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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.

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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."

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