Archive of Our Own ^beta

It first comes up the way things usually come up with Jon: in a stupid, petty, enjoyable argument. The two of them are tucked away in the corner of a pretty nice pub, at least by Tim’s standards. It’s clean, it doesn’t smell, the seats are comfortable, the drinks are decent, and there’s a general pleasant atmosphere. Jon doesn’t look quite as pleased by his environment, but Tim’s pretty sure that’s just because Jon doesn’t go out as a general habit. Probably thinks the whole place is too noisy or something. 

“--don’t see what all of the fuss is about,” Jon is grumbling. “You’ve been trying to get me to come out and have drinks with you for years now. Are you finally satisfied?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tim says lightly. “Could you maybe complain a bit more? That would really complete the fantasy for me.” 

“When exactly am I going to be allowed to leave? Sasha already left.” Jon says this jealously, clearly resenting her freedom. 

“Well, Sasha had to go! She’s got a deadline to finish by tomorrow, that’s not her fault.” 

“She’s not the only one with deadlines.” 

“Yeah, but your closest one is weeks away, don’t think I don’t know, mate. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s holding a gun to your head.” 

Jon raises his eyebrows at him skeptically, and then slowly sets his hands on the table, as if to stand up. Tim inhales, opening his mouth. Jon slumps back in his seat, and glares at him. 

“You’re going to boo at me if I get up,” Jon says accusingly. 

“That’s my right,” Tim says, grinning. He’d done it a bit as a joke the first time Jon had threateningly reached for his coat, but the way Jon had startled like a spooked, guilty cat and pulled his hand away as if scalded had been enough to make Tim burst out into laughter and double down. Jon’s alarmed wide eyed look is going to stay with him for a long time. “I get you to go out for drinks with me for the first time ever, and you want to leave in--” He checks. “--less than two hours?” 

“It’s a work night,” Jon says defensively. 

“It’s not even eight yet!” 

“And how long exactly am I to be trapped here until you’re content?” 

Tim leans back in his seat, turning his gaze upwards and cupping his chin in his hand as he considers this. 

“Eight?” he suggests. “Since I just used it as an argument.” 

“Eight?” Jon asks, like Tim’s demanded he fork over all of his money. He picks up and glances at his phone, frowning. A flash of amusement goes through Tim at just how loudly Jon is Not Enjoying This. Very obviously so, in a ‘lady doth protest too much’ way. Tim thinks that Jon is enjoying himself-- or at least, he’s enjoying complaining about how much he isn’t enjoying himself. Either way, Tim’s definitely having a good time. It’s a shame Sash had to leave early, really. “... Fine. But after this, you don’t get to complain about me never giving you the time of day.” 

“Forever?” Tim asks. 

“Ever,” Jon says firmly. 

“How about for three months instead?” 

“Tim. You--”

“Hi?” 

Jon and Tim both turn to look at the newcomer to their table. It’s a woman, dressed in tight trousers and a shiny top, her hair falling in gently twisting curls around her face. She flashes them both a quick, lip gloss smile, before leaning over and depositing a drink on their table. 

“This is from me for, uh, you,” she says. She points a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll just be over there, so… you can totally come over whenever, if you want to.” 

“That’s--” Tim starts. 

“Oh, no, sorry--” she says, and then she points at Jon. “It’s for you, I mean.” 

Jon freezes up like a deer in headlights, his eyes going wide. 

“Oh,” Tim says, and he feels a toothy grin pulling at his mouth. “I see. Sorry for assuming.” 

“That’s okay,” she says, taking a slow step back. She shoots one last smile at Jon, and then she turns and walks away with a slight sway to her hips as she goes. 

“Well, well, well,” Tim says cockily. “Didn’t want to come out for drinks with me, huh? Just a waste of time, is it?” 

“I--” Jon chokes out. He’s not reaching out to take the drink, but instead staring down at it like it might reach out to bite at him. It seems to be some sort of bright fruity cocktail, which kind of amuses Tim. Jon’s been nursing the same rum and coke all evening, and he’s pretty sure that this new neon concoction would knock him on his arse. 

“Okay, I said that I wanted to keep you around until eight,” Tim says. “But if you want to go for this, then I won’t hold it against you.” 

“No,” Jon says, with a startling amount of intensity. Tim-- pauses. 

“No?” he asks. She seemed nice enough. Pretty, definitely. Tim would have gone for it. “Why not?” 

“I, I just-- no,” Jon says. He shoots an anxious glance in the direction where the woman said she’d be sitting. “I don’t-- how do I… should I go over to her and say no thank you?” 

“Uh, no. No, definitely not, that sounds awkward as hell. She invited you to come to her, mate. I think all you have to do is not go over to her, and she’ll get the message.” 

“And make her wait?” Jon asks, like this is the rudest thing he’s ever heard of and he’s utterly aghast by it. 

“I don’t think she’ll pine after you all night, Jon, don’t worry about it. She’ll move on to someone else once she sees that you’re not interested.” 

Jon looks down at the drink again, frowning anxiously. “What am I supposed to do with this? She bought me a drink.” 

“Drink it?” 

“But-- would that be saying yes?” 

“No? I don’t think so. It’s not like you asked her to buy you it. Pretty ballsy move, actually. She’s got guts.” 

“Perhaps I could give it back to her,” Jon says nervously. “That way she won’t have wasted a drink on me, and-- and she’ll know.” 

“Okay, I’m just going to go ahead and put you out of your misery,” Tim decides, and then he picks up the drink the woman bought for Jon and he slams it back. A moment later, he regrets it; that was not a shot. It burns down his throat like sugar acid, and he gives in and lets himself cough when he sets the empty glass down on the table. “Christ.” 

“Tim,” Jon says, scandalized. Tim waves him off, clearing his throat, tears in his eyes. 

“That’ll send the message, I think,” he rasps out. “You didn’t want her drink, so I had it instead.” 

Jon puts his face in his hands. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this,” he mutters. 

“Oi, don’t be a baby. Even if you weren’t into her, it’s a bit nice to get hit on, isn’t it? You’re being admired.” 

Jon peeks up at Tim past his fingers enough to glare at him. 

“I don’t need to be admired, thank you very much,” he says. 

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Handsome. You’ve got ladies just throwing themselves at you, aren’t you, buying you drinks and giving you looks while I’m over here like the unwanted twin they hide away in the basement--”

Jon snorts, and immediately tries to cover it up with a cough. Tim feels himself grin with victory, but keeps going. 

“--without as much as a slip with a phone number to keep me going. What’s your secret?” 

“I’m sure you’re in desperate need of it,” Jon says dryly. 

Tim doesn’t go out of his way to hide the fact that he likes a good tumble in the hay with a stranger now and then, but somewhere along the way it seems like Jon’s gotten it into his head that Tim’s the kind of guy who regularly attends orgies and sex parties on the weekends or something. Which, ridiculous. Tim’s gone to one orgy, and he decided that it was just fine but not for him. He likes one-on-one stuff more. Or one-on-two, maybe. It feels more intimate, more personal. Like he’s getting to know them, really spending time with the other person. 

“Really, though,” Tim says. “Why not go with her? She seemed like a nice bird. If you’re holding out because of me--” 

Jon wrinkles his nose. “It’s not because of you.” 

“Alright, cool,” Tim says. A suspicion rises in his mind, and he chews at his lip, trying to figure out how to handle it, if he even should handle it. Jon’s his friend, but if he doesn’t want to say anything about it then it’s not really any of his business… He’ll just give him an opening, maybe. “Maybe I’ll take my shot at her. Be her consolation prize for the night. I know I’m not as charming as you, but she’ll have to make do. She seemed like my type, for women. Not for men, though.” 

“Clearly,” Jon says, not seeming overly shocked at the revelation that Tim is bi. Now that he’s thinking about it, he may have said something about it around Jon before. He doesn’t really try to hide it, outside of, like, job interviews and stuff. 

“Is there someone in this place you’d rather be getting drinks from?” Tim asks. “Like… a guy, maybe?” 

Was that too direct? Maybe that was too direct. 

“A-- no, Tim. I-- I don’t… I don’t.” 

“You don’t…?” Tim asks, waiting for the other half of that sentence. He doesn’t-- what, drink? Clearly that’s not the case, as Tim’s seen for himself firsthand tonight. He doesn’t do one night stands? 

Jon crosses his arms across his chest, distinctly defensive. 

“I’m ace,” he says stiffly, shoulders inching upwards. “That means that I don’t feel-- it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to have-- have sex with strangers. Or anyone, for that matter.” 

“Ohhh,” Tim says. “Sorry, gotcha. Didn’t mean to be pushy about it.” 

Jon just silently looks at him for a moment, as if waiting for him to say something else. 

“... Is that it?” Jon finally asks. 

“Yeah?” Tim asks uncertainly. “What-- should I apologize more?” 

“No, that’s not what I-- nevermind.” Jon’s shoulders slump slightly, his tightly crossed arms loosening. Like he’d been bracing himself for something, and it unexpectedly had failed to arrive. 

Tim wonders if Jon had been expecting him to be an arsehole about it. That-- that would sort of suck, actually. Tim’s been his friend for a while now, and he’s pretty openly queer himself-- although god knows that he’s gotten some shit over the years for being bi from some unexpected corners. It’s maybe not unreasonable for Jon to be… wary and defensive about this thing, but the idea of him thinking that Tim might make a big deal about it is… kind of upsetting. 

“Should we maybe send the hopeful lady an engraved consolation letter?” Tim jokes, trying to move on from the brief pang of hurt. It’s not a big deal, Jon had trusted him enough to tell him at all, with just a little bit of prodding. If he was maybe a bit nervous about it then, well, that’s probably more to do with Jon than Tim. He’s not going to let himself dwell on it. 

Jon twitches, like he almost turned around to try and look in her direction before stopping himself. 

“Is she--?” 

Tim casually peeks over his shoulder. 

“Oh, nah, nevermind. She’s already moved on. Got over you pretty quickly, huh?” 

Jon twists around to look at that, to find her sitting at the counter and chatting with a man. 

“You think that they’re-- flirting?” he asks. 

“Oh, for sure. Look at the way she’s putting her hand on his arm? It’s pretty much guaranteed to happen, so long as he doesn’t suddenly reveal that he’s a Tory or whatever.” 

“Oh, the arm touch. Practically a signed and sealed contract,” Jon says, and Tim can practically hear his eyes rolling. 

“It is! That’s a strong signal, mate. They’re just going through the motions now.” 

“Why not just skip the motions, if they’re both so set on it and are in complete agreement, then?” 

“What, how do you think they should do it? Just confirm whether or not they both want to shag each other, shake hands on it, and off to the nearest available bed they go?” 

“It would be far more efficient than spending hours making small talk with a person that they don’t even intend to ever see again.” 

“It’s about the romance of it, Jon. If you’re not going to interact with each other then you might as well just stay at home and have a wank, yeah?” 

“I thought that the whole point of one night stands was that they’re very much not romantic? And yes, you might as well just stay at home and masturbate. Why not? It would garner the same result, with far less time and money wasted on the process.” 

“Oh, yeah, you really are ace. I see it now.” 

“That’s--” Jon splutters, and Tim laughs at him. They’re both settled back in their seats again by then, done with glancing and snooping. Tim drinks some from his pint, the glass wet with condensation, and Jon gives him a hesitant, tentative look as he seems to mostly just be fiddling with his own drink. “So, you… you already know about asexuality, then?” 

“Oh, yeah. I took queer theory for a semester back at uni just for the hell of it, it was interesting.” 

Jon seems to relax another few degrees, like he’s a wary stray cat in want of reassurement. Maybe he’s had to deal with a few dickheads himself, Tim thinks. 

“That’s-- that’s a relief,” Jon says frankly. He wrinkles his nose, as if remembering some annoying incident. “I don’t enjoy the process of explaining the entire concept to someone who’s never even heard of it before. It makes me feel like I’m a fantasy writer rambling about something I’ve come up with in my head.” 

“Oof,” Tim says. “Sounds like a chore.” 

“It is. Especially when it’s met with utter bafflement, as if there couldn’t be anything more far fetched. Most of the time I just try to claim that it’s just a personal preference. People can claim that they’ve never heard of asexuality and that there’s no such thing, but they don’t know a damned thing about me.” 

“My name’s Tim Stoker and I’m the only guy in the world who wants to kiss both men and women. I’m a little quirky like that.” 

Jon snorts, and then immediately takes a sip of his drink, as if to act like it hadn’t happened. Jon has a thing where he’s very clearly trying not to laugh at any of Tim’s jokes, as if he doesn’t want to encourage him, but that just makes it all the more gratifying when he fails. Tim knows exactly what Jon looks like when he’s biting the insides of his cheeks, and he loves it. 

“... you’re not the only one here that likes to-- to kiss. Men and women, that is. I’m fine with that.” Jon confesses this more to his glass than to Tim, refusing to make eye contact. 

Tim feels his eyebrows rise, intrigue springing up inside of him. 

“Oh, really?” he asks mildly, filing that information away in his brain immediately. Jon likes to kiss both men and women? Interesting. 

Tim’s a big fan of sex, but he likes kissing a lot too. Criminally underrated passtime. 

“The rest of it is just-- baffling, though,” Jon says. “I don’t see the appeal at all.” 

“Well, don’t worry about that,” Tim says. “I’ll go ahead and pick up your slack and have all of the sex that you aren’t. I’m a good friend like that.” 

Jon’s lip twitches with amusement, clearly despite himself. 

“How magnanimous of you,” he says dryly. “Are you sure you’ll be able to handle such a sacrifice? You might get sore.” 

“That’s just the sort of thing that a hero has to deal with, Jon. I’ll take on that burden for you.” 

“There might be chafing as well.” 

“I’ve got a lotion for that.” 

Jon wrinkles his nose doubtfully. “Are you really supposed to put lotion there…?” 

“There--? I thought we were talking about the wrists. What gutter did your mind slide into, Jonathan Sims?” 

“Your wrists-- how would your wrists get chafed?” Jon asks incredulously. “What on earth are you doing with your wrists during intercourse, Tim?” 

“Well… do you want a serious answer to that? How explicit are you okay with getting here?” 

Jon clearly struggles with this for a moment, torn in two opposite directions. Finally, he bursts out, “Now you have to tell me what it is, or else I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about it.” 

Tim grins at him mercilessly, and then flexes his wrist, encircling it with his other hand. “Relax, it’s not that racy. My mind just immediately went to bondage when you said that. I’ve had some rope burn in my days.” 

Jon stares at Tim’s wrist for a moment, before abruptly tearing his gaze away, fixing it firmly onto Tim’s face instead. His eyes look wide, and-- Tim’s not sure, with how dark Jon’s skin is and the lighting in the pub, but he thinks he might be flushing? 

“You do bondage?” Jon asks, as if Tim’s confessed to something impossibly risque. 

“Well-- yeah? Sometimes? When I’m in the mood for it, and whoever else I’m with is into it too.” 

“Why?” Jon asks. 

“Because it’s fun?” 

Jon takes a moment to very visibly struggle with this simple answer. His reaction is almost as weird as it is amusing and… kind of endearing? 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Tim says, because as funny as it is to fluster Jon, he doesn’t want to make him actually uncomfortable. 

Jon shoots him a look as if this offer is so unbelievable that it doesn’t even warrant a proper response. Tim is suddenly reminded of when Jon gets hung up on some aberrant detail in a statement, getting stuck on and obsessing over the inconsistencies as he pokes and prods and digs further and further into it. Like a dog with a bone. 

“How is it fun?” Jon asks persistently. It makes Tim think of a little kid going why why why, spiraling further and further down a line of questions, trying to get to the bottom of the chain of reasoning. 

“It… okay, you’ve got to know that’s a hard question to answer. It’s fun because it’s fun.” 

“Try,” Jon challenges. 

“Well… it’s-- it’s a lot of different little things, I guess. It’s nice to pull against the ropes and not be able to get anywhere, for one thing. Makes it so I can struggle a lot without actually accidentally throwing someone off the bed or giving them a bruise.” 

Tim knows that struggle. He’s tall, he does his best to regularly work out, he’s fit. Which, like, all of those are usually good qualities for having sex--gives him stamina-- but it makes it a bit harder for him to get pushed around when he’s in the mood for that sort of thing. He can pretend, sure-- but sometimes he doesn’t want to just pretend. 

“Why would you want to struggle?” 

“Because it’s… because it’s exhausting? Leaves me feeling really sore and tired by the end.” 

He hasn’t actually had to verbalize a lot of this stuff before. Usually his partners are just willing to accept that he likes what he likes, without wanting to interrogate him about the whys of it all. Which, hey, that’s good, since when he’s usually in that position he’s trying to get all of the necessary negotiation stuff out of the way so they can get to the good stuff. He can’t ever remember having an in depth conversation about bondage just for the hell of it, but that’s Jon for you. The man wants to thoroughly research, interrogate, and analyze everything that baffles, annoys, or intrigues him. He wonders which of those categories this topic fits into for him. 

“I would think those would be negative side effects, more than a desired outcome,” Jon says skeptically. 

“It’s cathartic!” Tim defends himself. “Like-- like finally getting to scratch an irritating itch, or cry yourself out, or have a wank, or something.” 

“Or something.” Jon’s expression is insultingly doubtful. 

“Okay, listen, I’ve never had to explain why bondage is good before. I haven’t made a pitch of it. There’s loads of reasons to like bondage, beyond just liking getting to struggle and fail. People are different, and even a bunch of the people who agree that bondage is good can like it for totally different reasons.” 

“I simply don’t see why-- why a person would enjoy being tied up for half an hour. Or longer. It doesn’t make sense. If it doesn’t hurt, it at the very least has to be incredibly uncomfortable. At least with-- with regular intercourse, I can understand that most people experience something pleasurable from the stimulation and the, the orgasms. Chemicals rushing through their brain, evolution rewarding them for doing something that at least feels like procreation. But what could possibly be so appealing about being restrained?”

The rant is impassioned, Jon gesturing with his hands as he speaks, leaning in imploringly at the end, a demand for answers shining in his eyes. It is, Tim finds himself thinking, a strange amount of intensity displayed for a subject that apparently only just came up. He gets a feeling that this might very well be something that Jon’s thought about before, at length. 

Which would be… interesting, definitely. 

Tim takes a sip from his drink to buy himself a moment to think, chew over his response. Finally, he sets his glass down and gravely looks Jon straight in the eyes. 

“You kinkshaming me, Sims?” 

The shocked, alarmed look that slides onto Jon’s face is enough to crack Tim’s poker face in two. With a sporfle, he ends up bending over the table, smacking one hand onto the tabletop, the other one coming up to half cover his mouth. 

“Tim,” Jon says, indignant. 

“I wish-- wish I’d taken a picture! Oh, god, your face.” 

Jon huffs at him, embarrassed and annoyed at being embarrassed. “I’m being serious. I-- I understand that you like it, and it’s fine that you like it, it’s obviously harmless if you like it, but-- why? Why do you?” 

Tim gets a hold of himself, swallowing down the last chuckles bubbling up out of him like carbonation. Jon is being earnest, so Tim shouldn’t just be messing around with him. 

… Okay, he’ll just do one more, and then he’ll get right back to trying to seriously explain it. 

“I dunno, Jon,” Tim says. “I’ve already tried my best to tell you with my words. Maybe a demonstration would work better for you?” 

Tim had been expecting that same startled, alarmed look from earlier, or maybe the fretful anxiety from when he’d been trying to figure out how to kindly reject a stranger who’d just made a casual pass at him. Instead of doing any of those things Jon goes very still, and looks at Tim with wide eyes. For some reason, that look instantly dries up Tim’s mouth, freezing the just kidding on his lips. 

“A demonstration?” Jon asks, and the words come out very level, very careful. He’s still frozen in the same position, like he’s afraid he might spook off a bird that’s miraculously landed on him by moving. 

Tim opens his mouth to reply, but only manages it on the second try. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Hands on, you know. Let you get to see the thing for yourself.” 

“And you would be tying up…” Jon says, trailing off into a silence that begs to be filled, answered. 

“You,” Tim confirms, and he thinks he sees Jon shiver as he says it. “I couldn’t-- can’t tie myself up, after all.” 

“But I can’t-- I don’t do that,” Jon says, as if remembering himself. He almost sounds disappointed. “I don’t-- I don’t enjoy sex. I’m very certain of that much, I made sure. I can’t--”

“Who said anything about sex?” bursts out of Tim, and he realizes, oh. He’s trying to convince him now, isn’t he? “Just said I’d tie you up. Doesn’t have to be anything more than that.” 

“But--” Jon says, looking flummoxed by this unprecedented concept. “Isn’t that-- doesn’t that go against the entire-- the whole point of the thing?” 

“The point is enjoyment,” Tim says. “If sex would ruin that for you, of course it wouldn’t be included.” 

“But…” Jon says again, clearly grasping for a way to articulate his objection, to make it sound sensible. He doesn’t manage it. 

“It’s just a demonstration, right?” Tim asks. “A… an experiment, really. Just something you can try out to see what it’s like.” 

“An experiment,” Jon repeats, and then after a moment nods, his shoulders squaring up with more conviction. “I-- yes, of course. Naturally. I don’t necessarily need to have the full experience.”

Tim wonders if he should tell Jon about how nonsexual kink is a thing, and that being tied up for fun without sex involved is still bondage. But of course, it isn’t for fun: it’s just for curiosity’s sake. Simple, innocent, objective, passionless curiosity. No personal desires motivating either of them at all. Yep. 

“Right,” Tim says instead of any of that stuff, feeling much warmer than he had just ten minutes ago. Jon doesn’t even get why bondage is apparently so much fun; Tim should probably try and get him over that first hurdle before he starts tackling the next one. Not that he needs to, what, give Jon some sort of comprehensive kink seminar, that’s ridiculous, Tim doesn’t need to do that, and Jon’s not even really asking for it, he’s just curious-- 

“Okay,” Jon says, still nodding to himself like one of those wooden bird desk toys, and then visibly braces himself. “Do-- do you have everything you need at your place, or would you need time to gather the supplies?” 

“What?” Tim asks blankly. 

“The rope,” Jon says. “I suppose it’s just rope that you need-- unless I’m somehow missing some mysterious, crucial step that’s evaded me all this time.” 

“Are you,” Tim says, and then has to stop to clear his throat. “Jonathan Sims, are you asking me to take you back to my place right now?” 

“Well,” Jon says, so terribly reasonable and confused by Tim’s surprise, “why not? We’re both here, and we both have the time for it, don’t we? Especially if we leave now. You could count it as part of my enforced ‘night out’ with you. We would still be spending time with each other outside of a work setting, doing non-work related activities.”

Non-work related activities is one hell of a way of putting it. 

“That’s,” Tim says, and tries to come up with one single reason for why that’s as ridiculous as it feels. Sure, he’s the one who’d first suggested it--as a joke-- and he’s the one who pushed for it once it looked like Jon might actually be-- intrigued? Fascinated? But he’d been talking about tying up Jon sometime, while Jon had apparently been talking about Tim tying him up now, tonight. It feels ridiculously sudden. 

The argument he ends up landing on is thin as spring ice. “But-- but it’s a weeknight.” 

Jon scrunches up his brows, and Tim experiences the strange sensation of feeling incredulous of himself. “Is that… a problem? How long do you think such a thing would take?” 

“I-- okay, yeah, probably not long enough to be a problem? Doing hours-long bondage sessions is kind of, uh, kind of something you should only do if you’ve got a lot of experience with it already anyway. But--”

“Perhaps we could set a timer,” Jon muses. “Give ourselves a deadline.” 

“Oh my god,” Tim says, involuntarily picturing one of those ticking egg timers. “No, nah, okay, we’re not doing that. If it even comes to it, you can just crash at my place, it’s fine. I’ve got spare unused toothbrushes for--” one night stands, “--unexpected visitors.” 

He gets the feeling that comparing Jon to a one night stand would be… undiplomatic? It’s definitely not the way Jon is seeing this encounter, which, fair enough. It’s not exactly a one night stand. They’re not strangers to each other, not at all. It’s just friends doing stuff together, something that Tim is intimately familiar with. 

Jon almost certainly isn’t, though. Considering. 

“... You know, we don’t have to do this immediately,” Tim says. 

Jon, who had been staring off into the distance with the frown of a man thinking through logistics, snaps his full attention back onto Tim as if he’s said something alarming. 

“Why wouldn’t we?” Jon demands. Something in his intensity falters for a moment. “Do you not-- if you don’t want to--” 

“Jon, no, that’s not what I mean. I’m up for it if you are. Just… you don’t have to just immediately dive into the deep end. You can take the time to go and put on a bathing suit and stretch, first. It’s not like there’s a hurry.” 

“I’m assuming that you’re using an analogy here,” Jon says dryly, “and that there won’t be literal bathing suits involved.” 

Tim snorts. “No-- but stretching’s never a bad idea. I just mean that you can take a day or two to think about it, poke around, research. Whatever you like.” 

“No,” Jon says instantly. 

“No?” Tim asks, eyebrows rising. 

“I don’t want to-- no, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but-- Tim, if I have to sit around and just think about it for days then it will be impossible for me to think of anything else. I will be completely useless. So we might as well just get it over with now, so I can make my judgment and move on.” 

“Seriously? You won’t be able to think about anything else? That eager, Sims?” 

Jon squirms uncomfortably in his seat, half hiding behind his drink, looking away. 

“I’m not eager,” he transparently lies. “I’m simply curious, and I know myself well enough to admit that it’s a weakness of mine. Once I start truly wondering about something, it’s difficult to stop until I’ve satisfied myself. That’s all.” 

“Well, then,” Tim says, and he feels himself make up his mind. “I guess I’ve got no choice but to satisfy you.” 

Tim downs the rest of his pint in one go before they pay the tab and leave. It’s never a good idea to mess around with rope when drunk, but luckily he’d already been drinking carefully since they’ve still got work tomorrow. Those last few gulps had just been a little something to fortify himself, to help him get the rest of the way home without overthinking this whole thing. 

They don’t hold hands or lean into each other on the way to Tim’s place, but instead hide their hands away from the chill inside of their own pockets, their breaths puffing clouds in the air. It’s close to winter, which really just means that the rain that regularly comes down is absolutely frigid when it does so. They’ve got to take a short walk, a tube ride, and then another short walk to get to Tim’s place, and he thinks he sort of gets what Jon had meant by the agony of waiting by the end of it. There’s an itchy, impatient feeling to the air, something loaded and heavy and anticipatory between them. Or that might just be Jon, whose spine is as straight as a ruler, holding himself so stiff and still that it’s obvious that he’s tense as hell. Tim can feel his mind whirring, his patience steadily fraying. 

And that’s just on the way over to Tim’s flat, a trip that takes less than an hour. Yeah, no, okay, he gets it. Jon would have exploded if he’d had to wait for days, and he probably would have taken Tim down with him. It really is so inconvenient that once they came to an agreement that they couldn’t have just walked out of the pub doors and instantly been where they needed to be. 

“How much do you know about it already?” Tim asks once they’ve emerged from the underground, spilling out from the stairsteps along with a crowd of people like an anthill. 

“What?” Jon asks. 

“You know, it. Bondage.” 

“Tim--!” Jon says, and then turns to look around at the people walking past them. He looks alarmed and deeply suspicious, in a way that might as well be lighting up a neon sign over him saying terrible secret located here, please don’t eavesdrop. “Not here.” 

“Oh my god,” Tim says, and grins a bit incredulously. “Why is it wrong to talk about it here, but not in the pub?” 

“The pub was-- we had the booth to ourselves. It was so noisy you couldn’t eavesdrop on someone unless you were right up by them, or they were shouting anyway.” 

“I don’t think a random passerby is going to care if we’re talking about dirty stuff, Jon. What are they going to do, report us? To who? The kink police? No, officer, please, not the handcuffs.” 

“You’re not supposed to talk about-- about that in public, where other people might hear you.” 

“We’re walking on the street. I think if anyone’s going to actually make out what we’re talking about, they’re going to have to be actively following us around and listening in, which I think makes it not our fault if they hear something scandalous.” 

Jon visibly wavers at this argument. 

“If we don’t talk about it now,” Tim says, “then we’re going to have to talk about it once we get to my flat. Which, you know, fine by me, but it would mean it’s going to take us longer to get to the main attraction.” 

Jon pauses for a moment, and then says, “very well.” 

Tim grins. He’s seen Jon get obsessed with stuff before, but he’s never before had the thing that Jon’s obsessed with, for a lack of a better way of putting it. The power’s kind of fun, like he’s holding a treat in his hand that Jon is single mindedly focused on attaining. 

“I know… well, it’s hardly very complicated, is it? You’re supposed to-- to tie me up with some rope, and then I’m to gain some sort of enjoyment from this.” Jon’s words are dismissive, but Tim notices the way they falter as they come out his mouth. 

“Have you thought about it before?” Tim asks oh so casually. 

Jon freezes for a fraction of a moment, in an entirely transparent and obvious way, before continuing. He walks just a little bit faster, as if to make up for it, or to outpace Tim and his questions. 

“I have perhaps wondered at the-- the absurdity of it, before,” Jon says. “To try and think what could possibly be so-- pleasurable, about it.” 

“Did you look into it?” Tim asks. “You know, do one of your rabbit hole deep dives and then emerge two weeks later gushing about it, like when you found out about carcinization.” 

“I don’t gush,” Jon says defensively. “And I most certainly wouldn’t-- bondage is not the same as carcinization, which is a fascinating scientific phenomenon and--”

“--and a highly interesting example of convergent evolution, yeah, yep, I remember, don’t worry,” Tim says, grinning. And yeah, okay, that’s a decent enough point. Jon probably wouldn’t infodump about bondage fun facts at work, which is the main place he sees Jon ninety nine percent of the time. Not that Tim wouldn’t love to spend time with him in more settings, it’s just practically impossible to lure Jon away from the siren call of work. Although maybe he should try harder to do so more often, considering the very interesting places this night is already going. 

“Well… good. I-- I may have idly attempted to look into it in the past, if only out of curiosity, but--” Jon struggles for a moment for words. Finally, he says, “I lost interest before I got particularly far.” 

Considering how determinedly Jon is pushing for this, Tim is skeptical of this claim. Jon, lose interest? How and why? 

After a moment of thinking about it, an idea occurs to him. Jon, Googling about bondage and getting immediately hit with porn, pious and morally righteous articles about how it’s definitely abusive, horror stories about bondage scenes gone wrong, link after link immediately associating it with sex. Maybe he even tried to look for books about it, and either got way too flustered and embarrassed to ask for help finding them, or tried to find them on his own and found something shitty written by a judgemental prude instead. The more Tim thinks about it, the more ways he can think of that could have put Jon off, fed him misinformation or misled him, misunderstanding and assuming that there’s nothing on the bondage scene that could be right for him. 

Well, that’s a crying fucking shame. The only thing that can be done about that is to rectify it. And if someone has to do it, then, well, it might as well be Tim, right? He will with great solemnity and sacrifice take that bullet for everyone, and spend a fun night getting to tie Jon up. Oh, the agony. 

“I know that safewords are used,” Jon belatedly offers up, as if self conscious over not having a dozen fun facts lined up to rattle off. 

“Well,” Tim says, “sometimes, yeah.” 

Jon turns his gaze back onto Tim, frowning. “What do you mean? I thought those were a matter of course.” 

“Not really,” Tim says, shaking his head. “Safewords are only actually needed for consent play.” 

“Consent play?” Jon asks, immediately snatching at a term that he doesn’t instantly understand, like a seagull diving for an unprotected sandwich. 

“I-- yeah, you know, like roleplay? Like if… like if we wanted to pretend, during, that you didn’t want me to tie you up or whatever, but I was doing it anyway, against your will. Safewords are only really necessary for stuff like that, because if I’m just tying you up without consent play then you can just, like, say that you want to stop and I’ll listen to you. Safewords are only needed for when no doesn’t mean no.” 

“Like acting,” Jon says. His eyes are bright with interest, his attention fully fastened on Tim in a way that makes him feel like he’s standing underneath a hot, beaming spotlight. It makes Tim feel… some kind of way, to have Jon’s attention in the palm of his hand like this. 

“Yeah, basically,” Tim says. Mock sternly, he raises a finger. “But we’re not doing that tonight, alright? One kink at a time, please. We can add sprinkles later, if you can handle this vanilla scoop on its own.” 

“I thought that bondage was very much not vanilla,” Jon says, after his expression flickers with pouty disappointment at being denied more than he can chew. Something inside of Tim tightens and warms at that, at sternly denying him. Oh man, he’s getting riled up, isn’t he? Excited for what’s about to happen. 

“True,” Tim says. “Maybe chocolate? Does that fit better?” 

“Rum and raisin,” Jon says firmly, which instantly makes Tim bark with laughter. 

“Don’t get your awful old man ice cream all over bondage! It deserves better!” 

“It’s not old, it’s timeless,” Jon argues indignantly enough to make Tim snicker. Then, feeling oddly like the walk over both took way too little and way too much time, they’re in front of Tim’s building. Fishing his keys out, he makes his way inside, Jon falling silent beside him with the reminder of how close they are. The thick anticipation comes back with a vengeance after the brief distraction, large and impossible to ignore now. They make the rest of the way up to Tim’s flat in a heavy, charged silence, and Tim feels intensely aware of Jon’s presence at his side, following his lead. Jon’s never been to his flat before, doesn’t know the way. 

Stepping into his flat, Tim takes off his shoes and jacket, pretending not to see the way Jon immediately starts peering around himself, curiously inspecting his environment. He has a fleeting thought of gratitude towards his past self for taking the time to properly clean the place up only last weekend. 

“So, do you want a drink or--?”

“No,” Jon says instantly, and after a belated moment tacks on, “thank you. We’ve already had drinks. I’m ready to start now.” 

“I was going to say or something.” 

“I don’t need anything else either.” 

Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have just assumed that Jon would’ve immediately gotten what he’s offering him, considering his inexperience. He’ll just have to abandon tact and ask outright. 

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Tim asks him. “Because, like, if you need to go even a little bit then I’d recommend doing it now instead of later, you know?” 

“What do you-- oh.” Jon’s eyes widen with realization after a beat. 

“Obviously, bathroom breaks are allowed and all that, I’m not your school teacher-- not unless you want me to be,” he can’t help add, a grin that’s half flirtatious and half teasing sliding onto his face for a moment. “We’ll stop if we have to, but it kind of spoils the mood to have to pause in the middle for stuff like that, so, yeah.” 

Unless that’s the whole point of the scene, which is a thing that Tim actually hasn’t experienced before himself. He hasn’t done everything. He decides that bringing this up to Jon would only serve as a distracting tangent, though. 

“... I’ll be just a moment,” Jon decides, and Tim points him in the direction of the loo. 

Taking the opportunity, he heads to his bedroom and tidies up a bit, making the bed and tucking laundry away out of sight. Then he sits down at the edge of his bed, and says in a quiet hush to himself, “holy shit.” 

Holy shit, he’s actually got Jon in his flat, ready to do a bondage session with him. Tim’s had plenty of sex, and done a decent amount of bondage, and he’s done both with friends before. This isn’t exactly uncharted territory, but-- it’s Jon. That’s the part that feels unbelievable, when he has a quiet moment to himself to actually think about it. Jon is, well, not a prude. Tim reserves that word for people who act like other peoples sex lives are any of their business to disapprove of, and while Jon has his moments, he’s not that sort of tosser. But he’s also not… not the sort of guy who does stuff like this either. Or, Tim hadn’t thought he was the sort of guy to do stuff like this. Apparently, he’d been dead wrong about that. 

Well, you learn new things every day. One drink out with Jon, and he’s learned more about the man in the span of a couple hours than he has in the last year, it feels like. Fancy that. 

He doesn’t get a whole lot more time to try and wrap his head around the situation, because Jon finishes up pretty soon, poking his head hesitantly into Tim’s bedroom, his eyes scanning the surroundings like he’s expecting to see something strange or interesting lying out. Tim almost regrets not putting something outrageous out for casual display, like that stupidly big novelty dildo Sasha had gotten him for his last birthday as a joke. He bets that if he acted like that’s just what he uses for his regular wanks that Jon would believe him, with an air of silent, bug eyed horror. And then he could reveal the joke and laugh, and Jon would scowl at him and maybe try to hide some of his own laughter, and the tension would be broken. 

He didn’t think to do that though, so instead Jon just takes a few tentative steps into his bedroom and then stands there stiffly and uselessly, clearly unsure of what to do with himself. 

“So,” Tim says, and claps his hands once gamely, “any last minute cold feet or jitters?” 

Jon gives him an utterly offended look at that. Tim raises his hands in surrender. 

“It’s not a crime to be nervous,” he assures Jon. “Totally normal.” 

Jon crosses his arms defensively. “I’m not nervous,” he lies poorly. 

“Uh huh,” Tim says, unconvinced. “Okay, so… if we are gonna do this, I’m going to need you to promise me that you’re gonna let me know if anything that I do or happens bothers you, alright?” 

“Yes, yes,” Jon says, dismissive. 

“I mean it. Don’t get all stubborn and try to tough it out or whatever. You love complaining about stuff, so just be ready to complain here and now, okay? Please?” 

“Fine, yes, Tim,” Jon says. “I’ll let you know the moment I experience the slightest discomfort.” 

Jon still doesn’t sound like he’s taking him all that seriously, and Tim briefly considers calling quits on the evening right here and now. Briefly, because he immediately doesn’t like the idea. It would be a shitty end to a night that’s ripe with so much potential, and Jon would definitely take it personally. He’ll just… try to be cautious, and attentive. Jon’s a pane of glass, really, a terrible liar. So long as Tim’s actually looking at his face, he’ll notice if he starts getting really upset. 

“Letting me know about something doesn’t mean that we’ll have to totally stop,” he says, a last attempt at getting the message across. “We’ll just adjust, that’s all.” 

“I understand. Now, if you’re quite done trying to tell me how to end this, can we actually get started?” 

“Alright, alright. Just give me a moment…” Tim gets up, crouches on the floor, reaches underneath his bed, and then pulls out a large plastic tub out from underneath. With two pops, he undoes the clasps keeping the lid in place and sets it aside. 

“Good lord,” Jon says, astonished. 

“Problem, Sims?” Tim asks him archly. 

“You have a veritable arsenal,” Jon says. “Is this all--?”

“Sex toys, yep.” 

“What could you possibly need so much equipment for?” 

“I like trying stuff out! I’ve just gathered a lot of things over the years. Like here, see, the sex shop was doing a special where they had a sale on fruit flavored lubes, so I just got one of each. Cherry’s my favorite. An old girlfriend got me this feather duster, not for maid stuff, but just because she liked the feeling of it. And here’s a really nice whip, which actually can’t really be used for sex stuff because it’s way too long, but I used it to dress up as Indiana Jones for a Halloween party once. I actually don’t remember how I got it, it was so long ago. I just got this dildo because it looked pretty-- look, it’s got glitter in it. Cool, right?” 

“You are… certainly well organized.” 

“Thank you.” 

Tim gets to the ropes, and hovers for a moment over which coil to use. There’s the hot pink one, but that doesn’t quite feel like Jon’s color. Then there’s the bright red one, but the material is actually kind of coarse… Maybe the black one? But that one’s getting old, fraying. Really, he should get around to tossing it out soon. Tim’s got way more rope than is really warranted, considering the fact that it’s not like he does this regularly, but it’s just too fun to buy. 

Oh, wait. Tim knows exactly which one to use: his newest one, which hasn’t even gotten a chance to see action yet. He’s been looking forward to getting an opportunity to fix that. He picks it out and then shoves the box back underneath his bed. They don’t need any more equipment than that. There’s some stuff in there that he could use without crossing Jon’s ‘no sex’ boundary, but there’s no need to get all complicated on the first time. He doesn’t want to distract Jon from the part that really matters. 

“Here we go,” he says, and casually tosses the neatly tied off coil of rope at Jon, who fumbles it before managing to clutch it to his narrow chest. Walking off, Tim heads towards his wardrobe. 

“What-- oh, really, Tim,” Jon says, and then he actually scoffs. “Where on earth did you get this?” 

“It was on sale during last pride month,” Tim says cheerfully, opening up a drawer. He glances over his shoulder, and watches Jon closely examining the rope he chose, as if finely inspecting some ware he’s considering purchasing. He doesn’t look nearly as exasperated as he’d sounded, but instead like an eager magpie that’s gotten its hands on an engagement ring. Absolutely entranced, tracing the woven strands of the thick, sturdy rope with his fingers. It’s pink, purple, and blue woven together, one after another, interlocking. “There was one of each flag, so of course I got the best one.” 

“It’s tacky,” Jon says, shamelessly critical as always, even as he won’t tear his gaze away from it. Tim thinks he sees a reluctant smile at the corner of his mouth there. 

The confirmation that he’d chosen correctly makes him smile to himself. The silly, campy novelty rope has a disarming sort of playfulness to it that the red and the black ones wouldn’t have had. They might’ve had the opposite effect, intimidating instead of reassuring Jon. 

“Shush, you. It’s pretty.” 

“It’s--” Jon starts, and then yelps. “What are you doing?” 

Tim tosses his shirt onto the floor, leaving him bare chested. “Relax. Just slipping into something a little more comfortable.” 

With that, he shrugs on the t-shirt he picked out. It’s soft and comfortable, but not one of the silly ones with some dumb joke or ridiculous print on it. He just doesn’t want to do this literally in the shirt he wore to work today. Turning around, he sizes Jon up. He’s removed his jacket and shoes at the entrance, but he still looks like he pretty much just walked out of his cubicle at research. 

“D’you want to get rid of a few layers before we get started?” Tim asks. “Might be more comfortable for you.” 

“I-- do I have to?” Jon asks, suddenly looking anxious, like he’s half expecting to be told that being completely stark naked is an essential component of bondage, and that if he doesn’t take his pants off right now then Tim’s kicking him out. 

“Of course not. Just meant that, like, if you want to be shirtless or something then that’s fine.” 

Jon curls his arms over his front protectively, as if Tim might rip his shirt off him at any moment. “No, thank you.” 

“Alright, that’s cool. Just thought you might want to feel the texture of the rope or something, but that’s okay. Might actually be good to have a layer between you and the rope, to help protect your skin. Not that this rope is all that abrasive.” 

Jon visibly wavers in uncertainty at this point, clearly tempted by feel the texture of the rope. 

“Maybe just take the sweater vest off?” Tim suggests. 

“I-- yes, that-- that’s reasonable,” Jon says. 

He dithers for a moment, before setting the rope down on the bed, and then grabbing his sweater vest by the hemline, pulling it up off over his head. Tim enjoys watching the motion of the movement, of seeing Jon undress, if in just a small way. Obviously, it would be nice to have Jon all tied up and naked--in fact, he’s probably going to have a wank to that mental image later--but this is going to be good too. Has its own appeal. Like maybe he ambushed Jon while he was at work, and tied him up all nice and helpless. 

Jon folds up his sweater vest neatly, and then delicately sets it down on Tim’s nightstand in a way that irrationally charms him. Tim had just literally thrown his own shirt on the floor. 

“Well, then,” Jon says, and he stands in front of the bed and looks at Tim expectantly, nervously, eagerly. Brimming with anticipation, tense as a bow string. Tim tilts his head at him, and considers his method of approach. “This-- this is it, then. Do you need me to--?” 

Tim cuts Jon off by shoving him onto the bed, planting his hand on his chest and pushing. Jon falls with a squawk, as easily moved as a scarecrow, bouncing on the bed as his back meets it. His feet don’t touch the ground, Tim notes with amusement. 

“Tim,” Jon gasps out, wide eyed and shocked. 

Tim proceeds to climb up onto the bed, straddling Jon’s waist. He can’t imagine Jon managing to successfully bucking him off at this point. 

“Jon,” he replies, and then he grabs each of Jon’s wrists in a firm grip and pins them down to the mattress over his head. 

“What are you--?” 

“Do you like it?” Tim asks. 

“I-- what?” 

“Just a little test run. Try and get your hands free.” 

Jon just stares up at him for a moment, wide eyed and pinned underneath him, and a shiver of heat goes up Tim’s spine. After a beat, he feels a tug as Jon tries to pull his wrists out of Tim’s grip. He doesn’t so much as budge. 

“I-- I can’t,” Jon says after maybe half a minute of strained, fruitless struggle, and there’s a breathless tinge to his voice. “I’m stuck.” 

“And how does that feel? Good? Bad?” 

“I-- I don’t, I’m not sure.” 

“Does it make you feel panicky? Because if it does, then that’s okay. We can--”

“No,” Jon says forcefully. “I’m not-- I’m not panicking.” 

Jon’s eyes are still wide, and his chest is visibly rising and falling with each quick breath. He looks like he could be panicking. But he says he isn’t. 

“Okay,” Tim says. “Good.” 

With that, he lets Jon go, and rolls off him onto the bed. Jon just lies there like a limp ragdoll for a moment, his hands staying in position over his head like he’s still being held in place. Then he slowly moves, his hands coming down, rolling onto his side and then sitting up. He blinks at Tim, looking stunned. Tim innocently smiles at him. 

“Just thought I’d quickly check,” he says blithely. “Give you a taste test of the main course.” 

“I… I see,” Jon says, sounding rattled. Tim heartily claps him on the back, and then picks up the coil of rope, getting started on unwinding it. Jon instantly comes to attention at that. “What-- how are you planning on-- on tying me up?” 

“Nothing fancy,” Tim says, his hands working. “It’s your first time, and I haven’t taken a bunch of rope workshops or anything. I’m not some shibari master. I just know a couple of good knots.” 

“Ah,” Jon says, and he has the nerve to almost sound disappointed that he apparently isn’t going to be getting put in some kind of elaborate spiderweb of a knot and then suspended from Tim’s bedroom ceiling. Zero bondage practice, and he immediately wants to go into hard mode. Absolutely typical Jonathan Sims. 

“Here,” Tim says, and he holds out a length of the rope. “Hold your wrists together for me?” 

Jon moves to turn around, and Tim reaches out to stop him. 

“At your front,” he clarifies. 

“Why?” Jon asks, his eyebrows furrowing skeptically. “It’s supposed to be at the back.” 

“It’s not supposed to be anywhere, bud. Who here has actually done this before? That’s right, me. Positions that put your hands behind your back can be a strain to your shoulders after a while. Front is safer, easier.” 

“But it’s less secure,” Jon argues. “It gives me more balance and mobility. When people are taken hostage in movies, they always tie their hands up behind their backs.” 

“I’m not taking you hostage, Jon.” 

“I practically won’t be restrained at all. As soon as you leave I could get my phone out of my pocket, or open the door, or--”

“Jon, I’m not going to leave.”

“Yes, I know that, but--”

“Do you want me to gag you too, huh? Hogtie you and use your phone to tell all of your loved ones that you’re fine and taking a sudden vacation and no one needs to worry about you?” 

“No, just-- you’re not doing it properly!” 

“Oh my god,” Tim says. “Okay. Give me your phone.” 

Jon freezes, and looks up at him. “Pardon?” 

Tim puts his hand out, and gestures with it expectantly. “Come on, if you’re gonna be like this. Phone, gimmie.” 

Jon hesitates for a long moment, and Tim wonders for a moment if he’s made a misstep. But then, slowly, he reaches into his trouser pocket and retrieves his phone. He surrenders it to Tim without another word. 

“Alright, good,” Tim says, nodding, and then gets up and sets Jon’s phone away. Where Jon can still see it, but won’t be able to reach from the bed. Going to his bedroom door, he closes it, twists the key in the lock, and then takes the key out and puts it in his pocket. He returns to bed, where Jon’s sitting quietly right where Tim left him, watching him. 

“Hands,” he says, holding the length of rope out in front of Jon again. 

“I’ll still be able to--” Jon starts, argumentative as ever. 

“No, you won’t,” Tim says. “Because I’m not going to turn my back on you or leave you alone. I’m keeping my eye on you, Sims.” 

That makes Jon shiver, just ever so slightly. Tim notices it. After a beat, he reluctantly holds his hands out, the insides of his wrists pressed together. Tim gets started on winding the rope around his wrists, and then in a lattice traveling further down his arms. Jon sits very still and quiet, like he’s barely daring to breathe, letting Tim focus on his work. He cinches the knot tight, and then checks to make sure that it’s not too tight, curling a finger underneath the length of rope. 

“How does it feel?” Tim asks. 

“It’s--” Jon says, raspy. The rope criss crosses from around his wrists all the way down to his elbows, pressing his arms together so that he can hardly move them from his chest, his hands underneath his chin. He looks good. “It’s-- tight.”

“Too tight? Does it hurt?” 

“I, I don’t… no. No, it doesn’t hurt.” 

“Good,” Tim says, and then he pushes Jon down onto the bed again, just to see how he can’t catch himself at all. Jon makes a startled, breathy noise, which makes Tim crawl over him just to loom over him, cage him in. 

“Hi,” he says, and smiles when Jon looks wildly up at him. His eyes are very dark, and very wide. He looks like a cornered animal, but in a good way. “Can’t get out of it, can you?” 

Jon’s arms twitch, like he’s trying to pull them apart from each other, feeling the tension of the rope binding him in place. That’s the part Tim likes best when he’s the one getting tied up, his favorite part. Getting to squirm and fight, driving himself panting and flushed, and not getting a single inch for his troubles. Not having to be careful and gentle and hold back, but instead getting to struggle, to lose himself in it, and not hurt anyone in the process. He likes to fight the whole time, just to feel the way he can’t get out of it. 

Jon, though-- he pulls against the rope for one drawn out moment, visibly trembling from how much he’s straining-- and then with a soft, ragged noise of surrender, his eyes falling shut, he melts into it instead. It’s like the only thing left that’s keeping him together is the rope around him. 

Tim watches the process, entranced. He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting from this night. Maybe for Jon to nope out immediately, not liking a single part of it when confronted with the real deal. Or maybe for him to get frustrated, anxious, bored, bewildered-- or even for him to like it, but not like this. He hadn’t expected this. 

Reaching out, he cards his fingers through Jon’s hair, at the side of his temple. Jon’s eyes open again slowly, and his eyes look hazy and dark now. 

“All good?” Tim asks softly, like he’s trying not to wake someone. 

Jon blinks up at him dazedly, and then nods. 

“Okay,” Tim says. “Good.” 

This is the part where Tim would usually start grinding the heel of his hand against Jon’s crotch, or start undressing him, or tell him to open his mouth. None of that’s an option now, though. They hadn’t really talked in detail about what exactly it is Jon does and doesn’t like. He knows that kissing is a yes, and that sex is a no. Sex is a broad category of things, and he’s not super sure if Jon gets just exactly how much he’d said no to there, and if there are maybe some things included in it that he would like to do if they actually talked about it, but-- it’s better to err on the side of caution, and now isn’t the time to go through some kind of checklist. It hadn’t been earlier either, because Jon had practically been vibrating with impatience. He’ll just have to take this as it goes, ask for permission along the way, and course correct if he messes up. 

“Tell me how you feel,” Tim says, stroking his thumb along the line of Jon’s cheekbone. 

“... Good,” Jon says after a beat, his brow furrowing slightly as he searches for words. 

“Uh huh,” Tim says, after waiting for a moment that Jon doesn’t fill with elaboration. “Good in what way?” 

This is clearly a very challenging question to answer, judging from the hopeless, frustrated look Jon throws at him after trying to think it over for a little while. 

“Come on,” Tim cajoles him. “It doesn’t have to make sense. Just say the first thing that comes to mind. How do you feel? What’s so good about it?” 

“I, I feel…” Jon struggles. “I feel caught.” 

“Yeah?” Tim asks him, and he runs an approving hand through Jon’s hair, mussing it up adorably. “You like that? Being caught, like a rabbit in a trap?” 

“I like being caught by you,” Jon says honestly. It makes Tim pause. 

“Oh?” is all he can think to say. 

“You won’t do anything bad,” Jon says. “So it’s fine, even if I’m caught.” 

It’s absolutely true, and yet it makes a warmth spread through Tim’s chest to hear Jon say it. It occurs to him that yes, this whole situation is fucking crazy-- but it’s ten times more crazy for Jon than it is for Tim. Jon’s never done something like this before. He is, as far as Tim is aware, a modest and kind of stuffy and uptight guy who hasn’t so much as gone out on a date in years, much less done kink stuff. And here he is, letting Tim tie him up. That’s-- risky, honestly. They know each other, have known each other for a long time now, and they work together. They’re not strangers. But Tim’s always kind of cautious and wary the first time he puts himself in a vulnerable position with a new dom no matter who they are, ready for it to go wrong. Jon’s the one who’s tied up, Jon’s the one who’s vulnerable. It’s hitting him for the first time how much trust Jon’s putting in him by doing this with him at all, by not even hesitating. He’s implicitly trusting Tim not to take advantage, to not be stupid or shitty. To handle this and take care of him, to do a good job. 

“Yeah,” he says, and he can’t help but let the warmth in his chest seep into his voice. “You’re gonna be okay, rabbit.” 

Jon wrinkles his nose slightly at that, which makes Tim want to boop him on the nose. After a moment he realizes that Jon won’t really be able to dodge him or smack his hand away, so he just does it. Jon goes slightly cross eyed to look at his finger, and then gives Tim an indignant look. The syrupy haze from earlier is kind of dissipated, chased away by Tim’s shenanigans and poking, but Jon still looks more relaxed than Tim’s ever known him to be. It’s fascinating. He wants to take a picture, but knows that probably wouldn’t be an idea that Jon would be into. That’s kind of a lot to ask from someone, especially on their first time. 

He tugs at the bottom of Jon’s shirt with one hand. “Hey, can I put a hand up your shirt?” 

“Uh--” Jon says, his eyes flying wide at the question. 

“It’s fine if not,” Tim says. “I just want to feel your chest.” 

“I… don’t-- don’t pull on--” 

“No nipple play. Got it.” 

Jon grimaces at the word nipple, like he thinks it’s mortifying just to hear it said out loud. Grinning mercilessly, he slides his hand up underneath Jon’s shirt. He feels the way his stomach jumps a little at his touch, the slight outline of his ribs against his fingers. Jon’s shirt rides up a bit the further Tim’s hand travels, revealing a vulnerable slice of a soft belly, brown with black hair disappearing in an endearing little treasure trail down into his trousers. Tim wants to pet and stroke it, chase it down, but he restrains himself. Instead he keeps going up, until his hand settles out flat and steady on Jon’s chest. He rests it there for a moment, feeling Jon’s heart beat a rapid tattoo underneath his ribcage. His skin is deliciously warm. 

“Tim?” Jon asks, and Tim feels his racing heartbeat with his hand. 

“I want you to breathe for me,” Tim says. “Can you do that, Jon?” 

“I-- I’m already breathing.” 

“Not the way I want you to,” Tim says, which makes Jon clack his teeth shut. Tim feels himself smile sharply, for a moment feeling like a wolf that’s caught prey and wants to play with it instead of eat it. “Copy me, alright? Breathe how I breathe.” 

He breathes in, slow and deep. Jon copies him, or tries to. He hesitates for a second and then sucks the air in too quickly, like he’s trying to catch up to where Tim is. Tim doesn’t do anything about it; Jon’s obviously trying to be good, which is all he really cares about. He doesn’t get the vibe that Jon wants for Tim to hunt down excuses to punish him, here. Instead he just breathes out slowly, letting the air seep out of him like a gently deflating balloon. Jon does his best to do the same, but seems to falter a bit at the end, not enough air left in him to keep exhaling even as Tim keeps going. Smaller lung capacity, Tim realizes. He’s smaller than Tim is. 

Tim tries to adjust for it on his next go, inhaling and exhaling steadily. Jon copies him better that time, and Tim feels the way his chest rises and falls as he breathes. His heart isn’t slamming quite as vigorously underneath Tim’s palm on the third go. By the fifth, they’re perfectly in sync. 

“Good job,” Tim tells him at the end of the next exhale, and he sees the way Jon’s breath hitches at the inhale he’d automatically started on his own. “That’s really good, Jon.” 

Jon squirms a bit underneath him at that, not like he’s struggling against the ropes, but like he just can’t make himself lie still while being complimented. The urge to kiss him strikes Tim, not for the very first time. 

“Hey,” he says. “Can I kiss you?” 

Jon freezes. “What?” 

“As a friend,” Tim clarifies. 

“Friends don’t kiss.” 

“Some do! Especially the kind of friends who do bondage together. Again, it’s alright if not, but… it would be really nice if it’s a yes.” 

“I, um, ah,” Jon says, wide eyed, and Tim’s about to give him some sort of out, to say that he doesn’t have to make up his mind about that right here and now if it’s too much pressure-- but Jon cuts him off before he can get farther than opening his mouth. “Not-- no tongue?” 

Tim grins, feeling pleased enough to purr. 

“Roger that,” he says, and then he immediately lowers himself, narrowing the distance between them. Jon stops breathing entirely, and the racing heartbeat he’d been so careful to help slow down picks up again, although maybe that was a futile effort from the start. Tim lets the moment drag itself out torturously, grazing his lips across Jon’s cheek lightly enough that he can barely feel him on his lips, a ghost of a touch. Jon makes the faintest whimpering noise, which Tim immediately wants to hear again. He presses his lips to Jon’s face, to the corner of his mouth, the center, three kisses in rapid succession. 

When he lets the distance grow between them again, he’s delighted to see that Jon’s got his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his useless hands curled into fists, lying still and quiet, waiting to endure as many kisses as Tim may want to impart on him. 

“Hey, Jon,” Tim says softly, and Jon blinks his eyes open, breathing harshly for air. Tim feels something playful and excited curl in his chest. “D’you want to play a game?” 

Jon immediately looks suspicious. Not in a bad, serious way, but in a what’s the joke here way. 

“What sort of game?” he asks warily. 

“How about, you’re allowed to breathe only when I’m not kissing you? So you have to hold your breath whenever I kiss you.” 

“Oh,” Jon says. His eyes really are very, very dark. “That’s…” 

“Yes?” Tim says. 

“Okay,” Jon says, his voice shaking only a little bit. “Yes. Fine.” 

“Cool,” Tim says, and then he leans down to kiss Jon again. Longer this time, harder, deeper-- though not with tongue. Jon makes a faint, muffled voice against his mouth, but he doesn’t breathe. Tim draws it out for less than ten seconds, and then squeezes at his shoulder with warm approval as he breaks it off. Jon gasps for air, his chest rising and falling. Tim gives him a moment to catch his breath, and then dives back in just a little bit too early for Jon to have entirely gathered himself. 

He makes a private game of it with himself, seeing how much he can unbalance him, kissing Jon literally breathless and never giving him a break long enough to make up for it. He lets him sip at air in quick, short moments before brushing his lips against his temple, his brow, the bridge of his nose, the arch of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, his surprisingly soft and pliant mouth. He listens as Jon’s erratic breathing goes ragged and desperate at the edges, kissing him dizzy and senseless. 

Normally Tim doesn’t mess around with breathing like this, and he’d never dream of doing it during someone’s first time with kink, but this isn’t like choking or suffocation. There’s nothing stopping Jon from breathing, not really. Just the rules Tim’s set for their little game. You can’t choke on rules. 

“You’re doing so well,” Tim coos at him as Jon gulps for air, too breathless to have a hope of responding, of snapping or biting. He’s beginning to look undone, panting and dark eyed, his hair a mess. Tim loves it. Jon looks great like this. “You like getting kissed, don’t you? Poor you, getting all tied up and ravished.” 

“Tim,” Jon gets out, his name coming out weak and desperate, no breath to spare behind it. His head’s tossed to the side, revealing the arching, tempting column of his throat. 

“Poor thing,” he says, and he sinks back down to press a kiss to the vulnerable, soft part of his throat. He feels as Jon tries to abruptly cut off his own breathing, a thin noise of strain slipping out of him. Tim wants to nibble and lick while he’s down here, but he shouldn’t, he hasn’t checked if that’s alright, and there’s too much of a chance that it isn’t. Instead he channels his wants by peppering the length of his throat with kisses, sweet and gentle and relentless while Jon trembles underneath him--

“Tim,” Jon says again, his voice thin and strained without any air to go with it. “Stop.” 

Tim freezes where he is, mouth to Jon’s throat. Then Jon makes a desperate, keening noise, and he moves away, ending the kiss. Jon gasps for air so loudly that it almost sounds like a sob, his chest heaving. Tim pushes himself up on his arms, giving him more space, more air. Jon breathes like he’s been drowning, and Tim can see now that there are tears of strain in his eyes, wet and shining. When he squeezes his eyes shut one of them escapes, trailing down the side of his face. 

Shit. 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that tumbles out of his mouth, immediately followed by, “I’ll untie you, hang on--”

Jon’s eyes immediately snap open, and then he rolls quickly onto his side, wrenching his tied arms away from Tim’s hands. He curls up around them almost protectively. 

“You said--” Jon rasps out, not sounding like he’s entirely composed himself yet, his breathing still ragged, “that we wouldn’t-- that it wouldn’t be over, just because I--” 

Jon cuts himself off with a small cough, something catching in his throat in his eagerness to gulp down more air. He looks wrecked. 

“It’s not over,” Tim soothes, despite having been absolutely ready for the fun to be over right then and there, and to instead just focus on damage control for the rest of the night, possibly followed by Jon leaving as soon as he could. “I’m not gonna untie you if you don’t want to be, Jon, promise. Just-- shit, sorry. Just breathe, alright?” 

Tim’s had people safeword out of a scene before, and he’s had subs get upset before. He’s been in that position himself. Sometimes it just happens, and it’s no one’s fault. Just some random small word or phrase or gesture that went a little bit too far in the wrong direction, in a way that hadn’t been talked about, couldn’t have been predicted, wasn’t expected. Or maybe a misreading of the mood, a misinterpretation of a reaction, a misunderstanding about boundaries. One of them overestimating how much they can handle, or misjudging their own strength, or having shifted limits for just the one evening because of a bad day, a stressful week, an upsetting phone call right before. Even when everyone involved is genuinely, sincerely trying their best not to cross any lines, it just happens sometimes. It doesn’t have to be anyone’s fault. 

Tim feels like shit anyway. He had been supposed to be careful with Jon, to show him a good time, give him a nice first impression of bondage. Take care of him. And instead he’d gotten too caught up in the game, lost in the pleasure of having Jon at his mercy, and he’d overdone it. He’d been kissing his way down Jon’s throat, not bothering to keep an eye on his face at all, to keep track of whether or not he was enjoying himself. Fuck. 

He strokes a soothing hand up and down Jon’s back as he gasps for breath, clawing his composure back together. He wonders if it would be okay for him to reach out and wipe at the wetness on his face with his thumb, or if Jon would just want him to act like he hasn’t noticed it. 

“I’m,” Jon says, and his voice is a little raspy still, probably from all of the gasping and choking for air, “I-- apologize.” 

Tim stops stroking Jon’s back. “What?” 

Jon turns his face slightly into the covers, pushing into them-- drying his face without the use of his arms, Tim realizes. When Jon finishes and looks back up at Tim, his eyes are red rimmed and his face twisted up in a look of awkward embarrassment. 

“I became-- overwhelmed,” he says, stilted. “I don’t know what came over me, I simply-- it, it just suddenly got to be more than I could bear. It was… it was too much.” 

“Jon, don’t apologize for that,” Tim says. “You did what you were supposed to do!” 

“I did?” Jon asks, his brow furrowing skeptically. “I had to quit the game.” 

“Jon, that’s really not a big deal. It’s not like we were playing for points or something. It was just something to do for fun. But then it got too intense, and you asked for a break-- which is exactly what you were supposed to do. I’m so proud of you, mate. I was afraid you weren’t going to, but you did it perfectly.” 

As Tim says it, he realizes that it’s true. He’d been distracted by his own guilt at messing up, but Jon had called for a pause when he needed it, when Tim had been convinced that Jon wouldn’t be doing any such thing even if Tim did upset him. Jon had done as he’d promised, and let Tim know. 

Jon’s expression goes wide eyed and vulnerable at I’m so proud of you. At perfectly, he squirms. 

Huh. Tim makes a mental note of that. 

“I-- all I did was tell you to stop,” Jon says, immediately trying to dodge the praise, looking almost uncomfortably flustered. 

“Which was very good of you,” Tim says, and Jon curls up a little bit tighter, like he’s just barely restraining himself from curling up into a ball in an attempt to hide from the compliments. Something inside of Tim lights up with interest, and ideas start sparking off in the back of his brain again. He tries to rein himself in. Really, they should at least take, like, five minutes to talk and chill out a bit first before he goes haring off with his next brilliant plan. “... You could have started breathing while I was kissing you if you were having so much trouble, though. Just so you know. I wouldn’t have made a big deal about it or anything.” 

Jon frowns. “But that would have been breaking the rules,” he says, as if this line of reasoning is completely self-evident on its own, with no further elaboration needed. 

And coming from Jon, maybe that’s the case. Christ, how could Tim have let himself forget the fact that he’s got the most stubborn, ridiculous man in all of London in his bed? Stupid of him, really. He should’ve taken it into account. 

“Well, I’d rather you’d break the rules than suffocate. That’s just a personal preference of mine,” Tim says. “There’s not any punishment for losing, you know. Unless you’d like for there to be?” 

“I-- if-- would I like for there to be a punishment?” Jon seems mostly startled by the suggestion. Not automatically put off by it, Tim thinks. Just confused, like he hasn’t even considered the concept before. 

“Sure,” Tim says, and he stops hovering over Jon to instead lie down on his side on the bed. Scooping Jon up with one arm, he rolls over onto his back, and with a little undignified yelp Jon ends up lying on top of his front. Unrepentantly grinning, he hoists Jon a little bit further up his chest so he doesn’t slide off. It’s easy to maneuver him, with how small and slight he is. He likes this position, the feeling of Jon in his arms, between his legs, weighing down on his chest. Jon is lying stiffly in place, like he’s bracing himself to be manhandled some more, so he smoothes a hand down the line of his spine, willing him to melt and relax again. “Some people like that sort of thing. Gives the little games and challenges stakes. And it means that maybe you can weigh your options. Would you rather pass out from suffocation, or would you rather take the punishment for breaking the rules of the game?” 

Tim doesn’t intend to mete out any punishments as bad as knocked unconscious from lack of oxygen, so he hopes that this idea might help them avoid that whole earlier mess happening again. 

“I… perhaps?” Jon says uncertainly. “What-- what would the punishments even be?” 

“Anything we want them to be,” Tim says. This, he figures, is a good enough time to do a bit more negotiating. Jon had been too impatient for it earlier, but now he’s had a bit of a taste, and he’s still snugly tied up and assured that more is to come. “Any ideas? What would you think would be a fitting punishment for breaking a rule?” 

Making the sub come up with their own punishment can be its own sort of game, Tim knows. It puts them in a certain position, where each punishment feels even more like they earned it, like it’s deserved. They came up with it, after all. 

“A-- a spanking?” He can feel Jon cringe in on himself immediately after saying it. 

Tim feels his eyebrows fly up to his hairline, and he braces an elbow underneath him so he can lever himself up enough to properly look down at Jon, who seems to be in the process of trying to burrow his way into Tim’s chest out of shame. 

“A spanking?” Tim asks, and he can’t contain the sheer glee in his voice. 

“No,” Jon says, muffled into Tim’s chest. He sounds agonized. “I did not mean--”

“Are you asking for a spanking, Mister Sims?” 

“I am not!” Jon hotly denies. He retreats from the refuge of Tim’s chest to glare up at him, and Tim enjoys the look of hot embarrassment on his face. “It was just a-- a suggestion, I--”

“Did you just say the only thing you could think of?” Tim asks indulgently, mercifully. This whole day has given him the undeniable impression of Jon only knowing about bondage in the most shallow, surface level way possible, despite also being deeply and so mysteriously fascinated by it. 

“... Perhaps,” Jon reluctantly admits, and Tim unashamedly snickers at him. Jon looks profoundly and adorably offended by this. Tim mollifyingly pats him on the head, which Jon both tries and fails to dodge. 

“Well, we don’t have to do spankings if you don’t want to,” Tim reassures him. “Maybe a bit much, for your first time doing this sort of thing. There are other options, trust me.” 

“Like what?” Jon asks suspiciously. 

Tim wonders what sort of ideas are running through his head, what he thinks might be a typical, appropriate punishment. Maybe pinches, or scolding. Demanding apologies, displays of regret, performing humiliating tasks to ‘make up for it.’ All interesting ideas, but… Tim really wants to keep this first time light for Jon. They can get more extreme and intense later, explore more stuff, gradually figure out the precise shape and limits of Jon’s boundaries as they go, what he does and doesn’t like. If there is a later, another time. He supposes that it depends on how much of a good time Jon has tonight. 

Right now, Tim just wants to play it safe, make sure that he has fun. That there won’t be another upsetting mistake like earlier. 

“How about… what if I tickle you whenever you break a rule?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Mercilessly. Cruelly. Without a shred of pity for you.” 

“You’ll tickle me?” Jon asks, unimpressed and highly skeptical. 

“You don’t sound very intimidated. Big mistake, Jon. I could have you begging for mercy in a minute.” 

Jon goes abruptly still and quiet for a moment, wide eyed. Intrigue sparks in his chest again, warming his blood. 

“Yeah,” Tim decides. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that whenever you don’t listen to me from now on.” 

“That’s-- that’s absolutely ridiculous,” Jon says, a faltering attempt at dismissiveness. 

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? If you’re naughty, that is.” 

Jon automatically ducks his head at that, at being called naughty. He looks adorably flustered, like he thinks he should be scoffing, offended, but there’s another reaction twisting inside of him too, conflicting. Fuck, Tim wants him. 

And he already has him. All neatly tied up in his bed, in his arms, willing to play games with him. Tim squeezes his arms around Jon once, and then abruptly rolls around so that Jon’s on the bottom again, spread out on the mattress. He blinks dizzily up at Tim, his hair in a disarray. Tim gives him a wolfish smile. 

“So,” he says, levering himself up over Jon on his hands and knees, trapping him. “How about a new game?” 

“What-- what sort of game?” Jon asks, and he sounds just a little breathless as he does so. He looks like he thinks Tim might suggest eating him. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” Tim says. “You can breathe, during. But each time I kiss you, I want you to tell me if it’s a good or a bad place for me to kiss you. Help me map you out.” 

Jon almost looks disappointed. “Is that really a game? How could I even lose?” 

God forbid Tim lobs him a soft ball after reducing him to tears. Alright. 

“I also want you to keep count of how many times I kiss you,” he says. “You’re not allowed to lose count.” 

Jon scoffs. “I can count.” 

“Uh huh,” Tim says. Leaning down, he presses a sweet, firm kiss to Jon’s mouth, taking his time to savor the feeling of it before he ends it, unhurried. Jon opens his eyes, clearly having let them flutter closed at some point during the kiss, and he stares up at Tim’s mouth in a helplessly hungry wanting way, like he’s dearly hoping that he’s going to be getting another. 

Tim grins sharply, and Jon belatedly twitches, his gaze snapping up to Tim’s eyes instead. 

“Good,” he says hurriedly. “That was-- good.” 

“Good boy,” Tim says warmly, stroking an approving hand on Jon’s upper arm, and Jon freezes like he’s heard a predator stepping through the underbrush. “Letting me know what you like, so good of you.” 

“I-- you told me to,” Jon croaks, eyes wide. 

“And you did exactly what I told you to. So sweet.” With that, he leans down to press a kiss to Jon’s left brow, as if to sign and seal the statement. Underneath him, he hears Jon’s breathing go shaky and unsteady for a moment. 

“Good,” Jon gets out half a beat too late, when Tim’s already moved on to stamp a kiss on his cheekbone, the shell of his ear. He has to repeat himself immediately, good good good. 

“How many kisses has it been so far?” Tim asks him instead of kissing him again right away. 

“How many--” Jon says, and then cuts himself off. After a moment, he says, “Four.” 

Tim lets the moment stretch out for a torturous, drawn out beat-- and then he says, “good job, that’s right,” and he presses a kiss to the place where Jon’s jaw meets his throat. 

He maps out Jon’s face first, the safest place, and he’s met with nothing but an increasingly frazzled, breathless litany of good, it’s good, I like it. He only stops to let Jon know how good he’s doing, how sweet he is, how well he’s listening to Tim. That seems to get to Jon even more than the kisses do, which he very clearly likes quite a lot. By the time he’s pressing kisses to Jon’s collar bone his chest is heaving, his voice sweet and breathy as he shakily lets Tim know that yes, that’s a good place too. 

“How many?” Tim asks him again as he takes the time to press a kiss to the back of Jon’s trapped hands, the inside of his palms, each of his helpless fingers. 

“Twenty-- twenty seven,” Jon gasps out. Tim’s pretty sure that that’s right. Really, he should be keeping closer track, ready to catch Jon out in a mistake, but he gets the feeling that it’ll be obvious when it happens. 

“So clever,” Tim says, like he’s praising a pet for performing a charming trick, but it makes Jon shiver anyway. He’s stopped trying to argue or deny Tim’s praises by now, simply because Tim isn’t letting him have the time or focus to scrape his thoughts together enough for it. Instead he just has to lie there, tied up and trembling, unable to stop him or get away from him as Tim relentlessly plies him with sweet kisses and merciless compliments, praising every little thing about him that he can think of. 

He kisses his way down Jon’s stomach, lingering for a prolonged moment on the sliver of bare skin where his shirt has ridden up, just barely resisting the urge to bite and lick at the warmth there, and he’s pleased to hear Jon stammer a good, that’s good, so good. 

The first time there’s not an immediate good, Tim has just pressed a kiss to the crease at the top of Jon’s thigh. Through his trousers, of course. Jon’s breath audibly catches, but there’s no response besides that. 

“Jon?” Tim prompts him, resting the side of his face on Jon’s thigh and looking up at him. Jon’s sort of propped up by the pillows by the headboard, so he can kind of see his face from this angle. He doesn’t look upset, exactly, but-- uncertain. 

“I… good,” Jon says after a beat. 

“You sure?” Tim asks. “It’s okay if the answer is bad, too. I want to know what all of the good and bad places are.” 

“I-- yes. Yes, I’m sure,” Jon says more firmly. 

Tim gives him another moment to change his mind, but it doesn’t come. So he moves on instead, pressing a kiss to the outwards jut of Jon’s hip which gets another good, and then… after a moment of thought, he makes a decision. Making himself at home between Jon’s legs, he pulls one of his legs so that it’s lying across Tim’s back, leaving him wide open. 

“What are you--?” Jon says, sounding a little alarmed and startled. 

Slowly, Tim presses a kiss to the inside of Jon’s thigh, making steady eye contact with him as he does so. Jon stares down at him, his mouth a thin line, his hands gripping tightly at each other, unable to clutch at anything else with how he’s bound. He can feel Jon’s tension in the muscles of his leg where he’s holding it in place with one hand. 

“Good?” Tim asks him, breaking the kiss, turning so that his cheek is pressed against Jon’s warm thigh, fabric sliding against his skin. “Or bad?” 

Jon opens his mouth to reply, and only an aborted half-sound comes out instead. On the second try, he gets out a quiet, “bad.” 

Tim lets go of Jon’s leg, shrugging it away, and then he’s climbing back up the length of his body to grab the side of his face and pressing a firm kiss to his lips, before peppering the rest of his face with half a dozen more. 

“Such a good boy,” Tim says firmly, like a declaration. 

“I-- I’m not--” 

“Yes, you are. I’m the one who gets to say if you’re good or naughty, and you’re doing so good, Jon. Listening to me, doing what I say, telling me if it’s good or bad. Being honest. So good.” 

“It-- it wasn’t that bad,” Jon says weakly. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Tim says. “This is the game. You’ve got to tell me if it’s bad, even if it’s just a little bit.” 

He presses another kiss to Jon’s face, this one a little goofier, going ‘mwah!’ on the release. By the time he’s done, Jon’s reluctantly smiling at him, clearly trying to bite it back and failing to do so. Tim grins back at him, and then sinks back down his body. He decides to just skip everything in the general vicinity of crotch and thighs entirely, and instead hooks a hand underneath Jon’s knee to pull it up and kiss his kneecap through his trousers. 

“Good?” Tim asks him. 

“I-- it’s… it’s fine?” Jon replies, looking baffled that Tim’s kissing his knee, of all things. That reluctant smile is still lingering at the edges of his mouth, so Tim doesn’t think that it’s a bad bafflement, so much as a that’s strange but harmless, I don’t see the point of it bafflement. 

“Fine’s also an acceptable answer,” Tim decides, and then he pushes Jon’s leg up higher and straighter by the calf, so that he can duck down and kiss at the underside of his knee as well. Jon twitches like a fish on a line for him, but he thinks that might just be more because of the manhandling than the kissing. Lowering Jon’s leg, he kisses his way further downward, to a litany of half amused good, good, good. 

Then he’s reached all the way down to Jon’s feet, and after half a second of thinking, he carelessly hooks a finger into Jon’s sock and peels it off, tossing it over his shoulder onto the floor. Catching Jon’s foot in his hand, he kisses the arch of it with a playful reverence, like Jon is his prince. 

“You-- Tim,” Jon says, like he’s done something wrong or ridiculous. Tim looks innocently up at Jon, not surrendering his bare and vulnerable foot. 

“Yes?” he asks, idly stroking the underside of Jon’s foot with his thumb. 

Jon sharply inhales, and his foot jerks in Tim’s grip; he doesn’t let it go. 

“Was that not good?” he asks, pretending like he didn’t notice. 

“Was it-- don’t, don’t kiss my feet,” Jon hisses, still trying to pull his foot out of Tim’s grip. He bets that if he were to lay his hand on Jon’s cheek, he would feel the heat of his blood there, warm and smoldering underneath his skin. 

“Not really an answer to my question, mate,” Tim says cheerfully. Then he tilts his head as a devious thought occurs to him, and he lets a smile spread slowly across his face. “Hey, Jon. How many?”

Jon freezes, his eyes going round. 

“How many kisses?” Tim presses, scenting blood in the water. 

“It-- it’s forty?” Jon says, absolutely no confidence in the answer. 

“Are you sure, Jon?” he asks lowly. “You don’t think that you lost count?” 

“I,” Jon says, and then he hangs his head, his gaze slinking away from Tim’s. In a small voice, he admits, “I lost count.” 

“Thought so,” says Tim, before he traps Jon’s free foot underneath one of his knees. With one hand firmly encircled around his ankle, he lightly brushes his blunt nails across the underside of Jon’s foot. Jon yelps, his entire leg jerking as he instinctively tries to kick him away. He doesn’t manage to budge Tim an inch; he has no leverage, no advantage. Tim’s bigger than him, stronger than him. And, crucially, he’s not tied up. 

“Tim!” Jon cries out. 

“You were supposed to keep count,” Tim says to him, mocking. He trails the nail of his thumb under Jon’s foot, and watches with delight the way his toes curl, his foot spasming as a helpless burble of laughter trips out of him. 

“I didn’t-- I didn’t mean--”

“I thought you said you knew how to count,” Tim goes on. Abruptly, he drops Jon’s foot, and instead dives to shove a hand up his untucked shirt, fingers lightly tracing his belly so that it trembles underneath his touch, up the sides of his ribs until Jon makes a frantic, high pitched noise around another champagne bottle burst of laughter. He twists and squirms underneath Tim, helpless and desperate, trying to curl his knees up to protect his defenseless middle even though Tim keeps getting in the way, not letting him. Tim’s not sure if he’s ever seen Jon smile so widely before in his life, his laugh so breathlessly unrestrained. 

“I wasn’t-- you distracted me--heee--” 

Pulling Jon’s shirt up to his chest, he swoops down and blows a raspberry on the middle of his stomach, sending him howling. It’s completely undignified and completely unsexy, and he doesn’t give a damn. Jon’s laughter is spilling out of him like water from a fountain, clear and hiccuping and messy. It comes from deep in his chest, sending his whole body shaking from the force of it. 

He hasn’t said no or stop yet. Tim takes that as a good sign. 

“Please,” Jon gasps out raggedly, tears of strain or mirth in his eyes. 

“Please what?” Tim prompts him. Grabbing the knot at the top of Jon’s wrists, he uses it to gently but firmly pull his arms up above his head. Jon keens, and his whole spine arches to try and follow the movement, not touching the mattress any longer. With his free hand he tickles at one of his defenseless, exposed armpits, and Jon’s whole body tries to curl in on itself in response, like a hedgehog. His laughter rattles breathlessly out of him now, almost soundless. 

“Learned your lesson?” Tim asks him, relenting on the tickling for a moment. He keeps Jon’s arms pinned above his head, his shoulders probably straining to keep the position, his other hand planted flat on Jon’s chest, watching him. He’s gasping open mouthed for breath, his shirt rucked up to his ribs, his hair an absolute mess, clothes ruffled, his eyes bright and wet from the exertion, body gone limp at the pause in Tim’s assault. If his skin were paler, Tim’s certain it would be flushed red and blotchy. He looks utterly ruined. “You sorry for breaking the rule?” 

“Yes,” Jon confirms fervently. “It won’t-- it won’t happen again.” 

“See that it doesn’t,” Tim says sternly, and then he leans down to peck Jon’s lips. 

“One,” Jon says immediately afterwards, surprising a little burst out laughter of his own out of him. 

He lets Jon take his arms back down after that, pressing them against his chest again, before he rolls Jon onto his front. Slowly and meticulously, he makes sure to press a kiss against each knob of Jon’s spine, pulling his shirt for the most part out of the way. Jon, limp and exhausted from his punishment, takes this with pliant obedience, muttering good, good, good into the covers of Tim’s bed. He kisses his shoulder blades and the nape of his neck, and when he nuzzles into exposed skin at the base of his spine Jon stiffens and shyly mumbles bad-- prompting Tim to praise him warmly and effusively before moving on. He maps out Jon’s body this way, kissing him in places that make him twitch and tremble and curl his toes, or go limp and melting with pleasure like a cat basking in a sunbeam. 

By the time he rolls Jon onto his back again his eyes have gone dark and hazy and distant, like his brain is floating and preserved in a jar of honey. He kisses his mouth, and Jon hums with an almost sleepy happiness, gladly taking whatever Tim deigns to give him. 

“Are you having a good time?” Tim asks him softly. He runs his fingers gently through Jon’s hair, enjoying the feel of it. Thick and a little bit overdue for a haircut, curling past his ears, dark with mingled strands of premature gray. Just enough for it to fan out on the pillow behind him a bit. Tim wishes he’d keep it that way. 

“Mmm,” Jon hums, his eyes fluttering shut with contentment as he pushes up into Tim’s hand. He runs his blunt nails across his scalp in answer, which makes Jon happily sigh. 

“That’s real good,” Tim says, feeling himself smiling. “I just want you to have a good time, Jon. You like being tied up, don’t you? You love being all powerless and strung up. I could tie you up like this every day, if you wanted to. Make you all nice and pretty for me, so I can look at you and touch you whenever I feel like it. Would you like that?” 

It’s just senseless dirty talk, the kind of adoring rambling you’d mindlessly chatter at a beloved, pampered pet who can’t really understand what you’re saying. The words seem to penetrate Jon’s skull, though, because he makes a sweet little moan and gives Tim a feverish, plaintive look. It makes some calm inside of Tim snap like a thin thread, and he ends up covering Jon with his body, weighing him down, pinning him, lavishing his face and his throat with urgent, heated kisses as he grips tightly at the covers to either side of his head. He feels Jon’s tied arms wedged between their chests, restrained and useless. God, he feels so hot, like there’s an eager fire burning inside of him, hungry for kindling, for fuel, for--

“Oh,” pops out of Jon’s throat as Tim’s occupied with resisting the urge to bite down on the junction between his neck and shoulder, clear and startled, suddenly none of that syrupy haziness dripping from his voice any longer. “Tim, you’re--”

Jon shifts underneath him, not the directionless squirming of earlier, but like he’s trying to do something specific-- his thigh presses up between Tim’s legs, putting pressure on his aching dick. Tim’s hips instinctively buck up into the pressure, and a groan falls out of his mouth, intense relief mingling with the need for more. 

“Oh, good lord,” Jon says faintly, and suddenly Tim is pushing himself up and away from him, all the way up so that he’s sitting on his haunches, almost unbalancing entirely in his haste. He sucks in a gasp of air that doesn’t taste of Jon’s warm skin, and is hit by the abrupt, dizzying urge to go stick his head underneath a bucket of cold water. 

“Uh,” he says stupidly, and looks down at himself. That is-- yep, that’s definitely a bulge in his jeans. Now that he’s first noticed it, he doesn’t know how he possibly hadn’t earlier. It aches, desperate for friction and pressure while at the same time trapped in a deeply uncomfortable position by his jeans. “Ahh. Hmm.” 

“That looks quite large,” Jon says blankly, staring right at his crotch with wide eyes, before his own words seem to belatedly catch up with him and his eyes frantically scan the room for safe ground. He seems to latch onto a corner of Tim’s ceiling, stubbornly fastening his gaze on a point over Tim’s shoulder. “I-- I mean--”

“Sorry,” Tim says, and he can’t help the nervous, sheepish laugh that tumbles out of him. He sets a hand to his crotch as if to cover it up, and then immediately has to snatch his hand away to stop himself from squeezing down on himself, the urge to rut against his own hand spiking. Christ, he can’t remember ever being this fucking horny while not doing something to satisfy himself. Edging not counted. 

“Do, do you need to…?” Jon asks him nervously, tentatively glancing at him before immediately darting his gaze away, as if remembering that he’s not supposed to look at Tim. 

“Nope,” says Tim, who absolutely doesn’t want to shoo Jon away to have a wank, not when they’re having such a good fucking time. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll just ignore it.” 

“Are you… certain? Because it looks-- you look--” Jon stammers into silence, clearly struggling to find the right words to describe the situation without also combusting into mortified flames. 

“Really, Jon, it’s not a big deal. It’s not like I’m gonna explode if I just… let it go away on its own.”

“I know how penises work,” Jon replies, some of his usual spit and vinegar seeping back into his voice. A moment later, his tone softens again. “I just meant… isn’t it, well, distracting for you? And-- uncomfortable?” 

“Not that much,” Tim assures him. It’s a filthy lie. Now that his attention’s been pulled to his cock, he can’t stop thinking about it, feeling it. Fuck, he feels like he’s throbbing with need, a restless, hungry desire thrumming through him like electricity. It is, actually, really, really distracting. He wants, to the point of his mouth watering for it, to stick his hand down his pants and curl his fingers around his dick and stroke himself stupid and senseless. 

Except Jon doesn’t like sex, doesn’t have it. Tim promised him bondage without sex, without the parts that he didn’t like or want. This is supposed to be about Jon and what he wants, not Tim and his dick. 

Jon frowns, not looking pleased in the slightest. 

“I thought you said that I was supposed to tell you if something was bad,” he says accusingly. “Even if it was only a little bit. Why should it be different for you?” 

The obvious answer, of course, is that it shouldn’t be. Which, yeah, Tim knows. Doms should get to enjoy themselves during scenes too, should get to have their own boundaries, should get to do stuff that they like and want. They’re not just there to make subs feel good. It’s a two way street, a fun game that’s supposed to be mutual even if they’re performing different roles. It’s just like regular sex, just with a whole bunch of extra complicated frills added to it. 

“I mean-- okay, yeah, but this isn’t the same thing,” Tim says. “This isn’t something I want to avoid, it’s something that I want to have, and that-- if that conflicts with something that would upset you if it happened, then your thing is gonna take precedence. My pleasure isn’t more important than your-- your wellbeing.” 

He struggles for the right word, the right phrase, right at the end there. The first place his brain had gone to had been your safety, but some part of him had automatically felt like it was a poor choice. Not because it would be inaccurate, but because Jon would balk at it, would think it over dramatic and condescending. 

Jon is still frowning. He opens his mouth to argue with him--Tim knows he’s going to try and argue with him, because he’s Jon--but then he closes it and instead takes a moment to try and sit up, presumably because he doesn’t want to have this conversation while he’s lying down on his back, looking up at Tim. This is a bit challenging for him, given the current state of his arms. Tim becomes utterly certain of the fact that Jonathan Sims has not taken a single sit up since PE classes in secondary school. After a moment of graceless grunting and struggling, Tim takes pity on him and reaches out and helps pull him up by the shoulder. Jon clears his throat with ruffled dignity, and then continues right on with the business of glaring down Tim like he intends to become the captain of his debate club. 

“That may be so,” Jon grants, like he’s disdainfully ceding a paltry concession to him before continuing to take the rest of the kingdom for himself, “but it doesn’t necessarily have to conflict with my wellbeing.” 

So he isn’t particularly impressed with Tim’s choice of words after all, then. 

“You just want to-- to--” Jon continues, and his relentless incoming-train attitude falters for a moment as he has to face the prospect of verbalizing details. After a moment of struggling, he manages, the rest of the sentence bursting out of him like it’s been caught in a bottleneck and is now coming out with the force of the rest of the sentence propelling it forwards. “You just want to-- to get off, correct?” 

It should be nothing but funny to hear Jon stumble over his words trying to talk about sex with him while they’re in the middle of a bondage session. Maybe endearing. But instead, heat pulses low in his stomach, something needy and urgent coiling inside of him, desperate for attention. When he speaks, the inside of his mouth feels dry. “Yeah.” 

“Well, that-- that doesn’t necessarily have to be nonnegotiable,” Jon says, looking like he’s gathering his audacity up around him as he goes, like a rock picking up speed as it rolls downhill. “I don’t want to-- to do that sort of thing myself, but I don’t mind others… I understand that other people have different urges.” 

Tim digs his fingers into the thighs of his jeans to make sure that they don’t wander anywhere they shouldn’t, and tries to wrap his head around what Jon’s saying, what he’s getting at. 

“So-- what, you want me to wank in front of you?” 

Jon immediately looks like he’d try to hide his face behind his hands if they weren’t restrained. Instead, he stiffens and fidgets, looking intensely awkward. 

“That’s--” Jon says, his voice an octave higher than normal. “That’s perhaps a bit-- a touch too, ah, too much. But I was thinking that maybe… perhaps…” 

Tim doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t know if that’s because Jon’s come up with some sort of ridiculous, offbeat plan that he can’t guess at, or just because his brain is currently frying inside of his skull with pent up lust. Jon doesn’t want to do anything, but he wants for Tim to get off, but he doesn’t want for Tim to wank, but he doesn’t want to do it for him, so--? 

“Jon?” Tim asks. “Just tell me what your idea is.” 

“You could hu--hump a pillow?” 

Tim blinks. “Sorry?” 

Jon looks like he kind of wants to melt away into a puddle so he doesn’t have to clarify his suggestion. To his credit, he barrels onwards anyway. “You could-- you could get, get off, without, ah, without taking your… without undressing, that way.” 

Tim takes a moment to try and properly process this. 

“... Or not,” Jon tacks on after a prolonged beat of silence. “It-- it’s fine if you don’t want--” 

“Okay,” Tim says. 

“--to do… okay?” 

“Yeah, okay, alright, if you’re fine with that then I’m into it, let’s do it.” He’s moving to put word to action before he even finishes the sentence, reaching for a pillow-- no, no that one. Too thin, too limp. He’s going to need the firm one, dense and thick. 

“You’re-- fine, with that,” Jon says, sounding almost surprised that Tim’s actually going with his suggestion. If he was so sure that he wasn’t going to like it, why did he even say it? 

“Jon,” Tim says seriously, “I’m hard enough to hammer nails right now. If you’re fine with me coming in any way right now, then I’m taking it.” 

“I-- I see,” Jon says, his eyes wide and dark. “If that’s-- if you’re so eager then, ah, be my guest?” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Tim says. “--mind if I unzip my jeans?” 

“Oh,” Jon says, his eyes darting down to Tim’s crotch, before he visibly wrenches his gaze back up to Tim’s face, clearly mortified by his own staring. “I-- um-- I, I would actually prefer to not, um, to not see it? I-- I’m sure it’s lovely, it’s just--”

“Not to take it out,” Tim says, a little ragged with desperation now. “Just-- Christ, the jeans are so tight. Not in a fun way.” 

“Oh! Well, that’s-- naturally, yes, of course. You shouldn’t be--” Tim’s hands are already fumbling at the button and zipper before Jon even finishes, “--uncomfortable.” 

The button slides out of its hole; the zipper glides down. Tim lets out a shameless groan of relief as the pressure gives just a little, his dick not trapped quite so badly any longer. Jon makes a smaller noise in response, something almost between a whimper and a squeak. 

Grabbing the pillow he straddles it, wedging it firmly between his thighs, his knees spread and braced on the bed. Holding it in place with his hands, he grinds down firmly with his hips and swears from how good it feels. 

“Does that-- is it working?” Jon asks, sounding half choked with embarrassment, an almost morbid fascination curling around his words. 

“Yeah,” Tim breathes out, and then he lifts himself on his knees slightly, only to grind himself back down on the pillow, almost bouncing on it. “Fffuck yeah, that-- that definitely works, okay, yeah.” 

“That’s-- that’s good,” Jon says. “That’s very fortunate.” 

“Mmmyeah,” Tim sighs out, his eyes falling shut as his head tips back, biting at his lower lip. He grinds down on the pillow, trying to set a rhythm, almost like he’s fucking someone. Lift himself up on his knees, thighs straining, stomach muscles flexing, bearing down with all of his weight to get the maximum amount of pressure. He’s gripping the pillow so tightly that he’s a bit surprised that he isn’t tearing the stuffing out with his bare hands. “Could you-- keep, keep talking?” 

“You want me to--? O--okay. What, what sort of thing should I say?” Jon stammers. 

“Anything,” Tim says. “Just-- wanna hear your voice.” 

It’s a damned good voice, honestly. Jon could make some good money doing phone sex, really, if only he could manage to say cock without stumbling over the word. Personally, he thinks it’s an endearing touch. 

Not that that’s why he wants to hear Jon talk. He just-- Jon’s over there, not touching him. He doesn’t want to slip into forgetting that he’s here, to feel like he’s just doing something on his own, by himself. Tim likes orgasms, but that’s not why he does stuff like this with people. He could just wank at home, if that was the only reason he liked sex and kink. He likes the people part, getting to do this with someone. It’s-- it’s fun, feeling like he’s connecting with someone, working with them to make something good happen, better than what either of them could have done just on their own. 

“Anything,” Jon says, and he sounds-- daunted. Like he’s just been given a project with a deadline and zero directions to guide him the right way, no idea of what’s expected of him. 

Tim slits his eyes open, even as he can’t help but continue rolling his hips down into the soft, giving pressure of the pillow, and he sees-- Jon. His hair ruffled, his clothes disheveled, his socks missing. His face more open and transparent and vulnerable than he’s ever seen it while at the Institute. Arms tied firmly up from wrist to elbow with strands of pink-purple-blue. 

Because Tim tied him up. 

Tim’s been in strictly planned and prepared scenes before, where everyone involved had roles and duties and expected beats to follow, everything meticulously negotiated and planned out ahead in a way where having an actual printed out script would only be a step or two beyond what they were doing. Which, like, Tim’s enjoyed most of those occasions, even if he hasn’t done a lot of them. But they’re a sometimes thing, like packing up your bags and going camping out in the middle of the woods for the weekend, or saving the cash to go to an escape room, or getting a piercing, or eating something new and weird and interesting. It would be far too exhausting to do that sort of thing every time; it’s fun as a treat, as something special. 

It’s also the sort of thing that you build up to, that you talk out and plan and negotiate and prepare for, buying necessary equipment, learning necessary skills, coming up with failsafes and backup and contingency plans. Being thorough and careful and patient. It really is a lot like planning a vacation, in a way. It is, in other words, absolutely not the sort of thing that you impulsively spring on some impatient, naive first timer. Hell, it wouldn’t even be possible to do so, not in the span of just one night. 

Which is why Tim had instead gone to the opposite end of the spectrum. The lightest, most casual kind of bondage he could think of, something free and easy and simple. No super in depth talk really necessary beforehand, things taken by ear, fluid and clumsy, figuring it out along the way. Trying to take the safer, more lighthearted option every time. So Tim hasn’t really been very careful about staying in character or whatever; there isn’t much of a character at all to break out of, really. He’s not pretending to be a version of himself that would be willing to use and take advantage of Jon, and he’s not pretending to be someone entirely different from himself either. He’s just himself, really. Just… bossier. 

So they’ve been sort of fluidly dipping in and out of the whole dom-and-sub dynamic all night, smoothly sliding back into Tim-and-Jon whenever they’ve had to talk things out a little bit, or just whenever they’ve gotten caught up in bantering. There’s been moments where they’ve kind of been both at the same time, or mostly one while being tinted by the other. Nothing strictly and carefully scripted or planned about it. Just fun, casual bondage between friends, figuring out how they fit together in the bedroom. It’s been working nicely for them so far. 

With a pillow wedged between his legs, looking at Jon who’s tied up and staring at him, looking terribly uncertain and lost-- for the first time it feels like they’re out of sync. Tim being Tim, when Jon needs him to be… more. Like he got too distracted by his own dick, missed some sort of signal, and left Jon to go ahead without him. 

Tim’s the one who’s supposed to be giving Jon directions here, to help guide him the right way. To let him know what’s expected of him, so he can do his best to be good for him. That uncertain, lost look means that Tim’s slacking-- and that just won’t do. 

The two of them are seated just within arms reach of each other. He reaches out to put a finger under Jon’s chin, tilting his face up, pulling him just a few inches closer. Jon’s eyes widen, his lips slightly parting, but he doesn’t move away from Tim’s hand. He lets it guide and move him, even though it’s such a small, insubstantial touch. Tim feels the eager, needy impatience inside of him flutter with excitement, with pleasure. Jon’s so ready to be told. 

“Hey,” Tim says, and his voice comes out huskier than he’d intended. “Come here. You need a kiss.” 

Jon accepts this without argument, shuffling the rest of the distance between them on his knees before swaying into him, his weight bracing against Tim’s. It would take so little to unbalance him, to topple and pin him. Instead, Tim puts an arm around him and holds him tight and close against his chest as he presses a hard kiss against his mouth, like every ounce of pressure is a measurement of the heat burning in the pit of his stomach, the fondness aching in his chest. Jon makes a small, muffled noise into the kiss, and Tim wants to eat it right up. 

After a long moment of this, he releases Jon, who makes a bereft noise at the loss. Tim grins, stroking his hand up and down the small of Jon’s back soothingly, luxuriating in being able to touch him so intimately. 

“How about,” Tim murmurs only inches away from Jon’s lips, “you tell me about all of your favorite parts from tonight?” 

Jon’s eyes are still blown out dark and wanting, his mind still clearly lagging several steps behind, trapped in the kiss like a fly in honey. He blinks dumbly. 

“What?” he asks. Tim gets the impression that everything from before the kiss has probably slipped out of his mind, snogged right out of his dear little head. 

Tim’s hand slowly slides up the line of Jon’s spine to instead settle in firmly at the nape of his neck, like he’s an unruly kitten he intends to pick up. He gently squeezes it once, trying to ground him in the present moment. 

“I want you to talk to me while I get off,” Tim says pleasantly, simply. “Talk about all of your favorite things that’ve happened here, okay? You’ve got favorites, don’t you?” 

“Oh,” Jon says, comprehension visibly dawning on his face. “O--okay, yes, I can-- yes, certainly.” 

“Grand,” Tim says. “If this bit gets too intense for you, you can close your eyes if you want to.” 

Jon gives Tim an offended look, like he’s just tried to hand him a teddy bear to clutch at if he gets scared. 

“Of course,” he says, dry as a mummified corpse, the I absolutely won’t be doing that an inch thick coating dripping from his words. Tim reminds himself that Jon had sounded just as skeptical about tapping out if he needed to earlier, but he’d done it anyway, once push came to shove. He’ll take the out if he has to. Probably. 

Tim will have to try and pay extra attention to him, just to be sure. 

“Good,” Tim says sincerely enough to visibly make some of Jon’s put upon disdain crumble like a wet sandcastle. It kind of feels like Tim’s managed to discover a secret weapon, and he loves it. Oh, it’ll be hard not to use this power for evil. Telling Jon to be a good boy the next time he’s acting like a stubborn arse… the temptation. 

Stealing one last lingering, indulgent kiss from Jon, he releases him. He looks straight into Jon’s eyes when he starts rutting into the pillow between his thighs again, and Jon’s breath catches, his bound hands curling up tight. The friction is a sweet relief after the brief pause, like getting to plunge into cool water when your skin is scorching, feverish. 

“Jon,” Tim says, half just to say something, to say his name, and half to prompt him. He kind of wants to grab him and drag him into his lap for more kisses while he relentlessly grinds his dick into the pressure, but-- he doesn’t want to overwhelm him. He wants to use Jon like a chew toy, but only to the exact limit that Jon’s happy to be used. Instead, he bites his lower lip into a sharp, sweet little bloom of pain, gripping tighter at the pillow between his legs just to make sure that his hands are exactly where they should be. 

“Tim,” Jon says, and then, “--right. Yes. My, my favorite part…”

Tim makes an encouraging noise that’s mostly just a stifled moan. Jon squirms where he sits, looking like he thinks he should be looking anywhere else but at Tim, but can’t manage to tear his gaze away. Tim rolls his hips, and knows that he’s going to have some deliciously sore muscles later. 

“It-- it’s hard to choose,” Jon says, not entirely steadily. “It’s all been quite-- quite pleasant. Interesting, I mean. Very-- very educational. I like… I liked all of the, ah, the kissing. I’ve-- I’ve always enjoyed that, that’s not a surprise, but-- you do it quite well. Very well.” 

“Gonna-- gonna kiss you a lot more,” Tim promises him, feeling the mattress shift beneath him. It’s a good mattress, he’d splurged on that. He’d prioritized it. He had known it was going to be seeing a lot of use, after all. “Every day, if you wanna. Kiss your sweet little mouth every time we’re alone. Press you up against the stacks in the library.” 

He doesn’t even know if that’s just dirty talk, his brain drowning in arousal, or if he’s being genuine. Right now though, that sounds like a great idea. Giving Jon little kisses every time he gets the opportunity, like a secret game they’re playing together. Jon seems to share some of Tim’s enthusiasm for the idea, because he whimpers when he hears it. 

“That’s-- Tim, please,” Jon says, agonized, and Tim doesn’t know what he’s begging for. For him to make good on his offer, or to stop tormenting him with every excited, greedy idea that pops into his head? 

He somehow manages to find a way to clench his thighs tighter around the pillow, more desperately. A soft, ragged moan slips out of him, pleased and heated. 

“What-- what else?” he pants, wanting more more more. He feels like a fire eating up kindling, hungry for more fuel. 

“I liked-- I liked being punished,” Jon says, and then immediately looks like he wants to curl up like an embarrassed turtle, mortified by his own words. His reaction gets to Tim almost as much as the admission, heat spiking eagerly in his gut, flowing through his veins. 

“Yeah?” he prompts eagerly, half breathless. He watches hungrily as Jon nervously licks his lips, trying to work himself up to details. 

“It was-- good. I, I tried so hard to keep count, but it was so much harder than I thought it would be. You’re-- you were distracting. I tried so hard, and then I forgot and I messed up and… I’d been trying so hard to avoid it, and then I failed and-- and I knew exactly what you were going to do to me.”

“And you liked that?” Tim asks, nudging him along, like pushing a toy car along to help it keep its momentum going. 

“Yes?” Jon says, and he says it like a question, like Tim’s going to tell him no, wrong answer. “It was… I don’t like uncertainty. S--so, even if it was a punishment, I liked… It was almost reassuring, that I knew exactly what you were going to do to me. I dreaded it, but I was almost looking forward to it as well. Does-- does that make sense?” 

“Yeah,” Tim says raggedly. He hasn’t experienced exactly the same thing, but he thinks he can wrap his head around it-- or he could, if a significant part of his brain's processing power wasn’t currently occupied with humming like overloaded neon lights about pressure and friction and more harder faster. “Makes-- makes perfect sense to me.” 

Something in Jon seems to untense slightly at the validation, the simple agreement. Told that he isn’t strange or wrong to feel the way he does. 

“I liked-- when you talked,” Jon says, tentatively continuing like a man slowly stepping across a frozen lake, listening to hear if the ice might creak underneath his feet. “The, the things that you said. That was-- it was good.” 

When Tim praised him, he means. Calling him good and sweet, complimenting him for his obedience, for not being reckless with himself. 

“You deserved it,” Tim rumbles, feeling bold and shameless as pleasure sparks through him with each grind of his hips like electricity eagerly climbing through his veins. He feels nearly drunk from it, like he could say or do anything. “Being such a good boy for me, listening to what I tell you. You just need to be told the right way, don’t you? Just need to get tied up and held down and you’ll be sweet as any-- as anything.” 

“I--” Jon says, and stops as his voice breaks. He clears his throat, and when he speaks he sounds a little winded, like he can’t quite get enough air into his lungs. “I liked when you… when you moved me around.” 

Tim leans forward to brace one hand on the mattress, the other one making sure that the pillow stays in place. His head hangs, hair falling into his eyes as he pants. Oh fuck, yeah, that’s good. He can get at a different angle like this, make fireworks run up his spine. 

He tilts his head up so he can look Jon in the eye as he rasps out, “lifting you like a ragdoll, you mean? You’re so small, it’s easy. Could hold you up against the wall with one arm if I wanted to, I bet.”

Jon makes a noise, trying and failing to bite it back. It only further encourages Tim. 

“Don’t even really need rope for you,” he goes on. “I could hold both your wrists in place with one hand. Or pin your arms at your sides with my knees. Could just lie down on top of you and you’d be trapped. I could keep you around for as long as I liked, and you wouldn’t be able to leave until I let you go.” 

“Tim,” Jon pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“You good?” he asks, stalling the ceaseless roll of his hips for a moment, even if it feels like trying to stop something with all the momentum of a rock that’s been rolling down a steep incline, picking up speed, getting closer and closer-- 

Jon nods without opening his eyes. He sucks a deep breath in, and then says, “I-- I’m well. Very well. Just-- you can-- don’t stop.” 

Tim’s just barely keeping himself still as is; he really can’t hold on and insist when Jon’s telling him to keep going. He starts up again, and a groan escapes him. He only realizes that he closed his eyes when he has to open them to look at Jon, try and see his reaction, if he’s upset or just-- overcome. 

Jon’s moved his bound arms so that his hands are mostly covering his face, except he’s peeking out with one eye from behind cover like he can’t resist, can’t stop. Like he just needed a bit of a barrier to make it feel a little less intense. 

Tim feels himself smile, and has the irrational--but enticing--urge to eat him alive. To cover him completely with his body, to hold him in the palm of his hand, to cover and bind every single part of him with rope so he can’t move an inch in any direction, caught and trapped and utterly helpless. Absurdly, he wants to lick him. Any part of him, it doesn’t matter. 

“Jon,” Tim rasps, feeling wild and feverish. It’s suddenly very important to him that Jon knows-- “you look really fucking good tied up.” 

“Oh,” Jon says, his one exposed eye widening with surprise. Caught off guard, he replies automatically, “thank you.” 

And yeah, that’s about all that Tim can handle; his orgasm hits him like a freight train. He cries out like a wounded thing as he comes to a shivering stop, clutching desperately at the covers of the bed, the pillow. His nerves light up with a cresting, toe curling pleasure that steals the breath from his lungs. 

After a long, hazy moment of just letting that roll through him, he feels the mattress dip a little, hears rustling covers. Jon, tentatively shuffling closer to him. Tim, who still feels like he’s in the process of scraping his wits back together to tip back into the container of his skull, blinks muzzily. He kind of just wants to collapse where he is and very carefully not jostle his dick as he stares up at the ceiling and catches his breath. But his sensibilities immediately rebel at this-- he’s not the sort of guy to roll over and take a nap as soon as he’s got his, leaving his partner wanting. He makes sure that everyone involved has a good time. 

Except Jon doesn’t want an orgasm, Tim remembers. Doesn’t want to be touched like that, doesn’t even want to take his shirt off. His brain confusedly lags for a moment, trying to figure out what to do instead. Christ, it’s too early post-orgasm for him to think. 

“Tim?” Jon asks gingerly, like he doesn’t want to risk interrupting something. “Are you… finished?” 

“Yeah,” he croaks, and then starts pushing himself into a more upright position. He hisses after a moment, and then lifts his hips slightly and tries again, this time trying to avoid any more of that previously delicious friction. He can feel strands of hair clinging to his forehead with sweat, his heartbeat hammering in chest even as it gradually slows down, like he’s just finished a rigorous workout. “That was-- really good, wow. Top ten, for sure.” 

That startles a chuckle out of Jon. 

“Oh, I’ve made the ranking?” Jon asks. “I’m honored.”

Tim laughs, feeling punch drunk and giddy, like he could either go out for a drink or lie down to sleep right where he is. He leans forwards and lays a kiss on Jon’s cheek, feeling unbearably fond of him at the moment. As he does so, his pants-- shift. He grimaces. 

“Argh, damn it,” he says. “Gonna have to change my pants.” 

“What-- oh,” Jon says, eyebrows rising. “You-- that’s right.” 

“What, did you forget how dicks work? I get a pass, I was so horny my brain was barely functioning.” Although, he was desperate enough to accept the mess even if he had thought to expect it. 

“No, of course not, just-- I, I was too distracted to really consider the, ah, the consequences.” 

Tim can’t help but laugh again, amusement at the situation hitting him at seeing the way Jon’s face is twisting up with apologetic awkwardness. He just got horny enough to rut into a pillow until he came in his pants like a teenager, and it’s left him feeling strangely bubbly. He kisses Jon again. 

“You can--” Jon tries, and Tim ducks in for another kiss, interrupting him. “--Tim. As I was saying, you can go and get-- get changed, if you like.” 

“Later,” Tim hums. He cradles Jon’s face in his hands, and just barely bites back the stupid urge to bite at his nose. “It’s not that uncomfortable yet, it can wait.” 

“I can handle going two minutes without--” a kiss pressed right next to his ear, “--without being kissed, Tim. I promise you, I won’t faint at seeing you change clothes. I can avert my gaze if needed.” 

Tim gives a pained, reluctant groan. “Alright, alright. I’ll be right back.” 

With that, he lets go of Jon and rolls out of bed. His legs feel unsteady under him as soon as he gets to his feet, his knees not quite entirely solid after that orgasm, but he manages to keep his balance despite it. He rushes through the process of getting a clean pair of pants from his wardrobe, probably making a mess of his things as he does so. He peels his trousers off, hopping on one leg and then the other, before abandoning his stained pants to the floor to be taken care of later. When he gets the clean pair of pants on and turns his focus back on the bed, he’s endeared by the sight of Jon actually averting his gaze, looking stiff and shy. 

“Hey, is it cool if I don’t put my trousers back on?” he asks. Now that he’s first out of them, he isn’t in the mood to put them back on. Actually, he feels overheated and sweaty enough to be completely naked, but that’s probably not on the table. 

Jon tentatively peeks in his direction, as if to make sure that he’s all covered up, and relaxes once he’s confirmed. “I don’t mind,” he says. 

“Cool,” he says. He wants to ask if he can take his shirt off too, but he doesn’t want to ask for too many things at once, like he’s trying to push at Jon’s boundaries. Instead, he comes back to bed. He impulsively grabs Jon and collapses onto the mattress, taking him down with him. Jon yelps, and Tim snickers before nuzzling into the juncture of his neck. 

“You having a nice time?” he asks pleasantly. 

“Yes, although I doubt that you need to ask at this point to know. You’ve made me be very clear so far.” 

“Like to hear you say it.” 

“You haven’t been shy of taking advantage of this opportunity, you know. You’ve practically been menacing me.” 

“In a fun way. A little bullying is part of the whole thing, anyway. You wouldn’t have had a lot of fun if I just tied you up and let you sit there, would you? Gotta poke at you a little, make you squirm.” 

By happy coincidence, this makes Jon squirm underneath him like he can’t help it, and Tim delights in it, in how pinned and helpless he is. He wouldn’t be able to struggle out from underneath him no matter how hard he may try, not with his arms bound, not with Tim not letting it happen. 

Jon really is way, way too much fun like this. Makes Tim want to do all sorts of things to him, when they should be going slow and careful instead, testing and talking as they go. He wants Jon to have a good time. 

“You’ve been so sweet tonight,” Tim says warmly. 

Jon scoffs. “That’s the first time anyone’s made that claim.” 

“Shush. If I say you’re sweet, you’re sweet. You’ve been sweet and good for me, and you deserve a reward.” He extricates himself from the nook of Jon’s neck, and instead hovers over him, arms braced on the mattress. “Don’t you think so?” 

“I…” Jon says, his words running dry on him as he stares up at Tim. Tim grins. 

“Well, I think so,” he says. “You deserve something nice, after being so well behaved.”

Yeah, that feels right. A dessert, after all of the fun of tonight. Something to give this a happy ending, and let Jon remember all of this fondly. And Jon has been well behaved, for the most part. No biting his tongue and forcing himself through anything; that should be rewarded. 

The only question is, with that? Not an orgasm, which strikes a lot of Tim’s usual options off the list. Too bad that he doesn’t have anything nice to hand feed to Jon, like a treat. He doesn’t have anything suitable. No strawberries or fruits or chocolates, dark or sweet, nothing fancy. He doubts that the leftover pad thai in the fridge would be fitting. 

… There is one other thing he does that people often compliment him on. And he’s actually thought about this before, about how much he’d like to give tense, stressed, surly Jon a--

“How about a massage?” 

Jon blinks, like that had been the last thing he’d been expecting to hear. 

“A-- a massage?” he asks incredulously. 

“Yeah!” Tim says cheerfully. “What, have you never had one before?” 

“Yes,” Jon says. “I-- I’ve had one before. Someone gave me a coupon for it at one of the Institute Secret Santas a while back.” 

Now that’s a pointed message. And, Tim is sure, it flew right over Jon’s head. He probably genuinely did his best to act politely grateful for it, and completely failed to be convincing. 

“And? Did you like it?” 

“No,” Jon says, so plainly that it makes Tim bark a surprised little laugh. 

“What was wrong with it?” 

“It-- it was fine, just-- I don’t believe that massages work on me.” 

“Oh?” Tim asks, prodding. 

“It was… I’m certain that the masseuse did a perfectly serviceable job, it’s just that-- taking most of my clothes off and being rubbed at by some stranger for an hour, it-- I couldn’t relax. I left feeling tenser than when I arrived.” 

Tim takes a second to try and picture that, and finds that he absolutely can. 

“Well, no offense to your poor masseuse, but I get the feeling that I could succeed where they’ve failed.” He’s very much not a stranger, for one thing. 

“I’m not… you don’t have to give me some sort of-- of reward, Tim,” Jon says, looking highly skeptical of Tim and his claim. 

“‘Course I do. If I can punish you, then that means that you should be able to get rewards as well. It’s only fair. Come on, give me a chance, coach. Let me off the bench.” 

Jon still looks reluctant, so Tim adds, “you can absolutely keep your clothes on, by the way.” 

“I-- are you certain? Isn’t that a prerequisite for massages?” 

“Nah. Skin to skin contact isn’t necessary, trust me.” 

“But-- if it isn’t needed then why--”

Tim grins, feeling hopelessly amused by Jon’s outrage. 

“I think it’s a little bit better without clothes, so that’s just the norm? But it’s not essential, which is why the signs always say ‘undress to your comfort level’ or whatever.” 

“I thought those signs meant choosing between going completely stark naked with nothing but a towel to protect your modesty, or at least retaining your pants,” Jon says, sounding distinctly betrayed. 

“Nope, sorry. I don’t think the scented candles or the New Age music is necessary to the process either,” Tim cheerfully informs him. 

“Unbelievable,” Jon grouses, scowling adorably. Tim leans in and kisses him, and when he retreats he’s pleased to see that most of Jon’s scowl has slipped away, distracted. 

“So?” he cajoles. “Are you gonna give it a chance? If you’re not into it you can just say so.” 

“... Very well, if you’re so certain. You truly don’t have to--” 

Tim cuts Jon off by pushing him over again. He makes a startled noise and bounces on the mattress, before giving Tim a harried glare, his hair hanging in his eyes. Tim gives him a shameless, unapologetic smile and smooths his hair away from his face for him. Really, that does not get any less fun to do. 

“It’s my pleasure,” he says innocently. 

Jon may be about to try and say something snarky about that, but Tim cuts him off by grabbing him by the shoulder and hip and unceremoniously rolling him over onto his front. Jon likes being manhandled, after all. He stays where he’s been put like a stunned kitten. With a keen eye, Tim surveys the options laid out before him. 

Moving to straddle Jon at the small of his back, he sets his hands on his shoulders. Jon makes a small, stifled noise as Tim settles his weight on him, pinning him to the bed, but is otherwise lying as stiff and tense as a board, clearly painfully self conscious about the fact that he’s getting a massage. Tim, unbothered by this, starts gently rubbing circles into Jon’s shoulder blades. 

“There is one thing you miss out on when you do it with clothes on,” Tim concedes. 

“... What?” Jon asks after a beat, when Tim doesn’t go on. 

“Oils,” Tim says. “I’ve got, like, three different bottles of the stuff. Makes the whole process smoother, and feels real nice on the skin.”

“The masseuse used some sort of oil as well,” Jon says, his head turned to the side so he can speak unmuffled. He can just barely look up at Tim through the corner of his eye. “I showered it off as soon as I came home. It made me feel… slick. I had to wash all of my clothes to get rid of the scent.” 

Tim snickers. “This poor masseuse. All of their talents wasted on you.” 

“It seemed a waste at the time not to go. In hindsight, I should have just binned the damned coupon and saved myself the trouble.” 

Tim digs his thumbs into the nape of Jon’s neck, who makes a surprised grunt at the sensation. 

“All good?” Tim asks, knowing perfectly well what the answer is. He just wants to make Jon say it. 

“... Fine,” Jon mutters, which makes Tim slide his hands down his back, rolling his shoulders to put firm pressure on it. Jon’s a pretty narrow guy, and with his hands fanned out he’s got almost complete coverage on his back. Jon makes a muffled noise in response, as if biting at his lip to try and stop it. Tim grins. 

“So,” he says, “what are your thoughts so far?” 

“My-- thoughts?” 

“About bondage,” Tim says, kneading at the muscles at either side of Jon’s spine. Jon has absolutely spotless posture when he’s thinking about it, and otherwise hunches over his desk like he hates his own back. Tim’s no expert, but he is absolutely finding tension to dig into and work on. “We’re doing this ‘cause you wanted to know more about it, right? Are you enjoying yourself?” 

There’s a prolonged beat of silence, before Jon says, “it-- it’s not about enjoyment. It’s a-- an experiment.” 

Tim’s fairly certain that Jon’s out loud admitted to liking large parts of this evening so far, and even if that weren’t the case, his reactions and noises would still be damning evidence against him. But instead of pointing any of that out, instead of calling him out and good naturedly teasing him for it, he just hums and keeps working on easing out a knot of tension he’s found high on Jon’s back. 

“It has been-- illuminating. I’ve-- I wouldn’t have expected for, for the experience to have gone in the directions that it did. It’s not the impression that I-- that I was given from the few sources I’ve, ah, examined in the past. It’s… different from what I’d expected.” 

Given that Jon was probably expecting leather, whips, ball gags, and being made to call Tim ‘master’, that’s not a surprise. Jon has no idea how much variety there is to be had yet. It’s kind of like expecting a donut and a croissant to be the same, just because they’re both pastries. 

Tim makes an encouraging, listening noise, even as he continues to knead at him. All of this talking is actually successfully distracting Jon enough to let him relax into his hands. 

“It’s strangely-- affecting. A few times now, I-- it was almost like I lost myself. I stopped thinking. But it didn’t feel bad, it was--” Jon pauses. “It was like my mind was deep underwater, and the rest of the world was just muted sounds and filtered, soft sunlight. Does that-- it doesn’t make any damned sense. I--”

Jon makes a startled little noise, twitching like a fish on a line underneath him, and then twists as much as he can in his helpless, prone position to look up at Tim. 

“Did you just pinch me?” he demands. 

“Just a bit,” Tim says shamelessly. “Keep going, don’t mind me.” 

“And will you be pinching me again if I do?” 

“Only if you’re being unfair to yourself, don’t worry.” 

“That’s--” Jon cuts himself off abruptly as Tim gets to the base of spine. He wonders what kind of noise Jon would’ve made if he wasn’t trying so hard to bite them back. He doesn’t exactly mind; it just makes it more rewarding when he does manage to pry them out of him, like pearls from a clam. 

“I’m not being unfair to myself,” Jon continues after a beat, and there’s a faint strain to his voice, like he’s trying hard to school it. To appear unaffected. “I’m simply trying to be-- to be objective. Academic.” 

“Your reactions have been fine tonight, Jon. There’s not even really a wrong way to react.” 

“I believe that I quite literally cried at some point. It was ridiculous-- Tim!” Jon wriggles and squirms underneath him in an entirely ineffectual display of protest. 

“It’s normal to cry a bit when you’re not getting enough air. Don’t be so harsh.” Tim pats Jon’s side once in a bracing, reassuring way. “Hey, I’m gonna switch positions now.” 

“Switch--?” 

Tim maneuvers himself, getting off Jon just for a moment, only long enough to turn around and straddle him again, this time facing the other way. It’s quick enough that Jon doesn’t have both the time and wits to turn around or get away from him. Casually, he leans forwards and grabs hold of one of his ankles, pulling it up so that his leg sticks up in the air from the knee. With his other hand he starts the process of kneading at his calf, digging in with his thumb. 

“You-- Tim, you don’t have to massage my legs.” 

“I don’t have to do anything, mate! Just what I want. Now, you were saying?” 

“I…” Jon sounds for a moment as if he wants to keep trying to argue, but in the end he gives into the urge to ramble about his thoughts. “I didn’t think that it would be so-- so… silly?” 

Jon says that last word tentatively, like he’s afraid Tim might be offended by it. He grins. 

“I like silly sex,” he says, unconcerned. “--and silly sex-adjacent stuff, I guess. It’s fun. Did you want something more serious?” 

“I-- I don’t know. I thought it would be serious. I thought that you’d be-- would be… meaner. To me.” 

“Were you hoping for that?” Tim asks, like he has no feelings either way about the matter. There’s an opening there for him to take and fill in, to talk about how meanness isn’t required, but-- he’s trying to just let Jon talk right now. Let him try and order some of the tangled thoughts in his head. Tim won’t trample over that-- although he’ll cut in if Jon starts getting too harsh with himself again. 

“Why would I?” Jon asks, but there’s something about the way he says it. Like he’s uncertain, not sure what his answer really is. 

“Is that something you want to do an experiment about as well? Something you’re curious about?” Tim asks. “Being tied up and played with by a mean dom?” 

“A dom,” Jon says, and his voice is a little choked as he says the word. “That’s--”

“What I am,” Tim says. “Right now, at least.” 

“No, that’s-- you’re not even wearing any of the, the clothes, or-- or anything.” 

Tim runs his hands up Jon’s calf, having excruciatingly explored his way down to the knee, and he gently but implacably pulls at his ankle until his leg is nicely stretched back, his foot in easy reach. He sets his thumbs to the center of the sole of his foot, and Jon makes an aborted squeak, flinching. Remembering when Tim had mercilessly tickled him earlier. Tim doesn’t let go of him. 

“What, you mean leathers? The outfits really aren’t necessary, Jon. I’m tying you up and bossing you around. That’s enough to count.” 

“But-- but that would make me--” 

“A sub.” 

Tim’s got a pretty good view to see the way that makes Jon’s toes curl. He grins, and focuses on properly digging his thumbs in, the pressure firm and just right. 

“I’m not a--” Jon starts, his voice a little unsteady, shaken, “--that’s not, I’m just experimenting. Trying something out to-- to see what it’s like.” 

Tim supposes that the idea of being something is much more intense than the thought of just doing something. Like it’s a part of him, now. Something that he is. 

“You don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to,” Tim says mildly, reasonably. “But for as long as you are… right now, right here, you’re a sub. Mine, actually.” 

Jon’s breath audibly catches. There’s a tug, like he’s reflexively trying to pull his foot out of Tim’s grasp. He easily keeps it in place. 

“And you’ve been a really good one, too,” he goes on. “A good, sweet, obedient sub.” 

“I’m not-- not any of that, Tim,” Jon gets out. 

“Says who?” 

“Says everyone I’ve ever met.” 

“I don’t count?” Tim asks. 

“That’s not what I--” 

Letting go of Jon’s foot, he turns around, moving so that he’s looming over Jon on his hands and knees instead of straddling him, bracketing him in. Jon instantly twists onto his back like the only thing that’s been keeping him in place until now has been Tim’s weight, reassuringly pinning him down. He stares up at Tim with wide, dark eyes, his chest rising and falling. He looks a little wild eyed, like there’s a live wire running through his veins. 

“Nevermind what other people have said,” Tim says. “They don’t matter. You do. What do you want, Jon? Do you want to be my sub? Do you want to be good, to be sweet?” 

“What I want-- that doesn’t, just because I want it doesn’t mean that it’s--”

Tim braces his elbows on Jon’s shoulders, his legs easily pinning Jon’s. Pressing down on him with his weight, boxing him in closer and smaller. 

“Tell me what you want,” Tim tells him sternly, looking him straight in the eye. “Do you want to be good? To be mine?” 

He can feel Jon’s breath against his face, with how close he’s looming over him. Can feel his chest brushing against his with each exhale, quick and shallow. His eyes are like the openings to a well, deep and dark, like he could fall into them if he leaned too far in. 

“Yes,” Jon almost whispers. 

“Then you are,” Tim says simply, and kisses Jon like he’s putting a period to the end of the sentence. Jon moans into the kiss, a punched out, vulnerable noise that almost startles Tim. It’s one of the most shameless, unguarded noises that Jon’s made all evening, nothing bitten or held back in it. When he ends the kiss, Jon leans up into it, chasing his lips with a soft, broken sound in his throat. 

Splayed out underneath him, Jon looks like a melted puddle. He not only looks like he’s gotten a full body massage, but like he’s had every single coherent thought fucked out of his head. There’s not a single tense line or muscle in his body, not a drop of tension or nervousness. 

“Oh,” Tim says, and he speaks gently, as if to avoid disturbing him. He recognizes that look on Jon’s face, now. He’s seen it twice before, tonight. “You’re back underwater, huh?” 

Jon blinks up at him slowly, like a cat saying I love you. Tim smiles down at him fondly, and carefully runs a hand through his hair. God, he almost looks drunk. 

“You there, Jon?” Tim asks quietly. 

Jon’s answer comes a beat too late, like Tim’s words have to penetrate some sort of barrier first before he can hear them. 

“... I’m here,” he says, and Tim loves his voice. He always loves Jon’s voice, but especially now. It sounds low and soft and vulnerable somehow, in a way that makes him think of an old and creaking ship. 

“Good,” he says, tracing the edge of Jon’s ear with one thumb. He likes being able to idly touch and fiddle with whatever part of Jon is within arms reach. Likes having that permission, that right. “Say that you’re good.” 

That takes longer to penetrate, Jon looking hazily up at him for a long moment before hesitantly he opens his mouth twice and manages on the second try to say, “I’m… I’m good.” 

He says it like he thinks he’s being impertinent, insolent and shameless, like he’s waiting for someone to smack him upside his head and tell him that he’s wrong. 

“Yes, you are,” Tim says warmly, and leans down to press a gentle kiss to Jon’s temple in approval. Jon’s breath audibly shudders, and he presses up into Tim’s kiss. “Good boy. Now tell me how sweet you are.” 

“I’m-- I’m sweet.” 

“Very sweet. So good, so clever.” 

A sweet, helpless little noise slips out of Jon, like just Tim’s words are enough to overwhelm him. Tim feels just about drunk with power, and a wild, protective, possessive feeling burns brightly in his chest, ready to fight just about anyone or anything in that moment for Jon’s sake. He wonders if this could possibly be something he could train Jon to do on reflex, on command. Get him to say that he’s good and sweet and all kinds of things with just a look, a gesture, just to see the way it sends him breathless and squirming with hot, happy mortification. 

“You’re doing so well,” Tim assures him, his hand trailing down to settle lightly on his throat. Just to feel his pulse hammering desperately in his throat-- so at odds with how loose and pliant his body is, lying stretched out in belly up surrender, willingly at Tim’s full mercy. He could do absolutely anything he might want to do to Jon-- and all he wants is to make him make more sweet, happy noises. He wants to hear all of them. “There’s just one more thing I want to hear… say that you’re mine.” 

“Tim,” Jon says raggedly, like he can’t stand anymore, like Tim’s being hard and merciless with him, unrelenting. 

“Come on,” Tim says softly, tenderly. His hand slides further down, catching Jon’s fingers, his useless and bound hands. He squeezes them, firm and grounding. “Do I get to have you?” 

Jon’s eyes slip shut, like he can’t bear to look at him while he says it. “I’m-- I’m yours.” 

“You are,” Tim says. “You are, you are. And I’m gonna take such good care of you, too.” 

Jon keens, and Tim rains kisses down on him to help soothe him. Jon pants for breath underneath him, tossing his head like he can hardly stand to lie still, but every pound of Tim’s body is being used to trap him in place like a butterfly pinned to a board, so all he can do is tug and thrash and get absolutely nowhere. His eyes, when they open, are dark and hazy and overwhelmed. 

Tim soothes him through it like a creature to be calmed, cooing at and praising him, pressing his lips to every inch of him that he can reach, squeezing and stroking at as much of him as he can without letting him up. Jon squirms and wriggles like a trapped animal, helplessly bound and at his mercy-- until eventually he just goes limp, all of his struggling spent and exhausted, simply taking what Tim gives him and only making breathless, ragged noises in response. 

He doesn’t know how much time they spend like that, but he has a feeling that it must be the prickling of asleep limbs from where Tim’s pinning him that finally makes Jon slowly drift back up towards the surface of reality. 

“Tim-- Tim?” Jon says, and there’s a lilt at the end like he isn’t just desperately pleading for something that he doesn’t have the clarity to name. Like he’s actually asking for something. 

“Hmm?” Tim hums from the area of Jon’s clavicle, where he’s in the process of lovingly kissing his way along the line of it. 

“Can I… can I come up?” he asks. “Please?” 

Tim stops kissing Jon, taking a beat to process the request. Jon wants to--? 

“Oh. Oh, yeah, sure-- of course! You don’t have to ask.” Immediately, he pushes himself up and off Jon, rolling off onto the side instead. He watches as Jon’s side profile blinks dizzily up at the ceiling, as if trying to catch up on reality like it’s a class that he’s been zoning out of. “You good?”

“I… yes?” Jon says uncertainly. Which should be concerning, but Jon doesn’t look upset, so Tim’s not sure that he should be alarmed. “I think… I think that I’d like to stop now.” 

“Oh, thank god,” pops out of Tim’s mouth before he can even think about it. 

Jon immediately frowns and turns to look at Tim. 

“Pardon?” he enquires, eyebrows raised. An insecure look flashes across his face. “Did you not--?”

“No, no, shit, I didn’t mean it like that, come on,” Tim says, raising a hand in a stop right there motion. “I’ve had an extremely good time. It’s just also been a long time. Like, way longer than I thought it would end up being. I figured you would’ve called it quits, like, an hour ago or something. You’re voracious.” 

“An hour-- what time is it?” Jon asks, and then twists to look out of Tim’s bedroom window. The sky is pitch black outside. It’s been getting dark pretty early at this time of year, of course, but a quick glance at the digital clock by Tim’s bed confirms it; it’s late. 

“Good lord,” Jon says, astonished. “We spent that much time?” 

“Well, you know how it goes. Time flies when you’re having fun. It looks like you’re gonna have to be using my spare toothbrush after all, huh?” 

“Yes, it appears so…” Jon says, the nonplussed look on his face slowly fading. He turns to look at Tim, and after a beat he gives a small, nervous, uncertain smile. “I’ve… I’ve made rather a fool of myself tonight, haven’t I?” 

“What?” Tim asks, sitting up straighter. “No way. Absolutely not.” 

“I was-- I’ve been practically incoherent.”  

“That just shows what a damned good job I did. I mean, you as well-- subbing is hard work too; you must be as exhausted as I am. God, I had no idea it could be so exhausting just to do kink without the sex.” He’s done it a couple of times before, but never like this. He makes himself refocus. “But seriously, you’ve been nothing but great. Haven’t you been listening to me this whole evening?” 

“Well, yes, of course, but-- that wasn’t all… bedroom talk?” 

Tim immediately files bedroom talk as one of the most endearing things he’s heard Jon say. 

“That does not immediately mean that it wasn’t true, you know. I don’t know if you noticed, but I got desperate enough back there to literally hump a pillow until I came in my pants. Tell me if I’m overstepping to say this, but you were hot, mate.” 

Jon’s legs and shoulders curl up a little with embarrassment, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as well. 

“... You aren’t, ah, no, you’re not overstepping. It’s-- it’s fine for me to hear that you’ve got-- I don’t mind it.” 

“Cool,” Tim says, and pushes himself up onto his knees. His muscles feel unaccountably sore and tired at the movement. It’s not like he’s been doing anything too vigorous-- although he has been holding himself up over Jon a lot. Is that what this is? “Alright, let’s do some aftercare.” 

Jon frowns. 

“I don’t need aftercare,” he says, sounding confused and a little annoyed. “I’m not upset. Do I look like I’m blubbering?” 

“Jon,” Tim says. “Aftercare isn’t just for, like, bondage scenes that end in disaster or whatever. It’s like putting your seatbelt on, or brushing your teeth. It’s just general good praxis.” 

“But I don’t need anything,” Jon argues. 

“Well, do you at least need that rope off you?” Tim asks him dryly. “Or should I just leave it on forever?” 

“I-- oh, well of course I need that,” Jon says. “It hardly counts.” 

“Uh huh,” Tim says, and holds his hands out. “C’mere, you stubborn lug.” 

Jon huffs, and then wriggles his way into sitting up without the use of his hands, before scooching his way close enough that Tim can get his hands on the rope snugly wrapping his arms together like a present. Hooking his fingers into the knot, he starts tugging it loose with practiced movements. He’s technically learned a lot of knots, but he picked just a few to practice and get confident with. He doesn’t need to be fancy, and it feels like it gives him less room to mess up. Familiarity breeds skill. 

Jon makes a small, soft noise as the rope that’s held firm all night finally loosens, his arms able to pull away from each other by another inch. 

“Stay still,” Tim tells him. “You’re pulling it tight again.” 

Going still, Jon obediently doesn’t move as Tim unwinds the rope from his arms. He resists the urge to pat him on the head and call him a good boy. He probably shouldn’t do that as a habit, no matter how tempting it may be. Finally, the rope is nothing but a multicolored puddle in Jon’s lap, his arms freed. 

Tim reaches out and grabs one of Jon’s hands, stroking a thumb across his fingers. 

“How does that feel?” he asks. 

Jon looks at him. “What?” 

“Is there any numbness? Any pain?” 

Jon hesitates for another moment, and then sets his free hand over Tim’s, so it's sandwiched between his slim, brown hands. He squeezes it, once. 

“No,” he says, and he sounds certain. “I feel perfectly well.” 

Tim hadn’t noticed any signs of pain or discomfort from Jon earlier, but a part of him still relaxes at hearing it. It’s always nice to hear that he hasn’t messed up and hurt his partner. 

“That’s great,” he says, and then he grins. “Hey, do you wanna see the rope marks before they fade?”

Jon stares at him for a moment, and then a firm, eager, “yes,” tumbles quickly out of him, as if he’s trying to make up for the beat of silence. Tim chuckles, and helps Jon unbutton the cuffs of his shirt so he can roll down his sleeves. The ropemarks are there, despite the shirt that had been in the way. Faint indents of length of rope pressed snugly against his skin, mapping out the crisscrossing pattern that had held him captive for so long. Jon gently trails his fingers over it with something almost like reverence, looking enchanted by them. 

Tim had had a feeling that he’d like that. He leaves Jon to his reverie, taking the opportunity to properly bundle up the rope again. Getting up off the bed, he says, “hang on, I’ll be right back.” 

Jon looks up at him briefly as he walks up to his bedroom door, unlocking it and darting out of it. True to his word, though, he’s gone for only a minute, and when he returns Jon is still delicately tracing the imprints on his skin. 

“Catch,” he says, which only results in Jon looking up at him in time to be pelted in the face with an energy bar. “Oh, damn! Sorry, didn’t mean to do that.” 

“Tim,” Jon scolds, blinking a little dizzily before looking down at his lap. He picks it up, inspecting it doubtfully. “I’m not hungry.” 

“Eat it anyway,” Tim says, half sitting, half collapsing back onto the bed. He starts opening up the wrapper on his own energy bar, paper crinkling. “Good praxis. I gave you the chocolate one, that’s the best flavor.” 

“... Very well,” Jon says, like he’s reluctantly doing him a favor, before getting started on opening up his own wrapper. His hands are slow and clumsy with how tired he must be, and by the time he’s got it open, Tim’s already eaten about half of his own bar. Oh god, he’s ravenous. Kink really works up an appetite, huh. 

Jon must agree, because as soon as he takes his first bite, he starts hurriedly wolfing the rest of it down. Tim watches, amused, and by the time Jon’s eagerly swallowing down the last bite he’s handing him the water bottle he brought with him. 

“Already had some,” he says, and then watches Jon chug about half of the contents of the bottle like he’s been lost in a desert for a week. When he finishes, he comes up gasping for air. “Don’t need aftercare, huh?” 

“Oh--” Jon starts, and then has to stop to swallow and wipe at his mouth. “Oh, be quiet. This-- this hardly qualifies.” 

“I’m sorry, am I not taking care of you after performing sex-adjacent activities? What would you call that?” 

“Basic decency,” Jon says dryly. 

Tim points out at him. “Bingo.” 

Jon rolls his eyes at him, and then goes on to take another deep swig of water. When he finishes, he sighs deeply with relief. Tim flops back onto the nest of pillows at the head of his bed, and then holds his arms out welcomingly. 

“Cuddle?” 

Jon looks at him as if Tim’s offered him a slice of chocolate cake while he’s on a diet; with an agonized, almost offended wanting. Tim gestures with his outstretched arms again, prompting. 

“C’mon,” he says. “I can wank in front of you, but we can’t cuddle afterwards? Cuddling’s nice.” 

“... Fine,” Jon says, and then collapses against Tim’s chest with a speed that utterly betrays how much he also wants to cuddle. His arms loop around Tim’s middle, tucking securely in underneath his back, one leg slung over Tim’s hip, his face pressed against the general area of his collarbone. Tim wraps his arms firmly around Jon, squeezing him once. For a long minute they just lie there, Tim basking in getting to just close his eyes and hold Jon, stroking a hand slowly down his back. Feeling the tickle of Jon’s breath against his skin, the warm, slight weight of him. 

“I know it’s kind of stating the obvious,” Tim says without opening his eyes, “but I’d just like to repeat that I had an awesome time, and don’t regret any of the stuff that happened. You?” 

Jon stirs a little in his arms, like he’d actually been drifting off in the general direction of sleep. Adorable. Tim completely tuckered him out. 

“I, yes. Yes, I feel the same way. Entirely.” 

“Cool.” 

They just breathe together for another moment, but then Tim blinks his eyes open, a memory rising inside of his mind, a brief, fleeting idea of something he should ask Jon after it was all over. He voices it. 

“So, did you figure out what’s so nice about bondage?” 

Jon doesn’t answer him immediately, and Tim wonders for a second if he’s actually fallen asleep-- but then he moves slightly, detaching from his octopus cling onto Tim’s body. Tim lets him go with just a tinge of regret. Jon, he sees once there’s enough distance between them to see each other's faces, is frowning with a deep, thoughtful consideration. Taking Tim’s question deadly seriously, like he’s a student that’s been called up to the front of the class to solve an equation. 

“For as long as I can remember,” Jon says slowly, as if he’s piecing the words together as he says them, “I’ve always known, in the back of my mind, that almost everyone I met could overpower me if they truly wanted to. It doesn’t matter if they would have no reason to do so, I’d still-- I’d know it. I’d think about it, sometimes. What people could do to me, if they were unscrupulous enough. So it’s… it’s strangely nice, to be overpowered and then see that the person who has me at their mercy doesn’t want to do anything bad with it. Only-- only play with me.” 

Tim lets that statement lie on its own out in the open for a while, taking it in. Then, he says, “woah. That sounds like a super objective and academic conclusion to draw, Mr. Sims.” 

Jon shoots him an irritated, embarrassed look. “Tim--”

“So impersonal. So detached. So disinterested. You can really tell that you’ve got zero biased or personal feelings about this at all. You’re just an objective researcher, that’s all that’s happening here.” 

“Alright, I like it! I personally, subjectively enjoy bondage, and not just as an academic curiosity! Are you happy?” 

Tim takes a moment to consider this. 

“Yep,” he decides, and then he smiles. “I’m very happy.” 

“Well, good,” Jon huffs. After a moment, he smiles back, infected by Tim’s contentedness. He gets settled against Tim’s side again, slotting in like a puzzle piece. 

Tim wonders… 

“Hey,” he says quietly. He feels Jon’s head move on his chest, probably looking up at him. “Do you think-- do you think you’re going to be wanting to do something like this again? You know, since you like it and all that? Or-- or was this enough for you?” 

He remembers what Jon had said earlier, about becoming obsessed with something and having to sate his curiosity before he can move on. Has his curiosity been sated? Even if he enjoyed himself, is this it? An experiment performed and finished with, conclusions drawn and mysteries solved. Maybe Jon doesn’t need more than this, doesn’t crave it. 

He hopes not. But it’s ultimately up to--

Jon sets his hand on Tim’s chest and pushes himself up, until he’s looking down at Tim instead. He looms over him, his eyes unblinking and intent, expression serious. 

“Tim,” he says hungrily. “Trust me, my curiosity is just getting started.”