Chapter Text
It's not the movie Tim wanted to see, but the theatre is almost empty and he can get the best seats, right in the middle. He's got a bucket of popcorn and a large glass of coke, which he is conscientiously saving for when the movie actually starts. Those keep him from moving when he sees two familiar figures shuffling into the seats in front of him.
He's a bit surprised by a series of factors, which are, in order: seeing Jon outside the office, seeing Jon and Martin together in a social situation, seeing them in such a situation alone, and realizing they're holding hands.
"What," Tim mouths silently.
He doesn't pay much attention to the movie after that. Instead, he keeps glancing at the row ahead, where Martin is twisted up to lay his head on Jon's shoulder. It looks uncomfortable.
Jon and Martin. Fuck, that's not a combination that Tim's ever considered. Up till recently, Jon has been nothing but a complete prick to Martin. Was that attraction in disguise? Or - Tim wonders, with a growing sense of dread - did Jon agree to finally treat Martin decently if Martin fucked him?
After the movie, he waits for them to get up first and follows them to the exit, where he clears his throat. Jon turns around to look at him, and the comical widening of his eyes is extremely gratifying.
"So," Tim drawls, "does HR know you've been going on movie dates with your employee?"
Jon flinches, which is very satisfying. Martin, on the other hand, narrows his eyes at Tim. "I suppose there's forms I could fill out," he says. "For consent or whatnot. I really don't see how it's any of your business."
Tim crosses his arms. "If he's pushing you, I'm not letting him get away with it." He worries about Martin; the only trans person in an office full of cis people has enough bullshit to be contending with, and Tim is guiltily aware he himself isn't doing as well as he should be. He'll be damned if he lets Jon take advantage.
Jon starts talking, but Martin overrides him with, "He is not pushing me, and I'll thank you for not making him worry more about a relationship I entered enthusiastically." More softly, he adds, "Don't be a dick, Tim. I want this."
Tim sighs, deflating. He still tells Jon, "I'm keeping an eye on you," before turning to go.
"Probably somebody should," Jon says behind him, just barely loud enough to be heard.
A week of observation does put Tim's worries to rest a little bit. Because Martin seems happy, in a way he hasn't since they started working together. Jon's a little bit more lenient, sometimes in an outright positive mood. Tim is forced to conclude those two might be good for each other.
He's still keeping watch, though, and he's not letting it stop him from needling both of them about the issue.
"Promise me you'll never have sex on my desk," Tim says, when Sasha's out of the office and Martin's perching on said desk, idly gossiping.
The effect on Martin is immediate: he blushes, endearingly, and nearly pushes the files next to him off the desk. "Tim!"
"Or if you have," Tim continues, merciless, "I don't want to know about it."
Martin rolls his eyes. He's a fascinating combination of shy and fierce when it comes to Jon. "We have a policy against office sex. Don't worry, you won't have to see me naked."
Alright, Tim walked right into this one. If he reveals that he would, in fact, like to see Martin naked he would be creepy and possibly a chaser; if he says he wouldn't, he'd be lying, and supporting Martin's negative self-image. "A gentleman would avert his eyes," he temporizes. He never did claim to be a gentleman.
"Ahem," Jon says. Tim jerks his gaze guiltily to where Jon is standing, right outside his office. "If you two are done flirting, may I remind you we have work to do?"
"Oh!" Martin stands up in a hurry. "Yes. Of course. Sorry."
Jon holds up his hand and looks at Martin. Stiffly, he says, "I'm not angry. But you should get back to work."
Well. At least that's something. Tim glances at Jon and wonders about how jealous a boyfriend Jon might be.
If Tim's honest, he's had a bit of a thing for Martin ever since they started working together. Martin's cute, all freckles and pretty hazel eyes, and Tim would dearly love to see if his skin is as soft as it looks. He never tried anything because he wasn't sure Martin would assert himself enough to discourage him. Martin barely spoke up to fix his pronouns on the times Tim got them wrong. (He did catch himself and apologize, but it happened more than once and Tim is not proud of himself.)
It's a little easier to flirt knowing Jon is keeping an eye on both of them, seeing Martin refuse to hear anything bad about Jon. Knowing he can only go so far before Martin remembers he has a boyfriend and pushes away. It becomes a game, to find out where the line is.
He is really not expecting for Jon to corner him one day and bluntly ask, "You keep hitting on Martin. Do you mean it?"
Tim isn't sure how he feels about it. "Did I make him uncomfortable?"
"You didn't, and that wasn't the question."
"If he doesn't mind, then why are you asking?" Tim parries.
Jon sighs. "I've been... having some ideas," he says reluctantly. "If you two are interested in one another. I assumed you would not be making a move because you assumed us to be exclusive, and he... well, he has his reasons. I thought I might facilitate."
Tim blinks. "You're not exclusive?"
"Not exactly. I don't particularly care either way," Jon says, looking studiously aside. "I do want Martin to enjoy certain acts which are... not on the table, between him and me. So if you were amenable, that might be a good development all around."
"You're hitting on me for your boyfriend?" Tim says, just to check if he's heard correctly.
Jon narrows his eyes. "I am asking whether you're interested in my boyfriend, to know whether I should encourage him to pursue you. I don't want to set him up for disappointment."
Well. That's interesting. "Alright, suppose I am," Tim says. "What kind of stuff is he into?"
Jon's mouth is a flat line. "I'll let the two of you discuss that," he says.
Tim's prepared to write the entire conversation off as a weird dream. He's almost put it out of his mind when Martin shyly suggests drinks after works; it's a pleasant surprise when Martin asks, over a gin and tonic, whether Tim would like to kiss him.
Martin's blushing, fair skin showing everything even in the dim light. His eyes are wide, hazel almost swallowed by the expanded pupil, and his lips are pink and slightly parted. Tim sets his thumb under Martin's lower lip to feel its delightful plushness, and leans in for that kiss.
He gets another pleasant surprise in that Martin is a filthy, unhesitating, no-holds-barred kisser. He grabs Tim's shoulders and pulls him close, demanding.
Then he breaks away, breathing hard. "S-sorry, I got carried away."
"Never," Tim says with fervor, "apologize for kissing me like that. Never. How about we go again?" Then he thinks better of it. "Or rather, let's go somewhere where you won't get us arrested for lewd conduct."
Martin blushes even harder, which Tim didn't think was possible. He also drags Tim into another kiss, just as wickedly hot, before he deigns to leave with him.
At Tim's flat, they spend a delicious twenty minutes sat on the sofa with Martin kneeling astride Tim's lap for more kisses. Martin melts when Tim puts his hands on the small of his back, bringing him closer, nods enthusiastically at Tim asking "Can I..." and suggestively handling the hem of his shirt.
He's got his hands halfway up Martin's back (smooth skin, strong muscle, Tim needs to see if the freckles continue all the way) when he runs into an unexpected band of fabric. Inappropriately, his first thought is, bra, but of course he knows what a binder is. He's not a complete idiot. He'd done reading.
Above him, Martin freezes. Tim yanks away his hand like it's on fire, babbling, "Sorry! Sorry. I. Sorry."
Martin exhales. "You're fine," he says gently. "Let's just... pretend that that entire area doesn't exist, for now?"
"Of course," Tim says, dizzy with relief. "Any other areas falling under that guideline?"
Martin considers and shakes his head. Then he says, "Do you mind if I take my shirt off?"
"I absolutely do not," Tim says, greedily watching Martin's soft tummy exposed as he shoves his shirt off, and tipping him down to the sofa so Tim can easily mouth his collarbone. Martin moans and grabs at Tim's head.
A moment later, Tim freezes again, aware that he's on top of Martin after manhandling him. "Sorry, just - are you okay? Not feeling, ah, trapped or suchlike?"
"Tim, I'm fine," Martin says, exasperated. "You know what, why don't you sit back up? Will you feel better if I'm on top?"
Tim nods gratefully. When Martin holds Tim's head and brings his mouth back to its previous occupation, he can take a hint. Especially when Martin grinds down on him. Tim can smell his arousal, powerful and intoxicating. "Can I go down on you?" Tim mumbles, hazy with lust.
Wait, shit. Is he not supposed to do that? But Martin said--
Martin nips off that anxiety in the bud by moaning and saying, "Actually, would you mind if I sucked you off first?"
How is Tim meant to turn such a nice request down?
Martin runs his lips and tongue over Tim's shaft. His sweet little mouth feels just as lovely on his dick as hinted by those plush lips. Tim lets his head tip back into a groan. "Fuck, fuck, you feel so good. Martin, fuck, please."
"I barely got started," Martin murmurs with a grin, and pops the tip into his mouth, sucking on the head. Tim loses himself to sensation, only keeping enough presence of mind to grip the sofa cushions rather than Martin's hair.
Tim's hardly inexperienced, but something about Martin is driving him to the edge like an absolute beginner. It doesn't help that Martin keeps moaning, his eyes rolling back when he takes Tim in deep, like giving head is a cherished fantasy Martin had never been able to fulfill.
If that makes Tim wonder what the hell he and Jon have been doing, well, at least it staves his orgasm off for a few more minutes. Good thing, too, since Martin pulls off breathlessly and asks, "Would you fuck me?"
"Christ," Tim hisses, grabbing his dick to keep from spurting all over Martin's pretty face. "God, Martin, you can't just spring that question on a man with no preparation."
"Sorry," Martin says, but he is radiating smugness. It's a good look on him.
On the way to the bed - Tim thought having more room might be nice - anxiety hits again. When Martin asked to be fucked, did he mean... well, where did he mean? How?
In the bedroom, though, Martin neatly sorts this out by saying, "Lie down on the bed, close your eyes, and tell me where the condoms are. I'll take care of the rest, yeah?"
Tim gratefully obeys. He listens to the rustle of fabric and muffled curses as Martin takes off his remaining clothes. He holds his breath and counts back from a hundred as Martin rolls the condom down his cock, and tries not to make too pitiful noises when Martin straddles him.
Martin fucks him unsteadily for a few minutes, before flopping down and panting, "Christ, I'm out of shape. Would you mind taking over?"
"Not at all." Holding the condom and holding Martin as he flips them is purely muscle memory. "I'll keep my eyes closed. Any other requests?"
"As hard as you can, please," Martin says with incongruous politeness. "Don't worry about anything except absolutely nailing me to the mattress." Tim groans and obeys.
Martin's tight and hot around him, rippling, and he is not shy about scraping his nails down Tim's back. It emboldens Tim, helps him find a bit of extra strength tucked away. As technical fuckings go, it's a mess: barely any rhythm, his hands bracing and not touching Martin anywhere fun, just jackhammering. The kind of performance Tim really doesn't pride himself on, except for how it rips the absolute best noises out of Martin, the kind Tim wishes he could keep in a music box.
He does have the presence of mind to whisper, "You first. Please." He does have some standards.
Martin shimmies, gets a hand between them, and in two minutes he's squirming and gasping and milking Tim's cock with ruthless strength. Tim fucks him through it, then starts to pull out.
Martin wraps his legs around Tim's waist. "Please, please keep going."
"Are you sure?" Tim says. "You must be oversensitive."
"I want you to come inside me," Martin says, with steely deliberation that leaves no doubt whether he knows how this will hit Tim.
It hits him hard, like an electric charge to the spine, getting his hips thrusting again. He buries his face in Martin's throat, sucks irregular marks there as he fucks his way to orgasm.
After coming, he holds himself up, letting Martin scoot out from under him. Martin scoots back once Tim's lying down on the bed, arranging himself as the small spoon. Upon receiving permission to open his eyes, Tim satisfies himself with nuzzling the wealth of freckles he does indeed find there.
Martin squirms. "Don't," he complains. Before Tim can apologize, he adds, "I mean, you'll get me going again if you do. Don't start anything you can't finish."
"That," Tim says, "is literally the opposite of a problem."
So it is that Martin unceremoniously takes Tim's hand and puts it right over where he's wet and fucked open; when Tim hesitates, Martin says, "I want your fingers in me," and that seems straightforward enough. It's enormously rewarding, too, when Martin whines and shivers. Tim keeps nuzzling his back, fucking Martin with precise motions of his hand.
Martin comes well before Tim's hand starts cramping, always a good thing. "Fuck," Martin says, staring up dreamily at the ceiling. "You have no idea how much I needed that."
Raising again the question of Jon, but Tim firmly files this under none of my business and proceeds to cuddle Martin like a pro.