“Martin,” Jon says. “Do you remember when you—pulled me back. With Jude.”
Jude was some time ago. Time doesn't work here, not anymore, but between now and Jude was the endless loop of the recorder, the silence, the house. Letting the fog in. The muddled, swimming mess of Martin's mind and the lingering chill in his bones even after he pulled himself out long enough that Jon could find him again. Jude feels like a distant echo. A hazy memory.
“What about Jude?” he asks.
“When you slapped me,” Jon says, his fingers still entwined with Martin's. He stares straight ahead, into the endless stretch of rooms and hallways in the hotel they are winding through. It's not Helen's domain, but it's not far off. Another space touched by the Distortion.
Martin's pulse kicks up a notch. He remembers now. Of course he does. In the moment it was lost in the searing heat of the flames and the burning in his lungs, the weight of it all pressing down on him so heavy he couldn't focus on anything else, but.
He remembers the way Jon's eyes closed. The way that, just for a moment, Jon's whole body went limp and swayed towards him. The absolute surrender of it.
“Yeah,” he says. His voice is rough.
“I want you to do it again,” Jon says.
*
“Are you sure?” Martin asks.
Jon sits at the edge of the bed, the whole room faintly off-kilter, swaying just enough that Martin would be seasick if he focused on it too long. Jon is looking up at him, with a gentle, small smile, his face upturned. Expectant. Martin hasn't done this in years. He's always liked it, of course, even with the little knot in his chest about how he shouldn't like it so much, but—it's Jon. Jon, who he loves. Who knows every part of him. Who has been through so much pain already and yet is here, asking for more.
“You're not—all of them,” Jon says, his burned hand reaching out to twist in the fabric of Martin's jumper. “You hurting me is... it's safe. I know you love me, and I know what you want. Take it.”
“Yeah,” Martin breathes out, cupping Jon's face with his hand. “Yeah, alright.”
He pulls his hand back and slaps Jon across the face. Light at first, barely enough to leave a mark, and Jon's whole body relaxes all at once. He nods, and Martin can barely think over the pounding of his own heart as he draws back and hits Jon again. Harder this time. It startles a noise out of Jon, a soft, surprised exhalation of breath, and Martin's eyes are drawn to the faint redness of his cheek, the mark he's leaving on Jon. He rubs a thumb hard over the darkest of it and Jon leans into the touch, pushing his cheek against Martin's hand, and Martin's higher thoughts fuzz out into static. Into the desperate, wild need for more.
FILL (1/?) Jon/Martin, BDSM, slapping
Jude was some time ago. Time doesn't work here, not anymore, but between now and Jude was the endless loop of the recorder, the silence, the house. Letting the fog in. The muddled, swimming mess of Martin's mind and the lingering chill in his bones even after he pulled himself out long enough that Jon could find him again. Jude feels like a distant echo. A hazy memory.
“What about Jude?” he asks.
“When you slapped me,” Jon says, his fingers still entwined with Martin's. He stares straight ahead, into the endless stretch of rooms and hallways in the hotel they are winding through. It's not Helen's domain, but it's not far off. Another space touched by the Distortion.
Martin's pulse kicks up a notch. He remembers now. Of course he does. In the moment it was lost in the searing heat of the flames and the burning in his lungs, the weight of it all pressing down on him so heavy he couldn't focus on anything else, but.
He remembers the way Jon's eyes closed. The way that, just for a moment, Jon's whole body went limp and swayed towards him. The absolute surrender of it.
“Yeah,” he says. His voice is rough.
“I want you to do it again,” Jon says.
*
“Are you sure?” Martin asks.
Jon sits at the edge of the bed, the whole room faintly off-kilter, swaying just enough that Martin would be seasick if he focused on it too long. Jon is looking up at him, with a gentle, small smile, his face upturned. Expectant. Martin hasn't done this in years. He's always liked it, of course, even with the little knot in his chest about how he shouldn't like it so much, but—it's Jon. Jon, who he loves. Who knows every part of him. Who has been through so much pain already and yet is here, asking for more.
“You're not—all of them,” Jon says, his burned hand reaching out to twist in the fabric of Martin's jumper. “You hurting me is... it's safe. I know you love me, and I know what you want. Take it.”
“Yeah,” Martin breathes out, cupping Jon's face with his hand. “Yeah, alright.”
He pulls his hand back and slaps Jon across the face. Light at first, barely enough to leave a mark, and Jon's whole body relaxes all at once. He nods, and Martin can barely think over the pounding of his own heart as he draws back and hits Jon again. Harder this time. It startles a noise out of Jon, a soft, surprised exhalation of breath, and Martin's eyes are drawn to the faint redness of his cheek, the mark he's leaving on Jon. He rubs a thumb hard over the darkest of it and Jon leans into the touch, pushing his cheek against Martin's hand, and Martin's higher thoughts fuzz out into static. Into the desperate, wild need for more.
A third strike, and this time, Jon moans.