of arousal go down his spine.
This is real, he realizes. This is happening. There’s no going back to pretending he isn’t in love with his boss. No way to take away the fact that Jon’s seen him touching himself, rubbing his palm against his stiff nipples.
“What happens next, in these...fantasies of yours?” Jon’s tone is detached, but his eyes are still fixed on Martin’s hands as he touches himself.
“You—you use your mouth. Here.” Martin cups the soft skin of his chest.
“Get your fingers wet. Show me.”
A shiver passes over Martin’s frame despite the warm air. Looking up at Jon through the shield of his hair, he pops the tips of his first two fingers into his mouth.
Jon breathes in sharply, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Martin swallows around his fingers, then drags them back down his chest. They leave wet trails that break out in goose flesh until he reaches his nipple and pinches gently.
He knew it was coming, but he still gasps anyway, rubbing the firm bud between his fingers. He reaches up to dampen his fingers again before repeating the treatment on the other side.
“What would happen if I bit down? Show me.”
Martin pinches himself hard, head pitching back as he cries out, exposing his throat.
“Again,” Jon orders, and Martin obeys helplessly, squirming at the sharp pain. He can feel his cock twitching in his pants and wonders if Jon notices. He has to notice.
Martin almost doesn’t hear Jon’s next question, but he feels the tingle of compulsion.
“I—what?” he pants. He doesn’t adjust himself in his pants, no matter how much he wants to.
“What. Happens. Next.” John says, slowly but not unkindly.
“I, uh.” Martin’s mouth goes dry as his mind paints the picture: Jon’s hands pinning him down, taking what’s his without hesitation.
“When you get tired of—of teasing me, you take my trousers off, and my pants. I’m naked, and yours.” He feels himself flush at the admission. Somehow the sex stuff seems easier to talk about than his feelings. It’s normal to want to shag your boss, but not to want him to—to own you.
“Well?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Show me.”
Martin’s face grows even hotter, but his hands find their way to his belt, working it open so he can unbutton his jeans. It isn’t until then that he remembers what he has on under them.
Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. He squirms out of his jeans, stepping out of them and laying them at the foot of the bed.
“Somehow I’m not surprised,” Jon drawls.
Martin likes cute things. He’d been unable to resist the pants when he saw them, bright purple and covered in cartoon corgis.
“They—suit you,” Jon says, and Martin smiles shyly. “Do you want them off?”
“Yes, please,” Martin blurts out.
The pants go the way of his trousers, and suddenly Martin’s standing in front of his boss naked as the day he was born.
“May I?” Jon asks, and Martin nods, though he doesn’t know what Jon wants.
Martin’s not much to look at, and he knows it. Soft and fleshy where he’s meant to be firm, but Jon doesn’t seem to see him that way. Instead he runs his hands down Martin’s arms with an air of appreciation. His palm pauses at a patch of skin covered in tiny, perfectly round scars. He doesn’t remember what excuse he made up the last time someone saw him naked. He doesn’t need one now.
“I—” he begins, but then Jon bends down to kiss one of the scars on his shoulder, and he forgets his words. His chest aches from how tenderly Jon’s lips touch him.
Jon says nothing, continuing his inspection of Martin’s body. He steps behind him, running his hands through Martin’s hair, brushing his lips against the back of his neck. The touch makes Martin shiver. His body seems perfectly attuned to Jon’s attention, every inch of skin waiting for his eyes, his hands, his mouth. Anything Jon wants to give him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand ready for Jon’s touch.
His body craves Jon’s attention, and Jon gives it, inspecting Martin’s body as if it were a rare artifact. From the tiny scar at his hairline to the bruise on his left foot, Jon takes note of it all, demanding explanations as he goes. Martin finds himself telling stories he’d half forgotten, like the time he’d fallen out of a tree and cut his forehead when he was ten, or the empty kettle that fell on his foot last week. Jon’s eyes light up with each discovery, each explanation, and Martin can tell it only makes him crave more.
“Do you want to touch yourself?” Jon whispers against the shell of his ear.
All the breath seems to leave Martin’s lungs, his thoughts stuttering to a halt, except the yes the question rips from his half-willing throat.
Jon guides him onto the bed, arranging Martin’s body as he pleases: on his back, head propped on one pillow and his arse on another, thighs spread with Jon between them, watching. His eyes stay fixed on Martin’s face as Martin finally, finally wraps his fingers around his cock. After being hard for so long, the touch draws a low whine from him, and he bucks against his fist. Jon’s hand pins his hip to the bed, but he makes no other move to touch him.
“Show me what you enjoy,” Jon orders.
“My fingers are too dry,” Martin says, reaching for the bedside table. “Need a bit of—”
Without hesitation, Jon takes Martin’s hand and presses the first two fingers into his mouth. Martin gasps sharply. It’s the same hand he stroked himself with, and it must taste like—he shuts that line of thought down before he embarrasses himself all over the sheets. Jon’s tongue drags against the pads of his fingers, and he squirms. Jon is nothing if not thorough, and soon Martin is panting, and his fingers are perfectly wet.
“Better?” Jon asks.
Martin closes his hand around his cock, shivering at the cool slickness. “Y-yeah.” He can’t help but wonder if Jon’s mouth on his cock would feel as good as it did on his fingers, and his cock begins to leak beads of precome. But it’s not quite right, because he’s starting to feel...empty.
Jon seems to sense his frustration, because his eyes travel over Martin’s body and down between his spread thighs. They rest there as Jon says, “That’s not all you like, is it?”
“N-no,” Martin pants.
This time it’s Jon that reaches for the bedside table. He pops the cap and pours it onto Martin’s fingers, eyes following the path of Martin’s hand as he reaches for his exposed hole.
“How many can you get inside you?” Jon asks.
“Oh, god,” Martin whimpers. Part of him resists telling, but the words fall out of him anyway as he slides a fingertip inside. “I’ve—I’ve had four before. It felt...so much. Like being touched in places I didn’t know existed.”
“Can you do it for me?”
“I don’t know if I can—” last, he almost says, but the real answer is, “Yes.” It comes out in a high whine as he slides two fingers into himself, staring at Jon’s hands as he does. Such long, clever, fingers. He’d make short work of Martin, finding all his weaknesses and exploiting them without mercy.
“You like being filled, don’t you?” Jon asks conversationally, running his hands along Martin’s legs. The touch lacks heat, but Martin burns anyway, straining for more contact even as he pushes his fingers deeper. Jon grips his thighs, pulling them farther apart, so far Martin feels the strain in his hips, but they both need Jon to see, to watch, to know.
“I do,” Martin confesses. “So much…”
“Do you think about me doing this to you?”
“Yes," Martin half sobs, working in a third finger. His hole grips it greedily, so tight he can barely move. It’s been a long time since he did this.
“Tell me.”
“I, I think about you bending me over your desk. You don’t waste any time, just shove my trousers down, spit on your fingers, and shove them in. It hurts, but it’s so good. Sometimes you give me your cock, but other times you make me fuck myself on your fingers.” Martin closes his eyes, recalling the fantasy. It pales in comparison to this.
“Eyes open,” Jon demands. “I want you to see this.”
Martin bites his lip hard. Jon’s face is rapt as he stares down at where Martin’s fingers enter his own body. Martin rubs his thumb along his perineum, teasing his rim. He can feel Jon’s gaze against his skin as vividly as if they were touching.
“Hungry thing,” Jon whispers, and Martin clenches tightly around his own fingers. “You can take more, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
Jon pours out more of the lube, getting it on Martin’s hand, his hole, the sheets. It feels dirty and perfect as Martin works the tip of his pinky inside. It’s a stretch, but the look on Jon’s face is worth it as he slides all four fingers in.
“You’re doing so well,” Jon murmurs.
Martin’s free hand drifts back to his cock, and he works up a shaky rhythm. He shudders, caught between the hand on his cock and the one in his arse, unable to choose which one he wants more. All the while, Jon keeps asking questions.
How does it feel?
Are you always this loud?
How often do you think of me?
The answers spill from Martin’s lips until he can’t form the words, just formless whimpers as Jon’s eyes bore down on him.
Finally Jon says, “Now, Martin.”
And Martin comes so hard his vision goes white, leaving only the after-image of Jon’s eyes on his.
When he comes to, Jon is pulling a blanket over both of them. He helps Martin ease his fingers out, catching the slight wince on his face but saying nothing. Somehow he found a cloth, and he uses it to clean him gently. Martin finds himself with his face pressed against Jon’s shoulder, wrapped in his arms. He doesn’t recall ever feeling so warm, so comforted, as he does now.
“That was…” Jon says, then stops. His arms tighten around Martin.
“Yeah,” Martin agrees, nuzzling Jon’s neck. Jon is still fully dressed, but it doesn’t bother him.
“You’re sure it was alright?”
“It was...perfect.”
“Ah,” Jon says against his hair. “Very well, then.”
“And you?” Martin asks.
“Likewise.”
Jon drops a kiss on the top of Martin’s head, and Martin snuggles in deeper to the blankets, feeling safe and known, down to his bones.