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Martin isn't always the most inconspicuous person in the world.
It’s not his fault, he promises this time.
Since Martin and Jon are the people placed “in the bride and groom’s corners” for Tim and Sasha’s wedding, they’re the ones in charge of putting together the stag and hen dos for both the bride and groom. Which would be fine if they wanted a wine and cheese night, maybe a movie night painting along with Bob Ross tutorials while drunk, but Tim specifically said he wanted to go to a gay bar. Martin and bars don’t mix, too loud and packed and overstimulating, and Jon and bars haven’t mixed since before he started his job at the Archives. But, the best man's job is the best man’s job, so Martin does his research on the best queer club in London.
Bringing it up with Jon was easy enough, Jon already seemed to be well acquainted with the place itself. He actually walked through and gave thorough thoughts as to why each place would or wouldn’t work, completely skipping over the strip club Rachael’s, the one straight club on Martin’s list. (“just because they have had one drag night, doesn’t mean they’re okay,”)
Martin, bless him, still wanted to contribute. Because he didn’t spend a ton of time out drinking or smoking, he still wanted to do a walk through, spend a night at the club to see the vibes. With two binary trans people, a genderfluid person, and a Jon in their group, Martin wants to make doubly sure that the place that they pick for the night will be perfect.
He’s a control freak, what about it.
Jon, for what it’s worth, is into the idea.
“I think it would be a fun date,” Jon grins, looking over the Excel spreadsheet Martin put together. Martin’s cheeks pink, as they always do when Jon compliments him.
Jon slides his hand up and down Martin’s thigh. “We could pretend we’re meeting for the first time, flirt all night. You could wear that shirt that I like…”
“I think you’ve forgotten how we met. We need at least seven and a half months of hate fucking first.” Martin teases, giggles turning into proper laughter as Jon’s pupils dilate.
“I’m serious. We haven’t gone dancing the entire time we’ve been together, I think it’d be fun,” Jon says. “Sex notwithstanding.”
“Oh, so it’d be on the table?” Martin leans in, pressing a kiss to Jon’s cheek, laughing as Jon playfully pulls away before laying him down on the bed.
“depends on how good of a dancer you are,” Jon grins.
“I’ve seen you at office Christmas parties. Short of doing the Macarena, I wouldn’t be judging my dance moves.”
So that’s how they got here, dressed in the most club-like clothing they have to take an Uber to the club Jon had the highest opinion of– Silver Sundance. There was no cover charge after 11 o’clock that night, and Martin figures that staying for a drink and a couple of songs would be the ideal night. They’ll probably be in bed by one am at the latest, accounting for travel time.
When did he get so old?
“So, what do we do. Do we go in separately?” Martin asks. “I’ve not done this before.”
“You know, I didn’t know we’d get this far,” Jon says, straightening his shirt out as they wait in line. “I think yes.”
Martin watches as Jon walks into the club, letting a couple of people pass him before he walks into the club himself. The club itself is dark, humid heat with the amount of people dancing and talking. There’s an area over to his left with couches and chairs, and Martin is surprised by the overall astounding lack of seating in this club.
Maybe he’s more built for coffee shops.
He scans the scene, looking for a familiar face, smiling when he sees Jon, leaning over the bar. He watches as Jon checks his watch, the face resting on the inside of his wrist, before tugging the sleeve of the flannel he borrowed from Martin as an overshirt back down from where it was pushed up.
He should probably give it a couple minutes, really make Jon wonder where he is, or get into character or whatever he needs to do. So he leans against one of the partitions and watches as Jon taps a rhythm on the bartop, before he turns back to the bartender. Martin sees this hunk of a man, 6’4” with muscles and two full tattoo sleeves lean against the bartop and fucking smile at Jon, handing him a shot.
Jon smiles back.
Martin’s heart sinks into his stomach as he watches Jon take his shot and neck it back. He knows Jon’s poker face like the back of his hand, and it seems like so does this bartender, who chuckles at him and hands him a chaser in the form of Sprite. That has to be it, right? Jon’s not used to talking to new people, so the fact that this stranger who Martin doesn’t recognize chat Jon up so easily– what is happening?
But the bartender doesn’t leave– maybe he really wants a tip from Jon– what kind of tip? his brain unhelpfully supplies.
They are together, in a monogamous relationship. Even if they’re not together right now, it’s an act. Jon wouldn’t do or hide anything from him.
Right? He’s over-reacting. Probably.
Martin walks over, already picking at the fabric of his jacket sticking to his belly, desperately wishing he wore something other than his cardigan, straight leg jeans, trainers, and tri-force patterned button up. He’s cold all of the sudden– cooler than he’d normally be in a busy room full of sweaty people.
He watches as the bartender finally goes and assists other people, and Martin thankfully finds a space next to Jon.
“Hey, darlin’. I’ll get to you in a second,” the bartender says, shouting over the music. Fuck, he’s got a southern U.S. accent.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Martin nods, waving him off.
“Come here often?”
Martin turns to see Jon, his Jon lean against the mahogany bartop, smiling at him over his glasses. Fuck, act normal and natural and not jealous.
“Uh, no,” Martin says, absolutely failing at playing cool. “I– I’m new in town.”
“I know,” Jon says, leaning into Martin’s personal space. “I’d have remembered you if you weren’t.”
Martin’s heart squeezes and he finally, almost lets himself relax–
The bartender saunters over, resting a hand towel on his shoulder as he gestures to Martin. “Hey, y’all! Jon, is this your–”
“Oh, yeah– Shawn, this is Martin.” Jon points between them. “Martin, Shawn.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“In five minutes?” Martin’s hackles raise again, raising his eyebrows. “Hello, new stranger who knows me somehow.”
He eyes Jon, who, the fucker, is just sipping his Sprite.
But the bartender, bless him, is unfazed. “Yeah, Jon and I were just catching up.”
“Oh?” Martin asks, now staring daggers at his partner.
“Yeah! We were in the same friend group in college–”
“The same friend group!”
“And Georgie comes in often with her girlfriend, but I hadn’t seen what this stud was up to in the meantime.” the bartender grins, clapping Jon on the forearm.
“Yeah, Shawn, this is my boyfriend–”
Martin doesn’t hold out his hand. “Martin. It’s a… meeting you.” he says, fully aware the music isn’t loud enough to fully drown out his lack of pleasantries.
The bartender’s (whose name Martin won’t bother to remember) smile doesn’t falter for a second. “Would you like a water? Vodka cran? Anything? It’s on the house.”
“Are you sure?” Jon asks. “That’s very kind, but–”
“I never see you, man. And you have a boyfriend! It’s good to see you thrive.”
Icy anger coils in his veins as he watches Jon smirk into his drink, settling somewhere in his pelvis. Jon’s stupid smug face and his irritating aura as he watches this unfold, doing nothing but soaking it up. Martin grits his teeth, smiling.
“I’ll have a screwdriver,” he says, not bothering with pleasantries again. “Vodka.”
Bartender winks at him, shooting a finger gun in his direction as he turns around to make it. He watches as muscles Martin he doesn’t even think he even has flex in the bartender’s back. He comes back with a drink, screwdriver on the rocks.
“I made it with more orange juice than vodka. If you’re anything like this one,” the bastard bartender motions to Jon. “You may want to pace yourself.”
Martin grips the cup, white-knuckled. The music is beginning to be overstimulating, and he might just throw this drink on the bartender’s skin tight white tank top. “Thank you. Jon, do you want to dance?”
Martin throws back the drink– he can barely taste the vodka, bastard– as Jon nods, setting down his own glass on the table. Jon lets himself be dragged in the direction of the dance floor, but they manage to get to a private little alcove next to another bar at the other side of the room.
But Jon’s giggling. He’s giggling.
“What.” Martin hisses.
Jon’s grinning, the absolute cocky bastard. “Are you jealous of Shawn?”
The music is even louder in this room, and they’re right next to the accessible bathrooms, so Martin grabs Jon by the wrist and takes him into the accessible restroom. He immediately locks the door behind him, turning towards Jon, who has yet to stop the quirk of his lips.
“I told you not to know things about me.” Martin says, crossing his arms. He feels a bit like a petulant child, but the words fall out of his mouth without much reasoning.
“I didn’t have to. ‘It’s a… meeting you’?”
“I’m fine.” Martin walks over to where the sink is, washing his hands– he somehow managed to get them sticky with the orange juice in his drink.
“I’m sure you are.”
Martin watches as Jon pulls a hairtie off of his wrist, putting his hair up before crossing his arms.
“I don’t think I like your tone.” Martin catches Jon’s eye, noting that Jon’s put his hair in a half-up-half-down updo (Martin’s favorite, the cocky bastard).
“Would you like me to sing it?”
Martin just glares in response, focusing on a particularly stubborn bit of soap in the webbing of his fingers.
“I promise, I’m fine.” He says after a moment.
“And we’re in the bathroom for a completely unrelated reason.”
Anger flares in Martin’s stomach, mixing with the shot’s worth of vodka. he had– maybe it was a mistake not having eaten before they came here. Martin notices the long line of Jon’s neck as he tilts his head to the side, as if to study him. Jon’s leaned against the grafitti’d wall, nonchalant as anything, and Martin just wants to crowd him against the wall and kiss the life out of him–
“You’re really mad, aren’t you?” Jon asks, and even Martin notices his pleased tone.
“It’s not funny,” he hisses, trying desperately to focus on his jealous outburst and not the fact that his clit is swelling in his boxers.
Jon tsks, walking one, two steps up behind Martin. He slides his warm hands around Martin’s waist, pressing a line of kisses up his spine. Each press of Jon’s lips has Martin shuddering, tilting his head back so he can give Jon access to his neck.
“Darling. You must know there’s no one else. You have to know you make me insane,” Jon’s lips tease at the pressure point of Martin’s neck, his hand caressing Martin’s sides and hips.
Martin’s wall of anger and hurt is crumbling dangerously fast (who even was the architect who built it?), falling to pieces once Jon pulls Martin’s shirt out from where it’s tucked in to shamelessly grope at his belly. Martin’s breath hitches, arching into Jon’s hands before trying to gain some semblance of dignity back.
He pulls away, turning around in Jon’s arms, his ass pressed against the basin of the sink.
“Oh, blow me,” Martin pouts, not entirely meaning it angrily anymore–
“Is that what you want?” Jon raises an eyebrow, leaning up to press a kiss to Martin’s chest where the shirt itself is open, showing just enough cleavage to keep Jon’s attention. “You should ask nicer if you want me to kneel on this floor to suck your cock.”
Martin lets out a whimper, his hips hitching against Jon.
Jon nips at Martin’s neck, his earlobe, pressing a kiss under his ear. “It wasn’t rhetorical, love.”
“Please.”
When Jon doesn’t even dignify that with a response, Martin squeezes his eyes shut. “Please, get on your knees and suck my dick, please.”
He feels steady hands unbuckle his belt and pull down his jeans, letting them pool on the floor. Martin feels Jon’s hand as he gently grabs his chin, turning his face toward Jon. Martin opens his eyes to see Jon smirking as he slots his thigh between Martin’s legs.
“No. You’ll grind against my thigh until you soak my jeans, and then maybe, maybe, I’ll fuck you.”
Martin’s eyes flutter shut, heat curling around his chest and lower, his cock throbbing as he nods. “O-okay.”
Before Jon, Martin only thought that he could orgasm with the help of toys, but Jon, patient, sweet Jon, showed, and continues to show Martin the light. Martin is also currently turned on enough that his clit has parted his folds, the fabric of his boxers already dragging perfectly over his cock, so as he rolls his hips down against Jon’s thigh, he knows Jon can feel the way this past hour has gone.
“Does it turn you on to be angry at me?” Jon asks, grinning when Martin fails to glare at him. He tries, of course he does, but Jon reaches down to rub at Martin’s cock through his boxers and Martin has to hold onto the lip of the sink so that his knees don’t buckle.
“Fuck you,” Martin says, his voice cracking into a moan. Each touch to his cock is a lightning strike, pool of heat in his pelvis. He’s soaked, and Jon knows it.
Jon, the asshole, looks down between Martin’s legs, pushing up Martin’s belly to make doubly sure, which– is something to think about at another time.
“I think it does.”
“The first s-seven months of–nngh– our relationship says so too,” Martin whines, rolling his hips against Jon’s thigh along with the rhythm Jon is setting for him. “I’m doing it, I’ve done it, your jeans–”
“I know, but I think I actually want you to cum first. Can you do that for me, darling?” Jon asks, leaning down to press a long, deep kiss to Martin’s lips. “I’ll even be nice to you.”
Jon finds Martin’s prick without looking with surprising ease, jerking it off through his underwear. Martin almost draws blood from biting his own lip to stop himself from being too noisy with how his moan rips from his throat. Martin’s quickly rocking his hips up against Jon’s hand, little aborted movements that, paired along with how his underwear is dragging against his cock head has him on the knife’s edge of orgasm way too fast for his liking.
“St-stop, stop, I want you to fuck me,” Martin says, pulling away from the kiss. “Please, please, please, Jon–”
Jon nods against him, fumbling with his own belt and jeans this time, pulling his cock out. If they had more time, a cleaner room, more wherewithal, Martin would drop to his knees right there, but he just turns back around to face the sink, shoving down his boxers.
He quickly, not gracefully, steps out of his pants and jeans, spreading his legs to present for Jon.
Jon groans, sliding his fingers through Martin’s folds to gather up his wet. Martin gasps as Jon pays special attention to his cock, his hips chasing Jon’s fingers. Each swipe of his fingers over and around his clit is like putting gasoline onto a fire, Martin’s arousal a wildfire in a dry city. He watches as much as he can in the mirror as Jon pulls back and groans, biblically knowing the sound of Jon fucking into his own fist.
Martin reaches behind himself, spreading his folds for Jon.
“Fuck, darling,” Jon says, throwing his head back. He lines up to Martin, sliding in slowly, and Martin feels–
Used, in the best way. Full, split open– for a second, he thinks his knees will give out because he’s whining from just Jon’s head inside of him.
“Come now, Martin, I’ve not even started and you’re already so tight,” Jon tsks.
Martin breathes deeply, trying to relax his walls, but Jon’s patience thins enough when he clenches by accident– Jon thrusts accidentally, bottoming out faster than he normally would’ve. Martin cries out a loud Jon! which–
They will never be coming back to this club again so what’s the point?
Jon stutters out an apology, his knees buckling as Martin starts rocking against him.
"Darling, look at you," Jon threads his fingers through Martin's curls and tugs, pulling out and slamming back in with shocking quickness. Electricity shoots up Martin’s spine, his back arching deliciously, following Jon's lead as he rocks against him. "You take me so well."
"Jon--" Martin’s so close to cumming, he’s trying to stave off an orgasm, but Jon’s not having it.
"Look, darling," Jon says, pulling Martin up by his hair, slamming into him again. Martin's knees buckle as he makes eye contact with Jon through the mirror, seeing that his shirt has ridden up so his stomach hits the porcelian sink with every thrust. "Watch me take you apart. look at how pretty you are."
Martin whines at the compliment, his eyebrows furrowing as he keens, clenching down around Jon’s cock. Jon leans down as he snaps his hips against Martin, thrusting in deep as he tugs at Martin’s hair again, pulling him up so his back is gainst Jon’s belly.
“I'm being so very kind to you, my love. What do you say?"
"You are, y-you are! Thank you Sir!"
"And who does this cunt belong to?" Jon asks, his free hand reaching around to grope at Martin's belly, slinking his hand lower to wrap his index, middle finger, and thumb around his cock. "Who does this belong to?"
"Yours, Jon. It's yours." Martin sobs ou as Jon jerks him off with a practiced ease. He humps against against Jon’s hands, gripping the lip of the sink with white knuckles. “Jon, please…”
“Do you want to cum?” Jon asks, gently slapping at Martin’s cunt.
“Yes! God, please, yes,” Martin moans, his hips thrusting to meet both Jon’s hand to fuck back against his hips.
His orgasm rushes over him like a wave, pulling Jon in and in and in– Jon moans, loudly as he starts to lose his own rhythm that even he set up.
“Fuck, darling, I’m going to–”
“Do it, Jon, cum in me. Mark me,” Martin moans, clenching down around Jon.
Jon growls out, leaning down and biting at Martin’s shoulder, chanting Martin’s muffled name as he cums with a shout. Martin feels wet warmth spread inside of him, feeling his prick twitch at the knowledge. Martin is Jon’s, and likewise.
“Are you– are you okay?” Jon asks, pressing a kiss over the bite mark on Martin’s shoulder, still inside Martin. “Is that, did I prove to you–”
Martin clenches around him, just to hear Jon’s overstimulated whimper.
“I love you.” he says.
Jon whimpers. “I–ngh– love you too. You know that.”
“I do,” Martin grins. “Even when you’re a cocky, smug bastard.”
“And you’re a jealous prick?” Jon teases, squeezing at Martin’s hips.
Martin rolls his eyes. “We didn’t even dance.”
Jon pulls out, reaching to grab toilet paper to clean himself and Martin off.
“Eh, clubs are overrated.”
“Besides, we were true to our first meeting selves,” Martin laughs, holding back the whimper as Jon swipes the toilet paper between his legs.
“So,” Jon says, more to Martin’s reflection in the mirror. “Cross this club off the list?”
Martin nods, heaving breaths. “Yes.”
“You got it.”