After nearly two months of camping out in old document storage, Martin finally decides to bite the bullet. He calls his landlord and breaks his lease. The institute’s infestation of murder-worms shows no sign of abating any time soon, and as much as he hates to admit it, he knows there’s no way he could ever make himself move back into his flat. Even if Jane Prentiss dropped dead tomorrow, he’d never be able to sleep there again without hearing the sound of knocking.
Jon insists on covering the cost of Martin’s lost security deposit out of the archives’ discretionary budget, seeing as Martin had been driven out of his home due to events that transpired "in the line of duty.” His words, not Martin's. Martin isn’t sure that Jon even technically has the authority to do that, but he must have wrangled it somehow, and as much as Martin would like to be proud and refuse, he’s not exactly rolling in cash at the moment. Or, you know, ever.
(And the stiff, defensive way Jon had informed him of this fact, like he was expecting to have to argue his case for doing something kind for Martin, was...it was really something. Martin has...a lot of different feelings about Jon, these days.)
Then, with Tim and Sasha flanking him like bodyguards, all three of them armed with fire extinguishers, they had tackled the task of cleaning out Martin’s flat. They’d spent all day throwing out worm-tainted items, expired food, and anything else that didn’t seem worth the trouble of hauling, boxing everything else up to be taken to the cheapest storage unit Martin had been able to find, and setting aside a few miscellaneous odds and ends to bring back with him to document storage.
And despite the whole depressing hassle of it all, Martin is in a surprisingly good mood, because there is one particular possession of his that he’s been very eager to reunite with.
He is really, really looking forward to spending some quality time with his vibrator.
He knows it’s kind of ridiculous of him to feel so excited about it. It’s not like he doesn’t have a perfectly functional right hand, and he’s already gotten over any hangups he might have had about masturbating in the workplace, because it was either that or just straight-up die from sexual frustration. But it’s just- well- jerking off with his fingers is a hassle, okay? It gets the job done, but it takes more time and effort and always ends up kind of feeling like work, which is the last thing he wants at the end of a day of actual work. All he wants to do is to bang out relaxing orgasms to help him sleep and forget about his life for a while, okay, not get his daily cardio in via wrist aerobics.
But now his struggles are over and he is looking forward to a very pleasant evening, all because of the miracle device hidden safely away in his pocket.
The device in question is a discreet little rechargeable bullet in plain, unobtrusive black, because even when he’d had a whole flat to himself, the idea of owning any sex toy that wasn’t tiny and easy to conceal gave him the willies. That’s also why he still hasn’t been able to work up the courage to buy a proper dildo, yet; somehow he always conjures up the mental image of what would happen if he died and the police came to look through his flat. Or his landlord. Or his mum. The idea of basically any other person opening his underwear drawer and discovering a sparkly purple g-spot stimulator stuffed under his boxers is enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.
(It doesn’t matter that he would presumably be too dead to care, in this scenario. The mere possibility of his very Catholic mother gaining any knowledge whatsoever of his masturbatory habits would resurrect him for the sole purpose of burning the flat down to destroy the evidence.)
(It’s a shame, honestly - he’s, uh, abused a few vegetables, once or twice, enough to know that he really enjoys a good stretch down there. Just. Not enough to overcome his Catholic guilt, apparently.)
Martin floats through the remainder of his workday on a tingly cloud of anticipation, and then rushes through his evening routine like a man on a mission. He brushes his teeth in the archives' restroom, gives his hair a bit of a rinse in the sink, triple-checks that he’s locked the door to document storage, and then undresses. Shoes off, then socks, jumper, trousers, work bra that doesn’t need to go in the laundry basket yet, pants that very much do, and done. He considers for a second, rubbing himself idly where the elastic has been digging into his ribs all day, and eventually decides that tonight doesn’t feel like a free-boobing kind of night. He slips on a soft sleep shirt, followed by boxer shorts. The silky ones he likes to wear when he wants to feel a little bit sexy. (Ha.)
Then he reaches under the edge of the cot’s mattress, feeling around inside the elastic lip of the fitted sheet until his hand closes around his vibrator. He'd made sure to charge it, had even checked on it once to make sure it was charging properly, and now it buzzes eagerly to life when he clicks it on.
Martin relaxes on his back on the cot, slips his hand down the waistband of his boxers, touches the bullet to the shaft of his dick, and oh, god, yes, that's the stuff. Martin never, ever audibly moans when he gets himself off, but he does allow himself a long, happy sigh of pleasure. He's going to have to take it easy; he's wound so tight he could probably come in about fifteen seconds if he's not careful. That would be fine for most nights, but tonight Martin feels like romancing himself a bit.
So, while Martin gently strokes himself up and down, letting the vibrations light all his nerve endings up like a Christmas tree, he flips through his catalogue of fantasies and brings out his latest favorite.
Martin had stumbled across this fantasy entirely by accident; it’s not the sort of thing he goes for, normally. Martin isn't that big of a boob guy. (Except for how he's sort of literally a big boob guy, hardy har har.) He doesn't fixate that much on other people’s breasts, and he doesn’t particularly love or hate his own, outside of basic practicalities like the fact that they’re kind of inconvenient and get sweaty when it’s hot and bra shopping is even more of a nightmare for a plus-sized guy than it had been for a plus-sized girl.
(He owns exactly one binder that he reserves for special occasions, and he’s nowhere near enough of a masochist to wear it to work.)
But, here’s the thing. Something had happened, a few weeks ago.
It had started early in the morning, when Martin had been shuffling groggily around the break room, waiting for his breakfast burrito to heat up in the archives' ancient fire hazard of a microwave. It had been before work hours, so he’d been wearing a comfy t-shirt like the one he’s wearing now. Not sexy by any means, but definitely thin enough to show...the sorts of details that don’t normally show through a stiff compression bra and a jumper.
He’d been filling up the kettle at the sink, contemplating whether today felt like a spicy cinnamon chai kind of day or a honey lemon ginseng green tea kind of day, when Jon had come waltzing in, scaring the living daylights out of him. Martin had jumped about a foot, and half the contents of the kettle had ended up on his shirt, and then he had just sort of stood there and made the sorts of disgruntled noises one makes when one takes a splash of cold water to the tits at 6:25 AM.
Jon had grunted out an apology for startling him, and had even had the good grace to look a bit sheepish at being caught red-handed in the act of being a workaholic insomniac madman. Then he had glanced in the direction of Martin’s chest area, almost reflexively, and Martin had gotten...some kind of vibe. Not the kind of creepy stare he’s gotten from gym teachers or guys he’s ghosted after one date, but...something. And the way Jon had averted his eyes immediately afterward, like he’d been caught doing something wrong, had cemented Martin’s impression that something was up.
And somehow, through some twist of logic in the back of his horny hindbrain, something about the idea of Jonathan Sims showing any amount of interest in a specific part of his body was enough to take Martin’s feelings regarding his breasts and turn them from ambivalent to pure boner fuel in 0.5 seconds.
So this is what Martin thinks of, when he wants to get his dick hard.
It starts in Jon’s office, the way most of his fantasies do, these days. He likes to imagine Jon at his desk, looking a little soft around the edges, the way he sometimes does when it’s late and he’s too tired to be properly cantankerous. And because it’s Martin’s fantasy and he can do what he wants, Jon is always wearing That Shirt. You know the one.
As for Martin, he imagines himself wearing some kind of soft button up, something stylish but understated that unfortunately does not exist in his mostly thrifted real life wardrobe.
Something that falls open enticingly when he starts to unbutton it.
You should take a break, Jon, he hears himself say; a perfectly ordinary phrase, for him, because even in a fantasy he can’t imagine himself saying anything dirtier than that without wanting to giggle with mortification. Martin’s voice is not one meant for porn star dialogue.
His dream-self sits on the edge of Jon’s desk, and instead of a practical sports bra, he’s wearing something low-cut and flattering that gives him a bit of cleavage. He thinks back to Jon’s nervous, darting glance in the break room, and indulges himself with the idea that Jon might be just a bit shy, at first. That he would need to be coaxed to nuzzle in close. That he would let Martin stroke his hair while he pressed soft, reverent kisses to Martin’s chest.
The bra comes off, at this point; not shucked off unceremoniously like a normal bra, but tenderly unclasped from his back by the hands of a handsome man, like a sexy dream bra should be. Because it’s a sexy dream bra, it leaves no elastic marks on his skin. His dream-self’s chest is bared to Jon’s hands, there for Jon to fondle and caress while they exchange languid open-mouthed kisses.
Back on the cot, Martin flexes his hips, squeezing around nothing. He sneaks his other hand up under his shirt to massage one of his nipples, and in his mind his hand becomes Jon’s mouth, Jon’s tongue. Jon, sucking him, licking him. Maybe humming a little with pleasure at how good Martin tastes, how much he likes what Martin is letting him have-
And oh, Martin is properly hard now, flushed and swollen and needy, hips rocking up. He’s not teasing anymore; he’s rubbing himself off like his life depends on it, the sound of his breathing and the buzz of the vibrator loud in the quiet room.
Would Jon get hard for him? Would he strain and leak against the front of his trousers, forming a dark little spot of precome, visible evidence of how much Jon wants him? Would he groan softly, in the back of his throat, if Martin slipped a hand down to cup between his legs?
God, Martin is so wet he’s starting to regret his decision to do this while wearing pants, because he’s pretty sure he’s going to have to change them after he’s done. It makes him think of how easily Jon could slip inside him, how good it would feel-
And, oops, there go the rest of his fantasy self’s clothes. Now he’s sprawled nude on his back on the desk, scattering papers carelessly, looking seductive and confident and all the things Martin has never been in his life. He sees Jon standing between his spread legs, leaning down to press his mouth over Martin’s dick, working it with his tongue. Jon pushing his trousers just far enough down his hips to get his cock out, so hard for Martin, so eager. Jon’s beautiful hands caressing Martin’s thighs, forcing them wider, pushing in. Jon, fucking him so hard his body moves with the force of it, making his tits bounce. Jon squeezing his tits, pinching his nipples, making him whimper-
Martin gasps, tenses, and promptly comes so hard he feels it in his hip bones.
And now he definitely needs to change his pants, because he thinks he may have actually just squirted a little. Jesus fucking christ.
Several months pass.
“And she believed you? Just like that?” says Martin, in between bites of sandwich. He probably shouldn’t be surprised. Jon isn’t the kind of person who can just have normal friends; there’s no reason why his ex girlfriend would be any different.
Jon shrugs and takes a sip of soda. "Well, she was a bit skeptical about the whole compulsion thing, at first, so I sort of had to...demonstrate."
"What, you can just turn it on and off at will, now?"
"I guess? All I had to do was say what is something you would never choose to tell me-"
And then something happens. Something sort of...shifts, in Martin’s brain, and then it snags, and then it pulls, and before he even understands what's happening his mouth is opening and he's saying: "Sometimes, when I'm trying to get you to take a break and you're being a stubborn pain in the arse, I fantasize about taking my shirt off and shoving your face right into my tits, just to see if that gets your attention."
There's a deafening silence.
Jon's eyes dart down, lightning-quick, to Martin's chest, and then back up. His mouth moves silently for a moment, struggling for words, and then he just sort of...folds inward, like a crumpled-up paper towel, and shields his face with his hands.
"What the hell, Jon?!" Martin squawks as soon as he's recovered enough to speak, his face flaring red hot with indignation. And a bunch of other emotions he's trying hard not to think about, because he doesn't want to make a scene, and a few of the other cafe patrons are already giving them the side-eye. He hunches his shoulders, ears burning.
"I'm sorry, I am so, so sorry-"
"Yeah, well, you'd better be!" Martin hisses. He hates how his voice sounds when he gets like this, all whiny and shrill, but there is absolutely no other way for him to be, right now.
And then, because Jon is apparently fully committed to giving Martin a heart attack today, Jon mumbles, almost to himself, "I mean. That probably would do it."
Oh. That's. Oh? Oh??
"Oh?" says Martin, in a very not-sexy squeak.
"Oh, good lord, that's not- I didn't mean that as a, as a proposition, or anything-"
"Jon, unless you slam on the brakes right now, I am absolutely going to take that as a proposition."
Jon freezes, his mouth still hanging open, and there's a very tense moment where they just sort of...look at each other, like they're standing side by side on the edge of a high cliff, wondering which of them is going to be the first to take the plunge. And then the bastard has the fucking gall to turn his head to the side, rubbing the back of his neck, and laugh the cutest, most bashful laugh Martin has ever heard. Martin could just punch him.
And do other things to him. So very many things. Things they can't do in public.
Martin abruptly stands and says, all in a rush, "Well, I think that about wraps up lunch, shall we head back to the office, Jon?"
"Y-yes, right, okay," says Jon, in an equal rush, fumbling with the remains of his sandwich. For a second it looks like he's about to go toss it in the bin, but at the sight of Martin’s stern glare he instead opts to shove the entire thing into his mouth, like a bloody chipmunk.
"Christ, Jon, don't choke," says Martin, with a kind of giddy exasperation. Sometimes he simply cannot believe how fond he is of this stupid, stupid man. They head for the door, Jon grumbling irritably and waving his hands, Martin trying to remember if he knows how to perform a Heimlich.
They're cutting their lunch break short, but that's okay. They're going to take another break as soon as they get back to the institute.