Work Text:
Martin is standing in the doorway to Jon’s office. Jon keeps his workspace lowly lit when possible, to stay comfortable, cosy. Martin is a dark silhouette against the bright light of the corridor beyond the boundary of the doorway. The harsh fluorescent lights outline his large, soft form. One arm is raised, resting against the doorframe. The other hand rests on the doorknob, frozen in place mid-opening. Harsh lines of light catch the frames of his glasses, obscuring his eyes behind them. He can see his own shadow stretching before him, an interruption to the block of harsh light extending from the doorway into Jon’s office. It lies over his desk, papers, cupboards, and him.
Jon. The reason Martin’s breath is bordering on shaky.
“Come in, Martin,” comes Jon’s soft purr from the lowly lit rest of his office. The light from the doorway stops at his chest. His face remains hidden in darkness but there’s a cruel light in his eyes which dances with joy upon seeing Martin like this. And Martin knows that Jon is so happy because he is like this.
Martin forces his legs to move, and gently pushes the door closed behind him once he’s fully over the threshold. Now, the rest of the world is out there. And they’re in here. Alone. But together.
His eyes adjust quickly to the light and dart around momentarily to familiarise himself with Jon’s habitat. Piles and piles of folders and books and a discarded laptop and tape recorders waiting to be filed. And a fresh one. It hasn’t been set running yet. A fresh statement in front of Jon.
Wonderful.
“What’s bothering you today?” Jon asks, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. Martin’s nose twitches up as he snarls instinctively at Jon’s teasing. He will not be made fun of.
He moves. Slowly. Circling Jon at his desk like a wolf with a rabbit who knows better than to run. His feet stop when he’s behind the chair, then his whole body surges forward.
He collapses pathetically around Jon’s shoulders with a gentle sigh.
Jon’s frame trembles and shakes with laughter as he places a slender hand over Martin’s forearm and gently pats. “Oh, Martin,” he whispers. “What a state you’re in…”
Martin lifts his head and readjusts his glasses, setting them back on his nose bridge, straight. He utters, “You have been killing me all day,” and Jon chuckles again.
“Oh, have I?” comes yet another teasing reply.
Martin groans and mutters, “I‘m gonna kill you…” He slides a hand from Jon’s shoulders down the front of his chest to his leg, where he traces his finger upwards and pulls at the loose fabric covering Jon’s lower half.
The whole reason Martin is so riled up.
Jon arrived to work today in a skirt. A smart, knee-length thing which matches wonderfully with the rest of his outfit. The whole silhouette is cohesive, the outfit looks cosy and comfortable with an air of elegance Jon had started to lack in recent months. But now it’s back, and Martin has never wanted Jon more.
“Are you even wearing underwear?” Martin asks simply, and raises an eyebrow as Jon falters momentarily.
“Yes, I’m wearing underwear. What do you take me for, Martin?” Jon responds. He sounds almost genuinely offended. Almost.
“Someone who wants his boyfriend to have easy access at work,” Martin answers. Jon’s silence is damning.
The quiet hangs around them for a moment and Martin straightens himself back up to standing as Jon sputters and protests in vain. He doesn’t manage a single word, just sounds and occasionally a dismissive flap of his hand. Now it’s Martin’s turn to laugh, a melodic and gentle sound which interrupts Jon’s performance.
“You’re about to record a statement?” Martin says, more of a declaration than a question.
Jon responds with a curt nod and shuffles in his seat. He raises a hand to his mouth as he clears his throat then lifts both of his hands to retie the knot of hair at his crown.
Martin’s fingers wrap around his wrist, and Jon’s hands freeze. “Leave it down?” he requests, and Jon doesn’t resist. He drops his hands back into his lap, leaving Martin to gently comb through his hair to straighten it out again. It curls and waves and falls in tresses to Jon’s shoulders. Martin wonders if one day Jon would ever let him straighten it or even braid it. Braiding would be better…
But that’s for another time.
“You knew what it would do to me,” Martin states, and allows his hands to rest on Jon’s shoulders. “Seeing you like this. You look happy. Confident.”
Jon’s shoulders shrug noncommittally. “I thought it looked nice. Melanie recommended it.”
Martin hums in feigned interest. “Oh, did she? Well it does look nice. It suits you. Makes your arse look really good.”
Jon’s head makes a minimal turn over his shoulder, and his eyes lock with Martin’s. Dark and wanting but lit up with a dangerous fire.
“We both know why I’m here,” Martin continues, paired with a gesture for Jon to stand. “So let’s stop pretending you don’t and… admire your new look.”
Jon jokes, “You certainly have been admiring,” then glances Martin’s stern expression and quickly rises from his chair.
Martin slips into his place, taking a moment to get comfy, before patting his lap for Jon to retake his seat. He looks unsure for a moment. Then he’s very sure, and he happily plonks down into Martin’s soft body, releasing a low but happy hum as Martin’s arms envelop him, pinning his own arms to his sides.
Martin’s kisses on Jon’s neck begin as soft, tender things, fleeting brushes of skin on skin. Gradually, they become longer and firmer. Then they’re almost aggressive as Martin works his way to the back of Jon’s neck, where Jon can simply hide any marks with his hair, and Jon squirms at the dozens of little nips and scrapings of teeth. Martin holds him firmly, and Jon’s protests soon cease as he relaxes and accepts that Martin is forcing him to do the most dreaded thing of all.
Taking a break.
The tiny sounds Jon produces in response to Martin’s affections only encourage him to continue. Soft lips on less-soft skin. He really does need to remind Jon to use a moisturiser.
When he lets up, Jon’s breathing is inconsistent and taken between parted lips. Martin tips his head innocently to the side and his cheeks raise in a warm smile. “Would you like to do what you want, or shall I tell you what I want?” Martin asks, his voice only ever so above a whisper.
Jon turns his face towards Martin and presses a kiss to his hairline. Rare are his opportunities to kiss Martin anywhere above his cheeks, so he takes one now. Martin studies his face, watches his minuscule expressions as he deliberates, then Jon answers with, “What you want.”
Martin’s eyes light up suddenly with that same devilish glint as Jon’s have had the whole time. His head dips in a minor nod, then he bites his lower lip between his teeth as he considers how to pose his requests.
“Undo the first few buttons of your shirt,” he commands, and Jon sets right to work. Very receptive to instructions is his Jon. Very handy. When Jon’s binder is exposed, Martin slips his hand underneath the taught fabric, and slips it up to release Jon’s chest. He takes a single breast into his hand and just plays with it for a while. He squishes and holds, then ever so gently thumbs at Jon’s nipple.
Jon’s breathing hitches, and his hips almost imperceptibly roll.
Martin tuts in disapproval, and sighs. “None of that, Jon, actually… If you could take off your underwear but leave the skirt, that would be lovely. Thank you dear.”
As Jon wriggles and writhes and shuffles to complete Martin’s request, Martin simply occupies himself with kissing at the skin of Jon’s neck, resuming his squishing of Jon’s breast also.
Then it’s done. Jon’s boxers hang around his ankles and he slightly struggles to kick them off. With his free hand, Martin lightly pats Jon’s thigh. “No, no. They can stay there. Would you stand up for just a moment darling?”
Once Jon is out of his lap, Martin can focus on sorting himself out. He thinks that maybe he should have done this before they sat down the first time but oh well. They’re here now.
He shuffles his trousers down just slightly and undoes his fly. He shifts his own boxers down until his dick pops out, almost already at full hardness. When he raises his eyes to check on Jon, he’s met with Jon’s gaze firmly on his dick. He can’t help but laugh and vaguely gesture permission for Jon to give him a few strokes. He’s fully hard in no time.
He doesn’t even need to ask. Jon always seems one step ahead of him when they do anything like this, and it sort of throws off his dominant rhythm but it saves him the breath.
Jon’s deft fingers unwrap and apply the condom seamlessly, sneaking in a few more strokes as he rolls it down. Martin playfully slaps his hands away when he realises Jon’s little scheme.
They’re both grinning, big and dumb, though for different reasons. Martin knows that Jon knows that he loves to be ridden. Bounced on and milked dry while Jon puts in the effort. They’ve never tried reverse before but Jon has hitched up his skirt and is sinking down into Martin’s lap before he can even gather his thoughts.
Martin starts to protest as he quickly offers his hands about Jon’s waist and chest to guide him, making sure the angle is correct. He mutters something about preparation, but Jon shakes his head firmly. Alrighty then.
What Jon doesn’t know is that there will be no movement. Martin’s arms wrap firmly around Jon’s waist once he’s taken Martin fully to the base, all 6 inches, though when usually he would let go to allow Jon his movement, Martin’s arms stay firmly in place.
Jon tries to wriggle him off, to grind, to bounce, but Martin slowly shakes his head. “No moving,” he simply states, voice suddenly low and firm. “Record your statement.”
Jon’s lips part in shock, his eyes widen, and Martin basks in the glow of his surprised little expression. Cute.
He starts to protest, but Martin shushes him and whispers, “Humour me. You’ve been flouncing around all day in your pretty little outfit, knowing what you’ve been doing to me. Now you say we can do what I want. And this is what I want. I want you to sit here, on my dick, and do your job.”
Jon remains stunned for just a moment before his pleasing-Martin drive kicks in and he turns back to his desk to begin the tape recorder and pick up the statement. Once everything is set up, he relaxes back into Martin’s chest, his back pressing up against him as Martin’s hand amuses itself with Jon’s breast, and in turn pulls him closer.
Martin doesn’t even realise he’s almost entirely tuned Jon out, revelling in the feeling of just… Jon. His warmth, his wetness, his hunger. There’s always a hunger to Jon. A deep primal urge to be fucked that Martin has rarely been able to deny. But now, he denies it.
Statement of Blah Blah, regarding Who Cares. Original statement given Nobody Asked. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute. Statement begins.
Martin has almost fallen asleep against Jon’s shoulder, just for a micro nap, when he decides Jon deserves a reward. Jon’s lips move in a deliberate, purposeful way as he forms the words on the page before him. Martin will fuck them later, he decides, Jon permitting.
In the meantime, he might as well praise Jon for doing so well. Gauging the distance of the tape recorder, his gentle whisperings and kisses won’t be picked up, so off he goes. A kiss to Jon’s shoulder, then his neck and the sensitive skin behind his ear. He nips at the lobe, then licks, and grins cruelly at the shocked hitch of Jon’s breath. Thankfully, it comes at a natural pause in the statement.
Once Jon is talking again, absorbed in the story, Martin leans close to his ear. He utters, softer than a whisper, “You’re doing so well,” and he contracts his whole body to give Jon a gentle squeeze. He continues after a moment to allow Jon to recover. “You’ve been teasing me all fucking day and I swear to whatever god’s up there you’re gonna pay for it… In sweat and tears… and maybe saliva,” he adds as an afterthought, just for the vulgarity. Something about dirty talk really does it for Jon, Martin has found. He isn’t sure why but he doesn’t hate it.
Within no time, the statement is finished. Jon adds any final comments he deems worthy of note, vaguely mentions some research Tim completed for him, then ends the recording by firmly pressing a button on the little recorder.
“What is wrong with you?” he demands, head turned over his shoulder to glare at Martin.
Martin barely registers him. His eyelids are half closed with sleepiness, his smile is lazy and blissful. He hums a long acknowledging sound then shrugs his shoulders. “I could ask the same thing,” he responds. “Are you just mad it’s been 15 minutes and I haven’t rubbed you off?”
Jon’s cheeks warm considerably, they don’t necessarily go darker but they do emit a heat which Martin recognises immediately.
“Relax, I’ve got you,” Martin whispers, and happily embraces the sudden dead weight of Jon on top of him, held safe in his lap.
He doesn’t move his hips at all. He’s learning.
Martin’s arm wraps around Jon’s waist, and his hand dips even lower. Under the pleats of the skirt, down between his legs. He feels Jon’s entrance, fingertips grazing his own length nestled deep inside, then drags them up slowly just to hear Jon whimper.
He rests his fingers at the top, then begins to slowly rub Jon’s clit, small circles and occasional back and forth rubbing that Jon responds to wonderfully. And he doesn’t move his hips even a little bit. It’s agonising for Martin, having Jon be so willing to take him, use him, then pleasure him throughly, and denying him, but he knows it’ll be worth it later on. When they fall into one of their beds at one of their flats and giggle and grumble and groan until the wee hours.
Jon’s head falls back, heavy and limp, against Martin’s shoulder. He’s deliberately trying not to be too loud as Martin attends to him. Martin keeps one hand high, cupping and playing with his breast, and one hand low, circling and rubbing his clit. Thanks to the testosterone, it sticks out a little more than usual, and Martin can place a finger either side of it and give it a few little strokes.
Jon’s breathing quickens, his eyes squeeze closed, and Martin can feel his internal walls squeeze and clench around him. Opened so wide on Martin’s dick, he quickly begins to leak.
The skirt remains safe from any dampness, hitched firmly up and out of the way, as Martin lifts Jon from his lap and repositions them at lightning speed. Jon is perched with his hips tilted forwards, not sat in his chair but hovering slightly above. The leaking isn’t enough to drip, but it will be soon. Martin takes a position on his knees, leaving no time for any damage before diving straight in between Jon’s legs and diligently lapping up the mess.
He lifts his eyes to meet Jon’s, as he often does from this position, but now Jon has a way to sever the eye contact forcefully. He grabs his skirt and throws it over Martin’s head, leaving both of them laughing as Martin licks a final stripe from Jon’s entrance to his clit, then ducks his head away and licks over his lips.
Jon hitches his boxers back up, breath shuddering and shaking from the laughter and the post-orgasm come down. As he does, Martin removes the condom and throws it mindlessly towards Jon’s bin. It was barely used. He tucks himself back into his boxers, rezips his fly, then carefully gets back to his feet.
Jon is smirking at him from his chair, legs proudly spread to show off the skirt, and Martin’s eyes roll without his permission. He leans down, pecks Jon’s lips, then presses a firmer kiss to the spot between his eyebrows. “My place tonight? I’ll order pizza.”
Jon’s face lights up with a grin, and he nods. His hands fly to Martin’s cheeks and pull him down into another quick kiss then he sighs happily and relaxes back into his chair. “I’ll see you at the end of the day. Get back to work, Martin.” He pauses, then adds, “Thank you for this.”
Martin can’t help but chuckle and shrug. “Any time,” he quips.
Jon’s office door creaks open, then clicks closed again.