loficharm | Do Not Archive

Entry tags:

Do Not Archive

Martin has no idea how this happened.

Well, he does. He knows the technicalities, the moving parts: the comfortable affection of a lazy Sunday morning, the lighthearted chatter over breakfast, the playful turns that took them toward personal territory. Whatever specific conversational juncture prompted him to finally come clean, so to speak, about the open secret of his workplace fantasies, is long forgotten in the aftermath: John's quiet delight, a few teasing suggestions, and the familiar layer of dry incredulity that Martin could've ever wanted him when he'd been such a prick.

That must've been it, Martin reasons. Because he's incapable of not arguing against that. It had nothing to do with you being a prick, all indignant. And, not wanting to get lost in those particular weeds, the flustered shift to how John could be a bit meaner now, though, if the mood ever struck him. Under the right circumstances. With the right conditions.

He hadn't expected... would never have dared to expect anything. No matter how many times John surprises him, or how consistently and relentlessly he seems to be seeking new ways to turn Martin on. He can ever expect it, because to expect it is to admit to himself that he wants, and more complicated, that he deserves to have what he wants. He's no stranger by now to being forced to confront that; but never quite like this.

He hadn't expected the steady and decisive switch in John's demeanor or the issuing of an actual safeword — something they've never had occasion to use, primarily because they never really do scenes — or the suggestion that they ought to head out, then. The Archive is usually closed Sundays, now that it's just the two of them. And of course they certainly aren't going to open it.

He walks a little ahead of John, feeling the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up even in the warmth of summer. He had just sort of chosen to do this, to get a step ahead and stay there — not like he's leading, but rather more like he's being escorted. Even ostensibly out front, he is unquestionably being led.

His heart is racing and his mouth is dry, and it's all he can do to keep his composure while still out in public on this relatively short walk. He has no idea how this happened, but he is desperate to see where it leads.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

John has been harboring certain suspicions vis-à-vis Martin's workplace fantasies for quite some time, now — long enough that he'd actually made some small preparations in advance. Nothing major, of course. He hadn't wanted to presume. And, to be fair, he hadn't predicted the full scope of Martin's interest when he'd made said preparations. He'd mostly been thinking about the illicit thrill of being in public, and the inherent deviance of fooling around in the workplace: obvious things that built upon what had been done before. Something he could spring on him one day if the mood struck, requiring no more consideration than their mutual amenability and the presence of a fresh pair of pants tucked prudently beneath the cot in his office.

He hadn't managed to anticipate Martin's blushing, astonishing insistence that he'd like it if John was 'a bit meaner.'

But it was that admission that slotted everything into place. There is really only one kind of meanness that John trusts himself to access with relative ease. He'd wager it's the same sort of meanness that Martin has been conjuring up in his own imagination. And it belongs — perversely, conveniently, inevitably — at work. So that is where they're going.

Martin walks a step ahead, the back of his neck already flushed. A good sign, John thinks. They've never done a proper scene before, but the roles they've fallen into are ones they both know how to play. And he wants to give Martin a hell of a show... not least of all because deep down, beneath the more immediate thrills of exercising his imagination and exploring less-charted territory and seeing how much he can make Martin squirm, he knows this isn't a mood that will strike him often. It might not even strike him twice. But it's compelling now, novel and interesting and wryly hilarious enough to buoy him along, and he intends to make the most of it.

They walk to the Archive in potent silence, and Martin, by virtue of reaching the door first, is the one who naturally ought to open it. John waits, hands in his pockets, his unimpressed gaze flicking from Martin to the door and back as the other man fumbles with the keys, and then he fires his first volley: an audible exhalation, wordless but laced with impatience and exasperation.

Martin knows what they're here for; he knows, broadly, what John intends. He knows what he requested. But he still doesn't know what to expect. This is new, not just for them, but for him, period. Plenty of people have been mean to him, John very much included. No one has been mean because he asked for it. He wasn't sure John would ever go for it, and now that they're here, he isn't sure what it will entail. And for a perilous moment, fumbling with his keys, he isn't even sure how he'll respond to it. It's easy to worry that he'll react like he might have in the past: that he'll feel that reflexive impulse to wilt, shrink, apologize and try to hide his hurt. And if that happens, there'll be no point to this at all, and he'll have to call it off, embarrassed and full of regret.

But that doesn't happen. John sighs, and Martin freezes for a moment, his shoulders tensing and his breath catching in his throat. For a moment there's an odd clash of inputs, but it isn't over whether or not he feels hurt. It's immediately absurd that he ever worried that would be a problem. No, he feels... scrutinized, but it's enticing, almost startlingly so. And his immediate impulse is to bite back with some playful rebellion or other. To give as good as he gets, or at least give John a good reason to bring about some sort of nominal punishment. But that isn't what this is about. They have fully exited the realm of being themselves with little flourishes. This is theatre more than anything they've done before, and just as John has a role to play, he has his.

He swallows thickly and says nothing. He's wary of apologizing, worried it won't come out right. He wants to be obedient, not pitiful. It might take him a moment to find his voice, so to speak. So for now he just humbly bows his head, his eyes on the keys as he finally finds the right one and fits it into the lock.

He pushes the door open and slips in to hold it for John. He keeps his head tilted down, though he can't resist a little darting glance up as John steps inside.

Martin stills, and for a breathless beat, John isn't entirely sure what to expect. The old Martin — the one his current role might be nodding to now — would probably have flinched and started stammering apologies. His Martin would push back, all playful noncompliance, inviting escalation. This one just ducks his head and gets on with it, visibly apologetic but not visibly thrown, and John feels himself relax a little, settling more comfortably into the scene. This is going to be fun.

He tsks softly to himself as Martin finally gets the door open, then steps into The Archive, not even sparing Martin a glance as he sweeps past him. "I'll take some tea," he tosses over his shoulder en route to his office. He shuts the door firmly behind him.

Safely sequestered, he allows himself a brief, broad grin before he heads to his desk. The tea will take a few minutes, and he doubts Martin will interrupt before it's finished. That gives him some time to both tidy up his desk — whatever they end up doing in here, he doesn't want it to disrupt or damage any actual work — and start brainstorming little torments. He clears away all the active files he'd been looking at and sets them safely on a shelf, then opens his work laptop and taps the space bar to rouse it. His first thought is that it'll provide verisimilitude, but he quickly realizes that he could actually utilize it for brainstorming purposes, and he sits down to open up a fresh, blank text document.

Ways to torment Martin:

He sucks on his teeth for a moment before continuing to type.

- bullshit chores?

Even having had the occasional idle daydream about John being, in his own words, a bit meaner, Martin can't help feeling a little surprised by how much this is actually working — how much he manages to enjoy John's casual, performatively callous dismissal, now that it's such a clear subversion and not the norm. He meets the order with more silence, too sluggish and quietly flustered to manage even a simple acknowledgment before John has disappeared into his office. As soon as the door closes, though, he can't help smiling to himself, a little gleeful and a little surreptitious, as though he's getting away with something. Whether it's the fact that this is happening at all, or the fact that even just a grin feels a tiny bit rebellious under the circumstances.

In any case, making John tea is a task he has always genuinely loved, and he wastes no time proceeding to the tea station to make good on the instruction. Ordinarily he might take a few moments to get settled in his office, at the very least, but this is far from an ordinary day. And there is something rather evocative in denying himself his usual habits. He's not the manager here. He's back to being John's assistant, whatever John decides that means.

He doesn't rush through the process, wanting to make John's cup as measured and precise as ever; then he carries it to John's office, hesitating to gather himself (and affect an appropriately meek demeanor) before he raises a hand to knock a bit timidly.

John has just enough time to edit 'bullshit' to 'needless' (upon the abrupt realization that he runs the risk of breaking character over his own notes if he's not careful) before there's a quiet knock on the door. He looks up, running a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away any lingering trace of amusement, then minimizes the document for good measure.

"Yes," he calls out, still peering at his laptop in ostensible concentration as Martin enters the room. He steadfastly refuses to look at Martin directly, but he does lift a hand to gesture at the clean, cup-ready expanse of his desk in a 'get on with it' sort of way. Once Martin sets the cup down, John adds a brusque, "And I'll have that file."

Edited 2023-06-30 20:17 (UTC)

Martin dutifully sets the cup down as directed, prepared to stand and await further instruction (or derision, if the case may be), but it seems John is well prepared, immediately issuing a command almost too familiar to second guess. But it's been a long while since Martin had to fetch files for him, and he's reasonably certain there isn't anything he actually needs. That's far beyond the point. Whether or not John has anything specific in mind or this is some kind of setup is the real question here.

So Martin hesitates for a beat, and then, hoping he can manage to strike the right tone, he says, "S-sorry, which file?"

It helps, he supposes, that his confusion is a bit genuine; but more than that he feels a genuine desire to play the game right, to understand the rules, or at least do his best to play willingly into whatever trap John's setting him.

For the first time since leaving their home, John looks at Martin head-on, his own expression flatly incredulous. "The file...?" he slowly enunciates, as if, contrary to all outward appearances, there is only one file in the entire building and Martin is some sort of simpleton for needing any clarification. Truth be told, they have a lot of files on site, and while he rather likes the idea of sending Martin to fetch one that definitely doesn't exist, his patron keeps responding to his private 'which file' queries with legitimate answers instead of more helpful inventions. He's having a hard time making something up amidst the noise.

But he sees no reason not to mine his own internal waffling for its full potential. Letting himself straighten in nascent indignation, he continues, "Don't tell me you've forgotten the current project."

Martin opens and shuts his mouth again quickly, momentarily stymied for how to reply — if he ought to seek further clarification or play along like he does know what John's talking about. Wanting more to be quick than correct, he settles hastily on the latter, saying, "I— N-no. Right away."

He turns, his gait already a bit stiff from the realization that humiliation of this nature really is staggeringly effective — as well as the humiliation itself. He'll just grab whatever file's nearest, he thinks as he heads quickly out the door, not wanting to delay whatever's coming any further than he has to.

It's an intriguing surprise when Martin elects to wing it, and an even more pleasant shock when John notes the telltale awkwardness of his gait as he hurries out the door. Christ, they've hardly begun and the poor man's already compromised. Not that John's complaining — that is the point, and he'd be lying to himself if he professed any disappointment over how effective these first few little barbs have proven themselves to be. Now he's free to draw things out without fretting over the idea that his technique isn't working.

So, as Martin hurries beyond the threshold without making any attempt to shut the door behind him, John raises his voice for a pointed, "The door, Martin," as if this is another well-established detail that he's managed to forget.

Martin starts as if he's been physically prodded, turning on his heel with a slightly pitchy "Right," and shutting the door as gently as he can manage.

Christ, why is this is working so well?

He has no desire to get bogged down by a question like that, though, and he keeps moving as though he'll forget his mission. He swipes the first file within reach and then forces himself to wait a moment, both to pull himself together and to create some illusion that he's actually putting effort in rather than just rushing right back to have more.

He breathes for a good ten count, then knocks once again, a little more firmly than before. The uncertainty of what will happen when he puts this file in John's hand seems like it ought to be anxiety-inducing, but instead it's exciting. His heart is pounding and he knows his face must be visibly flushed. Why doesn't matter; it's working.

The door shuts, and John immediately glances towards the cot, where he's stashed the spare pants. It feels a bit premature to be thinking about them already. But he's also beginning to think that they'll need them sooner rather than later, and it would make for a less ungainly picture if he had them in his desk or something, rather than having to get down on his knees and rummage.

But he also doesn't know how long Martin will be (not very, he'd imagine), and he doesn't want to feel caught out when the next knock comes. Best to wait, he thinks.

It's the right call; the knock arrives in well under a minute. Martin must have grabbed the first thing to hand. "Yes, yes," John grouses by way of invitation, as if the situation he engineered is a towering inconvenience.

Martin steps in and approaches the desk with tentative movements, and holds the file out for John to take. John isn't even looking at him most of the time, and he almost wants to act out, to draw his attention, to become the center of his theatrical ire. But that isn't the game, he reminds himself again. He offers the file, humble and quiet, until he feels compelled to add, "Was it this one?" as if John might need the opening to decide for himself.

John takes the file, the motion just sharp enough to illustrate his impatience without actually risking a paper cut, then huffs out an exasperated breath as he reads the label. "It was not," he replies, handing the file back with a tight, unimpressed frown. Then, as if speaking to a child, he says, "The Jones file, Martin."

There are four Jones files, last he checked, and he has no intention of clarifying beyond the surname. But in the time it takes for Martin to both find them and figure out how he wants to handle that little quandary, John should be able to move the pants.

Martin's eyebrow twitches ever so slightly, a tiny, nearly imperceptible concession to the indignation he would be feeling under any other circumstance. Which one, he wants to ask, but thinks better of it; that feels too much like talking back. "Right," he says instead, bowing his head in implicit apology as he takes the file back. "Of course."

He turns and nearly forgets the door again, half-tripping over himself to close it as an afterthought, then stares around the quiet Archive.

John's always been good at pushing him, and this is no exception, despite the fact that they've really only just begun. He can't possibly begrudge this tactic for sort of dragging it out, not when it's still bloody working, but he does feel a bit lost for how to proceed now.

Two options, really: pick one of the several Joneses they have on hand, either at random or by whatever metric might seem remotely meaningful, and risk being sent in this circle up to three more times. Or fetch all of them at once, and risk... whatever that entails.

Not much of a risk either way, really. He's not afraid of this growing tiresome; if anything, he's afraid of becoming impatient for escalation and slipping out of character, or of running out of interesting ways to answer John's progression. It's distantly embarrassing to realize how the chief difficulty here isn't John's behavior, but his own; he hadn't expected being good to require such effort, especially considering the context they've dropped themselves into.

But he has every intention of sticking with it, and the concern of failing is a little ridiculous, he thinks. This isn't scripted and it's not like there are lines he's failing to recall; they're improvising, both playing off each other. Keeping up won't be easy, but it's not meant to be. And as for any concerns about impatience... if John's proven anything over the years, it's that he has a tremendously good sense of timing.

So he draws a breath and fetches the nearest Jones, scarcely even noting which it is; that really doesn't matter. He returns, knocking again, and upon being curtly invited in, he offers the file once more, this time without a word. He keeps his eyes fixed vaguely on the desk, slightly unfocused, as though to make eye contact would be to grossly overstep.

The futility of his errand isn't lost on Martin — not if that faint twitch of his eyebrow is anything to go by — but he dutifully plays along, recovering the file and stumbling a bit as he leaves the office. John watches him go, repressing a smirk, and then gets to his feet the moment after the door closes. He crosses to the cot, and after a few moments of rummaging, he successfully finds the pants (prudently sealed in a plastic bag to save it from dust), brings them back over to the desk, and deposits them in one of the mid-level drawers. Much better.

He has enough time for a sip of his perfect cuppa before Martin returns, and he watches over the rim of his mug as one of the Jones files is set before him. He barely notes which one; it really doesn't matter. Instead, he stares at it for a beat, heaves a weary sigh, and sets down the cup, giving Martin his full, undivided attention.

"You seem to be struggling today," he observes, appending a faintly snide, "more than usual." It would be cheap, he thinks, to immediately devolve into the idea that he requires some sort of punishment, as if this is a lazily written porn film. Instead, John scrutinizes Martin through narrowed eyes, studying his blushing face as if it's a puzzle he's been reluctantly badgered into solving. "Are you... ill?" he asks. "You're flushed." He gestures, idly illustrative, towards Martin's face.

Martin doesn't even realize he's holding his breath as he waits for John's reply to the chosen file; it slips out in a soft, surprised gust when John looks directly at him, this time for more than just a moment.

He takes in the criticisms, such as they are, and shifts his weight from foot to foot while he tries to work out the best response. It's still trickier than he wants it to be, but after a moment he flicks his glance up to John and manages a slightly sheepish, "No, I-I'm fine." He averts his eyes again at once. He doesn't think there's much appeal in coming up with some fake but plausible reason for his state, but simply stating that he's turned on doesn't well suit his character, so to speak.

The trouble (sort of trouble) is, he is turned on, and it's becoming increasingly evident, not exactly helped or concealed by his awkward fidgeting. It feels too soon for this, like he hasn't earned it yet, has hardly even given John a chance to do anything. But it wouldn't be beyond John to simply make him wait regardless.

That would still require acknowledging it directly, and he still isn't sure that's on the table here. He has to say something, but what? He briefly considers something along the lines of How can I make it up to you, and discards it immediately as both a ridiculous cliche and rather presumptuous besides. He flounders for a moment, struggling not to fidget quite so much, to instead be the picture of solid, good behavior.

John hums his skepticism, letting his gaze slowly start to wander down Martin's neck and chest, as if there might be a post-it note with an explanation scrawled across it stuck somewhere on Martin's person. Not that there's any real mystery to be solved, here. Martin's arousal has been visible for some time now, and John finally drops his gaze enough to stare directly at it for a slow three count, his notice unmistakable.

He scoffs once, quietly incredulous, then lifts his gaze to fix Martin with a flat, unaffected glare. "Really," he deadpans.

Even without looking directly at him, Martin can feel John's gaze moving over him, acute and inescapable. He flushes harder, actually craning his neck slightly to look away, feeling deliciously trapped and utterly exposed. There's something resembling embarrassment, but it's not a feeling he wants to flee from; rather he wants to soak in it, to just let it mire him as completely as John's scrutiny.

He lets out another held breath in a soft gasp at John's dry, unimpressed pronouncement, and almost instinctively reaches to cover himself, crossing his hands before himself like he can possibly hide it at this point. He doesn't even want to, and that isn't the point. Trying to hide something that has already been seen and noted and remarked upon is purposeless, and that just serves to make the scrutiny and the accompanying humiliation even sharper.

He doesn't think he'd ever realized with such intense clarity that he has a thing for being so scrutinized, and it's so ironic — or perhaps just apropos — that it could be funny if he weren't so completely taken up by it in the moment.

"I, erm—" he stammers, still not sure what to say. Apologies still feel a little fraught, as if John might mistake them for genuine ones; but he thinks they must surely be past that point now. "Sorry," he says with some faint relish, dipping his head, though he can't possibly hide the blush now, coloring even the tips of his ears.

The absurd, belated attempt to hide himself is almost enough to startle a laugh out of him — or it could have been, if John wasn't half-expecting to hear the safeword he'd insisted upon employing. He's never pushed Martin like this before, and he's wary of finding the line where it stops being titillating and starts being cruel. But it seems they haven't reached it yet: Martin ducks his head, blush deepening, but his apology is faintly, theatrically overwrought. Still on solid ground, it seems.

Which leaves John with how to respond. He considers the obvious path, overwrought in its own right: more pointed questions regarding what Martin needs, perhaps an exasperated offer of assistance. But that doesn't feel quite right for the character John's inhabiting. Too presumptuous, too helpful, too much personal inconvenience for what is clearly Martin's problem, not his.

John scoffs again, then takes another slow sip of his tea before setting down the cup with a quiet thunk. "Well, as it's plainly affecting your job performance, I suppose you'd better take care of it." He waves a hand, impatient but plainly permissive, and uses the other to call back his text document.

I'm not even going to ask him to leave. That would take too long. Time is money, etc.

"Sometime today," he adds, already slipping into a distracted register as he continues to type. He keeps his eyes fixed on the screen as he continues to confide in his laptop.

We'll see how long he can stand me pretending to ignore him. This will really wind him up.

Edited 2023-07-01 01:17 (UTC)

Oh, Jesus Christ. Martin's eyes go wide, staring hard at the wall above the cot for a few healthy ticks, any coherent thought briefly overtaken by static. Of all he might've found time to anticipate, John simply telling him to get on with it was not even close. It could just be a delaying tactic, he thinks, but then he hears John typing, his fingers flying across the laptop keyboard with soft but decisive attention, and then John urges him to hurry, and Christ.

Martin just barely suppresses a whimper, which comes out more like an uneven, faintly melodic exhalation. Too deeply invested in playing the part of sheepish and caught to really let loose yet, even as his balance wobbles and he reaches with trembling hands to do as he's been told. He can't even keep upright for more than a moment, sucking in another sharp breath as his knees buckle and he lets himself down onto the floor, and then — Christ, here he is kneeling on the floor and pulling himself off while John just sits at his desk, not even watching him, and he feels — he feels pathetic, except that isn't the right word at all because it's incredible. John's found so many ways to treat him the way he wants to be treated, variously restraining him or forcing him to wait or any number of playful exercises of control. But Martin's never felt quite so powerless or — or filthy, and he never quite realized how good that would be. And that's it, he thinks. It's not just the fantasy of helplessness; it's taking his shame, a thing that has always held him back and weighed him down, and letting it become artifice, a tool that he's using just like the rest of it. To let himself feel shameful, like it's a mask to be worn for the purposes of his own entertainment, and not the core of him.

He does whimper, in the end, a plaintive, truncated sound as he squeezes himself a little tighter; then his voice gives out, his muscles tensing sharply as he comes into his hand, curling over himself for a few shuddering moments before his body slackens and he slumps down a little more heavily on the floor.

Well. God, he didn't think he was actually going to come this fast. He cannot possibly bring himself to regret it, not when it was so good and came with such a momentous fresh understanding of himself; but it does feel, distantly, like a shame when John put so much work in only to have it over like this.

Maybe it'll simply be a relief to have it done and done successfully, though, and Martin finally looks up, seeking his eyes, an adoring smile starting to touch his lips.

Edited 2023-07-01 01:36 (UTC)

Here I am, typing away very busily because I am such a busy person. No time at all for assisting Martin with his whole situation. He's wound up on the floor, which I suppose isn't much of a surprise. He does seem to be going for it, though. Good for him. I'm honestly impressed. Not sure if he expects me to interrupt or not, but I've no intention of giving in so easily. Wouldn't be in character, would it? I'm a smug, unflappable prick who has other things to do, important things, like typing a bunch of random nonsense into this document so it seems like I'm working. Anyway, if he really needed my help, or wanted to beg for it, he certainly could. I'm not stopping him. Hell, he —

— is as far as John gets before Martin, only his head and a bit of his shoulders visible over the edge of the desk, whimpers and curls in on himself. John stills, staring in astonishment at the computer screen, the words blurring. Holy shit, he thinks distantly. He hadn't thought his bullshit would be so effective. Certainly hadn't thought it would all be over so quickly. He barely even had to do anything, and while there's plenty of value in knowing he can wind Martin up so much with nothing more than some arch remarks and feigned indifference, he also can't quite believe this is it. They've hardly begun to explore this whole dynamic. And, effective or not, he's reasonably certain that this wasn't strictly what Martin had in mind. Christ, they never even touched.

But as Martin catches his breath and lifts his gaze, a few simple facts scroll through John's mind. Martin has come into his hand, much like he did at the library: a sensible move, because he doesn't know about the spare clothes. But this means they could try for another round. Perhaps aim for something a little closer to the fantasies he'd once entertained. Martin might want to pack things in, he supposes — or might expect that they've reached the natural conclusion of the scene — but they don't have to.

He taps the 'return' key twice.

Well. That was... unusually potent?? Holy shit??

John doesn't yet return Martin's gaze, his expression still schooled into casual indifference. "If you're quite finished," he says, "as it seems you are... in record time... you might consider cleaning yourself up." He flicks his gaze in Martin's direction, quick and assessing, waiting to see if he still wants to play along.

The burgeoning smile slips from Martin's face before John even speaks, already recognizing that he isn't dropping character. He's still going? He still wants to go? Holy shit, Martin thinks, holy shit?

He snaps accordingly back into his own role, returning to sheepishness and performative shame, and quickly looks back down, nodding along with John's cool suggestion. "O-of course," he says, his voice a little unsteady, his legs even unsteadier as he climbs to his feet. He tucks himself gingerly away and clears his throat before turning around, wobbling his way to the still open (Christ) door. He's not about to touch anything until he gets washed up, and he rightly assumes John will at least grant him this passage without the new ritual of shutting the door behind him.

As soon as he's reached the relative privacy of the washroom he pitches forward until his forehead is pressed to the mirror, breathing heavily and losing himself for a moment in the sensation of warm water flowing over his hands.

"Jesus Christ," he pants. "Hoooly bloody shit."

That was so good, and John isn't done with him. It shouldn't even necessarily surprise him — John never does anything by halves, and this is even more effort then they normally put in, it makes sense John would want to make the most of it — but still. They've never gone multiple rounds. Martin isn't even sure he can get hard again in the next twenty minutes, but, he thinks in the next moment, that hardly matters.

He takes a few moments to pull himself together before thoroughly washing his hands, then fetches some cleaning fluid from under the sink and wipes up the smudge he left on the mirror for good measure. He needs to ground himself, and he wants to give John time to... whatever he's doing.

Finally, still very red-faced and overheated, he returns to John's office to find the door now shut. He swallows thickly and knocks, timid once again.

If Martin is surprised by the ongoing scene, he doesn't let on: indeed, he snaps back into character so quickly that there's no question of his ongoing enthusiasm. Excellent. John betrays no outward satisfaction, but occupies himself by typing 'holy shit' a few more times as he waits for Martin to leave. Then he pauses, listening for the sound of the loo's door shutting, before he pushes himself back from his desk and blows out a slow, steadying exhalation.

Right. Okay. Onto the next thing. Whatever the hell that is.

He starts by returning the Jones file to its drawer. It could have made for a good prop, under slightly different circumstances — something to sweep either dramatically or dismissively to the floor, depending on what sort of turn the scene takes — but he still doesn't like the idea of real files serving such a base purpose. He could easily assemble some fakes, though. Just stuff some blank printer paper into some otherwise empty folders. It's the first solid idea he's got, so he makes a detour to their little printer station on his way back to his office, helping himself to a stack of blank paper off the top of an open ream and grabbing a few empty folders to stuff.

He shuts his door, then settles in to assemble the prop files, one heel tapping against a wheel of his chair as he thinks. What they need — what he imagines Martin would like — is something a little more... personal. Confrontational. He knows he'd like a chance to give Martin his complete focus, to watch him enjoy himself, to make it more about this alternate version of them. Nothing overtly romantic, of course. That would be well out of reach, and rather beside the point. He doesn't think this version of Martin wants or expects to be cherished.

Used, perhaps. Enjoyed, however disrespectfully. So all John needs to do is engineer some sort of excuse. A reason for Martin to offer himself.

He's still mulling it over when the knock comes, and he straightens the little stack of fake files near the corner of his desk before lifting his voice enough to be heard through the door. "What is it now?"

Astonishingly, ridiculously, a shiver runs up Martin's spine as John snaps at him through the door. It could almost be funny if he weren't so fixated on maintaining his character. He can't risk thinking about it anymore than he already has, unless he wants to get properly bogged down when there are much interesting things to be thinking about.

Like whether or not he should take this as an invitation in. His hand hovers over the doorknob, driven by instinct to open the door, just enough to poke his head in. But it wasn't an invitation, really, and as tantalizing as it might be to earn some sort of reprisal for being too forward, forward is not what he's going for.

So he lowers his hand and clears his throat, raising his voice to reply: "I, erm... W-was there anything else?"

Martin doesn't actually presume to open the door as he pipes out his reply, and John frowns at the blank wood, his expression a largely sincere blend of consternation and deep thought. That really is the question, isn't it? And it's not one he has an answer to just yet. He needs a little more time to consider his approach — ideally uninterrupted — but he can't very well just snap at Martin to leave him alone. Even if such a dismissal would be in character, it wouldn't feel particularly fair. Making him wait, as part of the game, is one thing; leaving him genuinely directionless and uncertain is another.

John buys himself a few extra moments by getting to his feet and crossing to the door. Drawing himself up to his full height, he jerks the door open and glares down at Martin like an affronted cat.

"I might say you'd done enough, provided you actually had accomplished anything of note," he says, a sharp volley of clipped syllables. He considers, for a brief moment, the idea of flinging the underlying question back at him — perhaps asking him what he thinks he could accomplish without embarrassing himself — but that feels tantamount to admitting he's out of ideas as opposed to just needing a minute. Instead, he jerks his chin towards the front of the room. "Perhaps you can tidy the lobby without making a botch of it."

The lobby doesn't really need tidying any more than he needed the Jones file. But it's a job that will take a few minutes to convincingly fake, buying John the time he needs. Better still, the work will put Martin near the windows, subject to a different sort of scrutiny. Maybe some random citizen will even be presumptuous enough to knock. The odds of that are slim, John thinks, but not so negligible that the possibility won't put Martin's back up, and he has to bite back a smirk at the thought.

Martin hears the approaching footsteps before the door opens, but even knowing it's coming can't quite prepare him for the sharp shock of John opening the door with such force, nor for the sudden proximity of him, drawn up to his full height, after having maintained such an uncrossable distance since they started this. Martin stares up at him, his lips parted, his eyes wide, too caught up to avert his gaze or display any other appropriately submissive body language. This could get him worked up all over again if he was physically capable, just John standing so close, looking so imperious. He wants, with sudden clarity and desperation, to be touched; he wants John to just grab hold of him and take what he wants.

But it's not time for that, if John even has any intentions of going that route. Instead, the order is barked, more of a cold suggestion, really, and Martin blinks, recovering himself somewhat.

"I- Of course," he stammers, and turns to look out toward the front of the Archive, imagining making his way up to the front, letting himself be seen through the windows. Having to do more menial work, having to wait until John is either ready to escalate or until he's forced to ask what's next. It is every bit as enticing as all the rest of this has been. "I'll get right on that."

He starts toward the lobby, his gait fumbling a bit, and casts about for anything that could use a bit of tidying. He could fetch the broom, he supposes; the floors could always use a good sweep. But that feels like a bridge too far, going to the supply closet and back, no sense of when John will release him from this particular task. And somehow the idea of trying to get real work done feels a bit ridiculous under the circumstances. He settles for organizing and reorganizing the front desk, which scarcely needs it, but at least it keeps him focused for the moment.

Edited 2023-09-26 00:49 (UTC)

John lets out a soft, skeptical snort, as if he believes that even the simple act of straightening up is likely beyond Martin's capabilities, then shuts his door again with decisive force.

Right. That should buy him a few minutes to think.

He returns to his desk and his word document, though he doesn't do more with the latter than idly tap the space bar and delete key by turns, marching the cursor back and forth as he considers his approach. He'd like to offer Martin something a little more... familiar. Something that might almost pass for one of his old workplace fantasies. Granted, he has absolutely no desire to Know what any of those fantasies actually entailed. The tempting convenience of that option has never been worth the accompanying intrusiveness of it all. Besides — and perhaps more to the point — it isn't lost on him that Martin constructed said fantasies well before he was aware of John's own proclivities. Whatever he had in mind, odds are that any kind of accurate reconstruction would be untenable for reasons that have nothing to do with how mean John's willing to be.

But if the specifics are deliberately beyond him, potential framing devices are easier to imagine. He could summon Martin to his office, the obvious first step, and then... perhaps come up with an excuse to interrogate him a bit. Really make him squirm. He could invent a mishandled assignment or something, but he likes the idea of rooting it in reality — making it easier for Martin to play along. And once he starts thinking along the lines of 'reasons he might have once called Martin into his office for a fraught conversation,' it doesn't take long at all for a plan to solidify. The idea actually strikes him quite quickly; the minute or two that follow are dedicated to setting the scene and composing himself lest he break out into self-satisfied giggles.

Finally, he gets back to his feet and steps outside his office. "Martin," he says, stern and just loud enough to be heard over whatever bullshit he's doing in the lobby. Then he steps to the side with a pointed gesture towards the open doorway. "I'll have you in my office. Now."

Martin actually jolts a little when John's voice cuts through the gentle tedium of needless reorganization, and he freezes for a moment, made-up task instantly forgotten. He turns, stiff and awkward, to see John stepping aside to indicate his office. Demanding his presence. I'll have you, specifically.

"R-right," he stammers, tripping up a bit over what he means to say, and it slips out before he can catch it: "Yes, sir."

It's almost natural; not suggestive, nor mocking, not even particularly emphatic. He never called John sir when actually working under him, and yet it just came out so organically he can scarcely question it. He supposes it just... felt right.

He's still flushed over it. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, his ears, the back of his neck. But otherwise he endeavors to look the part of a nervous employee, cowed but humble, as he obediently lets himself be drawn into John's inexorable orbit.

The sir is a surprise — it's a term that John has occasionally sprung on Martin, either in jest or in a more deliberate attempt to wind him up a bit, but this might be the first time Martin has deployed it with such thoughtless sincerity. He limits his reaction to a slight narrowing of his eyes: a permissible transmutation of the smirk he might've allowed in a different, less fraught context. As Martin approaches, already flushed, John gestures into the office, indicating the chair that he's centered opposite his own, and intones a stern, "Sit."

He hasn't fully cleared the desk, but with the exception of his laptop (currently set a little to one side and prudently shut), there's nothing on it that would be harmed by a potential dramatic tumble to the floor. The wire baskets he sometimes uses for organization sit empty at one end of the desk, and the prop files he assembled are in a tidy stack beside his pen holder and post-its at the other. Pride of place has been given over to one of his larger tape recorders: it sits squarely in the center, inert and expectant.

Once Martin has stepped past him into the office proper, John follows, pulling the door shut behind him. For a brief moment, he considers a pointed turn of the lock, but then he rejects the idea. However this plays out, he can only imagine that the fantasy of a potential interruption would be more potent than the idea of lacking a quick and easy getaway. And there's no need to display more than a passing concern for Martin's privacy for the purposes of the scene he has in mind.

So he crosses over to his side of the desk and sits down in his chair. For a few moments, he just regards Martin coolly, his hands loosely clasped on the desk before him. Then he reaches forward and turns on the tape recorder with a pointed click.

The tape whirs for a beat. Then John asks, "Do you know why I've called you in here, Martin?"

Martin sits as if he almost doesn't know how, slow and labored as though anything more would be to upset the chair. His muscles are tight, his posture clenched to keep himself from trembling. He's not sure what to do with his hands. All this is as it would have been — as it was — in the past, when John spoke to him sharply, gave him nasty looks and treated him like a nuisance on the best of days. And yet now it's delicious; it's all he can do to keep his breathing steady. At first he thinks he can't possibly enumerate what makes it different, but it is something and it's more than that it's a scene mutually agreed upon. His mind can't stop circling it, that there is something very distinct about this flavor of performative disrespect, and as John sits there and stares at him, it clicks into place.

John may have disliked him once, but it was in a particularly remote way. He wouldn't look at Martin, not really. His bouts of cruelty were dismissive more than anything else. It wasn't until things began to change, until he changed, when their position as co-prisoners had set in and a sort of mutual reliance followed, that John began to actually look at him. To take notice. To see him.

Right now, he has John's full attention. It isn't just that this is a game; it's that John's stare is inescapable and encompassing. He has Martin, entirely, and he has scarcely done a thing.

Then he reaches out and clicks on the tape recorder, and Martin's shoulders twitch, his breath catching in his throat as he frantically tamps down a startled, anticipatory whimper.

Christ. "I, erm, uh—" He squirms slightly, just once, shifting into an even straighter sit and locking himself into place with his hands clasped tightly in his lap. "No?"

Edited 2024-06-01 22:13 (UTC)

"It has come to my attention," John continues, "that there are some... discrepancies... on your CV." Each syllable is enunciated with care, as if this tape might one day be submitted to upper management as evidence of his own due diligence. Let no one say he wasn't dotting his Is and crossing his Ts. "Inaccuracies, which I have determined could only have been made with deliberate intent." He leans forward, his gaze steady and his expression grim. "You lied, Martin."

Part of him wonders if Martin will even recall the specifics. It's not as if it really mattered, when all was said and done. Without the Eye's help, John isn't even sure that he'd have retained any solid details. But the details don't really matter here, either. What matters is that Martin's proverbial job is on the proverbial line. So: what does he intend to do about it? John's eyebrows tick up, implicitly inviting him to account for himself.

Martin's eyes widen, his lips parting in a moment of abject shock. He couldn't have imagined that John would pull from something so specifically real, though given a moment to consider it, it isn't all that surprising. It's easier, surely, to play around with facts, especially ones that are so old, so far beyond any hurt they may have once carried. Martin hasn't even thought about that in years. It mattered so little by the time it came out.

Now, though, he plays his part dutifully, letting that shock turn to a sort of nervous helplessness, letting himself stammer: "O-oh. Right. That. I, erm, th-that is—"

Christ, what had it been about? Fudging his qualifications and his work history, as he recalls, though the exact specifics feel so far away, especially now, pinned under John's stare, where it's all set dressing anyway. None of that matters. What matters is how sorry he is, and how desperate to make it up.

"I-I'm so sorry," he says, trying to walk the line between pathetic and sincere. "I, I promise I'll do better if you—" He swallows, struggling not to lay it on too thick. "If you'll let me stay on," he finishes, averting his gaze.

John audibly exhales as Martin stammers, his lips pressed together in a line about as thin as his patience. "This is a serious offense, Martin, not a— not some minor oversight. You're simply not qualified to stay on. How do you suppose it would reflect upon me — let alone the Institute as a whole — if you were allowed to remain under our employ?"

He considers leaning forward to emphasize the point, but the desk is a little too wide for him to really invade Martin's personal space from where he's currently sitting. Besides, he realizes, moving closer would feel less in-character than the alternative. John straightens back into his own chair instead, putting more unimpressed distance between himself and his lackluster employee.

"And given your... performance... thus far," he adds, letting just a hint of sneering innuendo slip into his tone, "I find it hard to imagine just how you intend to 'do better.'"

Edited 2024-06-26 03:56 (UTC)

Christ, this is difficult. Martin hadn't really imagined how difficult playing his part would be. He'd assumed if either of them cracked under the pressure of intensive roleplay, it would surely be John — not because John isn't amazing at this, but because the role itself seems more demanding. Being submissive comes so naturally to Martin, and this is all in the interest of serving his desires, so he couldn't imagine it being a true struggle to keep up.

But John has committed himself wholeheartedly, as always, and now Martin is finding himself rather more tongue-tied than he expected. Both because his ongoing state of near-arousal is distracting, and because he finds he's not actually sure what to say. He wants John to torment him through this sharp, haughty persona, but the nature of his character means he can't ask openly for what he wants, can't be demanding, can't even really be coy. He has to be far cleverer than he's used to, and it's exhilarating, but far more taxing on his mental fortitude when he ordinarily is more concerned with letting his emotional wants take center stage. Giving in and letting himself be taken care of is usually the theme, but this... this requires a lot more dexterity. He feels a bit foolish for not better anticipating that.

It's not enough to deter him, though. It's a challenge he's as eager to meet now as when they started. And more importantly, he trusts John. The game isn't a competitive one, after all; it's an elaborate cooperation. He just needs to give something John can work with in return.

He swallows thickly, feeling himself flush even hotter at the snide tone and pointed implication behind John's words.

"M-maybe there's something else I can offer," he says, his voice a little strained with embarrassment — and with the effort of tempering his own eagerness. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, then he lifts his eyes to John's, He's been about as timid as he can manage without overselling it; now, though, he thinks he wants to test the waters a bit more. Playing demure has its appeal, but the thought of staying in that space the entire time might have been a bit... unrealistic. John may detect the faintest whiff of defiance in his next words, and if he decides he likes it, so much the better. "Since my work is so lacking."

Edited 2024-07-27 03:32 (UTC)

"'Something else,'" John echoes, his tone steeped with disdain and incredulity in equal measure. It's a line that could have been lifted directly from a cheap porno, as if Martin's been caught without enough cash to pay for bloody pizza delivery or something. He's hard pressed not to make a comment about it, but John glances at the recorder and restrains himself. This is still, ostensibly, meant to be an official record. He won't have it plunge off-course because he couldn't maintain a semblance of professionalism.

So he narrows his eyes across the desk, noting that faint spark defiance in Martin's tone and deciding to give it a little air — enough to snuff it under more sincere circumstances, though he suspects it won't have that effect here. "I would be fascinated," he says with a slight, sarcastic cant of his head, "to hear just what it is that you think you have to offer this institution."

John's response is distantly hilarious — or rather, it exposes how hilarious his own 'offer' truly sounds. It's really down to his own arousal that Martin doesn't have to think too hard about not laughing. And anyway, he loves it, the sarcasm, the precise needling of his own word choice, deserved as it is; not just because it's funny, but because it's so patently John. "Well," he says, his voice unsteady, strung between that extremely faint air of defiance and the bizarre luxury of theatrical embarrassment. "Not the institution, exactly."

This is right on the bloody knife's edge of being a bad, obvious set-up. He knows it, and John knows it. One of them is going to have to escalate, and it is very much going to have to be him. He can't quite believe they've both managed to corner him here, but then, it was probably inevitable, wasn't it?

So there's only so much more tense silence he can maintain before he finally relents: "It's more what I might offer you," he says, his voice softening from nervous breathlessness as his eyes dart up to meet John's. "Specifically."

If this truly was the disciplinary meeting they might have had all those years ago, this is the moment where John would probably have turned off the tape recorder and asked Martin if he was on drugs. He considers turning the recorder off regardless, just for the dramatic flair of it all, but he leaves it running. Aside from wanting an uninterrupted tape for his own reasons, he likes the implication that this, too, is on record — as if, CV errors aside, Martin might just as easily be angling for a dismissal due to workplace harassment. Going out with a bang, so to speak.

Not that John intends to clutch his pearls. But there's no reason to be eager, either — he's not playing a version of himself that conveniently trades in sexual favors. If Martin intends to sell him on this, he'll have to close the bloody deal, won't he?

John manages not to smirk, but one eyebrow does cock itself as he drawls, "Is this your idea of a proposition, Mister Blackwood?"

So much for the knife's edge. John's question is more of a knife point, and it more or less tumbles Martin all the way off of that shaky metaphor and into the hardening reality that he is, in fact, going to have to make this a really bad, really obvious set-up. It was inevitable, and he can't even bloody complain. It's not the only thing that's hardening, again, already.

"Suppose it is," he says, his voice far too thready to really stick the landing of airiness he might have been going for. That isn't enough, anyway. He needs to get specific or they'll be dancing back and forth like this until he crumbles. He draws a short breath and barrels on: "It's just, you work so hard. And I've not been the best help." He lowers his head slightly to show some mildly theatrical contrition. "But I... well, I've been told," he swallows around thickening embarrassment and continues doggedly, "that I am exceedingly pleasant to touch."

It sounds so bloody stupid, just said out of the blue like that. He stares at John, flushing hotly as he keeps a desperate grip on his own composure. "And you could. If you think it would help. With the, erm." His mind struggles to keep up with the flimsy logic of his own ridiculous scene. He swallows again, his mouth terribly dry. "Stress."

John has to bite down hard on the inside of his own cheek. It's not just that the set-up is funny in its own right, it's that most of the rejoinders that he can imagine would be impossible to utter with a straight face, either. They either veer too close to what he can only assume are pornographic clichés, or they zag away from that and land, inevitably, in absurdist territory. He imagines saying something indignant about the presumption that he has any desire to paw at Martin like he's a human-shaped stress ball and very nearly loses his composure entirely.

Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing, if they both had a bit of a giggle before continuing onward. But that also feels like giving up, and a stubborn part of him will be damned if he's the one to break first.

Well. There's really only one path forward that doesn't come with an immediate risk of snickering: he needs to be meaner. And while he doesn't exactly relish it, he does welcome, with some private relief, the sense of composure that follows that conclusion. It wouldn't even be that hard, really. One could easily interpret the offer as more patronizing than adorable.

"So this is a favor to me," he says, distantly impressed by how cool his tone manages to sound. "I'm the one who's meant to want this, am I? It has nothing at all to do with how pathetically desperate you are to be touched?"

Christ, this might be a bit much. He watches Martin closely, as much to make sure he hasn't laid it on too thick as to make sure he's kept them both from cracking up.

For just a moment, Martin could swear John's about to laugh, and if John starts laughing, he'll start laughing, and that'll be it for the whole bloody thing. Not the end of the world, probably, and he's sure they could salvage something nice out of it, but nice wasn't really what they were going for.

So it's a bit of a disproportionate relief when John doubles down on the nastiness instead, hitting Martin with a pointed question that would topple him in any other context. Instead, strange as it may seem, Martin feels calmer in the teeth of it, even as he feels his face heating, his heart pounding ever quicker. Even as he squirms in his seat.

After a moment's crackling silence, he tips his head down demurely. "It doesn't matter what I want," he says. "Does it?" He raises his chin enough to meet John's eyes, holding contact for only a flickering instant before he looks down again. "You can have whatever you like."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Do Not Archive

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject