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“Please? Pretty please?” Martin asks, his hands clasped in front of his chest, on his knees in front of Jon’s desk.
Martin does look good on his knees.
Uh.
That is not something Jon should be thinking about, much less outright acknowledging. Besides, it’s the office Christmas party, not anything untoward.
“No,” Jon says, not daring to look up from his file, for fear of doing something stupid, like saying you look good on your knees out loud. “The Archival Holiday party has to be perfect, we are not inviting some sort of Santa impersonator off the street like we’re on the Vegas strip.”
Of course, Tim chooses that moment to walk by. “Did someone say stripping? Martin, you dog. You want to hire a stripper for the Holiday party?”
Martin splutters. “Wh–no, since I’ve been so graciously put in charge of the office’s White Elephant–” he stares pointedly at Jon, who catches his gaze out of the corner of his eye, not deigning him with a response, “I thought it would be fun to hire a Santa to hand out the presents.”
“And I said, we are not attributing Archival funds for a party that’s supposed to be nondenominational,” Jon says. “It has to be fair.”
“Well, we all celebrate Christmas, so there wouldn’t be anyone offended,” Tim shrugs, resting his hip against the doorframe. “What if we didn’t pay?”
Jon furrows his eyebrows. “You do whatever you can afford.”
Martin perks up, whipping around to face Jon. “We have a budget?”
Jon just levels him with a look.
“Oh.”
Trauma doesn’t take a holiday, so the team is taking statements up until the party– though, Jon realizes once he has a moment to think, that Martin is nowhere to be found. Krampus sightings always ramp up during the holidays– Jon has half a mind to consult Helen on the mere existence of the being itself, but the door to his office opens before he has the chance to decide.
“Ho, ho, ho!”
Jon’s head whips around to see…. is that Martin… Dressed in a Santa suit with the hat, and his facial hair painted white– which explains the scruffy look that Martin’s been sporting for the past couple of days. His red crushed velvet costume from the local costumes shop that’s on this side of not fitting, his bag of White Elephant presents, and–
Jon is properly mortified at how much this is working for him.
“Martin?” Jon tries, not trusting himself to stand up from behind his desk.
“Santa.” Martin corrects, shaking his head solemnly. “It’s not too late to put you on the naughty list.”
Jon’s cheeks flare, flushing a ruddy red. “I think calling you by your government name is hardly the naughtiest thing I’ve done this year.”
Tea. Tea is what he needs. He picks up his lukewarm Chai, taking a sip, pointedly looking anywhere except at his assistant.
Martin raises an eyebrow, looking down at him from his wire rimmed glasses. “Oh?”
Jon coughs, inhaling his tea as opposed to drinking it, letting out a hacking cough. “Don’t start–”
“Something I can’t finish? I fully intend to make you finish, Mister Sims.”
Where did this come from?
“Quite,” Jon says, nodding. Jon does manage to stand up, willing his boner down to half mast as he walks over to his assistant. He rests his hand on ‘Santa’s’ belly, leaning in. “If that’s how you see it, I’ll be excited to see how this suit fits by the end of the night.”
Martin clears his throat, his newly white beard doing nothing to hide the rosy color on his cheeks. “Quite a lot of milk and cookies to be had.”
“Naturally.”
“You do know what they say,” Jon leans in, his lips grazing the shell of Martin’s ear, almost catching on the peppermint swirl 00 plugs he has in, “Save a stocking, stuff a—“
“Is that Santa in the flesh?”
Jon and Martin jump apart as if they were burned, Martin’s fair skin only serving to turn a deep cherry red. Jon covers his mouth with his hand when Martin’s voice cracks on his ho, ho, ho. Tim is already three sheets to the wind though, clearly unable to handle the eggnog that Daisy made.
Jon breathes out a sigh of relief— no one is really going to care, and the parties for the Archives are always… interesting to say the least.
So he digs into his bag where he’s packed his dinner, pulling out an objectively heinous sweater that says “only here for the cookies.” He snorts before slipping it on, heading out to the party.
The party itself isn’t all that bad, to be honest. Tim and Melanie hog the karaoke machine for a good portion of the night, Melanie taking a day off from her attempts to kill Elias– maybe. Jon is keeping an eye on her.
Daisy’s even getting in the spirit of the holidays with a mistletoe headband on. Basira is trying not to be swayed by it, but Jon can See that she’ll kiss her when they think no one is watching. or that she wants to. He’s trying not to See too much.
The white elephant, of course, was a hit. The top prize that everyone wanted, too drunk to think otherwise, was around 300 copies of a photo of the Admiral’s asshole. Jon thought it was a ridiculous gift, but Tim snatched it from Daisy, and Basira traded from Tim, and Melanie ended up with it, laughing victoriously.
Martin however, has been grazing the snack table in between his Santa duties. Drunk people love festive cheer, and Martin as Santa with his more than believable ho, ho, ho! has made him the prime photo op of the night. It also means that he’s been plied with cookies and milk, gingerbread and snickerdoodles and chocolate chips, festive shaped shortbread cookies that melt on the mouth, and peppermint candy canes to hook into his mouth no less than three separate times.
Not that Jon’s been counting, of course. That would be… unethical.
He’s nursing his second drink of the night, a mulled wine keeping him warm and on the right side of tipsy when he feels a warmth behind him.
“I see someone's been good, haven't they?” Martin chuckles, toning his voice lower in a deeper timbre. It makes him sound more northern than before and Jon’s a little weak in the knees about it.
“Depends on what your idea of good is, Santa,” Jon says lightly, turning to look up at Martin. His cheeks are flushed rosy, from alcohol this time, and he smells of peppermint and cookies and mulled wine and Jon aches at the knowledge that he hasn’t been there to hand feed him the cookies like he’d so playfully threatened.
But– in a way– that’s almost more than Jon could’ve asked for. Martin being so hungry, so gluttonous, that his already tight suit is fit to burst because he’s been fed up by their friends.
Oh, Jon has to sit down. He’s too drunk to think about this in a non-sexual way.
Martin hiccups, tipsy on his way to drunk, but Jon can see him nursing a bottle of water.
As if on cue, he gestures to it. “I have to drive my sleigh tonight, the air traffic control doesn't take too kindly to drunk and disorderly reindeering.”
Jon lets out a peal of laughter, leaning into him before he has the good sense not to. “You were right. This was a good decision.”
“Well, you’ve just earned yourself the top space on my nice list,” Martin chuckles.
Jon looks up at him through his eyelashes. “Oh yeah? I thought I was going to have to convince you before you made that decision.”
Martins eyes widen, pupils darkening as Jon smirks at him. “What did you have in mind?”
Jon reaches up on his toes, murmuring into Martin’s ear. “You’ve gotta be hungry, fill up before you go make everyone’s night. Why don’t I feed you?”
Martin stumbles forward just a bit, his knees weak as he tries to nod. He, instead, presses his belly into Jon’s body, his stomach pressed right up against his half hardon that he’s been nursing since Jon saw Martin in the suit for the first time. Martin can feel it, Jon knows it, and before he can be properly mortified–
Tim sees them from across the room, pointing above them. “Mistletoooooe!”
Jon looks up, seeing the bit of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling. It’s not like they’ll be fired now…
Martin takes Jon, pressing him even closer, resting his hand on Jon’s lower back so he can surreptitiously roll his hips against his belly– which he does. Martin is warm, and gorgeous, and so plush, Jon can't really help himself.
He’s also never been good at telling himself no.
Martin tastes of milk and sugar, sweet pastries and cinnamon and Jon is dizzy with the thought of feeding him more until he cums.
They kiss to whoops and hollers, not stopping when Jon tries to wave them away. When they finally pull away, Jon’s fully hard– who can blame him? He turns away from the other assistants, pulling Martin in the direction of the Crib before he scars anyone.
“Okay,” he says, once the door is closed and he feels like he can breathe. “You are a menace.”
“A menace?” Martin says, pulling off his Santa hat. “Do you know how hard it is to find a Santa suit three days before Christmas? I had to take the first one I saw.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Jon says. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so…”
He gestures up and down in front of Martin, whose eyebrows furrow.
“So…”
“Sumptuous,” Jon says. “You’re– I’m– it’s working and I’m angry about it.”
Martin laughs. “You like me dressed as a big jolly fat man?”
Jon could die on the spot. “Oh my god.”
“Your hard on was for, what? My tummy? Or my beard being grey? Are you into older men, Jon?”
“Oh my god–”
“I think I’m a month older than you, does that count?” Martin asks, but Jon walks him back against the door and smashes their lips together before he has the good sense not to.
It’s biting this time, a little desperate, Jon sliding his hand up martin’s suit shirt and Martin very much obliging. Martin pulls away before Jon has the ability to start grinding or feeling Martin up properly, which is such a shame, but–
“I have to tell you something,” Martin says, as Jon tries to chase his lips for another kiss.
Anxiety floods jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“I– it’s not thing bad. I just– I really like my belly played with. I don't want you to start something you’re uncomfortable finishing, and we’ve talked about food during sex before but I wanted you to know–”
Jon’s dead. Died and gone to heaven, a kinky heaven where Jon and Martin are on the same wavelength all the time.
“Martin, Martin,” Jon says. “It’s okay, if you weren’t sure, I love your belly.”
Martin flushes. “I– yeah, I guessed so but I wasn’t sure if you– knew how far it went.”
Jon raises an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”
“I’ve cum from just– god this is so embarrassing.” Martin flushes. “I’ve cum from the thought of you playing with it.”
Oh. oh.
“Would you like me to kiss it?” Jon grins mischievously
Martin lets out the most glorious whimper, nodding profusely.
“Grind against it? Do you want me to shake it and leave love marks on it?” Jon asks, sinking to his knees. He pulls down the elastic waistband of these godforsaken suit pants, letting all of Martin’s belly hang free.
“There’s just so much to love on, I think if you can come from just this,” Jon says, pressing a kiss to Martin’s lower belly, “I can’t imagine what you’d do when I actually suck you off.”
Martin lets out a broken moan as Jon sinks his hands into either side of Martin’s belly, burying his face into the plush blubber. Martin’s voice cracks in his moan, squeezing his thighs together. When Jon pulls back, he can see the dark red fabric between Martin’s legs.
“Do you need to lay down, tubby?” Jon asks, shaking Martin’s belly, delighting when it makes his knees buckle. “You’ve been standing for a whole hour. Your poor feet must be exhausted.”
Martin lets Jon walk him to the futon, Jon enraptured by how Martin’s belly wobbles against his upper thighs with each step. Oh god, he’s fucked. So fucked.
Jon notices a plate of cookies Martin must have brought in on the table, and rushes to grab it while Martin makes himself comfortable.
“You must be hungry too, huh?” Jon asks, taking a cookie off the plate. “Open wide.”
Martin is so obedient, nodding as he opens his mouth, allowing Jon to hand feed him the frosted cookie bite by bite, until he gets to the last bite. Martin wraps his lips around Jon’s fingers instead of the cookie itself, taking the pastry into his mouth and licking the frosting off his fingers.
It’s Jon’s turn for his knees to buckle, needing to kneel down on the futon next to Martin so that he can steady himself enough, with all of the blood rushing to his cock.
His free hand is still rubbing soothing circles onto martins belly, and Jon can’t simply help himself anymore.
“Can I– grind against your belly,” Jon asks, his words slurring with arousal.
Martin looks like Christmas came early, he nods so fast. Jon stumbles, fumbling with his belt as he positions himself between Martin’s legs. He pulls down his trousers and pants , settling in the little divot Martin’s lower belly makes and grinds, back and forth without abandon. Martin’s not quiet about it either, broken moans accompany the creaking of the futon as he grinds his cunt against Jon’s thighs. He squeezes the sides of his plush belly together, almost making a pocket of fat for Jon to fuck, as if he were out of some terrific wet dream.
“Hell, you’re just a dream, Martin. So good. I’m gonna keep you like this–” Jon’s voice cracks, blindly reaching for another cookie, pressing it against Martin’s lips. He’s close, so close as he watches Martin devour the cookie hungrily.
Martin whimpers, and Jon almost reads his mind, grabbing ahold of martins belly, so he can free Martin’s hands. Martin moves his right hand between them, trying in vain to do– something, and Jon belatedly realizes in dizzy lust that he’s trying and failing to touch himself. They have Martin in a position where he can't reach.
“I’ve got you love,” Jon says, pulling back (with a frustrated whine from Martin) and tearing off the pants.
Martin is soaked through his boxers, down his inner thighs. “I swear to god if you don’t fuck me–”
Jon won’t even let Martin finish that sentence, sliding in with ease. There’s almost no give, martins so turned on from being fed and played with and that’s what sends Jon over the edge. In and out, he cums inside Martin with a high pitched apology.
Martin moans, wrapping his legs around Jon to pull him closer, working him through his orgasm. “Please Jon, touch me–”
Jon’s good at patting his head and rubbing his belly at the same time, so jerking someone off and rubbing their belly should be similar. Even if it wasn’t, the moment Jon presses his fingers against Martin’s lower growth, Martin’s clenching down around Jon so hard he can see stars, cumming with a shout.
Jon works Martin through his orgasm, pressin kiss after kiss to Martin’s belly before he pulls out. “I am… so sorry– I didn’t have a rubber and–”
“Hysto, and i’m clean. You’re fine, I wanted it.” Martin says between breaths.
Jon curls around Martin, smiling. “Does this mean i’m on the nice list now?”
"I dunno,” Martin says, breathing heavily. “Let’s go again and see if my mind changes.”