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In hindsight, it doesn’t seem like a big thing. It’s not difficult to notice how lonely and miserable Martin is, living in the archives and all. He always seems sadder when the clock nears 5 PM and everyone starts gathering their stuff and getting ready to leave. Well, everyone but Jon, though Tim supposes Jon isn’t necessarily grand to have around as a companion, all grumpy, stressed and snappy.

He feels bad for Martin, he really does, and he finds himself staying longer, chatting away about nothing in particular, throwing jokes around, just trying to make him smile. Unfortunately, it’s not like he can stay long every day and it’s not like the office or Martin’s cot in the storage room are great hang out spots. He knows Martin can sense when he’s thinking about taking off, it’s painfully visible in the way the light leaves his eyes, leaving him dim and dull. He tries to hide it, the disappointment, be grateful for what he gets, of course he does, but it still shows here and there. So, on a Friday afternoon, Sasha and even Jon long gone, he thinks about asking him out to the pub, but it somehow doesn’t feel like Martin’s scene. Still, he wants to do something, anything, to get him out of the archives.

That’s how they end up on the small field near Tim’s house on Sunday afternoon, playing rugby with some of his gym mates. Again, it doesn’t feel like this should be Martin’s scene – Tim panicked and invited him to the first thing that crossed his mind – but he seems to be having a good time. The game just started and they’re on opposing teams. Tim keeps running, keeps doing all the things he’s supposed to, but can’t focus, can’t get himself into the right headspace.

“Wake up,” says one of the guys, someone who Tim doesn’t know very well. “It’s like you’re on autopilot today.”

He isn’t wrong. Truth be told, this is all Martin’s fault. Martin and his uncanny determination, the way he gives more than would be expected for a friendly Sunday game. Martin, who’s sticking out his tongue in concentration, who’s shouting at his teammates, directing them around, taking on the role of a leader. Martin who curses under his breath when they lose a point. And the shorts he’s wearing should be illegal, truly, so short and fitted.

It’s not a revelation to Tim – Martin is hot and he’s kind and Tim likes him a lot. It’s more about the fact that Martin is usually quiet and soft, voice sometimes barely louder than a whisper (especially if he’s talking to Jon). This Martin is intense and bossy and seems to know exactly what he wants, and his eyes are twinkling with joy. Tim smiles at the thought and then is brought back to reality by a hard object hitting his chest.

He looks down to see he’s grasping the ball in his hands. And a few fairly decently built men, including Martin, are charging in his direction. Tim runs like hell, trying to locate someone from his team to throw the ball to, but they’re all covered, or God knows where, and it seems he’s on his own. There’s no way he’ll make it, he knows that, but the adrenaline is pumping through him and he’s going to try anyway. For a wild second he thinks he’s got it. Then he feels something collide with his middle, and he stumbles, falling forward and dropping the ball as he goes.

To his surprise, the sound that escapes his mouth is less of pain and more of pleasure. It sounds like a moan, really. Sure, the collision with the ground hurt and his side is pulsing with a dull ache but there was something about the display of power, of strength, and the thin line between anticipating the touch and being surprised by it. Tim’s cheeks burn bright as he wriggles underneath the other man, scrambling desperately to get up.

And then he hears a familiar voice.

“Really, Tim?”

Of course it’s Martin. His tone isn’t… mocking or malicious, more surprised than anything else. A bit teasing. When Tim finally gets a good look at him, his face is red, tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and his brows are furrowed. Tim doesn’t fight nearly as much as he should as they both lurch forward to grab the ball. Martin takes it and just like that, he’s off in the other direction, running as fast as he can. It takes Tim a hot second to get off the ground, and even when he does get back in the game, he can’t quite stop thinking about how the weight of Martin’s body felt on his.

His team loses, in the end, but he cannot bring himself to care in the slightest. Martin looks ecstatic, jumps up a little where he stands, and then he’s running towards Tim, their bodies colliding so hard Tim stumbles backwards with the impact. Martin’s mumbling something, but it’s distorted, muffled by where his mouth is pressed to Tim’s shoulder. It’s so unlike him to be this forward. Still taken aback, Tim raises his hands to hug him back, but then Martin’s pulling away, which leaves them pressed close together, Martin’s face just inches away from his.

It happens in a fraction of a second. Martin leans in and kisses him, hot and passionate from the outset. Tim is a little surprised, again, Martin has never been the instigator, but adrenaline is still coursing through his veins. The sensation is heightened somehow, but not overwhelming, and his reflexes are all still good. He kisses back, whole body pressing forward and into Martin’s space.

The world comes back into focus when someone whistles.

“Get a room!” someone else shouts. Faint laughter follows.

So they do. Tim’s flat is closer, just down the road, and they hurry, almost half jogging, holding hands the entire time. As soon as the door is closed behind them, Tim pins Martin to it with the entire weight of his body, hands scrambling to catch his wrists. Martin has a different idea already, big palms roaming the expanse of Tim’s back, coming down, almost under the shirt, teasing, then back up, touching the hot body beneath just this side of too light. Tim groans and pushes back into the touch, letting the pressure his own weight was applying to Martin’s body lessen a little. Martin wastes no time, moving forward, slotting his strong thigh in between Tim’s legs, pushing against him.

Tim isn’t about to lose. He resists the urge to rub against Martin’s thigh. Instead, he leans forward and presses his mouth to the side of his neck, nibbling and planting kisses, too light to actually leave a mark. The satisfaction he feels when Martin sighs audibly and cranes his neck slightly, exposing it more, is indescribable. He licks a stripe upwards, tasting sweat, blows air on it, while his hand slides down Martin’s stomach. He finally sucks on the flesh firmly, eliciting a moan from Martin, and his fingers slide past the waistband of his shorts.

“Tim,” he utters, and then, more forceful, “Tim, hold on.”

Tim pulls back, mourning the loss of contact, but intent on giving Martin space if he needs it. He’s about to ask what’s wrong but Martin speaks first.

“It’s nothing bad, I swear,” he says quickly, and Tim realises he must look worried. Martin gives him a sweet little smile. “It’s just that, uh, well. We’re both covered in mud still.”



Tim has already forgotten all about that, the game and all. He takes a second to take stock of his body and, well, Martin is right. His shirt is sticking unpleasantly to his stomach, and he can feel how muddy his knees and thighs are. They’re definitely in no fit state for his posh, crisp white bedding.

“Shower?” he asks, then, and Martin nods.

Tim takes him by the hand and leads him to the bathroom. It feels like they haven’t stopped touching since the kiss on the field, always connected somewhere, one way or another. He flicks the light on, thankful he left the flat in a presentable state, and turns to face Martin. Suddenly feels… Not shy exactly. Just acutely aware. Of Martin, flushed and lovely, right in front of him. Of himself and his body. He stares, unsure what to do next.

Martin makes the first move, pulling his shirt off and exposing his chest. His hair is ruffled, and Tim is mesmerised momentarily by the soft expanse of his chest and belly and he feels a shiver go down his spine. His eyes wander upwards and lock with Martin’s for a brief second. He can feel a blush prickle at his cheeks with how intense Martin’s gaze is, how focused and unyielding. When he breaks the contact to look down Tim’s body, where his shirt is almost soaked through with mud and sweat, clinging to his stomach, the tension doesn’t leave Tim. Somehow, he’s hyper aware of where he is and who he is with – not in a bad, anxious way, no. It’s just unexpected, is all, and he can’t quite put his finger on the reason.

The essence of Martin’s attention has never been his eyes. When Tim first met him, Martin didn’t really hold his gaze when they talked, never really looked, and if he did, it was brief and shy, his eyes mostly kept to the right of Tim’s face or fixed somewhere on the floor. Gradually, he’d settle into it and with time, he’d look Tim in the eyes more and more but that wasn’t what defined him as a careful listener. Martin was all about affirming little noises and detailed follow-up questions, all about taking in and remembering what was said to him, even if Tim didn’t think of it as that important. It showed when Martin would mention checking out the show Tim had told him about in passing, in pointing out something in the shop he thought Tim would like, that kind of thing. It was never about his eyes.

This is different. Martin is looking at Tim as his fingers dance around the hem of his shirt. His gaze is uninterrupted, focused on Tim like he’s sure it’s never been before, and there’s an equal measure of hunger and adoration in it. He’s silent, save for his irregular breathing, a bit louder than usual. The shift in how his attention is given makes Tim feel weak in the knees, shaking with anticipation and something else, something new. He’s not insecure, never has been, especially not around Martin; it’s more about the decisiveness of Martin’s gaze. Tim knows he’s noticeable, hell, he makes himself known to people all the time, so it’s a wonder, really, why being seen by Martin makes him react in this way.

Perhaps it’s the fact there is so much deliberation to their actions. For Tim, sex is about playfulness and self-expression and exploration and it’s spontaneous and fun, like a game of back and forth, action and reaction. This, in contrast, is slow and intimate, and it hits him that he’s never even shared a shower with someone who wasn’t his partner at the time – with the hook-ups , even the regular ones. But with Martin, as much as it is intense, it feels right. Safe.

He sighs, pushing the thought to the back of his mind, and pulls his shirt off with one swift motion. It’s Martin’s turn to stare at the expanse of his chest, defined where Martin is soft, sleek (but not sharp or angular) where Martin is round. He lets it fall to the floor and closes the distance between them, pressing in close, and his hands find their way to the waistband of Martin’s scandalously tiny shorts, where they linger, while he turns his gaze up and asks permission.

Martin nods, and it’s nice to see it’s affecting him too, cheeks rosy and lips slightly parted. Tim tugs his shorts down, along with his pants, and helps him step out of them, kicking them to the side. His own follow shortly and he tugs off his socks as well and just like that, here they are, standing in front of each other, chests almost pressed together. The only sound in the room is their heavy breathing, though it feels like the air should be buzzing with static.

It’s Tim who moves first, pulling the shower curtain to the side and stepping inside of the tub carefully. Martin follows, taking his extended hand, and they shuffle a bit, so that Tim is closer to the tap and the shower head. Even though the light is on, it feels separated and dark inside the tub with the curtain closed, making it even more intimate. After fumbling with the water temperature for a second, Tim places the shower head in its place, and turns around to face Martin, the stream a pleasant sensation on his back. He takes a step back and Martin follows, and Tim realises he doesn’t know what to do next, as if the concept of showering was as alien to him as astrophysics.

Turns out – and it should not be a surprise – that Martin looks adorable with his curls wet and plastered to his forehead. Tim smiles and raises his hand to stroke his cheek before leaning in for a quick kiss. At least he means for it to be short; doesn’t expect Martin’s hand to land on the small of his back, pressing their bodies closer together, doesn’t expect Martin’s tongue tracing his bottom lip. Tim feels the tension leave his body and he goes pliant in Martin’s embrace, whimpering softly into the kiss. He tries to shift a little, tries to push Martin’s thigh back between his legs, get any sort of friction, but as soon as he’s close to succeeding, Martin shifts and pulls away.

“Can I wash your hair?” he asks simply.

Tim just nods and turns around, catching just a glimpse of Martin squeezing some of his shampoo onto his palm. It’s nice, not seeing him for a second, just relishing in the feeling of the gentle pressure against his scalp. Martin’s fingers card through his hair slowly, dragging against the skin more than necessary. Tim leans back into the touch like a cat, eyes closed, allowing himself not to think just for a second.

Martin reaches for the shower head and gently rinses the shampoo out. Tim turns back around to face him, intent on reciprocating the gesture, but Martin kisses him before he can say anything. There are no barriers anymore, each kiss hungrier and messier than the previous one. Martin’s fingers land gently on Tim’s thighs, moving slowly upwards, ghosting over his hips and then the sides of his stomach. Tim is a bit ticklish there, wants to lean back to say so, but then Martin breaks the kiss, leaning down to suck on his neck, just under the jaw. His hands travel back down to Tim’s cock, rolling it between his fingers.

The sudden change in sensation gets a particularly loud moan out of Tim and he feels his cheeks turn bright red when he feels Martin smile against his skin. His fingers are a constant pressure on his cock, as are his lips on the sensitive skin of his neck, teeth scraping occasionally. Tim rocks his hips forward, meeting the movements of Martin’s hand, while he makes his way down Tim’s throat, suckling what will surely soon be purpling bruises.

It’s as frustrating as it is arousing. Intense and yet not enough. The hand on his cock is nice and Martin seems to know all the right moves to get him hard and trembling, but this isn’t truly what he wants. Tim whimpers high in his throat when Martin gives him a final squeeze and pulls back entirely. He’s not unaffected, but there is such a stark contrast between the two of them: Tim panting and dishevelled, Martin smirking and collected. Tim doesn’t have it in him to keep up appearances anymore. He looks at Martin expectantly.

“Let’s get this over with, hm?” he responds to what Tim intended to ask for, voice rough around the edges, but still sweet. “And then I can take care of you properly.”

They try to move quickly after that, both enticed by the promise of what’s to follow, and soon enough they’re out of the shower, big fluffy towel wrapped around them. They don’t bother drying themselves completely, there is no point to that, really, and soon enough Martin drops the towel to the floor and scoops Tim up in one smooth motion.

The display of strength is intoxicating. Tim wraps his legs around Martin’s waist and runs his hands up the back of his neck and into his hair, curling his fingers into the wet strands. He kind of expects Martin to throw him onto the bed, but he sets him down gently, lying him down and immediately crawling on top of him. His strong thighs lock Tim’s legs, the weight of his body pressing down on him, keeping him in place. His arms shoot up to pull Martin closer, and he wastes no time, leaning down to kiss Tim’s cheeks, then his neck, then moving lower down to his collarbones. He sucks another bruise there and his hand moves to Tim’s nipple, first tracing around it, then finally rolling it between his fingers. Tim arches up into the touch, writhing his hips helplessly.

“Tell me what you want,” Martin murmurs against his skin, shifting dangerously close to Tim’s other nipple.

“I want you to-” Tim replies immediately, cutting himself off with a moan when Martin’s lips close around his nipple. “Want you to fuck me, Martin, please.”

He’s surprised at how coherent he sounds, what with Martin’s undivided attention focused on his chest. Soon enough sentences turn into syllables and then into broken off moans, spilling constantly from his lips as Martin nibbles and sucks and pulls and even pinches. All the while Tim is trying with increased desperation to shift his hips, get some sort of friction, but Martin has planted himself firmly on them, preventing any attempts at disobeying him.

He pulls back, straightening up a little, and admires his work, now purpling in multiple bruises on Tim’s neck and chest. Tim makes a mental note to leave the top three buttons of his shirt unbuttoned at work tomorrow.

“I don’t think I will,” Martin says, voice rough.


“Fuck you, I mean.”

“What? Why? I mean, did I do something wrong? Do you not—Do you not want this?” There’s a panicked note in his voice, must be. Martin shakes his head, lifting himself off of Tim’s hips and sliding down to his knees beside the bed.

Tim props himself on his elbows, looking down. Feels like he must be looking at least a little dumbfounded.

“Tim.” Martin’s voice is low and steady, interrupting his increasingly hectic tirade. Even slightly confused, Tim can’t help but appreciate how hot it is, how unlike him, commanding and forceful. He shuts up immediately.

“Good boy,” Martin says then, softer, and Tim stifles a moan. He’s sitting on his thighs between Tim’s spread legs. There’s a beautiful blush going down his freckled shoulders and chest. “Maybe I phrased that wrong. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, okay?”

“O-okay,” Tim creaks out. He’s aware how open, how vulnerable he is. Even the slightest praise has left him dishevelled. He wants more, he needs more, but suddenly doesn’t know how to ask for it. Maybe doesn’t know what exactly he wants. He still trusts Martin is going to take good care of him.

Martin places a soft kiss on the inside of his thigh, so close to where he’s glistening and so wet already. “So here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to finger you open, get you nice and ready for me, then you’re going to show me to your toy collection, and I’ll pick something that I know will make you feel good, hm? And then… Then you’re going to show me how good you can be for me, how lovely, and you’re going to ride me. That sound good, sweetheart?”

Tim knows he’s expected to answer properly but all he can do at present is whimper. His hips twitch on their own accord as Martin goes on, voice low and beautiful as he fills his mind with promises of pleasure. Tim knows his voice is ruined for him forever from then on – he won’t ever be able to hear it casually, in passing, ever again, not without being immediately transported to this exact moment.

“Very good, Martin, yes, please,” he manages to say in the end, all high and needy and so unlike himself. Or the version of himself Martin knows.

Martin smiles up at him, nods his head slightly and within a moment he’s diving between his spread thighs, lapping up at his achingly hard cock where it’s standing out from its hood. This is his reward for being good, Tim is sure, because any and all of his previous teasing is gone. He sucks him into his mouth eagerly, hands ghosting up and down Tim’s legs, making him shiver all over. It’s intense, and so good, and Tim worries it might be over soon if Martin doesn’t cease with the relentless hot pressure of his mouth, with the occasional skilful scraping of his teeth on oversensitive flesh.

Tim makes the mistake of allowing himself to buck his hips up into his mouth when Martin pulls back slightly, chasing his high. He can’t really come like this, he knows that, needs a bit more stimulation to make it really worthwhile. Martin tuts disapprovingly and pulls away completely, ignoring the whine that follows.

“First and only warning,” he says, and Tim knows, somehow, deep down, that he absolutely means it. “That is, if you want to come tonight at all.”

“I do, Martin, I’m sorry, you just make me feel so g—”

“Then behave ,” he commands, and Tim is rendered speechless. He nods his head quickly.

“Going to finger you now. You’ll be good for me and stay still, yes? Take only what I’m willing to give you?” Again, Martin’s full attention, the intensity of his gaze, is focused solely on him. Tim knows he must be flushed all over. Still, the skin of his cheeks prickles under the gaze. Under the weight of the question.

“I’ll be good, I’ll try my best, I promise,” he assures.

“Is it okay, here? In the front, I mean?”

“Yes, that’s perfect, please, Martin, just—”

“Where do you keep the lube, then, love?” Martin asks with a smile. Tim is sure he’s taking great pleasure in his neediness and urgency; in the way he’s trying to move his hips in the direction of Martin’s hand without making it too obvious. He’s fairly sure Martin notices anyway.

“Ah, don’t need it, trust me, I’m already so open for you, just, please—” Tim whines. He wants to see, doesn’t want to even think about missing a second of what’s going on in front of him, but his arms are starting to hurt, much like his neck, from craning it down, trying so desperately to catch every glimpse of the beautiful sight Martin makes between his thighs.

“I can see that, sweetheart, you’re doing so well, so hot and wet for me, yeah? So beautiful.” Tim’s glad he’s switched back to praise already. As much as he enjoys getting bossed around and told off, being appreciated like this, even in the smallest detail, is what really gets him going. And he wants to impress. He wants Martin to be happy with him, proud of him.

“I think being extra careful doesn’t hurt, though, does it, love?” Martin continues and Tim understands there’s no use fighting him on this, especially not when his beautiful, thick fingers are tracing patterns so close to his hole. Almost there, but not enough.

“Under the bed,” Tim creaks out then, finally letting himself plop down on the mattress fully. “Cardboard box. Don’t say a word.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Martin replies, and Tim can hear a smile in his voice. He doesn’t comment any further, devoting himself to finding said box, judging by the noises.

As much as he enjoys looking, not being able to tell when the next touch is going to come has a particular impact on him, much like on that field, like in the shower, still high on adrenaline and this newfound attraction. He can tell Martin is slicking up his fingers judging by the wet sounds of it, more thoroughly than Tim knows is needed. Still, it’s nice to know he cares. That he wants him to feel only good.

He’s right. Martin doesn’t warn him this time before he presses the tips of his two fingers to his hole, though he waits a second, giving him time to say no, to ask, to adjust. Tim doesn’t even think about it. He’s been achingly empty since this whole thing started, longing for Martin, for his fingers or his cock to fill him up, fuck him, shake any coherent thoughts right out of him.

He moans, high and needy, when Martin’s fingers breach him, pressing past the tight ring of muscles. His other hand is splayed on Tim’s quivering thigh, moving in small, soothing motions. It takes all of Tim’s self-control not to urge him on, demand he moves his fingers, stretches him out quick and filthy and gets on with fucking him. He stills himself as Martin pushes his fingers all the way in, palm of his hand almost pressed right against him, making sure he’s not moving his hips down on it, waiting instead for what Martin is willing to give him.

It pays off. At first, Martin fucks him slowly, withdrawing his fingers and pressing them back in at a maddening pace, not spreading them much and Tim wants to whine. He wonders briefly if Martin is waiting for him to ask for more, and he decides he might as well try, make it as polite and nice as he can. He needs to be filled, stretched just a tad further than it would be considered for complete comfort, and Martin’s two fingers, as lovely as they are, are just not enough for that.

“Martin?” he asks, voice soft and quivering. Martin’s picking up the pace now, crooking his fingers slightly upwards, spreading them at every other thrust and it makes Tim keen loudly.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Can you, um. Can you please give me more? I need it, I need you, feels like I’m going to explode from all this build-up, really. You’ve no idea, Martin, the effect you have on me…” He’s only semi-aware that he’s babbling, his attempt at nice and polite long forgotten. There’s no response from Martin, except for a pointed thrust of his fingers, which makes Tim choke up for a while.

“A-and your voice,” he continues when he comes back to himself. “The way you call me these lovely names. Praise me. I adore that, Martin, and I adore you, so lovely and beautiful and—”

He’s promptly interrupted by a third finger being pressed alongside the two, pushing quite easily past his entrance. He wants to beg by this point, tell Martin he’s ready, but the fullness feels exquisite, finally filled almost as much as he needs.

Martin makes a quick work out of it afterwards, fucking him fast and rough on his fingers for another minute, and then he withdraws them, wiping them on the towel. Tim wants to whine at the loss, but he also knows it means he’s going to get something even better in a second. He pushes himself back up on his elbows to see Martin fastening the strap securely on his hips. He gets up then, eyes hungry and fixed on Tim, and moves quickly to the bed, settling with his back pressed against the bed frame.

He doesn’t need to say anything – Tim knows what’s expected of him. He turns over quickly and crawls over the bed to him. He knows Martin wants him to ride him, instructing him to do as much, but he’s always been a little dramatic, a show-off. A brat, some would say. And then there’s his oral fixation. Without a word, he leans down and takes the tip of the dick into his mouth, sucking on it, taking it down quicker than it would probably be sane or advisable. All the while his eyes are fixed on Martin, looking up at him through his eyelashes. He can see Martin’s eyes darken, his gaze following the movements of Tim’s mouth on his cock. His hand finds its way into Tim’s hair and he pulls, preventing him from getting more of it down his throat. Tim whines around the shaft, both at the feeling and the display of strength, the power Martin has over him.

Martin lets him continue for a while longer, still gripping his hair tightly but allowing him to bob his head up and down, getting the toy wet and ready. He then pulls him off by the hair unceremoniously, completely (or seemingly completely) ignoring the deep, vibrating moan it elicits from Tim’s lips, and nodding towards the strap.

Tim scrambles up fast and in a matter of seconds he’s on his knees, hovering over the toy, hands firmly gripping Martin’s arms for leverage. He reaches down, gripping the strap with one hand, steadying it, and upon looking at Martin, who gives him an approving nod, sinks down on it slowly, taking it inch by inch.

Martin, bless him, chose the thickest one Tim owns. He feels it fill him completely as it pops through the tight ring of muscles, spread him open even with all that thorough preparation. It’s always good when he’s using that one, but the fact that it’s Martin, the fact that he’s looking up at him as if he hung up the stars in the sky makes it magnificent.

He knows his limits, so he takes it slower than he would absolutely like to, but soon enough he’s fully seated in Martin’s lap, his big, strong palms rubbing soothing circles on his back.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Martin whispers then. His hands move to Tim’s hips, lifting him ever so slightly, making him move, fuck himself on the cock. “Show me how good you can be.”

Tim moans, wasting no time once he’s been given permission and encouraged like that. He rises his hips, then, letting most of the toy slip out of him and slams back down, forceful and quick. He sets up a quick pace, up and down in fast, snappy movements, chasing that release he’s been on the verge of for what seems like ages. He knows he won’t come unless Martin touches his cock but for now it’s enough to ride him fast and sloppy, clinging to him close as if he’s the last thing keeping Tim alive.

It’s overwhelming how beautiful Martin looks like this. Leaning back against the headboard, breathing quicker than usual, lips parted and his still slightly wet hair sticking out in different directions, soft curls forming already.

Tim feels warm all over, high on whatever this feeling is, and he needs to voice it right now. When he tries, it comes out in gasps, so he slows down his pace, feeling Martin shift his hips upwards, thrusting up shallowly, helping him along. He keens loudly.

“You’re so good, so good t-to me,” he chokes out finally. He’s being fucked by Martin more and more instead of riding him, his thighs slowly giving up and starting to burn with effort.

“Huh?” Martin hums from where he’s leaned down to suck at Tim’s neck again. One of his hands is at his hip, helping him lift himself, the other at the back of his neck, holding him in place.

“You’re so beautiful, Martin,” Tim continues. He feels out of it, his own voice sounds almost like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. “You’re so good and strong, so good to me, making me feel incredible, so incredible I might go insane if you don’t touch my cock soon.”

“Is someone being bossy?” Martin whispers against his skin.

“No, I—I’m, ah, returning the favour,” Tim moans back. “Telling you how much you turn me on, with your hands and your—your chest, so strong, I, oh, Martin, I can’t even b-begin to tell you how good you looked on that field, so passionate and se—”

He doesn’t get to finish because Martin chooses this particular moment to grab him by the arse and flip them over, positioning himself on top of him. He doesn’t waste a second, picking up his pace and slamming his hips into Tim, rough and fast and deep. Tim keens, moaning loudly, and he feels two fingers slip into his open mouth, the direction wordless. He closes his lips around Martin’s fingers and sucks them eagerly into his mouth, his sounds muffled but still getting through, loud enough so Martin can tell how good he’s making him feel.

It doesn’t last long – Martin takes his fingers out and straightens up a little, pulling Tim higher up on his thighs. The change of angle makes it even better and soon enough Tim feels Martin’s hand on his dick, pulling at him fast and rough, matching his thrusts. It’s all it takes, really. Tim’s been on the edge for what feels like forever, and now that he’s got the stimulation he needs, he feels himself tipping over, letting the most mind-blowing orgasm he’s had in a while wash over him.

He can feel Martin stopping his movements with how hard he clenches down on the strap. He keeps moving his hips in circles, trying to match Tim’s jerking motions, and he doesn’t take his hand off his cock until Tim’s batting it off, overstimulated and spent, but so happy.

He lies there for a while, arms outstretched on the mattress, feeling like he could sink into it and sleep peacefully for ages now, but Martin still hasn’t come. Tim feels him withdraw the strap slowly and he sits up to help take it off. He supposes he isn’t much help after all, grasping at it too fast and too strong before it even comes undone, but the need to get his mouth on Martin’s cock is getting stronger by the second, so he can barely help it.

Martin chuckles when it finally comes off and Tim releases a small cry of victory. He immediately pushes at the centre of his chest, asking him to tip backwards and get on his back. Martin complies wordlessly, settling down on the pillows, spreading his legs as he goes.

“Anything off limits?” Tim asks, climbing into the space between his thighs. “Or anything you specifically want?”

“No, no, it’s all fine, just, your—uh, your mouth, Tim,” Martin stammers a little. He’s losing his composure. “Suck me off, Tim, make me feel good.”

“On it,” Tim smiles and leans down, first pressing a light kiss to Martin’s cock. It’s red and hard, straining, and Tim takes it into his mouth without teasing him further. He lets his hands wander the beautiful expanse of Martin’s body, moving up and down his strong, fat thighs as he sucks and laps at his cock.

Martin’s hands find their way quickly into Tim’s hair and he pulls, not as strong as before, but enough to make Tim moan, sending vibrations down Martin’s dick. Martin lets himself whimper.He’s not quiet per se, just not very vocal, but Tim finds that getting a little rough with him, sucking him off using a little teeth, letting his hands roam and squeeze his stomach, his chest, pull at his nipples, that’s what gets the most beautiful noises out of him.

Martin shakes apart on his tongue soon enough, bucking his hips up and into his mouth as he rides it out. Tim sucks and laps at him obediently for as long as he lets him. He moans, feeling his spent dick twitch as arousal begins to course through his veins again when Martin pulls forcefully at his hair, trying to get him off his oversensitive cock. Give him five more minutes and he’ll be ready for round two, he thinks.

Martin, on his end, looks like he’ll need more time and Tim doesn’t blame him. He lets Martin slump down onto his pillows and crawls up to settle on his chest. He pulls a blanket over them and Martin hums appreciatively. He takes Tim into his arms then, hands tracing patterns on his back slowly.

Tim whispers a quiet ‘thank you’ into his chest and Martin replies with something soft of his own. They lie there in comfortable silence for a while, content to be with one another, not much to be said or done. Tim can’t really see Martin’s face like this, can’t quite tell if he’s closed his eyes or anything. He intends to give him a little while longer before pitching the idea of round two, when Martin stirs, releases a soft ‘huh!’ and then exclaims:

“Tim, what—What’s that thing, Tim? Hey, Tim?”

And Tim knows exactly what he’s talking about. Recovery period over, then. He rolls on top of him, trying to hide the red neon sign from his view, and leans down to shut him up with a kiss, but it’s no use. Martin’s gone.

“Oh, give over, M—”

“Your own name?!” Martin manages and then bursts out laughing. Tim feels his cheeks prickle, and something stirs in him, something that’s not just entirely embarrassment. Now that’s a thought for later.

“I’ll let you do anything to me if you don’t tell anyone,” he says. It doesn’t matter if he does, actually. Both Jon and Sasha have already seen the inside of his bedroom, so.

“You’ll let me do anything to you regardless,” Martin replies. He’s still a bit breathless from laughing and it’s left him with a beautiful shade of pink across his cheeks.

“Maybe so,” Tim agrees. He moves his hips down with more force, shuffling closer. Martin’s breath hitches, trapped in his throat. Their faces are close together now, just inches away, and Martin glances down to his lips, gaze turning hungry again. “Let’s get on with it, then, shall we?”