The first time Jon feels Martin’s erection pressing against him while they're kissing, Jon thinks, oh, nice.
That's a bit of a surprise. Normally his reaction would be more along the lines of oh, great, now I'm going to be expected to do things. But Martin so clearly doesn't expect Jon to do anything, aside from possibly bite his head off, judging by the way he jerks away from Jon like he just brushed against a hot stove, mumbling a hasty, "Oh, god, sorry."
He looks...flustered. Some rarely-seen part of Jon’s mind rears its head and informs him that Jon would very much like to fluster him some more.
"No, it's okay." says Jon, feeling a grin threatening to break out over his face. He finds that he feels a little flustered, himself. In a decidedly smug sort of way. "So. I did a good job, then?"
Martin smiles sheepishly, scrubbing his darkening cheeks like he's considering hiding his face in his hands. "Heh. Yeah. Maybe a bit too good."
"Would you...like me to do an even better job?" says Jon, perhaps not as smoothly as he might have wished, because it has, after all, been some time since he's been in a position to make this sort of offer.
Martin squints at him, one hand still squished up against his cheek. "...Jon. Did you just offer me a handjob in the silliest possible way."
"Would you prefer that I offer you a handjob in a dignified way?" says Jon, raising his eyebrows defiantly.
"Oh, go to hell."
"I can send you a hand-written invitation, if you like. Something classy and understated. Maybe add some calligraphy-"
"You are the biggest nerd. And I accept your invitation. Um. If you were serious."
Oh, Jon will show him serious.
So that's how Jon ends up pressed beside Martin on the couch, one hand shoved down Martin’s jeans, working Martin’s hard cock in his fist while they snog like a pair of horny teenagers. Martin is a gratifyingly appreciative audience, humming happily into Jon’s mouth and pushing up into Jon’s hand with small, polite motions of his hips. Jon does so enjoy a good performance review.
In all honesty, Jon usually finds this process a bit tedious, after the first few minutes. He hardly has the patience to get himself off, most days, let alone another person. But he's in a generous sort of mood today, and Martin is always so lovely to him, even when Jon doesn’t really deserve it, not that Jon ever really deserves Martin- Jon digresses. The point is, on this particular occasion, he’s willing to sit through it. Fairly happy to sit through it, even. He’s not even checking his watch.
Imagine his surprise when the first minute turns out to be the only minute, as Martin’s small noises of appreciation abruptly transition to ones of alarm. "Oh, oh no, shit-"
Martin goes rigid next to him, drawing in a sharp, pained-sounding breath. His expression is tight, and Jon pauses his stroking, suddenly concerned. He’s still trying to figure out what the protocol is for this situation - and trying to conjure up something appropriately supportive and concerned to say - when he feels Martin’s stomach pull in, feels his cock jumping, and then suddenly Jon’s hand is wet.
There’s a pregnant pause. Martin looks like he wants to die on the spot. Jon cannot remember ever having been so fascinated by something that happened during sex. He thinks he can feel his pupils dilating.
Martin breaks the silence first, cringing in on himself with embarrassment, and oh, isn’t that interesting as well, Jon’s mind informs him. Is it interesting? Jon thinks, somewhat incredulously. Yes, yes, it most certainly is, his libido replies. Oh, shut up, nobody asked you, thinks Jon. Jon barely even registers Martin’s words when he starts to babble, “God, I’m sorry, I swear this never happens-”
Jon shuts him up with a kiss, like the protagonist of goddamn romance novel, because he is currently experiencing some undefinable emotion that can only be expressed via the medium of sucking on Martin’s tongue. Martin makes a muffled noise of surprise, which quickly transitions into muffled noises of confused arousal. Well, Jon is glad he’s not the only one.
Then Jon straddles Martin’s hips, pushes him back, and grinds him down like he’s trying to put him through the couch.
“God, this is unprofessional.” says Jon, as he flicks his tongue against a freckle on the side of Martin’s neck. “We should really stop.”
“Jon. You brought me here.” Martin replies in a high, breathy voice, as Jon pushes him harder against the dusty cinderblock of the supply closet’s wall.
Jon grunts to indicate that Martin’s logic has been considered and dismissed. Then he presses himself even closer, leaning into Martin’s chest, rubbing his thigh insistently against the growing hardness between Martin’s legs. Martin, to Jon’s intense interest, begins to plead with him.
“Oh, god, Jon, please, please-”
Please do what?
“Jon, I’m gonna- Jon, I don’t have a change of pants, please, please, I can’t-”
Jon isn’t entirely sure what it means, that hearing a sexual partner begging him to stop what he’s doing is giving him one of the strongest urges to continue that he’s ever experienced. Most likely it just means that he’s a contrary bastard. Jon should probably stop. Jon really should stop. It would be the considerate thing to do.
Instead, he says, “Pull down your trousers.”
Jon can barely comprehend the tone of voice that just came out of his mouth, low and rough and like nothing he’s ever heard from himself before. Whatever the hell it was, Martin appears to be powerfully affected by it, judging by the way he immediately starts fumbling for his belt buckle. He shoves his slacks down to his knees, revealing plain white briefs with a prominent lump sticking out in front.
Satisfied that Martin’s trousers, at least, are out of harm’s way, Jon turns his attention to the little damp spot forming on top of Martin’s bulge. Jon can’t resist resting his fingertip against it, tracing a circle around it, putting the lightest possible pressure against the head of Martin’s cock. This should be nothing, logically. Hardly any stimulation at all. Even so, Martin whimpers like he’s been struck.
The mind is a powerful thing. Jon has fucked people who reacted less dramatically than Martin Blackwood does to one single finger.
Still in the grip of some strange kind of madness, Jon drops to his knees and yanks Martin’s briefs down without ceremony, watching the way Martin’s cock bobs up eagerly, thick and slightly curved. He looks almost painfully excited, flushing a furious purple-red, drooling a string of shiny wetness that stretches and breaks as it separates from Martin’s pants. Anyone would think Jon had been edging Martin mercilessly for hours, rather than dragging him into a supply closet for ten minutes of admittedly heated snogging.
Martin is short enough that Jon can take him to the root without significant strain, and he does so without hesitation, privately thrilling at the way Martin mashes a hand over his mouth and keens. All it takes is three good, solid sucks, Jon’s head bobbing between Martin’s legs, and Martin is coming like he’s never been touched before, his thighs quaking in front of Jon’s face.
Jon suspects that he may have a new obsession.
It's movie night, tonight. Jon insists that it’s Martin's turn to pick the movie this time; he can't remember if that's actually true, but it doesn’t really matter. Jon has a different sort of entertainment planned. Jon is plotting.
Jon sits and stews in his anticipation while he listens to Martin bustling in the kitchen, curling his legs under himself and wiggling slightly against the arm of the couch. Jon knows better than to offer to help, by now. He thinks Martin gets a kick out of playing host, even if the extent of his hostly duties consists of him popping a bowl of popcorn and grabbing a few beers from the fridge.
When Martin returns - too slowly for Jon’s level of eager impatience, though Jon objectively knows that it's only been a few minutes - Jon is both pleased and amused to discover that today's spread also apparently includes a bowl of sliced strawberries. Martin, Jon has noticed, is very insistent that he personally witness Jon ingest a vitamin at least once a day.
"I'm not actually in danger of getting scurvy, you know," says Jon, after he pops one in his mouth and makes an appreciative sound. Martin must have found his way to a farmer's market recently; these are of a much higher caliber than your typical grocery store strawberry.
"If anyone could manage it, it would be you." replies Martin. He pecks Jon on the cheek and goes to hit the light switch.
"I never should have told you about the time I got iron deficiency."
"It was one time. And I take supplements now."
"I know. I've seen your old man multivitamins. And your old man pill case."
"You're a horrid man. Get over here so I can sit on your lap."
Jon sitting on Martin's lap while they watch TV is by no means an unusual state of affairs, and Jon is positive that Martin detects nothing amiss as they settle in, Jon making himself at home against the inviting plushness of Martin’s belly and thighs. Martin is hands down the most comfortable piece of furniture in Jon’s home.
Martin wraps one arm around Jon, holding him securely while his other hand fiddles with the remote. The opening fanfare of something quaint and vintage begins to play.
The wonderful thing about Martin, Jon reflects, is the fact that, if he were left to his own devices, this would be nothing but a bit of innocent date night couch cuddling. In this particular way, Martin is probably the most unassuming, undemanding man Jon has ever dated. If Jon told him there would be no more sex ever again, starting now, Martin would defer to him without question. If Jon said he wanted to get Martin off three times a day for the rest of their lives, Martin would accept that just as easily. It's not a simple matter of consideration for Jon's feelings. That aspect is there, yes, but there is...something else, as well. When it comes to sex, Martin is...yielding.
And, like a capricious cat that gravitates towards the one person who ignores it, the more passive Martin is, the more Jon finds that all he wants to do is touch him all over.
That's why, as they watch the opening credits roll, Jon starts to shift in Martin’s lap. He's careful to do so in a deliberately undeliberate manner, as though he’s trying to find a comfortable position. He pauses for long periods between each movement, stretching out the plausible deniability for as long as his patience will allow, before he starts up again, each shift just a bit more insistent than the last. Tiny, intermittent motions calculated to just barely rub parts of himself against Martin’s crotch.
It’s not long before Jon starts to feel a firm pressure against the back of his thigh that was not there before. Martin begins to squirm. “Uh, Jon...are you…”
“Hush. I’m trying to watch.” says Jon primly, his eyes still fixed on the screen. He could not tell you what this movie is about if you held a gun to his head.
Martin breathes out, somewhat shakily, and subsides back into silence.
Over the course of the next half hour, Jon continues to subject Martin to a slow, methodical water drop torture, never once looking away from the movie that he is absolutely not watching. With his eyes otherwise occupied, his senses of hearing and touch go into overdrive, informing him eagerly of the way Martin’s muscles slowly tighten, the way his breathing goes slightly unsteady. Martin doesn’t grind his hips up against Jon, but his legs do occasionally flex in small spasms, feet pushing against the floor in a way that rocks the rest of him very slightly back and forth.
And then, somewhere between the first and second acts, Martin tenses, sucks in a breath through his nose, and holds it. Jon’s eyes immediately snap to Martin’s face, and he watches raptly as Martin scrunches his eyes closed, sucking his lips in under his teeth. Then, like someone just pulled the plug on him, he sighs and relaxes, going boneless under Jon. His head tips back against the back of the couch, eyes still closed, throat bared like a gesture of defeat or submission.
Jon, despite the fact that he could neither see nor feel what just took place, is buzzing. The extrapolation alone is flipping switches and firing off synapses he didn’t even know he had, sending excitement coursing through him like a crackle of electricity.
“You’re getting a little too good at that.” says Martin, in a tone of mild awe.
Jon preens, because he enjoys Martin’s compliments, and he enjoys excelling at things. Then he leans forward and says, into Martin’s ear, “Get your pants off. I want to suck the come off you.”
Martin is a man of many virtues. One of them is the fact that he makes a fine fettuccine alfredo.
Another is the fact that he has a way of making a kitchen feel homey. He's like an artist, in this way, and his medium is the smell of freshly chopped basil, the mellow sound of oldies playing from the radio, the meandering conversations they have about nothing at all while Jon sits at the kitchen table, occupying his restless hands with some simple phone game as they talk. Jon suspects that Martin has never had many chances to enjoy being companionable with someone in a kitchen. Jon hasn’t done it as often as he would like, either. Jon is happy to enjoy this with him. Happy to share it, together.
He’s also happy about the prospect of having a pre-dinner snack.
With an attitude of extreme casualness, Jon sidles up behind Martin while Martin is busy picking the stems off of a pile of cherry tomatoes, pressing in close and wrapping his arms around Martin's waist. Jon's chest flush against Martin's back. Jon's face nuzzled between Martin's shoulder blades. Martin hums happily and leans back against Jon, and Jon has to take a moment to just savor the feeling, because Martin is distractingly wonderful to hug, even when Jon’s mind is decidedly elsewhere.
Then Jon brings a hand down to tease under the waistband of Martin’s jeans, inadvertently getting a jump and a giggle when his fingers brush against the hairy softness of Martin’s belly.
“Martin. Can I?”
“Oh, for god’s- yeah? If you want?” says Martin, still in that familiar tone of flustered disbelief, as if this isn’t a request that Jon makes very, very frequently, at this point. It’s more than endearing. Jon is infatuated.
Jon slips a hand into Martin’s pants and palms his cock, squeezing possessively. Then Jon proceeds to jerk him off mercilessly, dragging him from soft to hard to the edge of coming in no time at all, while an increasingly wobbly Martin leans an increasing amount of his weight against the counter. In deference to Martin’s supply of clean laundry, Jon does try his best to keep things relatively contained; when he feels Martin's back go shivery against his chest, he brings his other hand into play, so he can cup one hand over the head of Martin’s cock while the other continues to stroke demandingly.
There's a tiny, choked-off sound from Martin, and then, yes, excellent, right on time, he’s twitching and dribbling into Jon's palm. There we are, Jon thinks. Hardly any mess at all. Very considerate of him. Jon is a considerate man.
Jon carefully withdraws his hands, shifts to ensure that he is in Martin’s field of vision, and licks himself scrupulously clean.
That was dinner. The expression currently on Martin’s face is dessert.
Jon is watching Martin.
He does this a lot. Probably more than is normal, to be honest. He'd felt a bit awkward about it, at the start, the way he does about so many of the things he does that feel natural to him, but always seem to make other people feel uncomfortable and annoyed.
It hadn't taken long for Martin to catch on, and he'd been quick to assure Jon that he didn't mind. He said he thought it was sweet. (He'd also made a few joking comparisons to a certain pop culture vampire, which Jon did not dignify with a response.)
Jon is watching Martin in bed, currently. Martin is asleep on top of the covers with a book over his face, which is cute.
Martin is also very, very erect, under the thin fabric of his sleep shorts, which is...extremely interesting.
Jon lays on the bed, his chin propped up on his hands, his legs rubbing together restlessly as he observes Martin’s cock. He's not sure why he finds the sight so compelling. It's not like he hasn't encountered Martin’s nighttime erections before. Not to mention his morning wood. Even so, this feels...different, somehow. Like something candid and intimate and entirely for Jon.
The lump in the front of Martin’s boxers moves slightly, almost lazily, compared to its usual enthusiastic twitching. Jon, not for the first time, observes that Martin really does have the most adorably expressive cock. Martin squirms a little, in his sleep, and makes a softer version of a familiar sound. The same pleasant noise he makes whenever Jon wraps a hand around him and begins to stroke.
Jon finds himself squirming too. He wonders what Martin is dreaming about. Wonders if Martin’s body has become so accustomed to the touch of Jon’s hands and mouth that he relives them in his dreams. Jon hopes so.
Logically, Jon is aware that he might be waiting for nothing. There's no way to know if Martin is going to come. His erection might just subside, leaving nothing behind but a tiny bit of stickiness to mark its passing. Jon is nearly tempted to wake Martin up and ensure that he comes, but that feels like cheating, somehow. Jon wants to see this happen...properly. Whatever that even means.
Fortunately for Jon, even in his sleep, Martin never disappoints.
The contractions are subtle, when they finally begin. Jon sees the way Martin’s cock lifts slightly, then begins to move in small, languid pulses. It's the most gentle-looking orgasm Jon has ever witnessed. Martin breathes a sleepy sigh of contentment, his legs falling open a little more, spreading his thighs wider for whatever dream lover is making him feel so very, very good. Whoever they are, Jon thinks, they're doing an outstanding job.
Seconds later, Jon can see a tiny wet spot spreading out on the front of Martin's pants.
And then Jon abruptly has to get up and pace around the house a bit to vent his feelings. He has the strangest urge to wave his hands around as he does so.
Jon has an idea.
Jon likes to watch Martin's cock come to life.
It’s a fascinating display of biological mechanics. The way it flushes from pink to red. The way it swells in little twitches and shifts. The way a bit of precome will pool inside the small well of his foreskin, when he's half-hard. Jon gently pulls it back, exposing the head, letting the wetness spread, and hears Martin’s forceful exhale in response. Then he lets Martin’s cock go, laying it back to rest against Martin’s belly.
Today, Jon wants to test a theory.
So, over the course of one deliciously excruciating hour, while Martin lies nude and supine on Jon’s bed, Jon touches every part of Martin except his cock. He strokes the fuzzy softness of Martin’s inner thighs. He massages the mons pubis, pressing fingers against the wiry curls of Martin’s pubic hair, skirting delicately around the base of his erection. He plays with Martin’s balls, rolling them carefully in his hand, tracing the seam with his thumb. He ventures under Martin’s balls to explore his perineum.
Throughout all of this, Martin squirms and arches and wriggles under Jon's touch, the quality of his noises slowly progressing from appreciative to frustrated to pained. At one point, he starts to get downright fidgety, his knees bending and tilting in little restless motions before Jon stills them with a quelling look. Martin’s hands remain fisted in the bedding, where Jon put them, because Martin is a good boyfriend who wants to make Jon happy. And doing this makes Jon very, very happy indeed.
Martin really does tend to get very wet, for a man. Jon has never seen anything like it. Whatever small reservations Martin himself might have about the proceedings, his cock, as always, is a charmingly eager participant, leaking and dripping continuously over itself, over his belly, over his balls. Indulging his curiosity, Jon blows a cool breath over the shiny-wet trails of precome, and is delighted by the pathetic hitching sound he receives in response.
Every once in a while, when Jon’s wandering hands hit a particularly nice spot, Martin’s cock will lift, jumping with false contractions. Straining for a peak it can’t quite reach, with this carefully inadequate level of stimulation. Then it lays back down again, giving a few more tiny, defeated twitches, while Jon watches closely, full of eager anticipation.
These are not failures. These are data.
Reveling in a state of transcendent intellectual stimulation, Jon diligently continues the work of refining his methods. At the moment, this mostly involves straddling Martin's hips and biting a trail of bruises into all the most sensitive parts of Martin’s neck. Meanwhile, his hands busy themselves with Martin nipples, tickling them delicately with his nails. Martin’s hips lift plaintively in response, sending his cock rolling back and forth against the swell of his belly, smearing trails of precome as it goes. That stimulation won’t be enough, either, but Jon still shushes him, still draws back so he can press gently on Martin’s hip bones, settling him back down against the bed.
“Shh. It’s okay. I know you can do it.” Jon soothes, while something inside him writhes with pleasure at the pitiful look Martin gives him.
“I’m not actually sure I can, though.” Martin says, red-cheeked with some combination of embarrassment and arousal. Those are the exact same red cheeks he’d worn when he said he’d never come during sex without his cock being touched, but was willing to try. Jon loves a man with an investigative spirit.
“You will. You’re so close.”
“I’ve been close for an hour, Jon.” And oh, that tone, that tone, that pleading, needy tone. It does things to Jon. Things he doesn't fully understand. Things he wants to test and observe and study until he does understand.
“Do you want me to make you come? All it would take is one good stroke.” Martin groans, his cock twitching feebly at the mere suggestion of it. Jon watches another drop of precome slide slowly out, and feels inspiration dawn on him.
“I bet you wouldn’t even need my hand. I could run one finger up you, like this,” Jon hovers the tip of his index finger over Martin’s cock, miming the action of tracing it from root to tip, while Martin watches avidly. “And that would be you done, wouldn’t it?”
“Like you don’t know.” says Martin, more shakily than before.
“I do know. That’s why we’re doing this instead.”
“Why are you like this. Why is your nerdy researcher act so hot.” says Martin, in tones of fond despair. He turns his eyes away and lapses into exasperated grumbling. Jon catches the phrase “-couldn’t get a boyfriend who wants to play doctor, or master and slave, no, I had to get a boyfriend who wants to play mad scientist-”
“Or I could give you my mouth.” Jon continues, as if Martin hadn’t spoken. “I wouldn’t even have to suck you. Just put your cock in my mouth and wait for you to pop.”
“Jon.” says Martin, his tone suddenly urgent. Jon lays a hand against his balls, feeling how tight they are. Jon wonders, with a sense of tingling excitement, if he's on the verge of a breakthrough.
“Imagine if I did suck you, though. Imagine how good it would feel, with how worked up you are.”
“Jon!” Martin sounds very urgent.
Jon locks eyes with Martin. He splays his hands over Martin’s thighs, dragging them slowly down, and says, with slow deliberation, “I bet you’d come harder than you ever have in your life.”
Martin’s head thumps back against the bedding. He makes a desperate noise, his hips bucking frantically, snapping up once, twice, and then, just like that, he’s coming in wild pulses, pouring copiously over his belly, his chest. To Jon’s fascinated surprise, a few spurts even make it as high as his collarbone.
And then Martin collapses, panting, while Jon basks in the euphoria of well-earned victory.
“Holy shit. I think I just died.” says Martin, in a tone of exhausted wonder.
Jon smiles. He traces a finger through the come puddling on Martin’s belly, bringing it up to his mouth to taste. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to the base of Martin’s cock.
Jon knew he could do it.