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In hindsight, Tim thinks maybe he should have left well enough alone.

Jon’s in a mood. He’s been holed up in his office all day, trying to establish some order amidst the jumbled files, and occasionally they can hear a bang, followed by him talking to himself. Around noon, Martin goes in armed with a sandwich and a mug of tea. He’s only in there a few moments before he returns, red-faced and shoulders up around his ears, offerings still in his hands. Tim watches as he walks back to his desk and begins to very studiously apply himself to his work, head down.

He sighs internally. He wishes Sasha were here. She’s so much better at being supportive than Tim is, and even if it didn’t work – and Tim has to admit that it probably wouldn’t; Martin is prone to sulks after an altercation with Jon – at least they could have shared a look of commiseration over Martin’s continued attempts to win him over. But lucky her, she is out – lunch with the boyfriend. Tim wishes for a moment that he was, too – if he were dating someone then he wouldn’t have to deal with this. He likes Martin quite a bit, but he’s far too sensitive, not to mention far more concerned with Jon’s opinion than Tim feels is really warranted.

“If you’re not going to eat that, I will,” he says, and Martin startles out of whatever he’s writing.

“Oh,” he says, and then “oh, yeah, sure.” When Tim collects the sandwich off of his desk he gives him a hesitant smile.

And of course that’s when Tim decides to open his big mouth.

“You really need to stop trying so hard,” he says, and the smile fades from Martin’s face. “The more you try the worse he’ll be; Jon is –“

“Oh yes, I forgot you’re the authority on how Jon is,” Martin snaps. “You’ve known him longer, after all.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tim says, exasperated. “I only mean that he –“

“Thank you, but I need to work,” Martin says, voice clipped, and he sounds so much like Jon in the moment that Tim feels his lips twitch in spite of his own irritation. Martin catches it; he scowls and pointedly turns back to his work, which only amuses Tim more. Good mood completely restored, he settles into his sandwich.

When Sasha returns her eyebrows go up at the total silence. Tim cuts his eyes at Martin, still bent studiously over his desk, then at Jon’s closed door. Sasha rolls her eyes and Tim grins.

It’s one of those days that seems to go on forever. Tim spends a lot of it in the Archives proper, sorting out statements by date. It’s tedious, mind-numbing work, and he’s grateful when the day ends and it’s time to go home.

Tim stretches, back cracking, as Sasha gets to her feet. “I’m off,” she says, pushing the strap of her bag over her shoulder. She glances at Jon’s closed door. There had been a string of loud curses about twenty minutes ago, and then everything had gone very silent.

“I wouldn’t,” Tim says, grinning. “Either he’s found something interesting or he’s fallen asleep. Either way he’s not going to thank you for interrupting.”

Sasha sends him an amused smile, and Tim hears a small sound from Martin’s desk. He glances over to find Martin looking down, back towards the notebook he’s been scribbling in on and off all day. The corner of his mouth is turned up slightly; Tim’s grin grows.

“Coming?” Sasha asks. She and Tim sometimes walk to the station together after work. On the nights they do, they often stop in the pub outside for a pint or two before heading home.

Tim almost says yes, but then he glances at Martin again and changes his mind. “Need to finish something,” he says, and Sasha’s eyebrows go up but all she does is shrug.

“Suit yourself. Martin?”

Martin glances up, startled. He always looks that way whenever they invite him anywhere, even though they always do. It’s like he’s surprised that people want him around. It always makes Tim’s chest hurt a bit. Martin should think better of himself.

“Oh,” he says now, “I-“ he looks at Tim, and then – predictably, Tim thinks – at Jon’s still closed door, and shakes his head. “I have – there’s still –“

Sasha sighs. “All right,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”

After she’s gone, it goes quiet again. Tim, who didn’t really have anything to finish, busies himself with shuffling a few papers around his desk, watching Martin out of the corner of his eye. He’s turned back to his notebook where he writes something, frowns, scribbles it out, frowns again. Tim stops pretending to work and just watches him, curious. Martin stares down at the paper like it’s offended him a few more moments and then, as if sensing Tim’s eyes on him, he looks up. The moment their eyes meet Martin flushes.

“What?” he says, and Tim shakes his head.

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing. None of your – I thought you said you had work.”

“So did you, but that doesn’t look like work.” Tim makes a tsking noise, shaking his head. “What would Jon say?”

Martin looks back down at the notebook, face going redder than ever, and Tim sighs. He’d only been teasing, but he supposes Jon wasn’t the best subject.

“Look, I-“

“I’m sorry,” Martin says, blurting the words. This time it’s Tm’s turn to look startled, and Martin fidgets but keeps on, the words practically tripping over each other in his haste to get them out. “About earlier. I was – you were just being nice, and I – I was being a, a prat.”

There’s something about that word coming out of Martin’s mouth that is unbearably amusing, but Tim makes a valiant effort to keep it out of his voice when he replies. “I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in,” he says, and Martin shakes his head.

“No, I don’t – I li – I don’t mind it. I was just being an idiot,” he gives a helpless little shrug and one of those self-deprecating smiles that always seem to appear on his face when Jon is involved, and Tim feels the same twinge of annoyance he always does whenever Martin talks himself down. Part of him wants to shake him, to tell him that this, this right here is why Jon is always at him the way he is. That he needs to wake up and realize his own worth before anyone else will. But he knows that even if he does, Martin won’t hear him. That he’ll nod and smile and say that Tim is right, and then deflate the next time Jon gives him a sour look.

So Tim pushes down the words and does the only thing he can do to distract them both: he stands up and walks to Martin’s desk, plucking the notebook from his fingers before he’s even aware that he means to.

“What’s in here that has you so distracted, anyway?” And glances down.

He doesn’t see much, just a brief glance, but it’s enough for Martin to forget all about his own embarrassment and apologies alike as he practically flings himself across his desk, snatching at the notebook in Tim’s hands. Tim steps back, laughing and keeping the notebook out of reach.

“Tim,” Martin says, and he’s going for Jon’s imperious tone and completely missing the mark, sounding instead like he has a mild head cold, “give that back this instant.”

Tim shakes his head. “That good?” he asks, and he really doesn’t have any intention of looking – he doesn’t want to piss Martin off again today, this is just a spot of fun – he isn’t above making a show of pretending to, ruffling the pages too fast for him to actually see anything as he watches Martin out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to lunge.

But he doesn’t. Instead he curls his hands into fists and looks away, head down, and Tim deflates. Well, shit.

“Hey,” he says, stepping around the desk, closer to where Martin stands looking for all the world like he expects Tim to start he doesn’t know what. Maybe open the notebook and start reading it aloud like some sort of primary school bully. “Martin –“

Martin’s head comes up, eyes wide and not quite furious, and Tim realizes he’s been duped around the same time that Martin’s hand closes over his wrist and drags him forward hard. Tim stumbles, caught off balance, and before he can regain it Martin’s got him pinned face down on the desk, leaning heavily into his back and reaching out for the notebook, which Tim, veteran of a million games of keep away, has raised over his head instinctively.

And Tim…Tim can’t breathe.

He’d never noticed before, how big Martin is, but he’s getting intimately acquainted with it now. His big hand circling his wrist, fingers wrapping nearly all the way around. His thick thighs right up against the back of Tim’s, belly and chest against his back, taking advantage of his bulkier build to press Tim down into the desk, pinning him so thoroughly that even if he struggled he wouldn’t be able to get away. Tim swallows hard and shifts a little, just a little, not actually trying to get away but testing Martin’s hold. Martin leans on him more heavily in response, and Tim has to bite back the sound that wants to come out of him at that. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, melting slowly into the desk beneath him. All but his cock, which is hard and throbbing between his legs.  

“Give it.” Martin, oblivious to everything but the notebook, reaches for it. Oh god, Tim thinks as his body melts even further, he’s so – he bites back another noise as Martin’s fingers brush against the notebook in his hand, very nearly knocking it out of his extremely loose grip. Martin makes an annoyed noise and shifts forward, pushing himself harder into Tim’s back, fingers stretching.  Tim’s cock grinds into the desk and he gasps, eyelids fluttering. Martin doesn’t notice this either; his fingers have closed over the notebook and he tugs it out of Tim’s unresisting fingers with a triumphant little “ha!”

Yeah, take it, take it, Tim thinks incoherently, so ridiculously turned on that he feels almost untethered to his own body, the wave of lust so strong that if it weren’t for Martin half holding him up against the desk he thinks he’d slide to the ground in a boneless heap. His body shifts without his permission, pushing back against Martin and rubbing his cock against the desk.

“Tim?” Martin says, sounding worried; Tim feels his fingers loosen on his wrist, feels him start to shift away, to lift himself off of him.

“Don’t,” he grits out, voice hoarse. His free hand scrabbles back, grips Martin’s hip and tugs him back against him. “Don’t.”

“Tim?” Martin says again, and Tim turns his head to look at him. He doesn’t know what expression is on his face exactly. All he knows is that when Martin gets a look at it his mouth opens on a soundless gasp and his eyes go wide. His hand tightens on Tim’s wrist and this time Tim can’t hold back the noise he makes; it’s small and incredibly needy and he feels his face heat with embarrassment but Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His gaze shifts to Tim’s mouth and his eyes go dark and hungry. Yes, Tim thinks, and his lips part in anticipation as Martin’s eyes flicker rapidly between them and his mouth. Tim’s own eyes start to slide helplessly closed as he leans forward, hips still working slightly, feeling Martin pressing back, pushing down –

There’s a loud crash from Jon’s office followed by an equally loud curse, and they startle apart. Tim nearly falls to the floor when Martin pulls away from him, and he sees Martin reach out and then yank his hand back, eyes wide. Tim catches himself on the edge of the desk and then sinks into Martin’s chair, not trusting his legs to hold him up.

Jon’s door swings open and he emerges with a black look on his face. He stops when he spots the two of them, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Why are you still here?” he demands, and out of the corner of his eye Tim sees Martin flinch.

He rolls his eyes. “Gee, boss, why do you think?” he says, a little snappier than is probably warranted. Jon glares at him, then his eyes sweep around the room. They take in the flush on Martin’s cheeks and the way that he’s bending his precious notebook between his hands, then he looks at Tim and his scowl deepens.

“Clearly not your jobs,” he says, each word dripping with that special sort of derision only Jon is able to manage.

Martin ducks his head, shoulders going up nearly around his ears. “I was just – “ he says. He gathers his things, moving quickly and not looking at either of them. “Night,” he says, mumbling the word at his own chest, and then he’s gone.

Jon sighs. Tim looks over to see him rubbing the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. He looks exhausted. “Did he do something else?” he asks in a long suffering tone that has Tim gritting his teeth.

He forces his jaw to relax and smiles. “Nah. I was winding him up, that’s all.” He stands. He still feels too warm, the imprint of Martin’s body against his back not quite faded, but his legs are steady and his cock, thank god, is no longer hard. “He had a bit of a rough day.”

Jon either doesn’t know what he’s talking about or doesn’t care; he waves Tim’s words away with an impatient hand. “Did you need something?” he asks. “If so, you could have knocked. You didn’t have to wait.”

Nothing from you, Tim thinks, then has to shake his head at himself. Whatever had just happened with Martin, it’s not Jon’s fault he has the worst timing in the world. Or maybe the best, Tim thinks, lips twisting as he imagines Jon’s face if he’d come in to see Martin bending Tim over the desk.

“What?” Jon snaps.

“Nothing. No, I wasn’t waiting for you. I just had something to finish up before leaving.” Tim goes to his desk and grabs his keys, then pulls his jacket off of the back of his chair. Jon watches him with a frown.

“You had something to finish at Martin’s desk?” he asks. “You weren’t – he’ll never get any better if you and Sasha keep coddling him.”

Tim pauses with one arm in his jacket to give Jon an incredulous look. “Do you really think we do that?” he asks, then shakes his head. “No, you know what, don’t bother. We don’t coddle him, Jon, because he’s not a child. He pulls his own weight.” He sighs. Fighting with Jon about Martin isn’t his job, and if he does it’ll only strengthen this idea that Jon seems to have that he and Sasha baby him. “Look, forget it. Did you come out here for something? Because I’m about to head out.” He zips his jacket pointedly. Tim has no problem with working late, but he’s nettled and if Jon wants him to volunteer it’s not happening.

Jon shakes his head, suddenly looking sheepish. “Ah, no. I, uh, well. I assumed you’d all left, and I was –“ as if on cue, his stomach rumbles, and his face goes bright red.

Tim laughs. “Skipped lunch, eh?” he says, as if he hadn’t eaten the sandwich Martin had bought for him himself.

The red creeps down Jon’s neck and he avoids meeting Tim’s eyes. “I wasn’t hungry,” he says, oddly defensive, and Tim debates letting him stew for a moment before he gives a mental shrug.

“The chocolate digestives you like are in the break room,” he says, and Jon’s head comes up.

“They are? Who -“

Tim doesn’t bother with a reply. Jon knows who. Martin’s attempts to please him are transparent at best. “There might even be a sandwich in the fridge,” is all he says, and Jon nods, mumming his thanks as he slips past, mind already elsewhere. Probably on making a cuppa with his meal and bringing it all back here for more fun banging and shouting, Tim thinks. If that’s so, he doesn’t intend to be around. He spins his keyring on his finger and follows Jon out of the Archives.

He does stop at the pub on the way home after all; has a few beers and gets home with his body feeling warm and loose, low buzz of arousal along with the slightly tipsy feeling. He makes himself a quick dinner when he gets home, hungry but not wanting anything heavy, and then hops in the shower.

Hot water sluices over his body, and as the air grows thick and humid with steam Tim’s mind turns back to those few moments with Martin pressed up all along his back. The air had felt thick then, too, and Tim closes his eyes and slides a soap slicked hand around himself, letting his mind go where it wants. Of course where it wants is Martin leaning over him, his big hands and body, the effortless way he’d held Tim down. Tim tilts his head back and closes his eyes, pumping himself slowly and thinking about what might have happened if Jon hadn’t interrupted. Better yet, if he hadn’t been there at all; if they’d had the office to themselves and the ability to do whatever they wanted.

He thinks about Martin pinning him to the desk, and this time with both of Tim’s wrists trapped behind his back, held there by one strong hand. Thinks about Martin dropping that stupid notebook on the desk next to him with a soft plop and then worming his hand between Tim’s body and the desk, getting his slacks open and then they’re down around his ankles, leaving Tim bare arsed and desperate while Martin works himself out of his own slacks.

He moans, hips twitching, head tilted back as he leans against the wall of the shower, eyes wide open but it’s not his bathroom ceiling he’s looking at; instead, he’s watching himself writhe and moan against the desk as that ridiculously large hand finds his leaking cock and begins to pump. Tim moans again, arching, but Martin doesn’t linger, giving his cock a few cursory tugs before he moves again, big hand sliding between their bodies and landing on Tim’s thigh, pushing his legs open.

“Yeah,” he says, barely aware of the word leaving his mouth or the water hitting his body as he opens his legs wider and his hand speeds up, arse clenching as he pictures Martin’s fingers  in him, pressing in and up, fucking him until Tim is reduced to useless, helpless begging, body squirming and wrists twisting under Martin’s hold. But oh, oh, he’s so big, and Tim can’t move him, can’t get away, and only lie there and take it as Martin drives him closer and closer to the edge, and Tim would wonder if he’s feeling anything at all but he can hear him, hear his heavy breaths and his cut off moans and then he moves and Tim can feel his cock, hot and hard and slightly wet, oh fuck, wet with his own precome as he nudges it up against the fingers still working in Tim’s arse, and Tim opens his legs so wide it hurts and pushes back, mindless with it, wanting only to feel the head of that cock slipping inside…

He comes hard, back arching so far that he actually lifts onto his toes, his eyes rolling up and vision momentarily whiting out completely. His hand scrabbles at the tile next to him and he comes dangerously close to tipping over, but he doesn’t even notice, nor does he realize that his mouth is open in a soundless scream. For that moment the only thing that exists is the pleasure; he’s surrounded by it, it’s seeping from his pores to hang in the air, almost solid enough to touch.

Tim slumps against the wall, hand falling from his cock as his body begins to come down, relaxing in an abrupt way that nearly sends him spilling to the floor. Tim catches himself just in time, steadying himself on shaky legs as he rests his hot face against the cool tile and pants, closing his eyes and willing his heart rate to slow.

Eventually it does, and he rouses enough to clean both himself and the wall, limbs loose and uncoordinated. He feels tired now, drained, and he turns off the shower and gives himself a cursory go over with the towel before he stumbles to his bed, tumbling down into it and falling asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.   


He’s not apprehensive when he enters the office the next day, not at all. There’s no point to it. So he fucked his own fist thinking about Martin pressed up behind him and came harder than he can remember coming in a while, so what? It wasn’t really about Martin, he reasons, but more about wanting to be held down and railed by someone larger than him, and okay, maybe he hadn’t known about that particular desire before, but that’s not really surprising either. Tim’s not a small guy, after all, and most of the men he’s slept with have been smaller than him. So that’s all it is, and hey, now he knows this he can scratch the itch, find someone to take home that will happily hold him down and fuck him senseless.

Martin’s eyes fix on him as soon as he enters, going wide and something very close to panicked before he resolutely turns his head back to his work. His face is slowly filling with colour, growing brighter and brighter red the longer Tim watches, and although his gaze is on his monitor and his fingers are resting on his keyboard he’s not typing.

Tim watches him a moment longer, then shrugs off his jacket and sits down. So they both want to ignore whatever yesterday had been. Good, he thinks, telling himself that the twist in his stomach is gratitude that neither Sasha nor Jon was around to witness that little byplay.

It takes him until lunch to admit that okay, possibly it is Martin he wants after all. Jon has been productive and they’ve spent the whole morning researching statements, and in the lulls between looking up dates and writing what he finds, noting who might need a follow up interview and which pieces of the statement don’t seem to match up with reality, he finds that his eyes keep straying towards Martin, lingering on his hands, his arms, the line of neck or cheek. Watching his arse when he gets up to get his third cup of tea, Tim sighs, conceding defeat. 

He wants Martin. He didn’t want him before yesterday, had only ever assessed his attractiveness to confirm that he could probably do better than Jon before deciding it wasn’t his business either way. But yesterday flipped a switch in his brain and now it’s all he can see. His eyes catch on his mouth or his hands or his thick thighs and he feels his mouth go dry.

He wants nothing more than to get Martin alone and get him to put his hands all over him, and what’s more, he knows Martin wants it, too. More than once Tim’s glances have been met with Martin’s own eyes skittering away, and he’s been blushing so much it’s a wonder that Sasha hasn’t asked him if he isn’t coming down with something. Tim knows what he looks like; he’s never had any trouble getting laid and he’s not above using his looks to get what he wants, either. To that end, he waits until he can feel Martin looking at him again and then lifts a pen to his lips, sliding it into his mouth just to hear Martin’s sharply indrawn breath from across the room.

“What is it?” Sasha asks, concerned, and Tim raises his eyes just in time to see Martin’s gaze fly back to his computer screen. When he gets a look at what’s there he winces.

“Just, uh, insects,” he says, and shudders lightly.

Sasha laughs. “I thought you liked insects,” she teases and Martin shakes his head.

“I like spiders,” he says. “Big, fuzzy, friendly spiders, not…whatever this is.” He gestures at his monitor without looking at it and hurriedly closes the tab, scowling at Sasha when she continues to laugh at him. “Keep laughing,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Easy for you, you don’t have to look at it. Bet you’d stop laughing then.”

“Hand it over, you big baby,” Sasha says, and of course that’s when Jon opens the door.

Martin immediately stops joking around and ducks his head, practically hiding behind his monitor as Jon’s glare lands on him. “I’m sure Martin can do his own work,” he says, although he doesn’t sound sure in the least and doesn’t seem to care who knows it.

“Of course I can do my work! We were –“

“Whatever. Sasha, can you come in here, please? My laptop crashed again.”

“Sure thing,” Sasha bounds up and follows Jon back into his office. “Was it another one of the weird statements?” they hear her ask, but Jon shuts the door on his reply, and all they can hear after that is their muffled voices.

Tim looks at Martin; his shoulders are curved inward, like they tend to do whenever Jon criticizes his work, and he looks so desperately unhappy that Tim finds himself opening his mouth either to reassure him or joke him out of it, but then Martin’s gaze snaps to him and his eyes go wide.

“I should probably get lunch-“ he says, and starts to stand.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Tim says. Fuck it, he thinks. He knows what he wants and he’s never really been one to wait for the things he wants to come to him. Decisive, that’s me he thinks with more than a little amusement as Martin gapes at him. Thank goodness one of us is, at least.

“You want – with me,” Martin says, and Tim gives him a slow smile, lets it widen a fraction when it makes Martin swallow hard.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, and Martin swallows again, throat working. Tim half expects him to bolt – he knows he’s laying it on a bit thick, should probably dial it back a little but he likes the way his flirting makes Martin blush – but then Martin glances at Jon’s closed door and straightens up, returning Tim’s smile.

“Okay,” he says.

The rest of the day goes by so slowly that it feels like it’s being done on purpose, but soon enough the clock ticks through the last hour and they’re free to go. Jon is holed up in his office again but Tim, Marin, and Sasha all walk out together. Sasha’s chatting merrily; she’s going away on a mini holiday with her boyfriend and is all cheerfulness. Tim banters back and forth with her easily, but his mind isn’t really on the conversation. It’s on Martin, gone quiet on Sasha’s other side, and whether or not he’s thinking of a way to get out of their plans. He figures that the hours between saying yes and actually going have given him too much time to think, and what he’s been thinking of is how messy his could get.

Tim sighs to himself, looking at Sasha and thinking about what it had been like with her. They’d stumbled into Tim’s house, half drunk, and hadn’t even made it to the bed. They’d fucked a few times after that, but soon after Sasha had gotten serious with the boyfriend and Tim, who’d never been that serious to begin with, wished her luck with a grin.

“What?” she says now, quirking her brow at him.

“Just thinking about our epic romance,” he says, and she rolls her eyes.

“Dreaming again?” she asks sweetly, and Tim gives a mock gasp of pain, clutching at his heart.

“Why do you always want to hurt me?” he asks, and Sasha snorts.

“Don’t make it so easy,” she says, and both Tim and Martin laugh. Tim sees the way that Martin’s shoulders have relaxed and breathes an inward sigh of relief. He still fully expects Martin to tell him he’s changed his mind, but at least he’s acting more like himself again.

They wave Sasha off at the doors to the Institute; the boyfriend gives them both a deeply suspicious look as she walks up to him before giving her a long, pointed kiss. Tim has never met him but he already knows he’s probably not going to last much longer.

Tim turns to Martin after they drive off, expectant, but Martin doesn’t say anything. He’s looking down towards the station, chewing on his bottom lip. Tim gives him a couple seconds then pushes his own voice into the silence.

“There’s this great place by the station that we go sometimes after work, or we could –“

“Tim,” Martin says, and Tim stops. Martin’s looking at him now, and his face is screwed up in something like resolve. Tim sighs.


“Can you just – I don’t want dinner.” He shifts from foot to food and twists his hands in front of him, looking nervous but determined. “I want you to take me back to yours.”

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “You what?” he repeats a bit dumbly, entirely sure he heard wrong.

“I want to go to yours,” Martin says again, face bright red. “I thought – is that wrong? Didn’t, didn’t you want –“

“Yes,” Tim says, and Martin’s mouth snaps closed. “Yeah, of course, I just thought –“

Martin’s laugh is high with relief. “What, that I needed to be, be romanced, or, or…no.” He shakes his head. “I want to go back to yours,” he says again, and Tim doesn’t need telling a fourth time.

They manage to keep their hands off of each other until Tim gets his front door open, but as soon as he shuts it behind them Martin is crowding him back against it, hands gripping Tim’s hips and resting there as his body pushes him back against the wood. Martin’s mouth finds his and Tim surges into the kiss immediately, one of his hands fisting in Martin’s shirt and the other sliding into his hair, tugging restlessly at the strands as their mouths move together.

It’s a damn good kiss. Tim sucks on Martin’s tongue just to see if he can earn some sort of sound, and he’s rewarded with a soft gasp before Martin returns the favor, mirroring Tim’s actions and making pleased shivers travel up and down his spine. Martin sinks into Tim’s mouth like it was made for him, and Tim lets him in without thought, losing himself in the kiss, in the slick sounds of their mouths, the way that their bodies strain towards each other. Tim’s been half hard since lunch, and now his cock rises eagerly; he can feel it pushing against the front of his slacks, seeking the resistance of Martin’s body, and he opens his legs so that one of Martin’s thick thighs can slide between them, moaning when Martin presses against him, rubbing his thigh along Tim’s cock in a slow drag.

Tim’s other hand joins the one already in Martin’s hair and he tugs it again and again; not a signal to stop but a restless sort of tick. Martin huffs against his mouth and reaches up, gripping Tim’s wrists and pulling his hands out of his hair, hissing when the fingers pull on their way out.

Martin pushes Tim’s hands against the wall on either side of his head, pinning him, and Tim fucking whimpers, his entire body going lax in Martin’s grip, melting as easily as it had the night before. Sinking against the door even as his hips buck wildly against Martin’s thigh.

Martin breaks the kiss and leans his head against Tim’s breathing hard. Tim breathes his exhaled breaths, light headed and exhilarated, shuddering with arousal against Martin’s body.

“What do you want?” Martin asks. “I’ll do anything.”

Tim groans and buries his face in Martin’s neck, hips jerking hard. Fuck. “I want you to hold me down,” he says, the words thick, layered with a thick coating of lust. “Hold me down and fuck me, I want –“

“Yes,” Martin says, and when he pulls back to look at him Tim sees his own want mirrored there.

They stumble their way into Tim’s bedroom, nearly falling more than once due to their reluctance to let go of each other. Martin keeps one of Tim’s wrists trapped in his hand as they move and Tim feels like it’s the only thing keeping him from flying apart. He’s so hard that it actually hurts, and he presses his free hand against himself, hard, knowing he has to calm down or he’s going to shoot the second that Martin touches him, the second he pushes him down on the bed and covers him with his body.

Martin’s eyes follow the movement of his hand, and when he sees what Tim is doing he makes a high pitched noise and reaches for him. Tim knocks his hand away. “Don’t,” he says, “I can’t.” His hips twitch and his eyes flutter, and Martin’s face goes from mildly hurt to entirely too pleased.

“Really?” he asks, sounding far too delighted, and Tim reaches out and gets a hand on him instead. He’s hard and thick, and Tim gropes at him eagerly, enjoying the way his feet stutter to a stop and his head tilts back, fingers tightening on Tim’s wrist.

“Not so funny now, is it?” he says, and continues to feel him up until Martin traps his wrist again, panting.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he says, and then he smiles at Tim, a sudden, sweet thing that makes Tim’s stomach lurch. His hands flex in Martin’s grip, and he suddenly wants very badly to be able to touch him, to race the edges of that smile with his fingers, commit it to memory through touch.

Instead he lets Martin use his grip on him to maneuver him to the bed, trusting him to guide Tim there safely.

Tim feels his legs hit the bed right before Martin tips him backwards onto it, following him down almost instantly. He kisses Tim again and again, trails his mouth to his chin and then down his neck, and all the while he has him pinned, trapped by his hands and his body. The only thing that he can do is take whatever Martin decides to give him, and he loves it.

Martin shifts his wrists to one hand, pinning them above his head and leaving him with a hand free to slide under Tim’s shirt, mapping it out with curious touches as he sucks on the pulse point in Tim’s neck. Tim moans and tips his head, giving Martin more room to work. He flexes and twists his wrists in Martin’s grasp, not trying to get away but testing, seeing if he can break his hold. Martin merely presses him harder into the mattress and nips at his neck. He tugs at Tim’s shirt, pulling it up.

“Come on, off,” he says and Tim wriggles and lifts as best as he can – as much as Martin will allow – until the shirt is sliding up his arms, bunching along his forearms. He waits for Martin to let him go so he can remove the shirt, but Martin seems content to let it stay right where it is, focusing instead on working his mouth and hand over all the newly exposed skin he can reach.

Tim arches into his mouth, his hand. Each place on Tim’s body that Martin touches lights up, skin straining towards his mouth and hands, desperate to be touched. Martin’s hand drifts down, dips briefly under the waistband of Tim’s slacks before he starts to work at the button. His mouth works its way back up Tim’s neck while he does, and Tim opens his own in helpless invitation.

Instead of taking it, however, Martin makes a frustrated noise and pulls back slightly. “I can’t –“ he yanks at Tim’s slacks, and his expression is so annoyed that Tim has to laugh.

“Use both hands,” he says. Martin glances at him and bites his lip, and Tim grins. “I promise I’ll be good,” he says, giving the words an exaggerated purr that has Martin rolling his eyes and grinning back.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, but he lets go of Tim’s wrists so that he can go to work on his slacks.

Tim pulls the shirt off of his hands but otherwise stays still. He wants to touch Martin badly, wants to peel the clothes off of his body and touch it the same way Martin’s been touching him, but even though he’d  mostly been trying to make Martin laugh when he said it he does want to show him how good he can be.

Martin divests him of the rest of his clothes in short order. Tim is gratified to see how impatient he is to get back to it; it matches Tim’s own. Then as if he can read Tim’s mind, he tugs off his own shirt and slacks. And it’s not a tease, not at all – Martin’s going after his own clothing with the same impatience he went after Tim’s – Tim is so wound up that it feels like one anyway. “Come on, come on,” he says, and Martin pauses in the act of stepping out of his clothes. He gives Tim a long, considering look that Tim doesn’t think he likes, then smiles in a way that Tim definitely doesn’t before proceeding to lift his foot and remove one of his socks in the slowest, most drawn out fashion possible.

It’s the smile that does it. Any thought of lying back passively and waiting for Martin to get on with it flies out of Tim’s head and he’s sitting up, reaching out and grabbing Martin by his arm. He’s easy enough to pull onto the bed balanced as he is on just the one foot. Martin gives a startled squawk and Tim takes advantage of the moment to roll him onto his back and straddle him, pressing their cocks together with a moan. They’re both slick with precome and they slide together easily. “There,” he says, rocking down into Martin and sliding his hands up his belly to his chest, mapping out his skin the same way that Martin had mapped his.  “That’s better.”

Martin’s hands clench around his hips and he grinds Tim down into him as he thrusts up. His head is thrown back and his throat works; mouth moving soundlessly for a moment before he says, “Knew you wouldn’t stay still,” the last word sliding into a moan when Tim’s fingers find his nipples.

“If you’d just done what you were supposed to,” Tim says, hardly aware of the words coming out of his mouth. Martin’s cock against his feels so good, and it’s not quite what he’d asked for but he no longer cares. They can do that next time, he decides. Later, when they’re both less worked up. Right now he’ll come just like this, thanks. Tim’s back arches and his eyes slide shut.

Martin’s hands tighten on his hips and that’s all the warning Tim has before he rolls, pushing Tim back on his back on the bed, Martin once again on top of him. Tim’s legs wrap around Martin’s body instinctively as they turn over, when they settle again Martin’s cock is sliding against the crease of his arse. Martin gathers his wrists again, and pins them above his head, then rolls his hips down, dragging his cock along Tim’s arse. Tim moans his encouragement, digging his heels into Martin’s back and tilting his hips up, trying to urge him inside. Martin’s hips jerk hard and the head of his cock slips inside; they both moan at that, and then Martin begins to press inside.

He goes slowly, too slowly for Tim, who tries to urge him deeper faster with his hips and his heels; Martin makes an annoyed sound and reaches behind himself to grasp one of Tim’s legs, pulling it from around him and pressing it into the bed. It forces Tim’s legs wide; the burn makes him draw in a sharp breath that isn’t entirely pain.

Martin continues to slide into him almost unbearably slowly; Tim thinks that the drag of his cock over his hole is going to drive him insane. He’s so turned on he can barely stand it, and yet somehow that’s become secondary to slow stretch of his arse as it takes him in. It’s too much; he needs Martin to fuck him for real or he’s going to lose his mind.

“Please,” he says, and Martin groans as if he’s the one who’s being tortured and finally, finally fucks Tim hard, the way he asked for.

Tim can feel his orgasm approaching, feel it tugging at his body, pulling at it in a way that always brings to mind standing in the ocean and feeling the water and sand rush out from beneath his feet when a wave begins to form. He begins to tremble and thrash in Martin’s hold with something like panic because this wave is going to be too big, it’s going to wash over his head and pull him under and he may never find his way back to the surface. He can feel his body fighting it even as his hips continue to jerk upwards, driving him towards the feeling as inexorably as the wave draws the water, and the panicked feeling swells and swells inside him until he has to let it out somehow or go mad.

“Martin,” he says, and "please." Over and over, the words running together until Martin takes pity on him and covers his mouth with his own. Tim falls into the kiss with a mix of relief and desperation. The movement of Martin’s mouth against his feels not only wanted but necessary, and when the wave finally crests over his head and the pleasure pulls him under it’s the kiss that leads him back.

Martin releases his hold on him, and Tim uses what feels like the last of his strength to push his hands into Martin’s hair, anchoring his head to him as they continue to kiss, bodies trembling with aftershocks. Tim can feel all the places on him that will be sore later, but at the moment the awareness is dim, buried under the remnants of bone melting pleasure. It doesn’t matter. Every ache was worth it.

Martin breaks their kiss and rolls off of Tim and onto his side. Tim immediately misses the weight of him, but then Martin’s gripping his arm and tugging him over too, away from the messier part of the bed and into his arms, and Tim decides that he likes that just as well. He’s never been much of a snuggler as a rule, but then he’s never had an orgasm that’s made him feel like he’s been taken apart and put back together in a different order before, either. He figures he can make an exception, just this once.