ugly things are scribbled and typed on pages in this institute, imprinted and preserved in tape recordings. fascinating things, inexplicably and mad and intoxicating, but so many of them, inherently ugly and painful. martin isn't capable of doing anything that even a cynic like jon could call ugly, and as far as he's concerned, that goes as much for marks that appear on martin's skin by his doing. if you asked, jon would suppose that he could personally do something that would deserve being termed "ugly". he wouldn't be able to say what; he just supposes that he probably could.
his teeth press with affection and interest, leaving behind pink trails, and martin's skin somehow manages to make them look as sweet and gently happy as he is.
martin always get the pressure just right, a perfect push and pull between their bodies. jon marvels at it sometimes, how easily and naturally it seems to come to martin, for all that he is nervous and sometimes careful, sometimes reckless. he makes a rough noise of approval at martin's hand on his cock, obligingly rock into it, again martin's cock, the last little glimmers of morning sleepiness shaking themselves off his body and leaving him feeling electric. the glimmers will come back, in time, but now all jon hears in his head is martin's sighs, his breath, his words. ]
You've something of a particular effect on me, [ he murmurs back, glancing up to catch sight of the smile and finding himself unable to rise to stop from rising up to kiss it. ] The, ah, morning is young. We've time to lie in yet.
[ martin says nothing more than that, hand down and pressing against the both of them. his hand doesn't fit completely around the both of them, but it's enough to keep them steadily rutting up against one another, enough to keep them both rattling in the breath. martin's own devolves into a happy sigh and then a moan he stifles against jon's lips, against his throat, along his shoulder as he leans down to rest his temple against the jut of it.
the rhythm is warm and steady, fast enough to keep itself exciting, all breath and warmth, needed friction as his other hand slides to smooth over jon's chest and takes hold of his other shoulder. he's almost half afraid to meet his eyes. not in a terrible way, but in a way that means he might combust if he does.
that's probably terrible too but.
it's the truth.
martin is hopelessly... hopelessly...
well. he won't say it. just in case. not even to himself. he works his hand over and over again, the thrill warming him from the tips of his toes to his face. every point of contact making his body sing in the hazy morning light warming his back, warming the sheets. every soft sound from him is earnest, needy, blunt nails digging into skin on his free hand, his other hand still tirelessly (debateable) moving over the both of them. ]
[ unfamiliar words and phrases drift idly around jon's head. he wonders, considers, very nearly saying some of them, his mouth open against martin's skin before the words catch in his throat, almost painfully. his brow knits, a brief sign of internal frustration that he turns into a mark of pleasure, groaning roughly as his cock slides against martin's, against his hand. the very best of what they have is found in the fact that they don't really talk about it, they just let it happen. there are no labels or boxes to tick, they simply like to fuck and kiss and share each other's company. which makes it sound so trivial. it isn't. it's important. it makes jon's heart rattle sometimes when he looks at martin, when their eyes meet across a room and everything skips, stops, tumbles.
jon is too.
hopelessly, hopelessly.
the thought falls away, as it always does, buried beneath jon's determination not to think about it, and the sounds, sensations of martin's body beneath his. he ducks his head down into the hollow of martin's shoulder, lowers his entire body so that they are chest to chest with no gaps, the hard ruts of his hips getting harder still as he feels the wetness of martin's cock against his own. a hand sinks down to press against the underside of martin's thigh, push him apart a little bit more, his short, sharp breaths becoming a little choked.
his teeth catch on martin's skin again, tongue lathing over his throat as though to catch the vibrations of his sounds. ]
[ jon pushes him apart a little and martin whimpers in turn. the combination of teeth and fingers and weight of jon and the overwhelmingly flush sensation washing through him is rolling like a gargantuan wave of feeling. he presses his head back into the pillow and arches, hand pumping a little more in earnest now as he is determined to maintain that barely-disjointed movement they both are trying to keep up with, a desperate grind and bump with kisses muffled somewhere in between there.
martin tries at least, lips parted and mouth open and whimpering on jon's cheek, on the jut of his jaw, on his mouth when he surges up to kiss him.
he wants to say something, whisper his name outloud, muffle the words into his thighs, maybe say it around his cock so he'll never have to understand it and martin will feel a feather's weight lighter than before. instead, he sets his lips in a firm line of concentration, arm pumping with a little more determination to bring jon up and over the edge. he reaches with his other hand to clutch at the base of his neck, to pull him as close as he can until he feels that familiar pull in his belly. ]
Jon--
[ it's soft. barely a plea choked out with a long breath. martin digs fingers in, pulls hair, and doesn't really waste much time coming first between the both of them. his head is practically swimming in sensation, and his body follows suit, shuddering as he does so, but hardly slowing his pace down.
don't say it. he's better off not saying it, don't say it. ]
[ what would happen if martin said it? jon doesn't know. he doesn't let himself think about it. he doesn't think about what martin would do if he said it. what they have is so good, but so precarious, because the institute has a tight, absurd grip on them both, because it's a strange and sobering touch of reality in a situation that sometimes seems more dreamlike than anything else to jon. it's so good. he — oh, it's too much to think about. it's safer, more stable this way, surely. unspecified, an unspoken agreement of affection and carnality intertwined perfectly.
he isn't loud, not the way that martin can be, when given the chance. jon is full of heady breaths, exhales that take echoes of sound, reverberating against the curve of martin's neck. too distracted to bite for a long moment, trying to help himself and martin along with the slide of his body between martin's strokes. it's ungainly, but it works, it makes him feel breathless and dizzy because it's martin, because they know each other's bodies so well now. the outlines, the likes and dislikes, the sensitive spots and the way to leave each other stupidly and profoundly speechless.
a soft, almost inaudible yes slips from his lips as martin presses, pulls, comes between their bodies. with something that feels like a herculean amount of strength, he lifts his head to crush their mouths together and swallow the sounds, the shudders, feeling the surge of nearness rising in the pit of his stomach. his mouth parts against martin's, eyes shut, brows furrowed as he joins martin mere moments later.
slowing, shivering like there's a cold breeze in the room, but his body feels like a furnace. almost stubbornly, he keeps rutting against martin, a little gentler now, but doing his level best to draw out his own pleasure that bit longer, and hopefully martin's too.
he could stay like this. with martin, tangled, for... a truly indeterminable and lengthy amount of time, he thinks. ]
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ugly things are scribbled and typed on pages in this institute, imprinted and preserved in tape recordings. fascinating things, inexplicably and mad and intoxicating, but so many of them, inherently ugly and painful. martin isn't capable of doing anything that even a cynic like jon could call ugly, and as far as he's concerned, that goes as much for marks that appear on martin's skin by his doing. if you asked, jon would suppose that he could personally do something that would deserve being termed "ugly". he wouldn't be able to say what; he just supposes that he probably could.
his teeth press with affection and interest, leaving behind pink trails, and martin's skin somehow manages to make them look as sweet and gently happy as he is.
martin always get the pressure just right, a perfect push and pull between their bodies. jon marvels at it sometimes, how easily and naturally it seems to come to martin, for all that he is nervous and sometimes careful, sometimes reckless. he makes a rough noise of approval at martin's hand on his cock, obligingly rock into it, again martin's cock, the last little glimmers of morning sleepiness shaking themselves off his body and leaving him feeling electric. the glimmers will come back, in time, but now all jon hears in his head is martin's sighs, his breath, his words. ]
You've something of a particular effect on me, [ he murmurs back, glancing up to catch sight of the smile and finding himself unable to rise to stop from rising up to kiss it. ] The, ah, morning is young. We've time to lie in yet.
no subject
[ martin says nothing more than that, hand down and pressing against the both of them. his hand doesn't fit completely around the both of them, but it's enough to keep them steadily rutting up against one another, enough to keep them both rattling in the breath. martin's own devolves into a happy sigh and then a moan he stifles against jon's lips, against his throat, along his shoulder as he leans down to rest his temple against the jut of it.
the rhythm is warm and steady, fast enough to keep itself exciting, all breath and warmth, needed friction as his other hand slides to smooth over jon's chest and takes hold of his other shoulder. he's almost half afraid to meet his eyes. not in a terrible way, but in a way that means he might combust if he does.
that's probably terrible too but.
it's the truth.
martin is hopelessly... hopelessly...
well. he won't say it. just in case. not even to himself. he works his hand over and over again, the thrill warming him from the tips of his toes to his face. every point of contact making his body sing in the hazy morning light warming his back, warming the sheets. every soft sound from him is earnest, needy, blunt nails digging into skin on his free hand, his other hand still tirelessly (debateable) moving over the both of them. ]
no subject
jon is too.
hopelessly, hopelessly.
the thought falls away, as it always does, buried beneath jon's determination not to think about it, and the sounds, sensations of martin's body beneath his. he ducks his head down into the hollow of martin's shoulder, lowers his entire body so that they are chest to chest with no gaps, the hard ruts of his hips getting harder still as he feels the wetness of martin's cock against his own. a hand sinks down to press against the underside of martin's thigh, push him apart a little bit more, his short, sharp breaths becoming a little choked.
his teeth catch on martin's skin again, tongue lathing over his throat as though to catch the vibrations of his sounds. ]
no subject
martin tries at least, lips parted and mouth open and whimpering on jon's cheek, on the jut of his jaw, on his mouth when he surges up to kiss him.
he wants to say something, whisper his name outloud, muffle the words into his thighs, maybe say it around his cock so he'll never have to understand it and martin will feel a feather's weight lighter than before. instead, he sets his lips in a firm line of concentration, arm pumping with a little more determination to bring jon up and over the edge. he reaches with his other hand to clutch at the base of his neck, to pull him as close as he can until he feels that familiar pull in his belly. ]
Jon--
[ it's soft. barely a plea choked out with a long breath. martin digs fingers in, pulls hair, and doesn't really waste much time coming first between the both of them. his head is practically swimming in sensation, and his body follows suit, shuddering as he does so, but hardly slowing his pace down.
don't say it. he's better off not saying it, don't say it. ]
no subject
he isn't loud, not the way that martin can be, when given the chance. jon is full of heady breaths, exhales that take echoes of sound, reverberating against the curve of martin's neck. too distracted to bite for a long moment, trying to help himself and martin along with the slide of his body between martin's strokes. it's ungainly, but it works, it makes him feel breathless and dizzy because it's martin, because they know each other's bodies so well now. the outlines, the likes and dislikes, the sensitive spots and the way to leave each other stupidly and profoundly speechless.
a soft, almost inaudible yes slips from his lips as martin presses, pulls, comes between their bodies. with something that feels like a herculean amount of strength, he lifts his head to crush their mouths together and swallow the sounds, the shudders, feeling the surge of nearness rising in the pit of his stomach. his mouth parts against martin's, eyes shut, brows furrowed as he joins martin mere moments later.
slowing, shivering like there's a cold breeze in the room, but his body feels like a furnace. almost stubbornly, he keeps rutting against martin, a little gentler now, but doing his level best to draw out his own pleasure that bit longer, and hopefully martin's too.
he could stay like this. with martin, tangled, for... a truly indeterminable and lengthy amount of time, he thinks. ]