Work Text:
Martin didn't understand it.
"Neither do I," Jon said mournfully. Martin had never heard someone sound so gravely put-on when discussing sex. "I've never — that is, I don't —" He made a frustrated noise. "This isn't something I do."
"You don't?" Martin had sort of gotten the sense that Jon and sex weren't the best of acquaintances, given his regular obliviousness to Tim's innuendo-filled jokes, but hearing it straight from the source was different. "Like, as in you're asexual, or …?"
"I — yes, exactly." A brief expression of relief flitted across Jon's face, possibly because he didn't have to explain it. "I'm not particularly averse to, ah, intimacy, but it generally doesn't occur to me, at least not for its own sake."
"Except now," Martin added.
Jon folded his arms on the kitchen table and buried his face in them, as if that could hide how red he was turning. "Except now."
Martin busied himself with his tea while Jon tried to merge with the furniture. They were talking about this, at least, which was a massive improvement over the past five months of … not talking about it. They were trying to do this like adults. Even if Martin had no idea what to say.
"You don't," Jon eventually said, lifting his head, "that is, I wouldn't ask you to — I'm usually on the other end of this, when a partner wants something I'm not able to give them. But … you did ask."
He did. And now he had to work out how he felt about that. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."
Martin still didn't didn't understand it, though.
"I attacked you," he argued, while in the background David Attenborough droned on delightedly about plovers. "That is not up for debate."
"I know, Martin, I was there." Jon was very pointedly looking at the telly, with a glazed expression that suggested he was not learning anything about plovers whatsoever.
"So … I just …" Martin tried to think of a way to put this delicately and gave up. "Aren't you scared?"
Jon barked out a short, bitter laugh. "All the time."
"You know what I mean."
That sent him squirming. "I think it's … possibly part of the appeal? The, ah, the risk. The loss of control."
There was a blush creeping up the back of his neck, and Martin could see it, could smell it blooming beneath his skin. He wasn't stupid; he knew some people were into … that sort of thing. But he was pretty sure that it was supposed to involve safe words and no actual risk of violent death.
(Then again, the hole in Jon's leg was almost gone, and he barely limped anymore….no, stop it, Martin, you've got to be the responsible one here.)
"I guess that makes sense," he said, although it didn't, really. He pretended to be interested in the plovers.
Martin didn't understand them.
He wasn't sure what to call this thing they were doing, Jon and him. Theoretically he was staying at Jon's until he found a new flat of his own, but it was hard to put much effort into browsing rental listings when Jon clung to him like a koala, when they shared the bed every night. Theoretically they were still manager and employee, but Jon was still signed off work for an injury that was already mostly healed, so they hadn't had to confront the HR implications of that bit yet. If there were any implications.
The thing was, Martin … hadn't really ever dated. Not before Peter, anyway, and what he did with Peter could only very generously be called dating at all. Afterwards it had always seemed far too dangerous to get that close to anyone, for so many reasons. And anyway, it wasn't like he needed … any of that. He didn't even get hard anymore, except sometimes after eating, and the sensation of touching himself was muted and unsatisfying. Maybe all his appetites had been condensed down to one, an encompassing singularity of hunger. Did he even have a sexuality anymore, or just a dietary preference?
(Jon was warm, though. Nice to touch. He fit against Martin like a puzzle piece, and when he did every atom in Martin's body aligned to him like iron filings in a magnetic field. He had sensed Jon through the fog, from whatever lonely moor he'd dragged Prentiss through, a lodestar guiding him back to the world. That had to count for something. It had to.)
Martin didn't understand Jon in particular.
He'd gone back to work, though Jon was still officially signed off; Jon had talked him into smuggling home some statements, but just looking at the things was apparently enough to invoke the feeling of being watched that he'd been obsessing over. Jon was pacing unevenly now, talking to himself, though Martin couldn't follow the thread of incomplete sentences and sudden shifts of topic.
"...thought it was the worms, but — no, the hive was the face, that's what she said. The face of what, though? Do the books — obviously it's a metaphor, but still — how can the same thing … if there even is a, an intelligence …?"
Instead of trying to read Jon's mind, Martin thought about what had changed since they'd moved to the archives. Jon had obviously not become Head Archivist because of any…weird story powers, so they must've developed over the past year. Martin had been a little preoccupied, though, with not getting found out — and then with having gotten found out — and also, obviously, worms. He probably wouldn't have noticed if Jon grew horns somewhere along the line…
"D'you think they're related?" he asked, as the thought occurred to him. Fortunately it came during a break in Jon's monologue.
"Of course it's all related," Jon said, with a cutting kind of carelessness. (Martin was learning the difference between Jon being mean on purpose and Jon failing to notice when he sounded like a prick.)
"Including the, erm," Martin coughed. "The fantasies?"
"What are you—" When Jon's careening thoughts caught up to Martin's question, he froze in his tracks like a robot that had briefly gone offline. "Oh. Huh."
"Just a thought," Martin offered. "Since you said it wasn't your usual … thing."
"Yes. I — yes." Great, Martin had reduced him to monosyllables. Jon scratched absently at the side of his neck — the same side with the jugular vein, the side where Martin had — "Honestly, I thought at first it was — erm. A lingering side effect."
I thought it was your fault, he didn't say, but Martin flinched anyway. "No. Not, uh, not in my experience."
For some reason that made Jon flinch — perhaps the reminder of just how long Martin had been with Peter (for some value of with, anyway) or of exactly what they did together. "At any rate, I don't — it would be — ahem. I hadn't considered that it might've been an early sign of — my condition."
Condition. That was a nice euphemism, in the absence of a proper label for whatever he was becoming. "I mean, I don't know how it relates to the rest of it," Martin added.
Jon nodded thoughtfully. "Me neither. And I suppose it could just be … it's not as if I've ever experimented with, er, with that sort of thing, in my past relationships."
Right. Because Jon had had other relationships before. Martin just had Peter.
"If it was," Martin said, "a side-effect, I mean. It'd be focused on me specifically, right?"
Jon bit his lip; his brows were furrowed, concentrating on the question as intensely as on his grand unified monster theory. When he spoke, he spoke slowly and very deliberately, as if he was fitting words together like puzzle pieces. "I've never been attracted to anyone in a sexual sense. When I have sexual relationships, it's because I want to do something that feels good with a person I care about. This fantasy, or kink, or what have you, is focused around an act, and you happen to be the ideal person to perform that act. And not merely because you're the only vampire I know."
Martin had once had a maths teacher who thought a room full of bored teenagers were ready for formal logic. He could imagine her writing out the syllogism on the blackboard.. Jon has sex with people he cares about and Jon wants to have sex with me. But he couldn't quite get his head around the conclusion that followed, cuddling and kissing and cohabitation aside. If it was just the bite, that made sense — it made sense that it was just another way Martin had hurt him. But if it wasn't...
"I — okay," Martin said, when he realized that Jon was waiting for a reply. "I mean. I think I understand."
"Good," Jon said, but he was blushing again, and then he changed the subject.
Martin didn't understand how he'd got here, sharing a flat with someone who held him as he slept. It all seemed too good to be true. He ought to tread carefully, hold his (metaphorical) breath, wait for the other shoe to drop.
But he'd been so careful for the last ten years — longer than that, going back before Mum's stroke — and god did he want to see what recklessness could feel like.
Jon's return to work was semi-eventful, given the state of his office; the hole in the plasterboard had been repaired, but everything that had fallen from the shelf had been left in a worm-stained heap to one side, which needed to be sorted. Sasha and Tim had explored a bit in the mysterious passage behind the wall, and reported tunnels that went on for miles, which turned into all sorts of wild speculation about Millbank Prison and Jonah Magnus. Elias came down personally to welcome Jon back, and even bought them all lunch. (Well, everyone but Martin, obviously.)
Jon stayed well past five o'clock, because of course he did, and when they got home he went immediately into the bedroom to peel off his binder. Martin had made a habit of looking away or leaving the room while Jon changed clothes, because he knew dysphoria was a thing and he didn't want to overstep. He didn't look away now, though. He watched Jon strip to the waist, watched him cough and stretch and roll his shoulders, took in the swell of his chest when he turned in profile. It was cold enough in the room to make his nipples stick out a bit. Huh.
Jon was reaching for a sleep shirt when he caught Martin staring, and his eyes went almost comically wide. He did not, however, attempt to cover himself. "Is … can I …" He swallowed. "Hello."
"Hi." Martin took a tentative step into the room. He could smell the blood coming to the surface of Jon's skin; he could practically hear his rabbit-racing heart. "I, erm. I wanted to try something."
"You do?" Jon asked blankly. "I mean. Yes. I-If it's what I think you mean."
Martin took another step, stopping directly in front of Jon, and bent down for a kiss. They had been kissing for a while already: mostly chaste, polite things, no tongues, no teeth. Martin used his tongue now, though, licking into Jon's mouth while he cupped the back of his head. Jon groaned a little, and kissed back with enthusiasm, even leaning in to chase Martin's lips when he pulled back.
"Can I touch you?" Martin asked, because he could be polite about this, he could.
"You're already touching me," Jon said.
Martin rolled his eyes. "Jon."
"I mean — oh." He swallowed. "Yes. It's fine."
He spread his hands along Jon's flanks, stroking down to the curve of his waist and then up to his chest. Jon was warm all over, soft in interesting places. He gasped a little when Martin touched his chest, explored the contrast between the smooth underside and the coarse hair on top. Then back down — Christ, this man was so skinny — to wrap his hands around Jon's hips.
Then he picked him up.
Jon yelped, and grabbed for Martin's shoulders, tried to hitch his legs around Martin's middle. Martin kept his grip as he moved to the bed; he sat down slowly, giving Jon time to position himself so he was straddling Martin's lap. Jon was breathing heavily, and his eyes were very large and very dark.
"You still want this?" Martin asked, trying to keep his grip light enough that Jon could definitely escape if he wanted to.
"God, yes," Jon said, all breathy and hoarse.
Martin kissed his way down Jon's neck, very deliberately skipping over the fat veins there (even if they smelled so lovely, so hot and full and fast). He chose the muscles at the top of the shoulder instead, still rich with blood but less risky to tear. He nipped the spot with just his front teeth, and Jon started.
"I can stop," Martin said, as much to himself as to Jon. "You can ask me to stop."
Jon inhaled deeply. "I will if — if it's too much."
The best they could do. Martin steadied him, and bit down.
Jon tasted just as rich and bright as he remembered, and this time he didn't have to desperately drink it down; he sucked hard on the wound he'd made, letting the blood flow over his tongue, letting himself savor it. Jon cried out once, jerking away on reflex, but Martin had a hand on his back and another on the opposite shoulder, anchoring him in place.
Then the bite hit him, and he positively melted. One of Jon's hands found its way to Martin's neck, then his hair — not pulling him away, but holding him in place. The other fumbled weakly at his flies. Martin worried at the bite a bit, coaxing out more blood, and Jon whimpered in response. Experimentally, he touched Jon's chest again, palming and gently squeezing one side, and Jon arched his back into the touch. He really was into this, wasn't he?
(So were you, said a voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like Peter, all smug cruelty, and — no. Fuck that. He refused to let Peter be his first, last and only. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.)
The flow from Jon's shoulder eventually slowed down — Sasha had some theory or another about procoagulants that Martin didn't actually follow — and rather than keep gnawing at the same spot, Martin licked it clean and moved to the opposite shoulder. Jon actually moaned this time when Martin's teeth sank in, and he'd finally got his hand in his pants, grinding his hips into it with erratic little movements. He was grinding down into Martin's lap in the process, a distant, teasing friction against Martin's dick.
Maybe it was the friction, or maybe the infusion of fresh blood. Maybe it was some alchemical process, Jon's arousal catalyzing Martin's through the places their bodies met. Either way, Martin felt himself getting hard, and eventually he had to pull away from Jon enough to undo his own trousers and release the pressure. It gave him a proper eyeful of Jon in the process: half-dressed, eyes shut, mouth hanging open, two asymmetrically-placed bite marks on his shoulders, one of which was oozing down his collarbone. He looked positively debauched. He looked incredible.
Jon opened his eyes partway, just enough to figure out what Martin was doing. If anything, his hand started to move faster. "Fuck me," he said, in a rough, low voice, halfway between a question and a plea.
It took a bit of squirming to get his clothes out of the way, and a lot more to get Jon's off entirely when he was still spread across Martin's lap and touching himself. Martin wasn't exactly inexperienced — Peter had seen to that — but he still took his time getting oriented, watching Jon stroke his cock and feeling further back, finding where he was hot and wet and sensitive. He pushed one finger inside, easily, and felt Jon's body clutch at him. A second finger, and Jon threw his head back, moaning. The position pushed his chest out, practically in Martin's face in this position; he leaned in and placed a sucking kiss on Jon's nipple, got as much flesh in his mouth as he could, and bit down.
Jon came like that, with a shout.
Martin kept fingering him, kept drinking, until Jon stopped stroking himself and the fluttering around his own fingers had ceased. "You still want to—?" Martin asked.
Jon nodded vigorously. "Don't stop," he rasped.
Martin guided Jon onto his cock, and he slid down easily, making little whimpering noises. He was even warmer inside than out, a heavy weight in Martin's lap, and he wrapped his arms around Martin's neck for leverage as he rolled his hips. Martin went back to Jon's chest, licking up the trailing blood, nipping at the skin over his sternum without breaking it, and took over stroking Jon's cock as well, trying to mimic the way Jon had used a finger on either side. He could feel a pleasant tension building in his own belly, not as urgent or immediate as it used to be, though he didn't know if that was from being a vampire or just being closer to thirty than thirteen. It felt like completing a circuit, his cock in Jon's body and Jon's blood in his mouth, and he tried desperately to keep it going even though he knew it couldn't last.
Martin's orgasm was a high, sweet tremor that rolled through him, and he accidentally bit Jon harder than he intended to. He was pretty sure Jon came a second time from that, though it was weaker; he definitely lurched to a halt in Martin's lap, clinging to his neck and panting. For a few minutes, they just held each other, breathing each other's air, and all sorts of things drifted through Martin's mind: I'm sorry. Thank you. You're amazing. You should eat more. I'd forgotten anything could be this warm.
"Bollocks," Jon murmured, breaking Martin's train of thought entirely.
"What?" Martin felt a lance of panic up his spine.
Jon tugged on Martin's sleeve. "You look like a crime scene."
Martin looked down — oh. There were several florid splotches of Jon's blood on his shirt, and one on his trousers he couldn't quite explain. "Have you got any peroxide?" Martin asked.
"Bathroom cabinet." Jon straightened one leg, and used it to lever himself off Martin's lap and onto the duvet. When he flopped backwards, legs still splayed, Martin could see a streak of red trailing down his inner thigh. Without thinking, he swiped a bit of it up on one finger and tasted it.
Oh. Okay. That was … he had definitely just ejaculated blood. That was. That was certainly a thing?
And Jon looked like he'd been mauled, Jesus. It looked like Martin had tried to bite his goddamned nipples off. "Are you okay?" Martin asked, although it was obvious he wasn't, even if he hadn't fainted this time around.
"Glorious," Jon said, chuckled. But the smile on his face died when he looked right at Martin, and he immediately grabbed Martin's hand. "What about you?"
"What?"
"Are you okay?"
"That's not the point—"
"Yes," Jon said, squeezing Martin's hand, "it is."
Martin looked at those joined hands, at the blood on Jon's chest, at the worried frown on his face. "I don't know."
Jon sat up, and wrapped his arms around Martin from behind, heedless of the blood. Martin leaned into his warmth, and tried to convince himself he deserved it.
Martin left his clothes to soak in the sink while he helped Jon clean up. Not that Jon probably needed the help, but Martin was good at this sort of thing — he used to have to help his mum — and it helped him remember to be gentle, to be careful, to control himself. He swabbed the bites with iodine (and informed Jon that there were better topical antibiotics available, not that iodine wasn't effective, but the side effects could actually slow down healing and there were options — ) and bandaged them, and Jon submitted to the fussing as if he could tell Martin needed it.
Afterwards, when Jon was eating a proper dinner and Martin was nursing a cup of tea, Jon said quietly, "I didn't — I never meant to upset you."
"You didn't," Martin insisted. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Well, neither did you," Jon said, in spite of … literally everything. He set his fork down and grabbed one of Martin's hands across the table. "You didn't do anything that we both didn't want. Did you?"
We shouldn't want it, Martin was going to say, but Jon's voice had the same strange warmth as when he asked for Martin's statements, and so he found himself saying instead, "No, of course not."
"Well, there you are." Jon gave his hand a little squeeze. "You're not Peter Lukas."
"You've never even met Peter," Martin protested.
"I hardly need to," Jon shot back. He had the look on his face that said he was about to launch into a rant — Martin was used to being on the receiving end of those — but he held his tongue, took a couple of deep breaths, and squeezed Martin's hand again. "If it's too much for you, we need never do that again. Just — remember that I wanted it."
Jon had wanted it, and Jon cared about him, and Jon was trying to comfort him, and Martin didn't understand any of it.
Maybe he didn't have to understand it. Maybe he just had to get used to it.
He squeezed Jon's hand — gently, gently — and forced a smile. Tentatively, Jon smiled back.