Archive of Our Own ^beta

Here are the first things Martin notices in Tim’s bedroom:

The messy bedspread. Not unmade; just not perfect and neat. Wonky enough to be human, proof of being lived in. 

The little cactus in the window. In, what Martin is delighted to discover, is a hand-painted pot.

And finally, a collection of photos on top of the dresser.

Left to his own devices while Tim makes a stop off in the bathroom, Martin wanders over to get a closer look. A haphazard set of various-sized frames, only five or six in total, but still endlessly charming. Martin doesn’t even own any actual picture frames, he doesn’t think, and here Tim is with a handful of them sitting in his bedroom, the place he sleeps.

Martin skims over a picture of a smiling couple holding a squashy-faced looking infant (Tim when he was a baby, no doubt). One that looks like Tim and Sasha at one of the Institute’s NYE parties. 

Angled vaguely behind that is a photo of Tim and a taller man who looks a lot like him; same tan skin, big smile, thick dark hair. A sibling? Does Tim have siblings? He’s never mentioned any, but then again it’s not like they’ve known each other all that long. Maybe it’s a cousin? Well, whoever it is, Martin doesn’t dwell. 

The next is Tim in a life vest standing in the middle of a group of rugged-looking, similarly vested people, all grinning for the camera and holding up a kayak in front of some gorgeous looking river that Martin assumes is out in the country somewhere.

And then— Martin can’t help it. He reaches out and gingerly picks up the last frame. 

“Snooping again?”

Martin turns to where Tim is standing in the doorway watching him. He holds out the picture, the one Sasha took, huddled around a table in an ice cream parlor August. He remember this: remembers her holding up her phone and demanding they all squeeze in around her to get in shot. “You had this framed?”

Tim shrugs. “It’s a good picture.”

Martin smirks. “Sap.”

Tim comes over and plucks the photo out of his hands, setting it back on the dresser. “First you come onto me, now you make fun of me? Mixed signals there, Blackwood.”

“Maybe I like my men sappy.”

That brings that cheeky grin flaring back to life on Tim’s face. “Rubbish dirty talk, but I’ll take it.”

“You— shush it,” Martin snaps, without any real bite and blushing like an idiot, reaching out to shove at Tim’s shoulder—

— except that when he tries, Tim catches him by the wrist, uses that momentum to pull Martin closer. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs, close enough for Martin to feel his breath on his own lips, and then he’s being kissed.

It’s not their first kiss of the evening, so this time Tim doesn’t bother being shy. He sinks right into it with a steady determination, and Martin is helpless to do anything but open his mouth to match his rhythm. Tim makes a low humming in the back of his throat sound that Martin swallows in his own mouth, sending a whisper of goosebumps spilling pleasantly down his spine.

Tim’s hands slide down his sides, squeezing his love handles, slip around to the small of his back. His broad palms hold Martin steady, bleeding warmth into his skin even through two layers of fabric, and Martin feels his pulse fluttering and picking up speed. He loops his arms around Tim’s shoulders, buries his fingers in his hair and holds on as Tim pulls him flush against his chest.

There’s intention behind every touch, making Martin shiver. It’s been a long time since he kissed anyone like this. Since he’s been kissed like this, hungry and unabashed about it. It wakes something in Martin from the inside out, heat unfurling in his belly and seeping out to his fingertips, making him buzz.

The kiss breaks when Martin has to pull away for air, sucking in a sharp breath against Tim’s lips. 

Tim huffs, sounding (to Martin’s utter delight) just as breathless as Martin feels. “Here, uh… Let’s—” he slips his hand up to Martin’s elbow, down to his wrist, his hand, starts to guide him back until his thighs bump against the edge of the mattress. “Might be more comfortable.”

Martin laughs quietly, heart rate picking up. He sits, shucking his cardigan (it’s just warm in here, really. That’s it) as he goes. The bed dips as Tim joins him, and Martin angles towards him, tucking one of his legs up under him to face him full on.

The corner of Tim’s lip quirks up, but they’re past the point of playful teasing. Or at least Martin is— he doesn’t have the patience anymore, so he just grabs him by the collar of that stupid, smart dress shirt he’s still wearing and tugs him in, lifting up on his knee for better leverage to drag him into another kiss.

Tim catches him by the waist and meets him head on, his hands slipping up under Martin’s T-shirt, skin-on-skin, fingers sliding up Martin’s spine, over his back rolls, settling dangerously close to sideboob territory.

(Martin has this vague idea of Tim honking his boob like a teenage boy rounding second base for the first time. And, god, it’s definitely been way too long since Martin’s gotten any, because he actually kind of wishes he would.)

Tim’s button down has come untucked and the top button undone since the start of the evening, which makes it easier for Martin to return the favor. Hand pushing up under his shirt, Martin splays his palm out on Tim’s stomach, rubbing the coarse hairs he finds there under his thumb and almost melts right there.

And, well, Martin’s seen Tim’s forearms when he rolls his sleeves up on hot days at work. He knows he’s… got some hair on him, but knowing this intellectually and getting to touch with his own hands are entirely different beasts. 

And. See. The thing is… Martin is very gay. He’s very, very gay, and they raised his dose of T two months ago, and frankly between the worms and living in the office it’s not like he’s had any opportunities to, er. Take care of himself anytime in the last few weeks.

(He tried, once, a few days after he moved into document storage, late at night after even Jon had finally packed up and gone home for the evening. But whenever he’s down in the archives it just feels like he’s being watched and with that and all the dusty old boxes of spooky stories, the whole place is a real boner killer, frankly.)

Martin leans back just far enough to get his fingers on the buttons of Tim’s shirt. There’s not exactly a subtle and sexy way to do this, so he just has to hope that his particular brand of greedy hunger is good enough in its own way, and starts undoing them from the top down, fingers shaking.

Tim gives him a dazed, wild grin. His voice, when it finally comes out, is marvelously gravely. “Just going for it, huh?”

Martin’s hands still momentarily on the third button down. His eyes flick up to Tim’s, and he’s glad he’s already too flushed from all the snogging to blush about this. “I-is that okay?”

Tim lifts one of his hands up, thumbs along Martin’s cheek and runs his fingers fondly up through his hair. “Definitely,” he croaks. “More than okay. Absolutely grand, really.”

Martin leans in for another kiss to seal his nerves, landing a little messy on the corner of Tim’s mouth, before he gets back to it. He undoes the last button, pushes his shirt open, and, oh, hello, finally. Martin follows a trail of dark hair down from Tim’s sternum to where it vanishes into his pants, feeling all of the sudden like there’s not enough air in the room. 

Tim helpfully strips his shirt the rest of the way off, and Martin finds his hand pressing into Tim’s pec, thinks maybe he might be the one about to honk a boob.

He has to hold back a giggle at that, biting his lip against a giddy grin.

Tim knocks his chin with a knuckle. “What?”

Yeah, Martin’s not about to elaborate on that particular train of thought. Instead he just leans in and steals another wet, lingering kiss. “Nothing.”

Tim seems properly mollified when Martin pulls back, a shuddering exhale following Martin’s lips. “Do you, uh. I-I mean, I don’t want you to… T-to do anything that you might not be comfortable with, um. B-but… Are you gonna take yours off, too? Do you— Would that be, like, bad for dysphoria?”

And oh, no, Martin was wrong, he absolutely can blush harder. “N-no! Th-that’s, er. That’s fine. I mean, they’re not my favorite things in the world, but… I.” Oh, god. How mortifying it is, to have to actually ask for what he wants. This is why he never gets laid. “I actually like it when…” He swallows. “W-when people, uhm. P-pay attention to them.”

And at least Martin gets the consolation of seeing Tim’s cheeks stain dark with blush, too. “Cool,” he breathes. “Great. Perfect.”

And this time Martin doesn’t try to fight his grin. Well, no reason to stall, is there? Leaning back on his thighs, Martin grabs the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head until he’s left in just his too-tight sports bra and sweatpants. It was already warm in the room before you add the combined body heat of two sweaty, horny grown men, but Tim still shivers, drinking in Martin just like Martin just did to him.

Martin swallows again, throat bobbing. “There’s really no sexy way to do this next part,” he warns, half-joking, before he wiggles and wrestles himself out of the bra, too.

“Wrong,” Tim tells him, staring in a way Martin might hate in any other context. “That’s definitely sexy.”

And really, what is Martin meant to do now but dive right back in?

Bare chest to bare chest, every one of Martin’s nerve endings come alive. The flood gates are less-than-metaphorically opening. Trading deep, messy kisses back and forth, they maneuver back on the bed until they’re right up against the pillows. Martin knows where this is going (he’s the one who told Tim to take him to bed, after all) but it still sends a jolt of expectancy radiating out from somewhere behind his ribs.

Maybe Tim feels it, too, because he lets their next kiss end slowly, leaning back and tilting his head. He takes a moment to study Martin, eyes alert and dark, lips shiny and wet. Martin wonders if he’s supposed to suggest they turn the lights out, but can’t quite make the words come. He likes looking, wants to be able to see him through this, doesn’t want to be in the dark.

“This okay?” Tim breathes out.

Martin nods. This, all of it, it’s more than okay. “Yes. Yeah, absolutely. Um, with you, too? Y-you want to do this?”

“Oh, god yes.”

Martin feels himself grinning like an idiot. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Tim agrees, smiling, too.

They kiss, again, but this one is faster and less needy than the others, and when it ends Tim puts hand on Martin’s shoulder so he can’t follow after him for another. 

Gently, Tim pushes him backward, lays him back against his fluffy down pillow, hovers over him at arm’s length with his fingers still splayed protectively over Martin’s clavicle. Martin hums, confused, makes a vague attempt to push himself up, but Tim doesn’t let him.

“No, it’s okay. Stay there. Just…” And now that Martin’s looking, really looking, he can see the something like pleading in his eyes, the hunger painted over every inch of his face. “Let me take care of you?”

Any thought Martin might’ve had forming in his head screeches to a grinding halt. Martin is not, historically speaking, any good at letting himself be taken care of. It goes against some instinct deep at the core of him. 

And yet… 

Somehow, Tim’s words immobilize him, gluing him to the spot as he stares, awestruck, up at Tim. He thinks his brain might be about to leak out of his ears. He’s definitely leaking something else somewhere a little further down south. 

“O-okay,” he finally manages to stammer, nodding jerkily.

Tim’s face blossoms into a positively delighted grin. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and he does sound genuinely grateful, before he dips down to reward Martin with another kiss.

He starts at Martin’s lips, but makes a steady path with down to his jaw, under his chin and onto his throat, making Martin’s breath catch under his hot mouth. He kisses steadily down his neck, bites down determinedly on the tender skin below Martin’s Adam’s apple.

Martin actually gasps, fingernails digging into Tim’s shoulders and eyes squeezing shut. Tim gives a delightful suck, biting down harder, and it feels so goddamn fucking fantastic it takes a minute for Martin’s brain to catch up with what’s happening and realize—

“Hey!” Martin shoves at Tim’s shoulders, dislodging him. “No hickeys, Tim!”

“Aww.” Reluctantly, Tim leverages himself up, looking way too pleased with himself for Martin to believe the pout he puts on. “Why not?”

Martin huffs. “Are you kidding? Imagine what would happen if we come into work together on Monday and I’ve got—” he waves his hand vaguely— “right where everyone can see. I’d never be able to face Jon and Sasha again.”

“So we’re coming in together on Monday, now? Does that mean you’re staying the weekend?”

“Not if you bruise my neck up, I’m not.”

“Okay, okay.” Tim sighs. “I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

Tim’s eyes flick over Martin’s face, and he softens. “Seriously, tell me if I do something you don’t like, yeah? I’ll stop.”

And now Martin feels himself soften, too. (Metaphorically, at least. Certain parts of him are still plenty stiff.) “I know, Tim.”

“Good.” Tim smiles. And then the smile turns cheeky, and then downright devious. “So, no hickeys where the boss can see, huh? That’s the rule?”

Martin’s toes curl, something like anticipation shooting through him. “Yeah.”

“Perfect.” And with that, Tim swoops back down, kisses his way from Martin’s neck to his collarbone, down to his chest, where he bites down again a few inches shy of Martin’s nipple. “This okay, then?”

It’s so okay Martin has to work his jaw for a solid three seconds before any actual words make it past his lips. “Yes.” He shudders. “Yes, god, yes, please—”

Tim doesn’t need convincing. He takes Martin’s breast into his mouth, sucks a bright red bruise into the skin, cupping the other in his hand and squeezing. 

(God bless him, he actually did find a way to make boob honking sexy.) 

Martin’s thoughts go hazy and his eyes flutter shut, breathing hard with his head thrown back. He feels Tim moving on, leaving a trail of blotchy marks in his skin until— finally— he pulls Martin’s nipple into his mouth, squeezing it just so with his teeth, not enough to really hurt but just enough to make Martin’s whole chest shake, only to follow with a soothing glide of his tongue.

Martin’s never been a person who’s particularly… vocal during sex. He’s usually quiet, doesn’t really have a hard time keeping himself contained, but— 

“Tim,” Martin chokes out, “god, fuck, Tim—”

Tim’s mouth comes away with a wet pop that might make Martin laugh if he wasn’t wrecked enough to be dizzy with it.

“I said I’m going to take care of you,” Tim murmurs gently, lips quirking in a smile, and all Martin can do is nod: agreement, confirmation, a plea for him to keep going.

And, luckily, Tim obliges. He gives Martin’s nipple one last parting nip, then keeps going, lips trailing down Martin’s stomach, following his happy trail like— well, like a trail, he guesses. His capability for simile is pretty much out the window at the moment. Tim’s thumbs glide along Martin’s waist, dipping just under the band of Martin’s sweatpants. 

Tim looks up, licks his lips, meets Martin’s eyes. “May I?”

Martin nods, too gone to find any shame for his enthusiasm. Tim bites his lip as he pulls down Martin’s sweats, Martin wiggling a little to help him get them off quicker. The boxers come off next, Martin shimmying them down to his knees and Tim slipping them down off his ankles where they drop onto the floor.

Naked and bare on Tim’s bed, Martin can’t help but feel vulnerable, something small and anxious in his chest stirring and fluttering behind his ribs. Martin likes his body, even likes the way he looks naked (would like it better without the tits, admittedly, but NHS waiting lists mean that’s still a long way off) but.

Martin grew up trans and gay and fat, so. There’s always that moment of fear, when he gets naked in front of someone, that the reaction won’t be what he hopes for.

But then Tim full body shudders, letting out a ragged breath, looking down at Martin like he’s a bowl of gourmet gelato that he can’t wait to dig into. “God,” he breathes, leaning a hand on Martin’s knee like he needs it for support. “Look at you.”

So the anxious beast dies a quick death in Martin’s belly, smothered out by a ravenous, quivering want. Tim stands, kicks his own slacks off, repositions himself on the bed between Martin’s legs, lets Martin rest his right calf on his shoulder. Continuing on his campaign to touch his lips to every inch of Martin’s body, Tim turns and kisses the soft skin by Martin’s left knee, making Martin full body shiver.

Agonizingly slow, Tim keeps kissing down Martin’s thigh, getting messier and longer the lower he goes, until he stops to suck another purple-red bruise onto Martin’s thigh, all teeth and tongue and spit, and. 

God. 

Martin stops trying to track his progress, can only throw his head back into the pillow, hissing a ragged breath, hips thrusting weakly upward of their own accord. Martin’s wet enough he’s got to be dripping onto Tim’s sheets by now, but Tim doesn’t seem to be in any kind of rush. 

The closer he gets the slower he seems to move, taking Martin’s bare skin in his mouth centimeter by centimeter until. Finally, Martin feels teeth and soft lips grazing the junction between Martin’s trembling thigh and his mons, and then.

And then he slips one of his hands up around to hold onto Martin’s thigh, lays down on his stomach, and wastes no more time in burying his tongue between the folds of Martin’s labia, licking up the shaft until he reaches his clit in one fluid, languid motion.

A sharp breath punches its way out of Martin’s throat, his back arching. Encouraged, Tim hums between his legs. His teeth graze over soft foreskin, and then he takes Martin’s entire T dick in his mouth, swallowing him down.

His whole world falling away from him, Martin clings to anything his hands can find: the sheet, and then Tim’s hair, tugging hard enough he worries it might hurt until he feels Tim shudder and actually moan against him, which is. Fucking hell. Martin’s really not going to last very long at all if Tim keeps up like this, is he?

It’s a good thing Martin’s already lying down, because his legs are practically turned to jelly, trembling around Tim’s ears, his chest heaving as he gasps and hitches with Tim’s every movement.

Tim tongues determinedly at Martin’s clit while he lips stay wrapped around his dick. Martin can’t stop his hips from bucking up to meet Tim half way, but Tim doesn’t seem to mind. His thumb digs into Martin’s thigh, like maybe he needs something to hold onto, too, and.

And Martin can’t even follow that train of thought because he’s already about half a second away from seeing stars, thank you very much.

Tim hums appreciatively, pulls back just far enough to free up his lips to talk. “Christ,” he breathes, voice raw and ragged like he’s been swallowing sandpaper, bringing his free hand up to run his fingers through the wetness, spreading him open. “You’re so good. Jesus, Martin, you’re doing so fucking good.”

And it’s like those words shoot a white, hot arrow all the way through Martin’s body, burning through his chest down to pool in his belly and into his legs, his whole pussy throbbing with it, dick actually twitching against Tim’s lips. 

“Fuck,” Martin hisses, because he doesn’t have anything else, can’t even begin to describe the new levels of turned on Tim’s managed to trigger.

Tim seems to get it, though, because he keeps murmuring things like that, tells Martin how well he’s doing, tells him how good he tastes, how nice he feels. Martin might return the favor if he thought himself capable of forming speech, but as it is he’s not even sure he’d remember his own name if asked, let alone how to produce a full sentence.

The hand not still buried in Tim’s hair clutched tightly in the pillowcase, but Tim makes a blind grab and manages to pull it down, tangling their fingers together. “Is that good?” He asks, mouth still tantalizingly close to him, and all Martin can do is nod breathlessly. “Are you close?”

Close? Martin is so far past close. He’s pretty sure the only reason he hasn’t finished yet is because his clit is stalling to get more time with Tim’s smart tongue.

“Yeah?”

Another, jerky nod.

Tim hums sweetly. “Can you be good and come for me, then?”

And, well. 

How can Martin be expected to do anything else but oblige? 

Martin arches up to meet Tim’s mouth one last time as he tips over and heat spills through his whole body. 

With a gasping intake of breath, his body spasms and goes rigid, legs trembling as Tim strokes him gently, coaxing him back to earth. Finally, the last aftershock recedes, and Martin melts, boneless, panting like he just sprinted up five flights of stairs.

The world comes back into focus in bits and pieces, still feels hazy and indistinct around the edges when Martin finally opens his eyes again. 

Lazily, he lifts his head, blinks slowly down at Tim. Finds him looking up at Martin from between his legs, chin damp and shiny from Martin’s own wetness.

“You, er…” Martin clears his throat, laughs weakly. “You’re really good at that.”

Tim’s face splits into a grin. “Why thank you. I do try.”

Martin doesn’t even have it in him to tease. His whole chest is glowing, brain still shot through with happy pleasure. “Well. Y-you definitely succeed. Gold stars all around, A-plus, for sure.”

Tim looks like the cat that got the cream, flushed and delighted. He wipes his mouth shamelessly on the back of his arm, levers himself up onto his knees. 

As he crawls closer to Martin, he’s rewarded with the gratifying sight of Tim, hard and straining against his boxers, a little wet spot by his left thigh where precum dribbles down his leg. Martin feels his own dick give one last feeble twitch at the sight, a delighted little shiver that has his legs clenching again.

Tim drops down onto one elbow and kisses Martin indulgently. He still tastes a little salty from being down in Martin’s business for the better part of ten minutes, which Martin’s not terribly fond of. He isn’t exactly a fan of tasting himself, but decides it’s worth it for another shot at that marvelous fucking tongue.

He can tell Tim’s trying not to seem too desperate, but. Martin can feel his bulge against his hip, and even though he knows Tim won’t push for more, would roll over right now and go to bed with the world’s bluest balls if Martin said he was done for the night, he definitely is a little desperate.

And, god, with a mouth like that Tim should get a million orgasms. And maybe even some kind of Nobel prize for pussy eating.

“I brought condoms,” Martin blurts, throwing subtlety right out the window. “Um. If you want to… you know.”

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up past his hairline. “You brought condoms?” He grins, even though his voice comes out breathy. “A bit presumptuous there, huh?”

Martin laughs. “Okay, don’t get a big head about it. I always keep some in my bag with me. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Tim mirrors.

“I like to be prepared.”

“Like the world’s horniest boy scout.”

Martin snorts, smacks Tim’s shoulder affectionately. “Sure. So is that… I mean, do you want to?”

Tim looks up at him, face softening (dick still plenty hard, though.) “You sure?”

Martin nods. “Definitely.”

Tim’s cheeks, still faintly pink, flare up bright and dark. “Yeah, I’d— god, yeah.” He clears his throat. “I, uh. I do have my own condoms, though.”

Martin feels himself flushing all over again, too. “Right, yeah. Probably better. Know they’ll fit, a-and. Stuff like that.”

“Right you are.” Tim pushes himself back up. “Sorry, I’m just gonna…” He braces himself with a hand on the mattress, then leans over Martin, pulling open a drawer in his bedside table and taking out a thin square package. He leans back onto his thighs, and Martin doesn’t try to pretend he’s not staring at his cock while Tim pulls a condom out and tosses the box back into the drawer, not bothering to shut it again.

Tim wiggles his hips. “Getting a good show there?”

Martin looks back up and meets his eyes without a second of hesitation. “I really am.”

Tim shakes his head fondly, and without further ado, he pulls his boxers down, and there’s his cock, sticking straight up and definitely still dripping, twitching and bobbing. He tosses his underwear aside and tears the condom open, rolling it hastily and eagerly over the head and down the shaft.

Impatient, Martin thinks, and then has to bite the inside of his cheek. 

Tim gives himself a few gentle strokes, shudders, and drops his hand. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Martin nods. “You?”

Tim exhales and shuts his eyes. “Very.”

And then Tim is back between his legs. Martin spreads his thighs to accommodate him, reaching down to make sure he’s still wet enough. (Yeah, definitely no problem there. Any wetter and Martin’s going to give this whole flat water damage.)

Tim tests the waters himself, he gently sticks a finger inside, then adds a second. He looks back to Martin, checking and double checking. It makes something deep in Martin break open, just a little, to have someone treat his body so reverently.

Martin nods at him, so Tim takes his fingers out, lines himself up, and pushes in.

Martin sucks in a sharp breath at the same time Tim lets a tiny, strangled moan slip out. Martin’s sure he can’t even be fully out of his refractory period yet, but he’s pretty sure he’s already half-hard again just from that bloody noise.

Tim starts off slow, easing into it, making sure Martin’s still comfortable, but eventually Martin feels when the sensation overwhelms him and tugs him under. 

On his elbows above Martin, Tim’s eyes squeeze shut, and he tips his head forward to press into a deep, devouring kiss. He has a hard time keeping the kissing up; unlike Martin, Tim is… vocal. He keens every couple of seconds, breath hitching and gasping and catching in his throat as he thrusts in, so eventually he gives it up and drops his head against Martin’s neck, and Martin buries his fingers back in Tim’s hair to hold him safe.

Martin has never been able to come from inside. He’s never been able to locate anything like a G-spot in his hole, but that’s okay. All Martin wants right now is to make Tim feel good, likes the feeling of Tim being inside him anyway, just knowing he’s the one making those sounds come out of him. He doesn’t need to come again tonight if he can get Tim wheres he needs to go.

But Tim, overachiever that he is, has other plans. Even practically flopped against Martin’s chest and swimming in his own pleasure, Tim manages to sneak a hand between their bodies and find Martin’s swollen clit again.

Martin hisses and arches up into him, rocking his hips in a way that seems to be a big hit based on the way Tim manages a strangled, “oh, god,” against Martin’s ear.

Martin is more lucid this time, even with Tim determinedly pushing down on his dick and grinding orgasm number two out of him. He turns some of the things Tim said earlier over in his head, thinks about how he wants Tim to feel just as good as Tim made him feel. 

“You feel so good,” Martin tells him. He’s not normally good at dirty talk, but that’s not exactly what this is, is it? This he can do. This, he’s discovering, he likes to do. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“Please.” Tim pushes in harder, more enthusiastically.  “God, please—”

Encouraged, Martin turns so his lips ghost over Tim’s ear, running his hand up and down Tim’s spine. “You’re so good,” he murmurs, “You’re so good, good boy—”

And, yep. Tim almost shouts at that, a wordless, garbled groan. Seems Martin really hit the nail on the head there. He’ll need to be careful or it’s really gonna swell his ego.

He wants to keep telling him how well he’s doing, wants to keep filling Tim up with that same warmth he felt. But the more Tim rubs him off, the closer he gets, the more fractured the words come, until they break off entirely into his own quiet, strangled gasps.

Martin comes again before Tim does, but the way he squeezes tight around Tim has him crashing over to join him a few seconds later.

“Oh, f-fuck, Martin, I’m—” is all he manages to get out, and then he’s groaning and grinding down, burying himself balls-deep inside Martin and shuddering, breath hot and ragged where he’s still tucked up against his neck. 

Finally, he thrusts in and out a few more times, slow and delicate as he he comes, riding it out till the end while Martin holds him tight until he goes still and relaxes. 

With one explosive, shuddering sigh, he drapes himself over Martin from groin to chest, skin pressed together in sweaty, sticky warmth. 

Eventually heaving chests fade to sleepy, contented breaths. Tim hums, pushing himself up and easing out of Martin. Gratifyingly, he still looks a little shaky when he moves. Martin smiles privately to himself, inordinately pleased as he follows Tim up into a sitting position. 

While Tim removes and ties off the condom, Martin pushes his bangs off his clammy forehead with his fingers. “You’re all sweaty.” 

Tim’s eyes flick up to his and he smirks, pink in the cheeks. “You’re one to talk.”

Martin laughs quietly. “Yeah, well. You come twice in ten minutes and see how you feel.”

Tim’s answer to that is to lean in and kiss him. This kiss— compared to the last few they traded, at least— is a careful one. More chaste. It’s different, kissing him now, in the afterglow. Feels fragile, somehow; almost delicate.

Still, Tim looks content when they break apart. “You can use my shower, if you want,” he offers, “go get cleaned up while I change the sheets.”

A real proper shower sounds divine right about now. He’s been using the scary decontamination shower in Artifact Storage for the last week. “You don’t mind?”

“‘Course not.” His smile turns mischievous. “Maybe I’ll come join you.”

“That would be counterproductive to the whole ‘getting clean’ thing.”

Tim sighs like the drama queen he is. “Fine, fine.”

Tim climbs off the bed, stretches his arms over his head, and Martin gets to see every inch of exposed skin and dark body hair. He might be staring, but Tim doesn’t seem like he minds.

And, okay. Martin tears his eyes away, because looking at Tim like this is also really counterproductive to actually cleaning up. They have all weekend, he reasons. No need to overdo it on the first night. 

He slips out of bed, gingerly collects his discarded clothes, touches a hand to Tim’s back on his way by, just ‘cause he can.

It’s a little awkward walking naked down the hallway to get his bag from the guest room, then down to the bathroom, but the hot water hitting his skin feels almost as good as the sex, and Martin lets himself indulge in a longer shower than he’d normally take.

When he steps out, boneless and heavy and content, he doesn’t bother getting dressed, just pulls on a new pair of boxers. Tim’s been in him, Martin’s not gonna feel self conscious sleeping mostly naked.

Tim’s shirtless, too, when Martin comes back in, looking just as drowsy as Martin feels in a pair of navy flannel pajama bottoms on his freshly made bed.

His eyes drag up to meet Martin’s, and he smiles, crooked and sweet. “Nice PJs.”

“Thanks,” Martin says. “Yours aren’t so bad either.”

Tim’s smile turns sly, even with his eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. “Why thank you.”

“D’you mind if I turn the lights out?” Martin asks. “I-I’m about to pass out.”

“Please,” Tim sags back, leaning his weight on his hands. “I’m with you there.”

Relieved, Martin finds the switch, plunging the room into pleasant dark. It’s not complete; light from the world outside their cozy little bubble bleeds in around the blinds, and Martin thinks they might’ve left the living room light on if the telltale glow from down the hall is anything to go by, but it’s nice. Fuzzy around the edges, a comforting late night haze.

Tim pulls the blankets back, leaves one side open for Martin to slip in beside him, pulling off his glasses and leaving on on the bedside table so he can get cozy in bed. 

“I left some water on the nightstand,” Tim tells him. “And I can pop your old clothes in the laundry with the sheets tomorrow, if you want.”

Martin exhales slowly. He’s not used to being taken care of, but he really could be, if this is what it’s like, the honey-sweet feeling he gets whenever Tim does something good for him. Softly, he murmurs, “thank you.”

Under the thick duvet, Tim gropes for him, guides him closer with a hand on his shoulder. Martin swallows, shuffles quietly over, lets Tim pull him into his chest, legs tangling together. He’s warmer than the comforter, and his chest makes a decent enough pillow.

Martin’s always been prone to a bit of saccharine sentimentality, even without the post-coital oxytocin hurricane, so he lets himself squeeze Tim around the middle for a handful of seconds before he relaxes his hold.

Huffing quietly, Martin rubs his cheek on Tim’s chest. “You know what? I think you were right.”

Tim hums sleepily. “Yeah? ‘Bout what?”

“This was… exactly what I needed to help me relax.”

Tim’s laugh rumbles all the way through Martin where they’re pressed together. He wraps his arms around Martin’s shoulders and tugs him close, pressing a kiss to Martin’s temple. “Anytime, Martin. Always happy to help.”

“I might have to take you up on that.”

“I really hope you do,” Tim says around a yawn.

Martin’s eyes slide closed, reveling in the genuine delight he hears in Tim’s voice. Curled up close, skin on warm skin, Martin drifts, knowing tomorrow he’s going to get an entire day of peace before he has to worry about going back to real life. 

Maybe, if he’s lucky, Tim will make him tea in the morning. 

Maybe if he’s even luckier, he’ll even get to have Tim for breakfast.

“G’night,” Martin mumbles.

“Night, Martin.”

And so Martin sleeps, and for the first time since he heard that knocking on his door three weeks ago, it comes to him peacefully.