Martin doesn't want Jon to see his body.
It’s almost ironic, considering the, ah, particular act of connection that catalyzed Martin's liberation from the Lonely - seeing and being seen; touching and being touched - but it’s true. Martin seems to be trying his best to be casual about it - trying almost too hard, if Jon is entirely honest, to degree that wraps all the way back around to conspicuous - but Jon would have to be blind not to notice that Martin tends to go out of his way to avoid letting Jon catch so much as a glimpse of...well, anything. There’s not a great deal of subtlety to be had, now that the two of them are practically living on top of each other. Their newfound proximity has already necessitated a number of very awkward, very delicate diplomatic negotiations, the majority of which have thankfully had favorable outcomes.
(Over the course of several squirming, fidgeting, throat-clearing conversations, they’ve managed to reach an accord regarding things like sharing the same bed - not something they actually have a choice about, unless one of them wants to sleep on the floor, Jon had pointed out, entirely reasonably - and cuddling - also not something they have a choice about, Martin had sheepishly admitted, because apparently nothing short of a full hogtie would prevent a sleeping Martin from latching on to the nearest source of body heat - and kissing - there was no plausibly deniable excuse for this one, but fortunately they had been quick to reach a consensus of oh, yes, yes please-)
(The unfavorable outcomes were mostly regarding minor things, like how burnt a food item has to be before it’s considered inedible - the answer, according to Martin, is any percent burnt, which seems unnecessarily puritanical, in Jon’s opinion - and whether apples belong on the kitchen counter or in the refrigerator. Jon has strong philosophical objections to Martin’s awful tooth-hurting cold apples, but has deigned to allow Martin to stash a few in the crisper drawer for his heretical enjoyment. Jon likes apples more than Martin, so it’s only fair that the bulk of them be stored at a sane temperature.)
(The heavier issues - the what do we do now and the where do we go from here and the is it even possible to cut ties with the institute - have been left, through mutual agreement, for a later date. The sustenance Jon derived from his...consumption, for lack of a better term, of Peter Lukas, feels like it will hold him for a while yet, before he has to start thinking about statements again. Those questions can wait. They deserve a rest. Reality will come for them soon enough.)
Anyway. For the most part, diplomatic relations are proceeding more smoothly than Jon had any right to expect, considering the conditions of extreme duress that led to them sharing this cabin in the first place. But, despite Jon’s fervent wishes that these new treaties might cause Martin to relax a bit, regarding certain things, Martin is still...shy. In some ways. He waits for Jon to vacate the bedroom before he gets dressed in the morning, and gets a tiny bit fussy about keeping their laundry separate, and even brings his change of clothes with him into the bathroom when he showers, neatly thwarting Jon’s vaguely guilty desire to find out what Martin looks like while wearing nothing but a towel.
(Or while wearing nothing, period. That’s a thought Jon tries not to contemplate too closely until he’s in the shower. Then he contemplates it very thoroughly indeed. At length. For as long as the hot water lasts.)
Jon's personal shower musings aside, it's not even an entirely prurient interest. More than anything, Jon just wants to be allowed to look. He wants the privilege of seeing sides of Martin that other people don't get to see. A great deal of Jon’s curiosity about Martin’s body springs from the same part of him that treasures the sight of Martin’s face slathered with one of his ridiculous floral-scented skincare concoctions, or Martin sniffing his own armpit to check if he forgot to put on deodorant, or Martin awkwardly grabbing a cold dumpling out of a tupperware container with his mouth because he just wanted one, Jon, he's not getting out a plate and fork for one dumpling, and he didn't want to get his fingers greasy, shut up. If Jon could gather those mundane moments into a pile and sleep on top of them like a dragon on its hoard, he would. Jon is greedy for intimacy with Martin, in every possible sense.
...though Jon will admit, in the privacy of his own mind, more than a little curiosity about the prurient side of things. And curiosity really is the correct word for it. Jon has always been inclined towards an academically-minded approach, when it comes to matters of pruriency. Bodies, and the things that bodies can be made to do when touched in certain ways, are interesting. When they're attached to an interesting enough person, at least.
Well. Setting aside Jon’s nosy, inquisitive, only-partially-prurient ponderings about whatever mysteries Martin is concealing under his clothes, Jon has been making a concerted effort not to push Martin on this particular subject. Jon doesn’t know Martin’s life story, and Martin is well within his rights to be self-conscious. Even if Jon doesn't really see what he has to be self-conscious about.
(Really, really doesn't see. Jon isn't normally one to have strong opinions about how other people look, positive or negative, but his steadily growing affection for Martin appears to have instilled in him a slight bias, because Jon has recently begun to suffer increasingly persistent intrusive thoughts about pinching Martin’s cheeks whenever Martin does something cute. And possibly pinching other things. Thus far, Jon has managed to restrain himself. Baby steps.)
(This isn’t the first time Jon has noticed that his mind appears to get the cause and the effect of physical attraction mixed up, compared to what is apparently the usual procedure. Jon can’t help but feel that his own system is much more sensible.)
So, yes. Out of deference to Martin’s sensibilities, as Jon understands them, Jon has also tried to refrain from showing too much skin, until he gets a better sense of exactly what the issue is. He’s not exactly complaining, since this private resolution has given him an excuse to poach one of Martin’s sleep shirts for his own use, which is an act of intimacy that Martin does not object to, judging by the happily gobstruck expression he’d made the first time Jon had suggested it. It’s not a sustainable state of affairs, though. The safehouse doesn’t have an air conditioner, for one thing, and it’s recently started to warm up enough for Jon to feel tempted to resume his usual habit of sleeping shirtless.
One particularly humid evening, when Jon’s entire skin feels like it’s rebelling against the slight aura of stickiness that’s been permeating the world since this morning's drizzle, Jon finally cracks. After finishing his evening ablutions, Jon takes a moment to consider his words, rehearses them a few times in his head to be safe, and then steps into the bedroom, where Martin is already curled up in bed with some obscure modern poetry anthology that Jon isn’t hip enough to Get.
“Martin. Do you mind if I leave the shirt off, tonight?” Stiff line delivery, but manageable. In an attempt to feel less like an amateur actor auditioning for the role of someone who knows how to talk to his boyfriend like a normal person, Jon moves to plug his phone in to charge, setting it on the nightstand next to Martin’s.
"What? Oh. Oh." Martin’s eyes widen. And, for some reason, flick down to Jon’s chest, which is still very much clothed. Jon is briefly tempted to check if he's spilled something on his shirt. “Yeah? If you want?”
The expression on Martin’s face does not exactly fill Jon with confidence. Nor does the fact that Martin’s voice seems to have suddenly gone up half an octave. "Are you sure? I know you normally, ah…" Jon makes a gesture that awkwardly attempts to address the elephant in the room without actually naming it.
"Well, yeah, but there's nothing wrong with how you look." Martin says it casually, almost reflexively, like the thought came so naturally to him that putting it into words required no effort at all. There's a long, unpleasant pause.
"Shit, sorry, that was so not the right way to say that-"
"Martin-" There was a great deal more wrong with the sentiment Martin just expressed than the way he said it.
Martin makes a frustrated noise, scrubbing a hand through his hair in that absent-minded way he does when he’s agitated and needs something to do with his hands. "Look, can you just- just forget I said anything, okay? It’s fine."
Jon sits down on the edge of the bed, next to Martin. He plucks Martin’s book from his lap, sets it aside on the nightstand, and then takes Martin’s hands in his own. Then, to his immense satisfaction, Jon takes this opportunity to deploy one of Martin’s favorite phrases. The one he breaks out when there's an important conversation to be had, and Jon is trying to wriggle his way out of it. "Try again."
Martin’s look of indignant betrayal is priceless. Jon, beneath the layer of sincere concern in the foreground of his mind, takes a moment to feel a bit besotted about it. Then Martin growls in a fine, fine, you got me sort of way, and hems, and haws, and avoids Jon’s eyes, and does everything sort of gnawing his own arms off to escape Jon’s grasp. For a man who seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to Jon’s emotional issues, Martin can be remarkably cagey about his own. The hypocrisy of it annoys and charms Jon in equal measure. Jon may be feeling slightly giddy at the opportunity to enact a bit of payback for the amount of feelings talk Martin has railroaded him into, over the past few months.
After a moment of stalling - and making a variety of reluctant noises - Martin finally says, “It’s not a big deal, or anything? I mean, it’s just- I'm just- and you're just- you know?” Martin makes an attempt to gesture at Jon without actually letting go of Jon’s hands, jostling Jon’s arms slightly in the process.
Jon doesn't know, is the thing. He may have the dubious advantage of being tall and naturally lean, but that's about it. Jon mostly thinks he looks scarred and sad, on the rare occasions he lingers long enough in front of a mirror to form an opinion of himself. Stress-gray and haggard. Worse for wear. Jon looks like a man who's been through the wringer.
Martin, to Jon’s everlasting gratitude, doesn't look like that. Through some stroke of luck, Martin has managed to outlast his employment at the Magnus institute without being burned, or sliced, or worm-bitten, or any of the other horrible things that have befallen Jon and the others. (Mostly Jon.) Martin also doesn't seem to share Jon’s unfortunate habit of shedding weight at the drop of a hat, whenever stress or circumstance prevents him from choking down his daily allotment of calories. Whatever ill effects Martin has suffered from these past few years of hardship, his body is as soft and healthy and unmarred as it ever was. Jon has always found that to be a source of comfort. It's...troubling, to think that Martin might feel differently.
Jon strokes his thumbs across the back of Martin’s hands and mentally fortifies himself for an embarrassing admission. He doesn’t know why it’s embarrassing. It’s only the truth. Jon just...isn’t good at saying things, sometimes. Things that feel too important to risk tainting with an imperfect choice of word, or a fumbled line delivery. But for Martin, he’s willing to try. "Martin. I know I've never actually come out and said it, but...I like how you look."
Martin, judging by the slowly intensifying shade of pink in his ears, appears to appreciate the effort. Until he grimaces, and looks away. "You've only seen me with my clothes on."
"Pretty sure I'd like how you look with your clothes off, too." Jon means it as a statement of fact. To his own mortification, his throat instead decides to voice it in a rough, vaguely suggestive murmur. Jon thinks this might be the sort of voice the word "husky" was invented for. This is what Jon meant about not being good at saying things. "Oh, good lord, I'm sorry, that was very forward-"
"You think?" Martin, to Jon’s immense relief, just presses his lips together like he's trying to keep a straight face, and laughs at Jon with his eyes, and doesn't look at all upset. Oh, thank God, he’s not upset. That's a good sign.
"What I was trying to say," Jon continues forcefully, before he has a chance to put his foot any further into his mouth than it already is, "is I can't imagine what you think you have to hide that’s worse than all this nonsense." Jon makes a gesture with his burned hand to indicate his various scars. Jon doesn't actually feel particularly badly about the scars themselves - he's more troubled by all the horrible things they represent - but, as he expected, he can see Martin’s eyes instantly ignite with protective fervor at the idea of Jon disliking any aspect of his own appearance. Well, good. Now he knows how Jon feels.
"And if it's about your weight," Jon continues with absolute conviction, gaining steam all the while, "I don't even want to hear it. You're bloody adorable and I won't hear any arguments on the subject."
This, by Jon’s standards, constitutes an uncharacteristically effusive bit of flattery. The effect is somewhat spoiled by Jon’s tone, which starts out forceful and slowly but surely crosses the line to belligerent, like he's an overly invested lawyer arguing his case in a courtroom drama. It reminds Jon of those early, innocent days in the archives, back when he was always berating Martin about some silly nonsense or another. It probably isn't quite the right tone to take, when you're trying to convince someone it would be a good idea to let you see them naked, but it did at least serve the purpose of allowing Jon to make it to the end of that sentence without immediately collapsing into a ball of ear-burning mortification. Jon, to the surprise of no one, is much more practiced at scolding than he is at compliments.
Martin, fortunately, seems to take Jon’s praise in the spirit it was intended. He's still doing the crinkly eye-smile thing. "Wow, Jon. Tell me how you really feel."
"I probably shouldn't. We'd be here all night." Jon's tone, in typical Jon fashion, manages to overshoot “joking” and land in “embarrassingly earnest romantic declaration” territory. Deciding he may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, Jon brings Martin’s hands to his mouth and presses a kiss against his knuckles.
Martin, who is thankfully possessed of an extremely high tolerance for sentimentality, gives Jon a more-than-usually sappy look. "Careful. Keep this up and I'll start insisting on moonlight serenades."
"...that's not totally out of the question." Jon hasn't seriously sung in years, but if anyone could get him back in the saddle, it would be Martin. Jon would probably draw the line at love poetry, though.
Martin’s face does something complicated, then. He makes a sound that's almost a wheeze, but one accompanied by a smile, like he’s been punched, but he’s also delighted about it. Jon thinks he hears the faintest whisper of a jesus christ. Then, at a more audible volume, "Okay, okay, you win. You've successfully romanced me." Martin gives a defeated sort of shrug, and then looks away. The flush in his ears has spread to his cheeks, and seems to be thinking of expanding its territory even further into his neck and chest. Jon wonders how far down it will go. "I didn't know it meant that much to you, honestly?"
This gives Jon pause. With an uncomfortable mental creak, he wills the rusty gears of his emotional intelligence into motion, and sets them to the task of calculating whether he’s successfully navigated the line between too pushy and just pushy enough. It would be just like Jon to trample over a sincerely-held boundary while he's preoccupied with attacking Martin’s low self-esteem like he's scrubbing a stubborn stain out of a countertop.
"If you really didn't want me to see, that would be one thing." says Jon, after taking a moment to gather his thoughts. He addresses this sentence slightly to the left of Martin’s head, because articulating something important while simultaneously concentrating on maintaining eye contact is beyond his capabilities. "Just...don't feel like you have to hide anything. Not on my account."
“Yeah. I hear you.” Martin's voice is soft and fond. Then his tone turns sly. "So...when do I get to see you shirtless?"
Oh, is that how it is? Jon feels an impish smile start to creep across his face. "All you ever had to do was ask."
Jon knows an opportunity when he sees one. With a hint of theatricality, he tugs his shirt off and tosses it vaguely in the direction of the laundry hamper. Any awkwardness Jon might have felt about this moment is instantly banished by the expression Martin is now making at him. Jon still doesn't quite see the appeal, honestly, but Martin seems pleased enough. The way he’s looking, you'd think Jon had been sculpted by Michelangelo.
"Sorry. I just. Um." Martin appears to be rebooting. And possibly gathering his nerve. He raises a tentative hand. "Can I...?"
“If you like.” Jon spreads his hands in a "have at it" sort of gesture, and smiles encouragingly when Martin hesitates, and then slowly reaches out. Martin’s hands feel soft and pleasantly cool when they settle above Jon’s pectoral area, not quite daring to brush against Jon’s nipples. Martin tends to run a bit cold, even in this god-awful weather. It makes Jon want to take hold of his hands again. Bring them to his mouth and breathe warmth over them. Instead, he sits, and watches Martin watch him. Martin looks very focused.
In all honesty, given a choice between the two, Jon has always found touching more interesting than being touched. Even so, there's a certain sort of indulgent joy that comes with letting Martin's careful, inquisitive, slightly unsteady hands acquaint themselves with his chest and belly. Stroking over the bumps and ridges of scars. Pressing into the slight soft protrusion of his abdomen. It's not the most exciting thing in the world, but it's gentle and pleasant and seems to make Martin happy, which is good enough for Jon. Even when Martin’s fingers perpetrate some mischief in the vicinity of Jon’s ribs that makes Jon reflexively jump.
"Behave yourself." says Jon, in an ineffectual attempt at sternness, after he's unlocked his arms from where they'd automatically clamped down against his sides, trapping Martin’s hands in the process.
Martin, the bastard, sounds like he's stifling a laugh. "Sorry, sorry, I wasn't trying to- they’re just more...visible than I expected?"
Jon shrugs with deliberate nonchalance. "The joys of a fast metabolism."
"And I'm sure your terrible eating habits have nothing to do with it." says Martin, without looking up, as he returns his hands to neutral territory. He then proceeds to make a thorough investigation of Jon’s chest hair, which Jon owns a fair amount of.
"Oh, I see how it is." Jon's voice wavers slightly as he feels one of Martin's thumbs get brave enough to brush briefly against a nipple. "I take my shirt off for you and you start slandering me."
"Pretty sure it's not slander if it's true." Martin's voice is low and distracted-sounding. He now seems quite engrossed in Jon’s nipples. My, those thumbs are getting friendly.
"Well, legally speaking-" Jon begins, and is immediately interrupted by a kiss. Jon decides that particular piece of trivia can wait for another time, and devotes himself to giving Martin’s lips the full amount of attention that they deserve. And, oh, hello, Martin’s tongue, too, apparently. Martin’s hands are stroking up and down Jon’s bare back now, which is another development that Jon heartily approves of. Especially when Martin turns his fingertips inward and gives Jon a light scratch, resulting in a shiver and an outbreak of goosebumps.
Isn't it amazing, thinks Jon, how the removal of one single article of clothing can so thoroughly change the character of a kiss. Jon is pretty sure this is the first one they've had that could be properly termed a snog.
A greedy voice in the back of Jon’s mind can’t help but wonder how matters would proceed if they managed to get rid of a few more articles of clothing. Jon hastily shushes it back into silence. They’ve already achieved a great deal of progress in a short span of time; it would be a fool’s gamble to press his luck any further. Martin, however, seems to read Jon’s speculative silence correctly, because he pulls back, looking rather incongruously bashful for a man who, mere seconds ago, seemed quite enthusiastic to find out what the inside of Jon’s mouth tastes like.
"Okay, so...here's the thing." says Martin, in a bear-with-me sort of tone. After a brief struggle to manifest a sentence explaining what the thing is, he sort of grimaces, and says, "Actually, you know what, here. I'll just…"
With an expression of mild trepidation, Martin sits back, grabs the hem of his shirt, and pulls it off quickly, like he's ripping off a bandaid. Jon finds himself distracted by the sight of Martin’s belly, which is temptation enough on its own. Invitingly round and generously hairy, especially from the navel downward. Jon would very much like to rub his hands over that hair. And nuzzle his face against that hair. And possibly work his way down to nuzzling other areas. With some effort, Jon tears his eyes away from Martin’s belly, moves his gaze upward, and registers the fact that Martin appears to be wearing some sort of undershirt beneath the baggy t-shirt he sleeps in. It’s not quite a bra or a binder - Jon knows that much - but whatever the correct term for it is, it seems to be serving a similar role, in terms of keeping...well, keeping certain things relatively inconspicuous.
And then the second shirt comes off, and Jon’s train of thought abruptly switches to an entirely different track, because there, innocuous beneath a fuzzy layer of chest hair, are a set of perfect little breasts. With a set of puffy pink nipples rapidly going stiff, despite the relative warmth of the room. They're smaller than Georgie's, admittedly, but there's no mistaking what they are. The Eye, in a rare act of usefulness, provides Jon with the term gynecomastia. Along with a long list of Martin’s personal medical information that is frankly none of Jon’s business. Jon politely but firmly tells the Eye to fuck off.
(And then Jon proceeds to do the same to his own libido, which, in an act of entirely characteristic spite, has chosen this moment to wake up and remind Jon that, under the right circumstances, he really is very fond of breasts. Very, very pleased by the sight of breasts, Jon is. And the texture of breasts. And the taste of breasts. It has been quite some time since Jon last had the pleasure of experiencing a pair of breasts, hasn't it. God fucking damn it, stop, now is not the time.)
Jon, with a vicious jerk of the mental reins, attempts to drag his brain back on course. This shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. Of course Jon was already aware that Martin, at his size, was likely to be a bit more well-endowed in the chest area than your average man. Jon isn’t that oblivious to the realities of the human body, and the ways it carries weight. But, as it turns out, knowing and seeing are two different things. And what Jon is seeing now is something that rather exceeds his expectations. Two very exceptional somethings.
The silence stretches on. As Jon’s brain desperately attempts to flip itself back into an upright position and formulate a response, Jon begins to fear that he may be giving the wrong impression. Jon feels the rising buzz of something that might be panic. While wildly grasping for a response, Jon, as per usual, overshoots diplomatic and ends up landing on inconveniently honest.
"Martin, would- would it be- I mean. Would you mind if I…" Jon swallows, wrings his hands, abruptly realizes that he directed the entirety of his previous sentence several inches south of Martin’s face, and forcibly jerks his eyes back up to meet Martin’s eyes. Martin looks...worried. Oh, no, no, no, that’s not right, that’s not how things should be at all. Jon needs to do something, quick. Say something. Anything. "...would you find it upsetting if I wanted to touch them."
"Um." Martin looks startled, as though this wasn't the response he was expecting. Jon can't imagine what sort of response he was expecting, showing Jon something so remarkable, as if Jon wouldn't have the good taste to appreciate it. What kind of man does Martin take him for? "Like in a...curious way, or…?"
"...curious is certainly one word for it." The mildest possible word that could still be considered technically correct. Like describing a ghost pepper as a tad spicy.
"Okay?" says Martin. He looks skeptical, but also...something else. Something that makes Jon feel like he might be allowed to push his luck, just a little bit more. "And...what would be some other words?"
"Okay, okay, that's enough words." Martin is smiling now, which Jon decides to take as an encouraging sign. "Remind me never to play scrabble with you."
"I am extremely good at scrabble." Jon confirms.
Martin looks away. At the same time, he absent-mindedly rubs one of his nipples with the side of his arm, like he's scratching an itch. Jon’s eyes track the movement avidly. "And, just so we're being clear, when you say touch..."
Jon sighs, puts on his best, most formal diction, and enunciates clearly, "Martin, would you mind terribly if I sucked on your nipples?"
It's wildly successful, as far as icebreakers go. Martin’s face crumples, and he immediately doubles over, gasping with red-faced, squeaking, hysterical-sounding laughter. He presses his face into his hands and laughs some more. And then...even more, while Jon struggles to keep a straight face. After a good minute of this - and a few false starts - Martin resurfaces. "I'm sorry, you just- the way you said that. It- it sounded like you were inviting the queen for tea, or something."
"She'll have to wait her turn. I think I may have a prior engagement." Please, please let Jon have a prior engagement.
"I think you do." Martin gathers his composure, still breathing a bit heavily, and brings a hand up to swipe roughly at the watery corners of his eyes. "And just to be absolutely clear, this is a sex thing?"
"I certainly hope so." There may be people in the world who consider nipple-sucking to be a platonic activity, but Jon isn’t one of them.
"Okay, good, because I'm definitely gonna get...yeah."
"Oh?" The image of Martin getting hard while Jon plays with his nipples is also making Jon feel fairly "yeah." With a side order of “ohh.” And possibly a bit of “hngh,” for good measure.
Martin smacks Jon in the shoulder, which only has the effect of getting Jon to smile wider. "Shut up and get naked." Martin pauses. "Uh. If you want?"
Jon does, indeed, want to shut up and get naked. Martin does the same. Their efforts are somewhat hindered by the fact that both of them are attempting to watch the other take the remainder of his clothes off, while trying not to be too obvious that that's what they're doing. At one point, they accidentally make eye contact, and share a bit of a chuckle in wordless acknowledgement of mutual stupidity.
Jon, incidentally, finds it a bit of a relief to get the rest of his clothes off, for non-sex-related reasons. The warmth of the room feels much more comfortable now. "Ah. That's better." Jon says, with a contented sigh, as he moves to snug up against Martin’s side. Luckily, Martin’s headboard pillow pile seems to have enough room for two. Jon will never criticize Martin’s pillow-hoarding ways again. "I think I might want to sleep like this, if you don't mind."
"So, when you were asking me if you could sleep shirtless, you were really trying to work your way up to sleeping nude?" says Martin, to Jon's cock. It's a fairly average-looking one, in Jon’s opinion, but Martin nevertheless seems to consider it an object of intense fascination.
"We can't all be lucky enough to be ectothermic. Some of us sweat." And, more to the point, anything that reduces Jon’s sweating will lead to a proportional increase in Jon's ability to cuddle. Jon is very invested in optimizing his cuddle efficiency.
Martin heaves a dramatic sigh. "Typical. Give you an inch and you take a mile."
Speaking of inches, Jon is charmed to discover that Martin, in addition to his unexpectedly ample chest, also appears to be in possession of a sweet little cock, less than half the length of Jon’s own. Also smaller than Georgie's, Jon can't help but notice, with an internal chuckle of endearment. It's already starting flush with excitement, lifting slightly from where it's nestled on top of his balls.
Before Jon’s mind fully registers what he's doing, he's already reaching out. He hesitates briefly. Answering Jon’s unspoken question, Martin spreads his legs a bit more unambiguously and tilts his hips slightly in encouragement, like he's trying to meet Jon’s hand halfway. Martin’s half-hard cock entirely disappears in Jon’s fist when he wraps his hand around it. Jon gives Martin a slow stroke, sliding the foreskin back and forth, and gets a borderline pained-sounding "Ohhh, God." in response.
"Alright?" Jon withdraws slightly when he gets a look at Martin’s face, which is suddenly looking a bit tight around the eyebrows.
"Yeah?" says Martin, to the ceiling, in a rather strained voice. That is quite a blush. "Just...give me a minute? It's been a while."
Jon's worries vanish as he identifies the source of Martin’s tension. Martin isn't in distress. Just...enjoying himself a little too thoroughly, it seems. How nice. How very, very nice. Jon suddenly becomes aware of his strong desire to wrap his hand back around Martin's cock and find out just how many strokes it would take to make him come. He restrains himself.
Instead, he turns his attention to Martin’s breasts, because he did, after all, promise to suck on them, and Jon is a man of his word. Christ. The thought that something so lovely has been hiding shy and secretive under Jon’s nose, with Jon none the wiser, is making Jon feel mildly crazed. It's like discovering a unicorn hiding under his bed. Or a bar of gold sandwiched between the couch cushions. Jon resolves to prove himself worthy of the privilege of being allowed to touch them.
As a show of gratitude for his good fortune, Jon proceeds to pepper Martin’s chest with kisses. Jon’s initial efforts are somewhat restrained - almost chaste, even his intentions certainly aren’t. Given Martin’s earlier reluctance to let Jon even see his breasts, let alone touch them, it doesn't seem outside the realm of possibility that Martin might start having second thoughts. Jon's caution begins to ease when Martin, wonderfully, does Jon the courtesy of getting giggly. Martin’s chest shakes slightly under Jon’s ministrations. With a considerable increase in enthusiasm, Jon works his way over to Martin’s sternum, and then Martin's neck, and then Martin's face, until they're nose to nose.
"Mm. Thank you." says Jon, with complete sincerity.
Martin's shoulders shake slightly, like he's suppressing another laugh. "For what? I'm not doing anything."
"For this." For everything.
“Sure.” says Martin. Jon gets the impression that he's being humored. “Any time.”
“Watch out. I'll take you up on that.” If that invitation turns out to be sincere, Martin’s future is going to contain a substantial amount of groping. Jon makes a mental note to revisit the subject at a later date.
After a last, lingering nuzzle, Jon withdraws and returns to the task at hand. The task in question being acquainting himself thoroughly with the texture of Martin’s breasts. The subtle bumpiness of the areola when he traces the edge of it with his tongue. The curls of chest hair brushing against his nose. The soft skin, warming beneath his cheek when he presses his face into it, breathing in Martin’s scent. While Jon's mouth occupies itself with one breast, his hand occupies itself with the other, cupping the perfect palm-sized shape of it, massaging it gently. Jon has always had a bit of a weakness for groping. There are certain features of anatomy that are just...very pleasant to put his hands on. To feel the give when he squeezes them. It's not an inclination he indulges often, but when the opportunity arises, he seizes it gladly. So to speak.
Jon is distantly aware, through the haze of sensory nirvana, of Martin’s hands stroking his back, and of Martin’s body reacting to each new exploration, moving through a series of small sighs and shifts and twitches. When Jon decides to try tickling a nipple with his thumbnail, he's rewarded with the sound of a startled intake of breath. And the sound of Martin’s feet fidgeting against the covers.
"Wow. That's, uh." says Martin. He sounds almost surprised. When Jon glances up at him, his eyes are wide.
"Has no one ever...?" Jon asks, with a sudden feeling of deep inquisitiveness.
"Ah. No? Not really."
Jon takes a deep breath and strives valiantly not to think of this as taking Martin’s virginity. Then, with an investigative spirit, Jon applies his teeth to Martin’s nipple. Martin actually jumps. Then he makes a sheepish little huff when Jon looks at him questioningly.
“Sorry, it's not- it doesn't actually hurt. Just...kind of sensitive?"
They're sensitive, thinks Jon, with a strange sort of emphasis. Jon’s brain lingers covetously over that tidbit of information, like he’s just discovered something momentous. Sensitive. Dear little things. Jon will need to be gentle with them. Jon will have to be so, so very nice to them. Jon is going to show them just how nice he can be. The thought sends little tingles of excitement down his spine. And into other places. Jon notices for the first time that he's hard. Quite hard. And also that his erection appears to have been rubbing itself against Martin’s thigh without his knowledge. How long has that been going on?
With a mental shrug of dismissal, Jon occupies himself with sucking Martin’s nipple stiff and swollen. As he does so, he begins to contemplate other stiff mouth-sized objects that he hopes to suck on very soon. When he switches from one breast to the other, Jon spares a brief glance down at Martin’s cock, which seems very enthusiastic about the proceedings. It’s standing straight up, shiny-wet at the tip, blushing such a furious pink it's nearly red. Jon finds the sight immensely flattering. Jon is very tempted to wrap his hand around it again.
Instead, he takes one of Martin’s nipples between his teeth and tugs, and smiles when Martin makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a whine. Martin's hips are starting to rock in tiny, restless motions, sending his cock bobbing slightly where it stands, pushing up against nothing. Jon will attend to that soon, he decides. Just...not quite yet. Just a little bit longer.
Jon doesn't know how long he loses himself in Martin’s breasts. His sense of the passage of time is marked only by the way he can feel Martin getting increasingly fidgety, and hear Martin’s noises getting increasingly appreciative. Quite appreciative, those noises are. Appreciative to a degree that suddenly turns to alarm, when Martin’s motions still, and he says, "Oh- oh no, shit, wait-"
Martin goes tense, both hands suddenly tightening on Jon’s shoulders, Jon pulls back just in time to catch sight of Martin’s cock jumping where it juts up below the swell of his belly. At first Jon thinks Martin might just be twitching with excitement - until, to Jon’s amazement, Jon sees spurts of white start to appear. Oh. Well, then.
Without a second thought, Jon detaches himself from Martin’s grasp and moves down to put his mouth on Martin’s cock, attending to the urgent task of sucking Martin through the remainder of his orgasm. Since Martin’s size doesn’t necessitate the addition of a hand to stroke the shaft, this leaves both of Jon’s hands free to roam. Jon uses one to massage Martin's balls while the other strokes against Martin’s inner thigh. Judging by the unsteady little jerks of Martin’s hips, and the shuddering gasp Martin just produced when Jon’s tongue gave his frenulum a bit of attention, Jon’s efforts are appreciated. By the time Jon is nearly finished milking out all that Martin has to give - which, it turns out, is rather a lot; been a while, indeed - Martin’s whimpering is starting to re-solidify into words.
"Shit, Jon, I'm sorry-" Martin babbles, as Jon releases his cock with a last, lingering suck. Then Jon presses a kiss against it, because it's an adorable cock, and Jon wants it to know that it's loved.
With a sense of smug accomplishment, Jon engrosses himself fully in the act of licking Martin’s belly clean. Waste not, want not. Martin is still trying to apologize, for some unfathomable reason, but, conveniently enough, he seems to have a hard time doing so when Jon’s tongue - not to mention Jon’s beard - is repeatedly brushing against a sensitive place, and he keeps interrupting himself with choked-off laughter. Jon gives Martin a nibble, just to see what happens, and is overjoyed by the giggle he receives in response. Jon can hardly believe all of the wonderful secrets Martin has been keeping from him. Jon wants nothing more than to catalogue each of them in detail. For the rest of his life, if all goes well.
(Jon stubbornly refuses to consider the probability of that actually happening. This moment is too perfect to spoil with something as petty as logic.)
Once Jon has finished chasing down the last drop of Martin’s come - to the tune of another giggle, immediately followed by another nonsensical "sorry" - Jon finally puts a stop to Martin’s self-deprecating nonsense via the simple expedient of crawling on top of Martin and snogging him senseless. "You'd better not be. As soon as you're able, I'm going to make you do that again."
"Do what?" Martin replies, in a tone of frazzled confusion, like he's completely lost his grip on the situation. "Come before the sex even starts?"
Jon groans an emphatic affirmative and pushes his cock against Martin’s belly in a manner that hopefully expresses the sentiment that sex very much has started. He wonders how long it will be before Martin can get hard again. Or if it would be possible to bypass Martin’s cock entirely. How would Martin feel about a nice prostate orgasm? Jon is fairly certain they could improvise some form of lubricant. Jon makes a mental note to add a few items to their shopping list.
Martin, ever the considerate one, cups a hand over Jon’s cock, pressing down to form a soft tunnel between his palm and belly. "Do you want me to…?"
"Here is...here is perfect. If you don't mind." More than perfect. It really is a very nice belly, thinks Jon, in what feels like a state of mild intoxication. Just lovely. Soft enough to create a small divot where Jon’s cock is pressed against it. Still slightly damp with Jon’s saliva, in places. Jon feels very affectionate towards this belly. The kind of affection that makes him want to kiss it all over. And then thrust into it until he comes.
"...you are officially the weirdest guy I've ever fucked." says Martin, in a tone of baffled approval, as Jon begins to grind in earnest.
"And if you think I am anything other than - ecstatically pleased - to have made your cute little cock come all over your cute little belly - you are deeply mistaken." Jon replies with breathless honesty. Martin’s body rocks slightly along with the motion of Jon’s thrusts, causing parts of him to move in interesting ways. There's a bit of bouncing involved. Jon is enthralled.
Martin, for some reason, reacts to Jon’s simple statement of fact as though Jon has said something outrageous. This mainly involves him smashing his unoccupied hand against his own face, like he's trying to hide. Jon can still see him smiling, though. "Jesus fucking Christ, Jon.”
"I want to see it again. Maybe while I'm inside you. If you're amenable." Oh, please, please be amenable.
Martin peers out at Jon from between his fingers. "We could give it a shot?"
There’s a hint of something in Martin’s tone that catches Jon’s interest. Beneath the haze of yes and good and Martin currently occupying the majority of Jon’s brain, Jon's inner investigator sits up and takes notice. "Have you ever...?"
"Sort of.” says Martin, in a vaguely evasive manner. Jon continues to stare down at him with undisguised curiosity. Martin’s shielding hand moves down to sheepishly rub the side of his neck. He looks away. “Tried it once, but, uh. We didn't get that far."
"Oh?" Jon is uncovering a wealth of new information about Martin today. He feels like he ought to be taking notes.
"...ended up coming while the guy was fingering me."
The mental image conjured up by those words knocks Jon for a loop. Obligingly, Jon’s brain manifests a scenario - a fantasy - a borderline hallucination - of the possibilities suggested by Martin’s words. The thought of what it would be like to slide his fingers into a squirmy, sensitive Martin, hard and eager and helplessly responsive. Jon would have to do it slowly, wouldn't he. It stands to reason that Jon would need to take his time. Work him open gradually. Stretch him with such care, lest Jon accidentally push him over the edge with an errant brush over the prostate. Jon is sure he could manage it. Jon is detail-oriented. Jon is very good at being careful.
And, oh, the sheer entertainment of it - to apply himself to an exercise in which all outcomes are equally desirable. How sweet the failure. How satisfying the success. How many attempts would it take before Jon got it right? How many times would he accidentally make Martin come on his fingers? How many times would Jon watch Martin lose the battle against his orgasm, painting his belly or the bedsheets with the evidence of how much he likes it, how badly he wants it-
(Adorable Martin, so excited for Jon, and so endearingly embarrassed about it, as though his arousal is anything to be ashamed of, as though Jon isn’t delighted to be the cause of his pleasure, the dear man, the dear, sweet, ridiculous man-)
Jon rolls his hips harder against Martin and imagines how it would feel to finally push his cock inside. To see how Martin reacts. To be rewarded with the knowledge of exactly how long it takes to fuck Martin to an orgasm. To stroke Martin’s lovely little cock in time with his thrusts and see just how good Jon can make him feel, how hard Jon can make him come-
It’s a fascinating intellectual exercise. So fascinating that, when Martin squeezes Jon’s cock, Martin’s hand is abruptly covered in Jon’s fascination. And a portion of Martin’s belly into the bargain. They've been making quite a mess of it, haven’t they. As the aftershocks fade, Jon has just enough presence of mind to melt back down against Martin’s side, rather than collapsing directly into his own puddle. Martin immediately circles an arm around him. Good man.
Jon’s sigh of satisfaction turns into a chuckle when Martin's other hand grabs his own discarded shirt, uses it to dab Jon’s come off his belly, and then unceremoniously chucks it towards the hamper. Then Martin’s hand comes back around to poke Jon in the side, resulting in an involuntary yelp. Jon retracts his earlier assessment. Martin is not a good man. Martin is a fiend.
"What are you laughing at?" says Martin, as though he didn’t just start laughing too, like he’s proud of himself. Horrible man, thinks Jon, with an irrational surge of affection. Just awful.
"Nothing. Just...glad I seem to have sold you on the benefits of nudity." For emphasis, Jon reaches around to Martin’s opposite side and slides a hand down to Martin’s hip. He finds a lovehandle and uses it for its intended purpose.
Martin rests his cheek against the top of Jon’s head. Jon can hear the smile in his voice. "I don't know. I might need to hear your pitch again, just to be sure."
"Hmm. I think that can be arranged."