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oh, ain't it great (when fate makes you wait)

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"Do we need condoms?"

Thank God, thinks Martin, for Jon’s habit of figuring out exactly what needs to be said, and then blurting it out in the bluntest way imaginable. Martin had been trying to figure out how to gracefully work his way around to the subject for at least ten minutes, before Jon stepped up to rescue him. Jon is once again Martin’s hero.

Jon, perhaps mistaking Martin’s tight-lipped suppressed-laughter smile for something other than the expression of abject adoration that it is, falters slightly. "Uh, sorry, was that too-?"

"No, no, that was perfect." says Martin, trying to infuse his tone with the largest possible amount of the very particular type of gratitude he is experiencing right now. Specifically, it's a "I know I kind of cried on you a little while ago, and that dampened the mood a little, but twenty minutes of passionate snogging in bed has very much flipped my libido back into the 'on' position, and now certain other things are pretty thoroughly dampened, and I am very glad to hear that you are interested in exploring the previous two facts in detail in the very near future." sort of gratitude.

Then Martin rewinds to Jon’s previous question.

"And, um. I mean, we don't...have to?" he says, trying to sound like he's not quietly losing his mind over the idea of Jon filling him up with his c- god, he can't even finish that thought, focus, Martin. It's serious conversation time. "Things are, uh, pretty much non-operational, down there. For a couple of different reasons."

(And what a relief it had been, when he had found out, for all that his mum had been insufferable about it. Martin’s body hasn't always been the most cooperative, when it comes to certain things, but in this particular respect it really did him a solid. The miracle of childbirth is one that he can definitely live without.)

" non-operational are we talking, here?" says Jon, a little hesitantly. Martin doesn’t take it personally. He knows how Jon frets about things.

"The doctor-confirmed kind." Between the HRT, the ovary stuff, and thyroid stuff, it would take a literal miracle to put a bun in Martin’s oven. If Martin gets knocked up, the first thing he's gonna do is call the Vatican.

(Martin had actually kept one of the paper copies of his CT scan results, for a while, like a souvenir. Which, looking back on it, was probably kind of a weird thing to do. Sometimes he can't believe it took him so long to figure out he was trans.)

Pressing onward, Martin continues, "And I'm pretty sure neither of us has an STD, either, so..."

"Ah, yeah. It's been more than a few years for me, so I'm...pretty sure I would have noticed by now, if I had something."

"Well, for me it's been...never, so." says Martin, in his best attempt at a casual tone. Surprise, surprise, the unpopular gay trans kid who spent most of his life taking care of his sick mum never got laid. Big deal.

"Oh." says Jon, in a slightly startled tone.

"I mean, you've already collected pretty much all of my other firsts, so." says Martin, with false cheer, and then immediately regrets it. He's not sure he actually wants Jon to know that Martin had never, like...gone on an actual romantic date, prior to Jon. Or kissed anyone on the lips. Or...held hands. God, his life sounds kind of pathetic, when it's all laid out in the open like that, doesn't it.

And now Jon is looking at Martin with such a painfully tender expression, like Martin is a...a priceless Fabergé egg, or something. Something fragile and valuable that he wants to keep safe. Martin knows, in an abstract sort of way, that it should probably annoy him, or embarrass him, or something, to have such an openly pitying look directed at him. But pride has never been one of Martin's strongest attributes, so mostly it just makes him feel kind of warm and fuzzy inside. Nobody's ever looked at Martin like they want to wrap him in cotton wool before.

Jon doesn't say anything more, but he does lean in and press their foreheads together, eyes closed, like he's trying to pour all of his affection into Martin via some kind of telepathic mind meld. Then he transitions to nuzzling, and then kissing, and at that point Martin has to gently detach Jon from his face, because at this rate he's pretty sure Jon would just continue to coddle him all day if Martin let him, and Martin kind of has his heart set on losing his virginity now.

"So, is there anything you, like...definitely don't want to do?" says Martin, because he’s not quite brave enough to come right out and say "So, I really, really want your cock inside me, what are the chances of us making that happen as soon as possible?"

Martin then immediately regrets asking such a vague question of the most pedantic man on earth, because he can see the way Jon's eyes glaze over as his imagination goes into overdrive. "I meant anything that's actually likely to come up, Jon."

Jon visibly reels it back in. "Um, I don't think so. Unless you're harboring a secret desire to drink my blood, or something."

"Oh, no. You've discovered my dastardly plan. I'll have to kill you now."

Jon huffs a soft laugh, but quickly sobers up again. "What about you? Is there anything I shouldn't..?"

Martin just shrugs awkwardly. "I'll...let you know?" he says, because saying "I think I would let you do just about anything to me, really, I am absolutely gagging for it." would probably be a little too forward.

"Be sure that you do." says Jon, with another kiss for emphasis.

And then there's sort of a brief stalemate, where they both look at each other, like each of them is waiting for the other to make the first move. Martin gets the impression that Jon might be a bit gun-shy about taking the lead, considering what happened the last time he showed a bit of sexual initiative. It's probably up to Martin to get the ball rolling here.

"Well. Shall we?" says Martin, fervently wishing there was an instruction manual for this sort of thing.

"Right, right, yes," says Jon, who sounds like he's thinking pretty much the same thing.

They reluctantly disengage from their cuddle cocoon. Martin turns his focus to getting his clothes off with almost vehement efficiency, like doing it fast will help him outrun his nerves, all while trying not to think too hard about the fact that he is basically presenting the love of his life with an itemized list of all things he feels kind of self-conscious about. The spare tire of a gut, decorated liberally with stretch marks, check. A reasonably-sized set of man boobs, complete with an unflattering bra elastic mark running along underneath them, check. Nipples that maybe need to calm down a little, it's definitely not that cold in this room and nobody's even touching you yet, please settle down, guys, double check.

(And the funny thing is, for all Martin’s fretting and fussing, Martin doesn't...actually dislike the way he looks, all that much. He just doesn't like the way other people think he looks. And all of the assumptions that come with it.)

(Good thing Martin no longer really considers Jon to be a part of the category of other people.)

Martin drags himself out of his head long enough to sneak a peek at Jon, somehow feeling like he's getting away with something, even though he's pretty sure it's socially acceptable to ogle your boyfriend when he's stripping for your benefit. Jon, as always, is lovely in a way that kind of makes Martin want to beat his chest and howl at the moon; dark and lean and a little soft in the middle, with an incredibly distracting trail of curly hair connecting his chest and the waistband of his pants.

Despite his extremely strong desire to explore the terminus of that treasure trail, Martin keeps his briefs on, for now, steps, right? To his mingled relief and disappointment, Jon follows his lead, and Jon’s boxers stay on.

And then Martin realizes with a jolt that Jon appears to be giving him the exact same furtive kind of look that he was just giving Jon. They happen to make eye contact, and then simultaneously look away, and then simultaneously look back at each other, as they both simultaneously realize that they're being fucking ridiculous. A perfect synchrony of stupidity.

While Martin sort of flutters uncertainly, waiting for some instinct to kick in and tell him what he should do next, Jon apparently decides that it’s safe to be a bit more proactive. With the demeanor of someone trying not to startle a skittish animal, Jon slowly crawls over to Martin. And then on top of Martin, gently pushing him back down against the bed, while every spare corner of Martin’s mind explodes into question marks and exclamation points.

Jon presses them together, chest to chest, belly to belly, face to neck, and just...relaxes. And then kind of shifts and wiggles a bit, like Martin is a pile of warm blankets fresh out of the dryer that Jon wants to roll around in.

Well, it's not exactly what Martin had expected, but, in terms of possible reactions to Martin's clothes coming off, "I want to touch literally as much of your body as possible, with as much of my body as possible," seems like a pretty good review.

"Enjoying yourself?" says Martin, bringing his hands up to carefully stroke the bare skin of Jon’s back, while some part of his brain very loudly, very excitedly informs him of the fact that Jon’s bulge is currently resting soft in the crook of Martin’s thigh.

"Mnnh. Soft." Jon says to Martin’s neck, in a tone of enrapturement.

"Heh. Yeah." Martin guesses the whole doughball thing must be a bit of a novelty, for a man who is basically nothing but a pile of twigs held together by spit and determination. Martin is glad to be a soft place for Jon to rest. Even if some parts of Jon are kind of pointy and jabby.

Martin is also fully aware that, left to his own devices, there's a good chance that Jon will literally fall asleep in this position, so Martin gently nudges things back on track. They both probably need a little adjustment time, so they ease back into the safe familiarity of kissing and cuddling, only with the extremely exciting bonus that Martin can feel Jon’s cock waking back up inside his boxers, nudging stiff against Martin's hip while Jon rubs against him.

After a few minutes, Jon draws back a bit and gives Martin a searching look. "So, you're...good?"

"...yeah?" says Martin, in a what-are-you-going-on-about sort of tone. Martin is so "good" right now that he could probably single-handedly rehydrate the Sahara desert.

"It's just- it's harder to tell, without the- it's my first time operating this model, okay?" Jon goes into a bit of a defensive scrunch, while Martin snorts with laughter.

"So it really was, uh, never never, with Georgie?"

Jon makes a weird sort of grimace, like there's some pertinent information there that he's not really sure he should share. Martin does some very quick transgender mental math, and says, "Oh! Huh."


"Wow. I did not pick up on that at all."

Jon shrugs. "So. Kind of...going in blind, here. Not that I actually- not that we have to-"

Martin literally cannot stop his eyes from fixating between Jon’s legs. And the really rather generously sized bulge that's proudly making itself known there. "Jon. If you put that in me I think it would make my entire life."

Jon attempts to give him a sardonic look. "Thanks, Martin. That's not going to give me performance anxiety at all."

"Seems to be performing pretty well at the moment."

"Oh, shut up." laughs Martin’s amazing, dorky boyfriend, whose shoulders are currently making friends with his ears.

And Martin really doesn't know how to move to the next step, here, so he decides to just...go for it. If things go where Martin really hopes they're going, his pants are going to have to come off at some point. He slides his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs, and then pauses, like a skydiver getting ready to take the plunge.

"Uh, you mind if I-?" says Martin, wondering how weird it is to feel like you have to ask permission to take your pants off during sex.

Jon’s eyes are wide. Jon's pupils are wide. "Yes. I mean, no. I mean. By all means, continue."

Well, it's a good thing they're both nervous wrecks, because Martin isn't sure he would be able to handle the pressure of doing this with someone who was at all competent.

So Jon shuffles back just enough to give Martin space to wriggle himself out of his briefs, while Martin tries not to feel like he's bracing himself for something. It's not like Martin thinks his junk looks weird, or anything - well, aside from the ways in which all genitals are kind of weird-looking - but there's definitely something more than a little nerve-wracking about going "hey, man I've had a crush on for multiple years, come check out what I'm packing!"

It doesn't help that, as soon as Jon lays eyes on the, uh, effects of testosterone, his eyebrows pop up and he immediately says, "Oh, wow."

"Wow?" Martin doesn't know whether he wants to laugh, scream, or melt right through the floor.

"Sorry! Sorry! That was a good wow!" Jon replies frantically, waving his hands in front of himself in a panicky, placating gesture. Martin has no choice but to curl into a ball, bury a flustered grin into his hands, and make a hurgling sort of sound.

"Remind me which of us is supposed to be the virgin, here?" says Martin, after he's finished doing that.

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly firing on all cylinders at the moment!" snaps Jon, in the most hilariously pissy tone. Something in Martin screeches quietly at the implication that proximity to Martin’s naked body is causing Jon to lose IQ points. Looks like Jon now gets to experience the way Martin has felt about Jon pretty much from the start. Serves him right.

And then Jon sort of...dithers with his hands, like he doesn't know what to do with them. "Um. Can I..?"

"Yeah?" says Martin, trying to project more confidence than he feels. His feet jitter slightly against the bedding as he fights against conflicting urges to squeeze his thighs together protectively, or completely splay himself out in the most shameless way possible, like an "Oh, god, yes, please take me now!" sort of thing. He manages to just spread his legs a normal amount. Probably. He's not exactly an expert.

Martin is so, so very much not an expert, because experts don't start giggling as soon as their boyfriend makes one move in the direction of their junk. Jon literally hasn't even touched him yet, and Martin knows he's not actually ticklish in that area, so can you please get it together, self?

"Sorry, sorry," Martin says hastily, when Jon pauses and gives him a questioning look. "It's just. You know."

Jon smiles, and a tiny amount of Martin’s nervous tension eases. "Yeah. I know."

And then, moving slowly, like he's giving Martin plenty of time to slam on the brakes if he needs to, Jon dips a gentle hand in to explore, all while Martin squirms at the sheer exposure of it all. No more barriers, no more plausible deniability, absolutely nothing standing between Jon and the very physical reality of just what Jon’s presence does to Martin. No faux-casual trips to the bathroom to wipe up the evidence. No sticky-wet briefs shoved to the bottom of the clothes hamper. No secretive wanks to blow off some steam after Jon lingers a little too long in a kiss or a cuddle, blissfully unaware of Martin growing helplessly warmer and wetter with each passing second.

Just Martin, flushed and soaked and eager, and now Jon knows, and he'll never be able to un-know. It's thrilling and embarrassing and arousing and anxiety-inducing all at once.

Seemingly reading his mind, Jon says, "Is it always like this, when we..?"

"...yeah." says Martin, riding out another weird tingle of horny-shame, because of course Martin can't just be normal about this, can he. "I've been, uh, going through pants a lot faster, since we know."

And then Jon makes a noise that's almost a wheeze, and okay, that's pretty funny, actually. Good to know neither of them are capable of being normal about this.

Then Jon finally puts his fingers where Martin really, really wants them, and proceeds to give him a slow stroke, and oh, a hot guy is touching Martin’s dick, wake him up, this must be a dream, clearly this is too good to be true, and oh, god, now Jon knows what expression Martin’s face makes when somebody touches his dick, oh, someone please help him. Martin actually has to lean his head back and close his eyes, because having this done to him and actually watching it happen seems a bit too much to handle.

When nothing terrible happens, Jon gains confidence. Inexperienced with this model he may be, but it's apparently not too difficult to figure out what a big ol' T boner wants you to do with it when it's sticking right up in your face. Jon quickly progresses to more decisive rubbing, pressing two fingers down against the shaft of Martin’s dick, like a tiny handjob. Martin’s hips move without his permission, little please-don't-stop motions against Jon’s hand.

"Alright?" asks Jon, as if there could be any doubt.

"Mm-hmm," says Martin, and it comes out about a full octave higher than he intended. Jon actually chuckles at him, the bastard.

Then Martin hears Jon say, "Do you mind if I, uh?"

Jon taps Martin on the thigh to get his attention, then makes a gesture with his hand that sends Martin’s eyebrows into the stratosphere.

"...I'll only let you do it if you say the actual word, Jon." says Martin, once he regains the ability to speak.

Jon sighs, bowing his head in defeat. The back of his neck definitely looks redder than it normally does. "Martin, may I please finger you."

"You may." says Martin, magnanimously. And then he ruins the effect by squeaking when Jon actually, uh, proceeds.

Jon starts out with such exaggerated care that Martin is almost tempted to assure him that he's not exactly made of glass, down there. Martin has perfectly functional fingers of his own, after all. But Jon gets with the program quickly enough, and it's not long before his efforts start to feel distinctly...goal-oriented. He's massaging, stretching, testing the give. At one point he spreads his two fingers as wide as they will go, spreading Martin with them, and oh, haha, wow, someone has plans, does he?

Eventually Jon clears his throat and speaks up. "So, uh. It was my understanding that it can take a while to get things...warmed up, so to speak. But…" he trails off delicately, in a "I'm not trying to imply that you're easy, but I'm not sure it's actually possible for you to get any wetter," sort of way.

Martin mashes his very hot face back into his hands. "Yes, Jon, this oven has already been preheated for like an hour, thanks for noticing. I think I'm ready to go pretty much whenever."

"Well." says Jon, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. Martin abruptly backtracks and seizes on the very interesting piece of information that Jon just dropped.

"Wait. Where exactly do you understand this from, Jon?"

Jon freezes, and then hunches defensively, looking very, very cagey indeed. "I do know how to read, Martin."

"Uh-huh. And when did this reading take place?"

Jon stares intently at the wall. Martin thinks he might be sweating. "...shortly after we. Became involved."

"...and did you do anything else, while you were reading?"

The evasively guilty look on Jon's face is more damning than any confession. Martin crows with glee, because he has to do something to let off his emotions, and the image of Jon pumping his cock to thoughts of putting his fingers inside Martin is making his brain whistle like a tea kettle. It's just! Really! Really something! Wow, is it hot in here, all of a sudden?

"You were never supposed to know." says Jon, in an accepting-defeat sort of way.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I have, uh. Done basically the same thing. With you in mind." Plenty of times. A really embarrassingly large amount of times. Jon is basically permanently ingrained in Martin’s masturbatory routine, at this point.

"You've...done research?" says Jon, with a slowly widening grin.

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now-"

Jon carefully disengages his fingers, sits back, and then proceeds to tackle Martin down like a rugby player. Some mutually aggressive snogging ensues, and this is very much not the plausibly deniable, ambiguously steamy squirming of their previous snogging sessions. The ones that usually ended with Martin slinking off the bathroom to shove a hand down his pants. There is, in fact, some very deliberate humping taking place, here.

After an enthusiastic minute of sucking face, Martin pulls back and finds himself saying, with no conscious planning whatsoever, "Jon, get your pants off, please, I wanna see-"

And, yeah, he's basically whining, okay, sue him, his brain is officially way too fucking fried to try to be tactful or restrained or whatever it is he's supposed to be doing here that doesn't involve begging for Jon’s cock. Luckily, Jon seems to be amenable, judging by the indulgent way he says, "Alright, alright, hang on!"

And then Jon is sitting back and shuffling himself out of his boxers, and oh, wow, Martin really has won the lottery, hasn't he. Wow. Wow.

"Wow." says Martin, in what he hopes is an appropriately reverent tone.

"Good wow?"

"Very good wow." Martin has heard of growers versus showers. He's pretty sure Jon may actually be both.

It would almost be intimidating, if it was literally anyone else. Someone who doesn't somehow manage to make the act of smirking look bashful. And then Jon presses himself back up against Martin, and reaches down to adjust things a bit, and then Jon's beautiful cock is sliding in the space between Martin’s labia. (Though, honestly, it's less sliding and more swimming, given the, uh, general state of affairs, down there.) Then Jon just sort of...gently rubs up and down while Martin loses his mind a little.

"Oh my god, Jon." And there goes the totally shameless leg-spread that Martin had contemplated doing earlier. Come one, come all, this location is officially open for business.

"Something wrong, Martin?" Jon inquires innocently.

"Nothing has ever been wrong in my life," says Martin, and that is some nonsense, he doesn't even know what he's saying, but it feels right.

"Hmm." Jon nods agreeably, as if Martin wasn't talking out of his arse, just now. Then he says, a bit hesitantly, "So, do you think you're ready to..?"

"Jon, I'm literally dying. Do you need me to beg? Is that what's going on here?"

"Maybe another time." And before Martin can unpack the implications of that statement, Jon is delicately easing Martin’s labia aside, lining himself up, and - (oh, God) - slowly, carefully pushing in. And in. And in, until Martin feels a pressure that makes him grimace a bit, and then Jon stops and says, "Okay, so that's about as far as that goes."

"...are you sure?"

"...Martin. Are you pouting because I'm not literally balls deep in you right now."

"No," says Martin, like a lying liar who lies.

Jon gives him a knowing look, and then leans over to peck him on the forehead. "Poor thing."

And then Jon's hand ventures down to give Martin’s dick a little love, stroking back and forth with his thumb while Martin breathes in and out and waits for things to loosen up a bit more down there. There's a bit of a sting, from the stretch, but Jon playing with Martin’s dick is definitely a more than adequate distraction, and holy shit, wow, those are definitely some amplified sensations happening, right now. Jon’s not even moving, but his dick is definitely snuggled right up against something that's making Martin’s dick feel very happy indeed. Hello, g-spot, nice to meet you.

A little too nice, in fact. Martin feels a bit of a warning flutter start to happen, and he hastily insinuates a hand between his dick and Jon’s thumb and before Jon can make him too happy.

"Ah, ah, maybe slow down a bit," he says, in a breathy voice that he's too frazzled to feel self-conscious about.

Jon relents, but Martin thinks he detects a hint of disappointment in Jon’s face. "Ah, I thought it might be easier for you to relax if you..?"

Feeling a bit daring, Martin says, "Sounds like you just want to feel me coming on your cock."

The words feel foreign and a little ridiculous in his mouth, but Jon visibly shudders, and Martin thinks he feels a twitch, inside. Interesting. Very interesting.

"If you want this to last more than five minutes, you probably shouldn't say things like that." says Jon, a bit gruffly.

"Right. Well, I don't know if I have more than one in me today, and I wanna come while you're fucking me, so."

"God fucking damn it, Martin." says Jon, with considerable emphasis. Martin feels like a king.

And then, with what Martin still considers to be a somewhat excessive amount of care, Jon begins to move, and oh, ooh, yeah, that's. Mm. That's definitely good. Martin has fucked himself on things a few times - never with an actual dildo, because the idea of owning such an implement makes him feel weirdly nervous, but with a few, uh, improvised alternatives - and he had enjoyed it, but it was also kind of a lot of work, and always ended up feeling like it wasn't really worth the trouble. Turns out this is one of those things that's so much nicer when you have someone to do it for you. Like getting your shoulders rubbed, only astronomically better.

Martin tests out the unfamiliar motion of moving his hips to meet Jon’s thrusts, and hears himself make a wavery little noise of happiness, because for the first time in his life he is finally, finally getting fucked, and it's Jonathan Sims, of all people, doing the fucking, and by God, was it ever worth the wait.

Jon, ever the gentleman, even tries to sneak a hand down to fondle Martin’s dick again, but Martin bats his hand away, because he, too, would like to last more than a minute, thank you very much.

"Doing alright?" says Jon, as if he isn't literally making Martin’s dreams come true, right now. Though, now that Martin thinks about it, maybe he could be a little more, ah. Hm.

"Can you...harder?" Please, I want you to absolutely destroy me, I want you to make it so I can't walk tomorrow, please, please, please-

Jon actually laughs at that, breathless and joyful. "Oh, is that how it is?"

Martin makes a very affirmative noise. And then several more noises after that, because Jon doesn't need to be told twice, and proceeds to fucking give it to him.

Martin knows most people with his type of equipment can't come without direct stimulation. Normally, he counts himself among "most people." The thing is, though, most people aren't as desperately horny as Martin, who is pretty sure he has presently achieved a level of arousal previously unknown to man. And most people don’t have the benefit of the kind of nitro-boosted genital performance that comes with a biweekly testosterone regimen.

And, most importantly of all, most people aren't lucky enough to enjoy the privilege of getting pounded through the mattress by Jonathan Sims.

It comes slowly, inexorably, with no actual effort on Martin’s part, feeling less like he's straining for a peak and more like he's being pulled along by the tide. Pleasure building in the base of his spine, in the crest of his hipbones, in the space between his hips, where Jon is giving him, in the most literal possible sense, a deep tissue massage. Martin almost wishes he could hold himself back, wishes he could keep luxuriating in this feeling forever, but he doesn't even know how, because he's not in the driver's seat this time; he's just along for the ride.

And then, in what feels like hardly any time at all, Martin is arching, and trembling, and coming in a way that he's only rarely experienced in his life. The kind of orgasm that feels like getting his soul punched right the fuck out of his body. He hears Jon make a ragged sound, above him, and the parts of Martin’s brain that aren't currently melting into goo wonder if it felt good for Jon, too, when Martin came. If Jon liked the feeling of Martin squeezing tight around his cock, of Martin’s body involuntarily singing Jon’s praises in the most unsubtle way possible. Pure physical proof that Jon is doing such a good job, really, just the best, somebody give this man a raise.

As Martin rides out the last flutters of his orgasm, Jon slows, stills, and then makes like he's getting ready to pull out, to give Martin’s overstimulated self a break. Despite his recently deceased status, Martin retains enough presence of mind to grab at Jon with his legs.

"Come in me, come in me, please, Jon, I want it, please-"

"Good fucking God, Martin, I think you're actually going to kill me," says Jon, in a tone of awed disbelief.

Jon pulls out just enough to jerk himself roughly, hand sliding easily over where he's been slicked by Martin’s very large amount of enthusiasm for the proceedings. Then he's pressing back in, going deep, as deep as he can go, the head of his cock shoved firmly against the very end of Martin, his balls just barely brushing Martin’s arse when he leans forward. Jon stays there, making a few small rocking movements, and then goes tense and still, breathing out a long, shivery sigh. Martin can feel when the pulses start, feels a spot of spreading warmth that seems like it goes all the way to the core of him.

Martin literally just got off, and won't have another one in him for at least a half hour, but he still whimpers slightly and brings a hand up to rub at his spent dick, because this is too hot for words and he has to do something.

Jon rests there for a moment, and then finally withdraws, this time with no protest on Martin’s part. Martin can feel a tiny bit of something wet dripping, pulled along with Jon on his way out, but the majority of it is still so high up it's not going anywhere any time soon. Jon just shot his load so deep in Martin that it'll be oozing out of him for hours, and Martin is definitely going to be having another orgasm just as soon as he's biologically able, because that thought is so unbearably sexy he thinks it might actually kill him.

And then Jon is snuggling up close against Martin’s side, wrapping a possessive arm around him, and something in Martin’s chest clenches and jumps, and Martin thinks this might possibly kill him too. It's a toss-up, at this point, whether the love or the horniness will get him first. Jon is hazardous to Martin’s health.

"So…" says Jon, in a leading tone of voice, after a few moments of quiet, companionable breathing.

"Ten out of ten." Martin replies without hesitation. "Ten thousand out of ten. I can die happy now."

Jon hums, a tired, contented sound. "Good. Good. I...I think I return the sentiment."

There's a few more minutes of sleepy basking. Then Jon's hand is sliding slowly down Martin’s body, over his side, his belly, until it comes to rest, almost casually, on Martin's thigh.

"So, when you said you didn't have more than one in you..?" says Jon, in a sheepishly hopeful sort of tone. Martin cracks an eye open and squints at Jon.

"Hmm?" Martin prompts, while something in his mind perks up with curiosity. There's no way Jon is planning on fucking him again. Even Martin knows cis guys don't bounce back that fast.

"I want to lick my come out of you." Jon says softly, like he's sharing a secret, and oh, fuck, Jesus, ah, aah, aaah.

Martin squirms bodily as his exhausted dick makes a valiant effort to rouse itself. He nuzzles his face into Jon's shoulder. "...gimme another few minutes and we'll talk."

Jon chuckles, stroking his thumb against Martin’s thigh. "Well. You know where to find me."