Martin wasn't fishing for anything — Christ, he didn't think he was. It was a colloquial response, not a literal grasp for information, and John bloody well knows that, of course. But it's all too obvious and easy for John to provide such information anyway, leaving Martin with his shoulders tensed up around his ears, frozen with his mug still raised to his lips as John outlines the possibilities.
Martin has imagined all of that, of course, particularly the pinning, the mention of which draws an almost hiccup-like sound that just manages to break through his otherwise desperately maintained silence. If John had really delved into his head on this, he would find all that and far more: a particularly embarrassing notion of John sweeping everything off his desk, for example, or the latent thrill Martin feels over the danger of discovery, the struggle to keep quiet lest the others should hear. These are among the oldest fantasies he's ever entertained, originating from a time long behind them now, when the Institute was the only place he had to imagine them, when he didn't know much about John or his particular proclivities, allowing for a range of daydreams that now feel grossly out of character. He never would think to suggest acting on them, not only because of how outdated they feel, but because he is a professional. Even at their most indulgent, it simply isn't practical: it's too small here to imagine getting away with much, and he's far too loud to allow for 'keeping quiet' to be a plausible challenge. But none of that really matters, because these aren't really suggestions. John is just doing what he does best — tormenting him, just with idle chatter instead of his hands or his mouth.
And it is working much the same. Martin has the same fluttery feeling in his stomach as his thoughts all too easily slip down the path John's drawn for him; he can't stop imagining it now, being held down on this cot, helpless, breathless, while John does whatever he likes with him.
Which is not helpful, but certainly not unwelcome. Martin shuts his eyes briefly as he takes a moment to pull himself together; not now, perhaps later, something nice to think about when he has a moment. Then he clears his throat, unintentionally echoing John, and after a few false starts he manages to say, "O-of course not."
For a moment he thinks that might be all he can manage, but there's still a thread of playfulness that runs through him, and he seizes onto it, venturing a sidelong glance and a wary smile. "I've always known you were a bit of a bastard."
no subject
Martin has imagined all of that, of course, particularly the pinning, the mention of which draws an almost hiccup-like sound that just manages to break through his otherwise desperately maintained silence. If John had really delved into his head on this, he would find all that and far more: a particularly embarrassing notion of John sweeping everything off his desk, for example, or the latent thrill Martin feels over the danger of discovery, the struggle to keep quiet lest the others should hear. These are among the oldest fantasies he's ever entertained, originating from a time long behind them now, when the Institute was the only place he had to imagine them, when he didn't know much about John or his particular proclivities, allowing for a range of daydreams that now feel grossly out of character. He never would think to suggest acting on them, not only because of how outdated they feel, but because he is a professional. Even at their most indulgent, it simply isn't practical: it's too small here to imagine getting away with much, and he's far too loud to allow for 'keeping quiet' to be a plausible challenge. But none of that really matters, because these aren't really suggestions. John is just doing what he does best — tormenting him, just with idle chatter instead of his hands or his mouth.
And it is working much the same. Martin has the same fluttery feeling in his stomach as his thoughts all too easily slip down the path John's drawn for him; he can't stop imagining it now, being held down on this cot, helpless, breathless, while John does whatever he likes with him.
Which is not helpful, but certainly not unwelcome. Martin shuts his eyes briefly as he takes a moment to pull himself together; not now, perhaps later, something nice to think about when he has a moment. Then he clears his throat, unintentionally echoing John, and after a few false starts he manages to say, "O-of course not."
For a moment he thinks that might be all he can manage, but there's still a thread of playfulness that runs through him, and he seizes onto it, venturing a sidelong glance and a wary smile. "I've always known you were a bit of a bastard."